I could be a damn fine philanthropist if I had the money to give away. Everyone, it seems, wants to make money off or from me.

I went to Home Depot, which this entry is marginally about, to pick up a bag to hold my gardening implements. There's no sense in them being mixed up with my other bags, the ones for carpentry, wood working, automotive repair, or power tools, so I'm now the proud owner of a cheap bag that will hold whatever flavor of pruning shears I bought, my little hand hoe, and my weed eradicators. Also in there is a noxious mixture for use in removing stumps, but that's another story.

What surprised me when I went to Home Depot wasn't that I was immediately accosted by someone asking me what work I needed done: I'm used to that, but it's not as flattering as when some damsel in distress seeks me out in the aisle to ask for advice. I guess I look the part of a knowledgeable handyman, which I assume comes from the work boots I often wear.

No, what surprised me at the market was the stalls set up in the parking lot. Much like the little suitcases full of Rolex replicas or DVDs, people were selling all kinds of things. Not tools, which I would expect, but belts, hats, and probably food dehydrators. They were all my friend as long as they felt I would give them money, and in that they're just like everyone else on this planet.

When I was done filling my six bags of backyard growth I slumped in front of the TV and caught an ad for Home Depot. Kismet. They were enticing me to buy a new refrigerator, one that would save energy.

Now, I'm the first to admit that I used to be quite the little hippy, and even today I hold many of the same beliefs I did then. The thing is, this razzle-dazzle refrigerator was, I think, offering energy savings as a rationalization, as an excuse for consumption.

There's some research to be done, and when I get all that money the funds I don't give away will be used to hire a personal assistant. One of the things he or she will get to do is work with numbers and look stuff up for me. I have no idea how all this works, but to get this entry posted I'll make some up so my entry makes sense.

If I can save a couple hundred bucks a year in energy costs, that's a good thing. What I'm afraid of, though, is that replacing an existing refrigerator with one of these fancy ones is making things worse. I'm not doing the planet any good at all if I get a new refrigerator to save a barrel of oil a month in creating energy for it because I have a hunch that it will take more than a lifetime's oil savings to manufacture the damn thing and ship it to me.

Sure, there are those who will say that "every little bit helps," and they're right as far as they go, but not in any big sense. A few years ago I went to that website and learned I was using something like four planet's worth of resources. That sickened me, and I think I've managed to cut that way down and am now using a state or province less, and I'm talking a western state and not one of those piddly east coast ones. What disturbs me, though, is that we so easily look at immediate gratification and listen to sales people.

I have no idea how many barrels of oil it takes to dig up the raw materials and turn them into a refrigerator, but my personal assistant would find that out for me. I also have no idea how many barrels of oil I'd save in a year with a more energy-efficient one, but that would be good to know. I do think, however, that Home Depot will sell no few number of these new appliances, and the majority of those who buy them will smile, thinking they're doing good things for the planet.

Saving a smidgen of energy with something while being responsible for using much more to make it is a fool's argument. Yes, brushing your teeth during your Saturday night bath is better than never brushing at all, but saving a little bit of energy every day doesn't make much sense if it takes more than you'll ever save to make the damn thing in the first place.

I must be wrong about this, but I'll be damned if I can see my logic error.

If this entry looks different to you, you've got great eyes! I'm using a new keyboard, and I wouldn't have guessed you could notice.

Yes, all the ones and zeros are being created by a new device. The best part is, what should have been the labor of at most an hour took me nearly a week to complete! It probably doesn't bode well for bragging rights as to my computer abilities, but one can't overlook the fact that I managed to find a solution to the problem.

First, it's January, and when things were good January always meant one thing: renewing my annual pass to the Fairplex Computer Show. They call it a show, but it's a swap meet, and every year I'd attend so many of the shows it was cheaper for me to get a pass for the whole year. Even when I didn't buy anything, I used to love roaming the aisles and seeing all the crap.

Not only was there tons of computer hardware and software, there was all the other crap that shows up at these things. Massagers, tools, even knives. Movies (adult and otherwise), cell phone providers, but I really liked looking at all the computer crap. And, every year or so I'd buy a new bare bones computer and upgrade my computing experiences.

Which leads, oddly enough, to this entry. I had a keyboard that I loved, but was beginning to suffer from years of use. It was black, which I enjoyed until the black wore off and I needed to rely on my touch-typing skills which never extended much past the ten-key keypad and the alphabetic numbers. I always had to look for things like the dollar sign, and I never mastered reaching the correct function key without looking.

Keyboards are very personal, for me even more so than mice. It's all about the feel, and I have to say it's been years since I've had one I really loved. That goes back to typing and a boring story.

Sometime in Junior High I took my first and only Summer School class. It was for typing, and I really don't know why I took it. But, I did. It wasn't even at my school, but another, "competing" Junior High a couple miles west. Some of my friends went there, so I knew about it, and there were football and basketball practices and games there as well.

The typing class was held in the lunch room, of all places. It was packed, and the instructor stood in front of us all on a podium and we each had a manual typewriter on the table in front of us. Yes, I'm that old. The first day I remember the teacher calling out, over and over, A-S-D-F-J-K-L-; and all of us slamming down the keys as she called them out. It was, as can be expected, deafening. Some time that first class, or the next, I learned to type "as sad as dad," and the only other particular I remember was when the class talked the teacher into showing us what it looked like to type sixty words a minute.

We were stunned. It sounded so fast, especially compared to our four or five words, and I don't know if I ever was able to type as quickly as she sounded.

I never did much typing for the next five years, nothing extensive. But when I started my first novel at the ripe age of twenty or so, I had a manual typewriter, a ream of blue paper about the consistency of tissue paper, and a bottle of Martel. By the time I'd given up, I also had arms Popeye would be jealous of.

Typing on a manual typewriter is good exercise. And, slamming the carriage return is gratifying.

When I started with computers, they had good, solid keyboards that were like electric typewriters. Those I liked, but there another thing of the past. Now it takes little effort to depress the keys, and while I guess that makes it easier to type quickly, I miss the feedback.

At those computer shows there were tons of keyboards for sale, most around ten bucks. When I decided a couple weeks ago to get a new one, I went to Fry's Electronics and keyboards are now much different. They all have extra features, for web browsing or the like, multi-media keys, programmable this and that, lights and the majority are wireless. I had no idea the cable running from the keyboard to the box annoyed so many people.

I eventually found one for about seven bucks that was as cheaply made as you can imagine. I remembered that I needed a PS2 connector instead of USB, and that limited my choice quite a bit. I guess many people now type incredibly quickly and need the higher speeds USB connections provide.

After less than a day's use, I was already unhappy with my new keyboard. It was white, which I wanted so I can see it in the dark, and it had the necessary PS2 connector, but the weight of my hands (to say nothing of my typing) bended the keyboard in the middle. Two days later, and keys were beginning to stick, and I was mad.

I bought the next-cheapest one, a "mini" keyboard, but when shopping I forgot that I wanted a white one with a PS2 connector. Instead, this new one is black and USB, and therein lies the problem. I have several computers all connected to a KVM switch, which doesn't support USB. For a couple days I had two keyboards since only my WXP computer recognized the USB keyboard. I didn't like the idea of having to crawl under the desk and swap all the time, so I bought an adaptor to let me use the USB keyboard with my PS2 DVM box.

The adaptor I bought, of course, was of the wrong gender. I went to CompUsa and marveled at the prices they charge for this sort of thing. I went back to Fry's and bought another wrong piece, then, finally got the correct adaptor and now everything's gravy.

Except the part about how I don't like how this one feels, and that the shift key on the right is too small. And, the "delete /  insert / pg up / pg down" buttons are next to the function keys instead of over the cursor control keys like they should be.

And, it bends when I lay my hand on it. But it does have buttons for web browsing that I will never use, so that's a plus.

You throw sufficient money at some problems, and they just up and disappear, at least for three months.

Yesterday I accepted reality and took my car in to have its clutch replaced. It's been slipping since a bit before Christmas and smelling just like a burned clutch. Last weekend it nearly failed me again, and that's what made me accept defeat. I'd been careful to avoid driving up hills, but there's only so many roundabout ways of getting some places that I quickly tired of the exercise.

And, to confirm my decision, the clutch slipped for the first time on level ground when I drove it over to Grevillea Transmissions.

I chose them based on three important factors. One, they weren't a corporate entity. Two, they had the magic word "transmission" as part of their name, and, three, they were within walking distance.

Of course, I was scared that I'd be ripped off. Just because I have an X chromosome doesn't mean that I can't be taken advantage of by a car place. I knew Pep Boys could do the work, and they treated me excellently once before, but I was into that whole "support the small business" thing. There are many auto repair places between me and Grevillea Transmissions, but none of them that I saw who specifically had the words "clutch" or "transmission" in their name.

Generic auto repair places, I've decided, are for engine work. If I need to have the brakes worked on, I need to go to a place with brakes in their name. There's only a few such distinct categories, but clutches are one of mine.

I had no idea when I took my car in what they would charge, but I was guessing around five hundred bucks. I've been driving manual transmissions for close to forty years, but I've never had to replace a clutch before. I guess I'm dainty.

I was expecting to be taken advantage of, but was pleasantly surprised when I entered the small, dark office. After greeting me in Spanish, I was greeted again in English when the guy actually looked up from his computer and saw me. As I spied later, he was just beginning to make a lista.

I asked if they could replace me clutch and was surprised when he said yes, for $325. I was expecting one of those estimates, followed by a series of phone calls, and a negotiated price inflated by unexpected problems. None of that happened, he just told me what it would cost, and I realized then that this, to everyone in the world except me, is a commodity.

Some jobs, I guess, are easier, and some are harder, but it's evidently not worth the effort to track the labor and cost of the parts. As it turned out, the parts were $125 and the labor $200, both nice, round numbers.

After I gave him the ignition key, he said it would be ready "in two to three --", and I quickly thought "hours," and was impressed by how quickly they could get to work on my car. I figured it would take a day just to locate the parts.

"-- days," he concluded, and even that impressed me. None of this coming up with an exact time nonsense, this was real life estimating. I nodded and walked home, looking forward to my car getting new pressure plates and throw-out bearings, in addition to the clutch plate.

It took me longer to walk home than I planned, which shames me. It's a good thing I don't intend to take part in the LA Marathon this year, but I was proud of myself for fixing my car before it died in traffic and pissed off a lot of commuters.

Then, today, no more than thirty hours after dropping my car off, I was told my "pretty little car" was ready. I knew he was kidding about the "pretty" part, since he'd already commented on the power of a Metro, but I walked back over and picked it up without incident.

The biggest change isn't that the clutch engages the transmission perfectly, which it does, and even permits me to shift between gears without double-clutching and grinding, but the travel in the clutch. It drops to the floor like a brake pedal without fluid when I engage it, which I thought must be a mistake, and offers even less resistance than the gas pedal. But, when released, it works smooth as silk.

Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. It will take some getting used to, and I wonder what I'll do for exercising my left leg. Maybe put in a radio so I can tap my foot.

Instead of enjoying my new ride, or even getting used to the new clutch, I ran into rain on my way back from the shop. Since I still can't get the top to stay up, I scurried home and put the whole damn car under a tarp.

Maybe tomorrow...

If you were wondering what Toyota was doing with all that money they make selling the Camry and 4-Runner, meet the TF-107, which was debuted this past weekend. I don't know what they do with their profit from hybrids, but one can only hope it isn't hosting banquets featuring whale.
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This year Toyota promises to win a grand prix for the first time, ever! “Our fundamental target this year is to get the first victory,” says Chairman and Team Principal Tsutomu Tomita. I wish him luck. As he noted, "We announced that a year ago, but we failed to succeed in 2006. And therefore we want to repeat that challenge in 2007." I'm sure some of the Toyota executives are wondering when they'll get a payback for the hundreds and hundreds of millions of dollars they've spent chasing F1 titles.

They could do a much better job of winning if only McLaren, Ferrari, and Renault weren't coming out with new cars, too. McLaren's already introduced their 2007 challenger, the Vodafone MP4-22 McLaren Mercedes, which is as beautiful a car as one would ever wish to see.

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The TF-107 is a pretty car, but I've got a fondness for red and white, my high school colors. This year's car carries the same sponsor, tires, engine, and drivers as last year, so they've got consistency going for them. Still, they keep finishing behind Honda, which has to really piss them off.

They also keep losing to Ferrari, who've also launched their new car.

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As always, if you like Italian racing, red is where it's at.

Right now I should be out refilling the five gallon water bottle, but my car's trapped behind a dead lawn mower, one with a sign telling everyone it's free for the taking. This is how, when I don't rent roll-offs, I get rid of oversized trash.

It's now been out there for an hour and a half. I hope it's gone soon, but scavengers answer to no one. I can't remember how long it took for my last prize to be claimed, or even what it was, but things usually disappear by sundown.

When I first moved back home there was a lot of cleaning up to do. My parents wisely decided that instead of fixing up and selling the house that it would be easier to basically give it to one of my sisters and me. We took it over for a tiny mortgage, and I moved back in.

One of my earliest discoveries was that I not only inherited a place to live, but a fully equipped one. My parents, maybe, took a few suitcases with them but everything, otherwise, was just as it had always been.  Not only was all the horrid furniture here, all the crap in the drawers or piled in unused rooms, too. My parents had lived here for about fifty years and one would be challenged to prove they'd ever thrown remotely usable away (not that I'm all that much better). Anyway, for the first few months my sister and I hauled out to the curb all kinds of junk. Near the beginning of this process we spied a beat up, white pickup truck that had fashioned into a stake bed truck picking up our trash. Julio was written on the side, and a legend was born.

I have no idea if Julio was even driving, or the man we saw, but ever since then whenever I drop something at the curb I call it "putting things out for Julio," and right now it's a broken gas-powered mower. I don't know if anyone will take it, but in my day we'd have snatched something like up pretty quick. Old lawn mower engines, if nothing else, are great for go-carts and mini-bikes, but I can't remember the last time I saw anyone riding any other than a commercially produced one.

Of course, in my day, I also would have made more than a passing effort at fixing the damn thing.

If someone takes it in a few weeks they'll also be able to pick up a busted electric mower. I'd put them both out there now except for a few issues. One, while a good argument could be made that I broke it since I was the one using it when someone ran over a hose buried in the lawn and froze the motor, it's my sister's. She bought it, and I'm not sure if it's okay for me to toss it.

Also, more importantly, I don't want our neighbors to know that we have two dead lawn mowers. That's simply beyond the pale, especially because we don't have a working one. If this one gets picked up I hope to put the other one out there when enough time has passed that no one will remember I just got rid of one. Things are embarrassing enough.

The good news is, if the mower gets picked up, I get to cross one thing off my phonebook sized "to-do" list.

I'm not stupid, I'm a fan of weather.

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It's likely that this is the lowest temperature I've ever experienced in Los Angeles, and it may be the coldest it's been, ever. Anywhere. I tell ya, if there was any humidity, I could see my breath!

Yes, it's a dry cold.

To get the full impact of this noteworthy chill I'm sitting in an unheated room with a window mostly open. "Brisk" can only begin to describe it. My coffee goes from piping hot to tepid in less time than it takes to drink it, and these frequent interruptions to type another line aren't helping the cause at all.

Feels like one damn degree. Frankly, when the numbers are that low, it's scarcely worth the effort to measure. My only consolation comes from the knowledge that it can't, possibly, get colder. With only one degree on the thermometer, you've only got one to lose, right?

I wonder what it's costing my neighbors to heat their pool.

It's not often that we leave medical practitioners with more than we showed up with, or, at least, I usually don't. Oh, sure, sometimes I get some gauze or, once, a wrist pad, and I've gotten more than my fair share of toothbrushes and floss, but today I left with six stitches in my gums.

Not a lot, no, but that's half a dozen more than I've ever had in my gums before, so it sets a record.

I had, as usual, no idea what to expect when I showed up. That's because I'm one of those patients who puts myself entirely in the doctor's care. What they want to do, they get to do. They sometimes ask for my input, but I know better than to expect anything I say will be met with anything other than patronizing.

Especially in this case, when I'm seeing students. About all I can give them is a instructive case, and I've done my best to uphold my end of the bargain.

Today I was rewarded with my tag team of dental students. Both Shervin and June were attending me, with Shervin providing most of the pain while June handled the suction thing. The observing dentist, whom I don't know from Adam, did some work, maybe some of the trickier stuff, and some girl hung around in the background. She seemed quite shy and, when I thanked her when I left, that seemed to embarrass her.

The instructions for my after care included a typo which I will bring to their attention. Shervin knows about my editing work, so I'm sure he'll appreciate that. The restrictions are the routine things, no hot or spicy foods, no sucking through straws, no rinsing, but I'm also being cautioned against exerting myself. They list, specifically, tennis and sunbathing as activities to avoid, and I have to admit I was surprised that sunbathing was now considered an active recreation. Either the young kids today are even lazier than I imagine or more goes on down at the beach than I remember. Lying on the sand reading, or dozing, or even drinking a delicious cold beverage never taxed me, but I may have been in excellent shape.

In fact, I once remarked that one of the overlooked benefits of sunbathing was that you could lay around all day and people would excuse it. "He wasn't doing nothing, he went to the beach."

I'm home now and, after a stop at a little pharmacy that was able to cram twelve Vicodin in a bottle about as quickly as I could and much faster than Sav-On can manage the task,  and my jaw is beginning to ache. I'm hungry as can be and am looking forward to some lukewarm lentil soup.

Next Wednesday I go back for a follow-up. Both the written instructions and Shervin, personally, advised me against smoking, and I can imagine the delight I will bring when I admit that I dutifully followed that instruction for well over five minutes. I'm too uncomfortable now to add withdrawal to my woes, but I may stop tomorrow.

While it's been chilly at night, the days here have been so near gorgeous that it makes no sense to speak of the difference. Bordering on hot with clear skies, although some still complain I can't take them seriously. Sometimes good enough, is.

But I'm told it won't last. Later this week, after my oral surgery, overnight lows in the upper thirties are expected and even more shocking, rain will be falling from the skies during the day. I'm sure those who are predicting it are using computers, satellite photos, and common sense, but my home as built in detectors.

I once had a job that gave me access to the Los Angeles Hyperion Treatment Facility, right near the Pacific Ocean. It's where all the sewage is treated, so it's possibly not that much of a benefit, but one thing there made my trips there worthwhile. They had, perhaps, the world's coolest weather station, and I never learned if it was the set up of some weather club or if they actually needed it to check if it was okay to process the raw sewage. While the expected thermometers and anonometers (or whatever those wind gauge things are) were there, my favorite was the barometer.

The weather station was on the second or third storey and the barometer was an actual tube filled with mercury, my favorite metal. It was the first, and only, time I couldn't doubt all that talk of "inches of mercury." The tube extended down through the landing and I could never see its bottom, but it was set up so that the "normal" levels were right at eye level. Next to it, all official, was a clipboard where the readings were written.

I don't have anything like that here at home, but, as I said, I do have a couple doors that swell and stick when the weather changes. Years ago when I was hit by that car my doctor warned me that my wrist, which had been fractured, might very well "act up" when the weather changes, but he was off a bit since it's my knee that bothers me. What he had no way of knowing is that my bathroom door is a far better indicator.

I have to use my entire might to shut it now, and I'm taking that as a sign of an approaching cold front. Since this is the hardest it's ever been to open or close the door, I'm expecting colder weather than I can recall here in the city. This is snowy mountain temperatures I'm expecting, and by "expecting" you can be assured that I mean "dreading."

My sister, with whom I share the ancestral family home, is on a cleaning jag, and as can be expected this doesn't bode well for me at all.

She knows nothing of my resolution to do more work around the house because I haven't divulged that little nugget to her. If I did, she'd only hold me accountable. What she's done, instead, is two things I heartily endorse, even though I expect them turn out detrimentally for me.

I've been half-heartedly sweeping up every week or so, but over the past few weeks she's been taking "use it or lose it" time off work and has been here constantly. She's also far more susceptible than I am to the "ewww" factor, so she's been sweeping up every day.

The house is much cleaner, to say the least, and swirling dust bunnies of dog hair are a thing of the past. What concerns me is that sooner or later she has to get back to work, and when she does I fully expect this "sweep every day" mantle to be passed on to me.

I daresay it will fit me illy, if at all.

She also splurged on new curtain rods and curtains, which is both generous of her and much-needed. It also fell to me to install them, which wouldn't be a great task if it weren't for me being the one doing it. Almost immediately I realized that my screw gun is missing, and I have no idea where it is. They're too expensive for me now to just run out and buy, but I didn't have time to clean up well enough to find it, what with her moving the new curtain stuff in places I couldn't avoid.

So I erected them the old-fashioned way, with a drill, a level,a hammer (for the anchors), a screwdriver, a tape measure, and a utility knife. I think that's it. The curtains are now up, and only one of them should be a little higher and needs to be installed again.

We've been enjoying a fierce wind storm, one that my dog doesn't care for, so I was busy with my new lawn vacuum and mulcher. I filled three bags with mulched leaves and attacked the strip just inside the back fence with bare hands, a hoe, a pair of garden shears, and assorted weeder things. Mostly, though, with my hands, and I have an infected finger to prove it, right in the middle of the middle joint of my left index finger. I'd take a picture of it, but I need a new camera since mine is so old people literally laugh at it (one megapixel!).

I hope it's just a sticker / thorn thing and not the last defense of a brown recluse spider, known to frequent the back yard.

The extent of my experience with raising cattle for food isn't limited to just buying some in a market or ordering it in a restaurant. I once drove by a slaughterhouse in Oklahoma City, which should count for something.

According to the news, some 3500 cattle have perished in Colorado and Kansas because of the recent storms. I have, as noted above, no idea how many cattle are killed every day to give us prime ribs and flank steaks, so I don't know how great a tragedy this is. On the news they showed some cattle standing in snow and receiving airlifts of hay (in cubes, not rolls), but I guess they aren't all getting it.

Those must have been the lucky ones.

Last year I began hearing about "grass fed" cattle, and the implication was that's the best kind. It's also more humane, or bovine. The livestock stuck in the snow weren't eating grass, and I guess that's the problem. Drawing on my wealth of cow-related knowledge, mentioned above, as well as the fact that whenever I drive cross country I always see herds of cows  mucking about,  I'm guessing there must be ten thousand cows trapped in dilapidated  housing for every one I see grazing. If not, there wouldn't be such a premium placed on this grass fed idea.

This week, at least, I'm not sure the corralled livestock wasn't faring better. Still, cows that eat grass are no doubt better off than the ones eating other cows' spinal columns, but I don't think that's as big a threat any more. From what I've seen there are plenty of cows eating grass and, besides, as has been pointed out, cows are merely digestive systems with legs.

Whether or not there's a God, and whether or not we're supposed to eat meat aside, nature could hardly have come up with a better source than cows. They're slow, they don't have much in the way of defenses, and they're square. If I were to design something to eat I could hardly do better. Other than legs and a head, they're all food.

At the moment cold food, but that just makes their milk taste better.

One might think that my new eagerness to work on things would generate  increased production, but one would be wrong.

I may be having some effect on the world, however, since tonight when I looked out the window I noticed only one house still lit up. How 2006. The only other thing I've noticed is today when I was on my way to the market my brake pedal went all the way to the floor.

It turns out the brake light, which mysteriously went on over the weekend, actually means something and wasn't just a glitch with the parking brake. A little brake fluid fixed it, but I'm adding brakes to things to keep an eye on. A race is now developing between those and the clutch to see who gets fixed first, but I have a hunch the brakes will win. There are excitements life can offer that one should refuse.

One would think these unexpected items would give me pause for creating new resolutions, but one would, again, be wrong. It may well be that this year is my year for setting up challenges, and I'm adding two more resolutions.

Resolved: I'm going to paint my room. This involves more than you can imagine, so I expect much cheering when I cross it off my list. Not the least of my challenges there is deciding whether my office stuff should go. I have a wonderful old wood desk in there, but it may make more sense to stash office supplies and writing stuff in the Ardmore Room, my name for the room that contains my computers.

Resolved: I will buy half my gifts and things for others this year at mom and pop markets. I intend to do some carpentry and hope to complete that stuff without resorting to Home Depot or Ace Hardware or places of that ilk. There's a local lumberyard that also sells tools and things, and I can annoy them with my little purchases.

I should probably do something about the heater, too, something more than replacing the filter and worrying if each time it fires up will be its last.

It's a bit darker in my neighborhood tonight.

Tonight, around five, when I usually turn on the porch light to inflate the Christmas  displays and light the icycles, I had no need. I took the lights down today, and it's just like 2006.

Across the street the Israeli couple have their blue icycles, but here there are none. They aren't saddled with having to perform unwanted acts, and that's all the difference.

Given my unexpected success last year keeping my resolution, this year I'm upping the ante and, after literally minutes of thought, have come up with some for 2007.

Resolved: I could stand to lose a few pounds, or inches around my waist, but I'm not the only one. It's difficult to find any list of resolutions that doesn't contain losing weight, so this year I resolve to put my dog on a diet. If it works for him, I may consider doing it to myself. I'll measure his waist tomorrow if I can find it, but a few months ago he weighed sixty pounds.

Resolved: In keeping with last year's only two meals at nationally advertised fast food places, this year I resolve to eat at only one nationally advertised (or, publicly traded) food place a month. No more Denny's or Ihop. Until I find gainful employment this should be a cinch, since I think I can only afford to eat out anywhere a few times a year.

Resolved: Unless I change my mind, I'd like to learn morse code this year. I had ten weeks of instruction back in Junior High, and it may be time to brush up. I doubt I'll be building a radio and talking to people, but it might come in handy if I get imprisoned or buried in rubble and have nothing but water pipes to connect me to civilization.

Resolved: Everyone I know is pretty selfish, but it's only an issue when their selfishness comes between them and my own personal enjoyment. Since I can't do anything about anyone else's self-obsession, nothing to make them willingly do anything more for me, I may as well try changing myself. The wisest piece of advice I ever ignored was "you don't have to like it, you just have to do it," and I resolve this year to spend more time doing things I don't like. It would be a stretch to say that I do much of anything I don't like right now, but enough is enough. I'm getting nowhere wasting my days listening to music (right now I'm listening to the Grateful Dead's 1976 New Year's performance - a free stream of a newly released CD), reading, wondering about shit, and watching TV and cruising the Internet, so I think I'll start small and resolve to spend five hours a week doing things I don't want to do. That sounds like a lot, so I may have to cut back to three.
I may be well on my way to being a better man. Especially if I also add at least one picture a week to my postings!