Since we last spoke.

I've read more Phillip Pullman. David D. wrong. I neither rate him over or under, but mainly as it is.

I've resolved not to imbibe alcohol not once, not twice, but thrice. I have failed each time. It is a record for a fourteen day period.

I have done very well at work. Someone gave me 70 dollars for bringing them dinner and being nice to them. It is an odd feeling. People pay me for what I can't help being. Maybe I should let the government torture me in return for constructive criticism.

I have wrestled with dogs, large and small. I mostly won.

I have fallen in the rain. I have a bruise that is turning yellow now, but the muffler of motorcycle has been easily re-attached. My bike and I sit in the cold and compare scratches.

I have resisted one love; fallen into another. Both pains are searingly similar.

I have offered a sigil of protection. It was denied, but I will honor it anyway.

My clothing is falling apart at the high speeds I travel at. I know how it feels.

I have ended sentences with prepositions. I don't give a fuck at.

I ripped the music from my cyborg memory. I can't hear it, I only hear what I miss.

I wore my pajamas in public. I wear them still.

My nephews cry when I leave them. I wonder why I don't.

Chemicals shield me every day. I am glad of them.

I come here to be alone and I can't I can't I can't figure out why.

If I do not wake up, that is not the end of Guillermo.

I would make an excellent doorstop. Or speedbump. Or even a bobsled, if properly preserved.

Gurgsled?

Sorry to wander along a morbid winter Olympic tangent. Not terribly sorry, but it certainly isn't what I logged on to do.

I've moved my computer from my bedroom into the computer alcove of the house. My pc is now neighbor to a Macintosh and they have been getting along very well. NPR streams while I play a videogame or two and all is perfect with the world.

The digital world. The visceral, blood-and-guts, wild carbon molecule organic chemistry world I still spend the majority of my time in is vastly uncertain. If I have an energy meter, it would undoubtedly be flashing a warning.

My computer is farther away now, so I function as less than a cyborg. Cause I have been. Since reading Neuromancer (intriguing but I am in no hurry to read it again) I often refer to being "plugged in." In this case, I mean plugged into internet access. You can also be plugged into anything that grants you information that cannot be accessed by the casual observer; something you've spent time working your way into. Networking, in any network. Music, news, oncology. Whatever brings you closest to the raw data that you, a biased entity, then process and disseminate to others that aren't "plugged in.".

Whatever that means.

I meant to be poetic. But it's hard to be poetic and still hide what you're feeling so I've snuggled into semantics like a lonely spinster grammarian.

I should sleep again. My dreams don't make sense either, but at least they can be chased away by the buzz of my alarm clock.

Tomorrow I don't need to set my alarm. Will I still be able to wake up on my own?

Work has sought and found me every day. I've picked up more shifts at the French restaurant and I enjoy it well enough that I am going to hang up my bread slicer and quit the bakery. It was almost time to move anyway. I have mastered the art of slinging muffins and acquired the obligatory work-related keloid scar (pancakes got me this time.)

I have another grey hair as well. I am displeased because there is still no discernible pattern to the grey. I needs me some crazy wild silver hair so I can sit on my porch and harangue passers-by and regale reluctant audiences with outrageous tales of my youth.

"Gather round, ya unkempt youngsters. I'm gonna tell you the time I ran away from the Army. The Army is what we used to have before America became a police state, see, and it used to be for stopping people from killing each other. Well, to tell you how I got away I need to tell you about a man named Sibbitt. Yep, I knew him. Eight feet tall he was, with arms like tree trunks. Hair bristled from his every pore and he had teeth like a wild boar.

Now Sibbit was diabetic. Some say his genetic makeup was such that his body failed to produce the required amount of insulin to utilize glucose, but I know different. See, when the gods was putting Sibbitt together, they got rid of his pancreas to make room for more guts. Hush boy! I know pancreases is technically "guts!" I'm speaking metaphoric-like. Now where was I? The man has more guts than anybody I ever known.

Yes now, we packed up and headed out the Sierra Nevada and patrolled the mountains helping lost travelers, caring for local wildlife, mapping uncharted regions, and battling criminal woodland critter elements like the Marmot Syndicate and the Nut Hatch Mafia.

Naked I was in those days, naked and fearless. I had a baseball bat that I had carved myself out of a slightly larger bat and it had a laser sight. Lasers? That's a concentrated beam of light. Were pretty common when science and technology were still legal. Yep, the last thing those marmots saw was a little red dot on their fat evil snouts and then BAM! I would have me a new marmot hat.

Now let me tell you about the time Sibbitt climbed two mountains...at the same time..."

From the journals:

11-9-07 (sort of)

The dull red glow of my ancient alarm clock threatens to say 1 am. Only a few hours until I open up the bakery. It isn't my bakery. It belongs to a gentleman named Lewis. I glimpsed him once, but we were not formally introduced. I doubt we could pick each other out of a police lineup.

Opening the bakery requires no baking on my part. The complex chemical reactions that turn ground wheat and live yeast into proud golden loaves of bread has taken place while I've slept. I pull out rows and rows of pastries and muffins on segregated metal pans and arrange them in a manner that a laminated piece of paper assures me is aesthetically pleasing.

I work with a girl named Jamie. I meant to speak of only Jamie.

Her voice and manner, while wholly her own, stir in me memories of Kendall. I believe Kendall no longer cares for me.

Jamie's voice on the phone sounds like Kendall's. It is a wool blanket, rough and warm. Her uneven tones strike more than my ears. A long way away, there is a time and place where I have never caused Kendall pain. Wherever that place is, that distant Guillermo hears Kendall's voice tries to call out across the possibilities that have set like concrete.

That distant Guillermo has injured hands from scrabbling against the dual barrier of time and regret.

Perhaps this, too, shall pass. I hope it is soon. Memory is vulnerable and I wish to keep some untainted. I have need of them yet.

This is my motorcycle.




I am pleased.

Sorry. Been working a lot. Days of the week have lost their traditional names and become BakeryDay, RestaurantDay, BakerestaurantDay, or WashWorkClothesDay. The weekend is a long day that starts on Friday morning and ends Monday afternoon, with a bit of sleep and more laundry sprinkled throughout.

I'm not enjoying it per se, but I'm glad I'm doing it. I'm growing closer to my independence. I am rebuilding my work ethic like a Frankenstein's monster, sewn together from dead lazy sleeping old parts of me to be shocked into life by the threat of financial ruin and the desire to understand what I am.

Calling upon friends has slowed from an already reclusive trickle to a water-torture drip. These days I spend time with people who don't know I exist and some which aren't any more lively themselves: Tolstoy, Raymond Chandler, Phillip Pullman, The Beatles, Frank Miller.

I travel the world and meet new people through my books, but not in the literal way that Gumby did. No, I mean in a metaphorical sense.

It reminds me of my youth.

I still ponder love, but not as often. It seems a distant thing and grand romantic thoughts do not stick well to a brow beaded with sweat and bread crumbs.

Akin to Kafka's hunger artist, I am learning that being alone is easy, so easy. Co-workers ask me why I'm always in such a good mood. I think I know. When I'm at work, I'm with people. All kinds of people, and they all come to me. Only for a short time, but there are lifetimes nestled in those moments. It's not enough to keep me strong, but I won't starve. I don't think I will.

I'm a voluntary pauper at the moment. I pay my bills and dump the rest into paying back my four credit cards. The two cards with the highest interest met their demise at my hands. They are almost paid off. The other two are coming along nicely.

A little under a hundred bucks in my main bank account and the rest hidden in savings fools me into frugality.

Respective to the average American, I don't have very much debt. Around 2000 smackers or so. If this nose stays pressed to the grindstone for a couple more months, even that will be gone.

I am afraid of that day.

Even now, when I make well above my minimum payments and throw some more money towards the next payment, I feel unsettled. A bill is a concrete motivation, both a carrot and a stick. When it's not dangling in front of me or striking behind me, the path blurs. Like some farmer who has been long bent over a plow and suddenly looks up to find himself far from his field in an alien land.

What next?

How can I know which way is up without something trying to push me down? Without that weight, I might just float off, and up, and away into the frozen ink of space.

I guess we'll see.

I agree with most of this.

Secret Shame time again. This song snagged my ear from a mouthwash ad on television that shows bottles swinging on vines through a jungle.

Where would mouthwash go in such a hurry?

This guy is amazing, though. I don't know who he is, but I consider him the poor man's David Bowie, or possibly the straight man's Freddie Mercury.

Meet my monkey! The daemon dealie allows people who know me (or, I guess, don't) answer a few questions. If I answered a question dishonestly, such as "Guillermo loves licorice and I responded "Strongly agree", someone else could see it and say, "Oi, Guillermo hates licorice." Their new answers may change the appearance of the daemon.

So now it's a monkey. I like the chimp. She is strong and has opposable thumbs. We're made for each other.

Meet my raccoon! She's my spirit daemon and her name is Brienne. In daemon language that translates to "furry groper." I find it appropriate.

I found it on my link hunting. It's for the movie "The Golden Compass." What's so keen is that after you get one you can ask other friends to rate you and make sure it's accurate. I like that because as the King said in The Little Prince, judging oneself is the hardest thing to do.

FO SALE

'98 Mercury Tracer. Original Owner. This Christine of coupes is one of the worst cars ever shat out by the American auto industry. Runs reliably and will only fail to function once a year when you need it most. Has 180,000 miles on it and each mile has been more horrible than the last. Perfect "get" for your divorced spouse or child that needs to build character and learn that there are more important things in life than a personal vehicle. New tires and frosty AC. Recipients of this vehicle will receive my profuse apologies and a free breakfast.

It is not a rare occasion where I drunkenly blog and/or make absolutely no sense.

What is unusual is when I don't remember having done so.

David D. was right on to ask what I was drinking. I will answer. It was a delightful rum called Sailor Jerry. It is a higher proof than the average rum and uses a cherry flavoring. It goes down smooth.

It is dangerous.

I have been a slave to my bakery and Arizona Jewish Theatre Company for the last month and have had exactly one chance to indulge in drink. I had a few beers and felt horrible the next day so I vowed not to drink again until I had the next day completely free to wallow in my misery. That opportunity was last night and that day is today.

I rather regret my drunken post as there is a bit of a menace to them. I assure you I was in a good mood. As is not terribly uncommon, I began to sing Sarah McLachlan lyrics. This particular time I chose Building A Mystery. It's one of her edgier songs. I like it a lot and it will play at my funeral.

The last couple of posts were inspired by me trying to be an artistic enough person to win the heart of Sarah McLachlan. That may never happen but that doesn't mean I won't stop trying.

I can picture it now: Sarah will be randomly googling her own lyrics and stumble on my blog. She will be captivated by my brilliant use of the letter W in my tag for the post. If that doesn't win her heart, my gratuitous use of caps will.

I hope she will overlook my tsunami reference. Too soon, Lopez. Too soon.

i WILL NOT give in to the music that floodsa all y synapses they wanto to go a differen directiopn. Will you fall apart if I anot wiht you? Yeas, I am afraikd the way a surfer is afraid of a tsunami wave that launches towars them. Am I caught up inthe wave or am I a part of something biggerrer?

welcome to may blog where I reveeal everything in an intimate and charming setting. Let your guard down until you wake up screaming aloud. I am a fucked up man setting up my razor wire shrie. I'm workin g to build mystery and choosing soo carefully. I sing as I'm holiding ona; and chosing so carefully. I chooaw ro hols ir on N SHOLS IR IN IR'A MY ONLY WXPWEIWNXW I Xn xLL MNY O

Here are some pictures of my nephews because I love them and you should too.

I am bouncing around with energy because I've gotten a full night's sleep. It's early in the morning right now but I'm still on a daywalker schedule so it's rather pleasant. I'm going to listen to NPR and work out and think about my next tattoo.

Behold the tortured face of a man crushed down by the crippling strains of an endless existence...


The horror. The horror.

The tattoo is healing pretty well. It still randomly seizes with pain but that's to be expected after being stabbed thousands of times with a gooped-up needle.

Hubris fo' life, y'all.

Here's some other fun pictures of my nephews' birthday party.


Donaldo, the middle child (and subsequently the most responsible child in the family) and one of the twins, I forget which one.


Joshua here needs ice cream cake to grow strong.

In a world gone mad, one lone baby is the only one who realizes he's being photographed...but why? He's all alone and determined to find out in....Pizzarrazzi 4: Ender's Revenge.
Opening Summer 2007

Stay tuned for the Luis Lopez Show. Fifty straight minutes of Luis being Luis, starring Luis Lopez.

Ah! Well a-day! What evil looks /
Had I from old and young! /
Instead of the cross, the albatross /
About my neck was hung/

I used to have an albatross necklace that fell from my neck while I was running one night. I never found it.

Now, about my neck is an albatross I can never lose. It is tattooed on. I am pleased with it. Now maybe the gods will finally pay me some attention.

It is a bit bigger than I planned on getting, but it is fitting because albatross are huge birds. Also unexpected, when I raise my arms to the heavens the unfortunate bird's wings seem to pull in as if diving towards the earth or sea.

The beak needs to be touched up. It is curved, and albatross beaks are straighter, much like a seagull's and exactly like an albatross'.

I am pleased.

Next up I still need my labyrinth on my back and perhaps the hitchhiker's thumb. I'm not sure where I'll put that. I'm starting to run out of room.

I am pleased.

I'm thinking of getting another motorcycle. This is mainly to counteract the loss of manliness that comes with singing along with Michael Bolton.

Also, it's been a few years so I'm sure I'm well past that pesky "constantly-crashing-every-motorcycle-I've-ever-ridden-stage."

I'm settling into the idea of a Yamaha FZ6. It's a good all-around bike, not terribly expensive, reliable, and light so when it falls on me I will be okay.



Perhaps a 2004 if I can find one. We'll see.

It's secret shame time again. Again, this secret shame involves an early nineties music video.

1993 was an earth-shattering year for music video technologies because it marked the end of the international race to superimpose flames over images that had no business being superimposed upon.

This video is also a documentary, and it was filmed in real time to chronicle the attempt to introduce Michael Bolton back into the wild. It was hard at first, but he quickly learned to forage for supermodels and half-buttoned shirts.

Michael Bolton's presence with us today is also explained, as the Bolton Preservation Foundation re-captured him after he somehow managed to burn down the desert and several canyons. It was the greatest ecological disaster caused by a musician to date and remains a dire warning to future programs that may attempt to introduce musicians into an environment where there are no natural predators to keep their antics in check.



I hope I've successfully distracted you from the fact that I really like this song and was singing it in the car today. Luis can testify; he was a sullen witness to the event in question.

My new long-time career in technical lighting is going very well. I was apprehensive today because they brought in another professional spotlight operator. I remained my engaging self and deftly avoided questions about my work experience and refrained from dropping any technical jargon since I wasn't always sure if I was using it correctly.

As I sat and did my job and earned money for being something I really wasn't, I had time to reflect on why I had leaped into this charade.

I'm generally not a dishonest person unless I think the outcomes would be amusing to all concerned. In fact, I recall a time in high school when I told everyone Andrew was a German exchange student and he played along for hours. Really, I'm just now returning the favor.

In the ten seconds I had to process what was happening, I was immediately worried that some harm might befall Andrew if I admitted I was new to all this. Also, and this may be the main thing, the guy was just so damn happy to see me. I didn't want to let him down. Why should I, I thought. He has no one else. Nowhere to go but up, I say. Worst that could happen is he thinks I'm just really crappy and fires me. But the best is happening, which is I'm doing the job and doing it great. Well, adequately. Which is great to me. But the professional spotlight operator complimented me, which was pleasant.

The hardest part has been learning without seeming like I'm learning. I've gotten much better than when we first ran the show, but so far the others think it was just a communication issue.

On my first day I was told they were still having trouble with the headsets the director uses to communicate directions to the crew, myself included. Thus, whenever I got an instruction that wasn't in my limited repertoire or not completely obvious, I went dead silent and pretended I hadn't heard it. Simple really, I just had to prevent myself from laughing as the director raged at the sound people. Sorry guys.

During some of the downtime, I lay in my dimly lit booth and returned to my book of Tolstoy short stories. For some reason I don't yet fathom, I felt I understood it much better than I had a few months before. Maybe I'm growing up.

Yeah, right.

My day in two summarized exchanges:

"Hey everyone, this is Guillermo. He does theatrical lighting for a living and is here to help us. I'm glad you're here Guillermo!"

"Yes, I am Guillermo and everything you have heard is true; I am indeed an expert in this particular service or product."

Nine hours later:

"Great job today, Guillermo. Sorry about everything, it's just been crazy around here. It's so good to finally have someone who knows what they're doing."

"No problem. No problem at all."

So far. I have to play out this ruse for a few more weeks. In the meantime, I have a long list of terms and equipment I hastily scribbled down when no one was looking. I'm not too worried. Hell, by the end of the day I had already trained three people how to operate the equipment I was still learning myself.

This is why everyone should read Catch Me If You Can. Ethics of bank fraud aside, it's about doing your absolute best with whatever you have.

Now I must rest. It's another long day tomorrow, and I have found that being an expert is quite exhausting.

My nephews were baptized today. It was a pleasant experience overall. I haven't attended church in something like eight years, not since I joined the Army (in clear violation of the "no atheists in foxholes" hypothesis proposed mainly by people who have never been in a foxhole or shared their sleeping burrow with ants and giant spiders). I've missed goofing off. My mom even scolded me. Just like old times. I was entrusted with videotaping the ritual which inadvertently provided an alibi for my sacrilicious behavior and general irreverence for the goings-on. In today's Reality-Show-Reality, operating a camera brings true absolution.

In my little brain, I was only a spectator to the proceedings. I am not religious, thus I have the option to participate in any ritual because hey, who's it going to hurt (besides the goat) or to abstain if I think pretending to praise a deity or accept a world-view may be offensive to more convinced actors.

In a heavily ritualized religion like Catholicism, I don't think it really matters in a teaching where humans beings are expected to never really understand. Okay, I says, then don't expect to ever understand why I go off where nobody tells me when to sit, stand or kneel.

But I digress.

The babies enjoyed themselves. They didn't seem to mind being prayed over or dunked in holy water like a sinful donut. And they loved the candles. Ender chewed his happily until the end of the ceremony. I'm pretty sure he said "It tastes like salvation." Not a hundred percent, but pretty sure.

I love my family. They are the funniest people I know.

On the way out my little cousin and I had a quick break-dance battle in front of one of the stained-glass windows. I was winning but then one of the priests started to exorcise me and I awoke face-down in the parking lot.

Directions to the reception scribbled on a church flyer were stuffed in my breast pocket. I brushed a few bits of asphalt from my forehead and ran to my truck.

There are a few Catholic traditions that I am always happy to partake in, no matter who they may offend. Beer on a Sunday afternoon in celebration of someone staving off hellfire is one of those.

Today marks the beginning of my new regimen of discipline and self-improvement. I woke up at 7:30 am, put on my workout clothes, and stepped outside into the cool September morning. I stared blankly at my flooded backyard, made a half-hearted attempt to squish across it to the workout room, and then gave up and went back inside to make sandwiches.

I'll work out this evening after work. Perhaps the irrigation will have soaked in by then.

I've also made this drawing of the most heroic sausage ever:

Sleeping somewhere under silvery silvery city lights while I lie here in the pretty dark. All my electronic devices are charging charging and not ready, batteries not yet ready to live their lives. A crushed hat and a box of bullets among the piles of books. The desk is gilded with loose change and glitters silver and copper. Data is stored on disks and dead trees, circles of pitted plastic that laser eyes read and rearranged cellulose stained with pigments and dyes.

Head bowed in sullen reverence to my plug-in light box. Outside somewhere is the movement of air. People move within that movement, some with, some without.

I've been wrong, not dead wrong. The rivers flow over but not through on their way to the sea. We float along on held breaths and paddle weakly.

She was drawn by an excellent artist and never realized she was two-dimensional. I only noticed because the light hit her oddly and her shadow was thin, thin. I shook out a pill from my bottle of emotions and swallowed it without water. I plant flowers in the empty bottles. Soon I will have a garden and we can watch the world grow instead of our thin shadows.

When you fall asleep, I dress up in winter clothes and sing silently into all the mirrors. I pretend you're singing with me, batting at me with the end of your scarf or pulling my woolen cap over my eyes and dashing off to the next piece of silvered glass. You mouth the words and it looks like you're singing with my voice. We dance, carefully, trying not to slip in our socks. Our steps are slow and soft, each of us in the habit of performing unaccompanied.

I sing to the you in the mirror, the you that looks like me. When I finally return to our bed, I wake up often to peek over at you so I can catch you if you're ever singing back.

I don't want to hear any complaints from people who only have one child. Joshua has been sick so I've returned to watching him for the past couple of days. Ender is smugly healthy so he is still attending his daycare. Thus, I am left with an incomplete set of twins. Ah well, they didn't match up that well anyway.

Joshua and I have been having a great time. Watching television, eating our favorite foods, taking naps, chasing the dog, listening to NPR, dancing to TV On The Radio, and practicing walking. Joshua hardly seems sick at all.

Without his partner in crime, Joshua is learning that it's a lot harder to pull off the "I'll go this way, you go that-a-way" routine they've honed on me.

One kid. Psh. Easy living.

I stand in my narrow room and contemplate sleep. Shadows clothe my naked body. The computer screen flickers and I am stop-motion. It passes.

I forget sleep and contemplate strength. The ability to run and jump and push and pull, to shape the world, to destroy creation. Strength to strike a weary drum for hours and hours.

What is the howl for?

There is art on the walls, art I did not make but I pushed pins into the plaster wall to hold it up. The art, not the wall.

The computer screen spits colors and I am sine waves. Phase shift; hiding under bedsheets. It passes. I peek out from beneath my pillow.

All wrapped up.

Phase shift; I am asleep in a chair. I am an endless document that occasionally autosaves.

Resolution comes when I put my contemplation of strength to sleep. I dream of heroes and villains.

I am not in my wildest dreams.

It's only one of the reasons, but Melville's car is the fastest overall with the slowest acceleration and very good handling. Borges's car is the fastest off the line and steers all over the place. The blue car is the All-American, or in this case the All-Ruskan and Italo Calvino's car is piloted by an alien.

Useful Tip Fo' Life:

The crippling emotional discord brought on by prolonged contemplation of the labyrinthian nature of reality can be quickly dispelled by a few laps of F-Zero.

This is why I don't make a good English student. Whenever I hear a term such as "comparative literature" I immediately picture something like this:



I hope to attend the next conference on comparative literature where I will resolve disputes and turn a small profit by selling t-shirts that read "Let's Settle This With Hover-Cars".

Writer's Corner: It took me more than twenty minutes of furious internal debate to decide on the appropriate car for each author. At first I was heavily influenced by nationality but then I was like, "Fuck it, it's the future."

Okay, just touch the keys lightly and see what happens. Good, so far no spelling mistakes. That's a good sign. Let's see what I can still spell: Kumquat. Periphery. Glockenspiel. Fahrenheit. Occam. Stoichiometry. Platonic. Gimbel. Damn. Missed that last one. That's fair; I can't think of what a gimbal is.

But that's fine, I'm sure I'm not concerned with gimbals right now. How can I be concerned with something when I don't know what it is?

I should rest. I should put on my Batman pajamas and climb into bed. Wrap myself up snug in my thick red blanket with the tigers on it. Sleep and dream and awaken refreshed. It's the perfect plan.

I had a thick blue blanket with dolphins on it. I wonder where that is.

Why am I feeling this way? Maybe it's the Tolstoy...

I read a book today. Other than that I wasn't terribly productive.

I'm taking some medicine to help my attention span (such as it is) and I've been reading like a kid again. I'm irrationally opposed to any medical solutions to ailments that I don't consider life-threatening, but once I began to lose focus halfway down every page (not due to literary crappiness) I yielded.

In the past two weeks I've read Invisible Cities, Red Mars, a couple of Xanth novels, One Hundred Years of Solitude, re-read Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and I'm well into Valis by Philip K. Dick. On deck is Samuel Beckett's Watt since I've only read/performed Waiting For Godot years ago and I can't claim that I really understood it.

Rather than feeling satisfied by my literary gluttony, I am becoming more voracious. It is a pleasant gnawing, like being awoken by the scent and sizzle of a huge breakfast.

This is my last week of babysitting. When I began, sheesh, four or five months ago(?) the twins could do little more than lie on their backs staring up at me in their baby way, a mixture of judgment and acceptance. Now they're taking their first steps and hurling food like pros. They're also much heavier but my back never hurts anymore. Heh, I must have finally developed those lower back muscles. I could probably lift four, even five babies if I had to.

I will miss spending so much time with them. I will miss Ender's blatant defiance of my authority and how Joshua will crawl up and lie on my chest when he gets sleepy. I will also sorely miss my middle of the day nap.

Other matters await my attention, and my carefree days of frolicking, swimming lessons, and teaching them how to properly harass the dog are at an end. It may be for the best. I try to nurture their independence, problem-solving skills, and healthy suspicion of authority figures, but I worry that in time they may pick up my reclusiveness, moodiness, and ambush-predator approach to problem solving.

It has been my blunt realization that to be a better parent, I must become a better person. I don't think I'm that person yet, so it's best to bail out before anything's irreparable. I'm not too worried. We Lopez's are quite resilient.

I will miss my babies.

Let's call this a transitional period.

I'm still getting a hearty helping of spam in my comments. I was all set to set up the comment verification but I faltered when I remembered how annoying it is. I can't reliably fool a computer into thinking I'm a person and you shouldn't have to either. Why punish the humans? They're some of my best friends...

A few seconds' work will get rid of the comments on my end. What with all the not updating I do, I have plenty of time to get rid of a few mortgage offers. Real estate bores me. Whenever people talk of owning land I am vaguely remind of street gangs.

Blasted spammers have found my comment system. Curse them...exploiting my love for purchasing boats.

It's been an interesting few weeks...month? Month and a half? I'm getting rusty; I used to be able to elude the real world for entire tax periods.

I just realized that I can't remember the last time I heard anyone mention Delaware.

Notes for tomorrow:

Had a great time at Emma's birthday gathering. Irish car bombs were involved.

I was entrusted to take care of dogs at friend's house. I took duties seriously. 3 am found me driving deep into Ahwatukee to feed and water said dogs.

There were no other cars on the dark, winding street when my car died.

I coasted as far as I could and then jumped out. Metal met clavicle, and I pushed my car (I was barefoot, once again) into a Fry's grocery store parking lot. I used to come to this Fry's to buy food for my developmentally disabled clients. DC worked here at that time. It's good to see one of us has gotten far, far away.

I popped the hood and checked what I could. Everything seemed normal. I yanked out the dipstick to check the oil. I ran two of my least-used fingers along the burning metal blade and took the levels. It read normal. I pondered.

I know my car. It is acting like it doesn't have enough oil. I'll be damned if I'll
listen to a stupid burning metal blade to tell me what's wrong with my car.

I grabbed the quart of oil I keep under my seat. I never leave home without a quart of oil. I dumped it in the engine and tried the car again. It started fine and I made my way to my goal without interruption.

Until I got there.

The front door of the house was locked. In all my years of coming to this house for fun and business, the door has never been locked. Stranger still, no dogs barked. Odd.

I pondered again. I shouldered my overnight pack and walked around to the side of the house. The wall was the same height, which meant I could still climb over it. I did so.

I tried to open the back door. It too was locked. Again, this has never happened to me before.

I gambled my last chip and tried the tiny doorway to the master bedroom. It opened. Dogs came pouring out. More dogs than I remembered. I froze as they yapped and licked at me.. I sensed rather than saw a person...no, two people. People breathe differently or something, I'm not sure what it is that makes them stand out in darkness. I called out "Hello? This is Guillermo..."

My pupils flared to adjust to the darkness. I heard a voice that sounded familiar but not familiar enough.

"Guillermo?"

It was the daughter of the owners of the house. Her fiance' was with her. It seems that they too were entrusted with the safekeeping of the dogs and had chosen to spend the night, as I would have done.

So we chatted. I explained why I was there, and they, they didn't shoot me in the chest. It was a pleasant time. Having fulfilled my promise, I left the house knowing the pets were taken care of.

On my way back, a scantily clad woman flagged me down. She was also barefoot. I stopped, asked her if she was all right. She said her boyfriend had beaten her, stolen her truck, and was trying to get to a nearby gas station.

Mama didn't raise no fool. I offered to call 911 immediately. She declined. I conversed politely after that, quite wary and traveling at a higher than normal speed (because for you non-paranoids out there, if someone in the passenger seat is going to take you out they'll wait until you're at a low speed to avoid a deadly crash).

So it went until we got to a gas station. I pulled up the front door and she stepped out. As the door swung shut, I leaned towards her. "Just so you know, I don't believe most of what you've told me."

A broad smile cracked the thick layer of her makeup. "Why's that?"

I shifted into reverse and checked my rearview mirror. No one was behind me. "Just be careful." I stepped on the gas and drove off.

Now I'm home safe.

Times like these I admit that I don't know what I am, just that in dangerous times, I could end up being very useful.

All I want is for everyone to love xkcd as much as I do.

Also, I too am comfortable with my beliefs being shattered if it means I get to hover.

Science Friday-ers, here are some interesting articles. Most are from Slashdot, but I don't want to tell you that because you'll realize you don't need me at all.

Al Qaeda manipulating video images (first paragraphs are about quantization and error analysis stuff that I don't really understand but the rest of the article is good to know.)

Robots with guns! Not exactly ED-209 but it's getting closer. This news comes shortly after the plan to build robots with Tasers (and Taser has released electric shotgun rounds). Only military and law enforcement get the robots for now, which fills me with dread because an old gypsy fortune teller told me that the last words I would ever hear would be "Run program: Excessive Force."

Also, we learn like monkeys. I intend to implement these techniques on my nephews immediately. I'll have to stock up on food pellets. This article is also useful for people who engage in "studying."

I know deep down that I shouldn't let the twins play with the baseball bat but bless their hearts, they love it so.

And I definitely shouldn't have painted the dog up like a baseball. But he's happy this way too, and it's non-toxic paint this time.

In other news, I saw a sneak preview of Superbad. For all of us who miss Michael Cera's inspired awkwardness from Arrested Development, this film will chase away the shakes and those pesky cold sweats.

That poem was about walking three miles home in the middle of the night with no shoes, no phone, no wallet, and no keys.

It was a good night overall, but I expect to be banned from all future wearing of Hawaiian shirts.

I keep forgetting that Hawaiian shirts are not a right, they're a privilege.

I walked three miles barefoot in the snow
no
no snow
I was barefoot though
the street tore at my feet
prickles and sparkles of broken glass joined in
and sang a scarlet passage when
I passed the houses of my friends
I'd be no surprise unwelcome then
to wrap torn skin hard to explain
the rooftops show no mercy when
gravity's made a convincing claim
makes the heaviest part of you
your back breaks
knees buckle and try to lie
to parts that don't deny hurt

EDIT: Drunk poetry? This is new...well not new, but it has been a verra verra long time.

Today was a good day. Nephew food-throwing was down, naps were up, and mom buying me lunch was at an all-time high for the month of July. If these trends keep up this month should close out strong.

There was a brief spike in subpoenas in the middle of the day but investors were sluggish to respond.

I've decided not too invest in that company that makes the ubiquitous pale-blue shirts that people who have to wear suits throw on whenever they're feeling colorful. In my little brain, I refer to it as "business blue" from its prevalence among business students.

I don't dislike it per se. I can understand the situation in which I'd want to wear something a little different and a little colorful only to be paralyzed by the fear of deviating too far from the business model.

Maybe I just don't understand it. Perhaps I'm projecting my own fear of banality on an innocent garment. After all, who am I to judge someone by their clothes? My idea of the pinnacle of fashion is this shirt:

My friend who watched this but wasn't really paying attention asked "Was that a tear of happiness?"

"No," I said. "That was a tear of everything."


Sometimes it takes a kiwi to show us the way. The feeling is one I share, I think, as I look over the edge of another precipice with my goggles perched on my head. Just need to attach a few more trees and I'll be ready.

More stuff I found on old disks.

Random(?) Gurgisms
18APR02

For travelling, West and North are good. I have never particularly liked South or East.

When someone says something that is very observant and you turn to them and say, "That was very observant," isn't that kind of like saying "Hey, I'm an idiot"?

I love that moment just before you drift off to sleep. The only reason I know I love it is because I have been frequently woken up during that moment so I have been able to remember what I was thinking about. That half-thinking half-dreaming place is where I figure most stuff out.

When very large animals attack me, it isn't funny.

If you ever get the opportunity to known by a completely different name, I say go for it.

Reading things I have written in my "youth" can be a lot like watching old home movies. (How many times have you watched one of those and thought, "Man, I was cool?" Probably not many.)

I do not remember a great deal of my Army training. I do remember that feeling that came with getting up at 4:30 in the morning after 3 hours of sleep, after firing all day on the range, standing at the end of the chow line, marching in the rain in off-green rain slickers, quietly munching on a fig bar from my field rations, watching training video after training video, and while holding your arms out for what seemed like forever. The reason I remember that feeling so well is because as I get older, I experience it from more and more things. I am incapable of describing it. It feels a bit like fading, not away, but losing color and vitality.

Hippopotamuses are great because they look like what they're called.

Is it ironic that people are more likely to tell you the truth when they are angry at you as an attack?

There is no reason I should have to like you.

A true ninja does not keep the enemy guessing. A true ninja keeps the enemy from guessing at all.

Cowboys used to give cocaine to their horses.

Superman is not a hero.

There is a time and place for everything. This is it.

Shiny=trouble.

Take food and sleep when you can get it.

Don't try to be too pretty. You don't want people running around thinking they like you when they don't.

Humor people only as long as they humor you.

Know what is news and why it is news. Know what is funny and why it is funny. Everything else should fall into place after that.

"Everything happens for a reason. There is no evidence suggesting that it must be a good one."
I'm sure I must have heard this somewhere. I think it would make a great outgoing message for my voice mail.

I have only heard one argument against evolution that I like: "Why would a cow or a pig evolve into something so delicious?" I had to laugh.

Watch a few music videos without the sound. This is what you look like singing in your car.

I used to be a gymnast. One day, I had some Creatine protein powder in a zip-lock bag that I was about to mix into my Gatorade. My friend Larry was watching me as I took it out of my gym bag. I noticed and offered to let him try it; I said it worked really well. He raised an eyebrow at me, then shrugged and grabbed a handful and rubbed it all over his hands. He ran over to the parallel bars and did a few spins. I guess that he thought my protein powder was hand chalk. He came back and said he didn't really notice any difference. I didn't say anything. Larry doesn't talk to me much anymore. He thinks I'm weird because I drink hand chalk.

Sometimes I make up stories about a guy named Larry. And about being a gymnast.

Death is no longer getting any information.

A lot of facts and conditions are correllary, but are not necessarily cause and effect. Do not be misled.

I think we all know why someone calls you when they're drunk.

The saying "Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes" disturbingly reminds me of the phrase "wide-eyed innocence."

Taking things out of context is like hearing it in another language.

"The ends justify the means." This would be true if anything ever ended.

Better decide on an epitaph now. You can always change it later on, if you want to.

It's okay to be afraid if you have nothing better to do.

If someone shouts, "Who rocks the party that rocks the party?" go ahead and say, "I rock the party that rocks the party!" and then get the hell outta there.

I do not understand why parents name their children after themselves. It isn't very considerate for their spouse. They must not realize how awkward it must be when your child has the same name as someone you've had sex with.

I made a list of all the intelligent things I've ever said in my life and became instantly depressed when I saw how short it became after I crossed off all the ones that had really been said by other people.

Baseball. Good game, although I can't figure out why they would want to record their errors.

Some people complain that they "just can't write." I avoid getting into vehicles with these people.

I often ask myself why I care so much, but without any negative connotation.

Be wary around those whose mouths can function independently of their brain.

To think or not to think; there should be no question.

If you don't have any rhythm, get some.

There is criticism concerning those who read "too much" and do not experience life. I don't think this is accurate. I experience no greater lust and zeal for life than directly after reading a great novel.

I doubt I was happy about being slapped on the butt as soon as I was born by the doctor who delivered me. It's hard to be bitter about that now, though. Especially once I learned about how rough it is being born a giraffe. Those suckers' first taste of life is dropping six feet to the ground. And then they have to walk minutes later. I'll take a slap on the ass anyday. And I do mean anyday.

Art is showing people the world through your eyes, through drawing, words, music, or any other medium of creation for that purpose.

There is a good chance you are being lied to about something, and no one is just going to tell you what that is.

A person must feel unique.

It is not important to look good in the gym. Working out is not pretty. The uglier you get in the gym, the better you look outside of it.

Do the math before you attempt to base a relationship on sex. On average, you'll have sex for about 30 minutes. There are 24 hours in a day, so that's about 1,440 minutes. That comes out to roughly 2% of your day. Even if you have sex 5 times a day that's still only a little over 10%. What are you gonna do with all the rest of that time? I mean, you can only pretend to be asleep for so long.

"He's a war scribe." The man in orange flapped a sleeve in his direction. "See, grey robes with black trim." The youth he pointed out shifted almost imperceptibly, as though he had heard them. That is unlikely, thought Tulley, he's too far away. Tulley shifted his attention back to the man in orange robes, who was still going on. "The war scribes are Decar's. He always brings them wherever there's a chance to glorify himself."
"Leeter, he cannot be a true war scribe of Merrik. There are none left. He is perhaps a close approximation, no more."
"My dear Tulley, you doubt me?" Garland ruffled his robes like an upset hen. "I am a historian of gossip as well as of the Clan. Decar was to dispose of any surviving scribes after the siege of Merrik. It is said he found several young ones in hiding. Decar was moved to spare them, though I doubt it were out of pity. If they had undergone even a fraction of their Mattix training they would be a valuable addition to any Lord's arsenal."
"I have heard of some of what they are said to be capable of, if so pressed. And indeed I lost several allies of mine that were assigned to that assault. More capable men I did not know. I wonder how so small a force, caught by surprise, could have taken so many."
"It is unknown even to me, dear Tulley, what Decar has dangling over their heads that they will not fight nor flee these lands."
"I wonder..." Tulley eyed the grey-clad youth as he glided effortlessly over the rough terrain. The scribe turned his head to meet his gaze. The boy's eyes seemed to shine with an inner light. Tulley blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. The boy turned away and disappeared into the approaching forest.

I dug this up from an old disk. I read a lot of fantasy and well, most of what I read had at least one paragraph that sounded a lot like this. I was probably 16 or so, so forgive me. At least it isn't poetry.

Also, "warrior scribes"? What the hell is that? Looking over this, it sounds like I'm describing a Fremen from Dune. Huh.

I'm thinking of entering a blogathon. It is exactly what it sounds like. 24 hours of blogging. Could be interesting.

And there is a point to it all. I can seek out sponsors and raise money for a charity. I'd probably give to HURAH because it is a charity I have donated to before and also because Sibbitt has worked with them directly. By my cynical nature I am wary of charities, but if Sibbitt says they cool, then they is cool.

Now all I have to do is find some sponsors.

Your Score: Lion Warning Cat

68% Affectionate, 54% Excitable, 44% Hungry

You are the good Samaritan of the lolcat world. Protecting others from danger by shouting observations and guidance in cases of imminent threat, you believe in the well-being of everyone.



To see all possible results, checka dis.

Link: The Which Lolcat Are You? Test written by GumOtaku on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

I think my body is rebelling against me. I've given myself the week to rest, sort of, and I intend to work out tomorrow to see if everything still hurts.

I've been exercising quite a bit these past few weeks. It's odd because I'm growing more quickly than I expected. I was amused to see stretch marks around my chest and arms. Everything has a cost.

Eh, in the spirit of disclosure I should say that I am drunk. Thus, my thoughts may appear more disjointed than usual. It's hard to convey in print, since several minutes may pass between sentences.

Even more between paragraphs. I've been spending money. Credit, mostly, the cards I've been steadily paying off. It feels a bit like desperation. I'm going to hide them from myself again. That'll teach me.

I doubt I'm the first to say this, but I've been saying it a lot these few months. It's hard to be alone, but it's easier than being with someone else.

By "easier" I don't mean more worthwhile, just easier. Maybe like having a job where little is demanded of you and nothing is on the line.

Chuck Norris once roundhouse kicked a salesman. Over the phone.

Jake has been motivating me to write more. I usually receive encouragement now and again and I appreciate it immensely. Jake, however, is able and willing to show up at my house and shout "Write, dammit!" directly in my face.

Amidst a monsoon inauguration of furiously-flung gouts of rain and dirt, I drove to the Ye Olde College Goodes Store. Clutching my composition notebooks, pens, and memo pads, I cast furtive glances at the items of the people ahead of me in line. Mostly plastic baskets of inexpensive alcohol and frozen foods in single portions. I was pleased at our silent solidarity, although I was opting for a different sort of loneliness.

Thus armed, I returned to my home. I put new batteries into my voice recorder. I seldom use it but between scribbling notes, my frenetic fiddling with the radio, and the occasional text-message, I have become an uncertain driver with which to share the road. The voice recorder should help.

I must rest now. My nephews both have temperatures of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. My temperature is about 97.1 which is a little low but I always figured I was cooler than most people.

Ow. I just felt as if a million hands raised up at once, and then slapped me. Odd.

Our dog, El Guapo (aka The Noobers, aka Noobington L. Dog) had a temperature of 100 degrees. I'm not sure what his temperature is normally so instead of medicine I gave him a piece of ham.

Speaking of discomfort, am I some lucky guy that gets to feel pain in his dreams? I didn't think it worked that way. In the past week I've had three distinctly painful dreams. It has been the case before that I've fallen asleep on my arm and dreamt about a hurt arm, but this is nothing like that.

Ants biting legs dream=stabbing needles of pain in my legs that vanish when I awake. Dream of getting stabbed=massive internal pain until I wake up writhing. Then, nothing.

Also a dream of Steve Buscemi shooting me with tranquilizers on a beach and watching me lie helpless on my back as the tide came in to slowly drown me. Which was uncomfortable, but mostly because I really like Steve Buscemi.

That might have been a sympathy dream because I've been teaching Ender to float on his back in the pool and he can do it most of the time, but man, he frikkin hates it.

I'll have to watch out for him. If I suddenly turn up dead and the autopsy reveals that I "suffocated on a rattle" you'll know.

You'll know.

EDIT: Seriously, you have to give it up for the dance move at 2:57.


My friends and I used to discuss our "secret shame" which in this very specific context meant a song that got yer toes a-tappin and even singing along but only when no one else was around. For miles.

Here are a couple of mine. I apologize in advance.

I have returned from Las Vegas with bruised dancing feet and a liver that is no longer speaking to me. I have yet to shake off the residual wooze that accompanies two days of drinking capped by a massive breakfast that included but was not limited to donuts, crab legs, stir-fry, and hollandaise sauce.

All was wonderful. Mostly.

But now I know hollandaise sauce does not cure hangovers, no matter how much you use.

You Are The Hermit

You posses a great deal of wisdom and the ability to see people for who they are. You are always looking ahead at the future, developing visions. A loner, you tend to travel by yourself through life, seeking your own truth. You don't crave material things or fancy titles. You have no baggage. Your fortune: It's possible that there is a unknown guiding figure in your life, ready to help you. All you have to do is find this person and seek their advice. It's also possible that you need to start seeking the meaning of your own life. Either way, there's some deep thinking you need to undertake, and it needs to be done soon.

What Tarot Card Are You?

I think I like random "What ___ Are You?" quizzes that don't ask for anything more than your name and what HTML code you prefer.

"I'll be a professional uncle. Imparting random skills and espousing half-hearted philosophies."

-myself to methinks

methinks asked me "how goes?"

I can't turn down the freedom she granted me with that question so here goes.

It goes fair-to-middlin'. My latest endeavor has been to allow my hair to grow which I've done pretty well. Two mornings ago I noticed that I was cultivating a tiny mullet and quickly remedied the situation.

My image-reflecting capabilities are limited (I only have one mirror in my bathroom) so I just began grabbing any hair on the back of my neck that felt too long and cut it off. (Blindly cutting their own hair is but one of the many privileges that males enjoy.) The impromptu haircut went well. At least, it feels like it went well. The only casualty was a bit of knuckle that I scissored off. My knuckles are rather thick so I didn't notice until today. It was a small price to pay.

What else besides body modification?

I've been keeping a bedside journal. It's less stressful than a blog because it doesn't highlight every word I misspell. My dear friend Molly gave me the journal (beautiful one) and I've been hesitant to fill it. My goal is to fill it by the end of the year and then give it to her to read. I flirted with the idea of keeping several journals all addressed to different readers, (disregarding the odds they'd ever see it.) I hoped that despite the slings and arrows and flights of fancy that plague personal logs, having a person in mind would tether my voice to relevant phrases.

How quickly these things get out of hand.

There is an inherent violence, I think, in living for another person. It's like trying to swim in two rivers.

Finished House of Leaves some time ago. I enjoyed it overall, certainly a unique and surprising physical reading experience.

Then we got a Nintendo Wii.

Sorry.

Sorry. Been reading House of Leaves.

Sorry.

Jenna and I dressed up as superheros. She is Phoenix, aka Jean Grey, and I have disguised myself as Rorschach.

I was going to have several masks that I would change throughout the night, but I messed up the first two.

Now I must go and write a story for class.

Soon I will begin my summer classes. I'm taking two on creative writing, a beginning and intermediate level. Simultaneously.

Hopefully I won't cop out and submit the same stories to both classes. I probably won't since I don't think these classes count toward either of the degrees I claim to be pursuing. Ideally, I'll learn something and that will be its own reward.

My hunt for an education can be imagined as me peeking around a corner at a cardboard box that I've propped up with a stick to which I've tied a piece of string whose end I clutch in a grubby hand. The bait is a hearty portion of ignorance that I hope will lure some knowledge into my trap. Assuming that I recognize the prey at the proper moment, I will yank the string to release the stick and bring down the box.

I'm not sure what do after that. Probably have to get something to feed it.

All that stuff I said earlier? I was quite drunk. Completely. Not that what I wrote was worth disavowing, just to be taken with a grain of salt, lime, and tequila.

Qute drunk.

It's been throwing me off. I was doing a halfway decent job of not getting...something.

I've forgotten now.

I hate having hair. It's so inconstant. every time I walk by a mirror (which is often in the north americas) I am pushed to check my appearance. Hair can say a lot, even though all my studies have classified hairstyles as "cheap signalling."

A lot of thing fal under cheap signalling. I want to argue about hair because it can take a long time to grow. Hardly whimsical. Shaved heads, like I had, should be cheap signalling. I could be bald, or gray. or have biting leeches that grow and bite instead of hair. Who knows?

Probably not leeches. I have little use for blood that wasn't produced by my bone marrow.

Unless it's my type. O+. I'm quuite average.

I hope to take writing classes this summer break. But I sorta forgot to pay them. I doubt I can charm them into teaching me for free. I'll sure try, but I doubt it. The only advantage I have, eh, the only advantages I have is the inconsistency of English majors and the crippling bureaucracy of every large system I've encountered.

I've had this diligent suspicion that the only way to go through life is naked and fearless.

Perhaps it's time to test that.

I think I miss going crazy.

Not crazy in the traditional sense. I don't mean babbling drooling biting myself and pinning things to other things. I mean just diving in.

Going crazy is taking part in a very natural process. It is a conscious decision to dive into the uncertainty.

Because it is there; I swim in it, breathe, rise to the surface and spit it at the passing gulls. Doubt, frustration, excitement, wonder, surprise, watching the car in front of you on the freeway spit up a pebble and crack your windshield.

The freedom that oozes out of our ignorance. We have no idea what is going to happen next. We gamble, yes, we hope, doubly so. We don't know. I don't know. So it's okay.

I'll do what I think is best.

Will it be enough?

It'll be something.

I think I like being part of the uncertainty.

Training Continues: Lesson 34: Pwnage

All the baby books say that your child should be teh pwnzor by their first year. They're coming along well; today Ender said his first Chuck Norris joke in l33t speak.

So people always ask me, "Do you put up the picture first or write and then put up the picture?"

No!

That is, no, nobody ever asks me that.

In truth, I pick out the picture from a plethora of art I've stolen- ...eh, art I've fair-used from the various internet tubes and then proceed on as usual. Sometimes the image will provide me with an anchor for a mood or theme but usually not. In the editing process, the image appears as a bunch of html code and that conveys to me very little mood except for maybe futuristic-robot-language mood. (That mood can also be conveyed by gratuitous amounts of LEDs.)

Sometimes I'll listen to music. It also helps establish a mood but even less consistently so than an image. I can listen to a few songs or albums over and over again to try to grasp what I'm feeling but not many. Sarah Mclachlan's Surfacing album works pretty well for the introspective stuff. And for falling asleep to. And maybe the rare karaoke party when I'm alone in my room.

I'll throw in Live's Throwing Copper when I'm feeling morbid.

Portishead is good for when I'm feeling morbidly obese.

I haven't chosen an image yet. Maybe I won't. I didn't used to. The original intent was not particularly artsy; nowadays with tabbed browsing and e-mail instant messaging I figured a picture would indicate at the quickest glance that I had put up a new post thus saving some people the effort of reading the first few lines to find out.

People are often surprised by how considerate I can be. The inverse is also true.

Rituals are important in my writing process. Not crucial, but I certainly know that at night if I get out of the shower and sit down to write with my wet towel tucked haphazardly around my waist I have a much better chance of engaging in critical thinking than if I say, slide over to YouTube to watch videos about copyright law explained by Disney characters.

Today as I fed Ender and Joshua a healthy breakfast of single-grain oatmeal and Cheerios, NPR played a live recording of Every Day I Have to Cry by musician Arthur Alexander. He wrote songs for the Beatles. As I engaged in the daily battle to get more oatmeal into Joshua's mouth than onto his face, Joshua began to bop side to side in his high chair to the music. I stopped, looked at him for a second, then I began to dance along with him. Ender looked at us like we were crazy, then he bopped right along with us.

I think this is why people have kids. Moments like this when you suddenly have someone to dance with. It feels like you'll always have someone, that they'll be with you forever.

I don't want to have kids. I don't believe anyone will be with me forever. We're all here for a little while and I prefer to enjoy as much of our little while together as long as I can. It's okay if it's not forever. I have this small time with my nephews now, the three of us splattered with oatmeal and dancing. What more do I need?

I won't deny the possibility that I'll change my mind. It's also possible that I'll find religion and join the Marine Corp. Parents, mystics, and Marines have the same mantra, "You can't possibly know until you experience it."

I can only respond gently with "But now you can't possibly know now what life would be like without it."

I don't think I'll put a picture up today.

In the constant maelstrom of reorganization that is my bedroom, I stumbled across a pile of journals. The earliest is from 1998. It would be an admirable summer goal if I were to organize everything I'd written chronologically and translated where necessary. This is not a new idea, but every time I consider it the same fear arises: as I gaze upon the anthill of what I've produced my edges will blur into depression. And depression leads to poetry. Nobody wants that.

Besides the inevitable delusions of euphony, it'd be bliddy hard to track it all down. The journals' relationship with linear time can only be classified as blatant infidelity. I will write in one journal until I'm distracted by the bright color or page size or sultry binding or dark color of another. If arranged from most-written-in to least, the cheap, wide-ruled composition notebooks with covers that look like a dead channel on a tv screen or the world's laziest Rorschach, they would contain 98% of the handwritten writing. The beautiful leather-bound journals would contain the other 2%. Sort of the opposite ratios of the economic classes they metaphor.

Ooh, second summer goal: Fill up the nice journals. Fight the alphabetic disparity. Redistribute prose to the pages that need it most. After all, we're the most English country in the world. If anyone can do it, it's us. I mean me.

Damn, I've lost myself in analogies again. I'd better just go to bed before I hurt myself. I'll do all that stuff I said tomorrow.

A note about blogpolitik: In the event of an overwhelming desire to voice some small embarrassing truth, best to slip it in on a Saturday morning. People will not see it; they will be asleep. Freedom is here in the wee hours of the weekend.

Sundays can be tricky. Best to avoid them entirely.

I would like a wandering albatross tattoo. I'd get it on my upper chest, hanging head down, wings spread out below my clavicles. It would make me happy, I think.

I'm not remembering much right now. Today was a good day; I enjoyed it. It's only at this moment, now, that I'm inclined to recall a melancholy that didn't exist while the sun was up.

Blogger has a new autosave feature. It saves about once a minute. I'm glad of it. I've lost a few posts to electron-related happenstance and it would be appropriate to celebrate such precautions.

It's only now, at this moment, that the blue button flashes grey and reminds me that a minute has passed and I've written nothing. Another flash, another minute of nothing. Another flash, another reminder, another chiding, another nag, another flutter of discontent. Another goading. It heaps me.

I'm sure I'll get over it.

Love,

Guillermo

My father demonstrates the "hold-two-grandchildren-without-spilling-a-drop" technique that I assume made raising myself and my siblings almost bearable.

* * * *

I signed up for a couple of writing classes to take this summer. Neither will bring me closer to graduation but there is the possibility I will learn something. Seems worthwhile.

There is a fire outside my bedroom window. My window blinds are flaring flickering orange. It's pleasant and I will continue to think so as long as it remains confined to the fire pit.

In preparation for the classes, I am mining old journals for discarded ideas. Er, useful discarded ideas. These papers would provide a gold rush for impractical discarded ideas:

Mexicans will go to NASCAR as soon as someone invents the burrito helmet. They just have to solve the problem of keeping it safe from hungry passers-by and errant nibblers.

I don't think I could stretch that one out to ten pages.

A man gathers sufficient courage and peers into his soul expecting to uncover a repressed tempest of emotion stirring a writhing sea of genius and finds instead a partly-filled glass of tepid quinine in which a dead housefly makes slow, lazy circles.

Eh, if there's an assignment on poetry I can throw some erratic spacing in there and call it a night.

My books have taken me to harsh deserts and unforgiving tundras [Desert Solitaire][Arctic Dreams]. The terrains' voices echo through me. I believe I know these things. Years ago, as a child exploring South Mountain and as a teenager fleeing the machina duties of my government's military. To learn, to forget, to learn of forgetting. How many times has this occurred? How do I stop it?

I delighted in finding this pen. Younger me's/my old selves hide them in nooks to squirrel out later. I know the best way to keep things safe is to forget them for a little while.


Idunno.

We three, Jenna, Brian, me, crawled through ancient lava flows and neglected cell phones. I struck my head. There is delight to be taken beneath the earth where it is always cool now that the lava has passed on.

This one might have a shot. Someone could get lost, I could pass out for a while, the lava could come back for revenge. The possibilities are as endless as that cave, whose end we found 40 yards in.

I'm watching a Damien Rice video. If he gained enough weight he would look a lotta bit like Jack Black.

















They also make a lot of the same facial expressions when they sing although I assume Jack Black exaggerates for comic effect while perhaps Damien Rice exaggerates for melancholy effect. Either way, it's hilarious.

* * * *

After all the corporate strife with my newest former editors, I've put Otter Of Despair on hold while I develop a spin-off based on a minor character from OOD 3: Disillusionment Delta. It's called The Pug That Never Was. Once I overcome the unique illustrating hurdles that arise from having a main character who is neither, I expect to be able to retire off this one.

* * * *

I should rest. I haven't been sleeping terribly well. Especially not at work because every time I let my guard down the nephews find some way to hit me in the groin.

They better be careful. They act like Guillermo won't shake a baby.

Day Two of Ender's training has begun. All successful writers, most notably Hemingway and Sylvia Plath, have battled and overcome at least one orca whale in their lifetimes. Since he's only a baby, I let him start out fighting on dry land, on the home turf of the living room, no less.

The orca whale wasn't hard to locate; a few pods are always cruising around the neighborhood, spy-hopping and whatnot. I dressed Joshua up like a penguin and had him crawl around on the porch. When the orca breached, I nabbed him. I also caught a few Jehovah's Witnesses but those I just tagged and released.

* * * * *

The Otter of Despair has taken more twists and turns. The original concept was for a sea otter, but my editor felt that river otters were more "accessible." I countered very politely that it would muck up the ending, as it is very uncommon for an otter that is living mainly in a river to drift off into the fucking ocean.

After security guards pulled me off him, I was escorted out and told to conduct all future negotiations over the phone.

Oh, he's calling now. "Hello? Of course it's me, who else doesn't hang up at the sound of your grating voice? ...Ah, so you understand why it can't be a river otter? Good, I-

"You want to change the 'of despair' to 'of happiness' and the 'otter' to a 'pig'? ...I understand. Say, are you coming to the Fourth of July party? Good, good. You should wear that tie, the really thick, strong one. It'll be perfect. Yes'um. Goodbye."

Well that seems to be that.

I'll have to scrap my idea for the sequel. Otter of Despair was going to drift to South America and run into a romp of giant river otter. They're great, they can grow up to six feet long and weigh over 75 pounds. That's the size of your Jewish uncle. Well, these river otter eat piranha and will rescue OOD from being eaten by a school of them. Then OOD will join the romp and learn a valuable lesson about eating piranha. And since there's no seaweed in the river he'll soon float along to his next wacky adventure.

I only have the roughest outline for book three, but I can tell you this: it will have Venom in it.

This is going to be the cover of the twins' latest album. I probably never mentioned they were in a band before. That's because they're not. I just like to make stuff up sometimes.

I tried to spike their hair up. I've decided that the best way to ensure that they are embarrassed by their baby pictures later in life is to try to make them look cool. Then, years and years hence when what I consider cool is horribly lame, I'll bust out these pictures.

I'm still looking for a store that carries baby emo outfits. They're this generation's equivalent of sailor suits.

* * * * *

The Otter of Despair has a new ending. There has been some confusion about the seaweed bit. I guess I sort of assumed that everyone knows that when sea otters sleep they wrap seaweed around their fat little bodies as they float on their backs to keep from drifting away. So that's what sea otters do. I'm not sure what river otters do; probably wrap river rocks around themselves or logs or something.

So in failing to wrap it up, OOD floats away into the night, same as the first edition. The difference will be in the illustration of last page, the one that says "THE END?" Somewhere in the drawing will be the split pieces of a familiar-looking bivalve. Did OOD finally crack his clam as he drifted off? Will we ever see him again? River otters don't really wrap themselves up in rocks, do they? All these questions and more will be answered in the next installment of Otter Of Despair: River Requiem.

* * * * *

I've decided to train Ender to be a writer. He's coming along well; he has already mastered the mid-morning nap.



So when I die at 40 without finishing the odyssey of OOD, Ender can pick up where I left off. He'll be my little Brian Herbert, and I guess Joshua can be my little Kevin J. Anderson.

Assuming that Josh can master the mid-morning nap, that is.