You'd think that it'd be easy for someone with a blog to talk about themselves. Oh sure, you're thinking, inspiration for a letter of intent should be easy to find, especially when the goal of what you're writing is already picked out for you. And besides, since you're a blogger, you talk about yourself all the time. I'll admit that I'm much freer with the written word than I used to be, but I still have a sense of perfectionism that I just can't seem to get rid of. It's like Jewish guilt meets capital punishment: no matter what you do, it's never good enough, so you may as well face the fact that, either way, you're probably going to die. Basically, inspiration doesn't strike without the pressure of a deadline, and don't expect the inspiration to amount to much better a destiny than the fate which the toys your neighbor's two-year-old grandson leaves lying around the balcony walkway meet. So even with valiant effort, death comes and leaves you ashamed.

At least this time, I managed to be ahead of the game. I've worked on it for a few days, although why I expect it to be perfect the moment it leaves my head and gets typed up, I don't know. I had some good thoughts and ideas, I think. I guess, though, that after hearing that every single thing you write for such an occasion is worthy only to be lit on fire and then used in lieu of cow manure for fertilizing the rose garden, confidence has a tendency to get sapped right out of you.

I think it's time for that to change.

It's November 4th. The month has barely begun, and I'm already swamped. This year, I decided to have a go at National Novel Writing Month. I have begun the writing process, set up on the whole idea for my novel (sort of) and with the help of some friends, devised a plan to write a certain amount of words per day in order to make the precise word count. Not surprisingly, I'm already a day behind. Looking at the month ahead, I've come to the following conclusions:

1. I probably should have instead opted for Nation Blog Posting Month, as it would be an easier alternative given my crazy time constraints at the moment.
2. Because of a number of things happening this month that must happen, I have decided not to hold myself to the stringent rules of NaNoWriMo. This means that I will still write, and continue on the project I've begun, but if I can't work every single day on it, I won't be too upset.
3. NaNoWriMo's servers, despite being as strong as they say on the site, are so catastrophically slow that I can't even log in to post stuff on there anyway.

So far, the writing process for me has gone like this:

• Nov. 1: Holy shit, it's November 1, and I have no idea what I'm going to write about. But I'm going to start typing something anyway. Two hours later, I'm thinking to myself that I seriously hate what I've started. If I had half a brain, I'd send it straight to the trash bin on the computer. Instead, I take a nap. Later, after dinner, another two hours spent working. What started out as hate has become fiery loathing.
• Nov. 2: A long-ass day at work. I arrive home with the intent of churning out the next day's word count. I decide to actually work on some character and plot stuff, to hopefully cut down on the number of hours I seem to need for this. I write about 100 words once I'm done planning, then go to dinner and a theater show with Robert for the evening. Dinner at one fabulously delicious restaurant, and Vampire Lesbians of Sodom to round out the evening. Life is grand!
• Nov. 3: Time to play catch-up for Friday's slip-up. I get to writing, but only get through Friday's work, not Saturday's. My eyes feel abused for looking at the computer screen for as long as they did.
• Nov. 4: It's enough of a chore just to set the clocks back. There's no way I'm going to do a bunch of writing today. I'm taking the day off. And oh yeah, I'm going to finish that letter of intent for my grad school application. Must hurry on that.

In other news, it seems one of my recent blog posts is making waves. One of the pilots for the Darth Vader balloon paid me a visit and left a comment for my amusement. Judging by his harsh tone, methinks he was a wee bit offended. I never claimed to be an authority (I'm a blogger, not a reporter), so I see no reason why I can't lie all I want, regardless of whether said lies can be accepted. In any case, I was really ragging on the pin vendors (well, one vendor in particular, but only because they suck). To the Darth Vader peeps: you're still cool, but just be careful not to burn the fabric on your balloon with your own burner again, capisce?

It's Halloween! It's also 7:30 and the sun still hasn't cleared the mountains yet. Though it's not something I'm consciously doing, I've been daily protesting this whole extended daylight savings time thing. Simply put, I'm not exactly fond of the extension. I like my days long, but really, what were those folks thinking when they declared that we could "save energy" by postponing the turning back of our clocks? Like, maybe we could keep the earth from spinning on its axis, or something. But the days keep getting shorter anyway. As in: we have just as many hours of light as we do without changing our clocks. Could it be because it's fall? To be honest, I don't have strong feelings one way or the other for changing the clocks twice a year. I'm passionate, though, when it comes to having to wake up early in the morning. I generally have to get up every morning around 6:00 or so, in order to get to work on time. I consider any wake-up time prior to 7:30 to be cruel and unusual punishment, and best avoided if at all possible. I'm willing to make an exception (not that my job gives me much choice), with one caveat: I want the sun to be coming up. If I wake up and it's still dark outside, I'm probably going back to sleep. Let me also point out that it's generally my subconscious making such decisions, so who am I to argue?

This year, Halloween has new significance for me. First, it's been an exciting holiday, and fun. It's Robert's and my second Halloween together, but the first one I've actually done right. Last year I had some crazy theater stuff going on, so I missed it. Second, today is the last day of October, and this year I decided to have a go at National Novel Writing Month. I'm a little intimidated at the moment. On the one hand, given all that I write for work, and all that I've been working on for a graduate school application, I think it'll be feasible. On the other hand, given all that I write for work, and all that i've been working on for a graduate school application, I wonder whether I'll even have any energy to put into a novel.

But that starts tomorrow, so I can't worry too much about that yet. First I have to get through the workday, sans students. Because all the students at my school have the day off. Because apparently, Halloween has become so controversial in this city (and maybe elsewhere, I don't know) that, rather than use the opportunity to teach some history and culture and new and open-minded perspectives on how to celebrate such a cool holiday, they'd rather kids have the day off and learn nothing about the world. Oy vay.

I'm not sure whether I should be happy that my weekend ended on the note it did, or depressed. On the one hand, it ended nice and low key. On the other, it's kind of depressing. Given just how awesome a weekend I had, it could just be par for the course. I got to do the usual amount of lazing around the house, sleeping in, and generally lavishing in having nothing to do except what I wanted to. Saturday night, Robert and I went to a Halloween party. Though in recent years, I've been considerably remiss in my Halloween costume obligations, I came back with a vengeance this year. We got a head start on costume ideas, which proved to be invaluable for me. No more waiting until the last minute for this guy. We got started in September, and it proved to be totally worth it.

I went Rastafarian. Sort of a Bob Marley meets Matisyahu sort of mix, I suppose, if you want my personal Reggae outlook. But check it out: baggy pants, chill shirt with the Hawaiian shirt combo, awesome tattooed arms, and dread locks the likes of which only the most chaste of people could go without touching, even though I know they really wanted to.

Robert went Egyptian for the evening. It was pretty much what you'd expect for a storybook, should said storybook follow some pattern of cross-century, cross-cultural theme: Rastafarian meets Pharoah, Rastafarian falls in love with Pharoah, Rastafarian runs off with Pharoah. Sure, an unlikely pair, but hey, it's Halloween.

Of course, once the Karaoke started, the Rasta suddenly became rock 'n roll, belting out tunes to rock the party and even incorporating a stunning yet dizzying display of head-banging, a la Brian Fair from Shadows Fall.

Red and blue united today, in the form of 3-D glasses. Robert and I hit the theaters and went to see Disney's re-release of Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas, in 3-D. I can't think of a better movie for my first ever 3-D movie theater experience. I suppose I could have gone to see Spy Kids 3D: Game Over, but that one was out of the question thanks to my swearing to never watch any movies in that series, due in large part to their previews. But seriously, I jumped first at the chance to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in the theater, and the added bonus of 3-D was quite fantastic.

Here's the part where things get sad. After all that fun, I went to the grocery to pick up some food for the week. To Albertson's I went. After getting everything I needed, and then purchasing the goods, the cashier told me to hold on and wait for my special stamp. That super reinforcing thing to encourage people to shop there: the stamp that, should you collect enough of them, can get you free cookware, or at least reduced cost cookware. The cashier actually left to go find some while I was on my way out. And what's worse is that I actually waited for her to return. A nearly-three-minute wait for one measly stamp. Not even worth the product value ratio, but darn it, I want that square grill.

Today was day two of having slightly improved vision. After nearly two weeks of wondering why my eyelids always felt so heavy by the end of the work day, even though I knew I wasn't all that tired, I finally broke out my glasses and tried wearing them for a change. While I can usually pull out my glasses that help with my light sensitivity, I hadn't found them to be as effective lately. So I tried using my regular glasses, and voila! Clarity. My current specs aren't a perfect solution, because they're about eight years old, but they're better than nothing right now. I can actually make it through the day, and am even able to make a lot of progress on all the crap I have to do because I'm not fighting my fatigued eyeballs. Good thing I'm going to the eye doctor here soon.

It's weird wearing my normal glasses again. I'm generally used to only wearing sunglasses. And if the glasses I'm wearing aren't those, they're most likely my glasses with colored lenses that I use for my light sensitivity. It wasn't until I was at Pei Wei on Wednesday night that I realized that people could actually see my eyes through the lenses. There I was, in the midst of chewing a bite of delicious tofu, and sort of zoning out thanks to the sweet and sour meal I was enjoying, staring but not seeing in the general direction of the counter. Some lady was there, and after a few moments it dawned on me that, given her rather sour expression and her direct gaze (directed at me), she must have thought I was staring at her. Whatever she feared or hoped, I can't say.

For the most part, it's been nice to see more clearly for a change. It's only day two, but while driving around town today I unfortunately had to share the road with a gigantic diesel testosterone-fueled jet-engine wannabe ass-ugly souped up pick-up truck. Three foot tires, giant exhaust pipes placed right behind the cab and pointing skyward, and the word FORD plastered across the hood. As if the driver hasn't already proven that, despite his biological status as a male, he still has penis envy, there's one more item of bling on the ghastly thing: a pair of silver testicles hanging by a chain near the rear tires. That metallic ball sac is so tacky that I'm afraid of looking at it up close (especially with my glasses on), lest I go blind, turn into a pillar of salt, or else have my spirit eaten out of my very body like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The last time I saw one of those things on a big truck, which incidentally seems to be the only place you ever see them, I actually saw the driver of that particular truck. I'm not generally one to judge people, but I do make exceptions. I mean, when I see a sticker plastered proudly across a Chevy Silverado that proclaims, "Sucking Gas, Hauling Ass," you're asking for it.

No studies have conclusively or statistically shown it, but a trip to the dentist is always best on a Monday. I know this based on experience. Experience from this very moment, as a matter of fact. Monday dental visits are good for two very good reasons:

• You get to leave work early. On a Monday, no less.
• The rest of the week is blissful, having gotten the trauma of the dental visit over with right from the start.

I'm not a very big fan of dentists. It's not that I don't like them as people. I'm sure they mean well, and most of them are probably perfectly nice. In fact, I think I take a don't hate the player, hate the game approach with them. As in, I like them well enough, but what they do sometimes really makes me hate them appreciate their profession a good deal less than they might hope.

Of course, before every trip to the dentist, I must brush my teeth before I get there. Yes, I'm one of those people. I really have no idea if dentists appreciate this sort of thing, or even expect it of their patients. I do it because I operate under the most likely misconstrued notion that I can somehow brush away every single bit of tartar and plaque residing on my teeth in one fell swoop. And it's not that I don't brush my teeth effectively. I brush twice a day, sometimes more, and floss on average once a day. Despite such good textbook care of my teeth, I still go to the dentist's office thinking that this time, they're going to tell me that all my teeth are half-rotted and are going to fall out within the next two months, and I may as well go ahead and schedule an appointment to get my dentures made.¹

I suppose, though, that holding expectations this low could be some twisted form of coping mechanism. Imagining the worst so that when they tell me everything is fine and looks great, I can breathe a sigh of relief and continue living. Today, the worst of the news was that my one and only filling seems to be coming apart a little bit. I distinctly remember that day in fifth grade when I found out I had a cavity. I thought for sure my parents would skin me alive. Instead, I got a stern "You need to brush your teeth better" lecture from my folks and a snazzy white filling that's only visible to those in the dental field. How cosmetically awesome!

¹This irrational fear usually only occurs to me about an hour before I have to be at the dentist's office. There's also a strong chance that I exaggerated some, if not all, aspects of said irrational fear.

J.K Rowling is an amazing woman. Pressure from fans. Pressure from people too religiously rigid to have any sort of an imagination. And pressure, no doubt from herself, to stay true to the story she'd written. Yesterday, when I heard the big news of her revelation at Carnegie Hall, I was thrilled. I admit that I sometimes, fleetingly, wondered if Dumbledore might be gay. As we learned more about him throughout the last two books in the series, it occasionally crossed my mind. By the same token, if one wonders about Dumbledore, then one also wonders about other characters. There are a great many adult characters in the Harry Potter series who seem to be single. Indeed, most of the professors at Hogwarts are, from the reader's perspective, quite unattached.

I have mixed feelings on this news. First, I'm thrilled that J.K. Rowling is so upfront and honest. Her honesty brings to light a new attribute to an already very dynamic character. It's great that she's willing to let us get to know Dumbledore even better than we did before.

On the other hand, I can see a great many people reacting poorly to this news. The far right already hates her books because of their use of magic. Right here in New Mexico, there were book burnings in which her books were thrown into a bonfire. And it happened at a church. Opening the door into Dumbledore's sexuality will, I fear, lead to even more such unacceptable behavior. I could see many groups fighting even harder to denounce Harry Potter now that a prominent character in the children's lives is gay. Never mind what we know about Dumbledore being an advocate for what is right, a good disciplinarian, a bad-ass wizard, and an all-around great guy.

Another thing I can see happening, and it no doubt already has happened, is people going back through the books and finding passages that can be viewed with double entendre, and questioning events that before they never thought twice about. This I find an even sadder thought. Rowling clearly thought it unimportant to publicly mention what is a very personal characteristic of Dumbledore, at the very least until after most fans have read the books. Had she not been asked, I doubt she would have offered up this information. She did this for one very strong, very simple, reason: it is of little importance to the story. Yes, it sheds some light on a few events, and it does add to Dumbledore's overall dynamic. But it has virtually no impact otherwise. To go back and "read into" certain parts of the books would be extremely disrespectful to the author and to the story, especially considering how respectful the author was to her fans and to her books.

I admire J.K. Rowling now more than ever before. Had I been in the audience when she made the big announcement, I would have been one of the first ones jumping up and applauding. Even after having read the entire series, all but the last installment multiple times, she continues to amaze me.

Damn you, Isaac Newton. This is all your fault. And damn you, Birkenstock. This is all your fault too. What has so far been an otherwise perfectly splendid Saturday morning was marred while I was doing laundry. As if the laundry itself wasn't enough to take away from my Saturday, I had to go and make a human train wreck of myself while climbing the stairs back up to my apartment.

It's easy to be lulled into a sense of complacency once you're used to living somewhere. You forget that climbing stairs is potentially very dangerous, especially when wearing your comfy Birkenstock sandals and when carrying a couple of empty laundry baskets. Couple all that with thoughts along the lines of trying to come up with a way to leak to the press that Ann Coulter is really a raunchy leather dominatrix who has a penchant for making clergymen her bitches, and you're in for it.

Here's a breakdown, as best as I can remember it, of what happened:

1. After putting all my laundry in the washers, I head back upstairs, clutching the empty laundry baskets in my arms.
2. Midway through the climb up the second flight of said stairs, I don't lift my right foot quite high enough to make the next step.
3. My Birkenstock shoe meets the concrete step head-on.
4. Newton's third law ("every action has an equal and opposite reaction") comes into play: my moving foot hit something inanimate, and immediately moved the opposite direction.
5. Of course, the moving force (train) that is the rest of my body continued to move with its forward momentum, while my foot moved backward.
6. As I fall onto the stairs and then down them (wreck), I fling the laundry baskets away from me as I scramble to catch myself.
7. The laundry baskets hit the stairs above me and follow me down.
8. My left knee and arm make contact with the concrete steps, and then with the stupid laundry baskets.

Long story short, I picked my laundry-ass-whooped self up and headed inside to inspect the damage. And the score came out thusly:

Laundry Baskets: 1 Phil: 0

Whereas my laundry baskets barely got a scratch on them, I walked away with a bruised and scraped knee, and also a cut, scraped, and bruised arm. This I find sad. Here I could have broken some bone, or perhaps torn my skin and required stitches. Thankfully, this isn't the case. But my point is it could have cost several hundreds of dollars to repair myself. The laundry baskets, on the other hand, could be mended (if broken) for practically a penny, or else replaced completely for a hundred pennies. I see a serious discrepancy in the product value here. You'd think the cheapest of the two would take the heavier beating.

But no, we can't have that, apparently. For me to measure up, I'd have to wear a suit of body armor made by Sterilite. That would be a terrible fashion statement, though, so let's not go there.

Whoever came up with the concept of meetings was clearly a psycho lunatic glutton for punishment. I'd say some form of action should be taken against said sorry excuse for a human being, but... that someone would probably enjoy whatever retribution was inflicted. I had to wake my ass up at 6 o'clock this morning just to go to what could very well have been the worst meeting in the history of the world (though by the aforementioned creator's definition, maybe it was the best one). I am a firm believer that of all things worth waking up for in the morning, anything termed a "meeting" belongs not on such a list, but in the seventh circle of hell. That's how much I hate them.

As fate would have it, I also had an afternoon meeting. Which, to do the math, means that I had to be at work early for a meeting, and then I had to stay late for a meeting. The extra time I put in at both meetings does not get me any additional pay. While I'd prefer at least time and a half, I suppose I'd settle for brownie points of some kind. But I don't even get those, dammit.

The main plus for the workday, which only barely counts for anything because it really wasn't all that great, was the trip to the grocery store. I forgot to get some supplies for a speech activity today, and so had to escape to the grocery to buy them. While hunting for the bottled water, running through the store at top speed and simultaneously marveling at how a normally familiar store suddenly becomes a foreign country when one is in a hurry, a single thought suddenly popped into my head: I should ask for help.

Phil: Excuse me, where do you all keep the bottled water? Bewildered Woman: I'm sorry? Phil: I'm looking for bottled water but can't find it anywhere. Can you point me in the right direction? BW: ... Phil: ...Yoooouuu don't work here, do you? BW: No. Phil: You sure had me fooled, what with the white shirt and navy jacket, and I see your name tag on, too. BW: I'm on my break and decided to run across the street. Phil: Oh how interesting! BW: Hey look! There's the bottled water! Phil: Wow, look at you! You're sooooo helpful. Thanks!

And we parted in silence. A good idea considering how awkward a moment it was. But that should teach her to dress like all the grocery's employees and fool the unsuspecting. I wouldn't be surprised if that happens to her on a regular basis. If this was true, I just might feel a little less lame.

Here's some good advice: if you're wearing a skirt and want to get your neighbor's attention, don't do so when he's one floor below you. Even if your neighbor is gay, and has no desire whatsoever to see what you have to offer. Even then, when you have nothing to fear, it's really best to wait until you're both on an even keel. And for future reference, overly blustery days are not, generally, good days to head out on the town in your newest skimpy piece of clothing. Really, you should be so lucky to have someone like me offering up such sage advice. I'm the perfect audience, as it were, to do so. True, I wasn't eager to see what it is that you subjected me to, but in the grand scheme of things, I suppose subjecting me unwillingly (and unwittingly) is better for you than, say, some crazy sex-starved womanizer, i.e. the gross downstairs neighbor. Unless you're into that sort of thing. It's hard for me to tell.

I say this mainly because the only thing I really know about you is that you like peeking into my window. I see you walking by, or clunking, more like, given your affinity for wearing high heels. I see your gaze as your eyes alight upon the contents scattered across my "dining room" table, checking out my bodacious tropical house plant and the many scattered papers, puzzle pieces, toys, stamps, food, etc. that happens to land there. I'm a fascinating person, I know. I was hoping that you seeing me peeking out the window, shirtless, to check on the weather outside, might be an encouraging means, however unintentional, for you to change your ways.

But alas, I was sorely mistaken. You were at it again tonight, and this past weekend, and several times last week. Maybe I'll start waving at you every time I see you looking in here. Or perhaps I'll make a little sign that says "Howdy neighbor!" and place it in front of my plant. I could even leave cards or notes or something for you on the outside window sill, because I know you'll find them. It would be just like Sleepless in Seattle or Sleepless in Seattle 2, with the one difference being that I don't want to date you. And I don't really want you to respond, either.

I'd settle for less of you peeking in my window, but I know that's not exactly realistic of me to expect. So I'll just hope I never have to see up your skirt. Ever. Again.

I spent my day at work today with my mind in a completely different place. But it wasn't my fault. Honestly. I've been contemplating, for a while now, the purchase of digital camera. I've had my trusty 35mm for years, and lately I've been thinking it's time I get with the times in the photography world. The time is ripe anyway, considering how many pictures I've been taking. Trips to Wal-Mart have increased in frequency, much to my chagrin. I hate that place with a passion. But they're the only place in town I know of that sends film to Fuji to be developed, so I've managed to hold my nose, breathe as little as possible, and run into and out of the store as quickly as I can. It's definitely worth it, though, because most of the pictures are taken during various adventures with my wonderful partner.

Yesterday, because we didn't have any plans for the day and I was feeling spontaneous, I asked Robert if he'd mind going camera shopping with me. I wanted to get out there and learn about them, and see if I could find a camera I liked. Whatever I had envisioned, I didn't plan on spending nearly an hour at Circuit City, more than two hours at Best Buy, and then another hour at CompUSA. Nor did I imagine that I might make a totally split-second decision and buy a camera. But that's what happened.

At first, I sort of entertained the idea of getting one of several different fabulous cameras, right then and there. Next thing I know, I'm buying a souped up version of one I had considered; it was marked down an insane amount, given its original price. I'm not terribly good at making big purchases, especially such spur-of-the-moment ones. The whole process seems a blur, in slow motion. One minute, I was but a humble person with an old-school camera (which I still love). Next minute, I'm the proud owner of my very own ass-kicking camera of digital coolness.

The answer to the standard "how was your weekend" question was the same each time: "I got a digital camera! I got a digital camera! Did I tell you I got a digital camera?"

Throughout the day, my thoughts drifted back to where I had left it at home. I knew better than to bring it to work with me, lest I get nothing done whatsoever. But dang. I got a digital camera! I got a digital camera! Did I tell you I got a digital camera?

I've officially gotten my balloon fiesta fix for the year. As my life-long residency in Albuquerque has taught me, the fiesta was every bit as wonderful as it always is, and also every bit as nerve-wracking. When I went to the balloon glow on Sunday, I had my heart set on getting a cool pin for the Darth Vader balloon. Needless to say, I was crushed when I discovered that every single balloon pin vendor was sold out. Some punk sales economist person was seriously milking the whole supply and demand thing: each pin vendor only got 500 pins at a time. Okay so 500 pins to each of three vendors, that's 1,500 pins. That's plenty, right? Except that about 15,000 people (per event) each want a pin. When you consider how big a field has to be to support almost 1,000 hot-air ballons, and then you add some extra space for shops and everything, and then account for the fact that for each event, you're lucky to find a single square foot of ground that doesn't have at least one person's foot in it, you realize that that's a shit-load of people. And let's face it, they probably all want Darth Vader pins.

Still, Sunday was a fabulous time. I went crazy taking pictures of balloons, because I'm a total balloon nerd, and I went through about a whole roll of film. When it was over, Robert and I decided that we had had so much fun that, hey, we should go back! So we decided to go to the special shapes balloon glow Thursday or Friday.

We opted for Thursday. I was stoked, and throughout the day looked forward to the afternoon and evening. The day went by quickly, thankfully. One of my supervisors brought her Miniature Dachshund puppy in to work, which was a big help. He was so cute! Not to mention rowdy and playful. We got on famously, and by the time he had to leave our company, more than an hour had passed. But then said super's husband? boyfriend? came to pick up the dog. And suddenly I was stuck in Straight World limbo.

Husband Boyfriend Guy: Oh, geez. Honey, is that the collar you bought for the dog? Supervisor: Mmm hmm. Husband Boyfriend Guy: It's kind of feminine, don't you think? Supervisor: I like it, and it looked the best on him compared to the others. Plus it's adjustable and he's comfortable in it. Husband Boyfriend Guy: Yeah, but it's really feminine. Don't you think, Phil?

As he said this, I was in the process of slinking down to hide under my desk. I wanted more than anything else to not have to to be dragged into the debate simply because I was the only other man present in the room. Damn you, straight man! Only you would ever question whether your dog's collar wasn't macho enough. I was tempted to snatch the nearest baby pink bow, attach it to the collar, and then point out that that was feminine. Instead, though, I merely shrugged and responded honestly:

Husband Boyfriend Guy: That collar is totally feminine. Phil: Actually, it looks fine. Are you metro?

Awkward! By the time the dog left, only an hour remained of my work day, and I was ready to go. As soon as I got off, I raced home. Robert and I then got ourselves all set to go, and we headed off to the nearby amusement park for the park and ride. Where we remained for the next hour, standing in line on the hot pavement. So much for a quicker way to get to the fiesta. I even went up and nicely told off the people "working" there. They were, for the most part, total assholes, and instead of feeling bad about voicing my discontent (which is my usual), I wished I'd been more of a jerk.

Eventually, though, we made it to the fiesta! And once we were among the seething masses of sweaty bodies, we were both happy to be there. Because we were going to get to see balloons!

First stop was the pin booths. We headed into the first one came across, and oohed and ahhed at all the cool balloon pins. Afraid they'd say they didn't have any, and half-expecting them not to so as not to get my hopes up too much, I asked if they had any Darth Vader balloon pins. Here's the answer I got:

"No. We're sold out. Only one place here has them and they're selling them for $60, which is totally outrageous and they're a bunch of fascist jerks. Oh, and be sure to look and make sure it says Lucasfilm on the back because if not, then it's a knock-off. See? Fascists."

Disappointed, we left the pin booth. We wandered to the next one, which was super small and didn't have any either. And then to the next one, where, joy of joy, they had the incredible pins from the Dark Side! As it turns out, these people were extremely nice, unlike the name-calling punks from that first booth. They were selling the Vader pins for $40 each, which isn't too bad when you consider how inflated it actually could have been. I mean, $20 cheaper than what we had expected? That's a bargain!

We knew that if we got the pins, we would be the envy of the town. We also knew that if we displayed them proudly, we might get jumped. So we got the pins and then I kept them safely in my pocket. Once that was said and done, I was walking on air. We set off to go enjoy the rest of the fiesta, now that we had the elusive ring of power Darth Vader pins.

We got to see the Darth Vader balloon himself, in all his glory. He's a massive balloon, and he glows surprisingly well. My theory about his black color being too dark to glow well was proven wrong, and I [hopefully] have the pictures to prove it. I went through another full roll of film that night, and have now only to wait until Tuesday to see how they turned out. I'm counting down the days.

Three day weekends are wonderful. But not all three day weekends are created equally. I'm tired of this "Monday off" nonsense. I would much prefer to have Friday off. After all, isn't it so much better to work insanely hard all week and then to realize, on Thursday, "Hey, I don't have to work tomorrow! Woohoo!!!" I'll take that over the "Yeah, I've got Monday off, but then have to work the whole rest of the week" scenario. It doesn't matter how you look at it. Every week is required to have a Monday. Because the definition of Monday is "the first day of the work week." Yesterday was Sunday, as far as I'm concerned. It even felt like a Sunday. And today was totally a Monday. Not a bad one, mind, but a Monday nonetheless. I know this because this is what went through my head at 6:15 this morning: "Fuck, I do not want to get up right now."

Part of the blame here might lie in the shift of Earth. You know, that whole tilting of the planet nonsense that signals the start of a new season. Yeah. Suddenly, the sun doesn't peak over the mountains until well after 7 am. And given that I'm the sort of person who doesn't like to be out of bed until the sun is at least shining light onto the world, this is a problem for me. I like my days long, but getting up before the sun is shining is, to my mind, against the natural order of things. Rather than argue about the delay of the time change, I think I'd prefer to simply start work a little bit later than usual. Oh, and still finish at the usual time, of course.

The other thing that sucks about having Monday off is that one day of the week is totally left out. There's no Tuesday. Wednesday stays the same, in all its hump day glory, and the rest of the week follows accordingly. With Friday off, on the other hand, Friday remains its wonderful self. And as a full part of the weekend, which is really as it should be.

Of course, I like the time off, so I really can't complain there. But maybe next time, I'll take Friday off too, just to make sure I can capitalize on all the weekend potential.

Question: What’s the hot ticket for something to do on the Monday night of a holiday weekend? Answer: Go to the neighborhood grocery store!

I learned tonight that hanging out at the grocery store at the aforementioned time is totally the place to be. If I was to judge by the number of cars I saw in the parking lot when I arrived there around 7:15 pm, I’d say the place is more popular than most of the clubs in downtown Albuquerque. It was a spectacle the likes of which I’ve never before seen.

• The parking lot was packed. Angry couch potatoes in Sport Utility Vehicles circled the lot, vulture-like in their quest for a spot as close to the grocery entrance as possible. Woe to the pedestrian or shopping cart that gets in their way.
• A few stragglers loitered at the grocery store entrance, awaiting their posse of fellow food-lovers. Lucky for them, though, there’s no cover charge.
• An unusually large throng of people tried to enter the store at exactly the same time. And those darn two-person-wide doorways just couldn’t let them all through at once.
• So many people milled about the produce section and cereal aisle that it was impossible to get through. Those little hand-held baskets wield virtually no influence on anyone when trying to squeeze through to the other side of the aisle.
• The self-checkout lanes had a five-minute wait to them. And the guy behind me kept humming through his teeth to show his impatience, which was pretty damn annoying.

Given that I've spent my entire life right here in Albuquerque, one might think I'd be bored with the balloon fiesta. Like, hot-air balloons, big deal! In actuality, though, it is during this time of year that I imagine owning and piloting my very own hot-air balloon. This fantasy usually goes away as soon as the week is out. Still, it doesn't matter how many I see, I am still so easily amused by hot-air balloons it's not even funny. And if anyone else talks about hot-air balloons and/or events involving more than one balloon, you can be sure that I'm right there telling them how in Albuquerque, there are nearly 1,000 balloons present each year at the balloon fiesta. Because I'm competitive that way.

There's really only one thing not to like about the balloon fiesta: the population practically doubles in the city. Every motel and hotel in town is packed, and the cheapest place to stay is, on average, $100 per night. Most places are booked long before the October for the whole week of the balloon fiesta. Now, I don't really mind having lots of people here, because I like to play tourist myself from time to time. But. The city gets really crowded, and whereas at other times of year most drivers are 'jerks,' the average 'jerk' driver suddenly elevates into 'asshole' driver.

But none of this can stop me from enjoying myself. Though I've slept in and missed the mass ascensions for the past two mornings, I at least saw one balloon up close so far. The picture above was taken just outside my apartment this morning. I heard it outside, and managed to get a picture with my camera phone. Never mind that I was still in my pajamas, and was probably close enough for the people in the balloon to see me. I mean, I'm sure they see that sort of thing all the time, and are quite used to it by now.

Tonight I'm going to the balloon glow, or "Glowdeo," to use our awesome Southwestern terminology. While I'm there, I'm thinking about buying a pin of the Darth Vader Balloon, because I'm all about the dark side.

It seems the custodian stealer thief guy has discriminating taste after all. I left those fruity chips for him, and was disappointed beyond all reason when I walked into the office this morning and saw that they were still there. But he'd made off with an unopened bag of Starbucks coffee from the refrigerator. Oh sure, just leave behind the stuff I actually want you to take! I guess my fruity chips can't compete even with coffee. I still have some hope, though. I left the chips out again tonight, in a more "hidden" location. And if that fails again, I've decided I might even try pouring the nasty things into another chip bag, just to see if another kind of chip might be more tempting. If all else fails, I'm going to leave a sign on the chips, or maybe on the dry erase board, that says "Just take the damn chips already, geez!"

While my morning started off lousy thanks to wild disappointment because my chips weren't stolen, I cheered up a little bit when I looked at a few pictures I'd taken on my phone yesterday during one of my speech sessions. We were playing with Mr. Potato Head, a good time in and of itself. I was made better, though by my student. I happened to be sitting directly across the table from him, and so was at a particularly, uh, interesting vantage point.

When it comes to potato heads, I've only ever played with them the way you're supposed to. I occasionally would step outside the box, and put an arm on its head or some equally silly thing. I never thought to create the thing completely upside down. As in, place the hat where the shoes go and vice versa. My student did this, to each of three different ones. He didn't even change it up a little, but kept making them upside down.

Cute, I thought. Or silly. Or whatever. Until I noticed what these creatures looked like from the back, thanks to my unusual vantage point. As it turns out, making potato heads upside down makes them offensive to the person who has to look at them from the back. I got mooned by every one of those things. Granted, I don't think having the potato heads drop trou and moon me was intentional, but yikes. That didn't make it any easier for me at the time.

I've come to the conclusion that chips, of the crunchy and/or salty variety, should not, for any reason, taste like fruit. The issue initially came to my attention at Target last week, where I was confronted with yet another of Frito-Lay's schemes to make themselves seem like they're not the only company manufacturing chips. The chips "brand" is called Flat Earth, and its logo is a flying pig. And because it's trendy for all forms of food and restaurants to have a story behind them, their story, printed on the back of the bag of chips, goes something like this: a small group of passionate women, avid chip eaters the lot of them, decided they wanted healthy chips, and so blended potatoes, rice, and fruit (all dried, of course) into one. And then they called them "fruit crisps." I'm guessing this not because British people use the word 'crisps,' but more likely because 'chips,' in relation to fruit, usually involve massive amounts of oil. Just look at banana chips.

Though I found myself pretty repulsed, I also had a mild curiosity. What, I wondered, would Peach Mango Paradise baked fruit crisps taste like? And so, against my better judgment, I decided to find out. Here's what they taste like: disgusting. If I was an animal in the wild, I would die because I can't, apparently, follow my own instincts.

It's been a week now, and the chips remain on top of the refrigerator, largely untouched. Because rice, potato, and mango is just about the worst combination of food in the entire universe. There's a reason it had never been tried before; it tends to make people gag.

In my previously weakened and sick state, I didn't give much thought as to what I was going to do with the 'crisps.' I have no desire to eat them, but then again, I don't want to throw away FDA-approved edibles. This morning at work, I thought that maybe I could bring the crisps to work and leave them out for people to eat. With any luck, people would devour the entire bag, and my problem would be solved.

While pondering, aloud, what I would do if there was any left over, Robert reminded me that I could leave them out in the open in my office over night. The custodian who cleans my office at work has a penchant for stealing, though his thefts are a bit unusual. Given his history of stealing chocolate, coffee, gross donut holes from the local grocery, bottled water, and juice boxes, we reasoned that maybe he'd also free me of the burden of the fruity chips. I can't think of anything cooler than a guilt-free way to get rid of stuff I don't want. Instead of cursing this guy, I'll be thanking him. Not to mention taking advantage of him. Which, really, is justifiable.

During the boring lunch meeting at work today, I found myself envisioning walking in to work the day after tomorrow and rushing to the place I had left them, to see if they were gone. It must have been a pretty vivid vision, because suddenly I was no longer at the meeting. I may have, in the vision, made a certain "yes!!" gesture that comprised of my moving my right hand, which was in a fist in front of my eyes, downward in a victorious fashion. I say this because about half-way through the meeting, I did this without really thinking about what I was doing. My fist connected with the paper plate that held my mostly eaten veggie sandwich, all that remained of which was the lettuce that didn't taste very good and some small crusts of bread. My fist connected with the part of the plate nearest me, and lettuce, dressing, and bread went flying through the air right at me. Luckily, I managed to remain deadpan, and meekly went about mopping my lettuce-covered self up. I hate it when that happens.

Anyway, I know what I'll be doing tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed and my breath bated. This could get good. If it works, the rolls and fruit I no longer want might just end up sharing the fate of my beloved fruit crisps.

One thing about being sick is that you wind up spending an awful lot of time at home. While I initially spent much of my time laying about reading and watching movies, I also get rather antsy. So, as is probably par for the course, I found myself doing all sorts of things around the house yesterday. And now the entire place is clean. And was cleaned within about a two-hour time span. It's the strangest form of motivation ever, but it was surprisingly effective. I even broke out the Drain-O and attacked the shower drain. For some time now, my shower drain has been what those in the plumbing profession refer to as "slow." As in, it's not clogged, it just takes ten minutes to drain all the water from a five-minute shower. Which means that my showers for the past who-knows-how-long were half-shower, half-involuntary foot soak.

It's not like I did nothing about it, though. At one point, I tried using Liquid Plumr. I poured in half the bottle, waited, then ran hot water down the drain. Result? No change. Thinking I'd change tactics, and use the other option for proper use of the stuff, I filled the tub some, then poured the other half of the bottle. Result? No change. Nada.

After that, I just sort of gave up on it for awhile. I'm sure some part of my subconscious was beginning to associate showers with the sloshing of water and the complete immersion of my feet. As in, it was rather pleasant. But when I was at Walgreen's during the week, and there was a two-for-one sale on Walgreen's's Imitation Drain-O, and decided I'd try using that. Why not, right?

Well, lo and behold, the Imitation Drain-O ( "compare to Liquid Plumr!" ) kicked ass on the drain, and my shower is back in business. It's almost weird to not be sloshing water with my feet, as I have become so accustomed to it. But then again, it's nice to know that everything is working properly. It's like my shower is brand-new again! Which is awesome.

What's also awesome is that, finally, I'm feeling better. Oh sure, I'm still pretty nasal, and the skin on my nose is all dry and red (maybe I should take out some stock in Kimberly-Clark, seeing as I've been pretty much keeping them in business over the last few days), and I'm still coughing a little bit. But I'm feeling a thousand times better, and almost back to my normal self.

I went to the zoo with Robert today, and he pointed out that the fresh air would probably do me some good. He was right. Being outdoors on such a beautiful day was great. And there was so much to see! People pointing and waving at animals whose backs were to them. People pointing and waving at other people. A little girl with some sort of toy doll she was trying to decapitate with her teeth. Oh, and yeah, there were all sorts of cool animals to see, too. It was fun.

It's Sukkot, and while I should be celebrating the plentiful bounty of this green and brown planet, I'm instead sitting at home fighting off a bad allergy attack head cold something-or-other. As a matter of fact, I was earlier cursing the bounty of the earth, because I had harbored some suspicions that it was some of said bounty that is making me sick. I still remain open to that idea. It started out this morning. That tickle in the back of my throat. That stupid little urge there which, if it could talk, would say, "C'mon, c'mon, cough, just go ahead and do it, you know you want to." And then, you do. And you feel like you've been tricked immediately afterwards, because that feels damn crappy.

I hate being sick, and because I'd already had to take a sick day once this week, I hauled my ass out of bed and got moving. And, with the exception of the dreaded tickle, I felt just fine. And continued to feel fine, even when I got stuck in traffic behind some huge construction vehicle, whose top speed was like 15 mph, driving on the one lane road. Even then, I was fine.

As the day wore on, however, the weather clouded up, it decided to get windy, and before I knew it my nose was crazy runny. As in I went through half a box of Kleenex in the space of my work day. Not a good sign.

And yet, I persisted, trying pointlessly to stay optimistic and make myself believe that I was still healthy. Whoever came up with that crackpot idea about "the power of positive thinking" should be lynched. Immediately. Like, now.

On the plus side (yes, we'll go ahead and call it that), I decided to make myself some food that I'd been too lazy to prepare before: pasta shells and cream of mushroom soup, one of my favorite comfort foods. There's nothing quite like eating that, piping hot, out of a coffee mug. Just hold the mug in your hands, and its warmth and good flavor send your entire being to a happy place. I even pulled out a never-before-used pot, to make the pasta. It's a tiny little pot, and perfect for a one-serving meal.

I was positively thrilled about this. While on any other day, using a brand new pot might seem trivial, or even silly. But on a day like mine today, it really was the high point of the day. And since I'm in this state of crazy allergy-cold-yucky-fuck-all-something, I'll take what I can get.

I had an interesting little pedestrian encounter yesterday afternoon. After leaving the bank, I turned onto a neighborhood street before turning onto a major road. As I pulled up to the stop sign, I noticed a pedestrian who seemed to be crossing the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. So being the courteous driver I am, I slowed to a stop so that he could cross in front of me. The man, replete with white hair, blue jeans, t-shirt, hat, and giant cup of soda, stopped. In the middle of the road. I stared at him. He stared at me. We then proceeded to nonverbally communicate with one another: I waved my hand and said, half out-loud, go ahead. He raised his head and said, probably out loud, "no you go ahead." Or it could have been "are you going this way". I should my head and repeated, again by pronouncing out loud approximately half the syllables in each word, "n(o) y(ou) (g)o!"

And finally, we seemed to understand one another. He crossed the remaining part of the street, and stood on the corner. I pulled up to the stop sign. I proceeded to turn, so that I might continue on my merry way. As I turned, I notice the man still staring at me. I stared back. He pointed again, in the direction I was going. I thought "uh, yeah, that's the way I'm going." And then he did this meager little thumb sign. Well, why didn't he just say he was hitchhiking?

And what did I do? I smiled and nodded and drove away, feeling probably as bewildered as he did. Though I bet I was the one less disappointed.

Being a New Mexican, dealing with sickness is somewhat cultural. For instance, due to my less than perfect health yesterday, I knew I needed to do something to help me feel better. While talking to a friend of mine on the phone, she reminded me that I should probably stock up on vitamin C. In my dazed stupor, it seems I'd completely forgotten to do that. Eventually, I did get hungry and wanted to eat something for dinner. Usually when you're sick, the tendency is to lean toward eating bland, simple foods. Here's where culture kicks in. In New Mexico, the solution is always the same: green chile. Eat anything you want (or almost anything), and as long as it involves green chile, you're good to go. The theory is, basically, that the best way to get healthy again is not to suppress symptoms, but rather to burn them out.

After being cooped up all day at home in bed, I thought it'd be nice to go out. I was not keen on driving myself, though, given how light-headed I'd been all day, so my partner, Robert, picked me up and took me out. We headed for Subway, where I could not only get a fresh sub sandwich, but a fresh sub sandwich loaded with green chile. This is exactly the ticket to regaining health. Lots and lots of green chile. Did you know that a single green chile packs more vitamin C than an orange? It's amazing stuff.

While eating my sandwich at Subway, it came to my attention that there was muzak coming from the ceiling speakers. Not a bad thing, necessarily. But then I realized that the clearly quite crazy Subway employees had the local soft pop station on. And because it was at night, the stunningly horrible "DJ" Delilah was on the air. Hearing that monotone voice of hers did not make me feel any better. I mean, listening to poorly written "love" songs and then hearing sappy discussion in between? That's fodder for depression, that is.

I spent the day home from work today. Which was weird for me, to say the least. Growing up, I never missed a day of school, unless it was a Jewish holiday. I could have spent half the night awake praying to the toilet gods (because when you're sick, monotheism goes out the window), but my parents would still insist that I go to school. Granted, had I caught something that made me so weak I couldn't stand, I might be permitted to stay home. This morning, I found it extremely difficult to wake up on time. I dragged myself out of bed nearly 45 minutes after my usual time and stumbled around my apartment trying to get ready for work. I showered, made myself presentable, tossed together a lunch, grabbed a fresh green chile cheese roll, and headed to work.

I got to work, walked over to my room, tossed all my stuff down, and sat at my desk. Without really being aware of it, I started zoning out, and didn't come to until one of my supervisors looked at me and said, "Are you okay?" To which I shrugged and said "Uh huh."

After about a minute, I realized that I was not, in fact, okay, and that I felt light-headed. It didn't take much convincing from my supers' parts to send me home to bed. I was pretty out of it. What's weird was that I didn't feel any of the tell-tale signs of sickness: no sore throat, no coughing, no nothing.

I made it home and shuffled back to bed, where I quickly fell asleep. I've been spending my day going back and forth between sleep and awake. My awake time has been spent reading, eating lunch, and watching 30 Rock on DVD. The rest is helpful, thus far, so hopefully I'll be back on my feet in no time.

Recently, in a flurry of lost 360 emails, I was pleasantly surprised to find one from Patrick. He informed me that I was the 666th commentor on his blog. How cool is that? Well it gets cooler, because he asked if I would mind writing a guest blog entry for him, dedicated to the subject of evil. Who am I to resist such an awesome invitation? Though I've had a guest blogger on my page before, this is my first time to actually be the guest blogger. So here I am, a guest blogger, writing about a certain [nearly] unspeakable evil that has happened in my own life. To Patrick: thanks for the chance (and the excuse) to write. Your timing couldn't have been better.

Hell's Residence

Evil. It's tempting to think of evil as something unfamiliar, or something that scares. Or perhaps something that changes us. I remember growing up with a number of different ideas about what was evil. Death metal music, i.e. if any notion of cannibalism was mentioned. Mean math teachers. Step-parents. Rabid dogs. And, according to an old friend's aunt, the woman's vocals on Pink Floyd's song "The Great Gig in the Sky" (the fourth track on Dark Side of the Moon).

Evil in such forms, however, is not the topic of this discussion. The evil I'm talking about involves nastiness from one human being to another. Or more to the point, in my case, multiple human beings (they) versus one human being (me). I'm talking about Human Resource Departments.

For years, I've been a fan of Dilbert, Scott Adams's brilliant workplace comic strip. Having worked in offices, I experienced firsthand some of the nonsense that goes on, and thus could identify well with the strip. However, there was one character with whom, until this past month, I could not truly identify: Catbert. Sure, I chuckled at his evil little plots, but I had no evil HR person in mind when looking at him. Now, however, I have several faces, all of them incredibly unattractive, to think of when I see this little cartoon feline.

Let me set the scene for you. As summer was drawing to a close, my contract was set to expire. During the summer, my bosses informed me about upcoming changes for me. Wanting to make sure all my bases were covered, I asked about what sort of paperwork and whatnot I would need to do. "Nothing" was the answer I received on every occasion I asked (I did so more than once).

But when the change was meant to go into effect, I learned that everything was not, in fact, good to go. Apparently, I had to get the go-ahead from Human Resources, and they had failed to call me to inform me of everything that needed doing. Of course, when pressed further, it wasn't actually their fault. Nay. It was mine. It was my own fault for not recognizing that I needed to fill out paperwork I had no idea even existed.

Eventually, I got my contract renewed. But then it came to getting my first paycheck on my new contract. Despite the fact that I use direct deposit, I received no check, no deposit. So I called payroll:

Me: Um, I didn't get paid today.
Payroll: Do you work for us?
Me: Hi. Yes.
Paroll: OK, let's check and see here... Looks like we called your location, and were told you were no longer at that location, so we suppressed your paycheck.
Me: Did it ever occur to you to call me and find out what location I had moved to?
Payroll: Oh, and it looks like we're also missing a paper for our records.
Me: Oh?
Payroll: Yeah. From Human Resources.

A quick call to HR:

Me: Payroll said you didn't send a certain very important paper to them, and they can't pay me until they get the damn paper.
HR: Oh yeah. You were supposed to remind us about that.
Me: I've never heard of that paper. It's inter-department. And besides, I didn't have to do that last year.
HR: Um, uh, well, you have to come in anyway, and then sign it.

So in I go, because at that point, getting paid was my priority, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get my paycheck. While the HR "representative" was busy taking the paperwork I didn't, in fact, have to sign, to different parts of the office, I sat in her office fuming and reading the sayings posted around the room. The room was sparsely decorated, apparently with the intent to make it comfortable for visitors. I hardly need mention that it was, to say the least, not comfortable at all. For instance, there was a poster with pictures of flames on it. It said:

"Help our customers have a good experience by taking the HEAT...

H ear them out
E mpathize
A pologize
T ake responsibility"

Upon reading this poster, I was mortified. Not to mention defensive. For one thing, my HR "representative" didn't even come close to following this mantra. She shrugged everything off, even though my problems were entirely her fault. I was already thoroughly pissed off, and only made more so by the damn poster. So I made my displeasure known not only by telling her to her face, but also by following her around and finding the different people she had gone to and making sure they did the paperwork I needed to have done.

All the while, I knew that i was facing purest evil. As if being termed a resource (albeit a human one) wasn't clue enough, the frustration and grief they caused cemented their evilness in my eyes. My experiences were not pleasant, and HR remains the most evil entity I have yet encountered. But now, I think, I'm better equipped to handle the bastards in the future. I hope.

You may have found yourself wondering where on earth Phil's been lately, and how come I've not been blogging terribly much. And, perhaps, why I sometimes write in the third person. Well, I have some answers for you (but not for that last question).

For some time (several months, at least), I've been contemplating starting an independent blog. A corner of the internet I could call my own. A place owned by no one but me, and operated and controlled by me. With rumors spreading like wildfire about Yahoo!Mash (formerly Mosh), and with new ideas forming in my head about gaining some indepedence, I started investigating the purchase of my own domain, and learning how to bring it to life.

Through my research, I learned that some blog sites (such as Blogger and WordPress) have cool features that allow you to back up your entire blog, comments and all, and import them into a new system. Unfortunately, 360 does not offer this capability, so I had to back up my entire 360 blog by hand. That in itself was two solid weeks of work. Working a few hours a day every day, I managed to get my more than 200 blog entries backed up to another site.

If you're wondering what will become of my 360 page, fear not. It's not going anywhere. I love 360, and I've met some truly amazing people here. Plus, how else would I be able to read and comment on my friends' blogs? The main difference, now, is that I'll be blogging from a new location on the interweb. You, dear reader, are of course welcome to stop by and visit me. You can find me at:

www.rockytimewarp.com

I think you'll find it refreshing, and yet still familiar. Cheers to the future, and peace and good blogging to all!

If you're reading this, that means you've stumbled upon All Things Phil. This site, as you can no doubt see, is a blog, and is the corner of the internet belonging to yours truly. After nearly two years of blogging community-style, I've flown the coop and started my very own, independent blog. So where does that leave us? Well, let's see. My name is Phil. I come from (and still reside in) the Land of Enchantment, and I love it here. I have very diverse interests which, for the sake of time and brevity, I'll not mention here.

While I had considered moving my entire original archives from 360 here onto my site, I have opted not to. Instead, I decided that this site would start completely fresh, completely new. After all, why have all my past blogging here, when, for all intents and purposes, this new site should, to my mind, reflect the newness of everything I'm experiencing and doing. That said, you can still read my entire 360 archives, which can be found here.

And thus concludes this sorry excuse for an introduction to me. If you happen by again, you might find yourself shocked, awed, inspired, taken aback, humored, thrilled, scared, smiling, crying, frowning, angered, or perhaps even laughing. Oh, and a very hearty thanks to my friend Javacat for helping me learn how to go about and actually kickstart this website. I couldn't have done it without her.