Three inches of paper are sitting directly in front of my keyboard, staring up at me irritably.  They have not been moved or so much as even disturbed in weeks, going on a month.  Yet this pile keeps getting thicker, layering the paper, ink and dust into a slightly inorganic lasagna which, if nature has its way, will likely become my very own miniature desktop compost pile.  I picture things like desktop zen gardens and gnomes, or grow-your-own-genetically-mutated-clover kits.

Yes, very soon I will have a quite organic pile of formerly paper, dust and ink.  Bugger.

And to think that this pile of paper is a stack of ideas - notes I have taken throughout the day (mostly at work), every one of which was intended to be its own full-fledged piece of writing.  Who knew ideas were the stuff of compost?  I never thought my ideas were that... organic.

Oh, and there are some tax documents in there, too.

Writer's block.  That's what this is all about.  I blame it on my passionately blazing loathing for Japanese at this point - I write enough for that bloody class.  why should I write anything else?

Spring is supposed to be an inspirational time of the year.  Life is returning from the clutch of Wintery death and the sun is returning to us (for which plenty of us are quite thankful - but considering that I'm in Oregon, I give it a week of sun before people start whining that it's too hot.  I guarantee it that I will be the first.)  Trees are leafy and green, and flowers are blooming mercilessly.  I get to leave the windows open to let the apartment air out, even.  All I have to show for this endeavor, however, is a profoundly pollenated table and chairs.  My computer desk has yet to change from wooden brown to mustard yellow - but I suspect that may be because the pollen is all settling in the compost pile of ideas in front of my keyboard.  Pretty soon I will have my own indoor garden.  This worries me, though, considering that pile of paper contains tax documents.  The last thing I need growing on my desk is a small grove of trees fed with fertilizer infused with the passive malevolence of the IRS.

Come to think of it, the situation might make a really great B-rated movie.  It would be "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" all over again, only the plants in question wouldn't have fangs and bazookas - they would sport thick glasses, pocket protectors, and big red pens for auditing with the intent to kill.

God save the tax evaders.

I really ought to get this whole writer's block thing under control.  Perhaps doing so would count as saving the world from anal-retentive vegetables.  See, if I were to write out all of those scraps of paper before they bloomed, I could do away with the potential evil fermenting on my desk.

But I have never been a philanthropist.  Besides, it would be a sad state of affairs if a bunch of government-employed tomatoes could be the doom of mankind.  They should at least be lawyers.

I am by no means a dating expert. So rare is the occasion that I have to go on a date, in fact, that I can count them on one hand. That said, I feel I have a fairly firm grip on what someone should very definitively not do on a first (indeed, any) date. The rules are simple and easy enough to follow, but it seems that there are still people out there who seem incapable of understanding them on their own. Likely they would not understand them even when presented with a list of them detailing exactly the things they ought avoid saying. I'll try it anyway. So without further ado, I humbly present Sean's Rules of (Un)Attraction:

1) Do try not to talk about your exes.
*I realize that, at times, these stories can be entertaining and revealing about your personality. And on a very rare occasion a single story that happened to involve one of your exes can be acceptable, provided the point of the story has absolutely nothing to do with said ex whatsoever, in any way, shape, or fashion. That said, telling stories about your previous romantic escapades from the age of fourteen to the present day and/or how you would do anything for any of them suggests that you might possibly not be completely (read: remotely) focused on the clear and present company with whom you could be having dinner in, oh, say, ten minutes. Really, it's terribly bad form, there's a good chap.

2) Tell stories about your most recent ex under no circumstances.
*Stories, anecdotes, or any other form of discussion of your most recent ex should be avoided like a particularly aggressive STD; one that you hopefully managed to avoid coming in contact with while said ex was sleeping around on you. How do I know about that, you might ask? Why, because you have already told me about it, my friend - six times and counting.

3) Texting with other people is exceedingly rude.
*Even more so than telling stories about your exes, really try not texting them throughout the night. And by "throughout the night" I actually mean every three minutes and sixteen seconds. Again, do try to focus on the present company. I could be horribly mistaken, but it strikes me as your being terribly disinterested when you life in the middle of one of my stories... because of a text from another man. And it only gets worse when you miss the punchline of my story... because you're returning the text from another man.

4) Never lie in order to please.
*For example, if I inquire as to whether or not you enjoy a glass of pinot noir, please don't say "yes, of course!" if you don't really drink wine. It probably means I am about to buy a bottle to go with dinner. It would not be offensive in the slightest to tell me you do not care for wine up front, but I may find myself quite irritated when I buy a $20 bottle and you tell me then that you were actually just trying to make me happy. Ladies and gentlemen, this sort of thing does not make people happy.

5) Never answer the telephone during dinner, drinks, or a movie.
* The exception to this rule being if it is a family member whom you suspect might actually be in the middle of a crisis or other such emergency. For example, if your fourteen-year-old brother texts you that he's been drinking and is wasted, then proceeds to call you, I find it entirely acceptable to excuse yourself from the table (or bar) to take the call outside. An explanation (in brief) upon your return is acceptable. After that, however, the date ought to continue in some vaguely enjoyable way (provided, of course, there has not been a terrible tragedy - which is rare, and not a good excuse to use more than, say, once. Ever.)

6) Surprise encounters with exes and/or their friends happen from time to time. Do not panic.
* Exes are called "ex" for a reason - it means you are no longer together. If this is indeed the case, panicking upon running into the friend of an ex is in very bad form. Especially when this person is not at all interested in doing anything other than carrying on a pleasant conversation. And no matter how natural a course of action it may seem, texting the relevant ex is not recommended. In fact, it is highly discouraged. Explaining that you're actually picking a fight with the ex and accusing them of spying on you does not, in any way, ameliorate the situation. Not remotely. In fact, it has quite the opposite effect; no longer are you cool or collected, no - now you are an epic failure. Leave in shame and never return.

7) Dates tend to bomb when carried out through the lens of crystallized alcohol.
* If you are nervous, a beer or a glass of wine, or perhaps a small mixed drink, can help. Two glasses of vodka on ice, two beers, and four shots of vodka, however, is ever so slightly over the top. Enough said.

8) Watching a movie is cuddle time. Do not confuse with texting time.
* Odds are that if you've made it far enough to watch a movie at someone's apartment, they expect to at least watch a movie with someone. Do not mistake this as a hint that they are distracted and would not mind you sending texts, or reviewing the conversations you have had with parties not present. If you do feel compelled to take this path, I would highly discourage you from asking your date what you did to make them angry this time. Odds are that they have quite a list at this point.

9) Do not overstay your welcome.
* If you managed to stay the night at your date's house, lingering the next day is probably (although not always) a bad idea. Likewise, leaving before they wake up is also widely considered to be rude. Use your intuition and leave when the time feels appropriate. Lingering until just before they have to go to work is likely going to cause them a certain level of consternation, especially when they have the burning urge to do large amounts of laundry immediately.

10) Dispose of anyone who violates these rules.
* There comes a time when most of us will eventually be subjected to people who are incapable of following simple rules such as those enumerated above. Immediately dispose of anyone who violates any combination of these rules, swiftly and without mercy. If they have transgressed upon three or more of these rules, death is an acceptable course of action.

Ladies and gentlemen, dating is an art, not a science. Even arts, however, have their rules (although they are flexible). For example, when art is the goal, a pencil or a pen makes a fantastic tool for illustrating, but is best not used for, say, maiming people. Likewise, these rules do not guarantee successful dating. They do, however, significantly raise the stakes. Failure to comply could possibly, but not necessarily, result in your immediate and terrible humiliation at the hand of a stunningly sharp, witty, and attractive man with a pen (used for writing, not maiming).

I woke up yesterday morning completely on time - meaning only half an hour late - got up (which consisted of a grunt, flop, thud, and another grunt), readied myself for school (which consisted of several more grunts as I forced myself out of the warm, dark happiness of the shower and into the cold, hateful light of day), and then trudged my way to class (which consisted of a few grunts at the bus driver and nearby Other People). As I disembarked from the bus, the part of my brain that governs fear and loathing took hold of my rational brain, and I found myself sitting down for a breakfast of tasty goodness at a restaurant on campus, perfectly opposite in direction from the building of my first class of the day. Five minutes before my class should have started.

Needless to say, I did not attend Japanese class.

After breakfasting on tasty goodness, I walked across the street to the campus Starbucks for my morning constitutional (involving quite a lot of coffee and, normally, copious amounts of boy watching). This morning, however, saw homework very high on my list of things to do. And so I got my cup of coffee, had a seat by the window, and sat there tapping my pen on a blank piece of paper, expecting my first Japanese journal entry of the term to pour itself upon the page in flawless Japanese.

It didn't happen.

So I reached for my headphones and iPod to put on some music, only to be cruelly reminded that my right headphone is broken and fizzles slightly while the music plays on in my left ear. This, for those of you who have not had such a joyous experience, is extremely disorienting and generally leaves one with a headache and a sense of mild confusion. Rather than lose myself in deep lyrics and soul-touching melodies, I was forced to eavesdrop on nearby conversations (against my will, of course).

The first conversation that my innocent ears happened upon was from a nearby table - two boys discussing the spiritual decay of the world today and how the church is one of the only ways to fix it.

First of all, I have to say that I can respect that kind of strength of conviction to something. Most people that I find nowadays have all sorts of beliefs and opinions, but rarely does anyone have real Beliefs on life - that burning, glowing, glorious light from deep within that generates the strength to move large masses of earth (frequently into the shape of burial mounds on top of bodies trampled underneath holy hooves).

Now, that removed, something bothers me profoundly about conviction that is naive in the highest degrees or looks down on the convictions of another. And the thing that set me ablaze this day was the following quote:

"If we aired a show like 'Friends', with five or six people truly trying to be the best they can be from day to day, could it change lives? Could it make a difference?"

To this, I respond: no, you twit! It wouldn't!

And it would do nothing for the general public because, first and foremost, it would be boring. Nobody would watch it. It would have next to no viewers not because people don't want to do good (which is debatable anyway), but because nobody would be able to connect with the characters. It would be like watching the cast of any number of PAX TV shows trying to be funny.

If anything, a show like that would inspire people to hang themselves with a rosary or bludgeon themselves to death with various holy implements.

People connect to the cast of sitcoms because the characters are people. Granted, they're exaggerated people in situations that would very likely never happen in real life, their flaws and shining points standing out like beacons. But they're human. I can only imagine the kind of show this guy would want to write - it's 'Touched by an Angel' meets 'Friends'.

But the real part of this conversation that incensed my soul was that it went from ideals like TV shows to how the church needs to take back over the moral well-being of society and stop apologizing for everything. Excellent, we can have an army of Jesse Jacksons responsible for the morality of the public.

As my anger grew, I realized that the two boys were not in complete agreement. One of them, the one being so idealistic about television, brought up something that snagged my attention and quickly doused the fires of my rage from a blaze to a smoldering irritation. He brought up World of Warcraft and my inner nerd grabbed the shoulder of the self-righteous crusader sitting next to it and said, "wait, thou overzealous knave! Mine ears may deceive me, harken well!" Then the nerd rolled a d20, won the diplomacy check, and I listened patiently.

The boy spoke at length about how people get a sense of accomplishment from things like World of Warcraft and other such video games. They're placed in a world that is more or less under their control (unlike Life, where nothing is under control) and they can take a character from the basics and beginnings to the upper levels of exploration and power. It might not be something "real" but it still affords a sense of success, like they have done something with their time - unlike the despair so many people get from day after day of failed attempts at work, relationships, school, or bathing (which is the sad downfall of so many nerds).

The other boy agreed, but hesitantly. It was one of those "yee-sss... but" kind of agreements that really means "actually, I think you're a right fool... but I can see you're trying." Then the less nerdy one returned to the more militant view that Christianity is the only way to make people live better lives, and that everything else will end in failure.

As I said earlier, I'm all for strength of conviction, even when it opposes my own Beliefs. However, I also hold firm that one should live for their Beliefs, but be willing to die for them, too. Be careful when you pronounce that those who Believe differently should be dominated, crushed, or converted... it opens up the possibility of fair and just retribution.

Here's the thing: I find that the meddling and witnessing intrinsic in the Christian Belief system (and other "Western" religions) is far more harmful than the following of something incorrect. This is not to say that Christianity is correct. But that since we are all forced to live here together until we die, it makes more sense that we all live with a level of respect and tolerance for something that may be different and inaccurate than to live in war and hatred for something that is true. The happiest people I know in life tend not to be concerned with convincing other people to Believe the same as they do. Why does it matter? Are there brownie points for converting the non-believers? For purifying by fire the bodies of others? Seems to me to be a matter of confidence in yourself and your own beliefs (or Beliefs).

Personally, I am just as happy Believing in (non-burial-mound) mountains and trees as I would be believing in one supreme being. Then again, I'm also plenty happy believing in (burial mound) mountains over you if you should feel the same necessary for me...

I say give us all World of Warcraft and let us accomplish our own ends, thanks kindly.

 A good stare has the power to transfix, paralyze, stun, hypnotize and intimidate.  Time and again in the life, I have been on the receiving end of such gazes, but one evening I had it taken to an entirely new level of intensity.  Good stares can be broken down into al sorts of different classes, some being scrutinizing, soul-searching or threatening.  Best known of all, however, is the Evil Eye; the preferred tool among parents, it seems to whisper "go on, I dare you.  Do ya feel lucky, punk?"  Yet the most potent of them all has never come from a human.  Indeed, only the moon is capable of affixing someone with the Eye of God Himself.

Use your imagination; you're walking along on a frigidly cold Winter night, not hardly a cloud in the sky.  The stars are twinkling magnificently in the way they can only manage on a crystaline Winter night.  Your breath freezes on contact with the icy air and lingers heavily as you plot along.  And then you look up into the left eye of God, staring straight into your soul with holy focus.

The only cloud in the sky on this night is a whispy, thin sheet of freezing water droplets not yet ready to make the final plunge to the terrestrial death below, and it has moved directly in front of a dazzlingly bright, nearly-full moon.  But there i sjust enough of the moon still shadows as to appear turned directly downward at you, trotting along innocently below.  Through the lense of ice and nitrogen, the moon has a thin halo of gold surrounded by a brilliant corona of blue, fading outward into green and then silvery white; fire at will, men!  You can see the whites of God's eye!

I stopped in my tracks.  What else could I do?  What could <i>anyone</i> do?  There in that focused pool of nearly liquid wisdom, the only available course of action is to grind to a screeching, muted halt and drool (maybe with the occasional involuntary shudder).  All at once, I could hear the voices of Fate and Life (along with the quietly thundrous voice of Death, who tends to accompany Life as a distant echo - not unlike an annoying sibling).  I have no recollection of any words, but couldn't seem to escape the chill of the Infinite.  Truth be told, it's not unlike drinking a lot and then <i>not getting drunk</i> - distracted, slightly gidy, but generally confused at such a strange turn of events.

After a quick shake of my head, I continued on my walk to my car, glancing up once or twice (nervously) to see if I was still being given the Holy Eye.  No, the pool of light was gone and the eye looked to have closed (a clever trick of the moon and cloud).

To be entirely honest, I'm not so sure that the Evil Eye is much worse than its divine counterpart.  Both leave you feeling like you've just run under a drain pipe during a downpour in the middle of January, and both are capable of piercing straight through to the soul.  The difference, I suppose, is that the Holy Eye doesn't leave you feeling like you've just done something deserving of a right flogging.  Yet I think I prefer the Evil Eye from an actual person.  Good or no, at least it doesn't leave your soul feeling like it's just been grated with an ice scraper and then scrubbed down with Windex and a nice, clean, lint-free rag.

In hindsight, I should have realized that it could very well have been about the most direct way any god is ever going to say, "no!  Don't do it, you twit!"  Oops.  What a shame that I never learned to speak God when I was growing up.  Instead I chose French and, later, Japanese.  If only I had known.  Good job, that.  Although come to think of it, the voices of Life and Fate (and Death) should have been enough of a hint to make me pay attention.  Now I can feel that same chill as when I heard them vying for attention under the cold gaze of God.

For the record, it's an eerie feeling.

Ever have one of those moments when the world is puttering along like a happy old Volvo and then, all of a sudden, it comes screeching to a halt and the words “Oh my God, I’m getting old!” blaze through your head, all bells and whistles and sirens?  Maybe?  Well, I have had two in my life, as of the dusty old age of twenty-three.  Oddly, both have occurred on the toilet.

 

This story does not involve the realization of old age through incontinence, don’t worry.  The keyword is that the realizations happened on the toilet.

 

The first time was when I was twelve or thirteen - I had just started getting tall.  I woke up one morning to go answer the messages on my voicemail from Nature (she called while I slept).  As I was standing over the toilet, I became momentarily dizzy, thought, “man, my legs are achy and the toilet seems so far away… Wow, I got tall overnight.  Oh my God, I’m getting old!”  I heard the sirens and saw the flashing red and blue lights, and had to sit down to finish my business.  The sudden altitude adjustment threw off my aim.

 

That was a full decade ago.  Imagine the horror I felt when, just the other day, it happened again.  I was already sitting, though, so I didn’t actually fall over this time.

 

It started like this:  Ever since I stopped working for Huckleberry Fence & Deck, I periodically have lunch with my old boss, Janice.  This particular appointment was for 10 AM on a Friday.  I got up that morning around 9:00, checked my Japanese schedule and decided to skip class, reset my alarm for 10:30 and went back to sleep.  My alarm went off, I got up and did my pushups, and then went to the gym after a quick breakfast.  On my way back, I swung by Barnes & Noble for a cup of coffee and some Christmas trinkets I had set on hold, then headed for home to get ready for Japanese class number two.  As I was pulling out of the parking lot, it struck me; I had completely stood up Janice.

 

No lie, folks, I jumped out of my seat in the car, swerved and almost took out the car next to me, grabbed my phone and rang Janice’s answering machine (she makes a point of not answering her phone).  After groveling and apologizing profusely, begging forgiveness all the while, I hung up and sulked all day.

 

It wasn’t until later that day, after Japanese class number two, that I was happily answering Nature’s calls when I got to thinking (the toilet is such a fantastic place for that).  “Wow…  I completely forgot lunch with Janice.  I haven’t even been going out at night much.  Hell, I don’t even stay at karaoke past midnight anymore…  Oh my God!  I’m getting old!”

 

The phrase, “I was so scared I crapped” leaps to mind.  Which I suppose, in this case, was a blessing.

 

On a less dramatic scale, it happened again at Barnes & Noble a few nights back.  I don’t remember what sparked it, though.  I suspect I was subconsciously still processing the recent panic attack.  While straightening the World War II section, it dawned on me that I might be approaching a quarter-life crisis.  I would have run home and started researching Suzuki motorcycles (what?  I’m a Japanophile – what would you expect?), but I haven’t quite become that crazed just yet.  Baby steps.  I’ll learn to ride a bike for my quarter-life crisis and buy a motorcycle for my midlife encore.  Otherwise I’ll be using training wheels and a little handlebar basket at 45.  

11/20/2008
---------------
As life goes on and things happen (as things are wont to do), I find myself increasingly anxious about what I'll recall when I look back through the Hindsight Goggles 300Xtreme.  Anxious might not be the right word (see, I'm doing it already!), so maybe "curious"... Will I look back at the 4 months when I had two kittens and think, my god, what ever possessed me to want to subject myself to that level of pain and anguish?  Or will I think, damn, what was so bad about all that?  Or how about that time when I sat there waiting for my first-ever yoga lesson (which is where I am while writing this)?

Not that it really ought to matter.  I just think too much.  What's new?  Still, I wonder how it will affect my writing (will I still be writing?).  Am I going to end up with nothing to write about except what happens day-to-day?  Like now?

Oh, gods.

I'm out of yoga now, by the way.  And I think I know what I will say when I look back; yoga hurts.  Can't wait until next time.

Anyhow, part of this stems from reading the authors I do - David Sedaris, Mary Roach, Sarah Vowell, et al.  How do they tell such stories about things they have done or experiences they have had?  Is it really all the truth?  The quotes and details that make their writing so rich - do they write down every single thing they see and hear?  I am happy just to recount a story from two days prior.  Come to think of it, I had to contemplate for a moment before I could remember that I had oatmeal for dinner last night.  And that halfway through the bowl I managed to put a spoonfull of miraculously unmelted butter right in my mouth, without successfully getting any oatmeal.  It was kind of fantastic.

Maybe things come back as they shift from short-term to long-term memory.  For example, two days ago I was getting ready to go to the gym after a rigorous day of not even so much as getting up off my ass once while playing Warcraft.  I hadn't washed my hair, apparently.  I know, here you all thought I was perfect.  Consequently, I could not remember to save my life if I had taken a shower or not that morning.

It bothered me the entire time I was working out, but I simply could not recall my cleaning ritual for the day.  I showered when I got home (and washed my hair), and then it occurred to me that I did not have a caffeine headache; I had gone to Barnes & Noble that morning for a cup of coffee.  I had showered.  Being unclean while playing Warcraft is one thing - halfway expected, even - but going for a cup of coffee unwashed?  Over my dead (unclean) body.

Six hours earlier in a day is apparently utterly beyond me.  Two days prior is considerably easier.  And yet I can clearly remember playing doctor with my best friend when I was seven or eight.  His mother came into the room, shouted and dragged me off of him, telling us both we don't play that way.  He seemed relieved, but I was very definitely disappointed.  Perhaps because he was patient and I was doctor.  Might have had something to do with the scissors, too.  What?  Like that isn't normal...

Hi, mom!  Good news!  I'm a doctor at the age of eight, a child prodigy!  Bad news?  Ah, you have a daughter now.  Surprise!

I would love to experience experiences the way experienced writers do.  Sadly, I do not think I have it.  Maybe they're lying...  Yes, that's it.  

Boarding an airplane in a major airport at misery-o-clock in the morning is, perhaps, one of the worst experiences available, short of Ebola or being kidnapped by cannibalistic pygmies - with water heads. I suppose I do this to myself by selecting flights that inflict the maximum amount of pain and anguish, just so I can have breakfast with a friend in San Francisco and still make it to Atlanta at a reasonable hour of the day. Apparently I'm a masochist.


Among the many joys of flying, especially on those flights where no decent, sensible person would ever actually remain conscious, are things such as screeching children, angry people who refuse to cooperate with anyone for any reason, cramped seats and safety videos. Personally, I am a fan of the safety videos; not only are they poorly acted, giving me hope for my acting skills, but the little television screens that drop from the top of the cabin are simply the coolest things ever invented. Ever.

But to the tired, screaming babies I say, hey, I want to be at home curled up in my teddy bear jammies (complete with attached feet) and all warm and snug, too. Or dead, given the options. Deal with it. It's a hard-knock life, Annie. And to the angry, uncooperative people, one word: Valium. Preferably in large quantities and chased with whiskey so as to prevent the opening of your mouth for any purpose but to drool on yourself in a drug-induced coma.

Makes my life easier.

Yet my biggest gripe of all has nothing to do with Angry People or Sad Babies. No, it has to do with the inevitable two or three jaw-droppingly gorgeous men who get on the aircraft and never, never sit anywhere near you. And if they ever do sit next to you, by whatever Grace of God Twist of Fate, they will move, without fail. Usually this has to do with their being freakishly nice to little old ladies, but occasionally it happens because the gods think it's funny to make you think, momentarily, that they actually could have put a desirable piece of existence beside you to curb the agony that is a coast-to-coast flight in economy class. Then they have somebody tell the Desirable One that, actually, they're sitting in someone else's seat and that their seat is two rows back, and if they could just be so kind as to get up and shift places it would be ever so appreciated.

Blast and damn.

Luckily, I do not normally have the misfortune of being seated next to the particularly large (and occasionally disfigured) passengers whose only real purpose of being on the flight is not to travel, but to torment. Generally that particular brand of plight is reserved for the Karmically impaired Angry People who yell at the Sad Babies, effectively making them Sadder Babies. I have, however, seen perfectly good people (at least at face value) seated next to - and consequently nearly underneath and slightly inside - the most fantastically large black man I had ever seen outside of the tabloids. To make matters worse, even with a buffer row of seats between he and I, I could smell his... personality, as it wandered about the cabin, cuddling people and frightening previously Not-Sad Babies. I tried to feel as sorry for him as I did for the people insi--- beside him, but he was really quite rude.

And then I saw It. Like an image of the Holy Grail floating in the sky over Camelot, It stared at me from the back of this man's head. Unfortunately, rather than the shiny, happy Glow of the Grail, It looked more like a hideous tumor. Again, I tried to feel sorry for the guy. Then he passed some almighty wind and I couldn't help but hate him and his symbiotic beast. I cursed him, and then took the moment to curse the gods for not seating me next to a fantastically pretty man. One good curse deserves another, I figure.

Anyhow, I spent the majority of the flight staring at It and trying to asphyxiate myself while babies became Sad and sang out in unison. I would like to say that a good window view compensates for most things encountered while on an airplane (few can argue with the view from above). Unfortunately, it never fails that I get a seat with the wing blocking the majority of any hopeful view while the engines harmonize with the Sad Babies in my ear.

Ah, glorious travel.

It happened again on my most recent trip back to Georgia. Not the fat man with the spectacularly hideous growth on the back of his skull, but the part about attractive men. For perhaps the first time ever I was one of the earlier people to board - meaning I got to my seat and was able to watch everyone else file in, flogging each other with the wrath of the carry-ons in a battle royale. Amidst the chaos of an Angry Person yelling at someone, two very attractive men slid down the aisle - blessedly not together. I'll admit, I may or may not have drooled. Just a bit.

I watched them grow closer and closer, one just a few people behind the first. As the Angry Person continued to berate one of the other passengers (and eventually a flight attendant who looked strangely like Sarah Palin), I made eye contact with one of the guys. Twice. Unfortunately, the grin on my face which I thought looked cool and slightly amused at the Angry Person came across as scared and slightly stoned. He sat down four rows ahead of me and to the right.

One down.

The next guy put his carry-on bag in the overhead bin my bag was in. In fact, he actually touched my bag in the process. Sigh. Then he sat down in the aisle seat next to the guy sitting next to me. But no worries! I would surely have to pee at some point, which would result in my having to talk to him awkwardly and trying to squeeze by, effectively planting my butt in front of his face. Well, if I had a butt it would have...

Ah, bliss.

But then reality caught on to just what was happening. A middle-aged lady showed up and told him he was in her seat. He apologized like a perfect gentleman and moved without question. She even offered to trade since he was only sitting one seat back. Alas, he had already moved. For perhaps the very first time in my life, I cursed someone having a lick of decency.

I have a friend who once met a porn star in an airport. And not the short, hairy, Ron Jeremy type, either. They started talking and she said they got on quite well. Nothing else happened between them; he was on vacation, after all. But it makes me wonder if it's just my air travel that is so accursed. Not that I want to meet a porn star on an airplane, but I have to say that would be better than It.

Fragments of light-blue sky shine through massive crowds of purple and gray thunderheads.  The sun is dropping rapidly toward the horizon, bathing the scenery in the warm light of a fireball plummeting toward oblivion.  It's a normal Fall evening, with a light chill dancing on the breeze, caressing the bare faces of people wandering around outside of indoors, and playing with the loose edges of anyone's clothing.

And so I sit on the phone in my car, parked in the lot just in front of Petco, talking to my Mom and staring at the sky, when the gods decide to say hi.  Out from behind the building crescendo of velvet and thunder and rain rises a bird of immense size; a cloud-shape phoenix, all fire and magnificence in the golden light of retreating day.  It surges forward, wings spread wide over the surrounding bulk of encroaching darkness, precluding the storms and denying the sun of its right to set.  It's head draws back as if to let out the soul-soothing cry of legends, wings thrown out and chest puffed out.  I stop speaking for just a moment, dumbfounded by complete and total awe.  And after just a breath's pause, I describe what I'm seeing with an eloquence such as to deserve a medal.

"Holy shit!"

"Sean?  Are you okay?  Hello?"  My Mom sputters urgently, sensing, as all moms everywhere seem capable of doing, imagined yet imminent death and destruction.

By some miracle, I manage to articulate the sight before me, just as the clouds break and the phoenix dissolves into wisps of ash and vapor, shimmering feathers of light and liquid gold drifting on the air and swirling away from the place of splendor it held before.

Life has a funny way of having you by the collar and shaking you until your brain rattles to a stand-still and you've no choice but to pay attention.  It never shouts so loud as when it speaks softly, ignoring such trivialities as your ears and auditory devices.  Things you have forgotten, ignored, and denied can't be escaped, and the truth feels like a sledgehammer of air and thunder.

How have I forgotten to be me?  When did I lose the ability to stand for who I am and forgo things I may want but that go against the fundamental principles I held true to me?  I'm tired of being single, sure, but that doesn't mean that I should bend my principles to have someone nearby.  Nobody should.

But something that I hold so essential to my way of life isn't necessarily something I look down on in others.  In a way, I can hold them in respect, sort of, for being able to do something I am utterly incapable of.

And that's okay!

I needed to be reminded of that.  It's nice that the reminder came from phoenix feathers and not something far more... unforgiving.

Recently (and by recently, I mean in the last 20 or 30 years), American views on children have shifted away from the traditional views of child rearing.  How many of you were ever told as children to "go outside and play"?  I was, but so many people I know were not.  They were taken to sport number one on Monday, music lessons on Tuesday, church on Wednesday, sport number two on Thursday, etc, and everyone is above average.  It's in school, it's in team sports, parents coo over kids from the day they're born... and then they hit the real world with no idea of what to do, where to go, or who they are.

Surprise!  You're average.

And don't we all hate to hear that?  I, for one, don't believe it.  I'm a god among men and nobody can convince me otherwise.  Daddy never told me that, but I know it anyway.  So naturally, anything I write here doesn't apply to me... just you mortals.

Look at college admittance, for example.  The process starts in highschool, no, elementary school (if not kindergarten).  Nobody fails, nobody is substandard, and nobody is wrong - only different and special in their own ways.  We hit highschool and teachers fall over themselves to help students make it through their classes.  This may be a function of their desires to help, or it may be because of how badly they are frowned upon when someone fails.  Obviously it can't be a problem with the student - the teacher simply failed to help them.  Lovely.  But every child is special!  Reassure them, pat them on the back (or slap them on the butt if you're an overzealous coach) and send them on their way blaming someone else.

Hooray!

And then there's college.  As much as student culture drives me utterly insane, I really do enjoy being around everyone who is so fantastically above average.  Like the two guys (and one girl, to be politically correct) who sit behind me in my business marketing class.  They are so far above the cut they don't need to argue with the teacher.  But not only do they need not to argue, they don't need to actively discuss anything with her, either; sitting back and making fun of her is more than sufficient.  I have to say, their parents were right - they are "special."

And what do people like these guys do in their free time?  I don't know them personally, but I would be willing to bet that neither of them go out and do anything alone.  To further that, I would also wager that they need groups of friends (or at least a significant other) to make any real decisions more difficult than what to have for dinner.  Although what to have for dinner can be a more problematic question, at times, than, say, whether or not to quite your job or if robbing the bank down the street would be a good idea.  Or at least that's what I have heard is the case for mortals...

Isn't it self-defeating to tell everyone they're special?  In effect, that makes everyone average, even if it does raise the bar for what's considered "average."  But the truth is that calling everyone special from the get-go is more harmful than helpful.  Humility, anyone?  What about being able to manage yourself and your own time, when all your life you have been told where to be and at what time?  The real world hits like a bomb and you fall apart.  You won't get feedback on everything you do.  Every success is not rewarded with a slap on the butt (damnit).  That doesn't mean you're doing a bad job - don't panic.  I certainly never do.

It worries me that kids are being raised this way.  So many parents resolve the conflicts of their children that the kids grow up and don't have the first clue about how to deal with confrontation.  "Screw you: is not an appropriate answer to someone's disagreeing with you.  But how many people between the ages of, say, 15 and 26 do you know who can calmly and rationally deal with a disagreement?  That means confront the problem without judging the other person(s) involved, getting to the root of the problem, and either finding a happy compromise or sufficiently explaining your positions so as to assuage the other parties.  "We're not friends anymore," the cold shoulder, and punching (which generally leads to option #1) are looked at as failures by most psychologists.  And yet...

And yet.

I don't propose any solution more than awareness of the problem, really.  I have always held that if you can recognize the root cause of any given behavior, you can work toward correcting it.  That isn't to say you can necessarily do away with said behavior.  Maybe simply get it under some degree of control.

So maybe those of us who are between the ages of, say, 15 and 32 should watch carefully the way we do and react to things.  Upset that someone isn't getting back to you immediately?  Try an abnormal level of patience and see if it helps.  Be peacefully confrontational - ask questions and explain your point of view.  It's okay (sometimes even good) to be wrong and it's okay for not everyone to adore you, or even like you for that matter.  If you find yourself feeling so far above average that people all around you are worthy of being laughed at, maybe tell yourself that their mommies probably told them they're very, very special, too.  Or maybe they weren't told that - either way, it's just what mommy and daddy always said, and nothing more... special or not, it isn't automatically right.

Except for me, of course.

Andrew, the CRM at the Eugene Barnes & Noble, is good at what he does; time and again he has brought authors and well-renowned public figures to our store for readings, book-signings, and speeches.  But this most recent time he has outdone even himself.  Never before, to my knowledge, has an actual celebrity - a name that entire generations held as a household word - been successfully invited.  And yet here we had Mr. Mike Farrell standing in our music department, signing books and bits of memorabilia that fans (some more rabid than others) brought to him near reverentially.  He presented his book, answered questions at great length (and frequently with great patience), and gave anecdote after anecdote about his life and political activity.  And for the first time in my life, standing and listening to him speak and watching him work his charm, I was honestly impressed by a public figure.

I am, by and large, a painfully cynical person when it comes to celebrities (and most facets of life, really).  Generally I look at them as no more than just another person - albeit a person with far more money in their bank account at any given time than I am likely to see over the course of my life.  And so when Mr. Farrell walked in the front doors with his wife, it never occurred to me to do anything other than say, "hey, how's it going?" and shake his hand.  The look on his face was of mild bemusement, but no real ill feeling or offence.  He introduced me to his lovely wife - who, for the record, struck me as a stunningly sweet person - and then followed Andrew to the break room.

The event itself garnered quite a large amount of attention.  Many people came to hear him speak about his political activism, and the rest of the audience came to meet him simply on the basis of being tremendous fans of MASH.  Mr. Farrell treated all topics near perfectly equally, except for one - his wife.  He spoke of her at such length and so fondly and genuinely that I found myself beaming despite my generally dark view of celebrity romances.  Another one of my managers was straightening newsstand and even she had stopped to listen to his story.  Not that this particular manager isn't a sap anyway (and I mean that in the best possible way), but the fact that his story was strong enough to make people in other departments stop and listen says something to me.

Did I mention he is a bit of a political activist?  I think I did.  As is halfway to be expected in Eugene, people - okay, one person speaking for the hidden masses - stood up and asked how he felt about the Paulson Bailout (the multi-billion dollar bailout proposed for the rescue of the American economy).  This, of course, after explaining that she had been among "a large group of people" protesting the Bailout in front of the Federal building here in Eugene.  The force behind the question took me greatly by surprise, but Mr. Farrell didn't miss a beat.  He instead repeated the question for everyone to hear and then paused for a moment.  When he spoke again, it was slowly and carefully, obviously choosing his words with great attention.  "I thin... the urgency of the situation is similar in nature to, say... the weapons in Iraq."

The audience took a moment to laugh, aplaud and generally agre, and then went absolutely silent all at once.

And Mr. Farrell spoke on about how the Bailout is not a bad thing by necessity, but perhaps more so by simple fact of lack of thought.  Sure, it's taxpayers' money, but if people give it some thought and decide, after heavy analysis, that it really is a good option, then perhaps it's worth it.  But it must be thought about carefully and there must be controls put in place.

Moderate, for an activist.  Or maybe I simply took the wrong impression away.  Still, not saying no, but avoiding being led around blindly strikes me as the far more intelligent path.  After all, blind denial is no better than blind acceptance.

The path of conversation bounced back and forth between MASH and politics at this point.  Some people asked about what acting is like, other people asked about his experience on the set, or what it was like getting started with acting.  And then someone asked about how Mr. Farrell feels about the death penalty.

Ah, Eugene...

But for such a potentially loaded question, Mr. Farrell handled it very well.  This time, as opposed to his view on the Paulson Bailout, he was very pointedly decisive; the death penalty is bad.  Interestingly, though, not on a moral basis.  It isn't a matter of whether it's right or wrong.  It's wasteful.  There is plenty of perfectly useful money and human talent sitting in jail or on death row.  Why don't we utilize it?  Why do we kill off people who could very well have something to contribute?  Lock them up, throw away the key, rule for a lifetime sentence with no chance of parole.  Rather than spending the huge amounts of money on appeals and carrying out death sentences, spend that money on therapy for victims of rape or abuse; change the focus from retribution to recovery.  Besides, according to Mr. Farrell, the greater majority of people are not going to need to be locked up for life.  Most people can be rehabilitated if we were, as a society, to develop an effective rehabilitation system.  But we don't do that, do we?  We view substance abuse as a criminal offence rather than a personal offence.  Why is someone's personal addiction to heroin a criminal offence against society?  They're hurting thsemselves, not society (the resulting robberies, muggings and murders to feed the addiction not-withstanding).

How... liberal.  I used to be pro-death penalty, being a person who very much enjoys flexing his muscles of righteous fury and vengeful wrath.  But Mr. Farrell's point was just sensible enough to where I just can't find any real justification for the death penalty (except for the possibility of over-crowding... which is really just as much a problem now because of the appeals process).  Don't get me wrong, I still like my unholy vengeance.... but I can still see the benefit being greater from rehabilitating victims to decrease the number of damaged personalities out there.  We have enough disgruntled people of all ages and demographics who feel violated or disturbed by any number of crimes and wrong-doings, people who were essentially told to get over it and never really helped to heal.  Time numbs, it doesn't heal.

And what about studying the people who we would otherwise write off as a walking corpse, simply awaiting its burial?  It sounds cold and sterile, studying a human being "in captivity" as some sort of test sample, but we have to glean the knowledge from somewhere.

Food for thought, if not a bit much to chew.  Call it brain jerky.

On the lighter side, Mr. Farrel gave story upon story on things that happened throughout his career.  Maybe his skill in story telling comes hand-in-hand with his acting skills, but it's rare to find someone who can recount a story with such clarity and detail as to take the audience as if they were present at the time of the event, yet still have no idea of what's coming next.  I found myself predicting what he would say next or where the punchline was going to come from, only to find myself completely wrong and off guard.  It was grand.

Now, after having met a celebrity, I can't help but wonder whether my prior opinion is flawed by te hand of the media or if Mr. Farrell is different.  while I would like to believe that I give too little credit to famous people, I really have a sneaking suspicion Mr. Farrell is just different.  And for having had the chance to listen to him speak, I am infinitely grateful.

"Ow!  I just had a little heart-attack... fuck," said a coworker while standing around the information desk at Barnes & Noble.

It seems this is how Sundays proceed in my life.  Not that I am prone, at the age of almost-23, to having small heart-attacks on Sundays.  But the feeling is the same; approximate to being stabbed in the chest, but casually - as if your assailant were thinking, "ah, well, it isn't that I really want to kill you so much as this knife is here and you're there and, well, why not?  Right, then!"

After five years of working retail, I think I can honestly posit that all of my worst experiences have been on Sundays.  Even thinking back to the brief time I worked at Gamestop, customers were by far and away at their worst on Sundays.  I generally attributed this tendency toward horrendous behavior on the fact that many people go to church on Sundays where I grew up.  After spending an hour or two sitting on an uncomfortable bench being guilted and chastised by a priest (or pastor, or preacher, depending entirely on your personal preferences toward Christianity), essentially feeling less and less comfortable with themselves and, ultimately, God,  people think they have done their good deed for the week.  Then what do they do?  Go out and raise Hell wherever and as often as they can, since they now have divinely-granted diplomatic immunity from their trials and tribulations at church.  And so people yell at you, they are more likely to call you names, they do as they please regardless of being told contrary, and they certainly don't clean up after themselves.

In fact, my conviction that the worst of events will invariably occur on Sundays has me convinced that the single most horrible experience I have ever had at any job occurred on no other day than a Sunday.  The truth is that it very likely did not, in fact, occur on a Sunday - but I would absolutely testify in a court of law that it did.

The event in question went as such:  It was a Sunday (whether it was or was not is irrelevant) around 4 in the afternoon, when we had a customer disagree with the manager-on-duty.  The disagreement eventually led to plentiful amounts of shouting, some swearing, and the manager's instruction that I lock the door - lock in the customers that were in and prevent any further customers from entering the store.  This being my first job, I was entirely unsure of what to do.  And so I listened to the manager and locked the door.  This resulted in plenty of people swearing, shouting, and generally rioting not only at the manager, but now me as well.  Somehow, and I have never been entirely sure how this happened, the event resolved itself.  But not only did it resolve itself, it was as if the hand of the powers that be had descended from the heavens and delivered an almighty flick to the foreheads of both my boss and the disgruntled customer.  I unlocked the door and allowed the customers to leave (I assure you that no customers wanted to enter at that point).

Today did not quite reach such a fever-pitch, but it was most certainly the kind of day that makes anyone but the most optimistic, people-loving bastards out there truly depressed about the state of humanity.

Perhaps the rise in the crime rate goes hand-in-hand with the rise in the price of gasoline.  I should like to think that it is not the actual further decay of human morality, but simply a pressure to get by on a day-to-day basis.  With that said, in the past two and a half weeks there have been two cases in the Barnes & Noble parking lot of people siphoning off the gas from the fuel tanks of larger cars.  Tonight a mini-van's window was busted out.  I heard no report of anything being taken from the inside of the car, and I cautioned the victim to check her gas tank, telling her of the two aforementioned gas siphonings.    Perhaps the salt for this wound-of-a-story is that the window-bashing must have been committed in broad daylight, given the times the car was parked beside the store.  Is it really that nobody noticed, or more that nobody cared?

My first transaction on this particular Sunday was a thief.  A father with his two girls came up to the cash registers.  On his way up, he jerked the books from the girls' hands and put them on the counter; three books and one bookmark altogether.  He made a point of telling me he was in a hurry when I tried to explain the membership card to him, and then rushed out the door, girls hopping alongside him.  The security alarm went out and, much to my surprise, he stopped.  I walked over and re-deactivated the books in his bag, and then waved them through the detector.  He beeped when he left, anyway.  Normally I would suspect someone of wearing new clothes and having active tags sewn into the seams - his clothes, however, were not new.  I suggested he check his clothes when he got home for tags, actually meaning that he should check the pocket of his hoodie (on a 75-degree day) for anything that might have accidentally fallen off of the shelves and landed therein.

As the end of the night approached, a coworker - the same who suffered the miniature heart-attack - found the little warning and instruction booklets that would normally be found inside the packaging of a Thomas the Tank Engine toy.  And of course, it was found nowhere near an actual Thomas.  I guess every growing child needs a role model.  And what better role model than a stolen Thomas?  Later, as I was cleaning the children's department, I found the desecrated packaging and contents of a Thomas the Tank Engine play set.  Apparently Thomas had not been stolen; unfortunately, I found this out too late for it to rectify my depression toward people in general.

Perhaps I was raised without a proper role model, but, despite my many character flaws, I have never had an inclination toward nicking anything from a store, much less toward stealing Thomas.

            Ever since I was very little, I can remember being horrified of public restrooms.  Not only is there more often than not stale urine all over the floor (and if not urine, at least used toilet water), they smell terrifically awful, and so many men don’t seem to feel it necessary to wash their hands after they have finished contributing to the puddles on the floor.

            To put it shortly, public restrooms are revolting in every way.  They are, however, significantly better alternatives to, say, public trees.  As much as I revile any and all public restrooms, I would much rather not whiz on a tree in front of people.  And knowing my luck, I would be halfway done doing my thing when I would hear some small child squeal and run away, brimming with grim delight (as only a child can) over what they are undoubtedly about to tell Mommy a stranger did in front of them.

            Perfect; not only have I been seen relieving myself in public, but I have also exposed myself to a child.  Now I’m a sex offender as well.

            Public exposure is, however, my personal biggest problem with public toilets.  Everybody can hear you doing your thing, shuffling your feet, trying desperately to act cool and collected.  This, my friends, is the stuff my nightmares are made of.  And there simply is no escape.  As your bladder screams for help (and, for the love of God, put down that next cup of coffee!), the bathroom sits right around the corner, knowing you will give in.  Oh yes, it can wait much, much longer than you.

            And so you cave.  You slide back your seat, or alter your path to your destination, knowing what lies before you – the utter and complete humiliation at the hand(le) of a toilet bowl.

            Ever notice how the door to every bathroom anywhere is never the weight of a normal door?  They are either so light that the least little push sends them careening into the wall (or unfortunately placed person trying to leave) with a deafening crash, or they’re so heavy that a normal push results in your walking face first into the hard wooden slab (and crotch-first into the handle).  That’s because the door is the first warning that you are entering a painfully embarrassing level of Hell.  Nobody opens a public bathroom door with any real grace.

            And then there’s the tight-rope walk across the sludge on the floor.  Mushy toilet paper mixed with toilet bowl back-flush and sink overflow spells doom and misery for any poor sap foolish enough to wear long pants and flip-flops.  I myself should have learned this lesson long ago, but I am, alas, a slow student.  God have mercy on the poor soul who makes a spectacle of himself by slipping in the vile quagmire.

            And so you make it to the toilets.  Urinal or stall?  The question is kin to picking one’s own poison; the stall affords added privacy, making you think that you’re safe – until you realize that everyone can hear you.  It is this thought that has driven me so many times into a state of total petrifaction, as, in my paranoia, I imagine the other people in the room thinking “Oh my God, can you hear that?  He must be tiny!”  And to escape such an embarrassment, you think the urinal must be a better option.  But oh no, because then people can see you.  They can see you standing there, involuntarily unable to pee, shuffling your feet, clearing your throat, and acting like you didn’t really have to go, anyway.

            As if this wasn’t all a terrifying enough experience, then there is the hand-washing.  That is, there is the hand-washing for those of us decent enough to do so.  But the sad truth of the matter is that there are a huge number of men out there who just don’t do it.  True, public restroom soap (soap found in bars, in particular) has one of the most repulsive scents in the history of smelly things, but at least it gets the essence of bathroom off of your hands.  And, something about the very sink fixtures is slightly off-putting.  I recall reading somewhere – on one of those “let’s wash our hands!” posters, I believe, found in so many restrooms – that when you turn off the water after washing your hands, you should use a paper towel.  What does that say about the faucet itself?  And don’t get me started on the door handle.  Perhaps it’s my own neuroses doing this to me, but every time I look at a bathroom door handle, my vision microscopes in until I can imagine seeing all of the little bugs skittering around on it (or oozing, in some cases).

            Welcome to the world of Sean and public bathrooms.

            It is with this view of public restrooms that I decided to face my fears and use a bathroom on campus.  This happened about a week ago.  Perhaps if I were to break my addiction to coffee, I would not find myself caught off-guard by the call of nature.

            I figured I could just slide into a bathroom while most people were in class, and I’d have no problems.  And so I trotted up the stairs of the student center and popped into the bathroom.  Foolishly, I entered with confidence – the bathroom was silent (indicating no one was inside) and the door was standing open, as is common with the bathroom in question.  Given that there was no one inside, I opted to do things quickly and just use the urinal.  If someone were to follow me in, I could be done and out before having a chance to freeze up and pass out on the floor.  Reason trumped instinct and experience; this was my second mistake.

            Despite what I should already know, I was wearing long jeans and flip flops.  But the realization that I was making a terrible, terrible mistake did not occur to me until I felt warm sprinkles falling on my nearly-bare feet.  I looked down, expecting to see that my aim had been horribly wrong – instead I found that the urinal had a rubber mat in it (supposedly to prevent flushing things like rings, watches, wallets, and small children).  And what a mighty mat it was!  Not only did it prevent the flushing of potential valuables, it also prevented any and all liquids from staying in the urinal.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Sean wet his pants.  But, oh!  It gets better.

            I flushed the offending urinal, like the good citizen I only pretend to be, and walked to the sink.  I laughed at myself while washing my hands, like the good germophobe that I really am, and turned to leave.

            As I walked out the door, another guy rounded the corner and all but ran into me.  I thought he was very attractive, and I smiled sheepishly and excused myself for so rudely trampling him – only to find that he had immediately looked down at my wet pants leg, then back up at me, poorly hiding his revulsion.  And I walked the walk of the socially damned, taking myself to find a table where I could work a crossword puzzle in solitude, a fresh, new pants-wetter in the eyes of complete strangers.

            And people wonder why I’m so severely pee shy.

     Apparently Amish people hate stuffed animals.  This is much in the same way that God hates gay people.  What has brought me to such an outlandish conclusion, you ask?  Why, personal experience, of course.  Naturally, I managed to offend an entire Amish family in one go.  My weapon of choice: perhaps the most adorable stuffed moose ever.  But no, not just any stuffed moose.  I was most certainly not parading around with some taxidermist's most recent project attached to my head; indeed, the object of such undeserved rancor was a moose plushie.  an adorable moose plushie.

    It is at this point that I feel it necessary to make it very clear that I in no way assaulted an Amish family with an adorable moose plush toy.  Although I am quite sure nobody who knows me would put the thought too far past me.  In all actuality, I was at work - at the cash register, no less.  Admittedly, that does not help my case for not assailing someone with a plushie... I was, however, doing my job quite innocently.  Indeed, it was a product of excruciatingly painful boredom, coupled with my apparent affinity for animals of the cute and stuffed variety that led me to my untimely downfall (and consequent bemusement).

    The time was vaguely around 7:30 PM, and I had been at work all day.  Out of the aforementioned boredom, I took a moose from the shelves behind the registers and placed it upon my head in what I imagined to be quite a fashionable manner.  I had been doing this on and off throughout the day with any variety of other plush toys, testing customer reactions to the different animals.  Most people went to great lengths to pretend they weren't really seeing what they quite undeniable were, but a few people paid their compliments.  One couple even went so far as to thank me for brightening their day immensely.

    I digress.

    I had selected the offending moose at the recommendation of one of my coworkers (she assured me it would compliment my hair and eyes).  The moose had been on my head for close to twenty minutes when a family of Amish people arrived at the registers, all ready to pay.  This family comes into the store quite regularly.  Truth be told, they are fairly high up on the store's internal list of customers to whom all employees should be especially nice.  But not because we like them.  Oh no.  This is so we don't smite them and have to deal with the paperwork.  They are really quite rude, and the kids never fail to completely decimate the children's department.  Nonetheless, when they walked up and the kids started giggling, I thought it might be a fun transaction.  Never underestimate the power of the Amish to completely do away with any upcoming possibility of fun or merriment.

    Anyhow, I greet this family at the cashwrap and the father only acknowledged my existence insofar as he had to in order to pay (meaning he put their rather substantial stack of books on the counter in front of me and then proceeded to alternate between staring angrily at the space just in front of my eyes and glowering at his family).  The mother faced all of the children away from me, as one might do when confronted with a pack of drunken leppers all doing a striptease - and dropping more than just their clothes.  All of this from the parents, of course, and the children continued trying to stifle their laughter.

    "Okay, so your total comes to seventy-four dollars and twenty-three cents.  Have you a Member's c----" I smile, and start my sales pitch, only to be frozen in my tracks by the Amish Death Glare from Hell.

    Papa Bear shakes his head slowly.  I was just happy he had acknowledged my presence - somehow my existence felt validated, if not slightly disapproved of.

    "O...k... Well, you can swipe your card whenever you are ready."  Wait, aren't Amish people not allowed to use things like credit cards and toasters?

    It was at this point, while the father was paying, that Mama Bear stepped up to bad.  She took the youngest daughter and turned her to face the abomination residing on my head, directing her, of course, by her cheeks.

    "Look, Suzy, you could have a huge smear of mustard on your face and act like no one notices."  She sneers as she drags her fingers across her daughter's face, almost as if finger-painting the girl's cheeks.  "Wouldn't you be cool?"

    The daughter frowned, and as the mother stepped back, I leaned in, unable to resist whatever force was so compelling me.

    "And sometimes, you just have to amuse yourself."  I winked, channeling the voice of Amish Satan.

    The children launched into a fit of laughter, and I couldn't help but smile.  The father snatched the bag off of the counter and halfway ran out of the store in one swift movement, while the mother shepherded her pack of cubs along behind him.  Ah, but to flee Plushie Hell with such fervor.

    I wondered, very briefly, if I had done something wrong; perhaps it had been I who had so greatly offended this otherwise happy family.  But I could hear my mose telling me that Amish people disapprove of stuffed animals because God hates them; much in the way that Southern Baptists disapprove of gay people because God hates homos.

    And so, free of any more Amish encounters, I continued to wear my moose in peace.

I can't recall what, exactly, took my mind on a walk in the woods.  But a few weeks back, it went wandering (while I was driving ,of course).  Everybody knows these woods: fireflies lighting up the air and branches, their light supplemented by luminescent blue mushrooms growing on everything from trees to rocks and the od squirrel here and there.  The moss below your feet is bright green and soft as brand-new carpet.  Never has a shortage of perfectly crystal-clear spring water been known and convenient stumps make perfect perches for socializing with fuzzy woodland creatures (except, of course for those squirrels who have embarrassing fungal afflictions).

This is not, by the way, a particularly good place to go while driving.  Here in this world of daydreams and fantasies, every tiny thing sparks the imagination and sets the mind ablaze.  And it reminded me of how life looked through childhood eyes.

Everything, you see, triggers wonderment in a child.  Shiny cars, chipmunks, the full moon, dead bugs... all of it.  And why not?  Why do so many of us end up losing what I would call a splendid <i>talent</i>?  I, for one, rather miss it.

There were times, years ago, when I would go for a walk in the woods around the house I grew up in.  These were actual woods, without the glowing 'shrooms.   Nonetheless, I could find any tiny little odd or end and before too long there was an entire novel laid out before me and sprawling away behind.  Small openings and hollows, set apart by vines and small trees, became offices, small forts and secret meeting places; Moss-covered rocks (creatively named "mossrocks") became valuable stones, tradeable for pointy or gnarled sticks; sticks became swords and staves; a simple rectangle of cloth became a grand cape.

And the best part of it all is that none of it had any point.  There was no political gain in slaying a goblin with the mighty Pointy Stick of Eons and Fire.  No way would taking over my neighbor's fort make me any more wealthy or powerful.  But in the eyes of a child, what does that matter?  It doesn't - not even a little bit.

But now, as all grown-up as I'm not at the ripe young age of almost-23, everything seems to require a point to be worth doing.  And I can't understand <i>why</i>.  Why don't we play kickball just to play, regardless of who wins?  Why can't we go daydream in the woods for no reason whatsoever?  Is it so hard to justify wasting enough time to get lost in our own little imagination on a mountain train without having to count the calories we're burning or how long we've kept our heart rate up?

Bugger all of that, I say.  I will spend all of the time I like staring out of my window at the fall moon, swimming across the sea of stars on wings whatever color and as great or small as I like.  I'll get lost on my walk home from campus, and I'll sing as loud as I like to whatever happens to be playing in my head (or iPod).  And I will expect the same of everyone else.  Because why not?  What is there to lose?  There is wonderment in the eys of children, and there is a child somewhere in all of us.  

Sean is single.  Very single.  Perhaps perpetually so.  And while this cold, hard, undeniable fact leaves him painfully lonely at times, he is slowly beginning to get used to it and, if at all possible, be slightly proud of it.

What?  Proud of being single?  Quite so.  And how, might you ask, is that?  Simple.  He's holding out for a Hero, a god among men.

Enough of the third-person.

I suppose that in saying I am holding out for a god among men, I am assuming that I do, indeed, deserve someone so good.  Perhaps that's debatable.  For now, though, we'll assume there is some truth to it.

How dare we be alright with the death of chivalry?  Where do any of us get off thinking that it's ok, even expected, that men treat their partners (be they men or women) with anything less than the utmost in respect and consideration?  What in the <i>world</i> happened to holding the door open for whoever is near you, even if they are a complete and total stranger?  Opening the car door for your passenger?  How about taking care of yourself or making yourself presentable when going out in public, if not for yourself then for whoever you are with?

I won't even start on "please" or "thank you".  Manners?  Things of the past, apparently.

Indeed, where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm becoming proud of being single.  My mother has always told me that I am entirely too picky.  Truth be told, I don't think that's such a bad thing.  Sure, I have obscenely high standards; I will not, however, hold anybody to a standard of behavior that I cannot maintain myself.  It isn't OK for men to get the girl (or guy) if they can't be Men.

It's worrisome, though, to look around and see so very few men who are willing to do something so simple as hold a door and let a stranger go in before them.  I don't remember the last time I saw a guy I don't know open the door for any ladies with him.  How is this acceptable, and why do we let them off the hook for it?  It's scares me to think that the good men really are gone, that the gods among us aren't really there any more; the thought that Heroes aren't really out there is the stuff of which my nightmares are made.

And then I recall some of the truly good guys I know: Jason, Mikey, Tom, Andrew (both of 'em), Dick... they make for good reminders.  And every once and a while I'll meet someone in some random public place and see them do something that makes me smile.

Ladies, you should all be so lucky as to have one of these kinds of guys.

Speaking of the ladies out there, I'd ask you all to expect the same treatment from the guys.  Expect a Hero - so many of you deserve nothing less.  Don't settle for the guy with a silken tongue and good hair but who fails to say "you look wonderful tonight."  In fact, don't settle at all.  Expect nothing less than what you're willing to give; if you make the effort to look stunning, expect them to do the same if they want to accompany you anywhere.

And folks, make it sustainable.  Holding the door for a week doesn't cut it if you stop afterward.  Going to the gym and getting yourself cleaned up for a month is useless if you let it all go afterward.  Knowing how to dress when you go out doesn't do you any good if you just don't do it.

Speaking of going out, what is it with the male population not knowing how to take someone on a date?  And by date I mean a real date.  Maybe it is just gay men out there, but saying "hey, lets hang out some time" does not constitute showing interest in someone.  Pick a time, pick a day and say, hey, I would love to treat you to dinner/coffee/a movie/a long walk under the moon some time.  This means you pick them up (unless they would rather meet you), hold the doors for them, buy dinner for the both of you, and take them home.  If you aren't interested, <i>be a man about it</i>.  Not interested?  That's fine.  Asking for casual sex anyway?  Not cool.  Asking again?  You should be mortified, or shot - likely both.

And you don't have to be looking for a full-blown relationship with someone simply to be charming and have a good date with them.  Guys, you can be perfect gentlemen without ever even coming close to thinking "I love you." 

So lets hear a cheer for the good men out there, a cheer for the guys and gals lucky enough to have them, and a rallying cry for the rest of us.

I have a crush on one of the guys at the campus Starbucks.  Yep.  I'm not being blunt or anything.  Just honest.

So here's the story (for those of you who care).  Yesterday I had my Japanese History midterm, followed by a quiz in my Japanese class.  Frankly, I haven't had a midterm feel quite so like a brutal rape in a very, very long time.  After the test, I went to the Glenwood for breakfast as I always do, and sat studying for my next beating.  Finished breakfast and walked across the street to Starbucks for my chai (having given up coffee for the month of April).  I walked in the door and there he was.  This isn't the first time I have seen him, no... but for some reason the following transaction made me go all woozy and wobbly.

Anyway, I walk up to the counter, order my drink with the expediter, and wait to pay.  Two registers are open and the boy is at one of them.  Just imagine my trying to stand there all nonchalant, acting like I don't give a rip who rings me up, all the while practically doing the pee-pee dance in anxiety.  Yeah.  And then he opened up and called me over.

"What can I get for you today?"  He gave me <i>the</i> smile; you all know the kind - it melts butter in the dead of winter.  Perhaps I was hallucinating, but it had the glint of recognition in it.

"A grande soy chai, please."  I smiled in return a smile somewhere between bliss, smooth confidence, and "Oh shit, I just wet my pants!  Ha ha... hah... huh..."

"Sure.  Have they gotten that started for you already?"

I nodded, still smiling the blissfully panicked smile.

"Alright... that'll be $3.80."

I paid and wobbled a bit, and then he handed my card back to me.  And the bastard smiled again.

"Thanks," I said, with what I like to imagine was a smooth grin that says, hey, I like you.  But in reality probably looked like I had been spontaneously afflicted with Down's Syndrome.  Somehow I managed to say, "Have a good day" without choking or blushing embarrassingly.

Now, this next second and a half I might simply have imagined, but then he faltered ever so slightly.  In an effort to recover, he spat out a confused "you, too" and "have a nice day" all thrown into a food processor and promptly spilled on the carpet.

I must have dreamed it in a fit of euphoria.  Odds are that he was simply frightened by my heinous affliction and was left momentarily speechless.

Nonetheless, the man absolutely made my day.  Sadly, he probably has no idea.  But here's the thing:  I had just had my ass kicked by my History midterm, was ever so slightly miffed at a friend of mine, and the second I walked out of Starbucks the sky opened up and dumped the contents of God's toilet on my head.

<i>And I didn't care any more.</i>

Even through my daily mood swings (all eighteen hundred of them - yes, folks, I give pregnant women a run for their hormones, and I do it every day, all day, all year long) I stayed vaguely grounded just by calling up that image of him.  Those eyes, that smile, his voice, that smile, his arms... that smile...

And I don't even know this man's name.  Not at all.  But damn, what I wouldn't give <i>to</i> know him.  Or maybe I would rather not.  Maybe it's better that I not know where he goes or the things he says or what he does when he's not in the retail spotlight.  Because here he gives me hope.  For now he's perfect.  As long as I don't know, I can't be forced into another let-down.  Because now I'm holdin' out for a Hero, and he helps me believe that maybe, just maybe, I won't be holding out forever.

Even though he'll probably never know...

While here in San Francisco, I have now played Monopoly with Mike, Peter, and Lucian twice.  More specifically, we have played Dogopoly twice.  The entire point of Monopoly, as any properly raised American child will be very happy to explain, is to buy lots of land, get really rich, and then wait for your opponents to run out of money and retire while you dine on fine wine and cheese in your fancy Boardwalk penthouse.

In reality, Monopoly is not so innocent as all that.

Any self-respecting adult American would very likely (and, even likelier, quite smugly) explain in a mind-bendingly condescending tone - who in their mind doesn't already know this? -  that Monopoly is not about purchaes of land and dining on wine and cheese while playing a game of waiting, but something for more dark and ultimately sinister.  There is no calm purchasing of land here; nae, the only action is to viciously snatch the land greedily out from under any potential opposition, that they may covet and drool over your new found wealth.  Indeed, they shall covet your, your precious.  And dine on wine and cheese?  No such thing; the only dining to be had is on the first-born child and, eventually, souls of your chosen prey.  Eventually their money will run dry (oh yes, it is but a short matter of time) and, once they have been heartlessly forced out onto the cold, desolate streets of Park Place (while fabulous parties - to which they are most certainly not invited - are in full swing in your splendid hotels) and you may relax and enjoy your newly gratified, high-brow American lifestyle.

Dogopoly is only nominally different, with cute puppies photographed to have freakishly large snouts replacing traditionally named avenues and boulevards.  Rather than building houses and hotels on our carefully hoarded properties, why not erect dog houses and, for the truly daring at heart, kennels?  What any one dog could ever possibly do with four dog houses built squarely on top of its body, I haven't the slightest clue.

Rent, they say?  Hah!  Rent is a thing of the past.  You have foolishly stepped up to my Siberian Husky and are consequently obligated to pet him.  Gently, now!  And yes, that is a kennel attached to his award-winning tail.  That'll be six-hundred and twenty-five dollars, thank you very much.  What?  Oh, you can't pay?  Unfortunate.  It looks like you shall have to mortgage your corgi.

How does one mortgage a corgi, by the way?  This may be a simple oversight on my part, but it seems to me that there is something inherently out of place in the phrase "Okay, I'm taking out a mortgage on my Cardigan Welsh Corgi for the remaining sixty dollars I owe you for petting that God-forsaken, award-winning husky (and using the bathroom in the kennel attached to his tail)".  Is this similar to euthanizing your dog?  Everybody knows that once you start mortgaging your animals, you'll never get them back.

Some things are simply beyond hillbillies such as myself.

There is no exemption from jail, by the way.  You walk your little pewter fire hydrant onto the wrong pannel and you get your ass sent straight to the pound.  Funny how we instill a sense of fear into our children of, say, chewing up a pair of brand-new dress boots, but not of something like money laundering.  And it works!  How often do you catch wind from the news, "business tycoon sent to the slammer for thirty years!  Charge: chewing Daddy's new shoes!!"

Never.

But there is certainly no fear of laundering money, hell no.  You don't get arrested for that in Monopoly, and everything else is mentioned in the rule book.

Oh, and dogs aren't entirely different from trading cards, either.  Got a puppy another entrepreneur has been eyeing?  Strike a deal!  You can have my beagle, sure; but I want your poodle and pug.

Nothing seems to scream "American!" to me as cold, cruel, calculating corporate domination.  Hypnotize the public with a shiny new toy, grow to unspeakable size and financial fortitude, and then snuff out the competition; indeed, nothing says "American" quite the same.  Well, maybe "obesity"...

 Since moving out to Oregon, I seem to have found myself spending a surprising amount of time in airports. I suppose I should find this amazing in a sickly ironic sort of way, considering that I also lost my flight benefits upon leaving Georgia.  But on my most recent excursion via an airport, I noticed how truly terrible airport bathrooms are.

It isn't so much that they're dirty, as such.  Sure, they aren't up to my neurosis-driven, freshly-bleached standards, but they are several steps above, say, freshly shat-upon gas station bathrooms.  Still, though, I think I would rather brave the dangers of an E-coli-infested gas station than the retardatino implied by airports.  It would be a flagrant lie to say that I prefer touching a toilet bowl flushing handle to the motion sensors most modern bathrooms sport, but there is something slightly disheartening about going to take a whiz and finding failed technology has left a bowl of something vaguely resembling cheap take-out Chinese egg drop soup.  I'm all for more sanitary toilets, but if it comes down to it, I would rather flush the toilet with my foot and not leave what would otherwise pass for dinner, properly ackaged and paid for.

And something tells me that the lack of a toilet-touching requirement has contributed to the epidemic of men not washing their hands after having a nice piss.  And I say men specifically because I spend admittedly very little time in the women's restrooms.  I just don't know if women are as foul as men.  Frankly, I don't really care if somebody touched the toilet itself; once someone so much as touches the restroom door handle (in certain cases, I think even a certain level of proximity to the bathroom itself qualifies), they need to wash their hands.  If I had it my way, the process would involve quite a lot of skin-bleach contact.  Not that I have any unhealthy preoccupation with cleaning chemicals or anything...

And, truth be told, airport bathrooms aren't exactly conducive to hand washing.  First they give us those wonderful, timed, push-to-turn-on water faucets.  I, for one, am perpetually tempted to turn the water on and run away giggling as the sinks overflow and water courses through the grout between floor tiles, when left with a standard faucet handle.  The number of times I have stood there, soap covering my hands and drying into a sticky film as I frantically wave my entire body up and down against the motion detectors, just trying to get another 3.7 seconds of luke-warm water to come out is frightening, at best.

It goes without saying (although rest assured that I will say it anyway) the the smell of bleach is by far and away preferable to the vile stench of airport hand soap; second only to soap found in the restrooms of bars (although sometimes I find myself wondering if it isn't the same chemical cocktail).  With chemicals like that, I can almost forgive people for avoiding the entire hand washing process. The germophobe in me, however, screams for self-respecting germophobes everywhere to demand that hand washing be mandatory for all people in public places, everywhere.

I can see it now: a future in which a mob of markedly nerdy people, wearing sterile suits and hugely thick goggles, swarm down on the bastards who set off the newly installed bathroom alarms, humiliating them not entirely unlike a mother with her children in public, dragging them bodily back into the bathroom for their horrible, painful (yet satisfactorily clean) future.

Ah, utopia...