With only today remaining for 2006, I have just this one day to complete my resolutions. The good news is I only had one, and I may, possibly, have kept it.

I didn't write a post about it, not one I can find, but I think I wanted to cut in half my patronage of nationally-advertised fast food places, from four a year to two. If so, I may have accomplished that.

Once this year I stopped at an Arby's, and no one would argue that doesn't fall into the category of nationally advertised fast food joints. I splurged a few times at In-and-Out Burgers, but they're not national so I can do that with impunity. Same for Tito's Tacos, though they do advertise locally.

I continue to maintain that Subway isn't a fast food place, but that's because it takes forever for the person behind the counter to assemble what, ostensibly, is no huge task. They don't have to cut the meat or chop any of the accompaniments, not when they're constructing my sandwich, so I can't explain why it takes them so long, but it does. In any case, I only ate there once, so that would only be two for the year, unless I'm forgetting something.

As long as I keep my ass away from McDonald's today, I should be a success. Next year I'll need different resolutions, and since I was so good about keeping this year's I can only wonder why I never made any all the years I was growing up.

I have a couple in mind, but will check around to see what other people come up with. I may borrow a few, may be talked into some, but now that I see that it's possible to keep them, I may be more likely to have them. I don't know what would be a good number of resolutions to have, but I've proved I can keep one so I'll want more than that.

Which is all to say, I'm open for suggestions. One thing I've learned is that I'm not very good at running my life, so all the bots that review this site may have a better idea of what's good for me than I do.

I just have no idea what they'll be.

The best thing about Christmas is the goodies, and by "goodies" I don't necessarily mean the presents that are exchanged, but all the things that only surface around this time of year. Okay, a lot of it is crap, but that just adds to its charm.

When I was growing up there were only two big meals each year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. Since my immediate family were the only ones living in California there weren't usually more people at the table than at any other meal during the year, but the turkey dinners brought from the nooks and crannies of the cupboards all manner of strange dining devices. None of these showed up at any other time of the year, so I consider them holiday goodies.

There are the obvious things, like the snowmen cheese knives, which might be considered inappropriate for August snacking, and otherwise useful things like the large plate divided into sections. That could be used any time, but it only makes an appearance with the big meals and invariably contains the same assortment of olives, celery, carrots, and pickles. Depending on how hungry we get waiting for the real food to show up, those snackable vegetables are as frequently decorative as not.

I, myself, have a service of eight that's been used no more than three times. There are lovely little red flowers on it, I think, and looks more festive than the normal dinnerware, but it, too, lives out its ceramic existance in a remote location at the top of the highest cupboard. My guess would be there's a frightening layer of dust on top, if only you could see it.

One of my favorite things, long since gone, was a set of plastic bins. The larger were designed to hold not only the smaller ones, which were filled with corn and peas, but a healthy helping of hot water. In theory, the vegetables would sit on the table, bathed in warming water, and never get cold. They worked pretty well as far as I can recall.

Also making their appearance at this time of year are serving spoons and forks and more bowls than you can imagine. I have no idea why they're not used the rest of the year, but part of that may be because I can usually fit my nightly dinner on one plate.

When I was married, I vowed to make use of the wedding presents and to use all this dinnerware and serving things as often as possible. I did, too, until my wife chose to live away from me, so I can be proud of that. We had a hutch filled with the better dining goodies, and we pulled them out and used them several times a year.

At this house, though, the festive straws are pulled from a drawer each holiday season, never used, and returned to exile until the next year. Napkins and tablecloths, both with and without snowmen, make their appearance, and its the presence of all these silly things that put me in the Christmas mood. More than the decorated tree, more than the houseful of glittered pine cones and clothespin people, the electric carving knife, to me, means holidays.

The only reason not to use most of this crap the rest of the year is simple: when it appears, it's special.

See, the title of this entry isn't lame: it's a wortspiel on yesterday's clever one!

My gift wrapping is all done! Normally that would be about an hour's task, but not this year. A few days ago it dawned on me that all my wrapping paper and things were back home and out of reach. So, in my cleverness, I bought some more.

The paper may or may not be beautiful or festive (it's inoffensive, solid green with flecks of gold), but I noticed an unexpected property when I started wrapping my gifts. Tape doesn't stick to the paper, and in that regard it's more like wax paper than wrapping paper. It's possible (and confirmed through scientific testing) to unwrap one of my gifts without tearing the paper simply by removing the tape, which you could also use again.

So, the paper is not only green in color, it's green in the environmental sense! You can peel off the tape to use again, and you can do so without ripping the paper at all!

In other news I should be going back home tonight. The biggest benefit of that is that my phone will stop continually beeping, which is its way of bitching about not having its pings answered. This hilltop living is gorgeous and rural, but it's not a location Virgin Mobile has considered.

Also, according to people who've talked to me about it, my hand wringing over my failing clutch is misplaced: I probably need an entire new transmission. Well, and why not? Into every life a bit of adversity must fall, and heaven knows I've been blessed more than many people.

It's a good thing, too, that I'll be going home soon. One of my landmarks for returning to this place is gone. On top of a misshapened, somewhat triangular building located on the turnoff I need to take to get from Sunset Blvd back to this place, a huge snowman or Santa in a globe sat. I could see it, literally, from a mile away, but it's no longer there. It seems to have disappeared a few nights ago, coincidentally on the same night we had some strong winds.

Now, I'd like to think the owner of the restaurant or the apt building or whatever climbed up there in the middle of the night and deflated it,  but it's even more fun to think of the snowman escaping his binds and rolling merrily down the street. I picture him bouncing off cars and buildings, and I can only hope he made it all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

Now that would rock!

That's a very clever title for an entry. I wonder if I'm the first to think of it.

Today I wrapped up my shopping, but not yet the gifts. Nothing puts me in the Christmas mood quite like driving around in a convertible in seventy degree weather (feels like 75!) with nary a cloud in the sky. The little rain washed the skies clean and snowy moutains can be seen surrounding the city.

Also, the recent winds have covered the deck where I'm staying, as well as the driveway, with a carpet of yellow leaves. Palm fronds dot the streets, ruining tires and surprising unwary motorists.

Historically, the presents I'm happiest with choosing please the recipients about half the time. The gifts I'm unhappy with fare better, which irks me no end. This year, then, promises to be a good one since I'm not happy with much of anything I've bought. I can't imagine anyone doing much other than mumbling "thanks" to any of the gifts I'm giving this year, but I there's a lot I can't imagine.

For myself, there's nothing I particularly want (except a clutch and gainful employment), so I'll be overjoyed to get anything at all. I can't be an easy person to have to get a gift for, so I always appreciate my family's efforts.

This year promises to be one of the best Christmases, ever.

As expected, the rising sun drove away the rain clouds. I can only hope that when it wasn't involved in that task that it also repaired my clutch. If nothing else, the nighttime air would have cooled it off.

Also, I found my mobile. I did a cursory check of my cars interior last night, one that gave me fewer rewards than Bush's excursion into nation building, but was hampered by the lack's  of any light. What I did was run my hand over the passenger seat, which even I admit isn't much in the way of an exhaustive search.

This morning, when it was light enough to see my hand in front of my face, I put off doing a search for the obvious reason that if my efforts weren't successful that I'd have to admit my phone was gone for good. It's always better to have hope than knowledge.

Just now I held my breath, opened the door, and found the phone resting where I very well may have put it yesterday. In my defense, it was a new place (a hollow near the emergency brake).

The sunny day means I can postpone wrestling with the top and becoming more discouraged. I just hope the clutch survives my day's travels and doesn't provoke the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I expect.

The last-minute shopping should go well, assuming I can stumble on things for the last two people on my list. I have no idea what to get them, which should be obvious by how long it's taken me to get the presents. I keep finding wonderful gifts for people I don't need to buy anything for, but that doesn't help me in the slightest.

I think I'll give my phone an hour's worth of electrical charge and then tuck it in my pocket like a normal person would. I've had poor luck hanging it from my belt, and last night's despair should be good for something, like a lesson.

In other news, I was able to read the newspaper this morning which succeeded in ruining my appetite.

I had a lot planned for today, mostly because I've done so little so far and pushed everything to the last minute. What I hadn't planned on was having to perform these tasks in the wet, but I think it will pass.

Some other developments, however, may prove even more noteworthy.

Yesterday, when I wasn't busy losing my cell phone, I was convinced my clutch is slipping. Maybe all this hill driving has taken its toll and has simply exposed a pre-existing condition or maybe it's caused it, it doesn't matter. What does matter is I've lost over half the faith I had in my automobile.

The good news is it's a repairable problem, given money.

I was hoping today to pop back to my home and finish up my Christmas shopping, but I was upset yesterday when I wasn't able to fasten the top on my car. It wasn't a big deal, but if this rain continues, it may be. The good news is that my distress over not being able to secure the top was washed away when I noticed my phone isn't anywhere I expect it to be.

The rate at which I can waste money concerns me. At least I'm not kicking myself over buying myself some unnecessary Christmas present.

Not yet, anyway!

It's chilly in California, which means sweaters are inadequate to keep me toasty. I can't see my breath, not inside, and I don't see dogs shivering, but it was cold enough to shrink my hands and cause my ring to fall off.

I was without it for a couple days and missed it much the way I miss teeth. I have a tendency, not unique, to grow accustom to things and, to go along with that, to miss them when they're gone.

The ring's back now and returned to my right index finger where it belongs. I can now, I hope, somehow save my life or prevent some other disaster by thrusting my hand inside a closing door or beneath a falling safe. That's what titanium rings are good for.

It does little, however, to protect my head. I should know better, but it may be another of those "grow used to" things I was just typing about, but every time I come here to housesit I give my head no fewer than two or three really impressive whacks on the hood over the range. It's the type of range that inspires one to weep for its awesomeness, and the hood is equally sturdy and, more imporantly, pointy. At least the corners are, and that's what I run into.

I think I've learned to avoid running into it, but I've thought that before. In any case, it's pretty evident that if I have learned it, that knowledge has yet to make its way to anything near what they call "long term memory."

The only other annoying thing here is that I spend my evenings looking at a fireplace that I don't think works. I'm not so naive as to try it, but it's tempting. I've never lived anywhere with a fireplace so I consider them a delightful luxury and one that can entertain me for hours. I've had friends with them and remember many enjoyable evenings spent poking the logs, a shopping item that I've never been able to include on my list. I'm sure that clerks and others in the store treat you better if you have a small load of logs, even those manmade ones, in your cart since only the better class of people are allowed to have fireplaces. While the authorities may allow arsons to have fireplaces and pokers, they draw the line at careless people or those who I imagine haven't passed some sort of fire safety test. I'm excellent with campfires but have never been blessed with owning a fireplace, not ever.
There is a small built-in electric heater in the bathroom I get to use, but as cheery as the glow of the wires is, it's just not the same thing.

About a week ago the Shoshone tribe bought the Hard Rock franchise, and I've been disappointed ever since. It used to be you couldn't turn your head without seeing someone wearing one of the T-shirts, but the hippies are letting me down. I expected them to be all over this and doing everything they could to make the purchase a successful venture.

I've ridden by the Hard Rock in Las Vegas, but that's as close as I've ever been. I did, once, eat at a Planet Hollywood in Orlando, but that's hardly the same thing.

While the Shoshone are channeling what I suspect to be gambling profits into a more mainstream venture, one of our local Indian tribes, the Pechanga, are dealing with their windfall a bit differently. In an effort that I'm sure has nothing to do with the twenty grand a month each of their tribe members are reaping from a successful southern California location, they've decided to trim their ranks. I have no idea what's considered acceptable, but they've been sending out notices to many people purging them from tribehood.

The recipients, naturally, say they're not upset about the money, only about losing their roots and heritage. I'm not sure who's doing the genealogy, but I don't think I'd be too upset about being told I wasn't one-sixteenth Pechanga or whatever the cutoff is, not as much as I would be about losing a damn good income for an accident of birth. Then, again, I've never been all that concerned about what my grandparents did for a living, or anything about them.

In Africa, however, the Bush people have received a very generous agreement with the people of Botswana, who've determined the Bushmen belong in the Kalahari. Now, I had to study the Bushmen in an undergraduate Sociology course, so anything I know about them is pretty much restricted to their name. Still, I think allowing them to return to their native lands is both good and bad.

Good because, well, it's what they're accustomed to. Bad because I don't think you can lift yourself out of a stone age existence if you're stuck in the Kalahari desert. Yes, you can survive the way your ancestors did, but look where that got 'em.

Whenever anyone who hasn't discovered metalworking runs up against Europeans, who have, they lose. This doesn't surprise me. There's something romantic about the pre-Industrial people, but I don't know anyone who'd like to live the way they did.

Still, it's been a great month for indigenous people.

That little car of mine should probably be named John instead of Timmy. He's getting a lot of action this week, but all of it is attention that's being paid for.

Earlier he had a date with a locksmith who was able to open his trunk for the first time in recorded history. The inside was clean, but contained nothing noteworthy or, to my regret, valuable. I promptly filled it with some assorted car goodies, which I'm putting off using, but there's still room for some small presents.

This morning, to my surprise, I felt strong and confident enough to admit I can't install the new convertible top that I bought from the previous owner, who was also smart enough not to try to put it on himself. I drove over to a tiny place that's been in my neighborhood all my life that advertises seat belt installation and auto upholstery. I've long felt it must be a mafia front, mostly because in all the years it's been around I've never seen anyone actually getting any work done there.

But, it was a mystery I could extend no longer.

My concerns going in were twofold: How much of an idiot would I look like asking them to install a convertible top that I had but couldn't put on myself? Second, and more important, the existing top doesn't latch tight, which means I can't put it up if it rains.

I parked my little car in the back and was astonished to see some guy actually working on a car, if by "working" you include "using a vacuum." I walked around to the front and was immediately met by an older man who spoke English with, to my delight, an Italian accent. I explained my plight, but left out that I can't secure the top in the shut position, and he quoted me a price to install my supplied top. As it turned out, much to my relief, he says a lot of people buy tops and can't install them.

He went out to look at, or mock, my car, and was concerned about the existing top failing to move that last inch it would need to if it were to be locked in place. I was too, and by then I was out of secrets and started feeling quite nervous. He thought, maybe, the top that was on there (in spite of the rips and complete lack of a rear window, which I'd cut out) may be too tight to allow the frame to move as far as it needs to. We ended up thinking it had possibly shrunk from years of neglect, but he wants me to bring Timmy back in tomorrow when his convertible top specialist can give it a look.

Then, if things are acceptable, sometime next week Timmy can have his new top installation appointment.

It's possible that if they take the old top off they can see if the frame will fasten, but I won't know that until tomorrow at the earliest. This little auto upholstery place doesn't work on convertible top frames, so I'm not sure yet how much trouble I'm in.

Today it would behoove me to wash and wax Timmy, who the owner called a "toy," but I'm too busy sulking to think of doing anything productive.

Over the weekend I began receiving gifts, the kind that come from those who care. Among others, my neighbors installed their Christmas lights and due to their generous use of extension cords I can now run portable heaters and other high energy devices. I can hardly wait to begin smelting iron and welding up some wrought iron goodies for all the people on my list!

I have some of those electric icicyles, too, and should probably put those up some time today, but it isn't as if this house is dreary as Scrooge's would have been. This year there's a couple of those inflatable things resting out front, one snow globe and one waving snow man. Very festive.

Except during the day, when it looks as if there's been some sort of industrial accident that resulted in puddles of plastic.

While the weekend started off poorly with Army losing to the Navy, a game I stumbled on and that I watched in respect of my late father, later on, of course, my Alma Mater triumphed over the hated men in skirts. I've yet to visit the campus, but I want to see all the cardinal taunts painted on the Bruin walk so I can be smug. In the meantime, I have to console myself with this article from the Daily Trojan, which I saw on Saturday.

It's always good when UCLA wins. I don't know why, since the athletic departments have little to do with the school, but it quiets some unwelcome noise and reminds me of the days when my car had a bumper sticker.

When the aliens come, it will be my responsibility to keep them from abducting or contacting my family.

I take this on, not as a way of protecting my family, but for the greater good. There's no way humanity, or the aliens, would benefit, and if I fail to keep the parties separate, much confusion could result.

While it's only to be expected that one member of our family (me) would know just about everything about just about everything, judging from our Thanksgiving meal together, everyone in my family is pretty much an expert about anything you care to name. Not only are we all brilliant, we're all quite noisy about it.

There's no way the aliens should be led to think that all humans are like this. Meeting us would skew their research, and not in any good direction.

When we're not busy shouting over each other in an effort to make our voice heard, we're sulking because no one listens to us. Again, not typical. I've met quite a number of families over the years, and every one of them would be a better candidate for alien study.

I'm sure that we'd all rush out to see the glimmering, silvery spacecraft and its inhabitants, but I'm equally certain that I'll need to do everything in my power to prevent it. Not all members of my family would be easily distracted by shiny objects, but I'm hoping. Perhaps they'd be swayed by another of my famous recitations about growing up with black and white television.

What I'll have to do, when the aliens come hunting, is to point them to a reasonable family. The good news is, just about any I could name would be better representatives of the planet Earth than mine would be.

I just hope those aliens have room on their ship for me, too.

The robots will be thrilled to have another entry from me to parse.

Earlier this month I was suffering from a case of lactose intolerance, but I'm happy to say that it may have been the 48 hour variety. Or, it may have been an unyet unknown one, in which case, if it kills me, I can have a disease named after me. Since I have to die of something, anyway, I could do worse than be the first person with something. It worked for Lou Gherig.

My lactose intolerance may have mutated into cream soda intolerance, and I haven't heard of anyone having that before.

It's more likely, though less romantic, to think that I wasn't intolerant of anything, which would make me proud. I'm not fond of intolerance, not a big fan of it. I think what may have been happening is that I was going too long between meals and was wolfing my dinners down, or maybe just swallowing too quickly and taking in one part air to one part liquid.

I panicked, of course, when my evenings were filled with burps and other gaseous developments and tummy aches, but I took the extreme measure of diagnosing myself and bought some of those lactaid aid pills. Since I often drink half a gallon of milk a day (sometimes more) and have no desire to stop that, I was happy when I could drink that with impunity. I think that may be a lot of milk for a grown adult to stomach, but you have no idea how good it tastes when it's going down. I just can't stop swallowing, once I get started.

Yes, I have a drinking problem, and this may be an unexplored symptom. I just love swallowing. Repetitively. Over and over.

Now I'm feeling better.

At my last job when I wasn't busy grumbling about how we were counting kisses to measure love, a metaphor I was very proud of, I responded to a lot of suggestions by saying "Just because you can, doesn't make it a good idea."

I was thinking of that the other day when, for the first time in years, I was at a gas station filling up my car, which took 5.94 gallons. When I was first driving, not only did we have the old pumps with the analog display like the odometer, but the gallons advanced much quicker than the dollars did.

Those old pumps, which couldn't display prices over one dollar a gallon, were accurate enough to have kept the American motorist on the road for the first fifty years of driving, I'm guessing, but when we advanced to the computer-controlled, digital pumps, we suddenly realized that we could needlessly measure the gasoline dispensed. As if that helps anyone.

I've long been a fan of slide rules, which got me through high school. I have no idea whatever happend to the large ones in my math classrooms that were nearly as long as the blackboard, but I'd like to think they ended up somewhere. As calculators and computers have replaced them, I can't help thinking back to how much of the world was engineered and built to "slide rule accuracy," a term whose loss I regret nearly as much as "jungle."

Slide rule accuracy, as I understood it, meant three digits. That's not very many, but somehow it worked and, just as importantly, was always a number I could understand. We can now easily calculate things out to ten or one hundred digits and, having that ability, do so. The thing is, I'm not convinced that it honestly adds anything of value.

Do I really need to know, to five digits, the percent of my expenditures that go to food? I have to admit that 27.847% gets rounded off by me to 25%, or one quarter of my expenses. That's a figure I can understand, one that makes sense to me, and one that gives me a ballpark figure I can live with.

I noticed this obsession with needless accuracy when I got my first digital watch. Instead of telling me the time, I read 11:47, and then had to visualize that before I knew that it was quarter to twelve. Few things are more annoying than asking someone with a digital for the time: they'll read off the digits instead of saying "it's almost noon," or some such answer that actually gives you what you need to know.

I can no track my gasoline usage to one-thousandth of a gallon. Last time I checked, that was 3.78541ccs, or, as I like to call it, three and a quarter. I'm guessing that's about a thimble full, and is unneccassirly complex. It does permit me, however, to calculate my mileage to thousandths as well, or five and a half feet.

I think that's silly.

The elections are over, which means I can expect my telephone calls to once again be from, you know, people. Not that Clint Eastwood isn't a person, mind you, it's just that as soon as I hear a recorded voice I hang up, so I have no idea who I was hanging up on.

I did pretty good this year, getting many of the propositions right. I missed the one about the sex offenders, and I'm more than a bit sickened that so many of my fellow citizens want to tag anyone, no matter how loathsome, with a GPS monitoring anklet. Who knew?

I spread my votes around, like I think you're supposed to, between all the parties (except Republican and that one that sounds like Nazis), but I think only the Democrats won anything. I guess that now that the elections are over they'll forget all that partisan rancor and sit around the campfire singing cumbaya together. I did find it interesting that so many of the Democrats campaigned using the "my opponent voted along party lines 97% of the time" and never mentioned that they, too, voted along party lines 97% of the time. I guess if it's your party the argument doesn't hold, or maybe then it's a virtue, not a flaw.

I hardly got any mail today.

And I'm willing to predict that Rumsfeld's "resignation" will keep the Democratic "thumping" of the Republicans from dominating tomorrow's front pages.

A couple facts:

If everyone in the US who is eligible to vote did vote, the House of Representatives would stay just about the same (assuming that everyone voted for their registered party) because that's how the districts are drawn. **cough cough**gerrymandering**cough cough**

About forty percent of the eligible voters are expected to vote Tuesday.

I know a lot of people yell about the way the districts have been drawn. I'd be upset, too, if this was a new thing or a Carl Rove invention, but I learned the word when I was about thirteen, which was during Johnson's administration. I have a hunch it predates even those old and dusty days.

Face it: the party in power will always redraw the districts in a way more beneficial to its interests. It's supposed to, and is one of the reasons both parties struggle so hard to win. What we can do is vote. Given the predicted turnout, whichever side has more people show up to vote will win, and there's quite a lot of built-in slack.

It's neither profound nor particularly insightful to realize that attitude is everything in life, but that's unlikely to stop me from posting about it.

Some time ago I took one of those personality tests, and if it was on the Internet than it must have been in the past fifteen years. That would be even more frightening, not because I was seeking wisdom from some website, but because by that time in life I'd already gone through my marriage, risen to middle-management, and had successfully "completed" more than one program designed to treat my ills. Still, if that's when it happened, that may explain why I call myself a slow learner.

But none of that matters.

The only question I remember from the test wasn't particulary hard: it was about my favorite color. Answering that was a snap, but the explanation disturbed me. Picking gray as my favorite color, according to them, meant that I was indecisive, and that answer has disturbed me ever since.

I don't like to think of myself as indecisive, but there you have it. I'm wishy-washy, unable to resolve things or commit, and very likely to end up as road kill. The worst thing about it is that I had a hunch it was true.

When I was in high school I ran across some psych book that talked about inferiority complexes, and I was pleased and eager to claim that label. It gave me something to be, something others would understand, and by doing so, solved all my problems.

I was less encouraged to find out, years later, that I was incapable of making timely decisions, or any at all, and that's been a private shame for years. The more I experienced, the more I could see it, though, and I spent not a little time trying to be decisive. The results weren't encouraging, but I'd be damned if I wanted to go through life not making up my mind about anything.

Then, yesterday, it struck me. I was watching Michael Schumacher's last race and my company was seeing every event unfold and immediately explaining it. No matter what happened, the event was seen as justification for pre-conceived opinions, was viewed only as an example for previously held beliefs, and I was enlightened.

Some people, it seems, have this world all figured out. When they see something new, they strive for an answer and compare the new experience to what they've already decided. They're looking for answers, and use the fodder of existence as it were to prop up their beliefs.

I don't do that, not so much.

As I mulled this over I realized that, instead of answers, I take things in for the purpose of asking questions. I don't particularly care what the answer is, nor am I in any hurry to resolve them, but I just love answering the question in as many ways as possible. I'm happiest when asking questions and not all that concerned with the outcome.

When there are multiple answers to a question, and I think that's almost always the case, I quickly think no one answer is better than the others. Any one of them works to support a world view, but I'm not as convinced that any particular world view is inherently better than another. You can describe the beauty of a sunrise in religious terms or scientific ones, as a model for art or symbolic of some human condition, such as renewal, and every one of the answers is as good as the next. It just depends.

While I'm still less than happy with being indecisive, I can take solace in seeing it as just saying that I like asking questions more than answering them. Sure, we can come up with answers, but I'm not sure that's the point.

I don't spend all my time being interviewed for Donavan's website. Sometimes I read the fine print on political ads.

Years ago there was a comedian who was pointing out the absurdity of the name of some group like Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, joking that they were logically fighting some non-existant pro-drunk-driving lobby. I think of that whenever I hear about some group, mentally concocting their opposite and seeing if it makes any sense.

Among other places, this is evident in the fight over a woman's right to have an abortion. On the one hand we have Pro-Life, on the other Pro-Choice. By labeling their movements as such, in one stroke, they demean and ridicule the opposition. No sane person would be opposed to life, and no rational person would be against choice. The implication, obviously, is that if you're not pro-life, you're against it, an untenable position. Or, if you're not pro-life, you must be pro-death, an even less appetizing position.

Since the political ads on television are how many people decide how to vote, there are tons of 'em at right now. My favorites are the ones for the propositions, which invariably paint a gloomy view of what will happen if they're not passed or defeated. What strikes me funny is that these show up every election, but I never notice after the election if they passed or not, and life, pretty much, continues the same. It's a lot of hyperbole, sure, because that's what gets our attention, but on a practical note I don't have any idea what happened to last election's Indian Gaming things, whose ads either threatened the downfall of civilization or some unimaginably bright and glowing future.

Whatever happened, it doesn't seem to have affected my life, but I've little doubt billions of dollars have changed hands.

The tiny print at the end of these ads list the groups who paid for the ads, and there's not a one of them that doesn't contain something like "Concerned Citizens for Decency," or some such laughable name. Obviously, if I don't support their position I'm either against decency, or unconcerned. If they're not "concerned," they're "responsible" or something similar, and I find that insulting.

"We're the concerned ones," they imply, "and if you're not with us you just can't care." If you label your own side as something categorically decent, anyone who questions your view is necessarily loathsome. "We're the good guys, by definition," they proclaim, "so you really can't go against us."

Words are very powerful things, and labels even moreso. I guess it gets those who use them more power or props up their cause, but I can't help laughing when their label is chosen to make me look bad. In the last week alone I've been painted as apathetic, unreasonable, and irresponsible, but only passively and not to my face.

And, yet, I don't feel any different than I did last weekend.

Yesterday I met my new dental student, who may be more properly referred to as my replacement dental student.

I didn't have any appointments during the previous quarter because of some mixup, and the first thing I heard when this current quarter began was from Shervin, who told me that my case was going to another dental student. I wasn't sure why, but Jun soon called and we made arrangements for an appointment.

After some scheduling difficulties, for which he apologized, he looked in my mouth and through my folder. Another dental student, who reminded me quite a bit of Chris Baty of National Novel Writing Month fame, was there, which doubled my shame, and I spent the next couple hours wishing I were elsewhere, preferably somewhere in the afterlife.

"Are you scared?" I was asked.

"I wouldn't use that word."

"Anxious?"

"More like embarrassed. Ashamed," I told them.

I was told not to worry, that they saw the worst of dental detrius, and that by seeing so much they no longer noticed. That makes sense, since I think humans become used to anything and end up seeing their work as just that. Ambulance drivers, emergency personnel, all are confronted daily with things that would squick me out, but I guess only the more horrific cases make them sit up and take notice.

The "Chris Baty" dental student did say that they'd just attented a lecture where some medico demonstrated that smoking causes as many dental problems as poor care by the patients, and I wisely chose not to point that only of them looks really cool, though (and I wasn't referring to having fuzzy teeth).

Briefly, everything done by Shervin is, for God knows what reason, null and void. Another meeting with the ATP (Advanced Treatment Program) dentists is scheduled for Halloween, which I find appropriate. Nothing is more frightening than dental plans. After a couple hours of having impressions made and my head measured again (110mm width between my ear canals), I was instructed to clean up and leave.

On the way down the stairs with Jun, he told me about coming to America from his home in the Philiipines and being filled with wonder at the sight of a stop light outside his window. His village had none. I may have embarrassed him a bit when I asked if he'd carried match boxes with fighting spiders when he was growing up, but we parted on good terms with smiles and handshakes.

Many people are learning about dentistry, thanks to me. I predict good things for the next generation.

I see a lot of misspellings, grammar, and usage errors on Internet (frequently mine), and while I may cringe and wish to correct them, I don't. No one likes the Grammar Nazis, and I'm all about being liked.

I do mention these things, though, when I'm asked to comment on someone's writing or when I think someone might be interested in bettering their writing, but I have no idea if I'm at all helpful. I don't know all the rules and make tons of mistakes on my own, but that doesn't stop me from harshly judging people who confuse lose and loose or confuse comparatives (less and fewer, number and amount).

I don't know exactly why, but I hate reading "amount of humans" or "less bodies" when humans are, in fact, countable and not measured and should take the other word. I use the distinction to separate writers into those who make me glow with pleasure and those who disappoint me, but they rarely know this.

People, of which I am one, often get all persnickity when they're corrected, hence the Grammar Nazi response. What's interesting in all this, I find, is that when it comes to hard science or factual areas, people are free to correct errors. There's a distinction between correcting someone's mistake in the number of DNA genes and their saying there are less of them than another species, and I find that odd.

We usually let people tell us we're wrong when they correct us on scientific matters, but can get all huffy and dismissive when we correct their English. To me, the two are very similar in that they're both mistakes, but most people exhalt the sciences. Or, demean the humanitarian.

Grammatical errors are considered secondary, less important, more frivilous, and a whole bunch of things like that, and I find that curious. I wonder why. It may very well be that they are, but I find it something to wonder about.

A woman who grew up in France once told me that, as school children, kids who made mistakes in French would be teased and laughed at. I'm not sure that happens with English, not in America, so it may be as much a cultural thing as anything else. It's true, I think, that in America we worship science and technology, but I'm not sure why that means demoting everything else. It may be that English has too many confusing rules, or that they're not as cut and dried, or else we just don't like feeling like we're being picked on.

Unless, of course, what we're being picked on is something cold and definitive, like 14.7

While not as tragic as the recent theft in Long Island, things in my neck of the woods aren't good, either. It seems our palm trees are dying.

The good news, for those who care about such things, is that they're being replaced by trees that are actually native to the area, but what's the sense in having opposable thumbs and imagination if not to modify one's surroundings? I'm by no means a fan of palm trees, which I consider to be useless for shade and little more than a home for rats, but they are one of the things film producers can use to instantly locate a scene as being in Los Angeles.

Also, they're a reliable indicator of heavy winds. The day following a blustery night always contains wicked fronds on streets and in gutters, just waiting to upset bike riders or puncture tires.

In spite of my misgivings with them, like so much else in life, my distaste is tempered with a fuzzy, warm association. I once had a dog who'd been rescued (or, "found") from living in the wilds of the Ballona wetlands. This dog, a shar-pei, was no more native to the area than any dog ever is, and was evidently either dropped off or ran away. For a couple weeks anyone driving along the coast could see him, and several attempts were made to capture him. Flyers were put up, alerting his owners to his whereabouts, but no one could grab the unfortunate dog from his home under a solitary palm tree.

Eventually, of course, like we all do, he succumbed to bacon.

He was the first dog to literally die in my arms, but all through our time together I'd think of his life in the wilds. If he could talk, which he couldn't, I'm sure he'd have many thrilling tales to tell of that brief time, a time when he could be a dog and hunt and prowl and survive by his limited wits alone.

He had his own little palm tree, no more than three or four feet high, and now it may be dying, along with the others in LA.

Today, by some official estimations, the United States reached three hundred million people. That's a lot. It's also, coincidentally, the number of people in India thought to live below the line of poverty in that country.

As large as 300,000,000 is, though, there are probably some who think it's not big enough to be considered a "very large number." As a liberal arts major I, of course, am fascinated by the "Law of Very Large Numbers," but that may be because I never took a class in statistics. I've melded the Law of Very Large Numbers, with my understanding of Chaos Theory and Quantum Mechanics to come up with a unified theory of my own:

Anything can happen, and probably will.

The Law actually explains things to me and keeps me from losing my mind. As I understand it, it simply says that if you have a whole helluva lotta samples, just about anything can result. If you take enough showers, sooner or later, against all reasonable expectations, you'll think of Richard Nixon while scrubbing your armpits. It could be worse (he could show up while you're masterbating), but the connection between being naked and a disgraced ex-president coming together is explained by the law and, more importantly, signifies nothing.

Sometimes, though, people object to the Law and demand this universe act in a reasonable and consistent fashion. I remember the heartache of the 2000 election, when many were demanding each and every vote be counted and their unreasonable belief that out of several million votes none of them would be questionable.

That was before I learned about the Law, but even then I remembered my mother who worked at the polls every year until I was out of high school. After a long day directing people to the proper booth she and her colleagues had to do a "quick count" for the media, and she'd usually come home talking about how anywhere from five to ten percent of the ballots weren't clear. A large number of people, naturally, knew they'd ruined their ballot and had asked for replacements, but others either didn't notice, felt their motivations must have made their choice clear, or were ashamed.

It's not as if you can tell that they "took back" their vote or had some other second thoughts. They knew their intent, but it wasn't always clear from evidence. And, given millions of ballots, there are always bound to be many where you just can't tell.

The universe doesn't always follow strict cause and effect. Human relations are frequently misinterpreted, and butterflies on the other end of the world are flapping their fragile wings without any concern for the ensuing effects.

All in all, it makes for a lively place. Still, it's far too crowded for its own good.

It's fall, which means I may occasionally be writing these entries in a sweater. But that's not all.

Traditionally, this is when people start thinking about football, the World Series, and Halloween costumes. The other noteworthy event this fall is the upcoming elections, and that means tons of political ads on TV.

I really don't know why they bother. Last I checked, the American public was deserting our representative democracy in droves and opting for the simpler Parliamentarian system. Instead of choosing candidates, an increasing number of people just vote straight party line tickets, perhaps because it's less work.

I can see a certain virtue in that, too, but I still frequently throw my vote away on people not aligned and beholden to either of the main two parties.

As often as not, I vote against a candidate simply based on their commercials. I usually write them a letter, too, letting them know why. So far it's done no good, but I like to let them know that, while I support their stances, I don't take kindly to being manipulated or considered a fool.

This year the Democratic Party has discovered that a majority of Americans finally caught up with me and dislike George Bush, a man for whom I've never cast a vote. Many of the Democratic candidates here in California whom I'd like to win unfortunately have glomped onto this dislike and their ads contain little except pictures of their opponents smiling with the president.

Guilt by association.

I'm thinking someone at the DNC has determined this is the best way to insure a victory, but it turns me off. I was excited to see Jerry Brown, our former governor Moonbeam, was running for something this year and was all excited to put him back on the state payroll. Then, I saw an he, too, decided the best way to put forth his agenda was to show his Republican opponent smiling with Bush. Now it seems I'm once again forced to write a letter, this time to his campaign, and to throw away my vote on some Green or Libertarian guy who has no chance of winning.

I just wish the candidates would tell me how my life would be better if I voted for them.

I've never met the man, nor anyone who's claimed to, but I bet when he wasn't mucking about with geometric shapes Abraham Maslow was a decent enough sort. If he had kids, I bet he took them to the movies and bought them popcorn and cotton candy.

I'm not as high up as I'd like, but I'm trying to be comfortable where I am. I know, that isn't easy considering we're talking about needs instead of wants, but I'm nothing if not a rebel.

And, one of the worst sort of rebels, the Internet variety. Effectively nameless and anonymous, I can be a bully and Internet tough guy and continually seek to drag others down to my level, a practice that's neither rewarding nor practical.

Still, I must be lacking something crucial. It's been thirty years since I was introduced to Maslow, and I can't say as I've advanced very much at all in that time. I've momentarily bettered myself, but I've never been able to get it to stick. The most likely culprit is my lack of drive, but it's entirely possible I'm just overlooking something evident to the rest of the world.

Oh, sure, I once described all of life on the back of a blue 3X5 card, but I lost it.

I wouldn't have thought it possible that there would be something sadder and more useless than plastic bags with zippers, but that just shows the limits of my imagination. The depths to which the American public will sink to reward marketing breakthroughs and their own laziness and fondness for new may reach deeper than I'd allowed.

!@(heinz.jpg)

It's evidently too much to ask people to turn their squeezable bottles over to dispense the product. I have no idea what, other than laziness, would make anyone think these mustard bottles with the label printed on upside-down are what the world's been waiting for, but I guess they're all the rage now. I bought this one because it was cheaper than the typical, upright, style, but I'm less than impressed.

Oh, sure, it saves me turning the bottle over, and if you add that one second to all the mustard used in this great country, I guess it adds up to a lot. Probably even enough for us to have time to cure cancer or resolve the homeless or health care issues.

I thought we'd reached our bottom when another marketing genius decided it was too much work to seal a plastic bag with our fingers, but I was wrong. I grew up with wax paper surrounding my sandwiches, then, later, those plastic bags that had a flap and were supposed to seal. I could never figure out the intricacies of those, but the later version, with the seal, were something I could manage.

Then, they came up with the colored ones so you could tell by the purple or green that you'd managed to correctly align the seal, but I found that less than helpful. Even if I left a gap, I still saw the mixed color. I always found it easier to see if I could press any more air out to determine if the bag was completely sealed.

Then, awhile ago, they decided that sealing the bag by hand was too pedestrian or something. In an effort to further discount any notion that there's benefits to manual work, they added built in zippers to the bags. Not only does the zipper require much more plastic than the bag itself and a few more steps in the production, from what I've seen they're just encouraging people to be lazy.

Yes, I know we live in a fast-paced society with much to do and those who can't keep up are relegated to sad, dismal lives of looking up and longing for what might have been, but if we weren't so quick to reward whatever's new, we may make some quality progress.

Or, maybe, we'll just hire more immigrants to do all of our mundane chores.

No car for me.

Maybe I wasn't quick enough returning his calls, or maybe he's a flake or mad at me, or had some other flavor of misgivings, but it appears the car thing isn't going to be happening. Not today, anyway, and maybe not this car.

There are other cheap cars, equally crappy I'm guessing, available all the time, so it's not as if I won't ever get a car. It just may not be a convertible with a stick, two things I really wanted.

It's safe to say that over half of my cars have been ragtops, but I can think of only two that were automatics, and both of them were gifts from my parents. I rented an automatic once, and was shocked at this "point and drive" mentality. It was almost as if driving weren't something you did but merely had happen around you.

No wonder there are so many accidents.

Today marks the observance of one of those grade B holidays, one that quite a few people get off but that I suspect isn't celebrated at Indian Casinos. That would just be wrong.

Lots of youngsters on message boards are showing a lot of nervousness about yesterday's nuclear test, the one performed by North Korea. In this case, I find age to be a good thing, a mollifying factor, if you will. While many of today's kids are freaking out, some of us have experienced this nuclear fright quite a few times. I'm not saying the test is a good thing (and I can only hope our president doesn't respond in ways I think likely), but I've peered more than once into the end of civilization and am, perhaps, a bit jaded as a result.

Although I know better, I'd like at least one kid to say, "Oh, this is what it feels like."

In personal news, my crappy car won't be delivered until tomorrow. The guy selling it told me Friday he'd call Sunday after fixing the three things he promised to take care of. He'd fasten up the exhaust system (it's only solid back to the catalytic converter he installed), replace some missing interior panels, and take care of the keys and locks. The ignition system, when I saw it, was dangling, and Mark had been starting the car with a screwdriver.

It took him several rings to answer his phone, and he didn't sound as chipper as I'd hoped. He sounded less happy when I reminded him that I'd need a new smog certificate (the one he'd gotten was in June, and they're only good for ninety days).

"I guarantee you it'll pass," he said. "If not I'll buy the car back."

I stuck to my guns. "Why don't you take care of it, and we'll do the car thing Tuesday instead of Monday?"

"What about the cost?" he asked. "Will you cover that."

"Last time I checked, it was the owner's responsibility."

He muttered something about spending more money on the car, but agreed to eat the cost and give me the car Tuesday. I let him know that instead of delivering it, I'd be willing to come pick it up, and he acted as if he liked that. I could understand his unhappiness at spending the extra money (he'd put quite a bit into the car to get it registered and off the "non-functional" list), but it looked to me as if he was pretty much breaking even. Maybe he expected to make money on his car investment, but I think that's pretty unrealistic.

So, no car today, but maybe tomorrow.

I'm not sure when it was, but some time yesterday there was a drop of liquid in my nose at a time when I'm accustomed to having such a thing. It may have been when I first woke up, or it may have been sometime in the middle of the night.

I have no idea how I got it, and I doubt there's any single reason, but I'm hoping it's just a cold and not e.coli or bird flu or anything like that. Still, I reviewed what I've been eating, just to make sure.

What I eat is divided into a few groups, just like the government does.

The food group is comprised of ham, chicken breasts, beef steaks, bacon, and things that swim in salt water that have bones.

Then there's the group that's made up of the things food eats and contains such delicacies as wheat, aspargus, green onions, potatoes, carrots and all those sort of things.

The third important food group is liquids. Most of them can be ingested through a straw, but rarely are.

The next group is those things that are listed on nutrition labels or that are sold in small bottles with pictures of farms on them at drug stores and places like that.

Finally, there's the nearly unpronounceable things that are added to a lot of food and that cost more if they're removed or never added to begin with. There are no good reasons to have any of these except they add flavor or increase the food's appearance or longevity. I guess. Maybe they reduce manufacturing costs or otherwise increase profits, like adding water to ham only with more esoteric chemicals than H-2-O.

Like I usually do if I think some germs are taking up residence inside me, I took some aspirin and dug out my small bottle of zinc lozenges. The lozenges aren't holding up too well and are a little past their expiration date, but if I understand one thing it's that all the zinc I'm likely to run across was all created between ten and fifteen billion years ago, so I don't think an extra year or two is likely to cause any noticeable deteriorzation.

I haven't eaten anything unusual except that stir fry that didn't come out as expected, and while I may have napped with a wet head, I often do that. I think it's something that I just picked up from one of those people who failed to quarantee themselves, who selfishly felt the world would be better if more people shared their infirmary.

That, or someone who's used up all his or her sick days.

Oh, and Monday I'm picking up a POS automobile.

About a week and a half ago my solitude was disturbed by some hobo with a bike knocking on my front door. After rousing my dog, Minardi, to a fevered pitch and forcing me to slip on a shirt and shoes to answer the door, he let me know that he saw my rabbit running across the street.

!@(rabbit.jpg)

That I owned a rabbit was news to me, as was the fact that he or she had escaped. I thanked my informer and wandered back in the house to avoid doing housework and pretty much put the matter out of my mind. It would be nice if Mother Nature chose to begin reclaiming this part of the world, but I question her choice of albino rabbits as the first wave. I, personally, would have preferred wild boar.

My avoidance of the rabbit issue, however, only lasted some six hours. Around three in the afternoon I heard some hooting and hollering and went outside to investigate. My next-door neighbors were having their dog washed by one of those mobile dog-washing services, and one of the people involved with that enterprise was chasing something with the aid of our letter carrier. If the United States Postal Service was involved, as they were, I figured this to be national effort and joined them.

The dog-washing girl and the postal carrier were chasing the rabbit, but with limited success. It turns out that rabbits, even ones frightened out of their wits, can do a fairly effective job of being uncaught when they choose. This particular rabbit was very good at hiding under cars as well as scooting like the dickens, and we chased it across the street several times and under no fewer than six cars.

The rabbit, naturally, had some grease spots on it, but that in no way explained our inability to capture it. After chasing it for a good fifteen minutes, another neighbor came out and let us know that the rabbit was a pet of the little girl who lives directly across the street from me. This, while informative, did nothing to further our efforts to catch the rabbit, but the neighbor joined the pursuit, swelling our group to four.

Eventually we gave up and the rabbit just sat in the yard, waiting for its owner to return. I tried out the picture feature of my phone, with the above result. I suppose it's unnecessary to mention I take fewer pictures with my phone than I do answering calls.

A few hours later I saw half the household across the street chasing down the rabbit, and I guess they caught it. It could be that they know its name and can call it, or it could be that they're more practiced at this or the rabbit is more used to them. While the dog-washer girl and our letter carrier demonstrated massive efforts, we were unsuccesful where the family soon cornered and claimed the prize.

Since then, some ten days ago, I've twice seen that family chasing the rabbit around. That the little bunny has an unquenchable thirst for freedom is no doubt a good thing, but what disturbs me is that I can't remember that word used to describe something one starts seeing everywhere once one learns of it.

In this case, I didn't know my neighbors had a rabbit and had never seen them trying to catch it. Since inviting myself into the pursuit, I can no longer even look out my window without seeing a group of waving, shouting people chasing this white ball of fluff. I'm sure it was happening all the time before, but I never noticed.

Still, there are no signs of wild boars.

Yesterday, in what's a first for me, I lost a tooth while showering, but only for a short time because a moment later I found it lying on the bottom of the tub.

I'd never before heard of, or experienced first-hand, losing a tooth while scrubbing, but it can be done. Eating apples, caramels, or even lasagna has been known to loosen or remove teeth, but not soaping up one's pits.

Perhaps you're thinking the water was frightfully cold, but it wasn't.

Now, I'm the first to admit that my teeth are in horrible shape, but I hadn't realized they were this bad. The tooth, number 26, had been loose for over a year, but only mildly so. Last week I bit down on it and must have done something because it began hurting like hell and seemed, to me, to be getting worse. Not only was it hurting more, it was looser and elevated over the rest of the teeth.

And, a bit farther forward.

I left messages for my dental student, alerting him that if he didn't schedule me an appointment he might very well lose the instructive features my tooth presented if I didn't get in the chair soon. I had given the tooth an over-under of Wednesday, but thought I was being melodramatic.

As it turns out, I was right.

Curiously, while washing my hair, feet, and nether regions, I was worried about losing my ring. I don't usually shower with jewelry on, but there you have it, and when the tooth fell out the first thing I thought was that I'd lost my ring. I have no idea how the tooth came out, what I did, but I suspect it was my tongue that pushed it up and out. For the past few days what had been producing most of my discomfort was self-inflicted. I'd been careful about eating on the other sides of my mouth, but couldn't avoid playing with the damn thing.

When I wasn't busy wiggling it with my tongue, I was sucking on it, and both of those gave me much more pain than had I let it well enough alone. The shock of losing it in the shower was quickly changed to amazement when I realized there was no blood in my mouth, or anywhere else.

I have no idea how much money I've spent over the years with dentists, but my very first extraction was an undoubted success. There was no pain, there was no blood, and my mouth feels better than ever. Last night I ate without incident, and it still feels just fine.

I'm sure there's some damage going on, maybe some infection brewing, but I just might be lucky and all of that yucky internal stuff and socket-mending has already taken place, slowly over the past year. I can only hope.

What I can say is that I now have a tooth with nowhere to put it. It's about an inch long, shaped like an almond sliver, and other than some incidental staining, is in perfect shape.

I only wish the same could be said of me.

Years ago I undertook a challenge and spent the better part of a week trying to make pancakes. While I'd always enjoyed pancakes, I'd never thought much about making them, but after Stefania decided that the key to her happiness would be to have a world not so filled with Russells I found myself exiled to a small apartment near a supermarket I'd never before visited.

It was a Hughes Market, sort of a chain, and I always called it the Huge Market because I thought that was either funny or cute. They had everything supermarkets do, but I remember most was that they'd sharpen my kitchen knives for free and they carried a pancake mix that I loved, even though I only used it for waffles.

After dropping off some knives to sharpen, I bought some of this pancake mix that came in a simple brown paper bag. It required eggs, oil, and milk to be turned into batter, and I think it was some sort of whole wheat mix, which was new to me.

My mom occasionally made serviceable pancakes, but mostly I remembered all the ones from the pancake breakfasts that Little League, DeMolay, and the Indian Guides held. One of the kid's fathers would always spend the morning grilling pancakes while others worked sausages or hash browns, and the pancakes were always as perfect as a marketing photo.

My own attempts were quite a bit less succesful, and I was determined to do better.

At the time I had two sets of cookware: Le Crueset cookware and regular cast iron. The Le Crueset was blue, not that that matters, and the cast iron was as black and shiny as obsidian. After a week of struggles and failures and more than one bottle of maple syrup, I was able to produce very good pancakes and pretty much retired.

I thought of that earlier today when I tried, again, to make pancakes. Not only can't I find a mix I like, I've forgotten how to make pancakes. I needed something soft to eat because of my tooth, number 26, which is seriously loose and causing me much distress, but I hadn't realized that, unlike bike riding, it's entirely possible to forget how to make pancakes.

The first one refused to stay in one piece when I flipped it, and the second one did the same. I ended up with a pile of fried pancake batter that looked not unlike my early attempts at omelettes, but it served both important requirements:

1) It was filling

2) It was edible

The fact that it looked like shit hardly matters at all, but I think I'd best return to using the cookware on which I had my earlier successes. It can only be that, and not that I've forgotten how to make pancakes!

About thirteen hours ago the sun crossed the celestial equator or something, and humans around the world celebrated the event not by turning a page on their calendars but by changing the name of the season. I'm not sure if day and night being of equal length was noticed before the advent of timepieces or if this event was first noticed by charting the path of good ol' Sol, but it's now fall. And, as we know, in autumn, a young man's fancy turns to ... death?

Or, is it hatred? Maybe, more correctly, apathy.

I was recently told that I'm a misogynist, and I only wish it was that simple. To be rigorously forthright, I think I'm more an embittered misanthrope, although one more concerned about others than with myself. Mine is not an enviable attitude and, in many ways, is inexcusable, but it does have the distinct advantage of not being able to blame others for my failings. That's not much, I agree, but it keeps me from embarking on rampages and shaking my fists against the sky.

Instead, I alternate between wishing I could cry or throw up, as if that would somehow purge my being and system of all that's wrong.

I suspect most people eating better than I do, by which I mean their meals aren't quite so random.

I typically come up with my meal by using one of three effective and well-practiced means. First, I often getting a craving or yen for some particular meal, and that's what I eat. I have this theory, see, that when my body needs whatever the hell it is that brocolli supplies that I'll want brocolli. So, for that reason, I take these cravings seriously.

Also, they seem to be fairly diverse, so that goes along with that moderation thing.

Unfortunately as I've gotten older my tastes have become somewhat more complex. About half the time, in spite of my cravings, I don't have the necessary ingredients to make the meal I most want. Yes, chicken soup would be good, but I don't have the requisite heel of bread to go with it. I've learned the best way to eat a big bowl of soup or stew is with a heel of bread to soak up much of the liquid and give me something to do while the meal cools down, and without the bread I can't proceed with eating.

Which brings up the next meal determiner: availability. Although I don't get yelled as often for it any more, one good way for me to choose my meal is to open the cupboards and refrigerator and stare inside, looking at what's on hand. This way has the advantage of insuring that I won't want a tasty omelette when, in fact, I have no eggs, but it doesn't always work. In fact, more often than not, I stare and either forget why I'm looking, or end up grabbing something completely unsuited for a healthy dinner, such as a jar of pickles.

That also explains all that earlier yelling.

The method I use as often as any, and the one I'm forced to use tonight, is the expiration method. No matter what I want, I have food that absolutely must be eaten today or else it will go bad. I hate throwing food away and can ill afford to do so, so tonights's dinner will have to incorporate the rest of those cute pearl tomatoes. Of course, this also brings up the "ingredients on hand" problem, since I need to come up with something that will permit me to use up the last of those tomatoes, and right now I have no idea what that will be.

Also, under the expiration method, is the sub priority of the above-mentioned cost. A ham that's threatening to become as green as my neighbor's lawn is more critical to eat than, say, those tomatoes. I'd prefer to lose the two dollar vegetables over the ten dollar ham, so I'm supposed forced to eat the most expensive thing that's going bad.

Sure, it's a system, but I'm not sure it's a good one.

I write my bike much less than any dedicated rider, but that's not to say I haven't developed a few simple rules for keeping myself in one piece and breathing in and out.

There are, in fact, three simple rules:

• Avoid tipping over


• Try not to run into things


• Don't let other things run into you

The first rule not only will save your skin, clothing and bike, but will prevent you looking like a fool. If you learned to ride as a kid the good news is you can ride again. That old saw about "never forgetting" is actually true, but it's not like bike riding is the way you remember it being. It's not only much harder to ride, which I blame on the extra weight, it's also much trickier. I remember riding very easily, swooping back and forth with no hands or worries, but that's not the case any more. Maybe I'll get better at it the more I do. I'd think so, since just about everything in life works that way and we get better with practice.

If you never learned to ride as a kid, fear not. I'm sure someone has some good ideas about how you can learn to balance and pedal, but that person wouldn't be me. I have no idea how to teach anyone to ride, and the very thought scares me.

The easiest way to avoid running into things is to resist the temptation to oil the rims of your wheels to make them shiny. If you do that, your breaks won't work (well, they'll go through the motions, but won't stop your bike). Yes, you should clean your bike every month or so, and bicycle fanatics are all about using Simple Green or other cleansers friendly to the earth and locally produced, but make sure that the brake pads and the rims are dry and clean before taking off.

Also, look where you're going.

The easiest way to prevent someone in a car from knocking you off your bike is to forget all that nonsense about "sharing the road." It may be legally true that you have as much of a right to be on the street as the cars, but don't believe it. Not for a moment. The roads belong to cars and if you're on one, you're at best an unwelcome guest. You should keep that attitude in mind, because any other will result in your being sent for a loop.

If you pretend that you're not supposed to be there, you're on the right track. Such an attitude will keep you looking out for cars that will catch you trespassing, and that's only the beginning of the benefits. Sure, you can insist on your so-called rights, but if you do you'll end up arguing from a morgue or hospital.

If you wear a helmet, remember they're only rated for something like a six foot drop from a stationery position and aren't designed to keep your head intact if you get hit by a moving car, or if you're moving yourself. Yes, they'll offer protection, but don't think that you'll be invincible because you won't be.

Still, nothing beats the slower pace of a bike when you want to be invested in our beautiful world. Not only that, but you can smell things as well!

They say, when they're not busy saying other things, that our strongest memories are associated with the sense of smell, or maybe it's emotional reactions, and I would agree.

What's curious about that, for me, is that scents aren't memories that I can call up at will. They're more passive than that, and my memories associated with them usually only show up when triggered by something outside me. I can remember the look of someone, or a scene, I can summon the sounds and sometimes the tactile sensations of events, but I can only recall the smell generically.

It's more like emotions, I think, than anything else. Humans don't remember pain, emotional or otherwise, as a realistic event. We remember that fire burns us, but not the actual perception, and "make up" a generic pain when we recall the memory. This, of course, saves us from the trauma so it's a good thing.

I can remember feeling like shit when I've been dumped, but not precisely what it felt like. Some things I only remember because I can describe them to myself, and I think the same sort of thing goes with what I've smelled.

Maybe it's because I lack the words to describe the scent, or maybe it's because I'm male and am more visual than anything else, but when I remember the scent of my ex's hair, I remember the names "fruity" more than the actual scent.

Yet, if I catch a whiff of that scent, my memories (as they've predicted) are much stronger than if I just bring her face or carriage to mind. The association is there, and it's a strong one, but it's not one I can summon. I remember the smell of garlic in a salad, but, honestly, only recall the name garlic and invent what that smells like. I don't really recall the particular garlic unless something external triggers it. Then, I can.

I can sit here and imagine the smell of the ocean, of a crowded bar, of a pillow that someone I loved has slept on, but I know that my memory is more constructed than recalled. But, if some past scent is presented to me, I involuntarily recall an associated event, and I think that's very cool.

Today is a momentous one, one that's forcing me to remember the past. I'm speaking, of course, about my life before TiVo.

It had been acting up, getting stuck, and yesterday it died. Today I tried to watch some TV the old way, in real time, with commercials and no going back to hear what I'd missed, and the pain was so great I went online and ordered another TiVo. It should be here within a week.
As it turns out, they're giving the units away now, but the price of the subscription has increased several hundred percent. I'm not sure what justifies that increase (getting the list of upcoming programs isn't any different than it was before), but TiVo isn't doing well as a company.

As it turns out, it wasn't a bad day to avoid TV. There's evidently something magical about years divisible by five as far as human nature and ritual goes. Reporters, who ostensibly cover the news, instead decided today to be the news and inform us all about what their memories of five years ago.

Online it was no better.

A man much older than I (and one whom I considered something of a sage) once remarked to me that if I think three people give a "good goddamn" what I think, I'd best count again. Yes, humans have a need to share and it may be healthy to do so, but I have no idea why so many people are so self-centered that they need to proclaim their own rememberances when not asked to do so. No matter the subject, people are jumping online on message boards everywhere to punish us with their personal memories. It's almost as if they can only handle the immensity of the day by making it about them.

We shared an unimaginable experience five years ago. I don't know why the number five is such a momentous one, and I'm really curious when that started and why the others pale in significance.

Maybe it's hardwired into us, the same way we believe that big events are only important in how they personally affected us.

Something's happened when I was paying attention to other matters, and I'm not sure who's responsible. It could be marketing geniuses, or it might be those white lab coat guys.

The other day I was out shopping and bought a small container of very healthy looking tiny tomatoes. I like those things, they're fun to throw on salads and especially good for tossing in my favorite pasta sauce, the one that starts with olive oil, garlic, and hot dry peppers.

The thing that surprised me was about these tomatoes is that they're named pearl tomatoes, well, that and they don't look to me like pearls at all.
There was a time, when I was growing up, that tomatoes were either plum, cherry, or just plain tomatoes. Those days were easy. Then I started seeing vine-ripened tomatoes all over the place, and those were much tastier than the plain old ones and, also, had a bit of twig on them. That made them look natural and, no doubt, increased sales by a factor of ten.

Once on a camping trip near the Colorado River a whole group of us were out of our minds and began craving something to eat, something refreshing that would soothe our palates and counter-act the oppressive, tortuous sun. We came up with salad as what we wanted, and I began joking about a field of cherry tomatoes that lay just over the nearby hills. I almost convinced someone to go get some, but it was mostly a running joke for the duration of the trip.

Cherry tomatoes, we knew without doubt, would save us.

I haven't seen cherry tomatoes in years, but many of their cousins populate the food stores I go to. There's the above-mentioned pearl tomatoes, but I've also seen grape tomatoes, and I'm damned if I can tell the difference. Cherry tomatoes were round, but these later small fruits (vegetables?) have the plum shape. Plum, or Roma, tomatoes are usually available, and I'm grateful for their continued presence since they're excellent with fresh Mozarella, basil, a drizzling of oil, and salt and pepper. That's a summertime treat that looks like the Italian flag if you don't look too closely.

I have no idea when this tomato madness will end, what other "varieties" they'll invent, but for my money we've done enough.

These little pretzel sticks taste pretty good and are a suitable reward for one of my meatless days (except for that ham sandwich at lunchtime). The only thing I don't like about them is that they're a little stale, but I'd forgotten about them.

My sister's dog, though quite old, isn't quite dead yet. He spent a few frantic days without the use of one of his legs, and it looked to me like his spine injury had gotten the better of him. Then, he started moving again, and his doctor said it was most likely a sprain. He's still mostly blind and very gray, but it looks as if there's still a few more miles in him.

I've decided, again, that I don't like sleeping. Losing all those hours is one thing, but I recently had an embarrassing, pathetic dream, and I don't like treating myself that way. I don't mind it so much when I frighten or scare  myself, or even when I tease myself with impossible romantic or acrobatic episodes, but this last dream went far beyond the pale and offered up one of my few secret desires. The worst part, of course, is that I was pleased during the dream and only upset when I was awake and realized what I'd done to myself and how hollow and empty I felt.
And I don't know what's going on with this new Wordpress software. It's not a big thing, but I can't tell by looking at the post if a comment's been logged. Nor am I getting any notification, but it's not like I get anything other than spam. I do get the emails that are sent me, so it's not like nothing's working.

I guess that's enough for today.

In a recent entry on Cybele's Candyblog there's a comment (which I wrote) that got me to thinking...

I'm sure it's been around for awhile and I'm just learning about it, but evidently "single plantation" chocolate is now the choice of connoisseurs. The idea, obviously, is that like vintage wines, chocolate from one source can have more distinctive properties than "varietals," or combinations of chocolates from many places. The old arguments remain, mostly about consistency, but I strongly encourage this advance.

I just wonder ... what's next?

I've never thought very much about vinegar, but not that many years ago it developed a following and the market was flooded with all kinds. There arose a group of vinegar afficianados and whether or not they actually looked down their noses at us, the world of vinegar was never the same.

If I had to guess what commodity would next get this treatment, my money would be on soy sauce. Like vinegar, it's in everyday use and there are differences, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if designer and high-end soy sauces were the next big thing.

Of course, I could be completely wrong and it's likely that true soy sauce lovers already have an devoted underground. I wouldn't know. But, if not soy sauce, logically there isn't a reason for just about every staple to develop a cultish following.

Peanut butter wouldn't be exempt from this, nor would beets. I can well imagine that in the next hundred years all sorts of things, from almonds to wheat, could become exlusive. Sure, there's still be the old varietals for the hoi polloi, but those with a discriminating palatte could enjoy limited editions. Yes, the 2067 crop of Mountain's Breeze brocolli may be a bit to acidic for many, but that's the chance you take.

But my money's on soy sauce.

Crikey, I just heard Steve Irwin died from a stingray ... sting?

!@(sadcroc.gif)

I know just how this guy feels. The crocodile hunter may have been a crazy guy, but he did a lot for the environment and for teaching people about nature. He also taught me a lot about wrestling.

The American Public is a fickle lot, and I say that because I picture them as being several hundred of me.

Over the past couple years two big trends have surfaced. One was the arrival of the Atkins and South Beach diets, which tore a hole in the consumption of carbohydrates, and the other has been the explosive growth in organic, natural foods.

Whether or not such foods are healthier or tastier isn't my point. What has happened is Whole Foods and similar markets are taking the marketplace by storm, and this has not gone unnoticed by Wall Street.

Somewhere, in some pitiable cubicle, many people are slaving away checking numbers, and they've discovered this stuff sells. Not only does it sell, but it sells almost exclusively to the higher class of consumers, the ones not very affected by the rising price of gas.

About a year ago, when gasoline prices first hit $3.00, the first markets to notice a slowdown were places like those dollar stores and WalMart. Nordstroms, Tiffany, Gelsons, Coach didn't notice a thing. People who can afford the higher-priced goods may very well complain about gas prices, but it doesn't much matter to their pocketbook. An extra twenty or thirty dollars a week for gas isn't much felt when you can drop $100 - $200 shoes on a whim.

When not  outfitting themselves with nice looking things, many of these people have caught onto better, pricier groceries. And, if they're willing to spend the money, one after another of the large corporations are more than happy to grab a slice of that pie.

There's nothing intrinsically wrong, I guess, with corporations making money, but it bothers me no end that that is all they do. While they're now going after the health-conscious consumer, they could just as easily have gone after those who developed a sudden fad for, say, purple foodstuffs. If that had been the case, the corporations and the market would have reacted precisely the same, with tons of purple goods all over the place and marketed up the whazoo.

What corporations are doing for food is the same as the auto manufacturers are doing with the hybrid car. Now, I love the Prius as an auto, both theoretically and in practice, but I don't understand its cult status. Toyota isn't making them because they're good for the environment, they're making them because there's a market for them. If Toyota made only hybrid cars I could honor the company,  but for them it's merely another cash line. They'd be as quick to jump on any other possible source of income and market the hell out of it, and they've done that in the past.

Same for Honda, GM, and the rest. They're not so much innovating and hoping to change the world as they are hoping to wrest every cent they can from what the public wants.

Or, can be convinced is desirable.

This site has a whole new look, but only if you're me or another person with administrative rights.

I've been ignoring the notices about the update for the past few months, but today I updated the Wordpress software I use to post these entries. I guess it works all right, but I haven't tested all my plugins or even checked to see if everything works. This isn't a commercial site, and in spite of the claimed numbers, I'm not even sure more than a handful of people even know it exists.

The update was easy, though took more time than I expected. I blame that on my host, who doesn't seem to accept uploads very quickly at all. Some times it's fine, but Saturday morning doesn't seem to be one of those.

The new software gives me bluish-teal highlights for the admin screens, a change from the gray. Also, and this is just fancier than hell, my categories are now in a drop-down menu instead of displayed.

This is progress, but does nothing for the functionality.

The only reason I changed is I was being deluged with notification from my spam catching add-on. No, I haven't looked to see if there are updates for that, but I was getting the caught spam digest about once an hour instead of once a week, and enough is enough. Maybe that's because I've been getting more spam entries.

Anyway, it looks as if it works, and both of my blogs are now up to date with version 2.0.4

Today is my birthday, and most people celebrate it by taking some time off work and shoving their white shoes to the back of the closet. Some even begin the celebration early by taking a half day off, like my sister did.

So, what is the state of the Russell? Well, the good news is I may have caught a difficulty with my fingers just in time and can continue to lie. A few months ago I noticed that I couldn't spread or wiggle my toes and had no idea when I last could. All my life I'd been able to pick things up with my feet, to adjust the spigots in my bath, and to repeatedly crack my "index" toe by forcing it under the great toe.

I could amuse myself for hours doing that.

I don't pay close enough attention to my body to notice when things like my vision start deteriorating, but eventually I'll find out that something no longer works. I sat in my chair for ten or fifteen minutes trying to move my toes, but other than the littlest toe moving slightly outward, it may as well have been a statue at the end of my ankle.

Yes, I can curl my toes, a little, but I can't spread them or move them individually. If they were little piggies they'd be a herd and no one could go to the market or enjoy roast beef without the others being right alongside.

Then, last week, I discovered I can't cross my fingers to tell a lie. The longest finger no longer slipped over the index one, but I could force it to do so by using my other hand. I've been remembering to do that for the past week, and I'm proud to say I can once again cross those two fingers.

I used to be able to make four pairs of crossed fingers at the same time, but I'm not sure I can retrain the pinky and ring fingers. I have no idea why this is happening, but I sincerely doubt it's because of anything advancement I've made.

But, while I can once again cross my fingers and lie, I have no need or desire to be anything other than forthright and honest. And, to be honest, I miss being able to play with my toes.

...speaking of shopping...

Earlier this week I went to the grocery store, a not uncommon event, and got depressed as soon as I got in my front door. While I'd loaded up my bike with all I could carry and had enough food for a week or so, I was unhappy. There was nothing I wanted to eat.

Usually when I get back I can't wait to tear into something, even if it's M&Ms. This time there was nothing in my bags to reward either my cravings or my soul. But, since I'd done my shopping, there was little to do except suffer and hope to shop better next time.

As it turned out, next time was the following day. The one thing I needed was cereal, a habit I picked up last month thanks to some rice crispy type cereal. My box of Uncle Sam Cereal was empty after having delivered less than the listed servings per box. This isn't unusual for me, since I have lot of mass to maintain.

I'd picked up Uncle Sam Cereal for two reasons. One, it's wheat flakes, which I like much better than corn. The US, I've read, is making corn (a historically minor crop) into just about everything and farming it like mad. Also, I have fond memories of being home ill from school and eating Wheaties.

Anyway, while increasing my cred in online message boards and making me sound patriotic, I needed more cereal. With that in mind I rode back to the store yesterday and came home having forgotten what I went for. The good news is I have some things I care to eat.

Today I returned for the third time in four days and got some new organic cereal ("Buy one, get one free!") that calls itself Golden Wheat Flakes Medley with Flax or some such thing. Not a very catchy name, but since I wasn't about to buy just one thing I loaded up on toilet paper and paper towels.

Oh, and some M&Ms. I expect them to be cranking those out now that The Scream has been recovered, though I have no idea if anyone will win the promised two million of 'em.

The other day I was out shopping for a birthday present for a baby, something I know as much about as I do animal husbandry. This particular baby, who may well be an infant (he's one year old), is one I've only seen in pictures, but he's damn cute nonetheless.

One of the better things about giving presents is you get to impose your taste on others. You can't often do that, so any chance to do so should be greeted with delight. Another good thing about presents, about the ones you receive, is even if you don't care for the particular item you're pretty much stuck with it. Oh, sure, you can "re-gift," and give it to someone else, but then your own taste is suspect.

Since someone's gone to the trouble of selecting and wrapping something they hope to delight me with, I can't ever just toss it aside. There's a part of them in there and, no matter how much it conflicts or jars with my personal taste, I have to cherish the thought and effort. It would be the height of affrontery to simply cast it aside, it would be as if I was tossing the person and her or his feelings into the trash.

I can't do that.

I didn't find what I was looking for as far as the baby was concerned, but I did find a Vans shoe store. I'd been looking for a new pair of shoes, something I'm proud to say I have confidence in buying (unlike most things), but the shoe stores downtown never had my size. This store, an official Vans store that sold only Vans items, did, and I got me some new shoes. Since I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to keep my possessions down to a more manageable level, I cast off my old shoes and wore the new ones home.

I was thinking of all the homeless in Santa Monica when I carefully placed my old shoes in the trash, but upon riding out of town I saw that most of the homeless (and, there are legions of them in SM) were wearing better shoes than the pair I'd discarded.

That's fairly humbling.

So maybe someone got my old shoes, but I doubt it. What *did* happen is I went on the Internet and found something for the kid.

"I felt it too. As if a million of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and then, suddenly, silence."

!@(death.jpg)

Like the Challenger Disaster, Kennedy's assasination, and Sept 11, we'll all, forever, remember where we were when we lost a planet.

Now I need to weep and grieve, then get my horoscope updated to accurately reflect this new reality.

I should really get a job making these predictions, I'm so good at it.

Some of the nearby streets were, in fact, painted black yesterday, and there's no reason to think the one in front of me won't undergo a similar treatment tomorrow. The other day I called it slurry in an attempt to impress, but I'm not sure if that's the correct term. I picked that word up at a job, and it was what the contractors did to the parking lot to turn it black and was the step before painting.

What happened here is the streets that got the treatment were "painted" with a thick black goop, maybe an eighth of an inch thick. It looks like a mix of sand and black paint, and I'm glad I didn't have to pay for it.

Only, except, of course I did through my taxes.

I'm not sure what they're trying to prove by this roadwork, but they didn't do a very good job. I'm not saying I could do better, but the coverage is uneven, to be generous. There are long tire tracks where they ran over and removed the new topping, and the slurry itself frequently runs into and over the cement gutters.

Best is the cavalier attitude they displayed toward the plant life struggling to gain a foothold in every nook and cranny. I always kind of like that, the persistence and insistence of nature to find a spot to germinate, but these roadworkers just dropped their goop right on top. There are now weeds wearing thick, black hats, and it looks bad.

What that means, of course, is that I need to eliminate as many weeds as I can from the front of my house. Still, that's better than the plight inflicted on so many of my neighbors, who were forced to resurrect their cars. Yesterday showed a parade of lumbering vehicles that hadn't moved in months or years, coughing and spitting down the street chased by people with jumper cables and much cursing and cheers.

All for a newly black road surface, that doesn't seem to improve much of anything for very long.

Unlike flying cars and a reasonable government filled with decent people, which I doubt I'll live long enough to witness, one future mystery only requires me to keep breathing in and out for four more days, and I think I can do that.

Yesterday, pedalling madly back from In-and-Out after seeing Snakes on a Plane, I saw in my neighborhood some of those temporary no parking signs. They were threatening cars to be towed away if they were sitting on the street Monday, from six in the morning until six at night, but no reason was given.

The first thing I thought of was a movie shoot, since those frequently mess up traffic around here, but I'm not so sure. They did the same thing about five years ago when they resurfaced our streets, and that was my next thought.

That disturbed me. The orginal paving, as far as I know, lasted for probably fifty years, though there was occasional patches. The work done five years ago was more of a black slurry and, while it made the street look new, didn't really do anything. Oh, sure, it let us see who failed to abide by the restrictions by leaving telltale tire tracks, but it did nothing to strengthen or repair the road.

I likened it to makeup.

Anyway, today I rode down another street and saw they had the same sort of signs up, but these were for Wednesday. Later today, I found they'd erected another Wednesday sign on the streetlamp right in front of my home, so something's definitely afoot.

Incidentally, Snakes on a Plane is, I think, the only action flick I've ever seen in a theatre, and it was both better and worse than I expected. And, I don't count my trip to In-and-Out as one of this year's two trips to nationally advertised fast food places, as I don't think they're national. It was, however, the first time this year I've been there, since I can't afford to eat out.

The hamburger (3X3, animal style - my first!) was tasty and life-threatening, the movie was one I was glad to participate in, and the reason for the local street closures a mystery yet to be solved.