I am too drunk to sleep, so there are some things I must talk about. Some say, when in an altered state, people say the truth. I just think this is starting out as a too me-me node.

My body has reached its peak. I weigh two hundred and 10-15 pounds, about. I have successfully dropped forty to forty five pounds in a nine month period. How you ask? Some miracle? A new diet pill? No. I've been getting my ass whooped by UPS. Hard work and no video games will do a body wonders (but Servo, please don't stop; ever). If you really wanna lose some weight, join UPS in October, so you're ready to work for the December Crush. It's called Peak, and it's not really fun; but you can make a lot of money and get a great workout.

As the wise prophet Biggie Smalls once said, "Things done changed." I feel myself trapped between a rock and a hard place. I want to become management at UPS (pronounced YOU-p-s), just so I can make 18,000 a year (chump change, I know; but it's enough for me to start making some financial moves)). My mind has been affected by this book I just read, Rich Dad Poor Dad. Yes, this book caused a big fight between me and my fiance, but I think I took it without a grain of salt at the time. Ignoring this (I'm sure the booze had something to do with it too), it does have some good advice. I recommend the library on this one, especially if you're in high school or college still.

It has been too long since I've written, I know. I wish I could pump out writeups like mad, but I've suddenly realized the outside world. No, I can't even say that. I just haven't written. I haven't been pulled away by any external force. Change is a slow process, it always has been. Just ask that Darwin fella. However, it's something I need to do. I'm sure I'll write again, there are too many 80's baseball players left to node :^)

I'm drunk. The Red Sox won. I ended up plus-7 in poker tonight, and that includes beer tax. Life is grand, as it should be.

magic cat at 3 a.m.
circles me twice
leaves me like a lover

For those of you who don't know, prepare yourselves: William Gibson has a blog. For those of you who did know, please try to keep the snickering down.

Or, he had one, anyway. He's not posting to it now, which is just as well; he's too busy writing his next book. And while he may not necessarily be putting fingertips to keyboard, his mind is doubtlessly marinating in its own juices and soon some of that cream we all end up contextualizing as a story will surface and he will write it. That's what he does. It's his job. And thank God he does it.

At any rate, there is a sort of deification that a writer often ends up applying to his silent mentors, the influential writers who come before him. Gibson, to me, has spent the better part of three years as my literary da Vinci, a man so "up there" as to be god-like. While I never was so brainless as to worship him (and God help me if I ever get to that point), I always sorta saw him as meta-human, from a writer's perspective- the apex of what a writer could end up being.

Which is strange, really, now that I've read about him in his own words. I mean, he's not what one would call prolific. Indeed, he's got a number of magazine articles, a few dozen short stories and a sum total of 8 books under his belt (one of which was co-written with Bruce Sterling). When it comes to quantity, Gibson's still wet behind the ears in the professional market. Certainly, he's got QUALITY practically dripping from his pores, but prolific? Not Gibson.

For the longest time there was a sort of mythos which was associated with the man, what he refers to as the "mediated persona", an entity which was inadvertently contructed within the media who bears his name but is not, really, him at all. And, in fact, that mythos was more fiction than anything he ever wrote. The guy writes on a computer, he is patently NOT the recluse we have perceived him to be, he is not socially awkward (though he does seem to be a bit shy). And he's about as technocratically elite as most of us, which isn't very much. He's not a coder, he's not a hacker. He's not even remotely interested in becoming any of those things, either. He's an idea-man, a story-teller, a guy who grew up during the Cold War era and saw a world through some very introverted eyes as an orphaned young man.

I've spent the better part of this last evening reading his blogs, his occasional musings on this and that, his responses to topics brought up on his message board by site visitors.

William Gibson is now, to me, just another guy who writes really, really, really damn well. He's got kids, a wife, friends and a career. He smokes and drinks coffee and finds it a bit odd that people deify him so much.

Say goodbye to the hero worship. Say hello to discovering a personal sense of identity. No one has to walk in the shadow of any man, woman or child, least of all any of us. He remains my strongest influence as a writer, but the guy is just too different for me to worry about ever trying to reach his summit. He's not on a higher plane, he's just on a different one.

I wonder if anyone notices just how much of a sense of humor writers end up having to develop about themselves? The really funny thing is that I first read Neuromancer three years ago, to this very day.

Things change; people change. Perhaps the two are related?

Last night I found out as I was coming up out of sleep, out of a dream of Mexico and a girl there, that my mother's brother Doug (my uncle) had died earlier in the day. I haven't heard all the facts yet but I'm told he committed suicide by overdosing on prescription sleeping pills. He lived in rural California with his sister, ex-wife, and two children. He'd attempted suicide once before, a few years ago, by repeatedly shooting himself in the stomach with a nail gun, though he panicked and called emergency services immediately afterward. Doug had long been considered the black sheep, as it were, of my mom's side of the family, mostly due to his various drug addictions, stints in jail, inability to hold down a job, and moves in and out of various trailer parks with his wife and kids, until his wife divorced him in 1998.

Doug's death, while tragic, wasn't really a surprise to anybody that knew him. I can readily understand his position and his chosen method of death, as I've battled through my adult life with suicidal ideation and addiction to tranquilisers. Despite this, I know that suicide isn't necessarily the correct answer. Nobody is beyond help, although my deepest estimation leads me to believe that you are the only person capable of helping yourself. Others can chip in with various things, but ultimately your own fate is in your own hands. It is unfortunate that so few people realise this before doing something regrettable, like trying to kill yourself, or worse, succeeding in doing so.

I hadn't seen Doug since the last time I was in California, in 1997. Before then I hadn't seen him since the mid-80s, and in the interim he'd become a fairly stereotypical trailer park redneck. I didn't understand until then why the rest of my family seemed to look down on him, despite what I'd heard about his less savoury habits. Looking back, it seems to me that he'd already given up on everything by then and was just going through the motions of life, not really trying to cause anybody any problems but apathetic if he managed to do so. Like most of the rest of his side of the family, mental illness is pretty bountiful, and when he and his wife had their two sons, he dutifully passed on the prepensity for it to them. I can only imagine how fucked up they're ultimately going to turn out after all their lives up until yesterday with him, and then the aftermath of his departure. Though it's really not a concern of mine, I can't help but wonder where the minds of people like him end up after death. I'm not talking about religion of any kind, or any of its concepts... it's just that I'm convinced that energy never dies, it merely changes form. Since consciousness is energy, into what form does it change when it's no longer burdened by the harshness of physical space? I'm not sure I want to know, but I can't help but be curious.

I've a strong interest in metaphysics, and this year so far has given me a lot to think about on the subject. In January, another of my mother's brothers, Jerry, had a massive heart attack and died. In March, my own father had a massive heart attack and needed quadruple bypass surgery. He survived, but he spent the first three days after his heart attack in a coma. When he woke up, he couldn't remember anything beyond the morning on the day of his heart attack. When I went to see him in the hospital, I asked him what he saw or felt "in there," but no memories surfaced. I've had a near-death experience of my own, but I'm confident that the specifics are different for everyone, based on what they've learned in life and what preconceived notions (if any) about non-physical life after physical death are held by the dying person. Different perspectives are always helpful, though, to compare to one's own experiences.

It's been a rough year so far, not just for me and my relatives, but for most people, judging by recent daylogs. I guess every year was a rough one for Doug, so he opted out of further rough years in the way that seemed simplest to him. Whatever form of energy you've catapulted yourself into, Doug, I wish you safe journeys, and hopefully greater understanding.

Well, it's almost May, and you know what that means, folks! It’s almost summertime!

If you're considering a family vacation this summer, something that can be relaxing, rewarding, and even educational, consider the Moon City. That's right, take your family on a trip to the exotic and fantastic Moon City! You can't get away much farther than that!

While most families are going down to Florida to bask in the sun, or going to Colorado to ski in the mountains, or even trekking over to California to get a glimpse of celebrities, you can take your spouse and children on one of the coolest, out of this world vacations around! And it doesn't cost as much as you'd think, either. Frugal vacation-seekers can find the best travel deals on the internet these days on websites like expedia.com.

Your vacation to that grand, glass-bubbled city on the moon begins with a trip down to Florida, but not to work on your tan at the beach! No, no! You and your family will be taking off on a rocket with other adventurous folks at Cape Canaveral, Florida! Bring something to read, because it's a loooong trip! But it is well worth it! In about forty-eight hours you could be docking 384,400 kilometers from your home planet on a city encased entirely in protective glass bubbles. The view will be breathtaking and absolutely astonishing!. You and your kiddies will marvel at the sight of the big, blue Earth up on the horizon and a crystal-clear view of the starry sky, as on the moon there's no pesky atmosphere to interfere with the view!

What is there to do in Moon City, you ask? Why, anything you could do at any vacation destination on Earth, and more! There's excellent restaurants of all ethnic and cultural varieties, plenty of shopping at the Lunar Mall, and great live music at the Blue Moon Night Club and Bar! Why, you can even...

What? Whaddya mean there's no..? Not even a..? But... They don't even have that yet?

You're kidding me! Really? But I thought...so no Moon City? Really?

So, anyway...I hear France is lovely this time of year..!

To the wild turkeys that live around my home

Dear Flock,

I understand that there have been efforts made over the last decade to reintroduce your species to northern North America. These efforts, I truly believe, are commendable; your species fills an important niche in this ecosystem, one which should be respected and protected. I like to think, also, that you and I have had a certain unspoken agreement over this past month; you (and your kin) are free to come to the birdfeeder, and you are free to eat whatever might be found on the ground there. You are not, under any circumstances, to attempt to fly up and perch on the birdfeeder, in an attempt to get your food directly from the source; this sort of behavior will be met with furious pounding of windows and stamping of feet, the sort of thing we both know you find quite upsetting. The birdfeeder proper is (and shall remain) the sole dominion of those smaller birds that are not quite so comfortable as you guys with regards to eating off of the floor. This relationship, properly maintained, could be quite rewarding for you both; you can eat the birdseed that the smaller birds scratch onto the ground; the smaller birds can in turn benefit from your intimidating presence. Up until recently, I was confident that all parties involved were aware and conscious of this beautiful symbiosis.

Listen: You've got to stop eating the chickadees. Whatever happened to brotherhood? Whatever happened to "birds of a feather"? I understand that by some sort of evolutionary oversight, chickadees aren't particularly attuned to the possibility that threats might come from below...but simply because you can eat something, doesn't mean that you should. Why must the chickadee be punished for having a readily available food source throughout the winter? While it is true that there has been an above average level of snowfall this season, and that foraging birds such as yourself have had a rough couple months, is it truly the chickadees' fault that I refill the birdfeeder every Monday and Thursday, ensuring that those usually slight and sprightly creatures are in contrast rather round and lethargic? Why must the chickadees suffer as a result of my overzealous maternal instincts? More than that, have you considered the consequences? What if the chickadees grow wise to your treachery, and learn to avoid the beckoning perches I have so carefully created for them? Your inability to resist a quick inter-phylum snack could very well bring about your demise, as the agents responsible for the plentiful rain of discarded seed on which you feast slowly grow wise to your reckless abuse of trust, and abandon you in frightened flight.

Seriously. Think about it.



Let's try this again, now that my brain works better.

Blister took the wheel of the Dundee Nodermobile as Spike got into the back. Then I got up front, and accidentally bashed my head on that stupid visor that always hangs down a bit.

I had this hat. It was basically what I described it as earlier: blue and red and fuzzy all over. Forget exactly why I was wearing it, though. I remember Blister kept taking it from me when we got to Fry's.

The ride over there, to Wilsonville was crap. No one talked, unless it was just to say the random things that popped into the head once in a while. The only thing I can remember from that was "I'm wearing pants!" I think that was me. Heh. It was true.

Anyway, the whole damn point of this trip was to get to Fry's to return some faulty RAM. I was feeling lost and confused, but I saw a Dance Dance Revolution machine over there, in the corner. It wasn't quite a machine, more like a PS2 rigged up to be one.

Well, I tried my luck, since I'm getting pretty good with my fingers. My brain didn't let my eyes and my feet work correctly at all. I fell over twice, I think. Screw that. So I followed Spike and Blister around, watching them pick out games to buy.

After that, it was another nauseous ride back to Newberg. Some talking, I remember I had the impression that it was kind of like the catbox, but it was rather disjointed. Probably because if we were to open our mouths, it wouldn't be words that came out, more like a mess that'd get all over the place.

Here we were, in Newberg. More precisely, the entrance to Fred Meyer. I had conveniently lost/forgot about my cell phone sometime back, so I didn't have it with me at the time. So that's why we relied on the payphones. Spike checked with his mother to go off to Sherwood, and I talked to my dad. The phone wire was crappy; I don't think it was my brain. The handset was on the verge of being detached from the phone.

He said yes. Thus, it was off to Sherwood we went. Along the way, we whistled the Kill Bill Whistle, where that's from I don't know, but it was fun to whistle anyway, as everyone's broken, offkey, offbeat notes were combined to create a full version of the thing. And there was also some completely on key yelling, all three of us were making the exact same noise (aaaahhhh) for about a minute. Why? Dunno.

There it was, the Regal 10. Gonna watch Vol. 2. Good plan, 'cept it wasn't showing for another hour and a half. They (tried their best to) whistle that song to the lady at the ticket booth. I gave up; I couldn't have whistled like that. I doubt I made half a note in the car.

Got the tickets. They pulled up some seats and watched a cardboard version of Kate Hudson's ass for a while, then they got bored and we went into the theater, No. 5. No one was here. No one was out there, either, save for the ticket lady. Blister tried to remedy his boredom by sneaking into the Girl Next Door. I suppose it worked, because he didn't come back.

So we got bored in here (here being No. 5), then. "Hey, Spike."
"Betcha can't sit in all these seats."
"Oh yeah?"
"Go." And he did. Every seat. I was trying to mathematically calculate how many seats he sat in. Big mistake.
"Nope. I counted 259." Then I thought it'd be pretty great to raise all the cupholders so people'd wonder where they went. And I did.

Then we were bored. Noting how all the seats with the raised cupholders looked like couches or futons, Blister and Spike decided to sleep for about 45 minutes. And I opened up the Cranial Explorer.

There was a forest. You heard about it. Same damn forest every sleep. Only the events within changed. This time, I grabbed a flashlight, and a map, and was promptly swallowed by EDB. I fell asleep. In a theater. Too damn early for the movie. With people laying down over there. And me thinking about stuff.

The hell with this, I have to pee. And I did, because that's what you do when faced with a toilet. And when I came out, there were people there. Not a lot, but there were meatsacks here and there. Back to the theater. The pre-previews were showing. And we watched.

And I forgot I was wearing that ridiculous hat, until the movie was over. And if you want a conclusion, I guess we went home. How's that?

(And by the way, the first telling of this story, in my opinion, was quite cool. However, we need 20 CCs of clarity, stat!)

Okay, you bastards.
I have finally succumbed to your blandishments and starting running again.

Conclusion? I'm old, tired, I have no wind, no stamina, no sprint, my joints are fer shite, and my ass is larger than it was in high school. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?

I realized that The Hike from Hell is a month away today, and if I plan not to make a fool of myself after all my backcountry talk, I need to get this booty to be slightly less ample.

SOooooo, I'm training for a triathalon in the fall, probably the Nike Womens in Sacramento. (Brrr, American River, 66 degrees. Mebbe I wear a wetsuit this time....) I don't want to run more than three miles, since the arthritis in the right knee is getting worse, but I can shoot for three.

My goal? The whole sheebang, under 2 hours, 40 minutes.
Swimming in 40 minutes or less.
Bike, 12 miles, can't remember my last time.
Run, I want to be able to run three miles in under 24 minutes (this is on a dare) and beat Johnny Goodyear out of that trophy. For the race, I'll be satisfied with under 30 minutes.

Better get your keysters in gear, boys, I'm on your trail.


Whole sectors are blocked by rubble. Many molochs were crushed. Many more are trapped. We have no idea how many. There are reports of out of control fires in some Shafts.

My right leg is badly damaged but I can walk, though slowly. Some others in my Shaft are not so lucky.

The Machine continues to hum around us, but its pitch is horribly wrong.

I must get


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