So my auto demon, having been so rudely ousted from its lair in my fuel injectors by a double-strength dose of cleaner, has shown remarkable cross-technology adaptive abilities and taken up new residence somewhere within my Internet Explorer. Its particular haunts of choice are google.com, my Hotmail inbox, and the Daily Jolt - proving that while its habitat may be flexible, its taste is somewhat confused.

Jane it sure looks like rain
These Canadian plains
And their windblown hair
Jane the bruise-colored clouds
The smell of the ground
In the ripening air

I have seen you
In your fluttering dress
And your dry face of steel
As you're dragging your red rowing boat
Cross the forever fields

See Jane something's gone dead
Inside my head
There's nothing but fear
Jane the rivers of grief
The tears of relief
Seem ages from here

Sometimes the beauty of life
Hits like lightening washing everything clear
And these dimmers of doubt flicker
Fade out and disappear

But Jane that is a luxury
There are those of little faith it seems
And they beg for truth like charity
And I see them on every street corner

They are holding out one righteous hand
While the other leads the marching band
In the shadow hymn of the scratchman
Heed the message, kill the messenger

Jane I heard you found love
Wriggling up from the mud
On the shores of Granville
But Jane in the wink of an eye
The naysayers fly
Like hounds at your heels

Jane they'll whisper your name
And you won't feel the chains
And you won't see the moss
Oh, Jane there's an art to the game
The aesthetics of love
The athletics of loss

Sometimes someone drifts by
And our nets get entwined in the sea
And in time I might find
They still mean something to me

But Jane that is a luxury
There are those of little faith in me
And they pull me down like gravity
And I see them on every street corner

They are masters in the sleight of hand
They are dancers and they step so grand
To the shibboleth of Shadowland
Heed the message, kill the messenger

~Shawn Colvin: Kill the Messenger, from Fat City

well i don't sleep that good anyway - and if you've never heard that silence - it's a god awful sound

Maybe you'd be driving past and would wave me down on the sidewalk, or maybe we'd accidentally run into each other looking for taco sauce in Shop 'N Save. We'd be pleasantly surprised; how long has it been? We might even hug. We wouldn't go out for dinner - I'd already have eaten, and anyway that's too long a time to try and fill with awkward conversation over the garlic rolls. It also smacks of something serious, like a date. You've always been more outspoken than me anyway, but you understand my quietness.

Maybe there would be a comedian or a live band in the shell in the park by the river, or fireworks for the town's anniversary celebration. In lieu of dinner we'd stop for ice cream. You don't really like ice cream that much, but you'd humor me. I'd order the coffee with chocolate sprinkles, and you'd laugh at me as I tried to keep pace with the drips, since I insisted on having a cone. You would have played it safe and gotten a cup, and I'd accuse you of cheating and taking the easy way out. This would break up the ice a bit, and we'd chat for a while like old friends. I'd surreptitiously admire your tan, and the muscles you've gained since I saw you last. Apres icecream we'd put a blanket down on the grass and watch the spectacle. There'd be a light breeze coming in off the water, enough to give me an unexpected chill. I'd be leaning back on my elbows with my legs out straight, ankles crossed. Somewhere about halfway through you'd sneak an arm around me, and I'd lean into it with a sigh, grateful for your warm solidity. Maybe I'd put my head on your shoulder.

When it was done we'd be reluctant to move at first. Talking would have ceased long since. It'd be quiet enjoyment of each other's proximity, until the mosquitoes started coming out. You'd drive me home then, slowly, and I'd shift for you since we'd be holding hands.

At the door I'd pause, and say what a great time I had and how much I enjoyed myself. I'd sound corny even to myself, and inwardly curse the way my voice goes all high on me when I'm nervous. I shouldn't be nervous, I'm too old for that, too old to sound like a blushing teenager on prom night. But corny or not, you'd agree with the statement, and we'd stand silent then, awaiting the inevitable. Finally I'd make some joke about staying up too late and how you should get going so you won't be too tired in the morning. We'd both know I don't really mean it, but the silence would come down again, and finally you'd shift awkwardly and say well, you'd better be going, and I'd nod and smile a bit. You wouldn't move though, and I'd look up at the sky and make some inane comment about how bright the Big Dipper is tonight, and suddenly all the things we could have said to each other all evening would come spilling out, and we'd stand there on the porch in the dark and the night just talking, stories and conversations and sidetracks that turn into whole new conversations, and the hours would tick slowly by while the moon rose high and moved from orange to yellow to cold white, and you'd be standing there behind me, with your arms wrapped around me, and neither of us would want the night to end. You'd kiss my neck then, gently and without provocation, and it'd seem like the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe then I'd be overcome with embarrassment, or the reality that in a few short hours you'd be gone again, out of contact and out of reach, and there's no way we could seriously consider this. I could excuse it though; after all, we aren't really considering anything. Are we?

It would end, though, eventually. We'd have one last embrace, there on the doorstep, and I would go inside. I'd go to the window and watch your headlights fade into the dark, and only then would I realize I'd never told you I missed you.

Commentary on the increasing insanity of our efforts at political correctness.

a lovestruck romeo sings the streets a serenade - layin' everybody low with a lovesong that he made - finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade - says something like, you and me babe, how about it?

Fuel injector cleaner has exorcised my auto demon.

All hail Chevron.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia - Police say three lions rescued a 12-year-old girl kidnapped by men who wanted to force her into marriage, chasing off her abductors and guarding her until police and relatives tracked her down in a remote corner of Ethiopia.

Last movie theater trip: Mr. and Mrs. Smith

Action, situational humor, battle of the sexes, marriage satire, un-subtle hints about honesty, and the overarching sweet whipped topping of true love. Also manages to star America's established most-sexy celebrities, thereby adding an eye-candy element for the un-discriminating and plot-indifferent audience. Was pleased to see that direction didn't go overboard on special effects or futuristic technology, and the requisite slow-motion bang bang shoot 'em up scenes were tasteful enough to be bearable. I quite enjoyed seeing Brad Pitt get stabbed in the leg with a throwing knife - our heroes are not the entirely invincible super-hitpersons that they could have been. Climax occurs by shattering a Better Homes and Gardens-style store with gunfire - metaphor for the picture-perfect Smith marriage and its fate, anyone? Overall a good flick for a nice enjoyable evening not requiring deep thought but bound to motivate its audience to go and practice shooting things. One stand-out scene: Angelina Jolie, who up till then has been her usual perpetually-smirking and always-cool figurehead for independent womanhood (who also wins every rifle skills and verbal sparring contest that comes up) cracks for thirty incredible touching seconds. An unexpected bit of powerful, moving emotion.

PART II

Things that make the world go 'round:

Being Scottish
Witty comments
Calvin and Hobbes
Unspoiled wilderness
Horse noses, and ears, and feet, and...well, everything really
Beef jerky
Taking chances
Instrumental music
EMS
Not wearing socks from May until October
Bach's Harpsichord Concerto No. 1 in D minor
Back rubs
Inside jokes
Learning something new
Neil Gaiman
A nice pair of leather pants
Fuzzy slippers
Doing something people say you cannot do
Maine sarcasm
Being well-rounded
Hay forts
Minimalist web designs
The smell after it rains
Diesel growl
Just-because gifts
Cooking over, on, or in campfires
Gore-Tex
75% let-off
Sudden inspirations
Being able to talk to someone
Being able to not talk to someone
The Far Side
Motorcycle rides
Pleasant surprises
Mocha
Making fun of tourists
Listening
Logic problems
Satire
Bean bag chairs
Family Guy
Faith
Avoiding things that say no-fat, lite, no-sugar, no-cal, or artificial flavorings
A good book
Off-roading
Porch swings
Self-esteem
The Usual Suspects
Molson Twin Label labels
Power tools
Individualism
Pink Floyd
Zigging in moderation
Birch trees
Noise-cancelling headphones
Words
Chicken noodle soup - for the stomach
Tree houses
Robin McKinley
Vending machines that take my dollar no matter how dirty and wrinkled it is
Cam and 1/2
Snow days
Sincere compliments
Simplicity
Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp minor
Backgammon
Quoting movies verbatim
Hammocks
Sunrises
Spices
Force of will
Drummers
Hugs
Making someone else's day

PART I

Man OverBoard

"...Living in forests far away from other people is not true seclusion. True seclusion is to be free from the powers of likes and dislikes. It is also to be free from the mental attitude that one must be special because one is treading the path..."
~found via Whiskey River

PART I

In no particular order, things that make the world go 'round:

Hot showers with good water pressure
Coffee ice cream
Swivel chairs - comfortable ones
J. R. R. Tolkien
Olive oil
Laughing until your face hurts
Fast computers
Crossword puzzles
Pride in one's own work
Running water
Garlic
Mozart's Symphony No. 25 in G minor - No. 40 too
Thunderstorms
A kind word
Hardwood floors
Fireworks
Ocean sounds - not on tape, and minus the fake whalesongs
Red beer
Guitar solos
Direct flights
The Hunt For Red October
Good writing
Loon calls
Homemade cookies
Well-behaved automobiles
Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor for organ
Fresh snow
Leg room
Chainsaws
Herb gardens
Dire Straits
Sunsets on water
Big pickup trucks
Cool stationery
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, 1st movement
Taut jib sheets
The smell of sawdust and diesel
Fire
Quiet
Barn smell
Coffeehouses
Firm mattresses
Earth tones
Montana
The Microsoft Excel Sort Data and PivotTable functions
Cleanroom gowns - fashion trend of the future, minus the blue plastic foot covers
Card games
Fresh air
Getting lost but ending up somewhere better than your original destination
Freshly Zamboni'ed ice
Christmas morning
The Princess Bride
Chocolate
Old comfortable clothes
Honesty
Foreign languages
Robin Williams: Live on Broadway
IBC root beer
The bowline
Calligraphy
Oak leaves
Risk - the board game
Whitewater rafting
Friendship
Sharp skates
Leatherbound journals
Boondock Saints
Fresh-cut hay
Humor
Goalie pads
Pasta with butter
Chocolate-covered espresso beans
Leaving work early on Friday afternoons
Friendly antagonism
Butterfly chairs
A sense of accomplishment

me gusta tomar mis copas - aguardiente es lo mejor - y tambien el tequila blanco con su sal le da sabor

i seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn - the long broken arm of human law

well they can all look down on sucker row - but they all forget - the tallest trees from acorns grow

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
~Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau may be a stuffy, prim, arrogant, and occasionally downright hypocritical (or at least self-contradicting) prat, but he has a point.

it doesn't matter what i want - it doesn't matter what i need - it doesn't matter if i cry - doesn't matter if i bleed - feel the sting of tears - falling on this face you've loved for years

standing on the bridge that crosses - the river that goes out to the sea - the wind is full of a thousand voices - they pass by the bridge and me

I didn't realize the weather had changed until I walked into the corridor and heard the roof reverberate above me. When the six of us had gone out to lunch at noon (to the buffet at Pizza Hut, five or ten miles away, and run into a hellish traffic jam along the way that only a few NASCAR moves on the driver's part got us out of onto our exit, also involving an angry tractor trailer driver, but let's not talk about that) it had been beautiful, blue, cloudless, and hot as hell. One of those 92-feels-like-96 days, according to weather.com, when the humidity is well above the percentage Uncle Sam takes out of every paycheck. I wilted on contact. Fortunately the restaurant was well air-conditioned, and walking back into our building once we returned was like walking into a refrigerator. Felt good. And that was that, until my mentor called me up to tell me not to bother coming in to our 10 pm machine time unless it stopped storming. Storm?, I thought, and left our windowless prison to reconnoiter. Up the corridor is a small courtyard where I like to eat lunch on sunny days. Today was manifestly not one of them. Some time over the past three hours the sky had turned black as pitch, and the rain was sheeting down, drumming on the glass wall like an army marching. Lightning flickered every few seconds, and the thunder was a constant rumbling underscore to the whole scene. I wondered where the sun had gone - it looked like twilight at 8 pm rather than the bright sky we should have had at 3 in the afternoon. We heard later there was a tornado watch out for our area, though we are about as far removed from Kansas topography and weather patterns as you can imagine. By the time I left work, the thunder had ceased, though the rain still pattered down, and returned during the night to rattle against my window like a lullaby.

She'd only known him for a day. An evening, really; she'd gone down there to visit someone else entirely, who was leaving for the city, and he'd called up his other friend too, to say goodbye before he left the next morning. They were college kids - that meant a party, despite the fact that all three of them had to be on the road before ten the next morning. The friend came over, brought beer. They sat in his kitchen and drank it. As seldom as she admitted it to herself, she knew she looked good that night, and the friend's eyes began meeting hers more and more often as the night wore on. Dark eyes like pools, that made her want to close her own and just slip into them. They made small talk, where was she from, what was she doing in the area, how long had she known their mutual friend. Civil. Reserved. She'd been so damn lonely for so damn long. He left, eventually, around midnight, having the earliest start the next day, and that was it. A flicker as they briefly shook hands. Nice to meet you. She'd probably never see him again. Maybe he still had her picture in his camera phone.

i'm feeling weak now - why won't you talk to me - but i can't show my weakness - you never talk to me - i sometimes wonder - what are you thinking - where do we go from here

First day of a new month.
It seems to be forever my fate to be assigned to work in rooms that were refrigerators in another life. Perhaps it's the size of the room which causes the powers that be to believe that massive amounts of air conditioning are necessary, but honestly, after a few hours just sitting here, it's just plain cold.
For being a fairly normal office-style computer farm for co-ops, it also has a pipe marked "Acid Drain" in the corner. Hmm.