Graduate school is one of those things that even though we all choose to be there and love it, we still love to hate it and complain about how much work there is to do. Especially those of us on the speech pathology track, what with our classes and our clinics and whatnot, and our general love of juggling our schedules and staying up late because, while we’re all obsessed with doing a good job, we aim to use the least amount of time possible to still do well. The following IM conversation with a fellow graduate student sums things up nicely.

Fellow Graduate Student: Excited for school tomorrow? Phil: Not exactly. Too much work ahead that I’d just as soon not do. FGS: I’m in denial that I have so much work. Phil: Me too! Now if we could only displace that denial, so that our professors think that we DON’T actually have to do any of that work. FGS: Ooooh I like that idea. I’m feeling it. FGS: I think maybe my brain is on FULL. Phil: Mine too. This could be why we’re having such educated discussion about getting out of doing all the work we’re stuck with.

In my previous post, I alluded to the fact that 'newness' was going on. If you happened to click over and see what I meant, you got a pretty good idea. I've invested in a new url and a new image entirely. It's been a long time coming, really. I grew weary of having my name in my url and title, and I was mostly just waiting for inspiration to strike me before I took the plunge. That inspiration took about eight months, mind, but, um, whatever. All Things Phil has officially been upgraded to... Rocky Time Warp!

With that said, welcome! You may notice that the theme I had previously maintained (also new) has followed me here, with some new additions and a few changes. Not to mention incredible old horror movie fonts! The new masthead is a touch of everything I love... a certain movie and the Rocky Mountains. The mountains you see pictured belong to the southern end of the Rockies, and are none other than the Sandia mountains of Albuquerque. As a matter of fact, I took that picture myself.

So what's new here? Well, first we have a new menu bar, replete with colorful buttons. I've added a page devoted to what I'm currently reading. I'm starting it this year, so there's not much there yet. For the sake of everyone's sanity, I've opted not to include all the shit I have to read for grad school. I don't want to think about it, much less reminisce about it, and I doubt very much that you even care.

And then, whoah! I've started a tumblog. Which is a fun microblog that lacks vowels. But it's killer good times, and I like to post videos and pictures and other things that I typically don't post here. Feel free to follow me.

And hey, look! I've been running a number of side projects, and I thought it'd be cool to bring them to the forefront of things. Check out my very gay blog as well as my partner Robert's and my stamping blog.

Look to your right and you'll see a "stumble it!" button. If you happen to enjoy stumbleupon, as I do, you can click and give a thumb's up to any post you like.

Also notice that I've got Google Friend Connect! It's still new, but I'm excited to see what sorts of fun things develop there. Become a member (you don't even need to have a google account; any email address can be used) and help me see what sorts of cool shit develops.

And finally, check it out! On your left you will see every single post I've ever written, from the very beginning. Of time. So if you've ever wondered about where my old archives were and never visited my old archives site, worry no further, since it's all in one place right here. I'm mostly excited about this because I can now more easily link to that one bunny story.

1. Wait, what's going on here? Newness, that's what!2. It's 20sb Vlog Day! 3. There's rules to follow. Something about love. 4. I'm not very good at following rules. 5. This required more coordination than I anticipated. 6. It was also an intense workout, surprisingly enough. 7. At least for the one arm on camera. 8. Smile! You might see my face. Which gives away the magic of the video-making process. 9. But whatever, that's cool. 10. Anyway. 11. I promised you ages ago that I would do this. 12. I did it. 13. Hope you're happy.

If Charles Darwin was still alive, he would be 200 years old today. Who knew that even more than a century after his death, the man could still incite the wrath of people who reject his theory of change over time whilst still being enamored by Puggles? Despite my Jewish upbringing, I largely discounted the whole "G-d¹ created the world and every single living organism on it in seven days" in favor of the decidedly more accurate, not to mention interesting, "I bet that's way too much work, even for a deity, for a mere week's time."

Perhaps my favorite aspect of Darwin's Theory of Evolution is all the people who refute it based on grounds that have nothing whatsoever to do with it. The theory is extremely valid with the exception of one thing: it does not, and cannot, explain how the universe, and the earth we inhabit, came into existence. But oh, that's right! His book is called On the Origin of Species, not On the Origin of the Universe. And by "origin of species," he clearly meant that because humans have fingers, and use them to pick their noses, other species who have similar digits and use them for similar purposes likely share with us a common ancestor on their own multi-million-year-old family tree.

I am also particularly fond of the naysayers who suggest that the sheer complexity of Nature (read: our own bloated sense of superiority over other inhabitants of this earth) means that no mere "chance" got us here, and that clearly there was some intelligent design behind this. I have no problem with this statement (I support everyone's right to believe whatever it is they want to believe) until someone actually denies the fact that we change over time. Within my own lifetime, a shift in the average human body has occurred: our jaws are getting smaller in size, and it's becoming increasingly common for individuals' wisdom teeth to simply not grow in. Long before Darwin ever introduced the idea of evolution, humans have domesticated animals: taking wild animals and creating new breeds for the sake of a companionship many of us now take for granted. Make no mistake about it, the breeding of pets is simply a controlled application of the theory of evolution. So the next time anyone refutes Darwin's theory in your presence, feel free to make an ass of them by pointing out that they own a teacup poodle.

Despite the times and the advancements, there are still those who would like to add their personal religious beliefs into our educational curriculum. They're proponents who used to promote an idea known as "creationism," which has simply been renamed "intelligent design" to thinly veil the fact that their god (and no one else's) is the mastermind behind the diversity of life. They hide behind what they're calling "Academic Freedom Day", which is their new politically correct way of trying to preach a specific set of religious beliefs in a place where a variety of religions converge. I take some comfort, however minimal, in the knowledge that, were this the early 1630s, these same people would be shouting that Galileo is a heretic and must be imprisoned for supporting Copernicus's notion that the the sun does not revolve around the earth. Heaven forbid the idea that our tiny corner of the universe is not, in fact, egocentric geocentric, because that contradicts the book that grants the power to those in control to maintain their position as the sole purveyors of all knowledge.

On this February 12, celebrate Darwin Day. Celebrate evolution, celebrate diversity, celebrate the wonders of the planet Earth, and above all, celebrate life. L'chaim!²

¹ I told you I'm Jewish. ² See? Still Jewish.

If I recall correctly that famous saying known as Murphy's Law, it's something to the effect that "If anything can go wrong, rest assured that not only will it go wrong wrong, it will bitch slap you and then stuff your head into the toilet for the biggest fucking swirlie of your entire life." Which is pretty much the sort of note upon which Tuesday ended for me. How quaint. Luckily, I was rescued by none other than The Onion, who produced the following profanity-laden video that, upon viewing it at 11:30 tonight, made for a moment the gas leaks we re-checked for (they're still there) and the rest of my infernal responsibilities fall by the way side. In other words, I laughed my fucking ass off.

This is what happens when I get it in my head that I want to cook more: I go to IKEA, buy fabulous new cookware, including a new chef knife, then hit the store and stock up on tons of food, break out a new lasagna recipe I've never tried, spend two hours cooking in my tiny kitchen, cut my finger with my new chef knife, celebrate, then finish off with a twirl, a flourish, and a little presentation.

Delicious home-made lasagna plus Ralph's garlic bread plus caesar salad a la Phil equals nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom. Seriously. Chez Phil is in the house.

I had a revelation tonight. It occurred to me after I got off work around nine, then headed off to Target. I was in desperate need of bar soap, and had every intention of buying only that which I needed. That would be bar soap. Easy to remember, easy to check off the list that I didn't actually have with the pen that was safely tucked away in my messenger bag, which was still in the car. It dawned on me, whilst strolling the aisles on my way to find the Dove soap, that I also needed to pick up some package envelopes, as I had just run out. And then I was reminded, obviously, of the fact that I don't own a vacuum and don't much care for the gross, dusty vacuum I usually borrow from my landlord that is so loud I have to wear earplugs when I use it.

I was delighted to find a cheap twenty-dollar vacuum that isn't exactly a Hoover, but what do I care, it was twenty bucks. I didn't have a shopping cart, or a basket for that matter, so I just scooped everything into my arms and then forced myself to leave before I realized that if I looked long enough, I'd remember that I need a few more pans, better stirring spoons, and maybe one of those really nice Kitchenaid mixers while I was at it.

I can't help but love that Yahoo!Answers can serve as a forum to help confused teenagers really work things out. It's just so cute.

So, wow, what a question, right? How DO you suddenly turn gay if you like the Jonas Brothers? I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually agree with some of the commenters. Specifically, with the fact that it doesn't make you gay, and that being called gay isn't even an insult. I mean duh, like having good taste and owning the word 'fabulous' could possibly be an insult.

But I think I have a better answer: Listening to the Jonas Brothers probably doesn't make you gay, no. It just makes you a big humongous TOOL. Oh, I'm sorry, should I not be negative about manufactured pop stars who are offered up as rock 'n roll? Should I not degrade the hideously formulaic sensationalism that only Disney can spurn?

Forgive me. I've been to real rock shows. The ones in tiny theaters or small bars. The ones where bands nobody's heard of can play and develop a new fan base. The ones where you can barter for CDs and t-shirts and where they only accept cash for payments. The ones where, after the show, you might see a band hopping into a van to hit the road again in time for their next show. That, my friends, is rock 'n roll.

And lest I forget, you'll never, ever, in a million years, be considered a true rocker (especially of this generation) until Kurt Cobain has become a staple in your music collection. Now go forth and get a Nirvana CD immediately.

To make my night a little more interesting, I'm sitting here watching live streaming video of a high-speed car chase. It's riveting. The news camera is pointed down on the chase, and this guy (obviously) is driving like a lunatic at speeds ranging from 20 to 120 miles per hour. Just when you think he's finally given up, he slams on the accelerator. I'm trying to wrap my head around why someone would do this to begin with.

• Some prank version of a gang initiation.
• A really, really bad drug trip.
• Boredom.
• Desperation.

Any way you look at it, he didn't exactly think everything through. Let's see, steal a car, drive at over 120 miles per hour, get into a high speed chase that you'll ultimately lose because you're beyond outnumbered by the policemen chasing you, there's helicopters that circle Los Angeles pretty much constantly, and oh by the way, you'll probably run out of gas fairly quickly the way you're driving, and sorry, no 'tank of gas free' card is used in this game.

I doubt very much that the dude, when he first hatched his brilliant plan, thought it could possibly go wrong. And in the end, he was probably just as shocked that he got caught as was the 60-something valley resident who reportedly got in a fight with his wife, threatened her life, subsequently set their house on fire, but wound up killing himself in the process instead of her. No, seriously, he really did.

Despite my graduate school studies at hand, I somehow managed to run across an interesting video about a new car that is fueled only by air. At first, I thought this air car was some kind of hoax, but it turns out it's totally not. The company is called Motor Development International (MDI), and they're not exactly practical jokers.

Sure, you might think they are, given that the front-end design of their cars (see above) isn't all that dissimilar to the nose of a pug. But they do meet the one standard for being taken seriously as an up-and-coming mere fifteen-year-old car company based out of France: their concepts and model cars actually look futuristic.

The technical mumbo-jumbo about the vehicle boils down thusly: the car is powered by compressed air. At slow speeds, the compressed air is good as just that. At speeds above 35 miles per hour, though, some form of fuel (gasoline or some other derivative of oil) kicks in to heat the compressed air. Meaning: gas is used simply to heat air rather than to provide power, which translates to a stunning estimated 106 miles per gallon of fuel.

Of course, we all know that cars only succeed in a market when they meet certain standards. For consumers, there's three main factors influencing decisions about which car to drive.

First: aesthetics. Let's be real: cars are not meant only to get from one place to the next. Even the most apathetic driver wants a car that screams sexy. Can it impress potential mates? Does it make your butt look big? If you try to have sex in the car, will it be comfortable enough to do so? (If that last part is important, you may also want to tint those windows.)

Next, the obvious issue is speed. Sure they say it can go upwards of 90 mph, but what's the point of going that fast if it can't reach that speed in fifteen seconds, tops? I live in Los Angeles, so I know all too well that unless a car has the ability to zip in and out of traffic and then ride the next car's bumper into oblivion, it's not a car worth driving.

Finally, does the car have the potential to explode? I'm talking less in the possible hazard(s) of having your car Molotov cocktailed, and more about action films. Just imagine the next generation of kids watching an old action movie with you, when suddenly a car explodes on screen, and your five-year-old kid is like "Wha? That would never happen. Air is NOT that combustible without additive chemicals. Pshaw."

And then when you try to explain the phenomenon of neighborhood gas stations and carbon monoxide emissions and manual transmission, he'll roll his eyes at you and be like, "Man, old timer, get with the program. That was some depression you lived in. Didn't people, like, die if they left the car running in the garage? Oh hey, wait, go hook up your oxygen cord to the exhaust pipe before you put your seatbelt on. How many times do I have to remind you that the air emitted from the car is better to breathe than the air in our backyard?" And you'll shrug and be like, "Eh, old habits die hard. Now let's go cruise those streets, sit really low in our seats, and blast our music as loud as we can. Hit it."

"A day that starts with me giving hell to people in financial aid is made better only by getting what I want from them. Yes!" You may or may not have noticed the above Twitter post from me yesterday. It pretty much sums up my whole feeling about how the day went. I verbally bitch-slapped the appropriate people (only the bitches; the nice ones were spared) at the front desk and then made myself an appointment with a financial counselor, who after only fifteen minutes was pretty much like (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Dude, that's totally fucked up. I'll go ahead and fix this for you today."

And the best part? He really did take care of it, and I'm officially re-enrolled in classes with and even have "graduate student" next to me name amongst all my school fluff. So now, instead of waiting for 2-4 weeks to see if everything pans out, I instead have only to wait a couple of weeks until the system is fully updated and satisfied. Which means everything is in motion and yours truly was skipping across campus for the remainder of the day yesterday. That may or may not be socially appropriate, but given how happy I am that fabulosity prevailed over idiocy, I don't much care.

According to my calendar, tomorrow is only the start of the second week of school. Wait, what? I've been back in school for ages! Oh, that's right, it only seems like ages, thanks in large part to "blameless" parties who decided to pull my funding out from under me without any warning whatsoever. As if I didn't already spend enough time on campus, between work and classes, I've been devoting every spare moment to getting said funding back. I spent much of my break, in addition to redoing this site and adding three others to go along with it, totally revamping my life so that I could go from 'responsible yet blissfully carefree' to 'financial ninja'. Or basically, the brunette-haired version of Suze Orman, only without the book deals and all the speaking engagements. As it stands, I'm extremely gifted at finding new and creative ways to spend money. I've been on a steady ascent (steady as she goes) toward that financial black-belt in savings, but let's just say this is something of a setback.

It was unfortunate, but it had to happen. Instead of writing flowing prose and poetry for you, dear reader, to read, I've been standing in lines and giving various bureaucratic ding-bats an earful, one or two or three at a time, at how pissed off I am that I'm paying the price for an entirely internal error on the part of their beloved bureaucracy. Bitches, the lot of them. And I've made sure to tell them so.

The whole week last week drove me nuts, and this week I've promised myself that it's only fair that I return that feeling in kind. I'll be back in their faces every day this week, whenever I have a spare moment, to try to sort this out on my timetable instead of theirs. In the meantime, I may be blog MIA, but that's par for the course at this point.

And now, at this time, I will cease discussing this topic, lest I get too pissed off before I go to bed. First, I need to make a special shout-out to the fine folks at Angeman for their fantastic piece of free personal finance software, iCompta. It's simple, intuitive software that's versatile and powerful, and best of all, you can color-code various categories of expenses and income. Which is, really, more than enough reason to use the software.

And finally, I want to thank everyone who voted for me in the 2009 20sb bootleg awards. I tip my hat to the winner of that contest, the fabulous Jenn of the notorious Free and Flawed. In colloquial nerd terms, Jenn gets an h/t from me and an offer by me for her very own super special badge like the one on the left, designed by yours truly.

My weekly planner has little quotes that are supposed to be helpful and/or inspirational in some way. Which is why I rarely bother to read them. Until, that is, I opened up said planner today to write down my schedule for the upcoming week, and noticed the quote for last week. Most things which are urgent are not important, and most things which are important are not urgent. -Dwight D. Eishenhower

Wow. I don't know what planet HE was living on when he said that. Because damn, it's about the most useless thing ever quoted. I mean, just ask the next surgeon you meet and you'll learn otherwise. And ask me. I've gotten my first syllabus and schedule for one (that's one) of my classes this semester, and judging by what I'm in for during today's lecture, the shitstorm is about to begin.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day from All Things Phil!

In honor of this day and of tomorrow's historic inauguration of the nation's first ever African American president, I've Obamacized myself. Change. It's more than an idea, it's a way of life.

First off, thanks to everyone for the outpouring of love and support and commiseration and high-fives and slaps on the back and "Hell yeahs" and Hail Maries--I think I just took that too far. But seriously, I got so much great advice and many concerned messages and emails and comments regarding my well-being while I spent the last week inhaling natural gas. The lesson of the week is this: even if your landlord doesn't believe you, if you bring it up enough and make it clear that you're not happy about the situation, you will get your way. On Thursday I had him come and check everything out, and he didn't smell anything until after about ten minutes of looking at everything. After an hour of bantering and explaining that I was smelling the carbon dioxide output, he finally realized that, whoah, I really was smelling natural gas.

My favorite part of the conversation was when he told me he likes me and doesn't want to lose me as a tenant, and suggested that we go over the weekend and get a new oven. See that, former roommate bitch? Most people do like me.

So it's out with the old...

And in with the new!

Well, it's not new new. We got this at a refurbished appliance store in the area, for something like $200. But it's new to me, and I've already cooked on it and everything. The best part is that it's self-ignited, so no pilots need to be lit all the time, and therefore the flow of gas is stopped unless I'm cooking. It's HEAVEN.

And the other good news? The heater is fully turned off, effectively stopping the remaining gas flow into the house. It's wonderfully refreshing and I'm all kinds of happy about this right now.

Oh, and one more thing. We bought the oven, then loaded and brought home the wrong one. We didn't notice until I looked at it right before we were about to bring it inside, and I was all "Wait, we pointed to the Whirlpool when we decided which one we wanted, and this one is General Electric." Oops. Oh well, second time was the charm.

Dear Grad School Professors, We need to talk. I'm taking a mere three classes this semester, and I feel I must point out that requiring I buy thirteen (that's THIRTEEN) textbooks between the three of them is ludicrous. And ridiculous. And it's totally fucking pissing me off, not to mention making me depressed. I realize this is graduate school, but seriously, requiring six textbooks for one class is beyond bullshit. Jesus, just pick ONE book and then maybe have a normal book or two for supplement. Or scan the chapters from the books that I know we'll only read single chapters from, and only for one week during the semester. "But you'll want these for resources later, believe you me," you say. To which I reply, "Blah blah fucking blah." All I see is that you're asking I pay an additional $952.25+tax for my education.

Sincerely peeved, Phil

Dear Textbook Companies,

We need to talk. Times are hard for everyone, but don't think for a second that I'll cut you any slack. I've played your games long enough, and it's time you change. No more publishing new editions just so you can sell more insanely overpriced books. You're wasting countless trees, creating more and more garbage for our landfills, and publishing some of the shittiest writing ever.

Oh, and if you think for one second that I believe that this book is actually $106.25. And Amazon has it for a steal at $82.75. I don't care how much education and expertise went into it, that's one expensive 224-page book.

Sincerely hating you, Phil

Dear Amazon.com,

We need to talk. Specifically, about your little toy Kindle. I can't say I'm enthralled by this less-than-attractive-looking piece of technology. I love reading a book, turning its pages, and let's face it, I love having a bookshelf full of books in my home. You can't lend books out to friends using Kindle, and you can't go to used Bookstores with Kindle. For so many reasons, your product is incredibly lame.

That said, I might feel differently about your product if you were actually targeting it a portion of the book industry that desperately needs to change: the textbook industry. I must say I like the idea of having all my textbooks on one handy little electronic device. It'd be SO nice to not have to carry those heavy tomes around everywhere, and more than that, Kindle might be just the key to lowering text prices for us poor college and graduate students. And after revealing how much my books will potentially run me if I pay full price, buying Kindle and then purchasing each book for oh, say, $30-40 for the digital versions, would be an amazing bargain that I think I could do business with.

I urge you to get in touch with me as soon as possible, and I will happily volunteer for beta testing of this brilliant new idea of mine. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely hoping to do business with you, Phil

After moving into my current place of residence, I informed Robert that I had no desire to ever live in a fixer-upper. I'm in one right now, and as a renter I think it's that much more of a pain in the butt. I've had to put in a lot of time and money of my own to turn this place into a place I like. After the fiasco with the heater (I turned off its flow of gas; I'm so done with it), I've come to realize something else I don't like about this place: the perpetual smell of gas. You'd think that, with time, my sense of smell would become immune to it. But the opposite has happened, and I can smell that shit from quite a distance. I like having a gas stove and oven, but I'm fairly certain that it's not supposed to reek the way it does. I didn't realize it bothered me so much until, when I decided the other day to stop at Best Buy and wander around, I suddenly found myself in the appliance section ogling new stoves. This isn't normal, even for me, which is why I paid attention to what my subconscious was telling me: inhaling gas constantly may sound like fun, but damn, it gets old after a while.

Earlier, before the visit to Best Buy, I interrogated my landlord and learned that it was he who had gone inside my place, though he tried to blame me for leaving the heater on. Total bullshit, but moving on, I mentioned how badly the entryway and kitchen smelled of gas. (Subconscious much?) I've checked and rechecked every pilot and it's all in working order. To me, smelling the gas is a huge red flag, but to my landlord, it's a moot point. "It's all working, and safely according to the manual. It's fine." Ah well, what do I expect, asking this question of a man who's been a chain smoker for so many years now that I doubt he even has any working taste buds left on his tongue.

And so it is that another item is on my wish list. I want to be rid of that supposedly new stove, which given my landlord's previous purchases, was most likely the cheapest one he could possibly find. He refuses to get me a new one, so I may have to take matters into my own hands. I hate having to do that, but someone's got to look out for me.

The best advice I've gotten so far, courtesy of both Robert and my dad, is to get in touch with the city and bring up the fact that a living space needs to be habitable. And being habitable includes not inhaling noxious fumes. Seems sound enough to me. Any further advice or ideas from you, dear reader, will be much appreciated.

Headwinds hit the plane at upwards of a hundred miles an hour. The mountains below, covered in pristine white snow, were being pummeled by the wind, as evidenced by the dust devils of snow flitting about the peaks. The sun, at first a brilliant orange, faded slowly over the horizon. Rays of sunlight played off the snow, seeming to glisten while maintaining perfect stillness. Overhead, a deep blue pervaded the light, fighting for the right to envelop everything in its path. Rays of sunlight persisted. No matter how much the earth tilted away from the sun, always a few rays held on. Fiery orange. Magenta. Red. Burgundy. A thought. What is wrong in this world, so much of it, is fleeting. Nature runs its course, and cares not for the inhabitants of the land. A force much greater is at work. Human problems are just that. Economies, civilizations, species and diversity of life, all rise and fall in time. Battles and wars are fought over whose beliefs are right, who has more power and money, who is attracted to whom, and how it all began. And through it all, Nature remains, laughing at the futility of human plight. Nature is wise enough to know that not only will that knowledge never be complete, it matters not. Nature prevails.

Two days ago, I had to hop a plane from Albuquerque back to LA, in easy time to return to school. On the first flight, to Salt Lake City, I was fortunate enough to have a window seat. The time of day could not have been better, as I was able to witness, over the course of the hour and a half flight, the entire process of the setting sun. Seeing that from 40,000 feet literally took my breath away.

Yesterday I turned the clock ahead and hit the mark of a quarter century. Twenty-five. That's how many years it's taken to get to where I am right now. That's how many years worth of memories I have stored somewhere in my brain. That's how many years I've gotten to spend on a planet that offers wonders the likes of which I all too often take for granted.

Today I'm in the moment, moving forward, laying the groundwork of a plan I hope will one day help the very small part of the world in which I live become a better place. Twenty-five years is a long time. In many ways, I've been alive for that long... but in so many more ways, I've only just begun to live.

Three and a half weeks. Just enough time to get away and get used to it. Just enough time to forget about the subtle details of the home you've created away from home. Not enough time to forget what you keep where and what you did the day you left. Placing the key in the lock, the deadbolt slides back. Strangely, the knob is unlocked. A vivid memory of checking the doorknob to see that it's locked springs to the front of the brain. Enter the house. Meet a strong odor of gas. Reflexes cause a wrinkle of the nose. Listen. Crickets chirping loudly. Crickets running across the carpet. A cricket sunning itself on the empty table. Raid, whew, it's so good to see you again. Bye, crickets.

An accidental spray of Raid. A resulting flare of fire in the heater. Oops.

The air conditioner is on full blast. Ninety degrees in the house. Gross. Walk outside to cool off. Walk back inside. That's funny. The thermostat has been moved to the hottest temperature. No wonder it's so hot in here. Burning up. Reality. Someone's been inside. Someone unlocked the door, turned the thermostat all the way up, then left and forgot to fully lock the door. Possessions remain, everything untouched, as it was before. Confusion. New list of home improvements. New locks for the doors. Turn off the heater, pilot and all. Beg for a more modern gas stove. At least electricity doesn't smell like gas.

Feeling sleepy. Jet-lagged by the one-hour difference in time. Used to being in bed by now. No point fighting it any longer.

I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but I am extremely addicted to one incredibly awful show. Of all reality television shows, this one takes the cake for bad TV. Momma's Boys, you are insane, melodramatic, unbelievable, and trashy beyond belief. And you know what? I LOVE YOU. Honestly, I couldn't care less about the outcome. I don't give a fig about whether any of the guys on the show finds his true love. I don't care that the girls start crying when they're not picked to stay on the show for the next episode. I don't care about any of the "challenges" presented that offer the girls a chance to prove themselves worthy the momma's boys hands in marriage (frankly, the challenges are rather sexist, but I digress).

What I do care about, and this is the important part, is the melodrama. That one girl being rejected by a mother because she posed in Playboy? LOVE. That other girl getting on Michael's mom's good side despite being terrified that her secret will get out? Her secret, of course, being that she was last year's Penthouse Pet? Obvious LOVE. That African American girl "disrespecting" the Iraqi mother by spitefully making out with her son, JoJo the wonder-eunuch? LOVE. The Iraqi mother convincing the producers to give her a helicopter ride to SEE said inter-racial hot tub make-out scene? LOVE. Said racist Iraqi mother punching the helicopter window and simultaneously yelling that she wants to castrate her son and kill someone? DOUBLE LOVE.

And then the icing on the cake... the dumbshit son actually SIDES WITH HIS RACIST MOTHER and opts to date white girls because "disrespecting his momma is totally unacceptable." It was at that point in last night's episode that I literally died and went to heaven the seventh circle of hell. And I'm at a total loss for words to describe how good this makes me feel.

Last night, I finished reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the latest book from J.K. Rowling. Having finished reading her seventh and final installment of Harry Potter last year, I wasn't sure what to make of this newest addition to my collection. I love Harry Potter, and will always hold a special place in my personal library for those books. My trepidation about Beedle was not the tales themselves, but whether Harry Potter would be continually written about, ad nauseam. As Jenn pointed out, there's such a thing as too much of a good thing. As soon as I started reading the book, though, I knew I was in for a treat. I pride myself on the fact that I had already read the first three books in the Harry Potter series by the time the first book became explosively popular, and like some black-lipsticked emo kid who's been into that one band from the very beginning, I bring this up as often as possible. Years ago, I read somewhere (I forget where I read it) that J.K. Rowling said that she could have full encyclopedia volumes written about each of her characters. The Tales of Beedle the Bard are all the proof I need to believe that.

I'm drawing my own conclusions here, but my take on the tales is not so much that they're newly written, by any means. Rather, it's like Rowling has had these tales in her head, or in some written form, for years, and finally got around to editing and publishing them. The tales are whimsical, creative, and reminiscent of many children's tales with which at least most of us are familiar. A good fairy tale does not need length, nor does it need great detail. All it needs is a simple plot, perhaps a moral, interesting characters, and the ability for the listener/reader to let his imagination run free. And Rowling definitely delivers.

After each tale, Rowling included notes from none other than Dumbledore. The notes are more like standard literary criticism than anything, and they're full of detail. They further prove to me that not only is Rowling a shrewd and creative storyteller; she has a wonderfully observant eye regarding human nature and human history. You don't have to look too far to see a variety of social commentaries. Despite Beedle's short length (it's barely over 100 pages), I've been delighted by how thought-provoking is each tale and its subsequent notes.

On a tangential note, when I went to Amazon to snag the link for the book, I decided to scroll down and read some of the customer reviews. They're always fun, perhaps less so for the content, and more so for the angry reviews that showcase incredibly poor grammar and spelling which always seem to slam an author for being "bad at writing."

The reviews for Beedle are many, but there are certain consistencies between them. There's the ones from the emo-style Harry Potter fans, who lavish praise on the book in five-paragraph essay form. Then there's the ones that are crushed that there's only five stories and they're not nearly as complex as Harry Potter (um, DUH, they're just simple tales). Just for kicks, here's two of my favorite reviews:

The Morality of Harry Potter by Charles E. Stevens

For me, the stories themselves are not the highlight of this short volume. Indeed, Rowling's wit and attention seem more focused on the commentaries than on the actual stories, which are a little too short, predictable, and simplistic to represent the artistry which Rowling is capable of. Instead, it was the commentaries which made me miss the world of Harry Potter, as it was here where the humor, irony, and subtle complexity of that universe shines through.

As Rowling makes fully clear in the introduction, these tales are about morality, just as "Muggle" fairy tales are. As Rowling notes, the only major difference is that the balance between free will and fate is tilted more toward the former. In these tales, she returns to themes familiar to readers of the Harry Potter series--generosity, self-reliance, love, and the irreversibility of death (and its corollary: the irreplaceable value of life). This insight into the moral universe of the world of Harry Potter is nothing new, but ultimately it is this moral background that gives the Harry Potter series its appeal to readers of all ages. For fans of the series, The Tales of Beedle the Bard will be a solid if not spectacular add to your bookshelf.

Cool, cool. And then there's this next one, which is considerably shorter and, of course, written by an emo kid who obviously doesn't believe in fairies.

Very childish, Dumbledore notes are boring too!! by "Gaby"

I found this book to be a disappontment, it is absolutely childish and Dumbledore note are boring boring boring

To which I reply, YOU'RE boring. But hey, way to come up with a title that actually said the same thing as your review, but with fewer words and better grammar. You're going to go far in life, I can tell.

So far, 2009 is off to a great start. The first day of the year went something like this: Slept in until nearly 10am, followed by lounging around of a few hours, followed by a trip up to Santa Fe for a fabulous lunch party, followed by a mimosa, followed by chicken salad on croissants, followed by chocolate mousse-ish dessert, followed by honey mead wine, followed by more chicken salad, followed by good conversation, followed by playing with the host's dogs, followed by meeting a pug-corgi mix and totally loving her and wanting to take her home with us, followed by another mimosa with some chicken salad, followed by our host trying to convince us to adopt the dog, followed by chatter, followed by raucous laughter, followed by a ten-minute discussion about Christopher Guest movies, followed by the drive home, followed by a relaxing evening that involved nothing worth noting here.

How was your new year's day?

And so it is that the Year of the Rat is on its way out. It's not over quite yet, so I'll still retain a bit of glory of my birth year, but since it's almost the solar new year, I thought it as good a time as any to steal an idea from Jana and write about twelve of 2008's defining moments in the life of Phil. January. I got accepted into graduate school and thus left my life in Albuquerque behind to move 800 miles away to Los Angeles. It was a rough journey, but it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I've learned more than I imagined possible, and have a new outlook on life to boot.

February. It took only one month, now that I've checked the dates on certain blog posts, to discover that my roommate was a raving lunatic. Discovering that she didn't like linings in her decorative trash cans was only the tip of the ice berg.

March. After our first stint of being apart, Robert came to visit. I skipped a week of school and work, walked on air the entire time, and the icing on the cake was that I got to see Wicked for the first time. Woot!

April. I got bitten by the video game bug and became a world-famous guitar hero. Rumor has it I rocked so hard I accidentally caused a few earthquakes.

May. I shook my booty on stage for karaoke. It wasn't the first time, obviously, but I sang Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody to an audience of one of LA's finest skinhead gangs. Win.

June. Back in Albuquerque, I had a love affair with chile relleno tacos. I also began my summer-long stint as Nurse Honey. AKA Nurse Ratched.

July. It only took six months, plus a crazy lesbian fight to the death, to encourage me to move the fuck out of my first place of residence into a far more fabulous place, replete with resident canine. Then it was back to Burque to resume my role as Nurse Honey.

August. I stayed up until all hours of the night watching the Olympics, and as a result became an expert at picking out Michael Phelps even from one of the panning ceiling camera shots as well as a huge fan of Bela what's-his-name, the gymnastics commentator. My stint as Nurse Honey was, after weeks of intense care, a complete success, and I headed back to LA for more grad school fun.

September. Glass meets foot, and Phil meets emergency room that later charges him exorbitant fees for less-than-stellar services. Much grumbling and hobbling around ensues.

October. I got to experience disaster firsthand, being mere miles from crazy-ass fires. I got to be merch gurl, and I was even a nun. Hells to the yeah.

November. I had one of the best Thanksgivings ever. I got my gay interior design geek on, got directions from Miss Thang, and discovered that I miss my grandfather.

December. I went to an ugly sweater party and had to drink heavily in order to have a mildly good time. I lost myself in PHP code for about a week or so and gave my website a huge make-over. I stopped denying myself chicken, and for the first time ever ate an incredibly delicious popular New Mexican dish: green chile chicken soup. And hi, it was AMAZING. I also had two incredibly proud moments that haven't yet been blogged about, either... after fighting and studying like crazy, I successfully passed my neuroanatomy class (C's get degrees, yippee!!). And finally, I put on the Mamma Mia! original cast recording this morning and when Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! was playing, I leaped into the doorway of the room where Robert was and subjected him to dance moves that I imagine the choreographers of the show would kill to see. Talk about ending the year on a high note.

Happy new year!

If you're reading this, that means I've successfully managed to do a complete overhaul of this website without it curling up, catching a hacking cough, and then dying in a fit of shivers and painful screams. Now that I've gotten that little introduction out of the way, welcome to the new and (somewhat) improved All Things Phil! (If you're reading this in a feed reader, and I hope you are, do click over and check out the new place.) I don't pretend to be a designer, so what you see is sort of a work in progress. But at least the "work in progress" part is fairly minimal stuff now. Like fixing some of the font sizes (et tu, comment form?), playing with a few color issues to make it all fit more cohesively, and trying to rescue my threaded comments, which don't seem to be working right now (SOS Nico!).

I've spent a great deal of time searching for themes I liked well enough to completely change all the visible aesthetics while keeping the frame. I've spent about as much time working in Photoshop, tinkering away with new mastheads and backgrounds. I even dragged poor Robert into it, badgering him with questions about what he thought of colors and designs I was trying out.

I'd say that I'm proud of myself for all of this, but I'm too tired from the hours I've spent working away to really be sure of that right now. Plus, this is my second major project to (at least sort of) get live. As I hinted at last week, I've been working on a little side project. It's a brand new website, and is more of a niche blog than I maintain here. I'll be maintaining that site in addition to this one, so go check it out, take a look around (I'm definitely proud of the work I've accomplished on it), and help me spread the word about Just Gay It!:

www.justgayit.net

A big thanks to everyone who sticks around and reads this website, I heart all of you. Peace, love, and blogging good times!

Here's a sad state of affairs for a Friday night: me, sitting on the couch, watching xXx on TV and actually paying attention to it. Well, the last part is actually the only sad part. I suppose my only redemption at this point is that I've been mostly ignoring the movie in favor of playing Cribbage on my laptop. What I DID watch just now, though, was the part of the movie were Vin Diesel does his whole "jump out of an airplane with a snowboard strapped to his feet then parachutes down to the mountain below then only barely manages to stop at exactly the right spot (just shy of the cliff's edge) before busting out his hand grenades and blowing up the communications base at the top of the mountain" action sequence.

It's riveting, and I can't tear my eyes away, right? And then there's suddenly all the bad guys trying to catch X and they're all on snowmobiles, only there's this enormous avalanche bearing down on them which manages to consume the snowmobilers like the sitting ducks they are on machines that can easily push a hundred miles per hour in ten seconds.¹ Meanwhile, the badass on the snowboard easily outruns the mobile home-sized blocks of ice traveling around him at high rates of velocity. And then the incredulity kicked in, right on cue, and I was like, "Oh, right, like THAT could ever actually happen."

And then, bless it, reality slapped me in the face and told me that I was actually watching this movie. And then I had to slap myself in the face. And then I blogged about it, slapped myself again, and told myself to go to sleep.

¹ Don't quote me on that number.