One of my neighbors mowed his fucking lawn today.
Well, not really his lawn I guess, more like his pasture, but it's still too damn early to be doing that shit.
This is one of the few things about Spring that I dread. Mowing my lawn and the requisite weedeating that follows.
When I get rich again, I'll pay somebody to do this for me.
I guess I've been using the wrong word to describe my state.
The word I was using was paranoia. It just doesn't fit. I don't think people are conspiring against me.
Some alternatives I considered were nervousness and anxiousness. Those words don't quite fit either. They, to me at least, imply that there is something specific to be nervous or anxious about. An actor, for example, may get nervous before a performance.
Another contender was jumpy, but that seems to imply a vulnerability to a very broad range of occurrences, mostly resulting in a negative reaction.
I began to suspect that the word to describe me doesn't exist. Tonight I asked a friend of mine from Rich O's, who is a mental health professional, if he could think of anything that would properly label me. Besides asshole. Ha ha.
He couldn't think of a good diagnosis on the phone, but he promised to look into it further and let me know.
For now, lacking a better term, I'm going to go with surprisaphobia.
A bartender asked me today if I'd been in Monday night. I answered "No" but I was thinking "Why? What did I miss? What happened? Why are you asking? Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Tonight, NotGeorge calls me out of the blue to see if I'm going to Rich O's. I never go to Rich O's when I have to work the next day, but I'm thinking "He's never called me before. What's going on that he's trying to get me to come down there for? What would I find there if I went? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Surprisaphobic definitely describes my mood as I drove to the bar. I just wanted to get whatever it was over with. I didn't want to have to wait another night to find out what it was.
It was nothing.
There was nothing unusual about the night at all.
So now I feel silly, but at least I've got a new term to describe myself.
Surprisaphobia: The fear of being surprised.
So I've had to completely rebuild my 'blog database.
Unfortuately all of the entry IDs got renumbered.
This means that none of the favorites, and none of the links from one entry to another, will work correctly until I get it all sorted out.
Sucks to be me.
(Update: Problem fixed. Sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused. Search sites that have the old entry IDs cached will get caught up eventually I guess.)
Last Friday this guy at work, who meant no harm at all, stood behind me hacking and coughing while I worked.
He ended up taking the last part of Friday off. I ended up taking all of today off.
I'd say that makes me the winner.
Spent the entire day sleeping on the couch, with all three cats holding a death vigil around me. My dreams were fever-borne and interesting.
The best one involved a classic science fiction theme - time travel. In this particular dream, I was transported back to 1972 where I found myself inhabiting my own 7 year old body.
What I found myself trying to do, without being thrown into the looney bin, was convince my dad of what had happened. Convince him that the pure and innocent son he'd known up until that day had been replaced by a soul much older and more experienced than he was at the time. Shit, Dad was only 31 in 1972.
I didn't have much luck. I repeatedly asked my dad for ideas on how I could prove myself to him. He was an avid reader, so he was at least a little open to the idea, but all he could think of was having me tell him about something that would happen in the future.
I just couldn't think of anything that would be happening soon enough to keep me out of a straight jacket. I knew that Nixon would resign in a couple more years, and I knew that the Reds would win back-to-back World Series championships in '75 and '76, but I needed something sooner.
In 1972 I was a little kid, and even today I can't remember much about what was happening in the world in those days. At least with any kind of detail.
Eventually, because I'd failed to convince him, my dad had no choice but to take me to the looney bin. It was in this old school building in the woods behind my house, and I remember thinking it was pretty odd that I'd never noticed it there before.
(Now is where the dream got strange)
I overheard my shrink talking about my case with some girl. The girl was assuring the doctor that I'd be much better off under her care than I'd be with all the crazies. The girl said fuck a lot - like every other word. The doctor agreed with the girl and told her that she could have custody of me.
She was just the cutest little thing. Maybe five or six, with brown hair and glasses. I suddenly realized (in my dream) that this was the girl that had started my preference for those attributes back when I was a little kid. Never mind that this made no sense because I'd certainly not been institutionalized and ran into this girl the first time I was in 1972.
This girl started walking towards me, smiling. I was just so happy to be getting out of the nuthouse. I was even happier to be leaving with the girl. I knew that all of my life's questions would be answered by this girl whose eyes sparkled even behind her glasses.
She got to me and told me her name.
I knew this girl! Never mind that she wasn't even alive, let alone five or six years old, in 1972. It was her!
She told me that bringing me to 1972 was the only way I could really start over. The only way we could start over.
I told her that was all I wanted. I leaned in to give her a hug for rescuing me. From the looney bin, and from everything else.
You can feel emotions in dreams, and this was a big dramatic moment. The kind of thing they make epic movies about.
My arms closed on emptiness, and I woke up.
I just added a new category for my 'blog entries.
The pictures category can be accessed via the 'blog search form, or if you're lazy you can just click here.
I've also had to make some changes to the underlying software to handle multiple category assignments. I think it's all working correctly, but bugs do have a way of appearing. If you notice anything broken just let me know.
My next (related) task is to go back through all of my old entries and assign multiple categories where needed.
I think I'll also add some more categories. Here are some that come to mind:
There will probably be more that reveal themselves as I peruse my old entries.
Okay, here's a picture of me in October 1965.
This is what I looked like back then, at least on the outside. It is also, coincidentally, how I sometimes look on the inside here in 2005.
At least my taste in beer has improved since then.
I don't think it would have been that bad.
I mean, I knew it was a bad idea, but it wouldn't have been the end of the world or anything. I wouldn't have said anything that hadn't already been implied (or at least inferred) a zillion times.
I knew it was a bad idea though. Kind of like breaking a taboo. There are some things that you just don't do. No matter how strong, or how persistent, the urge is.
So last night, sitting at Rich O's enjoying my two pints of Noble Smoker, I kept reaching for my phone. I'd take a drink from my beer, take a drag from my cigarette, and reach for my phone. Then sanity would kick in for a second and I'd jerk my hand away from the cursed thing.
This cycle repeated for the entire two hours I was there.
It would have crossed a line, and I've crossed way too many of those already. This one I need to honor. I know this, but as my brain becomes soddened my heart becomes bolder, and I think we all know that my heart cares little for right, or for propriety, or even for common sense.
So here's what I did: I gave my phone to CoffeeDude and asked him to hold on to it until this morning.
Most weekends it's just something I notice and laugh off. This pressure. Last night I found myself doubting my ability to resist the urge to use that phone.
It was a pretty uneasy feeling. Most of the time I'm possessed of fairly strong willpower (except for the smoking thing) but lately it's been tougher and tougher to keep myself reeled in. Last night, I was afraid that the line would break.
Last night, I found that I didn't trust myself to do the right thing. Or to not do the wrong thing. Whatever.
After I'd entrusted my phone to CoffeeDude, I went over to another bar. A friend from Rich O's is in a band, and they were playing a gig at this place just around the corner.
I had a good time. The place had Newcastle on tap, and that was a pleasant surprise. Of course I could only have one as I'd already had two pints of the 7.5% Noble Smoker.
Came home a little after 1:00 and dreamed of what might have happened if I'd hung onto my phone.
Today I watched Rock Star and then School of Rock.
Now I'm in the mood for some Rock and Roll!
Probably won't find it at Rich O's though.
Eliza Dushku.
The guys in Wrong Turn kill everyone else but tie Eliza to a bed.
Can't really say I blame them.
For the Eliza on the bed thing. The killing people thing is really inexcusable.
So here's a list of some things I couldn't care less about.
Note that I said couldn't instead of could. People who say I could care less about whatever are idiots - unless they're actually trying to say that they do care about whatever it is.
As with all my lists, this one is not meant to be all-inclusive.
Those are just the things that popped into my head as I sat down to type this entry. There are countless more. I care about things that affect me and the people I love. I couldn't care less (note: proper usage again) about Martha Stewart getting richer, or about that one chick that just had her feeding tube removed, or about congressional subpoenas issued to steroid-ridden athletes.
I'm just selfish that way.
