Work was a tad wild this evening.

Halfway through my shift, the only other delivery boy parks in a handicap spot and his car is towed in the five minutes it takes him to deliver the pizza.

It was all up to me.

Historically, that has never gone well.

At one point during my driving I noticed I was surrounded by cars filled with screaming girls in silver-colored plasic crowns.

At two points I found myself grill-to-grill with a vehicle headed down the street in the opposite direction.

At no point did I get pulled over by a cop, but it was close. I was being trailed by a squad car for a mile or so but then a couple of homeless guys tried to sprint through eight lanes of traffic. I avoided them by a wide margin, but the cop nearly hit one of them.

Eyes on the road, officer, not on the delivery boy who tries to manuever his car like a damaged TIE fighter. Even if you catch him in the act, he'll never learn.

Last Sunday, Kelly and I saw Little Shop of Horrors at Gammage Auditorium. I had never really seen the stage show before although I was part of our high school's production. I had no singing aspirations at the time so I had auditioned for the puppeteer of the largest version of the man-eating plant.

So last Sunday was the first time I saw the entire show while not crouched in a giant, hot, heavy, green, foam-and-rubber plant puppet.

It was almost as good.

I had a great time at the show. The experience left me with the feeling of seeing your best friend from elementary school after many years. Not exactly a sense of loss, but a quiet pride that they turned out so well and you were once a part of that.

I don't know. Theatre still brings that sense of nostalgia for me. Which is accurate, since I feel a sort of wistful longing for a time and place where everything was just so and I don't see how I can get back there from where I am now.

Not without a terrible haircut, glasses, and a complete disregard for fashion sense, anyway.

I think it's fair to say that I've completely mastered the art of being a pizza-boy. I am already considering trying my hand at other "-boy" careers to round out my experience. Like maybe a bag-boy at a hotel or even a pool boy. I'll bet there are tons of cabanas out there that are in desperate need of a good boy.

Although, it is tragic that all my "-boy" experience will not help me land my dream job. I've never told anyone this, but I've always wanted to be one of those girls that walk around seedy night clubs with a tray of cigarettes.

That's right. A cigarette-girl. Or a "smokes-dame" to those of you from 1920's gangster films.

But that's probably not ever going to happen. Sigh. A boy can dream.

A boy can dream.

I went to the Phoenix Art Museum this evening with Emma, Dana, John, and David.

I have never been familiar with Surrealism nor do I pretend to be so now. I did learn a few things, though.

I think perusing the exhibit helped me add to my definition of art. I think art is when you can keep getting closer and still find more to see.

That should be sufficiently un-helpful. Like my definition of good driving. Pick a side of the road, left, right; it doesn't really matter, and stick with it. Either you'll get where you're going or you'll be imprisoned and never have to worry about getting anywhere.

Speaking of driving, I changed my oil today. I also changed Molly's oil. I have a few new cuts, burns, and oilstains on my body but otherwise everything went as I'd hoped.

At least, I think so. I'll know for certain if my transmission drops out when I work tomorrow.

On Rails.



The clattering behemoth roared as it clawed a path along the earth-stained metal lane. The noise reached my ears but was just beyond my field of vision. What a thing, I wondered, to be in this world with your path already set and only an ancient furnace to guide you.

I hear your passage as you churn along. Your strength rattles us ever so slightly and with good manners we pretend not to notice.

I wonder about you; your rusted pieces of self. Constantly stopping, attaching, discarding. I imagine an army of boxcars, empty and spray-painted with the names of hopeful street gangs; all of them abandoned but still in sight of the weak wooden rail that descends to block the motor traffic. I hear the boxcars chuckle every time a horseless carriage approaches and hesitates before the railroad crossing as if in silent reverence, in tribute to the ancient boundaries.

The rusted iron tracks are a herald. They still proclaim to all driving in their cars and walking with their feet: "Don't be here when I am. Don't you dare be here when I am."

I am pleased. The wireless internet connection is up and running. My signal strength is almost as weak as the argument for Intelligent Design, but I'm still happy to have it.

The monsoon rains have been pelting the house. This is not a good night to be a delivery boy.

I still need to make a name tag that reads "Fry". In time, I hope to make a Galaxy Express polo shirt.

It feels good to sit at my old writing desk. It is as cluttered as ever with cds, notebooks, folders, first-aid tape, a talking Triumph the Insult Comic Dog doll, and the usual slew of hygiene products.

* * * *

As Kelly and I were driving to pick up Luis from his first day at Mountain Pointe, I tuned in to National Public Radio. I turned up the volume as I heard the familiar voice of Peter Jennings. I listened happily to the interview. "I really like Peter Jennings," I said to Kelly.

The interview drew to a close and then a voice said, "That was Peter Jennings in 1990."

I remember feeling little pin-pricks of warning inside my brain and I was instantly uneasy. NPR doesn't usually play programming from that long ago unless...unless...

"Peter Jennings passed away yesterday of lung cancer."

Peter Jennings was the first anchor I paid any attention when I was much younger. This was significant because at that time I didn't care for any television programming that didn't revolve around some kind of teenage mutant animal.

Perhaps watching a few snippets of news back then didn't really have a signicant impact on my development or anything, but I remember it and I remember it fondly.

What more could a man ask for?

I dare say it has been quite some time since I have posted drunk. Or, I dare say it has been a many moons since I've moseyed 'round this par-ticular pasture. That is, I mean to say, while drunk.

This house is a madhouse. More people sleep here that don't pay rent than sleep here that do. It's a difficult balance to maintain, but we work hard 'round here.

This evening I came home to find a home empy save for one lone Jessica. We watched a bit of that Bridget Jones's movie during which Jess and I drank every time she did something socialy awkward. (and we're talking British awkward, not USA awkward).

Jess has passed out and I am...well, I'm here.

More people showed up to the house. More drinks were drunk. More people showed up drunk.

I'm just trying to enjoy everything while it lasts.

Pyne! My professor's name is Pyne.

Oh, and I've decided to forgo the swimming class for a ballet class. Since, after all, I can already swim. And who knows when I might find myself thrown into a dance recital with my life at stake?

I'm just not willing to take that chance.

Are we lacking intimacy? Should I light some candles or something?

Let's not do this in front of the children. Just tell me what you want and I'll stop trying to second-guess you. I'll assume you know what's best for you and act accordingly. I suppose that is frightening, though. God forbid we be responsible for our own actions.

I've been trying to be less sarcastic. It hasn't been going well.

But my capacity for understatement is as strong as ever.

Today is Saturday. Is Saturday some sort of day? I met a New Zealander today. I suppose that's good enough.

Happy Birthday, Alan Schuler. I'd sing for you but I forgot what number I'm supposed to call for that audio blogger thing. It's for the best.