I'm sorry.

I haven't been myself lately, but I get like that. When filled with self loathing I dont' like talking.

Someday I'll write about AOL keywords.

I'm sorry.

I haven't been myself lately, but I get like that. When filled with self loathing I dont' like talking.

Someday I'll write about AOL keywords.

I had a very disturbing dream, maybe a nightmare. It was about socks. Even the subject matter of my dreams is mundane.

I was out in the yard and it was pouring rain. I was trying (for some reason) to set a metal tube in the ground and came inside to put on my work boots. For my boots I needed socks and it was imperative I get dressed quickly. My bed was the top one of bunk beds (sometimes) and it was as if I was seeing it for the first time in years. It was piled high with clothes and stuff, a complete mess.

For some reason (and I love the logic of dreams), I didn't want to wear any of my "normal" socks. I kept thinking about, and discarding, the idea of wearing any of those clean ones that just come up to the ankle bone and was fixated on wearing, for one last time, one of my older pairs that were on the bed. I kept digging through the piles, looking for matches, and most of these socks were years old, ones I'd completely forgotten about.

Also, they were all filthy. like they'd been worn for weeks on end and left there, stiff and rotting. Still, they were the only socks I could wear and I was wincing as I put them on. One pair after the other, trying to find the "right ones." They all had holes in the toes or heels, had soles that were stiff with funk.

One pair was an old pair of baseball socks, only the white sanitary socks were attached to the colorful stirrups and the whole thing was like a pair of panty hose. I got them half on, as I had many of the others, and then resumed digging through the piles. I dug between the mattress and headboard, found more disgusting socks, and tried them all on, and none of them were right.

I ended up finding an old pair of thick hiking socks, stiff with dirt and riddled with large, gaping holes. I slipped it on my left foot and was immediately freaked out. It itched, it tingled with disgust, it burned. I tore off the sock and saw my foot was blistered and covered with pusy carbuncles. Still, I needed to put on socks and none of my clean ones were acceptable.

I scratched at the hideous sores covering my foot and was in a panic. I needed to get dressed and working quickly. The mass on my foot peeled off like a shell, as if it were wax. Underneath there was fresh, pink skin and I dropped the fetid skin on the floor where it turned liquid, melting into the wood floor. It left a clean spot, and I needed to hide that, afraid of having to explain.

Then, I was so panicked I woke up.

(writing in "more")

I had a very disturbing dream, maybe a nightmare. It was about socks. Even the subject matter of my dreams is mundane.

I was out in the yard and it was pouring rain. I was trying (for some reason) to set a metal tube in the ground and came inside to put on my work boots. For my boots I needed socks and it was imperative I get dressed quickly. My bed was the top one of bunk beds (sometimes) and it was as if I was seeing it for the first time in years. It was piled high with clothes and stuff, a complete mess.

For some reason (and I love the logic of dreams), I didn't want to wear any of my "normal" socks. I kept thinking about, and discarding, the idea of wearing any of those clean ones that just come up to the ankle bone and was fixated on wearing, for one last time, one of my older pairs that were on the bed. I kept digging through the piles, looking for matches, and most of these socks were years old, ones I'd completely forgotten about.

Also, they were all filthy. like they'd been worn for weeks on end and left there, stiff and rotting. Still, they were the only socks I could wear and I was wincing as I put them on. One pair after the other, trying to find the "right ones." They all had holes in the toes or heels, had soles that were stiff with funk.

One pair was an old pair of baseball socks, only the white sanitary socks were attached to the colorful stirrups and the whole thing was like a pair of panty hose. I got them half on, as I had many of the others, and then resumed digging through the piles. I dug between the mattress and headboard, found more disgusting socks, and tried them all on, and none of them were right.

I ended up finding an old pair of thick hiking socks, stiff with dirt and riddled with large, gaping holes. I slipped it on my left foot and was immediately freaked out. It itched, it tingled with disgust, it burned. I tore off the sock and saw my foot was blistered and covered with pusy carbuncles. Still, I needed to put on socks and none of my clean ones were acceptable.

I scratched at the hideous sores covering my foot and was in a panic. I needed to get dressed and working quickly. The mass on my foot peeled off like a shell, as if it were wax. Underneath there was fresh, pink skin and I dropped the fetid skin on the floor where it turned liquid, melting into the wood floor. It left a clean spot, and I needed to hide that, afraid of having to explain.

Then, I was so panicked I woke up.

(writing in "more")

No, I have nothing to say.

A bright spot, for me, is the starting of the Formula 1 season this weekend in Australia. There are some "major" changes since last year, some with an eye toward cutting expenses for the teams. Now the engines are required to last TWO race weekends and, basically, they have to use one set of tires for the entire race (say, two hundred miles). They also implemented some design changes in an effort to slow the cars down, but word has it the designers were already able to recover the lost three tons of downforce.

It rained and I learned I don't do much if I go without coffee. Through no plan I had very little coffee this week and was unable to accomplish much of anything. I blame it on a lack of caffeine.

I've managed to trim the number of people to whom I owe e-mail by two and received a sample of someone's hopes for the Eurosong 2005 winner, to be announced Saturday. I find it depressing that legal news about Michael Jackson, Robert Blake, and Martha Stewart is getting more coverage than Bernie Ebbers. I found a website devoted to TV shows and have become quite humbled about what the American public thinks is good. On the brighter side, it IS true what they say about a little knowledge.

(writing news in MORE)

No, I have nothing to say.

A bright spot, for me, is the starting of the Formula 1 season this weekend in Australia. There are some "major" changes since last year, some with an eye toward cutting expenses for the teams. Now the engines are required to last TWO race weekends and, basically, they have to use one set of tires for the entire race (say, two hundred miles). They also implemented some design changes in an effort to slow the cars down, but word has it the designers were already able to recover the lost three tons of downforce.

It rained and I learned I don't do much if I go without coffee. Through no plan I had very little coffee this week and was unable to accomplish much of anything. I blame it on a lack of caffeine.

I've managed to trim the number of people to whom I owe e-mail by two and received a sample of someone's hopes for the Eurosong 2005 winner, to be announced Saturday. I find it depressing that legal news about Michael Jackson, Robert Blake, and Martha Stewart is getting more coverage than Bernie Ebbers. I found a website devoted to TV shows and have become quite humbled about what the American public thinks is good. On the brighter side, it IS true what they say about a little knowledge.

(writing news in MORE)

It's been a pretty quiet weekend. Yesterday my friends were out on excursions and I did some thinking.

Planning, actually, or maybe just what passes for it in my life. Left to my own devices I got bored. I started reading, checking on things, and knew one of the groups I wanted to see was playing at a bookstore as part of Rob's book announcement tour. Checked around, and ended up seeing if I wanted to go I'd have to ride the bus. Not so bad, and it would be possible to take a fairly direct route home (one of the troubles with LA mass transit is that it effectively dies after nine at night).

On the plus side, I'd be able to see some people, listen to the Violet Rays, and have a good time. On the down side, I'd be waiting for half an hour at eleven at night in a neighborhood I know nothing about except reputation. I would, no doubt, be the only middle aged white guy standing on a corner, trying to look nondescript.

That's not so bad, but the battery in my watch is dead. Having a working timepiece is helpful when you're catching buses. It's a long haul to the only place I know of to get my watch fixed, so I hopped on my bike and rode to this mall that has a jeweler guy working a cart on the floor.

I stopped on the way and looked for long-sleeved T-shirts (there was one, with a huge, disqualifying Fila logo) and tea kettles. Again, I don't *need* a tea kettle (I can boil water in a sauce pan) but I don't *have* a tea kettle so I've been oddly obsessed with buying one. They had a little cheap one, and I thought I'd pick it up on my way back.

Got to the mall and my ATM card didn't work in either of the machines I tried. Rode back home in a funk, realizing also that this hour a day of exercise as mandated by government is entirely too much exercise.

Without the watch it was easy to talk myself out of the bus rides, the book signing, and the concert.

Today I clipped some branches into small enough pieces to fit in the cans and wished, not for the first time, that I owned a chipper. On the bright side, it was warm enough for me to wear shorts and be stripped to the waist.

(writing musings in "more"...)