I wake up refreshed this morning. Feeling all right. Blink the sleep out of my eyes. See the sun shining through the cracks of my window. Stretching. Realize that the sun is not supposed to be shining when I get up for work. Check the time. Shout "Fuck!" out loud when I see that it's ten till eight. Not feeling so all right anymore. Fly into action. Running late, straight up. Amazing speed. Fly out of bed. Make myself presentable (and clean, too). Curse the alarm clock that failed me. Throw a lunch together. Bolt some food and call it "breakfast." Jump in the car and head toward work forty minutes later. Arrive at work. Realize that it's Tuesday, and work on Tuesday starts at 7:fucking30. Um. Oops. My bad?

It was an otherwise uneventful day. But every time this happens to me, the whole day gets thrown off, and trying to get it back on track is akin to attempting to train a gerbil to "sit" on command. As in, it's totally not worth the effort.

Oh well. C'est la vie. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe if I get it a nice lawn chair, the gerbil will actually sit down. Maybe. Better yet, maybe I'll learn not to use bad similes when I blog. Don't hold your breath, though.

The fun never ends, it would seem. I'm having such a blast in my continued effort for acquiring funding for this rather expensive endeavor that is graduate school. Just when I thought I had everything good to go, a quick call to the loan people informs me that, uh, they actually need more. But this time, when they tell me I'm all set they really, really mean it. Like, pinky swear mean it. Maybe I should find a Gideon and make them tell me that in his presence. Because if you've ever tried to lie to a Gideon, you might have found that it's pretty much impossible. And maybe then I could sleep more soundly, comfortable in the knowledge that, at least for this first spring semester, I'll be able to take my classes and not be homeless.

Instead, I'm stuck another day in flux. Waiting. Hoping. And, thanks to having to spend an inhuman number of hours on the phone trying to not die, I've run out of time. No more day phone calls for a few days. Blood-sucking cell phone companies. Damn them.

I'm sure the Gideons would have a proverb to share with me for the occasion. Hopefully nothing as lame as a local church whose marquee recently said "Make your new year's resolution Jesus's plan." Or something to that effect. Don't let me down, Gideons. I'm counting on you.

For some reason, my iTunes queue keeps going back to the speed metal. No matter how much I skip that shit. I'm pretty sure every other song that comes up is DragonForce. Which, had I a few drinks under my belt, might not be such a bad thing. But I'm totally not in the mood to hear super fast songs with titles that include words like 'rampage', 'revolution', and 'fury'. Like, ever. Sort of like how I have no desire to ever again hear that bullshit song Citizen Soldier from the rock and roll traitors. Thank you, I'll do without the propaganda in the movie theaters. At least with the ads they keep playing for the new and improved American "Don't Fuck With Us" Gladiators, it's wholesome, unadulterated, staged violence. I love how everyone for that show has some name that either encourages violence, or else is vaguely patriotic. "Militia" and "Justice" being my two favorites. And then, of course, the one person with a normal name turns out to be a total angry-she's-not-a-lesbian-because-she's-so-fucking-butch Russian chick whose name is, naturally, Helga. I mean, could television possibly get any better than that? I'll say no more, lest I be stating the obvious.

In summary, I'm still fighting a residual cough from the flu. It's back to work tomorrow. Time is running out. California is calling. Stress beckons, but I'm not giving in. This transition still sucks, though. And my neighbor on the other side of my wall is getting annoying, now pounding the wall for some reason. I know it's not me: there's no way you can pound the wall on account of the Silver Jews. No way.

I'm pretty sure I don't have any functioning brain cells left. In fact, I need new frying pans now. Blame here lies, of course, with the impending doom that is graduate school. I'm about to be removed from my comfortable little not-going-to-school life, where I have a good job and get the nights to myself during the week, and into the hotbed that is graduate school in California. Along with the fun and responsibility that comes with school, I have the added bonus of having to pay for school. No easy task, considering my ass is out of state, and I'll be living in California, of all places. Where the cost of living for one year rivals the cost of a mission to Mars.

I've been eyebrows deep in paperwork, online and off, trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to get the money I need to pay for my first semester of school. This might be easier were I starting in the fall, especially because then I'd have a few months to figure things out. Instead, I've got about a week and a half. I guess that's what I get for accepting the offer, and well hey, applying this soon in the first place.

But there's something to be said for this too, I suppose. Like, instead of spending two whole months agonizing over what a pain in the not-so-proverbial tush this is, I'll be through with the bitching and moaning in less than two weeks. Unless it doesn't happen. In which case, well, I'll just be screwed. And I probably wouldn't complain any more at that point anyway.

It's amazingly hard, though, to get all the necessary paperwork done. There's the initial process, where you have to go through your life history and then sign your life away to the tune of how much money you don't have. And then when you go to get the money you might get lucky enough to get on loan, you have to actually produce the documents for the school's perusal. Next on the list, no doubt, would be to donate a few duplicate bodily organs. You know, for collateral, or perhaps just as part of the payment process.

I wish there was some program available that would pay you for spam. Perhaps one of the companies that gets your address when you sign up for different services online (*cough* roommate finder services! *cough*) should be forced into a deal where, because they're sending ME email and taking up MY time by clogging up my inbox, they should pay a dollar for each spam message I receive. A small price to pay when you consider how expensive other forms of advertising can be. And it'd be altruistic enough that I'd be less annoyed by the spam, because I'd probably be making like $50-$100 a day. It could be all forms of spam, too, and then all that comment spam I get on this blog could be put to good use as well. I'd be living it large in California in no time. Sayonara, student loans!

Whatever, Phil. Keep dreaming.

A new way to ring in the new year. Almost back to normal. I could've eaten a horse at dinner, though I don't actually fancy ever doing that. The best way to bring in the new year, though: bowling. Three games in the space of an hour. Shocked at how much energy I suddenly had.

• Phil: 91...102...177!

• Robert: 48...114...249!!!!

I got my butt kicked in the end. But damn. What a time we had. This year is definitely off to a great start.

Here's to New Year's Eve plans that don't wind up panning out. This year, I was presented a variety of options:

• a 24-hour movie marathon
• a night of homophobia fun with my brothers and some friends
• dinner and partying at a gay bar with a bunch of gay friends

All were such tempting and juicy options. Oh, but to pick the one best way to end the year 2007 and ring in the oh-eight. Remembering that this is the one and only chance for me to celebrate this occasion, forever, it was important to consider all my options.

Re: movie marathon - I spent two days confined to my apartment in a haze of fever and sickness. And because I wasn't able to utilize any of my brain cells in such a state, I watched movies pretty much the entire time. I'll pass on that one.

Re: "night of fun" - To start, most of the discussion of the evening would, given past precedent, involve talking about how much fun you've had tonight while you're still at the party. When not talking about all of said fun, topics will shift between all the "hot girls" everywhere and the latest and greatest jokes that involve gay guys on barstools. Raucous laughter will, of course, ensue. This one didn't even make it to the top ten for the decision making process. Pity.

Re: totally gay new year! - Dinner at Macaroni Grill and then hanging out at a local gay bar afterward. The best part about this deal: I could spend the evening with my partner, and we could enjoy the company of friends. Bingo.

But WAIT! There's a fourth option:

• relax at home with your honey!

Given the above mentioned options, and taking into consideration the fact that I'm still recovering from, uh, the flu, I opted for this fourth choice. A nice rich Italian food dinner, followed by a few hours in nice, loud bar just didn't seem to be, how you say, "what the doctor ordered." Another time, perhaps. Because hey, New Year's isn't the only time of year to celebrate.

So, how has my New Year's Eve gone? Like this: relaxing at home watching The Twilight Zone with Robert. Going to dinner at a local coffee shop/restaurant. Eating about one-third of my meal. (Which, by the way, only took me, like, an hour.) Going back home. Thawing out. Relaxing some more.

Indeed, with the exception of the extremely cold temperature outside, a truly fabulous evening. Granted, last year we had about two feet of snow on the ground, so in some ways, this is preferable. But. According to weather reports, it was 29 degrees outside when we were out. Which is totally impossible. My chattering teeth and shivering body probably would have provided a more reliable reading of the temperature. Maybe something in the vicinity of, oh, I don't know, Zero Kelvin.

Am I excited for 2008? Absolutely. It brings with it the promise of newness, school of the graduate variety, love that will continue to grow, and much more. I'll not drink to all that tonight, but I will at some point in the near future.

And, gradually, I've started to feel less like my head is stuck in a vice. And my body actually feels like it wants food, having previously rejected just about everything I introduced. And my energy level has risen so that I can write more than a few sentences at a time. I've watched a plethora of movies over the past two days. I've spent more time curled up on the couch over the past two days than I have in probably the last month and a half. Over the past two days, I've eaten enough food to satisfy the appetite for the average hamster. And over the last 24 hours or so, I've consumed about 3/4 of a gallon worth of Gatorade.

Hence why I became a hermit, too weak to face the world outside. Robert came and rescued me today, though, by taking me to the grocery. It only took me an hour to traverse the whole store. I pushed the shopping cart around and gave new meaning to poor response time, as I dragged my ass around the store and skirted collisions with whole displays only after Robert called it to my attention and helped pull me away.

But such are the signs of improvement for yours truly. I had some vegetable broth and crackers a mere hour ago, and already I'm starting to feel pangs of hunger. With any luck, I'll actually sleep through the night tonight, and will get to ring in the new year a healthier, and much happier, Phil.

Application to graduate school. Check. Acceptance to graduate school. Check. Going insane trying to get everything set up for graduate school. Check. Today's fun: now that Christmas is officially over, I feel compelled to get in touch with people in an effort to find a place to live. Round one and I'm down for the count. Majorly.

1. I check the university listings for nearby off-campus housing.
2. I find a cool-sounding deal.
3. I respond to said cool-sounding deal.
4. I run screaming away from said cool-sounding deal.

My very first response to a listing gives me pause. Makes me think about just how much there is to consider when looking for a room to rent/a roommate. Gone, during said first response (over the phone), is the idea that the only things that matter is a decent place for a decent price, and good amenities and conveniences. Nay, there's more: one must be able to maintain one's sanity.

What's the lesson learned here? That not everything that looks great in writing will end up being that great in reality. How did I learn this? By spending half an hour on the phone today with someone who's probably borderline certifiable. In that short time, this complete stranger revealed to me the following information. Let me point out here that he considered this a very abridged version of his tale ("I would probably tell you way more if you wind up rooming with me"). Which is, to say the least, fucking scary. Okay. Here's what I learned:

He's Jewish and extremely judgmental. As in, he judges every man and woman he sees by their appearance, and whether he deems them to be "ugly" or "beautiful." It's just his nature. And he's totally straight. One hundred percent, right? Like, he only likes girls. But this one time, there was this, not to be insensitive or anything, very aggressive Latino guy who was *ahem* gay, and who was very pushy. And this guy, this good straight Jewish guy, is really nice to everyone, and just as a way of being nice to people, likes to give them back rubs. So this one time, after giving this *ahem* gay guy a back rub, the *ahem* gay guy decides it's his turn to do the massage (on the Jewish rental guy's bed, no less). And it turns out the *ahem* gay guy winds up going for the you-know-where region, which is totally uncomfortable but yet kind of invigorating, so he totally gets the best of him. So this totally straight Jewish guy is suddenly very confused, and doesn't actually know any more if he's fully straight. Well, he knows, but he doesn't really know, see? And it's all this aggressive *ahem* gay guy's fault, for leaving him confused about his sexuality. And maybe, if you wind up rooming with him, you might be good gay therapy for him.

I'm not sure what form of "therapy" the guy had in mind when he said that, but I knew one thing immediately: No. Fucking. Way. Will. I. Be. Rooming. With. This. Wacko.

At least that was an easy decision to make. Moving right along.

In the spirit of continuing to chronicle the holidays as I experience them this year, it's time for the "Day After Christmas" installment, wherein I discover that if there's any day that can be considered the WORST day to do any shopping, it would be precisely on this day every year: December 26.* Whereas the intent of my shopping was to go in search of 2008 calendars (yearly tradition: half-priced calendars are a good thing), find some little Betty Boop letters for my desk, and to hit the grocery to replenish my nearly fully depleted food supply, other people go shopping for two reasons:

• Returning unwanted Christmas gifts
• Checking out more huge sales

I have two words to describe the malls: Oy. Vay. People were everywhere. I usually like to go and look around, and more or less just window shop. I couldn't even do that. It got to the point that I found myself missing the usually crowd that frequents the mall just to walk up and down, loitering here and there just because it's the cool thing to do. To hang out at the mall. At least then I can actually walk into stores and not want to tossing things from the aisles because it's impossible to move through the aisles or even look at what there is to see.

So. Long story short. I got what I was looking for. Offers of fabulous sales did not, in fact, entice me to make any companies less whiney about their "drops in sales." I did, however, finally find a set of cool clip on sunglass frames for my glasses. Which means not only can I now see to drive: I can even see to drive in broad daylight! It's awesome.

*If you read carefully, you'll notice that my introductory paragraph to this blog entry is, in fact, a single, long-ass, sentence.

• A little reflection…

Historically speaking, I usually spend Christmas in the fine state of Louisiana. There, I visit the extended family that does celebrate the holiday. Which means that every non-Jewish family member would get gifts, and I would gorge myself on all the food at each house we’d visit. Was this a problem for me? Not really, no. The problem was related more to a sense of belonging than anything else.

Simply put, I was surrounded by dozens of people at any given time. Family, no less. Those moments, especially those of the past two or three years, were among the loneliest I have ever experienced. Countless hours spent on the road, driving at least eight hours at a time, to visit family. People I saw at most three or four times each year. People I barely knew. People who expected me to behave as they do, to share their interests, and eagerly watched you grow, in the hopes that you’d become a man’s man, and meet a beautiful girl to marry.

Extended family is great, and visiting is always fun. But all I can remember of the past few years is sitting in the car, driving from place to place. Always attempting to lose myself in a good book, good music. Anything to keep my mind from wandering, and especially to keep from having to partake in the “male bonding” of my siblings. Ironically enough, leave it to the gay brother to be the only one who doesn’t enjoy crocheting blankets to pass the time on the road. I lost count of how many times I got lectured by my brothers, telling me that I needed to go buy some yarn and get to work. The concept that I didn’t enjoy it was lost on them. We were all of us expected to be the same. To enjoy the same things. And if, by chance, you differed, expect to be ostracized.

For the last few years, I realized more and more exactly who I was, and what it was I wanted (which was generally very different from what they wanted). I took it in stride, though. Last year, just prior to leaving on the big trip, I came out to my family. Support was offered, sort of. As in: “Yay! You finally told us what we already knew. Now, as long as you don’t actually act gay, we’re perfectly okay with it.” I went on the trip one more time. And it was probably one of the most stressful experiences I’ve ever had.

• Fast forward to present…

I just experienced the most wonderful Christmas day of my entire life. I was not surrounded by dozens of family members. But I was not alone. I spent most of the day with my partner. Waking up with him, lounging around all morning together, exchanging late Chanukah and Yule gifts, taking pictures in the hopes of capturing even a sliver of the magic.

Going to lunch at a crowded IHOP. Waiting half an hour to get seated and then enjoy a nice lunch together. In the later afternoon and on into the evening, going over to a friend’s house to enjoy dinner and good company. Robert replete with Santa hat. Me in an Elf hat. Trying to blink away the little silver square that appears every time I blink following the flash of a camera.

Not wanting the day to end. Spending the remainder of the evening with Robert, exhausted but blissful. Looking into his eyes. Losing myself. Falling even more in love. After all the gifts, the activity, the company, the chatter, I know what is the greatest gift of all. Grinning from ear to ear. Literally.

I have two words to describe the state of affairs of every single parking lot in this city: fucking insane. What do you expect, though, right? It's that time of year: the time when procrastinators and bargain hunters alike take to the streets in search of the elusive "perfect gift." Which, by the way, doesn't exist at the moment, because everything (and I mean everything) is picked over. I know this because I saw the crazed look on this one woman's face in Target as she went racing through the aisles clutching a box containing some form of kitchen appliance. The gritted teeth, the grimace, the white knuckles. And the trail of like three other people asking her where she had found it.

And do I dare mention the parking lots? I couldn't tell if I was in England, because of all the cars driving on the left side of the road, or if the traffic jams all over the parking lot meant that I was back in Los Angeles.

People, people, people. It's Albuquerque! Do we honestly need all the SUVs? I'm becoming continually more offended by the damn things. It's bad enough dealing with the asshole drivers who think they can drive them like sports cars. But the double-parking in compact parking spaces so that not only were two parking spots taken up, but the cars' fucking asses rear bumpers were taking up half the lane. Bitches.

Johnny Depp is amazing. Helena Bonham Carter is brilliant. The whole movie is a serious adrenaline rush. The music is intense, the lyrics are impossibly fast, the story hooks you and it's impossible not to get completely caught up in it. The darkness on the screen haunts you, and yet makes you feel like a part of the movie. You feel like you shouldn't actually be there, but can't tear yourself away, can't leave even though these people's lives are none of your business. You're a witness, and at times want to shout out what you know, or what you've seen, to the unsuspecting characters on screen.

Robert mentioned going back to see it a second, and maybe a third, time, and I have every intention of joining him. It's that good. Although I have to admit, the prospect of going to the barber soon is much more daunting now than it was yesterday. Even though they're not always perfect, it's at least a good thing Supercuts doesn't use straight razors.

I learned a few lessons this evening while in the presence of the familial unit. Some said lessons are broadly applicable to life, while others apply to this one area of my life.

• Consuming alcohol in the presence of my folks is the best way to handle these people.
• Trying to make light about something "gay" does nothing to help ease their comfort with the subject. It does just the opposite. Suddenly, gay-bashing jokes abound, choruses of "ewww" are heard, and yours truly is shocked even more by the homophobia that ensues. Can you say "awkward"? Can you say "uncomfortable"? Can you say "hateful and inappropriate"?
• Family members say "I'll visit you" as if you've already invited them to wherever it is you may be. Must think of a tactful way to avoid such unwanted visits. Maybe I'll try "I don't want you to visit me" and leave it at that.

The beer did its job, though. I'm in considerably better spirits than I usually am after family functions these days. I give thanks to you, Blue Moon. I am ever so grateful.

• Food Coma: (n) the state of being resulting from the consumption of copious amounts of foodstuffs in a short period of time, results and side effects which include, but are not limited to, drowsiness, sluggishness, slowed functioning of the brain and musculature, causing walking to become shuffling, delays in communication, and the desire to think only about said devoured food

Yes, indeed. I am currently in a food coma. And why yes! My typing speed has been cut in half. This particular food coma is the direct result of an excellent staff holiday dinner gathering secret santa dinner. At an amazing Italian restaurant. Where food, once it appeared, just seemed to keep coming. Salad. Eggplant Parmigiana. Spaghetti. Bread and butter. Cheese Manicotti. Cheese Ravioli. Garlic Mashed Potatoes. Tiramisu!

My first time to ever eat Tiramisu. Waves of pleasure induced by the stuff. Heavenly. Fantastic.

My partner watches me. Smiles. Tells me he’s never seen me in such a food-drunken state, and that it’s cute. I stop and smile back at him, letting his words sink in. And I smile back. A wonderful evening made perfect by such a touching observation. Bliss ensues. Ahhh…….

These aren’t his precise words. They’re actually my own words, but they seem so fitting that I had to use them for the sake of my questionable literary prowess.

I made the mistake of going to the mall tonight. A final effort to finish out the Secret Santa extravaganza for the year. I headed over there about quarter to 8, and for some stupid reason found myself wondering if all the stores would be closing soon. When I pulled into the parking lot, however, I recognized my folly. Earth to the Jewish guy! Christmas is less than a week away. Oh yeah. For the most part, the hour I spent in the mall was a fairly normal experience. The main difference between tonight and any average trip to the mall was mostly the sheer masses of people swarming the place. Oh, and maybe the ten-year-old kids I saw running around Spencer's Gifts. I mean, really, what's so unwholesome about a fourth-grader running around such a family-oriented environment? Chasing his sister around with a little plastic keychain which, every time you press the little button, says "Fuck you!"? Nothing, that's what. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" Followed by uncontrollable giggling. Meanwhile, mom is oblivious, as she's too busy looking at a book of drinking sex games.

Now that's what I call holiday spirit. Eat your heart out, Mike Huckabee.

An exciting piece of electronic mail arrived in my inbox today. An offer the likes of which entails a difficult decision. I'm left overwhelmed, torn in more ways than I'd care to be. Amid the happiness, I feel sadness. Amid the anticipation, I feel dread. Amid the excitement, I feel fear. Amid the confidence, I feel doubt. Nowhere do I see a place for "I don't know." Through it all, I feel love. And I hold on tightly, for without it I won't make it. For today, I leave it at "I don't know." Love and time will guide me. Sleep beckons. Tomorrow is another day.

The key to a truly excellent meal involving Chinese food: chop sticks. No matter where you go, it's key to always have a pair on hand. Which is why I took a pair of my very own brand new $2.50-for-a-set-of-four-from-Target chop sticks with me for Chinese food dinner tonight. The food tasted twice as good as it usually does. Seriously.

I have to relinquish my crown. I was formerly under the impression that I was the queen most accomplished individual when it came to ending conversations. I've been known to say sometimes random and totally unrelated things in the middle of conversations, thus causing them to pause, or else end entirely. It's just a weird little quirk of mine. Tonight, however, I realized I was in the presence of a master conversation killer. In the form of an older sibling. I've known the kid for a lifetime, and have finally figured out the trick to his trade. Whereas I tend to spout out something mundane or off-topic, he relies on only one line:

You know what I mean?

I can't say quite why, but I get really, really fucking annoyed by this. We have our differences as it is, and this just tends to irritate things for me. Why don't I illustrate with an example? I can't think of a good reason not to, so here goes. The following example happened tonight while we were out bowling.

< awkward conversation>

I forget how it actually got to this point, but I mentioned that I'm currently reading The Kite Runner. The hermano has never heard of it, so I was trying to explain it a little bit.

Phil: So I'm reading The Kite Runner. Brother: Never heard of it. What's it about? Is it, like, about what it's like there right now? Phil: It's a story set in Afghanistan. It follows the life of a boy as he grows up there. Brother: Oh. Phil: It also touches a lot on the culture and the way of life in the country. You learn about the two main differences in class, and how one is not considered truly "Afghan", and so is treated as less than human. Brother: Yeah. What's sad is that really goes on, you know what I mean?

< /awkward conversation>

The word sad always seems to preface the impending communication homicide. And somehow, the word and its related phrase seem to find their way into every single interaction we have. So, in the example mentioned above, here's what happened:

I responded with a scathing "Yes, I know what you mean, that's exactly what I just said. Hello!" And promptly went to talk to someone else. It seems it's something of a familial thing in my family, to take what one person says ("one person" being me) and turning it into their own. That last comment from my brother can be translated thusly:

"Phil, did you know that Afghanistan had two groups of people, and one of the groups treated the other group like shit because the ones in power felt that the others were inferior? It's true. That's, like, totally horrible, you know what I mean?"

I don't know where I'd be without such conversation. For one thing, I'd probably know nothing about the world around me. And I wouldn't have the slightest clue as to why I used Lee Michaels' name in the title of this blog entry. But i might laugh at that anyway, since I would assume that it was meant to be witty or funny.

Twenty-four hours. That's about how long it's been that I've now been running Mac OS X Leopard on my computer. And is it ever totally rocking my world! I've had my iBook G4 for about three years now, having gotten it in Panther's heyday. I never did upgrade to Tiger, figuring that Panther suited me just fine, and who needed those fancy little Dashboard widgets, anyway? I do, that's who. I'm hooked on those things. Case in point: I've got a Twitter widget, a WordPress widget that isn't working all that well at the moment, and I'm playing and searching for more. It's fantastic! Other aspects I'm enjoying: Spaces. It's weird not to have a whole bunch of windows open in one screen. But considering I have a tiny 12-inch screen, having multiple screens to work from is, to say the least, fucking awesome. I have yet to try Time Machine, but I'll probably get to that tomorrow.

In other non-nerd-related news, I have a confession to make. When I went to the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy show the other night, I wanted to buy a t-shirt. You know, to commemorate the experience. The only t-shirt I liked, however, was a women's fitted tee. Unfortunately, my figure is not quite girlish enough for the curvature required of the fitted tee. I was like "Damn, I really want that shirt." But the girl behind the counter didn't seem to think it wise for me to purchase it, and I wound up getting a couple of pins instead. Which totally rules.

Finally. I realized today why I just barely got my glasses in time. Aside from the part about actually seeing clearly for a change, and being better able to see when I drive. Aside from all that, yes. I've lost count of the number of times my hands, for one reason or another, have crossed in the vicinity of my face, and nearly made contact, only to have a finger or two poke my glasses. I had no idea that I was so perilously close to poking my own eyes out. I like my eyes, and am grateful for the protection my specs offer, even at the cost of having to clean the things at least once a day thanks to all the fingerprints I get on them. Though I guess, in the end, it's worth it.

A week and a half ago, I had no idea that I would get to see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in concert. And now I have. I was surprised when I heard they were coming. Yeah, I was way out of the loop. But I got into the loop just in time, and was thrilled to be going to go see them live. The show was nothing short of amazing. I've been listening to them for years, and this was the first opportunity I had to see them. The venue wouldn't be my venue of choice to see a concert, but I wasn't about to be picky because this opportunity was too good to pass up.

Before tonight, I'd only ever seen one concert at this venue, only this one was in the indoor "Grand Ballroom", and the previous show I'd seen was in the "Outdoor Amphitheater." The problem is this: it's a casino (which sucks enough as it is), and the casino only wants to bring in big names so that they can fill their massive and impersonal spaces. Case in point: Big Bad Voodoo Daddy = swing band = music to jump and dance around to. Not to sit in assigned chairs and stare at the stage from a hundred feet away. Plus, it's swing! It's way more fun if everyone is closer to the stage and jumping and dancing. This seated audience bullshit was far too impersonal for such a fun and engaging band.

After having purchased the tickets, I learned that the show had a Christmas/holiday theme to it. I remained undeterred, however, and kept my fingers crossed that they'd play a variety of their music. And they did not disappoint me. They played several of my favorite songs, and others that I didn't know as well, if at all. The Christmas music was also swing, of course. So I loved it all. Plus, when they're singing about getting drunk with Santa Clause, it's impossible not to get into it.

The hardest part of the evening was when it came time to leave. The band went out with a bang, ending the encore set with their classic "So Long, Farewell, Bye Bye," replete with a break in the middle of the song to start playing "Sweet Home Alabama" before jumping back to the song. But no. The hard part. Leaving. As in, making my way to the parking lot, glad to be free of the smoky casino with the scary blood-shot-eyed chain-smoking gamblers. Trying to find my car. Remembering that I had parked and had a good visual idea of where I was. Noticing that the light poles had special signs on them denoting zones by letter and number. Realizing that I probably should have taken note of those earlier, so I wouldn't have to comb the parking lot row by row, as I wound up doing.

Fortune smiled. I found my car. I drove home. I concluded an excellent night. Sleep engulfed me.

Note: I brought my camera and took a bunch of pictures. However, I'm having issues with getting photos to show up properly on my blog, so for the moment I don't have them here. Look to your right and you'll see them, or else you can always go here to find them.

Getting everything in order takes time. Not to mention energy. In other words, precious commodities which have been lacking in great quantities for me as of late. Tonight, I did my best to change that, a little bit. I finally got sick of the horribly cramped space my apartment was quickly becoming, and even though I was experiencing pretty serious exhaustion, I attacked the place with gusto. I made some good progress, and at least now I can actually see the majority of the carpet near the couch. The end goal of the cleaning will be to rid myself of the masses of things I never use anyway. Amazingly, it's been better practice for me to have that shit out in the open where I get sick of it, rather than just stuffing it into some sort of storage device and forgetting about it.

Other cleaning has involved my computer. I went through my programs folder, on the off chance that I had some programs that I had downloaded but no longer used. Over the course of the nearly three years I've had my computer, it turns out I accumulated oh, say, 30 or so programs I used approximately one time each. I bid them farewell, good riddance, etc. Just by deleting the silly games or complicated programs, I've managed to free up a good two or three gigabytes of space on my hard drive. Perhaps with this consolidation of files and whatnot, my computer might function more happily.

Of course, having some incentives to clean was really helpful. Sure, I wanted things cleaner, and that in itself is at least somewhat motivating. But I have Mac OS Leopard to look forward to installing on my computer. I've got a cool new computer stand slash filing cabinet to construct and add to the decor. And I had some new decoration to put up, in the form of a flippin' sweet Rocky Horror Picture Show wall hanging.

On a totally unrelated note, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy is coming to town tomorrow night, and yo, I'm going.

Sheesh. I missed one day at work, and wouldn't you know it, but the day I return, the work hits me with the intensity of freeway traffic in LA. As in, it's not a pretty sight. Not that it was unexpected, mind, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. The main difference, I think, lies in the area of control. The work piles up, sure, but I can muddle my way through it. This weekend, I had the [questionably] fine folks over at SuperShuttle getting me from the airport to my motel and back again. I used this company once in Denver, and found them to be quite awesome. The LA crew operated differently, in their own little LA style, if you will. Let me see if I can sum up said LA style:

In true LA driver style, ignore all semblance of lane markings, and switch lanes in those big-ass vans whenever you feel so inclined. Drive 50+ mph in residential areas, 30 on the freeway only if there's a big traffic jam (and then, of course, switch lanes approximately every 10 seconds, just for good measure), and then speed up to at least 70 mph when you catch a break in traffic, but don't forget to slam on the brakes when you realize that traffic is shit, and you have to stop after all.

So basically, I paid $50 each way (including tip) for some crazy-ass driver to take my life into his hands (I didn't have any female drivers). The appreciation and gratitude I felt for the drivers and the service they provided stopped at being thrilled to not have to be navigating through the streets of LA myself. Because had I gone that route, I probably never would have left the airport. And if I had, I may have opted, at some point very early on, to turn around and try to go home, only to get lost and wind up in the middle of Death Valley, or else some small town in Nevada, where I would ditch the rental car and try to hitchhike my way back to New Mexico, holding up a sign that might read: I don't care where you take me as long as it's far, far away from LA.

Okay, so maybe LA wasn't that bad. My main complaint was the amount of people, and, more specifically, how much traffic there was all the time, everywhere you go. Maybe all the traffic issues would be resolved if everyone traded in their cars for Vespa scooters. I mean, you'd get around town just as fast, and there would be Vespas everywhere. What's not to love about that? Plus, potentially getting hit by a Vespa seems way better than getting hit by, say, an H2 Humvee. I'm just saying.

And speaking of sayings, that special church had a new message posted for the world to see:

A Christian is a hand through which Jesus helps.

I'll not comment further, except to say that I think it's time they seriously consider firing the creative genius behind these little slogans. I'm half-expecting the next quote to read something like:

A Christian is a lifeguard through which Jesus saves.

And then I'll be able to say I really have seen everything.

Tens hours worth of travel time to get from LA back home. Have to be at work tomorrow at 7:30 in the morning. My DVD player is rebelling and is now refusing to recognize my 30Rock DVDs. All this makes for a tired and sad Phil.

Sometimes I wish I could stop bad television and trade places with someone on screen. Last night, I was flipping through some channels and stumbled upon a very controversial show: Deal or No Deal. I think the controversy of the show lies not so much in what they actually do on the show, but more in what they actually do on the show. For most people, I think it's one of those "hate to love" shows. Not for me, though. I love to hate that show. I saw it for the first time last night, and what little IQ I have was quickly cut in half in the space of one minute. Because there's not even anything engaging about the show. It's not like you're watching some freakishly brilliant trivialist win anything. Hell, you're not even watching anyone get lucky by guessing a letter or two or spinning a big wheel. You're just watching people guess which briefcase has the most money in it, and then get totally pissed off when they pick the one that only has $400,000 in it. There's no skill involved, and you could have a genius pick the case with $1 in it, and then Britney Spears could turn around and pick the one with $1,000,000.

I mean, shit! I would have traded places with the dumbass contestant who whined over $400,000 any day. I'd be like, "Fuck! You have a deal. I'm going home." Not that I would ever be in such a position, but on the slim chance that I was in the audience at that instance, I probably would have run up to her and slapped her. I suppose doing that would be just as good as getting the money, in terms of how good I'd feel afterward.

But as much as I hated watching the damn show, there was one particular aspect of it that was solid gold: the moments during which the camera would sweep across the audience to see the reactions to the goings on of the guessers-that-be. While most of the people were on the edge of their seats, clearly caught up in the suspense, there was one person who clearly knew what he was doing, and who probably should have been the contestant on stage: a toddler. That's right. A three-year-old girl was watching, and every time the whiny contestant would nervously clench her teeth, they'd cut to the toddler, who would have a stern expression on her face who was clearly shouting orders: "Don't be such an idiot! Make the deal already, you dumb bitch!", she seemed to say.

And that one little toddler redeemed all faith in humanity for me that the show had only moments before sapped from me. Yowza.

If you ever wondered about who would be the absolute worst Santa Claus ever, let me spare you the trouble. You're looking at him. See, we're doing this Secret Santa deal at work. And when asked if I wanted to participate, I said sure! But my Jewish ass had no idea how the whole Secret Santa thing works. Oh, and I didn't bother mentioning that to anyone. I just figured I'd figure it out one way or another. By not really paying attention to anything other than the strange little survey I had to go on for the poor soul for whom I'm playing Santa. And, truth be told, I hadn't the slightest idea how to use all the little clues provided from the questionnaire for this business. Pathetic, I know. Perhaps I can blame my unworthiness as a Secret Santa on the fact that tonight is the first night of Chanukah. It sort of snuck up on me, and before I could even think to go in search of a fabulous menorah, the holiday is already upon me. So what have I got instead? Probably the cheesiest and most dreadful version of a menorah the world has ever seen. It's cloth, and has little cloth candle flames to place on the thing. It's symbolic and shit, so it'll do for now. And it's travel friendly, which is good because I'll be traveling this weekend. But next year, I aim to have a menorah so incredible that people all around will suddenly want to convert just so they can go out and get one just like it. Or, at the very least, they'll want to be honorary Jews for the week, and come over to my house and celebrate with me.

Speaking of which, I saw the most interesting sign tonight coming home from the grocery store. There's this one church a mile or so up the street from me that always has strange quotes on the sign out front, facing the street. The marquee displayed the following message:

Happy Hanukkah to all our Jewish friends. Shalom.

What surprised me was not this nice message from the Perfected Jews of this particular church*, but rather the fact that it made perfect sense. Grammatically. Because the place is notorious for its total lack of syntax with regard to its marquee. I think the last message it had displayed said something like:

A Christian is someone through which Jesus speaks.

Aside from the fact that they totally misused their pronouns, thereby referring to a person as something non-human or inanimate (as in they should have said "through whom"), the message itself really just makes no sense. Every time I saw it, I'd try to wrap my head around what they were trying to get at, and still I fail. But I give them props for the cool Chanukah message.

*Note: I have no idea how this particular church feels about Evil Ann. I seriously doubt they follow that bitch's logic about Christians being "Perfected Jews" (i.e. the nice message they had posted on their marquee is a good indication that they're pretty cool). I included the phrase for humorous purposes only, as well as to make a statement (again) about how much Ann Coulter sucks at life.

It's been one heck of an interesting evening. I've been wandering around noticing just how much I've been missing. My glasses finally arrived today. It seems like it's been ages since I had my eyes checked, it's only been a little over two weeks. When I first put on my new specs, I was shocked at how clear everything suddenly became. And every time the ladies at the optical shop asked me how the fit, all I kept saying was "I can see! Oh wait, what did you say? Yeah, they fit fine. But shit, it's a miracle!" And by miracle, I mean that I was amazed at just how little effort it took to see well. I think it'd been so long since I'd seen really clearly that I'd forgotten that you're really not supposed to have to work really hard just to see things in your immediate environment.

So when I drove home, I was stunned at how much I discovered I don't notice about the areas I drive. There was so much stuff to see! This isn't exactly a new revelation, either. Several months ago, I was wearing my old glasses while galavanting around town with Robert. He heard me gasp probably more than any human being should, as I gleefully pointed out all sorts of things to him as we drove along. And I'm a fucking native to this city. You'd think I would have the place fully committed to memory by now.

I've been wearing them all evening, breaking them in a little bit and getting used to them. When I walked outside to check the mail, I suddenly became aware of the details of the complex. I usually only ever notice the barbecue pit and the volleyball court. But today I noticed some of the differences in the landscape around the buildings beyond that area. Basically, the realization that there are things beyond my range of nearsighted vision came pretty much as a complete shock to me. You'd think it wouldn't, given that I was at least aware of everything's existence. But it's like I was noticing it all for the first time anyway.

Even in my apartment, things look different to me. It's almost like I now have x-ray vision, the way I'm seeing and noticing things around here. It's uncanny. Oh, I imagine the novelty will wear off soon enough, but I know one thing for sure: it's nice to see so clearly again.