Let me rant and let me ramble

I finished last week exhausted, then worked this past weekend as well, although I at least got to sleep in.

I've spent the first few days of my break sleeping in, but going to bed too late to really get rested on it. I've seen a bunch of friends, as well as my parents and grandmother. I've vegged out rereading old novels I loved when I read them 10+ years ago. I ran errands and took care of shit.

Vespa: $4,299
Tax, title, license: $924
Leather jacket: $100
Insurance premium: $293/yr
Parking: $10/mo
Yes, it's gonna be good. I take my road test on Friday, hopefully I can pick it up next week.

Vic Ruggiero played a 2+ hour set Sunday night. Sweet, it was.

Yesterday I was rather productive. Today I was lazy and listless all fuckin' day. Somewhat of a waste. Relaxing, though not too good for my self-esteem.

I shaved my beard. I still have the urge to clean food off it after I eat. Gross. I swear my cheeks are getting chubbier. Not good.

I ran into Ryan K. twice at the grocery stores this evening. Ryan, I was going to say more about you, but I can't remember for shit at the moment. Sorry.

Tomorrow's a big cleaning day.

Anyone know any places I'd find cool in Seattle? I've got four nights to kill there, and a few days.

After too much fun: Eat to work, sleep to work, work to work, work, work!

Seventeen hours of science fiction at the Music Box yesterday. I'm fucking exhausted. I got home at quarter to six this morning, with the sky light and birds singing the coming of dawn. Of course, I woke up yesterday hungover and probably still a little buzzed from my, ahem, overindulgence Friday evening, after only eight hours of sleep. My body was screaming it needed more, so of course I went out into the world for 20 hours.

There was a really cute nerdy (of course, being a sci-fi fest) girl there who I often caught looking rather keenly in my direction at the Music Box. Unfortunately she was with first some friends, and then one guy met her later, and I was too chicken-shit to just ask if she were seeing anybody and ask her out.

I've been procrastinating at school, and as a result I'm going to have to work my ass off this week. But tests are done; the big thing I've got to do is get my IRB application done so I can send it in after my thesis committee meeting on Thursday morn. Oh, and reschedule a few patients so I can make that meeting. I've also got some records I took on Friday that I've got to organize.

This afternoon shall be spent working, and of course I'll get burned out and quit early. Whatever. After this weekend, and last weekend, and I dunno how many before that, I should be totally sleep-deprived.


On the plus side, I've been totally grooving on the Tim Armstrong/Aggrolites record, or the tracks that have been released online so far. I can't wait for the actual record to be out so I can get the songs all mastered to the same level.

I'm totally fucked.

Dude, I am so fucking plastered right now. We had our departmental graduation dinner tonight and I drank *waaaaaaaaaaaaaay* tooo much. I've already thrown up once in Fado, and Shana and Rob convinced me to take a cab home.

I'm writing this blog entry from my bathroom, and I'm sure you can guess what that means. I'm totally fucked up. It's been years since I've been this drunk. I started out with a plastic bag in my hand and headed for the bathroom right about the time I figured the plastic bag would be inadequate compensation for the shit I've been feeling. I've since upchucked 2-3 times into my toilet.

Moral of the story: know your limits. Don't fuck with them.

Reminding myself to be happy.

My shirt smells like barbecue. I was going to get sushi take-out for dinner, and then Dana told me of a dental student barbecue. So I stuffed myself. I was also standing outside in fifty degrees in a T-shirt. I don't know how much cleaning I'll get done before I conk out for the evening.

Sunday afternoon I was sitting out in the sun in the park across the street, reading. It occurred to me that I emote much more to the sad parts and depressing scenes in books and songs. I've always liked any movie that could make me cry. Hell, crying just feels good sometimes. Sometimes I have to remind myself how it feels to be happy.

I finished reading The Boy Detective Fails last night.

Billy notices his arch-foe, Professor Von Golum, curled beneath the bed frame. Though the old man is asleep, there is a length of shiny wire twisted in his hands, the murder weapon held close, at the ready.

"Professor, may I ask what you are doing down there?"

"I was planning on strangling you as soon as you went to sleep."

"I see."

"Perhaps it was poor planning, but I could not stay awake. It is very comfortable under here."

"Would you like some help out from underneath?"

"No. No, I'm alright. I'll just stay here, if you don't mind."

Billy sighs, turning on his side.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask you a question, sir?"

"Yes, but know it may be the last question you ever ask."

"Have you ever been in love, sir?"

"Oh, my poor, poor childish detective. Surely you must know by now. Love is the invention of man. It does not exist. It is a fairy tale designed to keep order. Imagine how we as humans would behave if we freed ourselves from the idiocy of that one particular idea: what a wonderful world; a world of absolute possibility."

"I think I may be in love, sir."

"May I ask how you know? How can you prove it? You are a detective, no? Where is the evidence? What clues are you basing this foolish assumption on?"

"I don't know, really. It just occurs as a feeling in my hands and behind my knees."

"But can it be placed in a bell jar? Can it be seen under a microscope? How can something as invisible - as insubstantial - as love ever hope to last?"

"I cannot stop thinking about kissing her."

"That is chemistry - or biology - it has nothing to do with hearts and flowers and the like. Do not be confused by what the natural world already knows: We are all, in our own way, completely and totally alone. If love is real, it is a complete and total failing of the intellect. It is utter self-destruction. It is pandemonium."

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"It is my pleasure, Billy."

In the near dark, the boy detective finds his bottle of pills and quickly swallows one Ativan, holding his breath until he is sure the villain has crept out. He looks up in wonder as the soft haze of snow drifts down.

......

Outside it is raining; the boy detective and Penny smile at each other silently, still not touching. Billy, in his blue sweater, and Penny, in her pink hat and brown dress, smile down at their feet, unable to look at each other or even speak. Beside Penny on the bus again, Billy thinks about making a bold move - trying to hold Penny's hand - but for whatever reason, he cannot work up the courage to make such an attempt.

Billy and Penny smile at each other silently from across the booth of the small yellow diner. The table is littered with coffee cups and opened sugar packets and small plastic creamer containers. Carefully, Billy moves these items aside, making a path. Slowly, Billy goes to take Penny's hand and she lets him hold it this time: finally.

......

Penny's brown eyes disappear, hidden as she lowers her head in shame.

"I'm sorry, Billy. I thought...I thought I was ready."

Penny begins crying and leans over and kisses Billy's cheek nervously. She turns, unlocks the door, and runs up the steps. Billy catches a fading glimpse of Penny's white ankle and pink shoe as the door swings closed behind her. He sits on the steps and stares back over his shoulder at the building, frowning. He looks down at his hand, which is, once again, empty.

The boy detective is feeling badly as he rides the bus home that morning. Imagine this is how he feels exactly:

dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing
scissors scissors scissors - heart - scissors scissors scissors

......

The boy detective is on the bus crying. The people sitting beside him do their best to ignore him.

......

To the boy or girl that finds this:
Mr. Howard Lunt, aged 9, hid this April 24, 1902. Congratulations! Put back in spot so others might find.
Signed,
Mr. Howard Lunt, President, Leage of Amateur
Whodunit Enthusiasts

Billy and Penny look at each other and smile. He nods, quite pleased. The boy detective slips the note back into the bellows, seals it up, and lowers the accordion back into the drainpipe. They walk back toward the bus station. The sun begins shining over their shoulders.

We would really like to think that you were holding hands with somebody while you read that last part. If not, you might read it again and ask someone to hold your hand right now. You might then write that person's name somewhere here on this page with a heart glowing around it. Why not? It might be fun.

I still smell like barbecue.

Outtakes

I've been reading Joe Meno's The Boy Detective Fails. It's pretty sweet.

It is none other than Effie Mumford, age eleven, an adolescent, female, and very awkward-looking. What you must know about Effie is that she has won the local, state, and national science fair for the past three years. Also, she is hopelessly in love with amateur rocketry. Additionally, she is an interminable social pariah, a long-suffering possessor of many, many unstoppable runny noses, a silent victim of reoccurring eye infections, and a future prize-winning neurobiologist. One last important fact about Effie Mumford: She does not like to be touched. Not by anyone, not ever.

As per her usual routine, Effie is dressed wildly inappropriately, in her white and purple winter jacket, which she wears year round, well into the hottest months of summer, white scarf around her neck, fur-lined hood pulled up, entirely covering her small head.

......

It is the school library where Effie Mumford goes to hide during lunch period. She does not eat at school. She is too afraid someone will take advantage of her while her mouth is open and that she will eat an item from her lunch which has somehow been poisoned. Poisoning someone does not require much imagination and she believes that, if given the opportunity, her classmates would surely take it.

It is later in the school day that she realizes today is the day of the science fair. She has nothing prepared. Her experiment having been ruined by the death of her rabbit, she walks about the small, terribly arranged exhibits - past a display for a rocket-car of the future, past a papier-mache model of a volcano, past a bumpy bust describing the science of phrenology - to Parker Lane's prize-winning presentation, entitled, "How Water Totally Becomes Ice." Effie Mumford stops and stares, dumfounded, glaring at the horrible Magic-Markered illustrations, the torn and oddly pasted National Geographic pages, and worse, a rectangular ice cube tray from which Parker, grinning, offers samples.

Effie Mumford's small hands turn red, as does her face; what is so bothersome is the knowledge that she could have easily won if she had only tried again. It is this knowledge that makes her cry - not for the murder of her bunny, not about the enduring, pervasive insults, not because of her terrible, taped-together glasses. It is knowing that she could have done better than all of this and did not, which forces the small, shiny tears from her eyes. She has allowed herself, once again, to be defeated by mediocrity, and it is this thought - the apparent triumph of the uninspired and average - that truly makes her angry. Out of both rage and frustration, she purposefully knocks over Parker Lane's poorly assembled display, the poster boards crashing to the gymnasium as Effie runs away.

.......

At the Convocation of Evil, the schedule of events reads:
9:00-9:30: Welcome with coffee and assorted muffins and bagels
9:30-10:30: Break-out groups:
- Crime as Your Career: Investing for the Future
- Kidnapping: More Hassle Than It's Worth?
- High-Grade Explosives from Everyday Chemicals
10:30-11:30: Featured Presentation: A Century of Madmen
11:30-12:00: Featured Panel: To Wear a Mask?
12:00-1:00: Lunch
1:00-2:00: Officers and Sub-Committee Elections
2:00-3:00: Featured Guest: Senator Jonah Klee (R-Texas)
3:00-4:00: Closing Remarks: "Our Evil Architectural Plans"

......

The boy detective has never kissed a girl. Shhh - it is a secret. It make him feel very bad.

......

The boy detective enters the small silver office building and sneaks past a snoring guard into a waiting elevator. When the elevator doors open, he can hear the sound of a vacuum running. He follows the sound and slowly sneaks around the corner of a small green cubicle and finds the lady in pink, now in a pink cleaning smock, leaning over a small white vacuum, running it back and forth, dancing to her headphones, shouting along loudly. It is impossible not to smile, seeing her: eyes closed, feet tapping in place, yelling louder than the vacuum cleaner.

In a moment, the lady stops vacuuming and begins dancing with a tall silver coat rack. One of its rungs holds a suit jacket, which is swying back and forth in time. Then the lady grabs a handful of files and tosses them up in the air. Finding a chair, she sits and spins around, pounding her feet on the top of the desks. Like that, she has climbed up on a conference table and, her face all red and nearly out of breath, she slides down the table, scattering an enormous pile of recyclable paper.

If somehow, through science or magic, we could discern an X-ray of Billy's heart just then, it would look like a lovely, perfectly shaped balloon - the kind sold on Valentine's Day in the comical rounded heart shape - growing larger and larger, filling his chest, his eyes, expanding to the size of the room, as the lady swings her hair around, still dancing.