Sorry for the long delay in writing. I actually have a lengthy draft entry that talked about my Birthday weekend. But it was so long even I lost interest and knowing me I'll never get around to fnishing. Suffice to day the birthday weekend was good, and the follow-up, this past weekend, was equally enjoyable.

Lots going on, and not all good, if nothing else than I've been stressed out like crazy because of work and so busy that I've gotten very little rest--even less than usual. I mean, I laid down on my bed around 1:00 today and I didn't wake up until a quarter to six. On the bright side, that really helped and as I'm soon to go to sleep, I should be nice and rested for this week to come. Which is good because I'm going to need it.

Work is hell of late. I don't want to get into details (for one thing, I don't have time) but also because it involves co-workers and I'd rather not get into messy details until things play themselves out and I see where everything stands. but let me just say that this whole responsibility thing that has come with my promotion is a pain in the ass. I mean, why couldn't I have gotten the title and the pay raise and let someone else d all the work? I don't see why that's so unreasonable....

Anyway, highlights of the past eight days or so include:

• Eric and Heather's wedding.
  
• Seeing Rush. Twice.
  
• Playing Chess with Christine at Lace.
  
• Spending eight hours getting my parent's new computer running.
  
• A relative dying.
  
• Realzing responsibility is a double-edged sword.
  
• Working on the poscard for the Fringe Festival.
  
• Meeting with Ronnie's accountant and geting a good vibe and a rough game plan about everything.
  
• Robosapien.
  
• A lovely night of dinner and dancing with friends
  
• Playing Let's Make a Deal outside the Breakfast Club and choosing to be more of a geek than a pervert.
  
• A surprise visit by the one and only Bobby Duane
  
• Did I mention Robospaien?

Sooner or later I might get around to explaining everything. But I got to iron some shirts and get to sleep. So adieu, and I'll post soon.

Well I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this :
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah...

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
And she tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
But from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah...

(Yeah but) Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor, (You know)
I used to live alone before I knew ya
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
and love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah...

Well there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me do ya
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath you drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah

Hallelujah...

[Instrumental]

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah…
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelu...
Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah

Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah...


----"Hallelujah", by Lenord Cohen, as perofmed by Jeff Buckley

Yeah, so the Governor's a cock-sucker. Literally. I'm not hyper-texting shit because if you haven't read about it in the paper or saw it on the news you sure as hell aren't online reading this blog. (And if you are, you should be shot. For reading this blog and not knowing about McGreevy; not simply for reading the blog. But you probably figured that out.)

Now, admittedly, I don't know much about McGreevy. With his un-closeting, all the really big criticisms and scandals are getting aired, so it's not like this guy has had a golden administration.

Of course I couldn't care less that he's gay. And even the fact that he had an affair doesn't bother me when there's far more important things to worry about. But what sticks in my craw so matter what is the way McGreevy admitted his homosexuality: "I am a gay American."

I mean, you've seen pictures of this guy, right? Is there anyone out there who'd honestly mistaken him for a gay Puerto Rican? He's the fucking governor of New Jersey, does anyone out there think he's French?

I mean, as much as I loathe the nationalistic qualifiers of ethnicity--"African-American", "Spanish-American", "Italian-American"--I can at least understand the logic behind it, the idea that they're trying to associate (or dissasociate) their pride and sense of identity with more than one country. (Except Africa is, of course, a continent and why don't blacks say that their Congo-Americans, or Nigerian-American or--eh, you get the idea) But to use nationality as a qualifier for your sexual preference? Give me a break! Does this mean I now have to introduce myself as a Straight American? "Hi, my name is Craig, I'm a male hetersexual New Jersian."

Perhaps The Governor is trying to make homosexuality a matter of patriotism. You know: "A real American catches as well as pitches." "If you don't suck dick, you're obviously not a real American." (This may be more valid than you think; I heard this is the same line Clinton uses with his chicks. See--giving head is patriotic.)

Maybe it's just that the phrase "gay American" (and note that the nationality is capitalized, not the sexual preference) lacks poetry. "Fudge packing American" sounds better, has a good ring to it, it describes an action and not jsut a state of prefernce. And, if it's so important to establish your national pride, then perhaps it's the nationality that should go first. Instead of "I am a gay American" it should be "I am an American nancie-boy."

I suppose it's part of the fall-out of a post-September 11th mentality this country has, but just the idea that McGreevy felt he had to include his nationality seems merely pandering and opportunistic. The implication is that it's not enough to simply be gay; there needs to be another means of identification, as if an appeal to patriotism might somehow make up for, or deflect, the fact that he is gay. Because the sad thing is, and what seems to be lost amidst the hoopla, is that it's not the scandal of infidelity that's the problem. It's not all the other criticisms and complaints and business-scandals that's forcing him to resign. It's his sexual preference. It's not that he had an extramarital affair, it's that it was a "homosexual extramarital affair". As if having the affair wasn't damning enough. But, of course it isn't. If Clinton--who, admittedly, was more popular than McGreevy and a far better public speaker--Could get away with having blow-jobs from interns, McGreevy certainly could have weathered a sexual harassment case if it was from a woman. But it's not, and while it's nice to know McGreevy will have a job and career regardless of his sexuality, it's a crying shame that the only reason he's losing his current job is because of it.

It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today
----Meatloaf, "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights"


That line was bouncing in my head a few days ago, and then it rather vanished, only to resurface during my mini-nostolgia trip of my last entry. How I could go from New Wave to Meatloaf, I am not qwuite sure, but that is the genius of my mind and I have learned it is not wise to question such matters too deeply.

I remember when "Paradise by the Dshboard Lights" was actually a "cool" song. It was during a time period that encompassed a span of, oh, six months, in 1991. I had never heard of the song before then--actually, that may not be true. I think I has heard it, in bits and pieces, during random dials of MTV (back when they played vidoes--and that was so long ago that simply the refrain "back when they played music videos" is in itself a trip down memory lane; wheels within wheels, the spiral doesn't end, it just gets dizzier; catch me if you can.)

The song really hit my consciousness in June of 1991, during my cousin Robin's Sweet Sixteen party. Because "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights" is a staple (or was, at any rate) of Sweet Sixteen parties. Not that I knew this at the time. I barely had male friends, let alone female friends, so all I knew is at one point the DJ had the guys lined up on one side and the girls on the other. The thing was, that put me and Toni on opposite sides.

Ah, Toni Fessler. First girl I ever dated. Met her there at my cousin's Sweet Sixteen party. I had no idea how she and Robin got to be friends. I would like to point out that she, in fact, was two years older than me. She had graduated Manalapan High School just a few days before the party. Yes, my first date was with an older woman. This might also explain the whole "tall women" thing, because I do remember her being taller. But this could be a chicken/egg situation, so best not to dwell on such matters.

The point is, Toni was at the party. I had seen her now and again in the halls at school, and that was where things began and stopped until that night, where we talked and danced and I asked her out and she said yes. I was 15. She was 17. Coo coo ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson. It was a marvelous thing. My brother congratulated me. My parents were happy. My Grandfather was glad he "no longer had to worry about me." Toni and I even kissed that night. (Not a real kiss, mind you. More of a “hey, this person’s kinda cute” kiss, not a “oh my god if I don’t come up for air I’m going to die but it will so be worth it” kiss. But that’s for another blog entry.)

At any rate, admist all the hoopla of infatuation and pride, this whole "guys on one side, girls on the other" thing happened. Like I said, it was all new to me, but I was enjoying the flow of the evening so far and saw reason to complain. So there we were, and just as suddenly:

"Will you love me forever?" she cried, as if she wanted to burst into tears but she had too much pride to give him the satisfaction.

"Let me sleep on it," he said cooly. Because it's the 70's dammit, and James Taylor and Alan Alda and all those other "Mr. Sensitives" can kiss my sensitive ass.

"Will you love me forever?" the girls cried out, in their '91 fashions that still relied too much on trends from the 80's, and hair that relied on far too much Aqua Net.

"Let me sleep on it," the guys shouted back. Hormones running rampant desperate not to let the other guys in the line know that most of us hadn't gotten half as far as we claimed we did.

Except . . . it occured to me that if the whole point was to get the girl, and get the girl to give it up, and seeing how my first reasonable chance at this (possibly) happening was now standing two feet across from me, it might not be the smartest thing in the world to blow her off by acting Too Kewl For Words.

"Will you love me forever?" Toni parroted at me.

I looked at her and answered: "Sure."

Got me another hug and a (not reallly a) kiss out of it, and the lesson learned has been remembered to this day.

Mind you, things did not last long for me and Toni. We went out once or twice, hung out a time or so after that, and then it took two weeks of her not returning my phone calls and me tracking her down at the pizza place where she worked to actually hear her say she didn't want to date me anymore. Thus ended my first official romantic relationship and, looking back, I must say it was quite the harbinger of things to come. But that's another blog entry.

The point is: I rather liked "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights" back then. It's hopelessly hokey, I understand that, and mired in that lousy 70's feel--it was bad pop music and yet had that unquantifiable je ne sais pas that made it so damn catchy. Or, at least it did for a few months before I realized what an utter overindulgent bore the song is. (I was 16 and stupid, but not that stupid.)

Except . . . that ending. That refrain: "It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today." That terrible line--terrible not because it's painful, terrible because of it's implications. That those fleeting moments of time inexorably slip futher away. Last week, last year, last decade; it doesn't matter because it all goes the same way: away.

And then you forget. You know what I'm talking about. Those moments that were so indelible in your mind, the ones you swore you'd never forget (because how could you possible forget them?) just vanish. And you don't notice that they're gone until the day you drive down to your parent's house (taking the back roads because the traffic on Route 9 is a bitch, even at 10:30 in the morning), and you drive past the Firehouse where your cousin had her Sweet Sixteen birthday party and before you know it you're replaying the Ballad of Toni and Craig in your mind, realizing you haven't seen that movie in years. (Yes, I'm mixing metaphors. Spiral, baby. Spiral.)

Terrible because there's some beyond reasonable sense of longing attached to these mostly-forgotten snapshots. Is it a sense of innocence? A "simpler" time? A "freer" time where the best thing in the world to happen to me was that a girl on the dance floor agreed to go out with me?

Ah, but let's not kid ourselves--or me, admittedly, the far more guillible of us two--this sort of logical yo-yo-ing isn't solely the property of this one moment. Every memory becomes instantly and as equally desireable. Even the ones far, far worse, the ones that are terrible in that most painful sense of the word. Because it wasn't so much better than it is today. It's different, of course, and in the sense of always wanting what you do not have, then, yes, it is a far better thing to be back there with Toni and Meatloaf ratber than sitting over here, now, listening to Tori Amos coo "Cooling" on my MP3 player. But that is no more tangible a truth than any of these mis-remembered memories I can bring up in this entry--and I seem to be on quite a roll here so you bet your ass I can bring up a lot of them. There's another quote worth mentioning. It's the opening line from The Glass Menagerie: "This play is from memory." And it should be the opening line to every autobiography and every slip down memory lane anyone ever bothers to write.

It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today. It isn't. It was what it was. That was zen and this is tao. Yes, we are getting older--and some of us are older faster than others (nyah, nyah)--and there is an appeal in our youth. It's a paradoxical pratfall to think holding onto our youth will somehow make us young. I can wax poetically for another eight pages and still won't bring the past back. When I've finished, I'll just be that much older than I was when I started. The seduction of the past is that its maliability is subconscious. And as for Meatloaf and Jim Steinman's ode to younger days: even with its almost epiphany, it still is a stupid little song. It's cute and it's catchy, but there are better songs to listen to.

(With apologies to Elton and Bernie for ripping off their far better tune.)

Aldo's burned down this Saturday. For you non-North Jersey people, Aldo's was a nightclub in Lyndhurst NJ that catered to the New Wave/80's/Goth/Industrial/insert-you-spliter-genre-here crowd.

I first went to Aldo's . . . I'm not sure when, it may have been as late (or early, depending) as 1999. Certainly by 2000 when Fortner, Lauren, and that crew would get together for a night out. I discovered the joys of Wolfsheim, Beborn Beton, and VNV Nation during that year-long span where we went to the club on an almost monthly basis, dancing the night away to those bands and the usual staples of The Cure, Depeche Mode, Siouxsie, and a host of one-hit New Wave/Goth one-hit-blunders. Many a night Kate or Sam or Rob would be there as well. And there was that one surreal time in November of 2000 where Fortner and I were there with two girls that were hot for us (though, naturally, the girl I was into was into Sean and the girl Sean was into was into me.) All in all, good times were had.

Like all scenes, it didn't last. (And even when we were going the club was several years past its heyday in the 80's.) The club changes, usually because DJ's come and go, or the crowd itself gives an odd vibe. Or we just change ourselves. I started doing to QXT's in Newark, or The Loop in Passaic (though only infrequently) although I'd hit Aldo's once a year or every six months out of nostalgia more than anything else. The last time I was there was about a month ago when Kate and I checked it out for about two hours. It was all right, but, like all the other times in the last two years, nothing like it had been.

According to the Bergen Record, the fire started in the apartmens above the club around 9:45. It was an electrical fire (no relation to this electrical wire, I assure you) and it took the firefighters several hours to get the blaze out. By the time they were done, the whole place was ash.

I spoke with Kate a few minutes ago, she said she drove by it the other day and says it's just a shell--a few walls and the wood from the rafters is all that remains of a club that has been around since 1977. According to the article, the owner says it was the first club he ever owned. "I felt bad watching it burn up like that." he says. "But life goes on." Which, to me, sounds like a clear indication he has no plans to rebuild it.

Ah, bugger all. It was several years ago and the truth is lately we'd use Aldo's more for a punchline than for a place to party. But, still, one shoul;d always give the devil his due. Let us lower the lamps . . . light the incense . . . and dance, one last dance, in honor of our fallen friend....


it´s getting dark... too soon... a threatening silence...
surrounding me... a wind comes up from the islands...
distance fades to stormy grey
washed out from the deep of the ocean
here I will stand to face your wrath...
while all the others are praying

calm down my heart... don´t beat so fast...
don´t be afraid just once in a lifetime
no rain can wash away my tears
no wind can soothe my pain
you made me doubt, you made me fear
but now I´m not the same
you took my wife, my unborn son...
torn into the deep of the ocean
I don´t pretend that I love you
´cause there is nothing left to loose

and when silence comes back to me
I find myself feeling lonely
standing here on the shores of destiny
I find myself feeling lonely
I had a life to give... many dreams to live...
don´t you know that you´re losing so much this time
beyond the waves... I will be free
while all the others are praying

calm down my heart... don´t beat so fast...
don´t be afraid just once in a lifetime
no rain can wash away my tears
no wind can soothe my pain
you made me doubt, you made me fear
but now I´m not the same
you took my wife, my unborn son...
torn into the deep of the ocean
I don´t pretend that I love you
´cause there is nothing left to loose

the love in you, it does not burn,
there is no lesson you can learn
and there are sounds you cannot hear,
and there are feelings you can´t feel

calm down my heart... don´t beat so fast...
don´t be afraid just once in a lifetime

I don´t pretend that I love you
and this time I´m not scared of you

----Wolfsheim, "Once in a Lifetime"

This past weekend, the guide to the Live Arts/Philadelphia Fringe Festival came out. It was dumb luck Mike and I were in Philly the day it happened; we had no idea the guide would be out so soon. In fact, it took us a moment to realize that this was the guide that we advertised our business in. So, with giddy nervousness we started flipping through the guide, and sure enough, 30 pages in, on the top left corner of the left page, is the add for our company.

It was rather anti-climatic, actually. I think it's me. Mike was quite happy with it, but all I could do was see the flaws. For one thing, it's a stark design: the top half of the add is clack with white text and the bottom half is white with black text. Having our tagline--"you can't stay on the fringe forever"--left-justfied seems to weaken the statement. And worst of all, while our URL is prominently displayed, we left no other means of contacting us--no e-mail, no phone number. How I let that slide when Mike and I made the ad I have no idea. So I look at the ad and all I can think is: "well. that's a wasted opportunity."

But, as I said, Mike is quite happy with it, which leaves me to think I'm just being my usual negative self. (Which makes sense; way back when I was writing, when I was printed in the school magazines I would often look at my work and see the flaws, so make of that as you will.) And regardless of it's weaknesses, it's an ad for our business, and it's in a guide that will be read by tens of thousands of people, and there's only one other web-design company in the whoole guide so who knows.

Mike's building steam on the site re-design, and though our initial plan for the postcard we anted to hand out during the festival had to be scrapped we've got a strong idea for a back-up. And Mike and I plan on blitzkrieging the Festival to hand out the postcards so who knows, everything may pay off in the long run.

Ack. I own a business and we're advertising for it in a magazine. Ten years ago I never would've dreamed this would be something I'd be doing. It trully is a mad mad world....

When Mike and I were in Philly on Friday, volunteers for the DNC were out onb the streets. Now, as you may or may not know, I spent a few summers working for a market research company. This meant that, among other things, I was also "one of those people" who would approach strangers and ask them to take part in whatever survey my company had been hired to do. As such, to this day I have enmormous empathy for anyone in a mall on on the streets holding a clipboard. And unless I'm in a major hurry, I'm happy to help them with their quotas.

So, naturally, seeing two girls looking around with that maxture of hopefulness and desperation, I figured I'd be a good samaritan and help them with whatever survey/petition they were doing.

Well, it turns out they weren't doing a survey. They were looking for cash. Some BS about raising money to bus people to the voting booths come election day. I don't really remember, and I wasn't paying too much attention at the moent either. For one thing, the spiel is only for rubes and I just wanted to get to thecash--her, catch. It also helped/didn't help that the girl I was talking to was rather cute. the bottom line is, they were looking for money and at that point I had already commited to talking to them and just didn't have it in me to turn them down.

They wanted me to sign their petition, but they were looking for full names, address, phone numbers, etc. And I've already got enough bleeding-heart liberal organizations mailing me crap and calling my home phone ever since I joined the ACLU so I wasn't about to give the DNC information they probably already have on some other list. I gave cash--twenty bucks. They were looking for a minimum $25 and a maximum of, I kid you not, $25,000. Like some shmuck they corner on the street is going to give twenty-five grand to the DNC. Then again, if I gave them twenty, then you gotta figure there's someone even dumber who's willing to give them more. I actually would've given less save for the fact all I had were twenties. Regardless, I opened my wallet gave them the money and got a receipt. (I bet the girl just pocketed the money for herself. I would have.)

But the thing is, the more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I mean, yeah, yeah, I'm a pseudo-liberal, and yes, I'd prefer the Democrats to the Republicans, but it's not like the Democrats are such saints. It's not like Kerry is this great person who'll "save the country" or some crap. And just the idea that I actually donated to a political party . . . I mean, I just gave my money to people that, really, are out to screw me as much as the other people. The DNC isn't some great, wonderful organization. They're politicans. And I gave them mymoney. I feel so guilty. I feel so used.

I'm half-tempted to find the local RNC chapter in Essex County and give them twenty bucks, just to balance the scales. But if I'm going to do that, I might as well throw dough to the Green Party, or the Libertarians, or the Free-Love Party . . . hmmm, I think there's a Communist Party somewhere in NJ I could donate too. . . .

Of course, if I actually did that, then I'd be out a whole lotta twenties, and I got my own funding issues, if you know what I mean.

So, yeah. I gave to the friggin DNC. If the girl wasn't cute I would've been able to turn her down. Alas, I am both cheap and easy, and now the DNC is twenty bucks richer. I hope they spend it on some high quality hookers.

Today starts my pseudo-summer vacation. About a month back, my office manager told me that I had eight vacation days I had to use up before the end of August. I knew right off the bat that I had two days for the Atlantic City trip, and the 13th of August was necessary for Eric and Heather's wedding. I also decided on today so I could hang with Mike Zav, talk business and then do the First Friday thing. So it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to realize I might as well take the other two Friday's in August off.

(This left me with two days to schedule, in case you were keeping score. Half a day is now applied to a dermatoligist appointment on Wednesday, so I've still of 1.5 days to spare.)

then I found out I mis-heard her; I don't have until the end of August, I have until the end of September, when our company's fiscal year ends. If I knew that I probably wouldn't have taken every Friday off.

See, on the one hand, it's very nice to have four consecutive four-day work-weeks. On the other hand, there is so much shit going on at the office that I'd almost rather be at work so I can get things done. As is there's a boat shipment to Morocco and a consignment discrepancy in Morocco that has to be resolved. Pete should be able to handle them both, but it's my responsibility, you know?

It's vacation and I'm worried about work. You know, it's not the "ah, you're an adult because you have a work ethic" that bothers me, it's that I have to remind myself: "hey, it's your day off, relax!" I dunno: responsibilities of the job versus obsessive over-analyzing: you decide.

Meeeeeaaaaannnnnnnnwhile..... I'll be heading down to Mike's soon. we're going to have another marathon work session, getting the post cards designed. It's all or nothing; The Fringe Festival starts in just under a month so we have to get the design down now if we want it printed in time to use then. If we go with the one I think we're going with, were either going to be swimming in business or appearing in court. I'll keep you posted.

Before heading toZav's I'll be making a pit-stop at my folks. See, my mother's family has always been sparse. She was an only child and her parents were dead before I was born. The strongest link she has to her family history, beside the Wagner side of the family, are a bunch of pictures she displayed in the hallway of my parent's home. they were taken down a few years ago when my paretn's started redecorating the house and stoeed in my brothers room. The problem is when my brother's room was redecorated, they never installed blinds (the room is mostly a storage room now--like my old room, actually; my mother's teaching supplies have a tendency to invade rooms and take over, it's almost creepy when you realize how much crap she's got. And she yells at me for not throwing anything out...)

Where was I?

Oh, yeah: windows.

Anyway, there were no blinds in my brother's room for a while, so the sun shone in, and shone on the pictures, and now many of them--which were already fifty-plus years old to begin with--have become faded and damaged. My mother, understandably, is almot heartbroken to lose the few shreds of connection with her past that she has, and she wants to look into getting them restored. So I told her, rather than her spending however much it would cost, to let me take a crack at them and restore them with Photoshop.

I'm no expert, obviously, but some of them aren't too too bad shape. And it's a great excuse to practice anyway. So if I can help her out and save her some money, I figure I might as well. Granted, I have no idea how long it will take me (It's been, what, six months since I photographed Sandi and I'm still not done with all the photos I wanted to work on), but I'm looking forward to doing it.

And that's about it. I now have to shower and get on the road by 9:30 to remain on schedule (and can I tel lyou how sitting here at 8:30 in the morning typing a post is giving me major My Unemployed Life-flashbacks?) so I'm outtie.

. . . .

there was something else I wanted to write. But now I can't remember what it--

Oh yeah......

OK, so as you may have noticed, the Comments thing isn't exactly working. As Terry so helpfully opined: if I only knew someone who knew web design to help me figure it out. Love you too, Terry.

I know what the problem is; it's a formatting glitch (duh!) in the way Blogger likes to present it's commenting system. It rather sucks, actually, forcing carriage returns where I don't want them. I think I may simply go with a third-party comment system that seems to be a bit easier to customize.

Anyway, the original point of this post was to announce that I fixed the comments problem. Only I haven't, so there's no point for this entry after all. Consider it a phantom post. It's doesn't really exist. Seriously: it's just a hallucination of your diseased mind. They warned you that reading blogs too long would do this too you. But did you listen? Of course not. You thought you were too careful to overdose on blogs. You always only viewed blogs from people you trusted. You never shared an IP address. Well, sorry, Sunshine, you ain't invinicble. And now you're hallucinating blog posts that don't really exist.

It's a sad state, I really must say. I mean, if you were going to hallucinate a blog entry, couldn't you at least have the wherewithal to hallucinate an entry that wasn't so depricating? Must be your hidden insecurities coming to the fore; your subconscious self-loathing finally striking out at you, sabotoging your once precious, carefree blog addiction. Now your petty illusions are washed away by the harsh light of truth, like a cold, hard penis of reality ripping into the anal cavity of your soul.

It's time you realize: blogs can't replace your self esteem. You can't live vicariously by reading about the far superior lives of others. Sure, you feel good while you read it, but the high never lasts. You can try as hard as you can to keep reading and sustain the feeling, but you can't read blogs forever. Even if you could, well, it's just a step above actually having a blog, and as bad as you've become, you don't really want to be that bad, do you?

But fret not. All is not lost. Blog overdoses can be treated, although it involves a long, drawn out process which involves sheep and repetitive screenings of D.C. Cab. It's not pretty, but it's your only hope if you want to rejoin the ranks of normal blog-reading society.

I wish you luck. May God have mercy on your soul.

With apologies to Frank Miller, of course.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, you see. The new design was to have been ready and launched so that all you people reading this on August 4 would have something nice and pretty to look at.

Instead my muse missed its deadline and my modem has been frizzing out every five minutes anyway. So, in completely fitting fashion, my first anniversary celebration has gone relatively ker-blooey.

So, I dunno, writing the "first anniversary" post while it's still Aug 3 doesn't seem fair. Then again, I want this to be viewable during August 4, and that won't happen if I wait until tomorrow night to do this.

So. 300 posts in 365(ish) days. Not a bad average, really.

It's a nice feeling to know I've kept this up for a year. Whatever the hell this thing is. I think its found its direction in non-direction. The point of a journey is not to arrive and so on and so forth.

Still. On August 4, 2003, I started this blog. Go on; I've put the archives in a monthly format now, so it won't be an uber-headache for you to skim the past. Go on, see my horribly humble beginnings. A year ago I was entertaining myself with the California recall and trying to find humor in the porno spam that floods my inbox each day. Sex and politics. Nice to see nothing's changed in a year.

I still hear rumors there's people who don't know me that view this blog. I don't believe it, because even when my e-mails right at the top of the fucking page nobody bothers to write me. Except my friends, but that's what I pay them to do.

So, bowing to the usual peer pressure and opening myself to ridicule beyond imagining, I have officially opened the floor to the peanut gallery. That's right. You'l see, at the bottom of every post (provided I got the damn code right) an option to post comments.

I'm afraid. I'm very, very afraid.

I do have one caveat: for those of you who inexplicably find what I may write of such worth that you inexplicably think what you have to say about what I have to say so imporatnt that you have to write about it too (where was this sentence going and where did it fly so tragically off its railing?), please use your actual name. I don't care if you used the same username since 1996; if I'm brave/foolish enough to put my name on this thing, you can own your words too. Last names not required, but lets at least pretend to be civil and use our real names. It makes cursing one another out so much more personable, don't you think?
What the hell was I talking about?

Oh, yeah: comments section. Go ahead, comment. This ain't no democracy--I can always take that option out.

But, anyway, it's been a year. My brain is shot--mostly because I'm tired and frustrated I couldn't get the redesign done in time, although the fact that my internet connection is crapping out every ten minutes (again) might have something to do with it.

I'd like to do a restrospectivew post. If nothing else, it's good to write self-congratulatory indulgences on miniscule milestones. But that can wait for now.

Anyway.

It's after midnight. time to alter the time and date fields.

My thanks to all that have actually read this thing for a whole year. Hope you stick around for year two.

Well, Kinda.

Thanks to The V, I found a link to this little demo from AT&T that converts text into speak. It's a little bit "What if the world talked like Stephen Hawking?" You type in your text, select from an array of "voices", and then the program downloads a wave file of your text convereted to audio.

The best part is there's a multidue of different voices and accents--and then they can convert it into different languages! Ultimately it's midly amusing, but once you start having it convert lyrics of NWA songs that the amusement factor jumps from "mild" to "utter crack-up".

Enjoy.

See, CNN never does anything like this:

BBC - Cult Television - Top Screen Scientist Vote: "Top Screen Scientist Vote"

As the name implies, you vote for your favorite fictional scientist. Among the nomines are Dr. Frankenstein, Q (of Bond fame, not Next Gen), Dr. Strangelove, Mr. Spock, Dr. Evil, Dana Scully, Dr. Who, Dr. Strangelove, Doc Emmett Brown, and Professor Honedew and his assitant, Breaker.

The voting seems a bit odd--it looks like you can vote for whoever you want, but it seems that each week or so they spotlight two contenders and various experts speask about why their candiate deserves top honors. Right now it's Dr. Frank-n-Furter and Professor Honeydew and his Assistant, Beaker. The Honeydew write-up is OK--written by Kermit, although it's missing a bit of the penache of the best Muppet writing. I'm highly amused by Frank's achievements:

His incredible breakthrough in the demanding world of genetics produces Rocky, a man so perfect in every way his creator falls instantly in love with him . . . driven by his powerful sexual urges and rampant libido he behaves in such an uninhibited and provocatively sensual way, he challenges us to question our own sexuality. This for some can be very disturbing, and so in the field of psychology he is making another scientific breakthrough.

If future campaigning is this well written, this could be extremely amusing.