A feast of friends, alive, she cried, waiting for me outside

I feel tired and a little beat up, but not bitter about it though, like a football player who, despite taking licking after brutal licking on the practice field, still considered it a worthwhile experience and maybe even grew from it. I had an active day, portions of which were taxing. In the morning, I took the T into Boston to do some recording at the registry, followed by a visit to the one in Cambridge to do some research and get certified copies of various documents.

At the Boston registry, where the help is generally nice, but with the prickly entitlement that city folk tend to have, I sensed open hostility from everyone around me. If you believe I was exhibiting signs of paranoia, you may be on to something. I believe it's equally as plausible that there were a number of people irritable from the heat and the run and the long week, who weren't invested in projecting glee.

My first order of business was to record several documents in registered land, where, before you do anything, you have to retrieve the massive book, or books, as the case may be, that houses the certificate of title your documents reference. I loathe this part of the process, but only at the Boston registry, because there you can't get the books yourself. No, you have to stand at a counter and ask the person working behind it to get it for you.

And it's always the same person, unfortunately. He is a miserable fuck who seems to relish his little crumb of authority a little too much. I suspect this is because in every other area of his life, he is an abject failure with no authority over anyone. I want to make him a t-shirt that says "Because My Life Just Plain Sucks, It Is My Duty To Make Sure Yours Does As Well". Actually, I want to make him a number of t-shirts. Here's a sampling:

"When Life Deals You Lemons, Deal Out Even More Lemons To Everyone Else. Why? Because Fuck Them, That's Why!"

"Happy? Not After I Get Through With You, You Privileged Cunt!"

"What's six foot two, has a stupid mustache, looks like the step father who most likely killed his son in the powerful documentary, Paradise Lost, and is two seconds away from punishing you for the stupid decisions he's made in life? Me, you rich, goodlooking, self involved asshole"

As you can tell, they're variations of a theme, but they're gold, baby! Anyway, back to our interaction.

I've tried being cordial and respectful, but he hasn't made it easy. Every time I approach his counter, today being no exception, he sits at his rickety desk no more than five feet in front of me and ignores me until he's decided he's made me squirm long enough. Then he saunters over to me with an accusatory stare that says, "This better be good, asshole. You just disrupted me from something very, very important." And when I tell him which book I need, he looks put out and even more miserable than before.

One of these days, and it may be soon, I'm going to punch him square in the face and knock him right the fuck out. The only thing that stills my hand is the belief that life has already beat him up pretty good, better than my knockout punch ever would. Ah, but a man can dream, can't he?

So, after dealing with this miserable fuck, who for the record looks like an uglier, more disheveled Meat Head from the early days of All In The Family, I headed over to the Registered Land counter, where I had another miserable fuck to deal with.

This guy, though, is usually respectful, if not affable. Today, though, he was getting on my nerves. The certificate Meat Head had pulled off the shelf for me had an issue with it and its replacement was recorded in another book. There was no way for me to know that, though. The clerk closed the book, looked at me, and shook his head.

"Is there something wrong?", I asked.

"This certificate has been cancelled", he said and continued staring at me as if I was an imbecile.

As much as I try to be polite and deferential in this type of situation, I've discovered there are times when it's to my detriment, that some people see it as an opportunity to be rude and condescending. I was already a little prickly after dealing with Meathead and wasn't in the mood for this guy's nonsense, so I said "Ok, and...?", with a little bite in my tone.

"You've got to get another book"

"Which book?"

"Let me look it up for you".

As he did, I wondered why he gave me a hard time when there was no way for me to know I needed to get another book, and even if I did, he still would have had to look it up for me.

He gave me the book number and I went over to Meathead's room and didn't wait for him to acknowledge me on his own terms. I barked out the book I needed and thanked him when he handed it over to me. My change in demeanor must have worked; he was much quicker this time.

I finished my business in Boston and took the T as far as North Station, where I had to wait with throngs of other people for another one headed to Lechmere Station. When it arrived, the train filled up quickly and, what seemed to me, beyond its capacity. I had to stand and couldn't move three inches in any direction. Having dealt with the horrors of anxiety, I was well aware that this situation had all the markings of being the perfect storm for a panic attack. Alas, I rode it out without even the slightest pang of anxiety creeping its way into my being. Instead, I fell into a meditative state, my heart warm and body relaxed, and enjoyed the ride.

Even in Cambridge, where I almost always have a good experience, I dealt with cold looks and behavior bordering on hostile. I was going to say hello to Carol Anne, the friendly clerk I've developed a little crush on, but she was too busy to approach. Oh, well. I'll have to write more in depth about her someday. I think she has muscular dystrophy because of her awkward gait, but that doesn't make her any less attractive or kind. Meathead could learn a lot from her.

Ok, it's getting late and I've got stuff to do. We're almost at ten thousand, people!

The things that you tell yourself, they'll kill you in time

I turned on my Ipod the other day and discovered a problem. While some of the screen was back lit, the rest was an inkblot worthy of Rorschach.

Psychiatrist : Tell me, Kevin, what do you see?

Me: I see myself shelling out a couple of bills for a new Ipod.

In addition to the problem with the screen, I noticed a sizable dent in the rear of the unit. I quickly figured out what happened. Last week, when I fell on my bag in the pouring rain, in addition to ruining my lunch, I had crushed my Ipod. I'm glad I didn't find out about it then because it would have made my day that much suckier. It was only a couple of minutes later when my car wouldn't turn over.

Haven't bought a new Ipod yet, but I will. It will be a good investment; I used the last one all the time. In the meantime, I've been running sans music and, you know what, it hasn't been so bad. I've been enjoying the resultant quietude. I've enjoyed this new dynamic so much, in fact, I may continue going music-less on at least some of my runs when I finally do get a new Ipod.
--
Larry King will be interviewing the Boston cop -- Barrett, I think his last name is -- who wrote that racist email and sent it that Globe reporter. I may just watch it, if only to see how he tries to wriggle out of the spot on charges that his email was racist. How can you repeatedly call some one a banana eating jungle monkey, or something to that effect, and come out the other side of the act claiming you're not racist. And, lets' not forget, he made at least a couple of sexist remarks, to boot. Sorry, Officer Barrett, you're fucked, but I'm curious to see how you defend yourself. Ah, I'll probably miss the interview in favor of Six Feet Under, which just arrived in the mail (you're back in my good graces, Netflix, ol' friend). I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity, ad nauseum, to hear his remarks in the coming days.
--

Oh, and Big Papi got himself in a little hot water, too. I am not surprised at all. The only people who are, I think, are the ones who are blinded by their image of him. "No way Papi juiced. No fuckin' way! He's a class act and, most importantly, he's a Boston Red Sox player!" I know it's crazy, folks, but even nice guys who play for the vaunted Boston Red Sox can make mistakes. It is a shame, though, that so many of the game's heroes are proving to be cheaters.

We're fast approaching visit number ten thousand. Aren't you excited? I know I am. We are totally going to celebrate the occasion. Stay tuned.

To bring you my love

I'm a little irked with Netflix. This is an unfortunate development, and one I hope to get past soon. I've been a big fan of the site; any issues I've had, and they've been few, were handled promptly and to my satisfaction . If I have to have an Et tu Brute moment with them.... well, that would just suck. But, I don't think that will happen, and if it does, I won't be too surprised; I live and breath on this planet we call Earth, and, despite my pure heart, am hardwired to be cynical.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Netflix, ordinarily prompt with deliveries, has, in the last couple of weeks, been dragging their asses. Usually, there's a two day gap between my returning a DVD and them shipping me a new one. Lately it's been three or four days. If the trend continues, I may have to reconsider where I rent my DVDs. You've pulled through for me in the past, Netflix, my old friend, and I have faith you will continue to do so. Don't let me down! I need my steady diet of Six Feet Under.
--
Finished Bakker's The Judging Eye last night. Wow, what a read! He is the Lebron James of writing. If he has a weakness as a writer, it's beyond me. Can't wait for the next installment.

About three quarters of the way through Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee. A wonderful, yet tragic read. The betrayals, the slow and steady extermination, the reckless maltreatment of nature -- what our forefathers did to the Native Americans makes me sick. We came upon them like a cancer and devoured their territories, their traditions, their lives.

Our country was built on lies, murder, and excess. The plight of the Native Americans is our dark scar, the black secret we don't even whisper about. I suspect there will be a reckoning -- how could there not be? Our land is bloated with tumors, thick with hubris. Our leaders, reptilian. A reckoning, indeed.

I started reading Follet's Pillars of the Earth last night. It's a massive book, I barely put a dent into it. I suspect I'll be reading that one for a while. So far, so good, though. I can tell already it's going to be a good read.
--
This blog will soon receive its ten thousandth visit. We'll have to celebrate. Hmm, what shall we do? Maybe a retrospective of some sort? Oh, I know: how about for one post I let 'er rip and dish about my friends, sharing all their dirty laundry and riffing about all the things they do that piss me off? You'd like that, huh? Alright, let me think on it.

Off to work on some music.

Hey mama wolf

Ellen told me a story today that I'm pretty sure possesses at least one moral and, at the very least, is a good accounting of the resiliency of nature in its seemingly fragile form. The story begins with Ellen spying her cat on top of the bird feeder hanging from a tree in her backyard, with its paws around a small bird. She ran outside to coax the cat away from the bird before death claimed it's everlasting soul, but it appeared she was too late -- the cat had brought it down to the lawn and was feasting.

Hoping there was still time, Ellen rushed to the scene, scared off her cat, and inspected the damage. The bird, a tufted tit mouse, was a mangled, red mess. It was hard to tell where exactly the bird was injured because of all the blood, but one of it's wings was definitely in rough shape. Ellen made the determination that the kindest thing she could do for this bird would be to kill it.

"And then I went inside and found a little box to bury it in", she said.

"Wait, how did you kill it?" The first thing that had come to my mind was a vision of her stomping on the bird, and I wanted to see how far off the mark I was. How does a middle-aged, Fox News watching, salty-tongued, woman, murder a tufted tit mouse? I was about to find out.

She extended her thumb and made a pushing gesture with it, as if she was tacking something to a wall.

"You crushed its head?"

"No, I broke it's neck."

A brutal game, nature. I asked her if she buried the poor bird.

"I was about to when I got a phone call. I was on the phone for, I don't know, maybe an hour. When the call ended, I went over to the box that had the bird in it and lifted the lid. And the bird rises out of it like a jack-in-the-box , one wing flapping desperately, right at my face. Well, it didn't get far because of it's lame wing. I can't tell you how startled that made me. "

"So, the bird, this cute little tufted tit mouse, survived two assassination attempts by creatures much larger, and far more cunning, than it?"

"Yeah, can you believe it?"

"Well, what did you do with it? Don't tell me you finished it off after all that."

"No, I brought it to the humane society and they mended it's wing. It's at my house recuperating in a cage. It seems pretty happy. "

"Good for you. That bird earned the reprieve."

"After the cat had finished with the bird and before I tried to kill it, my neighbor had stood over it and said a prayer. Looks like it worked."

"I'll say. Tell me, does the bird flinch every time you come near it?"

"You'd think so", she said, "but it seems to like me."

"No kidding. Did you name it?"

"Yeah. Rocky."

I haven't the slightest clue why she gave it that name, but whatever. If it were up to me, I would have named it Tuff Lil' Tit Mouse or Tuff Lil' Tittay. Or how about Mighty (tufted tit) Mouse?

Ok, for reals, I would have named it Lincoln, as in Abraham. Why? One, they look alike. Ask anyone what bird Lincoln resembled and they'll say tufted tit mouse ten times out of ten. And two, they both survived consecutive assassination attempts by a cat and a human. Ah, but Tuff Lil' Tittay has a nicer ring. We'll go with that.

Maybe I'll get a new name, get a new face

The more I learn about the Henry Gates arrest, the more convinced I am that Mr. Gates is almost solely at fault. I say almost because, despite the corroborating testimony that indicates as much, all of the facts of incident have either not been, or never will, be made available for public consumption.

When the story first broke, I didn't know what to think. I could see it going either way. I imagined a scenario in which Sgt. Crowley, for whatever reason -- maybe he didn't take well to the sight of an affluent, seemingly well-educated black man -- treated Professor Gates so poorly that he provoked him to the point where he lost his temper, which would have been warranted. This scenario, however unfortunate in today's climate, seemed plausible. But another scenario, equally as plausible, had Crowley doing his job by the book, but because of his negative feelings regarding the police, whether based on direct or indirect experience, he misconstrued Sgt. Crowley's intentions.

I didn't expect the story to make national news, though it wouldn't have been unheard of, considering Professor's Gate's stature. In my opinion, the story didn't have national legs; it wasn't of the caliber of O.J. or Rodney King. But, because we have cable news stations that air twenty four hours a day and need to fill that space up, and because Gates had connections and wasn't going to let the matter rest, I wasn't terribly shocked when the story blew up on the national front.

When it did, I made a concerted effort to educate myself more about the incident. I discovered that, based on the information available, an informed opinion could be garnered. Yes, at its core, the matter was a he said/he said situation, but there was enough to go on to come to the conclusion-- which, if new contradictory evidence comes to light, will be subject to revision--that Professor Gates had little or no cause to behave the way he did during and subsequent to the incident.

To begin with, we have the testimony of Professor Gates. He admits to being abusive with Sgt Crowley. He admits he was uncooperative. He admits to tagging Sgt. Crowley as a racist. Most importantly, he has not once, as far as I'm aware, contradicted Sgt. Crowley's police report, which he's had ample opportunity to do, given his predilection for the spotlight of late.

In the police report, Gates comes off as arrogant-- "Don't you know who I am?"-- and abusive--"I'll talk to your mama outside". He is described as being uncooperative to the point where he prevents Sgt. Crowley from doing his job efficiently. Despite that, he is treated with the utmost respect. To wit, after repeated warnings to calm down, Gates is handcuffed, hands facing front, a position that put Sgt. Crowley more at risk because of it's freedom of movement, but one that was allowed because Gates claimed discomfort when he was cuffed behind his back. Gates was also allowed to hold onto his cane, an object that could be used as a weapon. And, back at the station, he was booked in the presence of Harvard University administrators and was held in a room with more comforts than a cell. Again, Gates did not contradict any of these details.

The fact that Crowley taught racial sensitivity classes to cadets, that he gave CPR to Reggie Lewis, the African American NBA player when he worked at Brandeis(something a racist might be loathe to do), that among the officers, a Hispanic and an African American were present during the incident, that, to date, his record as a police officer has been exemplary -- all of these things point away from the type of man, this "rogue cop", that Gates has portrayed.

And, in order for him to have the support from the Cambridge Police Department, to still have a job, his record had to be spotless. Shit trickles downward, and no less than the President has been critical of Sgt. Crowley (an irresponsible and unfortunate statement, saying he acted stupidly). So have the Governor of Massachusetts and the Mayor. Ordinarily, Crowley would have been crucified, whether he was guilty of what Gates accused him of. Someone always has to take the fall, it's the way things work. Again, shit trickles downward -- each of the above-named politicians have referred to Gates as being a friend -- if there was a shadow of a doubt concerning Crowley's actions, he would have been tossed to the wolves. A sacrificial lamb.

What I find unsettling about this matter is it's ramifications. It has brought race to the forefront of our nation's consciousness. In a different context, that could be a good thing, something, like the Rodney King incident, or the story of Rosa Parks, to help educate us towards racial equality. But this matter, if anything, could propel us backward in that regard.

We have become so politically correct in this country that we have practically become unable to address the issue of race in a healthy manner. We're okay talking about it as it concerns racial injustice as perpetrated against African Americans, but when the roles are reversed, we clam up. We shouldn't. If our goal is equality, we need to stare racism in the face, no matter where it manifests.

In order for there to be true equality, white America has to get over it's collective guilt without, of course, reverting back to an antiquated viewpoint, and African Americans, as a whole, need to drop the mantle of victim hood. I'm speaking generally, of course, and don't wish to suggest that all African Americans play the role of victims and all whites harbor unhealthy feelings of guilt toward them, or that all white Americans are afraid to speak on the issue of race in a healthy, honest, manner. Perhaps, it's time to get beyond all of that and begin to see each other, while still acknowledging and honoring our pasts, as fellow human beings.

The above two paragraphs were difficult to write. Reading back, I think I simplified matters too much, but how could it be otherwise when you boil down race relations to two paragraphs? Maybe I should have approached it a different way, I don't know. It's never so simple as two paragraphs, hence the national debate, but I tried. Even those I disagree with regarding the incident, including Gates himself, I sympathize with. I have not had the experience that Professor Gates has had in his life. I have not had the black experience. And, even though I side rather heavily with Sgt Crowley in this matter, and find Gates' behavior throughout it to be exploitative and damaging, I can see how things turned out the way they did.

The Wire is one of my favorite shows. To me, it's Shakespeare. I love everything about it. While listening to David Simon's commentary over one of the episodes, I learned that the show had more African Americans in it than almost any other show in history. It had never occurred to me, or to be more precise, never mattered to me, all those years watching the show, that this was the case.

One day, and I believe it's achievable, I'd like to see everything be that way.

It's cold on the shoulder and you know that we get a little older every day

I forked over 350 smackers for a new starter for my car. By doing so, I fulfilled my end of the bargain. The mechanic had already fulfilled his by fixing the car. He charged me money for parts and labor and expected me to pay him. I obliged, mostly because I take agreements very, very, seriously, and partly because I couldn't figure out a way to drive off in my car without there being serious ramifications.

I've just decided that henceforth, I will refrain from explaining everything in excruciating and unnecessary detail. I'm sure this is not distressing news to you.

I'm listening to Gordon Lightfoot as I type this. When we were younger, my sister and I used to tease my dad about being a big fan of his. Back then, if you had told me I'd be listening to him when I was older, and without being forced into it, I'd punch you in the sternum and tell you you were nuts. Then I'd rest the flat of my blade across your throat and whisper menacingly in iyour ear, "It ends here, son. You bring that man's name up again I'll turn your cheeks into tent flaps!".

Off to play music. I'm in the belly of a Renaissance. Hope it lasts.

I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision

Just awoke from a nap. I need it after the trying day I had. It began with my car barely turning over, a problem that had been steadily growing worse over the last couple of weeks. Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, it went, until, finally, it started. I knew I was going to have to address the problem sooner or later. Sooner, as it turned out.

I had some recording to do at the Boston and Cambridge registries, so I parked at Spira's and walked over to Lechmere Station to get on the T. As it happened, the Green line wasn't operational, but, fortunately, there were shuttle buses running its route. In Boston, I slogged through the rain and puddles and did my business. While in the registry, I saw a strong featured, black haired, young woman that caught my eye. I caught her eye, too, it seemed; every so often I caught her stealing glances in my direction. But there was work to be done, so I made my way back out into the rain and headed back to Cambridge.

Not before being re-routed back onto another shuttle bus at North Station. This time, the bus was packed to the gills. It quickly became a sweltering affair; the windows steamed up and breathing was a chore. Fortunately, the AC kicked in a mile or two into the trip.

Back in Cambridge, I hit the registry and spotted my black haired beauty. She must have left Boston about the same time I did. Was this a sign that I should talk to her? Perhaps, but my plate was full and I was eager to get out of there.

When I was through, I headed back to my car, again through the rain. At one point, I slipped and fell on top of the bag I was carrying. In addition to the documents I had just recorded, I had my lunch, which consisted of a banana and a cup of yogurt, in the bag. I stood up, my right side drenched from head to toe, and inspected the damage. Yup, yogurt and banana completely fubar. A big mess.

Got to my car and, guess what? It wouldn't turn over. I had a feeling. Fortunately, Spira was home and I was able to use her place as mission control while I made calls to work and Triple A. To make matters more interesting, my phone was about ready to die and I didn't have a charger with me.

Triple A arrived about an hour after I called them. The driver tried jumping my battery to no avail. He quickly determined my starter had gone. I could have told him that and I'm hardly the mechanic. Because he arrived in a pickup, he had to call in a tow truck. Another hour wait.

I won't get into what happened with the second driver, except to say it was a frustrating experience. Spira drove me home after my car was towed and I'm just now starting to feel dry again after so much time in the rain. And, yes, I did have an umbrella, but for reasons I don't care to get into, I didn't have it handy when I needed it most.

So, hopefully this repair won't break the bank. It would be nice for a change to spend less then seven hundred dollars.
--
Camping was fun this weekend. It was great seeing everyone, if only for one night. We had two encounters with a bear. The first occurred when we were all sitting around the fire at night. Baby Boy Z started barking suddenly and jetted off into the woods. We all got up to see what the ruckus was about. Brad went after BBZ and, before he got far, saw a bear bounding off deeper into the woods. Baby Boy Z, despite all his antics over the course of the trip, was the hero that night.

I slept through the second incident, mostly because the tent I was sharing with Janelle was away from the camp proper. This time, people were awakened by the sound of the bear nudging Rachael and Mike's cooler towards the woods. Rachael scared it off by yelling at it.

I miss all the fun.

I fell in love with Rachael and Mike's greyhound, Stella. She is so calm and graceful and sweet. I spent as much time as I could with her. Rachael said I can borrow her for a week some time. I would like that very much. I did have to have a sit down with Baby Boy Z to let him know I still loved him.

"Yo, B, don't worry. We tight, braw. We tight! We BFFs till we die, son!", I said to him. I think that made him feel better.

And, speaking of feeling better, I think a hot shower, some coffee, and The Judging Eye, are calling my name.

I wanna rock

Janelle has prepared a feast of delights for our camping trip. Ribs, muffins, pasta salad, the list goes on. Sangria, too. I effin love her sangria! And, I had a taste of the ribs, and the experience was transcendent. I told her I felt inadequate in the face of her gung-ho, or, as Sir Larry the Cable guy is wont to say, get 'er done, preparedness. She made me feel a little better by telling me she enjoys the process. She's already done so many good things for this trip that she could be a total bitch to me the entire camping trip and I wouldn't get mad. Well, maybe I would a little, but that's because I'm constantly angry and can be provoked into becoming so very, very easily. In fact, it's possible I'll be angry with her even if she isn't a complete bitch. What are you gonna do.

Pillars of the Earth arrived in the mail today. It weighs approximately 54 pounds. Trade paperback and still upwards to a thousand pages. I'm ready for the challenge. Me gusta los libros gigantico.

I mid-wifed a new song late last night by the blue light of a DVD player menu. It was pretty and I hope I remember it. Been writing some gems lately, at least three or four. They feel so good to play. I can't wait to attach some lyrics to them.

Janelle and I were just watching a Twisted Sister concert from the eighties on the invaluable Vh1 Classic channel. I was impressed at how good they sounded. Dee Snyder was belting it out, never off key, and the rest of the band showed some mad skills. Because of all the makeup they wear, I couldn't use their appearance as a barometer for when this concert was filmed. Finally, it hit me.

"You know how to tell how old this concert is? Look at the audience.", I said.

"Oh, yeah, they're wearing eighties fashion."

"There's that, but look at how many people there are. They're playing in a packed arena and the fans aren't Japanese. I don't think they draw quite so many fans these days."

They sounded great. I always figured they'd sound shitty live, but I'm willing to contend, based on this concert alone that they were one of the top three tightest live hard rock bands of the eighties, and I was never ga ga over them . I was a huge Van Halen and Crue , but they never sounded good to me live, especially Van Halen. Iron Maiden were tight, I guess you could say the same for Kiss and Aerosmith. I'll have to think more on this.

On that note, see you in a couple of days, bitches.

I cannot understand, my God, don't know why it gets to me

Subsequent to the last post, and despite its tone, I've gotten along well with Rich. In fact, we just had a lovely conversation about Slayer, our exhibitionist slash pervert slash long-toed neighbor, Stan, and the house across the street filled with lesbians. Figured you'd want to know that in case you were concerned things between us might escalate to something more bloody.

Camping this weekend. Not as thrilled as I could be about it because A) we're going to a pay site, which means, if my experience with them is any indication, there will be all sorts of touristy civilians milling about, B) we're going to a pay site which means we have to pay (paying for camping doesn't feel right to me) , and C) the forecast calls for more rain than sun.

I'm still of a mind to go, though, and predict I'll have plenty of fun. Sure, it's a pay site, and yes, money's very tight right now, but it's not like we're going to be shelling over a lot of money. It will add up, to be sure. Between chipping in for gas, food, and lodging, it won't be pocket change, but still cheaper than staying at a hotel, or even going to a nice restaurant. And, I bet there won't be that many people milling about, at least not that many for it to feel crowded. The forecast does call for rain, and, who knows, it could pour all weekend, but then again, it may not. If it does rain, it'll be alright. I'll be in good company.

Round two of Internet training at my parent's house last night. My mother was mainly interested in e-mails, a subject we covered the last time, but yet to be comprehended. The level of frustration wasn't as high this time around. My aunt had sent my mother a few forwards and I had her respond to them. My dad was less hands on, but still was involved. I tried to impart to them that the greatest leaps in learning will come from tinkering around without my guidance. Even still, I may have to go back again.
--

I really want to run into either John or Kate someday so I can say to one of them, "Hey, you're John and Kate, Plus Eight". I bet they get that all the time. Oh, to be a celeb.

Tonight there will be music played, Six Feet Under, reading, laundry, more reading, and sleep.

There's a shadow in the basement, and I'm scared to sleep alone

I was listening to a lecture given by David Ray Griffin the other night when I heard someone knocking on my door. "Come in", I said, only to be met with another round of knocking. I got up and turned down the volume of the lecture and again, only louder this time, said come in. This time I was met with silence.

I quickly deduced that it was Rich who knocked and that his reason for doing so had to do with David Ray speaking too loud for his comfort. Of course, I didn't know for sure because if the knocker stated his, or her, business, I certainly didn't hear it. I turned down the volume anyway, to be safe. It was fairly low to begin with, but it was late at night and sounds magnify when it's quiet.

I got back in bed and, all of a sudden, David Ray stopped speaking. Silence.I got up and saw that the Internet connection had been severed. The timing was too perfect for this to be a coincidence: Rich had turned off the router, which is in his room, and brought about, through an act of sabotage, the silence he desired. Occasionally, the Internet drops out, but I've never had it happen to me late at night. Cui bono? Who benefits from this occurance? Motherfucking Rich does, that's who!

Maybe it's just me, but I don't like it when someone with no authority over me attempts to control my actions. I was absolutely willing to comply with a request to turn down the volume of the lecture -- I did, in fact, do so -- and, if anything, I felt bad that I kept Rich awake (obviously, at this point I'd made the determination that he was the guilty party). Not only was I pissed that he shut off the router, I was pissed that he only gave me a minute to comply with his request before he did so. If he was my father and I was twelve, I'd be more receptive to him doing something like that, even though it would still be a shitty, passive/aggressive thing to do. But, at least then it would make more sense.

Well, I may as well go brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I thought, as the anger swelled. I walked over to my closet and put a shirt on. As I did so, I made absolutely no effort to step quietly.

I was halfway down the stairs when Rich poked his around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, "KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!!". My ire already up, I bellowed "What the fuck is your problem?" in response.

Like he usually does in similar situations, he retreated to his room. I was angry enough to kick in his door and punch him in the jaw. I was sick of being a victim of his passive/aggressive bullshit. The decision to let the matter go didn't come easily, but it came quickly. Not worth it, in the end, I thought. There were better ways to resolve the issue. I did, however, say "Next time you curse me out, at least do it to my face. And TURN THE INTERNET BACK ON!" outside his door before heading into the bathroom. And, you know what? Another coincidence! The Internet was back up when I returned to my room.

The refreshed Internet connection notwithstanding, I decided to give David Ray Griffin a rest. I got in bed and tried to cool down. Never would have thought I'd be getting into a heated situation after one in the morning on a week night, no less. I thought about Rich's anger issues. This wasn't the first time I've seen him act out in rage. I hoped it would be the last. We were going to have to have another talk, one that would probably have to be initiated by me.

In the morning, with only a few hours sleep, I saw a note for me Rich had left in the kitchen. In it, he apologized for yelling at me, explaining that the reason he did was because he thought I was stomping around upstairs because I was pissed that he asked me to turn the volume down. He pledged to cool his jets in the future and asked me to be more mindful about noise levels.

I appreciated the note. Now, I wouldn't be at work stewing over the incident and it's potential consequences. He was initiating a peaceful resolution. There was that. At work, when I did reflect on the previous night, I did so with a light heart. The whole thing, with the benefit of hindsight, seemed slightly comical to me. Janelle, if she was awoken by the ruckus, must have wondered what the hell was going on.

Later that night, Rich and I attempted to settle the matter. I had decided earlier in the day not to accuse him, at least not overtly, of turning off the Internet. He would deny doing it anyway. Which was why I elected to go the subtle route. In one fell swoop, I'd call him out about the Internet, which I needed to do, and guide the conversation towards a satisfactory resolution. Here's how it went downt:

Rich: I didn't mean to yell at you, but you seemed pissed that I asked you to turn the volume down and you were stomping around. I thought you were just trying to get me angry.

Me: I was pissed, but only because I thought you turned off the Internet (you should have seen the look on his face when I said this. His expression replied, "Oh, but I did turn off the Internet, but I'm not going to say as much because it would strengthen the argument that I exhibit passive/aggressive tendencies"). I didn't hear you ask me to turn the volume down -- I heard nothing, in fact -- but I figured that was the reason for the knocking, and then, right after I turned it down, the Internet was disabled.

Rich: I was already having trouble falling asleep because I was anxious about going back to work after having a week off, and I guess the stomping around just set me off.

me: I see where you're coming from. I mean, if you thought I was angry because you asked me to be a little more quiet, I'd be pissed too, if I was in your shoes. It was a reasonable request. But, of course, at the time, you didn't know my reason for being upset was because I thought you shut the Internet.

Rich: Right.

Me: And, you know, in that case, I'd have a right to be pissed off. I pay for my share of the Internet and wouldn't like it if someone dictated when I'd use it.

Rich: Uh, yeah, I hear what you're saying.

He never said he didn't disable the Internet, which is telling, but, at the end of the day, I don't really give a shit whether he did. What matters is the issue is resolved. We have to live together and, to do so successfully, we need to get a handle on any differences that come up. Hopefully, there won't be any for a while.

Amen.

A red sun came rolling down a gray sky

Janelle and I caught a matinee of Bruno at the Somerville Theater. I won't offer any spoilers except to say there is a ton of cock in this movie. If you can only stomach a little cock or no cock at all, then avoid this movie. We laughed and groaned throughout. Great stuff.

Afterward, we took Baby Boy Z to the park and played Frisbee. Baby Boy Z scampered off and did his own thing while Janelle and I chased the Frisbee around. Could do a lot worse than spending the day with her.

I'll work on some music later on. In the meantime, I may take my mug of coffee out to the porch and read. I'm hoping to finish at least one book this week to make room for Ken Follett's Pillars of the Earth, which is coming in the mail.

Then I chased a dragon fly, all across an ancient sky

I spent the entire day at my parent's house and I'm exhausted. When I got there, my dad asked me to help him drop off some furniture at a consignment shop. No problem; took about twenty minutes. Back at the house, I began my internet tutorial. It took a long time.

I consider myself a six on a scale of one to ten of how computer savvy I am. I can fumble my way around okay, but I'm hardly a maven. I write that with only mild regret; I'll never be a subscriber to Wired and I'm okay with that. I view computers the way I view cars: a means to an end. So, I have my shortcomings, but my compared to my parents I'm Bill Gates.

They needed to be taught how to use the mouse before we got started, which should give you an indication of what I was dealing with. Things I took for granted, like knowing how to turn on a computer or draft an email, were foreign concepts to my parents.

I had to dumb down my explanation considerably more than I anticipated. Once, my mother stopped me in the middle of a sentence and said, "What's that white arrow I see moving around?" After taking a second to figure out she was being serious,I explained to her that it was the cursor. She nodded in mute understanding, but I wasn't sure she knew what I meant. It was then that I knew I had my work cut out for me.What looked to be a relatively quick and painless procedure took hours.

The ego, when given the right circumstance, will assert itself in such a way that it seems aligned with the selfless aspects of one's being, but don't trust it -- the ego is cunning, manipulative, and self serving. Take, for example, a situation wherein the roles have become reversed and the son finds himself teaching his parents. The ego, if allowed room to graze, will pounce on an opportunity like this, puffing out its chest in elitist pride while maintaining a sage-like veneer. I caught myself going down that road more than once today, but I nipped it in the bud. More than anything, I wanted to be helpful and felt sympathy for my parent's in their uncomfortable ignorance, but every so often I found myself feeling a little too good about being my parent's vessel of knowledge with respect to computers.

It was frustrating at times, but we got through it. My dad was keen on checking out Google Earth ("I want to see our house from outer space!") so I showed him the site. We looked at their house from several different vantage points and I showed them mine, which they've never seen before. It was a nice respite after the big information dump I graced them with. My mother, though, didn't want to stay on the site too long.

"Denny, we didn't get this computer for frivolous things like Google Earth. We should be using it for more important things like banking and going over our insurance policy."

"You can use it for a lot of things. It's ok.", I reasoned.

My mother rubbed her temples. "I'm getting a head ache with this whole thing."

I knew of what she spoke.
--
Day one, the baptism by fire, is out of the way. My parent's internet cherry has not been popped, only prodded, but that is alright. Baby steps, I say. Baby steps. I imparted this wisdom to them as we were wrapping it up and calling it a day, but their minds were raw from overuse and unreceptive.

Still, they were appreciative. I was happy to be of service. They have done far more for me than I've ever done for them, so when given the opportunity to be helpful, I jump at the chance. I probably have a better relationship with my parent's now than I ever have. My dad and I talked in the driveway for about a half hour after I said goodbye to my mom. I wouldn't have done that when I was seventeen, I don't think.

When I came home, I prepared dinner. Rich opened his door and was halfway out of his room when he saw me and stopped dead in his tracks. He awkwardly peered left and right in an attempt to convey another reason for his emergence.I'm not positive, but I think I was meant to believe he was coming out to see if his guest(s) had arrived (for the record, he didn't receive any guests subsequent to the incident, which rules out the possibility he really was expecting company). He then backed, yes, backed, into his room and closed his door slowly, like a silky wraith. I had the distinct impression that, by closing his door in that manner, he was trying, like a hypnotist, to lull me into a dreamy state of forgetfulness.

It was apparent he thought I was Janelle, and, when he saw that it was me, was struck by a forceful and insistent urge to flee . His moment of discovery was priceless. His eyes bulged, much the way a hiker's would if he suddenly encountered a bear on the trail. I almost said, "Nope, it's just me. As you were, soldier", but I thought that would have been a little rude, even though what he did could be perceived as being rude. No shit. He may as well have positioned his fingers in the form of a cross and bellowed "Be gone, demon!"

Speaking of being gone, I'm out this piece.

You please yourself with every word, telling me where I've gone wrong

I was at work for a couple of hours before I headed into Cambridge to record at the Registry. I didn't mind going, but because it was still early in the day, I wasn't looking forward to the prospect of driving there, back to Andover, and then right back again. Fortunately, I was there long enough for it not to be sensible to return to work.

I parked at Spira's place, which saved me some aggravation trying to find parking elsewhere. She made me lunch and gave me an air conditioner she no longer had any use for. Very nice of her.

After the Registry, I played Frisbee with Rich and Janelle at Tufts. It was a grand ol' time. Janelle hadn't played in a while, but she impressed me with her athleticism. It was a lot of fun. I hope we do it again.

The three of us ate dinner together when we came home. And, now, it's relax time with a mug of coffee.

Another dream with a woman I don't know falling for me, or at the very least attaching herself to me. I woke up wondering what the significance of it all is.

Headed to my parent's house some time this weekend to give them a tutorial about the Internet. They're officially online now, and ready to join the rest of society. If they ever find this blog, I...I..I don't know what I'll do. Worlds will collide. Perish the thought

At times things are so fine, at times they're not, but when she says she loves you, that means a lot

Just went for a late run. Nice and cool, utterly solitary. Sure, the unseasonable weather has had it's drawbacks, but I've been a big fan of the lack of humidity.

Quick shower and then some Satie. Ahhhhh....


Went to Trader Joe's in Burlington after work. It was a gamble getting on 95 after five o'clock, but the trip there wasn't so bad. When I got in my car after picking up some groceries, it wouldn't turn over. Please, please, please turn over, I begged it. I didn't want to be stuck in Burlington with bags of groceries, and tired after a day's work. I tried a couple of more times. Nothing. Finally, after stepping on the gas pedal hard, it turned over. Whew! It's been doing that sporadically. I'll have to get it looked at. Too bad I probably won't be able to afford repairs.

McMurtry's Folly and Glory appeared in the mail. It's the last installment of the Berrybender Narratives and it looks as if Tasmin is on the cover. She looks like I imagined her, which is kind of odd, considering the way I picture her veers a bit from the way McMurtry describes her. Anyway, in my mind, her visage is that of someone I've written about before and will probably never fully get over.

Reading from Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee today at lunch, I marveled at the level of betrayal and violence we inflicted upon the Native Americans. They don't teach this stuff in school, or at least not in the schools I attended. The scalping, the castrations, the wanton killing of women and children, the lies. The massacres. Our forefathers weren't very fond of the natives, that's for sure. Manifest Destiny can eat my ass!

Finally got around to watching the rest of W. Couldn't really get into it. And I finished watching the first disc of Six Feet Under. I'm still waiting for it to blow my mind, like it did/does with so many other people. Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying it, but so far it's only slightly above average. I've been told it really picks up and that I should stick with it. Will do. I'll be getting disc two in a day or so. And, I should be receiving Milk, which I've been looking forward to seeing.

Woke up from a dream this morning. I was at a party. A young woman stood next to me and dipped her finger in my cup of water. She pulled it out and sucked off the liquid. We became fast friends.

The band is playing our song again, and all the world is green

Back to work today. I was itching for the day to end so I could enjoy the nice weather and play Frisbee with someone. The powers that be bought me lunch for my birthday, which was nice. Even though we get it all the time when they buy us lunch, I decided on Bertucci's, who make the best roasted vegetable pizza I've had in the last twelve thousand days. It was, how should I say, yummy!

I called Mara when I got out of work to see if she wanted to play Frisbee with me. She obliged.I kind of figured she would, because she loves the activity. We went to the park adjacent to the dog park by Union Square.

I consider myself adept at Frisbee, but when I played on the fourth, my mojo had vanished. My performance was shameful. Having mostly returned to form at Spira's yesterday, I was anxious to test my skills today. The verdict? I'm back, son! And you know what? Mara's pretty good, too. She told me her father made sure his kids were able to do two things well: shoot a basketball and toss a Frisbee. Most Jews play Frisbee, she added.

"Frisbee's a Jew sport? Is that what you're telling me?"

"It is."

"I resent that. I'm Irish and I bet I played Frisbee as much or more than you and the rest of your tribe," I said. "How dare you claim the sport as your own?"

"Okay, maybe it's more of a New York Jew type of thing."

"Alright, I'll take your word for it, but if I find myself at a Jewish function in Central Park some day and I don't see Frisbees flying around, I'm coming after you."

It was a fun time. It stinks that I can't give Mara what she wants, at least not presently, because she's one of the only people, besides family, who's really in my corner. Or, to be more specific, one of the only people who's taken an active interest in my life. My friends are still my friends, but they have their own lives to contend with, their own concerns.

Rasheed Wallace is now a Boston Celtic! I, for one, am thrilled at the news, though some of the local sports luminaries are not. They think he's a cancer, a selfish, lazy, loudmouth. He is a loudmouth on the court and he gets a bunch of technical fouls, but he's a great player and the C's are much improved with his addition. Next up: Grant Hill. Can we get him? Yes the answer is yes.

Ok, from what I gather from Luke Warm about the rumble on the fourth, Mike, and his lady, were the only ones throwing down. Luke Warm did acknowledge that everything was chaos and it was tough making out who the combatants were, but the only ones he knew were fighting for sure, were those two. Everyone else, including the Yeti, it seems, were trying to stop the fight. If this is true, then everyone, except of course, Mike and his lady, should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. Am I to understand that the likes of The Kremlin, The Yeti, and Rock and Roll didn't engage the enemy in brutal solidarity, but rather called for an end to the fighting like Swiss diplomats? Has the world turned upside down? Has no one seen the Outsiders? You only get one or two Outsiders moments in a life time. They missed a big opportunity. Anyway, that's my two cents. And, for what it's worth, I would have gone off and hid in the bushes when the fighting began, shaking like a fawn and peeing myself. Oh, I can't fool you. You know I would have been in the middle of things, howling and committing savage acts upon my fellow man, my blood lust overwhelming and blacker than Lucifer's soul.

Ok, gotta go do what I dooz.

He's a walker in the rain, he's a dancer in the dark

A fine fourth, though not without conflict. Went up to Nashua for a barbecue and saw friends I hadn't seen in a while. Life changes the parameters, but I'm happy to say the bonds still hold. It was good medicine seeing everyone. A fight broke out after I left. Heard it was an all out brawl. Good thing I wasn't there -- I would have brought the ruckus!

Craig had made me a birthday cake -- a very thoughtful gesture -- and several of us polished it off it in short order. Because I didn't end up seeing my parents, without Craig's cake, it would have been my first birthday without one, which is bad mojo I'm told. So, thanks for saving the day, Craig.

Mara was upset with me after the party. I knew she would be. It happens when we attend social events with my friends. To her, these events serve as a barometer for our relationship. It came down to me not being as attentive to her as she wanted me to be. This, after telling her days before the party that, because I'd be seeing close friends I hardly see anymore, I was concerned she might feel left out if she came along. She told me she wouldn't, that she use the opportunity to go for a walk and take some photos. And, she added, there was going to be people there she was comfortable being alone with.


So my concern was warranted. We had a difficult discussion about the ambiguous nature of our relationship and other unpleasant business. Seeing her upset wounded me. A part of me wondered if I should commit to something more serious, exclusive. Would I later regret this evening, this point of the relationship that served as a crossroads? Would I be Scrooge watching his younger self discard his one true love? Maybe. But, hindsight is 20/20. In the present we do what we can and hope things work out for the best.

I truly care for Mara. I told her as much. We would have parted ways long ago, otherwise. But, in the end, as difficult as it may be, the most caring gesture might be to let her go. Even writing that hurts. On a positive note, our night ended well. I brought her into my apartment and, rather than discussing our present situation, we talked about our past relationships and the rejections we've faced. It was a nice way, this sharing of ourselves, to end the evening. It's hardly an easy business, relationships.I'd hate to lose her entirely, but I have to steel myself for that outcome.

Today is my birthday. I spent the bulk of the day alone. I went into Porter Sq and picked up The Judging Eye at the book store. The Warden Man hasn't enticed me yet, so I went for the sure thing.

A few friends and family members called with birthday wishes, which was appreciated. I didn't mind very much being alone, but sometimes the familiar feeling of being alone and bummed out on my birthday crept into the forefront of my thoughts. Residual effects, mostly.

Spira and Brad had a little cookout earlier tonight in the park behind her condo. I stopped by and had a burger and a hot dog. After we ate, I grabbed a Frisbee out of my trunk and we tossed it around for a while. Watching Spira handle the Frisbee was amusing. She was as dexterous with it as a moose is with chopsticks. Wait. That's being unfair. To the moose, that is. Snap!

The agenda for the end of the night, which is soon approaching: some reading, some guitar, some Blackadder, some more reading.

She's the rose, she's the pearl, she's the spin on my world, all the stars make their wishes on her eyes

Nice having the day off after a frustrating week. I looked forward to relaxing after picking up some groceries and going for a run. Didn't really happen like I planned, but not much ever does.

I picked up a few groceries and walked over to Porter Square Books, where I debated whether to pick up Bakker's The Judging Eye, or Brett's The Warded Man. The latter, I'd been reading up on for some time and seemed to be just the type of book I was looking for. Think The Village, only set in a quasi-medieval setting and with real demons. As for Bakker, well, he's a powerhouse of a writer. The Judging Eye is the first installment of The Aspect Emperor trilogy, though it's really part of a larger oeuvre, which began with The Prince of Nothing trilogy.

These days, I only read books from the Fantasy genre if they really catch my interest. And, because of the crop of great new writers that has emerged over the last few years, I've had my hands full. Besides Bakker, Joe Abercrombie, Ken Scholes, Brian Ruckley, Steven Erikson, Robin Hobb, and Scott Lynch, have all released books that have brought the genre to another level.

I hope to add Peter Brett to that list, because I picked up The Warded Man. I'm about fifty pages into it and, so far, it's good. It reminds me a bit of Robert Jordan's earlier books in the Wheel of Time cycle, but that's not such a bad thing. I know it's been important, especially for the new writers and fans, that the stereotypes (farm boy on quest, elves, dwarves, etc) be altered or removed entirely, but I've never minded much the traditional aspects of the genre so much as long as the story I'm reading is well told.

After finishing Fall of Thanes, I returned to Erikson's Reaper's Gale, a book I'd put down a while back after putting a good dent in it. Erikson writes long, convoluted books, which I generally love, but his stuff, while rife with positives, often reads too much like an RPG in book form. That is not very appealing to me. If I was fourteen, running around in the forest with my friends, hacking at each other with plastic swords and hurling magic at each other, maybe I'd find it more appealing. But, alas, even when I was fourteen, I never cared much for RPGs. So, I put down Erikson once again, mostly because it, at least so far, hasn't compared to Fall of Thanes, which excelled in every conceivable way. I'll keep at it, though. The Warded Man looks to be a quick read, so when that's done, I'll pick up The Judging Eye.

When I returned home from the book store, I couldn't find my phone. I looked everywhere, but couldn't find it. I ran back to Porter Square and discovered that I had left the phone on the counter at the book store. A relief, to be sure.

Tomorrow is the 4th and it looks like I'll be headed up to Nashua to attend a cookout and then back to Cambridge to Spira's, where we'll celebrate the 4th, and, more importantly, my birthday.

Ah, we'll see.

Just joined Twitter, though, so far it's pretty boring.. I'm not posting, just lurking, and I'm not sure I need to know what everyone's doing all the time. That's what Facebook is for.

Had a dream last night about seeing friends. They headed out to some event, a Dave Matthews concert, perhaps -- I don't know -- and left me behind accidentally. That was fine with me because a young, pretty woman took a shine to me and we quickly became a couple. Of course, as often happens in dreams like this, she disappeared from the dream. Still, it was nice while it lasted.

Bougainvillea's bloom and wind, be careful mind the strangle vines

June saw three complete days of sunshine, July, in its infancy, has seen none. Most of you know this-- you have sloshed through the puddles, shaken wet umbrellas, and succumbed, however reluctantly, to the ever-present gloom. I'm pointing out the obvious, but it's gotten to the point when talking about the weather isn't small talk anymore.

According to forecasts, the sun will show itself tomorrow. Good thing, the gloom, more than the rain, has started to take its toll on even the most hale and stalwart among us.

Despite the foul weather, my spirits are lifted now that my license has been renewed. It was an ugly affair and I'm disinclined to share the details, so traumatic it was, but I'd be craven if I held back. One needs to stare the beast in the eyes, however it manifests itself, in order to overcome it.

So, I had to renew my license by my birthday, which falls this weekend. Before I could do that, however, I needed to pay off unpaid parking tickets, one in Somerville and a whopping six in Andover. The one in Somerville was completely bogus. I haven't parked on the street since I paid off my last tickets. I didn't even see the ticket; I found out I got one when I received notice in the mail. And, stupid me, I couldn't dispute it because I missed my hearing. And the Andover tickets were from parking in the municipal lot by my work. There, you can't pay for the whole day; the longest you can go is four hours before you have to go out and purchase another ticket. While I was diligent most of the time, there were occasions when the realization would hit me, too late, that I needed to go feed the meter, so to speak. In Andover, they have constant patrols of fat little trolls that drive around in tiny golf carts and ticket cars with unrestrained zeal. I never stood a chance. I no longer park in that lot, thank God.

Earlier in the week, my plan was to walk over to the town hall, which is only a couple of blocks from my work, and pay the tickets. And then, before work one day, I would head over to the parking clerk's office and pay off the Somerville ticket. I figured I was looking at a little under a hundred dollars, all told. I was off in my estimate.

On Tuesday, before I headed up to Nashua to do some recording at the Registry of Deeds, I stopped at the Town Hall. I was told I couldn't pay my tickets there, that I needed to see a Deputy Collector. The woman at the counter gave me a sheet of paper that listed the different locations I could go to. Silly me for thinking I could pay off tickets in the town they were generated from.I perused the list and saw that the Lowell RMV was on it. Ok, I thought, it's on my way to Nashua. Only a little inconvienent.

I took care of the recording first and went to the RMV on my way back. My plan was to scope out the situation and determine whether I could do my business quickly without having to use my lunch break. When I stepped foot in the building, there was a swarming mass of people milling about. Just as I was thinking there was no way this was going to be a quick affair, I was told that the Deputy Collector's office was in a room out back and that I could go there directly without having to wait.

When I got to the room, I was met with a sign that read, " Out to lunch. Back at 2." Fuck! I looked at the time. It was 1:45. I thought it over and decided to wait. I was there and wanted to get it over with.

At 2:10, the Deputy Collector breezed past me with a look of barely-contained hostility and walked into her office. Maybe she had a crummy hour-plus lunch. Poor gal. I gave her my info and she said, "That'll be $305.00."

Fuck!

"Why are they that much?"

"I don't know. It just says you owe this much. Oh, and this doesn't include the Somerville ticket."

"Of course it doesn't. So are you saying I can't pay that one here?"

"No, you have to go to Somerville. "

"Of course I do."

I started to write out a check and was told they don't accept them.

"But I called before I got here and they said I could pay with a check. "

"The Registry takes checks", she said.

"I'm not in the Registry?"

"No."

I shook my head in disbelief and stormed out. I actually called first. Don't they always say to call first? Where did that get me? So, let's see: I go to Andover to pay my Andover tickets, but can't pay them in Andover. I go to the RMV in Lowell to pay off the Andover tickets and hopefully the Somerville ticket. I can't pay the Somerville ticket there, I have to go to Somerville to pay it. And, even though I called before my arrival and had it confirmed that I could pay with a check, I was told that I couldn't because, even though I was in the RMV, I wasn't at the RMV, where checks are accepted. If I had brought a sword with me, I would have disemboweled myself, Seppuku style.

My ride back to work was not pleasant. I was pissed at the of amount of money I had to pay, pissed that I let things get to this point, pissed at the whole experience. I screamed at myself like a Drill Sergeant, upset at how poorly I've managed my life, at how nothing ever comes easily for me. My income is lousy, yet here I am about to pay over four hundred dollars, when all was said and done.

I thought I was going to lose it. Everything that sucked in my life took center stage. I returned to work and couldn't concentrate. I did some breathing exercises, tried to clear my mind. Detachment. It worked. I snapped out of my funk and felt better. I knew I'd be alright from that point onward.

Yesterday,I told Marcy about my situation and we worked it out so that I could take some time today to pay my tickets and renew my license. I had paid my ticket in Somerville before work and the plan was to take the T into Government Center this morning and pay off the remaining tickets at City Hall. From there I'd take the T outbound and get off at Haymarket and do some recording at the Suffolk registry. And from there, I'd take the T back to Lechmere Station, walk back to the Cambridgeside Galleria, where my car was parked, and go to the RMV that's housed within it and renew my license.

For the most part, things went according to plan. I paid off the tickets at City Hall, and, as I was leaving, the guy at the counter asked me if I was going to do anything at the RMV. I told him I was and he said I'd have to have my Somerville ticket cleared before I went.

"But I just paid it yesterday. They gave me a receipt and told me I was all set."

"Yeah, but they had to clear the ticket, which is a different procedure. They should have given you a blue form."

I thanked the guy for the heads up, walked out to the plaza and called the Parking Clerk's office in Somerville. After being disconnected a few times, I got someone on the line. They put me on hold as they investigated the situation. I cleared my mind and relaxed my body. I told myself everything was going to work out. I sent out positive vibes. The woman got back on the phone and told me I was all set. She apologized for the inconvenience. I thanked her and hung up. Things were going well. If the clerk in City Hall hadn't informed me about the Somerville situation, I would have gone to RMV and been rejected.

I called Marcy and she told me we weren't funded yet, so I would have to hold off recording at Suffolk. She suggested I go back to Cambridge and renew my license and, once that was accomplished, hopefully I'd be able to head back to Haymarket and record.

At the RMV, I only had to wait for about fifteen minutes before I was called up to the counter. The woman assisting me was nothing short of sassy, which made for an entertaining experience. The RMV in Cambridge is a tiny shoebox of an outpost, and every time I go there, everyone -- the clerks and customers alike -- are usually friendly and conversational. I was especially thankful for that today because I was starting to tire of the ornery people I'd been encountering lately.

I got my license, my journey was over. I called my dad and gave him the news. He shared my relief. I had called my parents to vent after my frustrating day in Lowell and they had offered to help me out in any way they could. My mother, in particular, was worried I wouldn't get everything done in time. More than anything, my call today was meant to assuage her concerns.

I got back on the T, but not before getting battered by a torrent of rain, and got off at Haymarket and made my way to the Registry of Deeds. The recording went well, aside from the clerk scolding me about the margins on some of the pages being wet.

"Frankly, I'm amazed they're not entirely drenched after what I just went through.", I said. She had no response.

I left Suffolk around two o'clock. I called Marcy with the recording info. She left it up to me if I wanted to head back to work or stay local. I thought about it and opted for the latter option. I was tired.

It's been a long week.