I made the mistake today of deciding that I wanted to do some cleaning. What was I thinking? In the beginning, the idea started because I've got some pretty serious clutter. I'm usually pretty good about at least keeping all my junk organized in some form or other. Which is why I have two boxes full of old papers and notes from various college courses, and/or miscellaneous events or happenings. Well, they were at my folks' house, happily away from me and not impacting my life in any shape or form. But then, for reasons beyond my power of comprehension, I was forced to take my stuff into my home. And I found it easier just to keep everything in its box rather than actually go through any of it and decide if anything within held even some minute significance to my very existence.

But space is finite, and I finally decided I wanted to clean up my apartment some. So I attacked the boxes. So far, I've managed to make a small dent in the heap of papers in only one of the two boxes. Here's a list of a few items I've found so far:

• Homework and tests from a bunch of audiology classes. Interestingly, I have homework assignments that didn't even belong to me. As in, they belonged to other students in the class. Somehow, I was the lucky one who wound up with them. I'm surprised my former fellow students aren't beating down a path to my door, demanding I return their homework papers from 2005.

• A couple of letters from government figures. I think those date back to high school. My government teacher insisted we send off letters about different "social" issues that mattered to us. We actually had to prove that we got letters in return, to show that we'd done our homework. So the damn letters are still in the little plastic lining my mother had me put them in, and perfectly preserved, vintage 2001 and 2002.

• Remnants of Highlights magazines, in the form of a stack of the very back page. Which would, of course, be Brainstorm Brian's page. I used to love looking at those, fascinated by the super complex (not to mention nerdy) methods depicted to perform the most menial of tasks. Long-Distance Light Switch? Check. Pencil Point Producer? Check. Wait for it... these babies are vintage 1991 and 1992. And despite the early exposure, I'm still not an engineer.

While I sat and rediscovered this long-lost treasure, I also went through old CDs. The goal on that front: to get rid of CDs I never listen to. Let someone else enjoy them. So I pull out a stack of CDs and start going through them. As I listened to the music, a flood of memories washed over me, many of them I had eagerly put behind me. As I listened to different bits and pieces of shitty alternative rock bands I liked in high school, new time frames and memories popped into my head. Some of it elicited very sad emotions, and I remember laying in bed with my CD player, headphones turned up in the hopes that the music would drown out the pain I was feeling.

Most of all, though, I was reminded of just how far I've come in life. Today, I'm not fond of a lot of the music I listened to in high school. Which I chalk up to the journey of finding myself. My attempt to listen to music others around me enjoyed, and for some reason thinking that I had to like every single song on every CD I bought in order for the money spent to have been worth it. Even if I really didn't like it, I never would have admitted it. As if the very notion of having my own thoughts and opinions (or any such ideas, for that matter) would ruin me.

What struck me most was suddenly being transported back to my teenaged mind. A mind teeming with thoughts and life, but afraid to share it with anyone for fear that it wouldn't be what others wanted. And so it was silenced, told never to speak its thoughts, all the while knowing, taunting, and refusing to be anything other than exactly what it was.

Fast forward to the present. I am free, unbound by the fear that so consumed me. I am independent. I am a singer. I am a writer. I am a friend. I am out in the open. I am in love. And, most importantly, I am happy.

It’s November 30. Time for a little introspection. At the beginning of the month, I had set out to write my very own novel. As it turns out, that was a pretty lofty goal. I made it through the first few days okay, but largely at the expense of other things I was supposed to be doing. There’s a part of me that’s sort of proud for having gotten started. But damn, I really, really hated what I had started out writing. Which, according to all the supportive emails sent out by accomplished authors, is exactly what’s supposed to happen. So at least I was off on the right foot. I guess.

Because of time constraints, I decided instead to switch tactics, and joined ranks with National Blog Posting Month. With NaBloPoMo, I was confronted with a new challenge. The challenge was not one of quantity, but quality. I had no word count to meet, but instead challenged myself to keep every post as fresh as I possibly could.

So in this month that offered thirty days to write, I wrote every single day (in my over two years of blogging, I’ve never once done that). The first four were dedicated to a novel that did not come to fruition. From the fourth until the thirtieth day, a new blog post was written daily. With the exception of one day, all were posted right here. The one post that didn’t make it remains on my computer, in its raw, unedited, and unhappy form. And there it will stay.

So as watch Gangs of New York with half an eye, I type this post. And find it really cool that, for whatever it’s worth, I at least managed to write something every single day for an entire month. And instead of feeling pooped, exhausted, or ready to take a little break, I’m finding myself ready to continue, and wanting the words to keep flowing from my head onto the keyboard. Writing has come to have a great deal of meaning for me: it’s therapy, entertainment, and frustration all rolled into one. It’s wonderful.

Which brings me to the end of this blog entry, and a stunning and totally irrelevant close:

• The part where Cameron Diaz gets in the fight and tries to bite Leonardo DiCaprio is one of the funniest fight scenes I have ever seen. Ever.

• A car commercial for Mitsubishi was just on that featured a song by The Flaming Lips called Do You Realize?. I found it an interesting choice of song for such a commercial, considering the song is about life and death. And we’re talking about a car. Not just any car, but an Ess Ewe Vee. I imagine it’s not intentional, but damn, there’s some serious subtext going on there.

First things first. I somehow managed to get fuzz in my eye today. It could have been from my coworker's jacket with fuzzy contours, or it could have been from my new pair of gloves I wore practically all day because of the ice sculptures that had taken the place of my hands. Whatever the cause, I got a fuzzy in my eye, and it took a great deal of blinking (about two minutes' worth, at approximately three blinks per second) as well as some water splashed in my eye to get the damn thing out. Ow. Second. And, really, more important. Tonight was the official launch of Kathy Griffin's newest special stand-up show, Straight to Hell. It aired on Bravo (of course) and it was nothing short of fabulous.

Thanks to my lack of cable television, it was Robert who clued me in to this must-see event. While watching it tonight, we realized that we had heard/seen a good deal of this show already. When? Why, when we went to see her live in Albuquerque back in July! Before seeing Kathy, I had never seen a stand-up comedian live. So seeing her on that tour was awesome! And then getting to see what had had me in hysterics at the show a second time was also awesome. Having seen it live first, though, I felt a sense of privilege, because I got to see it in its first incarnation.

Anyway. I was left wondering when the show they aired was recorded, figuring it must have been some time on the tour which we caught. Lo and behold, it was filmed on October 20th, so nearly three months after we had seen her. Their was new stuff, of course: her Emmy story that I had completely missed but thank heavens she filled me in because I was feeling like a totally lousy fan for having missed that seriously awesome spectacle, shit!; and then all the incredible press she got afterwards such as giant newspaper ads that cost over $90,000 (those Miracle Theater folks have an awful lot of money, apparently) calling for censorship in national newspapers because Kathy made a joke that ended with her saying "Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now.", hot damn!

A night of humor and controversy, and I loved every minute of it. I shall now eagerly await the day when this show appears on DVD. Oh, and in case the censor-happy folks wanted to know, the next time I have the chance to see Kathy Griffin live, you can bet your ass that I'll be going. And I'll be bringing my partner with me. And this time, we may just bring a sign to hold up announcing: "Kathy, your gays are here!"

I just finished watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail.* Again. No matter how many times I watch that movie, I still find it funny. Actually, I've found that the more familiarity I have with it, the funnier it gets. Because there's an awful lot of stuff that goes on, mostly in terms of dialogue, that's incredibly subtle. This time around, I had an interesting new take on it. Rather than thinking too much or getting too into the movie, I remembered the first time I ever saw it. I was 14, and was away from home for a week at band and orchestra camp. By that point in my life, I'd heard tell of this movie, and was keen to see it for myself.

I convinced my brother, who was at camp with me, to come with me to see it when they played it one evening. They had to use a huge ballroom on campus because so many people were there. And the best part: they played it on a fairly large screen, from a projector.

I don't remember how I regarded the movie this first time around, other than I enjoyed it. It was kind of difficult to really follow everything, to be honest. In part, I'd say it was due to the sophistication of the humor, and also some missing knowledge in my pre-high school brain. But more than that, I think I found it difficult to follow because my brother was scoffing about once every other minute. Right in my ear. "Oh my gosh, this is so stupid." "What? That makes no sense." And, of course, "Geez, what's the point?" It was too much to hope that my periodic outbursts of laughter would drown out my elder sibling's voice.

I do know, however, that I liked Monty Python and the Holy Grail from the start. Even if I didn't completely grasp everything from the movie that first time, the fact that my brother really didn't like it was reason enough for me to totally love it. Oh, he tried to play it off like he enjoyed it, but I knew better.

*I was inspired to watch Holy Grail again because my iTunes randomizer started playing some songs from Spamalot, the amazing musical version of the movie.

New Mexico, though generally known as the Land of Enchantment, has another less well-known title: the Land of Mañana. This particular saying comes from our wonderfully laid back culture. In other words, sometimes things are really, really slow out here. Generally, I'm a big fan of the laid back sensibilities. Shoot, I'd better be, considering I'm a native. But occasionally, it can get annoying. Like tonight, when I was at the grocery store. I didn't want to go right when I got off work, and I didn't summon up the energy to actually go to the store until around 8 o'clock. The plan was to pick up a few necessities and then come right back home.

"A few necessities" turned into a full basket of food. The $10 I had had in mind for the expenditure was quadrupled, and then some. And no, I wasn't hungry when I walked into the place. I just found all sorts of things I needed that I hadn't counted on. Food can do that to me. And really, I'm okay with that.

Cut to: standing in line to check out. It's almost 9 o'clock. There's only a few registers open. And there's no way I'm doing the self-checkout with so much food. So I got in line and wound up behind a very chatty New Mexican. Very chatty. As in, he couldn't handle silence. To the point that he explained his entire two-item purchase to me. For his little miniature whiskey selection, and his gallon of distilled water, respectively:

1. "I'm having company over."
2. "I'm having company over."

And, given my own friendly New Mexican tendencies, and also the dinosaur slowness of the checkout line, I wound up having to converse genially about why distilled water is the best water to use for a fountain at home, because that way you didn't get all the calcification from the chemicals in the water. It was for a completely selfish reason that I continued the conversation. I've been toying with the idea of getting such a fountain, in the hopes that it might bring some atmosphere and ambience to my humble abode.

When it was finally his turn, and I was rescued from having to be the sole conversant to the chatty cathy, I was, shall we say, grateful. Of course, his conversation could be heard loud and clear even with the shopping cart between us. And while I read the headlines on People magazine, I heard him talking to the cashier while he wrote out his personal check for his $7.00 purchase.

Cashier: "I have no idea what language those people were speaking." Chatty New Mexican Guy: "Mmmm hmmm." Cashier: "It just sounded like jumbled jibberish to me." CNMG: [In his best know-it-all voice, drawl and all] "IIIIfffff I haaaad to guueess, IIII'd saaay theeeey were speaking Poooliiish."

Because, you know, we New Mexicans are incredibly good judges when it comes to recognizing European languages. I about fell over backwards from rolling my eyes.

I've been freezing all day long. And in theory, it hasn't been that cold today. Seriously. I feel lucky that I didn't get frostbite. No gangrene to speak of, either. And that seems like the biggest stroke of luck, because damn. I may as well have been in the Arctic. Oh sure, the meteorologists probably said it was in the 40's, or somewhere in there. I don't know, because I didn't watch the news today. There are those who might say I'm weak (and I wouldn't argue their point). However. They were not the ones stuck in an office that decided to have no functioning heater. Or should I say, a heater that turned into a total tease. The main unit was working just fine. But the ducts seemed not to be taking said heat to the conveniently dispersed vents around the room.

Which meant that, where the thermostat was located (about a foot away from the furnace), it was nice and toasty. But the rest of the office was fucking frigid. And, lucky me, my desk is located at the point in the room that is farthest away from the furnace. Let's just say that if I was peer-pressured into licking the glass surface on the desk, my tongue probably would have stuck there. Someone would have had to come over and film it, then make some kind of sick movie (no plot necessary, as long as the part with me stuck to the desk by my tongue is included in there somewhere) and play it for 24 HOURS NONSTOP every November 26th.

If it's that cold when I go in to work tomorrow, I may contact the nearest travel agency and book a trip to The Bahamas immediately.

After looking at my previous blog entry, it came to my attention that it made very little sense. Which is kind of awesome, in its own right. But that's the quality writing you get when you're only half paying attention to what you're typing, while the rest of your attention is focused on the "Thanksgiving Leftovers" special on Saturday Night Live. On to the new stuff. Today was a big day: for the first time ever, I attended a baby shower. Both Robert and myself attended, and both of us were virgins. We are no longer. Although none of the "embarrassing games" of which I've heard tell were played. So in that regard, I guess we're not entirely unvirginized.

Of course, we had to regale people at the shower with our shopping tale. We heard plenty of other stories, and heard discussions involving subjects we'd just as soon not want to take part in. Mostly of the diaper changing and diaper rash variety. I must admit I hadn't expected such open and forthright conversation.

Even though we weren't the only male creatures at the shower (our host's husband and son were both there), we were the only ones talking baby shower talk with the ladies.

What also made this baby shower unique was that our friend expecting the baby was not, in fact, present. I wish her all the best! If she happens to see this blog entry, hopefully she'll enjoy the pictures of Robert and me next to our inaugural bags of gifts.

UPDATE 11/26:

I vaguely alluded to the fact that our friend was not present at her own baby shower. She had a really good reason not to be there, though: she was in the hospital having her baby! But since it was the second try at the shower, it happened anyway. At 12:20 this morning, the baby was born! He's four weeks premature, and our friend is in some pain. I'm sending as much positive energy her way as I possibly can, and also a hearty congratulations.

Lastly, my new blog friend Aimee recently posted about how the month of November is, among other things, Prematurity Awareness Month. I want to thank her for increasing my awareness, and again, I'm wishing our dear friend all the best!

Drag racing is the shit. Because on Saturday night, there's nothing better to do than just that. Goodbye, fun with friends, trips downtown, or just hanging out at home relaxing. Hello, asphalt racing ground with 35-40 mile per hour speed limits! The winner of tonight's questionably legit drag race: a souped-up silver Ford Mustang. Because how can you compete with a car that's got an engine the size of which is nearly as large as modern sedans. I knew when it pulled around me to speed up to beat me to the red light ahead, that I wasn't dealing with just any drag racer. Mere blocks away from the usual racing zone, I knew that this car played to win.

And when I saw it take on that fancy Mercury Villager, I knew the driver meant business. As the opposing light turned yellow, the sound of a revving engine could be heard coming from the Stang. As soon as our light turned green, the sound of squealing tires broke the silence of this normally calm residential street.

And that charming little mini van gave that 220-horse-power (or however much horse power is in there) Mustang a run for its money. So much so, that the Mustang felt that, in order to retain what little "self-respect" it then had, it was necessary to keep speeding along the street. Where we caught up with it at the next red light down the road. And I'm pretty sure I heard Jan and Dean blasting on their radio. I didn't get to see what the driver looked like, but it could well have been a certain "little old lady."

Today was the day after Thanksgiving. In retail land, this day is known as Black Friday. For those who seek to spread a message of peace and encourage less consumption on all counts, today is Buy Nothing Day. For me, today was simply the day after Thanksgiving. The last few weeks, we've had reasonably mild weather. Mild meaning it's been t-shirt and pants weather. Cold at night and in the morning, and warm enough to wonder whether you're getting a farmer's tan when you're outside during the day. The weather decided to do its usual Albuquerque thing (read: something totally bizarre), though. Clouds rolled in yesterday, and it suddenly decided to snow. It snowed through the night and through most of today. Big flakes, too. But the kicker: none of it stuck. Cars got blanketed a little bit, as did the grass. But the roads only got a little wet here in the city (other parts of the state weren't so lucky). So we were still able to get out and enjoy ourselves.

As far as shopping goes, I'm not terribly fond of the masses of people you encounter everywhere on this day. Robert and I wound up going to a couple of book stores, the Apple store, and, of course, the grocery store. While out, one thing I picked up was this CD, and after barely listening to it, I was hooked. I bought it on the premise that anything by Dr. Seuss is cool, and I was not disappointed. Next up: seeing the production in real life.

The highlight of the day, though, involved a trip to the Albuquerque Museum. We went to see Temples and Tombs: Treasures of Egyptian Art from The British Museum, the current featured exhibit there. The exhibit focused a great deal on Egyptian sculptures, and I was in anthropology-hog heaven the entire time. Though I'm fascinated by the civilization, I can't imagine me being well-liked, should I inadvertently be transported back in time there. Something tells me a gay Jew would not exactly be popular. But maybe if I told them how fabulous all their artwork and style is, they'd let me live.

My Thanksgiving was much better than my night-before-Thanksgiving fun. Robert and I were invited to a friend's house for Thanksgiving today, and we happily attended. It was fantastic: excellent food, great company, good wine, good conversation, and fun games. We started eating around 2:45 or so (that's a guess, I wasn't paying attention to the time), and spread the meal out all the way up until I had to leave at 5:30. We headed for home, because I also had to attend Thanksgiving dinner at my folks' house. Especially as of late, my family has been cause for great amounts of stress, so I was kinda nervous about going. My comfort was in the form of a bottle of wine, which when I had mentioned I might bring it, my maternal unit told me not to bother: only my dad would be allowed to drink; also, my little brother was not permitted to drink.

I brought a nice Riesling wine anyway, because I decided that I, as a fully responsible adult, may just want to have some wine with my food. While this earned me some fairly scathing looks, wine glasses were brought out anyway. And my little brother and I each enjoyed it, while everyone else suffered the feast without any. Martyrs, the lot of them.

Of course, what's the fun of drinking wine when you're told you're not allowed to if you don't make a mess of things? We go to toast, and I suavely reach for my wine glass, only to bump it head on and spill a bunch of wine all over the brand new tablecloth. I guess the glass of wine I shared with Robert at the earlier festivities had relaxed me more than I realized.

The trick to dealing with my folks, in addition to my two hour maximum rule, seems to be having alcohol while in their company. The fact that I'm drinking it overshadows any other issues they may have with me at any given time, and I'm much more relaxed and less responsive to them. For instance, when one brother asked how my previous gathering was, and I responded that it was nothing short of paradisiacal, he pulled this line from thin air: "Well, that's good to hear. Good gatherings are important. It's sad that people don't get together more often, but always wait for some 'holiday' or such occasion to do it." I think what's really sad is that he actually believes his own uninformed opinion.

All in all, a great Thanksgiving: I'm thankful for the wonderful friends who invited us to take part in their celebration. And I'm thankful that the evening with my folks was not a total fiasco. Mission accomplished.

It was bowling night with the brothers tonight. A night of bad jokes, fake laughter, and homophobia. I had some fun, despite this, but I've had my fill for the week (actually, for a long time to come) and am seriously dreading the prospect of actually going to Thanksgiving dinner at the folks' tomorrow. I may just keep the pie and wine for myself, then call and cancel my appearance: "Hi, I'm not going to be able to make it after all. Call me back when everyone is a little less quick on the gay bashing, and less eager to monitor my every move." The good news is: I have no sense of humor, because I don't laugh at any of the jokes. I'm really uptight, because I take offense when someone does their best gay impersonation, replete with "backdoor" punch line. I have personal space issues, because I don't want to feel my brother's breath on my cheek when he's trying to share some "important"/"funny"/"relevant" comment(s). Oh, and because I don't do every single thing the rest of my brothers do, I'm up to something and they must know exactly what it is, because I've changed and so something is wrong.

This Thanksgiving, I'm not feeling real great about things. I'm bothered by the way my family makes me feel, and angry at myself that I'm not more outspoken about it. It seems like every time I try for normal conversation and interaction, things turn to how I'm not the way they want me to be. I'm fucking tired of it.

Maint Req’d That’s the message that keeps flashing on the dashboard of my car. Every time I go anywhere, the little flashing light blinks at me. It’s taken on a life of its own, and now it sort of serves as a reminder of a number of things in my life for which maintenance is required.

• Obviously, my car needs maintenance. Hence the flashing light. I looked it up in the handy dandy owner’s manual, and it means I need an oil change. Technically, I can go another 600 miles before I actually need one, though.

• I think I need new shoes. I’m pretty hard on my shoes, but I usually only buy new tennis shoes (or cross trainers, or whatever the heck they’re called these days) once a year or so. But I recently had to perform emergency shoe maintenance because my left heel was getting poked by something in the shoe. I thought it was a goathead, or else something else spiky, but I wasn’t expecting to find a staple sticking out of the interior of my shoe. Not a good sign.

• A certain crazy driver woman’s head needs maintenance. Drivers like her are the reasons talking on your cell phone (sans horribly unattractive bluetooth or other headset device) is now illegal here. While at the red light, she saw the opposing traffic’s light turn red, but didn’t wait for her signal to turn green before going. One of the opposing lights still had a green light (left turn signal on the arrow), and she just sped off without warning, completely running the red light and nearly getting hit by oncoming traffic. To all those in Albuquerque who think the law is pointless, or somehow an infringement on your civil liberties: I give you this dumbass driver. Frankly, I don’t see how her putting my life and others’ lives in danger without our say-so is violating her civil liberty. She’s an idiot. I don’t even think she realized she’d run the light.

UPDATE 11/21

This isn’t something I need to have maintenanced, but…

• The magnetic bar code scanner thingie at Circuit City, that supposedly keeps people from shoplifting. While walking into the place, I set the darn thing off. And then everybody proceeded to stare at me. Later, when pulling my wallet out of my back pocket, I found what I suspect was the culprit that set off the bar code thing: a sticker with a bar code was still in place on the inside part of my back pocket. And thus my new jeans were inducted in style. I guess.

Today has been the best Monday I’ve had in a while. It was a nice day all around. I even did my part to help fight world hunger. I learned about a really cool website where anyone can go and help the fight against world hunger. It’s called Free Rice. Their philosophy is based on a question: how can people help a good cause and also benefit? The answer is that you take a vocabulary test! They show words, then give you a list of four options to answer which one matches the meaning of the posted word. For each word you get right, ten grains of rice is added to the pile. So you get to learn all sorts of new words, and starving people get food. The cool thing is that the site is completely non-profit, and the rice itself is bought by companies who advertise on the website.

So while you learn about new words like magniloquence, hinterland, coadjutor, adamantine, and antipyretic, rice will be compiling. Ten grains may not seem like much, but in a very short amount of time, I managed to donate almost 2,000 grains. Every little bit helps. The nice thing about the vocabulary is that it works to meet your “level” of vocabulary expertise. And if you don’t feel much like thinking, why not get by with a little help from your friends? Many people will be glad you did.

And now: reasons why I’m excited about tomorrow:

• It may be Tuesday, but it’s my Friday! No work for the rest of the week. Woo hoo!!
• Hairspray is being released on DVD! (I’ll be springing for the Two-Disc Shake & Shimmy Edition, of course.)

A persistent itch on my head remains even now that the stitches are gone. A strong sense of exhaustion engulfs me still, after an exhausting day yesterday. Together, they serve to bring me to a sort of wakeful state of sleep, or else a sleepy form of awakeness. To the point that "awakeness" is being used as an actual word. Throughout the day today, I found myself dragging. Shuffling around the house in the morning. Shuffling to the car. Shuffling to breakfast. Shuffling around the stores we visited. By the time we were at the grocery, my feet were barely leaving the ground. Though it could just be that gravity is suddenly acting much more forcefully upon me, thus making it difficult to raise my feet very high above the ground.

It really doesn't matter. What does matter is getting some sleep. Yes, I think that's very much in order.

Mock trials do more than simulate a real trial for educational purposes for you: they make you dog tired. I have no words to describe the sense of exhaustion I feel as I type this. Robert interpreted all day, and I was the supportive partner on the sidelines, silently cheering him on as well as experiencing the whole process from the outside, looking in. Having only just experienced my first bout of jury duty this past January, I wasn't exactly squirming in my seat to become one of the volunteer jurors. So I played pure spectator/interpreter observer. The mock trial consisted of a fictional murder case, in which some crazy rich woman was on trial for having shot and killed her husband. Sort of a bad murder mystery/suspense novel brought to life for the benefit of law students. All the details were sort of vague, which allowed the law students acting as defense and prosecution to get pretty creative when it came to tactics they used to approach the case. For instance: one of the prosecution teams I watched created a 3-D animation of how the scene went down, and looped it on a big projector. A defense team I saw used the upper half of a mannequin with arrows placed throughout to show how the bullets had entered and behaved on the victim. (Thankfully, the judge ixnayed that one before they could get too into it.)

It was funny to watch how the students played off one another. If they were having a difficult time, or else were doing better than they expected, they couldn't help but grin. Which looks hilarious, given the "seriousness" of the issues they're discussing. (Imagine hearing the following line delivered with a slight grin on a lawyer's face: "So you grabbed the gun off the table and shot your husband four times." Nice.) The judges, too, showed more emotion than I'd ever actually seen a judge show. At times, I caught them smiling at what the students were saying or doing. When the jury was deliberating, the judges got to give feedback to the law students, and damn. Off went the robes, and suddenly they were human! Not to mention witty and humorous.

It's a good thing I wasn't a member of the jury, because the entire time, I was forming all sorts of biases and opinions about what happened. The heartless bitch killed her husband! The dumbass detective should get fired! And just how low are all these witnesses IQs, geez? At one point, I felt an urge to jump up and interrupt the whole proceeding and announce to the courtroom that one of the jurors was asleep. But then I realized that probably wouldn't be very kosher. And besides, the sleeping juror was pretty obvious. It's hard to miss a guy with his chin resting in his palm, leaning forward, doing the trying-to-stay-awake headbang made famous by college students. The drooling, however, was probably the biggest giveaway.

Stranger still, than all things noted above, was what happened during the short ten-minute recesses from the trial. Maybe it was all the sitting. Or maybe it was the amount of brainpower it took to keep up with everything. Whatever the reason, every single break we had found me making a bee line for the restroom. I found I wasn't the only one, either. Every break, the place was full of people from the courtroom. And it didn't matter what they were doing, be it sitting in one of the stalls, using one of the urinals, washing hands, whatever, there was always some conversation taking place. The first time, there was a guy drying his hands (witness actor), a guy peeing (student lawyer), and a guy taking care of more serious matters (student lawyer, presumably) all immersed in conversation about the trial. I guess that's what you do when you're not allowed to talk about anything outside the courtroom.

Random blog post for Friday night, in the form of an unordered list:

• I actually drank coffee this morning. In its proper, hot form, no less. The last time I attempted that, I was drinking that shit black, without any sugar. Not exactly the best way for a total non-coffee drinker to be consuming it, but sometimes tiredness beats out common sense. The stuff I drank today was of the mocha variety, which Robert explained to my coffee-illiterate self is coffee flavored with chocolate. I had a Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha from the Evil Empire, and, to my great surprise, I actually liked it.
• I’m officially stitch-free. I returned to the doctor’s this morning and they snipped them free. Antennae be gone! Oh yeah, and I’m all healed up and back to normal. Woo hoo!
• While at Best Buy today, I ran into a friend of mine from college. She was working, and I reminisced with her about the place, as it’s an old stomping employment ground of mine. I also came across a star employee, who not only asked if he could help me find anything, but said that his name was Phil and I could holler if I needed anything. I said “oh, haha, mine too,” and he just sort of stood there and stared at me before saying, “oooohhhh, okay… … …so my name will be easy for you to remember.” Um, yeah, exactly. My old theory of the “Phil” bond based on a common name is being proven wrong at a discouraging rate. Dammit.

In the continuing saga of my sudden and new-found medical sense, I went to the eye doctor today. It's been a long time coming, really. Basically,I hadn't had my eyes checked in a good three or four years. I finally learned why my eyes get so blasted tired by half-way through the day, too. Thanks to a delightful astigmatism in my right eye, I can compensate for my near-sightedness to get about 20/25 vision. The only problem is that this constant work fatigues the fuck out of my eyes. Hence why I frequently feel the need to nap before I even make it to lunch. The visit itself was none too glamourous. It wasn't bad, really, just exhausting. You know. First, you have some god-awful eye drops put in, which stained some part of your eyes yellow. As if yellow isn't unattractive enough a color to use, the drops dry your eyes out a lot. And then you have to suffer through that big machine they make you put your face up to, and then they shine insanely bright light into your eye to check out all those rods and cones and stuff. As an added bonus, the yellow drops are supposed to deaden the sensitivity (to touch, I think) in your eye, so they can poke your eye and then laugh at you when you scream.

Next up was the test with the giant owl-looking lens shifter thingie. Followed by still more eye drops to dilate your pupils. Then they're like, "Okay, go sit down in the waiting room again." Which you do, and you realize for the first time exactly why those rooms all have such soft lighting. But that soft lighting gets progressively brighter, and then everything gets really fuzzy. Good luck trying to read anything. I tried to read the Russell logo on my shirt and all I saw was a big white blob.

Finally, they take you back once again, so that the Opthamologist can bombard you with a final series of obnoxious tests. Back to the little room with the uncomfortable chair and the mirrors with corresponding projectors for the little eye tests. Back to the horrible lights flashing in your eyes. Only this time you're sure you're going to be blinded by the damn things. And when your eye instinctively slams shut to keep this from happening, your eye doctor reaches over and grabs your eyelid and holds it open himself. The bastard.

Fortunately, once it's all over, you get to hit the optical store and find yourself a nice pair of glasses. At least the visit ends on a good note. You get to look at all sorts of fabulous frames that are way out of your budget, but which you want to buy anyway, and settle for dreaming about one day being able to own such stylin' specs.

You find some nice ones, and spring for them. Then you wait for a few weeks to get them, and your life can start anew with new and improved vision.

My eyes are back to their normal state again, finally. I'm less out of sorts in that regard than I was when I first got home. But then I opened the refrigerator and discovered that the light inside it burned out. I tested the little lever that turns it on and off. Nothing. I tried unscrewing it and then screwing it back in again. Nothing. Everything is still cold, and my refrigerator is otherwise fine. But not having a light on inside it is a devastating blow. I'm so lost without it, I can't even begin to describe how I feel about it.

Here's to unwanted trips down memory lane. The proclaimed "best" (not by me, mind) years of my life are to become a permanent record. Sort of. I got a letter in the mail sometime last week from my former high school. It seems the school district in which I was educated as a young lad has decided to publish an "alumni directory" for all the schools in the district.

The letter gave me a 10-day time frame to call and check on my biography, which currently probably says something like, "Phil graduated in 2002." I'm supposed to call the special toll-free number so that this "very important" charter project can get done. I, as a precious former graduate, have the special alumni "privilege" of calling said number and telling them about my life, my family, and my current occupation.

Here's what they'd probably expect from me:

Phil graduated in 2002 and went on to college in Albuquerque, where he got his degree in Accounting and Business Administration. He is currently working for one of Albuquerque's top accounting firms, and is about to get married to his girlfriend of three years.

I could be totally wrong here. I mean, I wasn't voted "most likely to succeed." But then again, I've always thought that award was lame. Like, only one person out of my graduating class would be likely to succeed? That would mean that pretty much everyone fails.

Now, if I was a popular kid, i.e. a jock or perhaps one of the drunken preppie kids, here's what my bio might read:

Phil graduated in 2002. He went to college out of state, but returned a year later. He married the girl he dated all through high school, and at the age of 23, he is the proud father of two sons. He is currently attending night school at the local community college, and is unsure what he wants to major in. He currently works at a local retail establishment.

This one was sort of inspired, actually, by a true story. I heard last year about a guy I grew up with who really did have two kids already, except that he was only 22.

But I bet most people I graduated with would flip if they knew what's really become of me:

Phil graduated in 2002 and still resides in Albuquerque. He currently works as a Signed Language Interpreter and also as a Speech Therapist in Training. He is not married, but rather is fabulously gay and has a wonderful partner with whom he shares his life. Oh yeah, and he owns a website that he blogs on frequently.

I think I've missed the 10-day deadline by now. Which is intentional. I feel no attachment to my high school days. If I really wanted to maintain contact with people from high school, I know other ways to do so. Facebook already serves that purpose for me anyway, and I hardly even use it for those I went to high school with.

Besides, the letter stated that as a graduate of my high school, I would be included in the high school directory for a school clear on the other side of town. Which makes perfect sense, right? Sorry, alumni directory putter-together people, but I'm not biting.

When I got to eat toast with apple jelly this morning (not apple butter, but actual apple jelly), I knew the day was off to a good start. I seriously think apple jelly is one of the greatest things on earth. I went my whole life not knowing about it, and then I took a trip to Taos with my partner over Labor Day this year. We stayed at a ski resort, and for breakfast, they had small packets of apple jelly to enjoy with your toast or English muffin. Talk about a convert! Even though I was full, I simply had to eat another English muffin, just so I could have apple jelly again. It's like gold. And, interestingly enough, hard to find. It took me two months of searching every grocery store I entered before I finally found some of this manna.

But I digress. This evening, Robert and I ventured into territory virtually unknown to gay men such as ourselves: Babies 'R' Us. We went in search of goods for our friend's upcoming baby shower. We figured Babies 'R' Us would have a plenty of variety, and would be a good place to start for us, because, for lack of a better explanation, we were clueless.

For my part, I was not exactly thrilled to be going into the store. As a former Toys 'R' Us purist, thanks to my being born in its heyday, I felt that any deviation the company made was not true to form, and therefore I would never, ever set foot in either of the lesser forms of 'R' Us stores.

I have to recant, though, because damn. There was so much cute stuff! The moment we walked, in, we sought help from one of the employees. We needed to be pointed in the direction of boys' clothes, stat. She was very nice, and pointed us in general directions around the store that might be useful for us.

And off we went. Before long, we were completely lost in this world of tiny things. Other shoppers in the store were calmly looking through the racks while we traipsed through the place, all the while oohing and ahhing over all the cute outfits we saw.

The staff, meanwhile, seemed amused by our antics, though I noticed they did their best not to show it. I guess it's not often they get so much fabulosity in their store.

I never thought it would be possible to actually hold up a line at a grocery store. But I did it, somehow. It wasn't really my fault, though. I finally got around to using all those stamps I'd been collecting. I was only three stamps short of getting the square grill pan I wanted. The deal actually went like this: for every $10 you spend at the store, you get one little stamp on a card. You had to save the stamps and collect a certain number in order to get the cooking items for free. For the square grill, the MSRP is around $47 or so. If you had 70 stamps, you get it for free. In other words, you get the $50 item of cookware after first spending $700 on groceries. If you spent only $350 on groceries, you'd get the pan for only $13. Going for the half price deal was far more worth it, when you think about it.

Anyway, I had talked to a cashier last week and asked if I could trade my stamps in regardless of whether I met the exact number. She was all, "yeah, we'll just adjust to the ratio and you pay the difference." Except she didn't use the word "ratio."

The cashier tonight tried to get into it with me when I went to make my purchase. He didn't want to ring me up when I was missing only three stamps. Because I didn't have the exact number, he didn't want to fudge and let it slide. And he didn't want to scan it in and add like $5 to the cost, either. I think, if it was up to him, he would have gone all bouncer on me and thrown me out of the store for not following the rules exactly as they were written.

I felt bad because I was holding everyone else in line up. Others weren't able to buy groceries on account of me. But dammit, I really wanted that pan. And the stitches on my head were itching the hell out of me. And when the cashier left to get the shift manager, I didn't say anything. I just let the guy go do his thing.

Five minutes later, the shift-manager-who-said-he-wasn't-actually- a-manager-but-was-in-charge-anyway came over. And he said: "No problem, sir. You're close enough, so I'm going to just ring you up for the $13." I thought finally all was well, but then the cashier kept refusing to scribble some initials on the card, afraid that he'd get in trouble for the shady deal that had just gone down. Because I'm such a criminal, you know. And I wasn't about to let all the money I had spent just to get that damn pan go to waste (oh, I would have spent the money on food anyway, but maybe not at this damned grocery store), and thought that I should get something for all the money and time and effort I put into collecting and saving the damn stamp things.

Honestly, I wasn't thrilled to be standing there having the stupid discussion about the stamps. But since I wasn't the one who started it, I'm glad I walked away with my fabulous new cooking toy. And with that, I will now return to my kindergarten class, where I can continue learning about issues like fairness and compromise with other fellow toddlers, in between naps and play time.

The effects of the local anesthetic to my head from yesterday have finally worn off. I didn't realize, even after being up and moving yesterday, just how much the stuff affected me. Later in the day, I was able to drive okay, but I kept it to a minimum, thankfully. Of course, I only realize this now that I'm back to normal. I went to a house concert (literally, a concert at someone's house) for one of my college friends. She's an amazing songwriter, and every time I see her perform, she's pretty much twice as good as she was the time before. It's awesome.

I couldn't stay for the whole show, because I was pretty wiped. It was certainly an interesting challenge to mingle with some of the people there. I knew some people there, but as usual, I got to meet a bunch of people I didn't know. I was pretty exhausted by the time I got there, and I must have been a sight when trying to talk to people and remain standing, because I wasn't exactly good at it.

So I talked, sort of swaying back and forth, and all the while looking for a place to sit. My mind sort of took turns drifting: topic at hand, where's a place to sit?, topic at hand, my head hurts, oh fuck, what am I supposed to be talking about again? And so on.

At some point, I wound up talking to a girl I'd never before met. She seemed nice, if a bit off kilter. She smelled of smoke and spent a lot of time talking about unconditional love. Then she suggested I go sit on the couch next to her so we could be good concert-going spectators. It was bad timing, for my part, because my brain, in its drifting state, was currently in the "finding a place to sit" phase. Against my more rational judgment, I agreed.

And thus ensued an extremely uncomfortable thirty minutes, in which I did everything I could to not let the woman violate my personal space, or even come into contact with my skin. Which, by the way, she seemed extremely to do. She kept nudging me and grabbing my arm and talking to me like we'd known each other since grade school. And because the house was settled, I found myself trapped.

Between songs, however, I managed to make my escape. I was ready to leave anyway, and just relax for the rest of the evening. I managed to get up because I'd spotted someone I knew who I hadn't yet gotten to say hello to. Ah, sweet victory! We chatted, I stayed for one more song, and then got my dog-tired self the heck out of there.

Great music + great company with the exception of one person = pretty good time.

Next time my friend plays here, I'll hopefully be in a better state to enjoy her show, and to steer clear of unwanted advances from those seeking unconditional love from complete strangers. But all's well that ends well, isn't that how the saying goes?

Today I'm up and about, and doing fantastic. One of the highlights of the day has been the breeze. When I'm outside, and the wind brushes through my hair, my crazy antennae stitches get blown around a little bit too. It's one of the weirdest sensations I've ever felt, sort of a cross between a tickle and a very light massage. I'm just glad the feeling is present (update: and "pleasant" too). At least that's one thing cool out of this ordeal.

I learned today that there are worse things, when going to a doctor's appointment, than being late. Being on time, only to find that the building where your doctor used to be has been completely demolished, is much, much worse. This morning, I had to go visit my dermatologist. For a few years, I've had a benign cyst on my head which manifested itself in the form of a bump. I decided, after noticing that it's grown, that it was high time it be removed. I can't say that I was altogether keen to go in and have the procedure done. I can say, though, that I wanted it over with.

My friend K picked me up in the morning to take me to the doctor's office. While I often have difficulty finding the place, it's never been because it wasn't actually there. We arrived early, only to find large mounds of dirt in place of the building I was looking for. I jumped on the phone and dialed the office:

Phil: Um, I can't seem to find your building. Receptionist: Where are you? Phil: Where your office should be. Hello! Receptionist: Yes but where in town?

Turns out, my dermatologist had moved to a new location four weeks ago, and even though they were supposed to remind their patients, I was completely neglected. The receptionist, whose manners were of "total bitch" caliber, blamed me for not knowing about it. She curtly told me how to find the new office, and then hung up on me before I could make sure I had the right address.

What a great combination of feelings! I was nervous about the appointment as it was, I was shocked to find a mound of dirt instead of the doctor's office, and then pissed off at the bitchy receptionist. Not a great way to arrive at the doctor's, when you need to be relaxed for the stupid thing.

I think the worst part about the whole procedure was the conversation I overheard between the doctor and his assistant. Fortunately, I had my iPod with me. I put on some excellent relaxation music and closed my eyes. I even had the volume turned up more than usual, to keep outside voices to a minimum. It didn't quite work perfectly.

Doctor: Hmmm. Assistant: What? Doctor: It just doesn't seem to want to get out of there.

Other than all this craziness, the appointment went well. I'm alive and well, the cyst is gone, and I've got a few stitches in my head instead. Luckily, they didn't have to shave any part of my head, which I guess is thanks to my now-super-short haircut. The stitches, however, are quite long. As in, I have spiky black antennae sticking out of my head. It's very unique.

I may have some of the credentials to discuss fashion, but I generally leave that up to folks who are more highly qualified than myself. I do make exceptions, however, and in this case have some advice for a certain woman who brushed past me at the bookstore tonight, violating my personal space and comfort zone:

1. If you go to the gym, don't go out afterwards without having first showered and changed back into normal clothes.
2. Workout clothes or not, a black sports bra underneath a huge and loose-fitting purple t-shirt is completely unacceptable. Especially if the neck is so stretched out that one of your shoulders is exposed, and therefore so is your nasty bra.
3. Wearing short shorts is one thing, but try to keep your body type in mind when choosing them. Oh, and using men's boxers as workout shorts is a serious no-no. Consider this your warning. If I see you wearing this again, I'm going to have to slap you.

I'm afraid that if shit like this happens too often, I'm bound to actually say something out loud. Which can be good or bad, I suppose. Good because maybe then these crazies might actually take the hint, because I doubt they're stopping by and reading this. And, well, hmmm, I can't actually think of anything bad.

Maybe I'm just thinking about this because of my recent haircut. It's like everyone around me suddenly became masters of stating the obvious. Here's a running tally of what people have told me since getting Tuesday's fateful haircut:

• "You got a haircut." (26 times)
• "Phil. Haircut. Wow." (14 times)
• "Haircut, huh?" (19 times)
• "Ah, I see you got your ears lowered." (1 time)
• "He got his ears lowered. See?" (1 time, by the same person as above)
• "Oh wow, Phil, you got a haircut." (11 times)

Some of the tallies were actually repeats. Because people seemed to find it necessary to mention to me multiple times that I had gotten a haircut. Sheesh, as if I wasn't there when it happened. Maybe I should start telling some of these people that they're so observant, they should become detectives. Then they could investigate break-ins and actually get paid for saying, "Wow, someone broke in here." And the crime rate, just like the frequency of haircuts, would plummet.

It’s been one of those days. Very fortunately, it ended on a good note. But I’m going to vent anyway, because I can.

• You in the blue jeans and baseball jacket. I suggest you lose the Mets cap, and if you lose the enormous glasses now, I might be able to see again. You’re not cool, with your faux New York accent and attitude. You’re one man eating dinner in a pizza place with three women, and despite all your brazen efforts, the only one laughing at your “jokes” is you. People who were cool “back in the day”, to borrow your phrasing, are probably still pretty cool now. And they don’t talk about the “good old days.” You’re lucky no one kicked you out of the place for telling your poor server “When I was your age, I looked like I do now.” Although I suppose dissing yourself like that in front of complete strangers takes guts, I’m amazed that you were shocked by the guy saying “that sucks” in response.
• I went to the bank today to, and had to wait twenty minutes for something that took all of forty-five seconds to get done. Everyone in front of me had some issue of major concern that took two tellers (at least) to address. Truth be told, the main source of my impatience stemmed from standing in front of the strange, smelly, quasi-gay delivery guy. Yeah, not so much.
• I overheard a conversation yesterday at lunch that involved one guy saying the words “Mel Gibson” and “wonderful” in the same sentence. Had I no sense of proper work decorum, that someone would have gotten slapped, big time. I don’t care what you think the man knows about the native people to the Americas, the fact that he’s such a bigoted, homophobic Anti-Semite should cancel out any goodness you think there might be. He’s like the male version of Ann Coulter, all theatrical and righteous. I bet if you put the two of them in a room together, things would get pretty freaky.

I'm pretty sure I just got my hair cut by Xena, Warrior Princess's real-life blonde alter ego, Polyanna. And I'm not saying they look a lot like, either. I'm thinking they have a similar passion for physically abusing other people. Seriously, this is the first time I've ever gotten a hair cut and felt like I'd just spent two minutes in a boxing ring, duking it out with Jesse Ventura. Polyanna started out nice enough, I suppose, and was actually quite the chatty cathy, starting from the point when she called me up from my chair, where I was sitting, patiently awaiting my turn to get my hair cut. Had I known it would all be chopped and whacked, I might have decided to vacate the premises immediately and return on a day she wasn't working.

Polyanna: Phil? Phil: That's me. Polyanna: Dr. Phil. Phil: ... Polyanna: Not Dr. Phil. Phil Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.

After this strange greeting was over (I should have read the signs: we were not off to a good start), she asked me how I wanted my hair cut. I explained: "Basically, pretty much the same thing you see now, only shorter."

Xena-Polyanna grabbed her clippers and set to work, on some sort of freak mission to not only cut my hair, but also to make me aware of just how many ways one's scalp can feel pain. Scissors pressed uncomfortably against my head, hair pulled in strange directions. I tried to see if there was some way to have some other hair cutter person rescue me, but to no avail. Xena-Polyanna was working alone today, it seemed, and I was to be a victim. I protested, and requested that she please go easy on me and/or use a lighter touch. I may as well have been telling my neighbor to stop flashing me.

Xena-Polyanna continued the crusade on my hair, until at last she was satisfied that she had defeated all the long and evil hairs she had confronted. I attempted to comb my hair, which was a chore, and then she doused what was left of my hair with about half a bottle of hair gel. All I need now is my camouflage gear and I'm ready for boot camp.