Cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke fight the still air and jostle each other for a place at the bar. I shake my head at the offering of a hand-rolled cigarette and return my attention to my drink. As I watch, the sickly amber liquid melts away the ice cubes and the promises I made to myself. It gets in the cracks, the weak spots, and splits them wide. Wait but a moment and the angry shards, the last of the resistance, will vanish too. Peace and acceptance pool warmly in my stomach and will remain as long as I dare not look too closely again.

* * *

Keratin, curiousity, and laziness have conspired together to leave me with a bit of hair on my head. Only a bit, but much longer than it has been for several years. My not-quite-flowing locks have revealed another curiousity: grey hair. Only one at first, on my left temple. I entertained a brief hope that I could develop a Reed Richards-style do but that was dashed as I discovered a couple more on the top of my head. I'm not surprised; my mother went grey very early and my scalp has been exposed to the DNA-rending teeth of the sun for many years. I'm still curious so I'll let it grow for now. But I'll be damned before I pay anyone for a haircut.

I don't think I even remember how to comb my hair. Maybe I never knew.

Livescience tells of an article about job satisfaction. Hanging about the top of the list: authors. Seventy-four percent surveyed said they are very satisfied with their job. It's possible, but I rather think many of them were lying. Or not being completely honest. Certainly it is very satisfying to complete a work, but I imagine it's much like sex: All's well that ends well but everything before that point can be a nerve-wracking, surprisingly isolating, messy business during which it's very difficult to judge precisely how much eye-contact is appropriate.

But it must be worth all the trouble if so many people go through it, right?

The Food and Drug Administration has been getting a lot of flak lately for their seeming "incompetence." Sure, a little E. coli got into our spinach, of course cat and dog food has a few deadly chemicals in it, why shouldn't high fructose corn syrup be the foundation of an American diet?

But the liberal teh elites that run the media never take time to acknowledge all the good the FDA is doing. For instance:



My sister and I took the twins to the grocery store yesterday and behold: the FDA has finally decreed that Spam must have its age printed clearly on front of the can. Ender is naysaying my suggestion to purchase the vintage Spam and suggests that he'd rather gnaw off his own hand. His opinion is a bit biased, however; I've been raising him as Druish and he believes that spigs are unclean animals. He is pretty devout for his age; when he eats he won't even use a spork.

Joshua (in the back-background) I've been raising to worship Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. In his case I yielded to my weakness for the cuddly deities.

Musical Journey: Part 2

The children are asleep. At the same time, which is welcome but rare. My biology training serves me well; pack their little bodies with carbohydrates and the blood will rush to their bellies to digest it. In short, feed 'em til they pass out. It's not cruel; it's exactly how I fall asleep.

Plan B would have been to emotionally drain them with a stirring rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" on the harmonica. If they aren't smitten with that, I've also got some Stevie Wonder I've been working on.

Slaughterhouse 5: Part 2

The loss of Kurt Vonnegut has been seeping in over the past couple days like morning dew into a sleeping bag. The Gililland Middle School library where I spent most of my lunch hours had only two shelves of science fiction. As I worked my way through the section, I would pass over Slaughterhouse 5 again and again. The title brought to mind the shoot-em-up space operas that I was discovering I didn't much care for. I might have passed it up for the rest of my life but eventually I had read everything else and I picked up the faded paperback copy, took it to the librarian, and checked it out.

It changed my life. After reading the fluid poetry of Ray Bradbury and the sprawling, world-within-worlds of Frank Herbert and the pitch-perfect camp of Damon Knight, Vonnegut's writing was so fucking wry. I loved it. It certainly set the tone for my upcoming stint as a sarcastic teenager eager to share my biting commentary with the world.

As I read, I would re-examine the spine for the little sticker with a rocket ship that signaled many of the books I liked and think "This is science fiction?"

Vonnegut's work has taught me much. Every now and again I'll be surprised by a wash of grief but it passes quickly. It's hard to feel upset because I know there are several of his books I haven't read yet. The man may be dead, but he is not gone. And I am happily looking forward to spending a lot more time with him.

I've taken up the violin again. My dear friend Jenna is loaning me hers and I've been hard at work to get back to my former proficiency. Last night I finally achieved it. Now, if someone were to observe me playing from a great distance, or perhaps through a very thick window that blocked the transmission of sound, that person might think "Hey, that guy's playing a violin."

But that person would be wrong. I knew how to play the violin many years ago, but I never knew how to play it well. However, I can sure as hell look like I'm playing the violin. Even the most elaborate compositions were no match for my musical pantomimicry. Yet I was still stuck as a third chair violin. Indeed, had there been a fourth chair, a fifth chair, or perhaps a small grass hut just outside of the concert hall I'm certain the conductor would have put me in it. I realize now the fatal error in my fake musical skill. I wonder to this day how long it took before my conductor noticed that I never turned the pages of my sheet music. Not too long, I'll bet. Probably not too long at all.

"Babies," I tell them, "Don't be such babies." They do not listen.

I don't mind terribly. Ten-month-olds are somewhat annoying, but children are like taxes: they only get worse. Unless you're in Portland; it's property tax that'll get you there.

Now would be a good time to celebrate Pants-Down Friday except that my mother has the day off from teaching for some reason. Also, Pants-Down Friday has been very difficult to explain to Child Protective Services.

Oh, of course! Today is Good Friday, the anniversary of the very First Ever Pants-Down Friday. It is also the weekend of Pants-Down Sunday, a festive day when everyone gets together for the big Easter Pants Hunt. The Easter Pants Hunt involves searching for brightly colored pants that we hide around the yard and house. It's a good time and well worth the effort of dyeing all those pairs of pants.

Uh-oh, Joshua's trying to dunk his Oreo cookie in the dog water. Gotta go.

Again, check out xkcd.

New webcomic! I heart xkcd immensely. Even the math and computer programming jokes that I don't understand. Perhaps someday I will, and on that day I'll stop whatever I'm doing and proclaim to the word: "Ooooooh...."

In other happy news, I've found methinks! It's been a good couple of days.