So this is what it looks like the other side of midnight.

I am usually at work now, slaving away on the evil tills, trying to earn myself enough money to move somewhere I want to be, but because it's the festive season I am granted a brief reprieve. My parents got a new connection, so I am finding the computer even easier to get stuck on... how can e2 be so addictive?

Anyway, I wanted to let someone know I've started drawing again - this used to be my only way of venting feelings and ideas. I guess the few years I stopped for must have been unworthy or something. I got all my drawing stuff out, looked at the pencils, pastels, charcoal etc that I'd left mouldering in a drawer for quite some time, then put it all away again except for a single pencil and a bit of clean white paper. I guess starting at the beginning was what I had in mind. I finished about 1/2 an hour later, then scanned it and sent it to a friend (seeking approval? probably.) He said complimentary stuff about it - but it's hard to know what's good and what's bad. Art is subjective. I feel much better now though - perhaps I ought to draw every day. Perhaps I will.

Since it's currently 1:25am, this may mostly be about yesterday or the day before. I just finished watching Reservoir Dogs which was great. Quentin Tarantino is great with music; think "Stuck in the middle with you". Anywhoo... I got $75, .com edition of Monopoly (which sucks, but I suppose I could node about it), a red tie, a Far Side Calender and that's about it. I got my gf a VHS copy of Chasing Amy. She wanted either it or What's Eating Gilbert Grape, but since I actually wanted to watch Kevin Smith I bought Amy.

Hey, this is my first daylog. Maybe I'll keep it up. I could definitely use the WUs. Everytime I see WU I think Weekend Update. What a messed up way to write a journal. I'm mormon, and the Church actually encourages one to keep a journal.

So there I was, waiting for the water to boil, as I slowly realized that I wasn't really alone. I was part of a strange sort of family. We are, within our individual contexts, misplaced, unable to envelop ourselves in the lives we see around us. But in the greater context of a global culture, we are the triggers of change. We are that which can sway the forces of history and give the world a new image of itself. Unshackled by tradition and dogma. A world aware that there are no rules, or limitations, and that there's a solution to every problem, all you need is a bit of magic.

We are out there. Scattered across eons of doubt, but we are nevertheless. We're going to find each other. We're going to share our thoughts, our dreams, our disappointments. We're going to shape and reshape our vision and we're going to show that magic is all around. Just of matter of looking in the right place.

We're going to change the world.


I've been playin' around with that FreeBSD system for two weeks now - I was just curious to test a "real unix", as they say, compared to Linux. Well, not so many differencies, me thinks, everything seems to work pretty much the same. So I'll put back that Linux on that box (had some trouble with some little things and thought, I can make those work in linux, afterall, it's a workstation, not a server). I am by no means any Unix -guru.

Looks like I need a new serial mouse. Current mouse is like 5 years old, and feels like it's going to break any day. Well, I hope I'll find some suitable 3-button mouse.

We're going to have mixing jams tomorrow, and I was supposed to check my records ready today, but I didn't have time. Well, just have to wake up about an hour earlier than planned. Oh sweet holidays! (I have some days left from my summer vacation, so I'm on holiday this week :)

As related to me by a mutual friend, let's call him Jim-bob.

Roughly 2:30 in the morning, my girlfriend is stoned out of her mind and hanging out with Jim-bob, Mary-lou, and some other people who we will also give funny names in order to retain some degree of anonymity. I had just talked to her on ICQ, where she was obviously pretty high. Snippets of conversation might have gone as follows:

x: blood is good but sea men are better.
orion: bloody semen is icky.
x: orion semen?
orion: what about it?
x: i want it.

Okay, that's not that weird, but it is if you know how shy she is normally about discussing sexual things with me.

The next day (well, the same day but after a period of hardcore sleeping) I'm talking to Jim-bob. He mentions how for the rest of the evening she had been sticking bananas down her throat, and kept looking for longer, thicker bigger ones.

I'm worried. What's she practicing for? I always thought I had a small penis...

I met one of my friends from when I was little for lunch today. We brought our moms along (what great kids we are...). It really is strange to sit across from someone who was your best friend for years and not know what to say. We haven't talked much in the last few years, and I guess we got more out of touch than I had realized. Still great to see her though, maybe I'll actually not be lazy and try to see her more now. It's just weird how different we are now.

Going down to Tampa, Florida tomorrow, a nine hour drive in a car with 3 smokers. Eek! Not looking forward to the drive at all. I don't even know if I'm looking forward to the trip that much. I understand that everyone wants to get out of boring Raleigh, but going down to the Keys with no plans made ahead of time is just not my idea of fun. But hey--I promised not to be Plan Ahead Girl on this trip, so I guess I'll just keep my mouth shut when they realize that they won't be able to find a hotel on New Year's Eve. Eh, I need to stop this! I will have fun.

I'm meeting friends for dinner tonight. I feel like I've been eating all day long.

*Sigh* I miss my computer. I wish I hadn't left it at school over break.
I have a problem.

It occurs randomly and many times at an inconvenient time. I simply shut down. I don't fall over like a marionette with its strings cut off; I just freeze a bit like a flaky Playstation FMV. I will be doing some daily activity, talking or driving and then about 30 seconds later realize that I had just shut off. Personally its not too bad but then it begins to affect others around me. The worst is when it happens when I drive. I’ve never been in an accident but it’s been close. (6 way intersections against the light are NOT good places to black out).

My wife simply takes it in stride and tries to get me to remember where I left off but many times my thoughts have derailed to the point of no return. It frustrates her that I will get her attention and halfway through a sentence just trail off and then ask her what does she want.

I’ve talked with shrinks and they say it’s related to stress and I tended to agree until recently when my 5 year old daughter started to do the same things. Granted a 5 year olds attention span is much less than mine but the blank stares are quite disturbing. For me the blackouts just are a way that my mind does a soft reset because of stress but what of a child? Is this day and age simply too much for children that they have mental troubles before they can even multiply? Or is it somehow tied to genetics and I have passed my troubles onto her?

Stealing a few minutes of a friend's cable connection, of course I find my way to Everything. I was struck by several unrelated nodes newly created, all of which have hurt me with their beauty. Mick Foley by RimRod, The way that light attaches to a girl by deep_thought, A Happy Poem by clearpebbles, and a few of the day logs. Mick Foley is one of my heroes, a great man and a dedicated wrestler. deep_thought's writeup is based off of a part of the Counting Crows song A long December, which always manages to make me sniffle around the holidays. Clearpebbles and I have been getting to know each other, and she is actually making me sad that she can't seem to get a break. While I don't really know her, I still think she deserves better.

Well, I am now physically located in Michigan, back from my work term. I start college on the 7th, and am getting excited.

    Things on my "To-do" list:
  • Call the Voices of Everythingians project, so pebbles will stop nagging me
  • Go back to Chicago to get all my stuff (I'm back in Michigan for those who care)
  • Finish my best friend's CD that I've labored over for the last three months and give it to her
  • Go to college
Well, that's all for now, tune in next week....


I found out that Sara was checking her email while away so I wrote her a letter. I wrote a fairly long letter including a note about how I miss her and that I got her something for christmas. I want to see the tone of her response before I decide if I will ask her if she'd like to go out on a date on New Year's. This wouldn't seem so odd, except that she'll be about a hundred miles away that day, so it will be a little bit of a trip to meet her, even though in a few days she'll be back in town.

Work was boring today. We have some long-term projects, and threats of heavy workloads ahead, but unless I'm given a deadline for something, I'm not getting anything done. So I did *absolutely* nothing today. Most days that I say this, I usually at least did something minimally productive that day, such as starting up a server or installing some software. But today I did absolutely nothing. My guilt will probably kick in tomorrow and force me to write some code for something.

I spent over two and a half hours at the gym today. I spent 3/5 of that on the treadmill, burning 1038 calories. I spent an hour on weights and aerobics, so I imagine that was at least another 500-600 calories, so today I definitely burned off more calories than I took in. I figure I might as well spend my free nights getting caught up at the gym since I'm not able to get there every night anymore.

I finally got an appointment to go to the dentist today. My teeth aren't too bad now, but they can use some improvement. My top teeth are too small so there are some obvious gaps, and I could go with some cleaning to help remove stains. This is the only remaining self-image issue I have, so once this is all straigtened out, I will be much happier with myself.

Ok, I've got a lot of stuff to get done in the next couple of weeks. Time for a list.

I pack and pack -- 58 boxes in all -- until it's time to catch the plane from RDU to LaGuardia. Then I pack some more, prepping a box for the TV, for when it comes back from the repair shop; then I pack some more, opening up Box #58, half-filled with books, in order to stuff my dirty clothes, my new Python book, and an odd and an end -- there wasn't enough room in my carry-on luggage to bring everything with me.

So I'm running several minutes late, at least if you count as I do, "late" meaning you've failed to arrive one hour before the scheduled departure of your flight. But all goes well, and I head for Gate C6, walk through the metal detector, and set off the beeps. I step aside, remove my change, offer to take off my multi-zippered black leather jacket, but metal-detector-guard #2 has me raise my arms, while he passes The Device around me. I passed.

All the while, I'm taking glances at the other station, the X-ray conveyor-belt one, where my carry-on bag and laptop bag have already passed through -- I don't want the laptop to be stolen. After being sent on my way by the genial metal-detector-guard #2, I walk over to my bags, and conveyor-belt-guard #2, quite dour and serious, asks "Are these your bags?", and before I can go "Why, yes! And thanks for looking after them for me!", he asks me to open them; this I do, and I'm asked to open a plastic bag inside the carry-on bag. I give him my unopened, still-in-the-box Black and Decker cordless screwdriver. He and agent #3 study the box; I explain the contents ("it's a cordless, rechargable screwdriver..."), and point out that there's also a hammer in the bag -- suffering from temporary brain cramp, I was thinking in terms of the metal in the hammer tripping off the metal detector. Agents #2 & #3 send me back to the entrance to the terminal, where I must have my hammer and screwdriver packed in a box and checked in as baggage, because

I'm a potential hijacker.

I dutifully do as they say, leaving myself way past my one-hour-before-the-flight rule; I still have to convert my e-ticket into a real one as well. I go back through the metal detector (a formality, since I think they turned it off for me), sending my bags along the X-ray belt. Grim conveyor-belt-guard #2 beckons me over again, with the same "Are these your bags?" question -- surely he remembers me, but I resist a wisecrack. This time it's the laptop bag; I offer to open it, but the agent takes out a small brush; my mind wanders elsewhere for a sec, waiting for him to ask me to open the bag, but it looked like he was brushing bag debris (tobacco crumbs, ashes, cat hairs...) into a plastic scoop for "study", because

I'm a possible drug-runner, drug dealer, or drug fiend.

I passed whatever test it was. Your tax dollars at work. The rest of the process was uneventful; I got aboard, we took off, landed, and sat around until the plane could make its way to Gate D2 at LaGuardia.

I was, silently, in my Edina voice on the New York City side of the trip, taking public transportation back to Brooklyn; of course, the "real-life" Eddie probably couldn't navigate a subway station, much less take the time to complain about it. The M60 bus (the one you ride to get back to Manhattan) stops, a few stops before the Triboro Bridge, for some undisclosed reason, so we all have to wait for another bus to arrive -- a bus that's already full of people headed to Manhattan.

"...bloody buggery public transport!..."

So two loads of us are packed into this thing, and I, ever chivalrous (or something), was among the last to board; the only place to stand was in the doorwell, brushing against the side door. After the driver warned me against touching the door -- since these doors open rather easily by design -- we were off. I grabbed onto the nearest pole for dear life, fearing some lurch would throw me against the door, and I'd go flying into the Triboro River (or whatever the hell it's called) at 60 mph.

...but I get to my 125th Street stop, where I can catch the train(s) the rest of the way. It looked like it usually does late at night -- mass confusion over re-routed trains, thanks to the never-ending construction (usually a problem with the 4). I made the mistake of thinking I needed to be on the upper level, then had to run down the stairs to catch the arriving downtown 6 train. The 6 is a local, making all the stops between Harlem and the beginning of downtown Manhattan; the express 5 would have been a better fit, but I was tired, didn't feel like waiting for it, and wasn't sure if it was still running for the evening. My consolation was that I didn't have to change over to the 6 downtown, since I was already aboard. I sighed. Pats took another swig of her vodka. We get to Union Square, where I'd normally make the switch to the 6, and the conductor says "we'll be skipping local stops...", i.e., skipping my stop (Canal Street, where I transfer to any train that will take me across the Williamsburg Bridge); continuing my policy of not getting up, my only option is to keep riding, switch tracks (from southbound to northbound), and then the next stop from there is Canal. Fine. I take a swig from Patsy's bottle and try to remember if the TTC has ever exasperated me. It's not too late to send my 58 boxes to Toronto.

So, I'm going into an anonymous copy shop (whose name has been expunged to protect the guilty) the other night, about to take advantage of the fact that I have two very immoral friends who work there, and have been known, on occasion, to slip me the odd freebie. In recent months an extension of the Evil Empire has been built next door......Starbucks. Argh, argh, argh.

And, I can't find a goddamn parking space. I even tried praying to the marvelous little parking goddess icon on my dashboard. No love. So you know what I do? I drive around, park my dinky little compact, and walk up. Coming around the side of the building, I see that a behemoth of a SUV has parked its fat ass in the handicapped space. I look. No handicapped tag.

Let me explain something to you. My uncle is a quadraplegic. He has been for as long as I can remember-the accident was before I was born. He's a wonderful person, a gifted professional, and a great guy. He just happens to have broken his neck 20-some-odd years ago in a surfing accident.

And yeah, he has handicapped tags on his van. He needs those spaces to be able to go anywhere, especially around this time of year. Those spaces are put there for a reason, people. Besides the fact that it's illegal, because every business is required, by law, to be wheelchair accessible, it's just really fucking rude to park there simply because you're too bloody lazy to find another space.

So, I'm staring at the gas-guzzling monster, fuming, and who should come out with their incredibly overpriced cup o' joe, but the driver of that same car? How wonderful.

Me:"Excuse me? Hi, I don't mean to be a bitch about it, but it is kinda rude to park your car there. I mean, what if someone needed that space?"
Woman:"Yeah, someone did. Me."
Me:"Well, you don't have a tag."
Woman:"Who are you, the fucking handicap police? Give me a break!"
Me:"No, I'm not. I just happen to be someone with a little goddamn courtesy, that's all."

Exit Bitca, stage left.

I go in, copy my sheets, shoot the shit with Suze and Val, and leave. And lo, who should be out there, waiting for me, than the obnoxious SUV driver? Who the hell waits 15 minutes just to continue some trifling little feud? This wackjob, apparently. She follows me down to my car, pulls up behind me, blocking me in, and gets out, red in the face, and starts yelling at me. "Who do you think you are?", etc. etc.

Whatever. I roll my eyes, ignore her, try and avoid getting shot in the back parking lot of a shopping center, and get into my car. Lock the door.

Splat. The bitch threw her coffee at me. 3.29 of oversugared, inflated, pretentious java streams down my window.

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