In my day, wizards paid for their skills in suffering and pain, not tuition. In my day, vampires slept in earth guarded by traps and minions that were more likely to kill you than the vampire itself. In my day, monsters of day and monsters of night were as common as poverty, and God was as scarce as always.

We feared them, yes, and we learned to hunt them. This to ease our troubled minds. This to feed our arrogance; for we tolerate no creature deadlier to Man than ourselves.

I am ill. I hate it. The misery I accept, the weakness I will admit, but the uselessness I cannot abide. I called in sick to work again today. Mostly I won't do that, but besides chasing after a bunch of mutts I also have to talk to potential adopters. No guilt finds me when I am spreading my various pestilences...es across the world from my native lands of Mehi-co, as Fox News accurately reports of all my kind. When I am visibly contagious; that is another matter. I must hide from the world lest they find out.

I hate feeling weak.

When Donaldo was wrestling in high school, he caught ringworm and brought it home. When a scaly patch the size of a dime appeared on my shoulder I was horrified. No fungo-bacterian terrorist was going to profit from my nourishing hide! I burned off the microscopic nuisance. I later discovered the existence of an over-the-counter ointment that was readily available, allegedly also effective at fighting ringworm. I looked into it; nowhere on the packaging did the cream claim to be as anti-fungal as the searing kiss of Man's fire. This reassured me for some years, but eventually I would come to admit that I was an idiot and should stop assuming that all my problems could be burned off.

In non-contagious news, my alleged pit-bull/greyhound mutt of a dog is thriving. The Noobers, Slinky, and Watson all went for a walk today. It was a majestic sight: my horse of a dog blazing a trail flanked by a dachshund and a Boston terrier. It was even awe-inspiring right until I got tangled up in The Noobers's Extend-O-Leash and almost fell headlong into a tree. My new official policy is to hold all the leashes in one hand so I don't get the ol' wrap-around. With this technique, the three leashes braid themselves into a festive braid, instead of turning me into a maypole, or as we Mehicans say, "mayo-polo".

Now my dogs are napping peacefully. The Noobers is dreaming of having his own butler that will scratch his tummy at the ring of a bell, Slinky is dreaming of winning first prize trophy for The Longest-Yet-Most-Useless Dog In The World, and Watson is dreaming of chewing up that trophy and scattering its bits all about the house.

I will dream tonight too, no doubt, and run with my dream hounds. Memory is our quarry; we dig up lost moments like delicate truffles. At times we uncover moments that never did happen; but we will always make room on our table. We are not always hungry for them now. But we were, and we will be again. I have all the time in this world.

After weeks pestering my co-workers and managers with my incessant questions about all aspects of the animal rescue/adoption center, they finally gave in and admitted that they were deliberately avoiding training me because the last three new-hires quit in less than a month. "So this whole time you've just been testing me? Lucky for you I'm used to having no idea what I'm doing." It also helped my case that I began writing everything down in my planner so sometimes I was the only personwho knew what was going on, even though I didn't understand it. Thus, another conspiracy against me fails thanks to my usual paranoia.

"You need to write more..."

-A drunk-ass Donovan. A man may be drunk but that doesn't mean he's wrong.

Minutes and seconds strike against the windowpane. A concrete mesa shimmers and warps into an image of another place, a place I'd almost rather be. They fear the heat, and as do I but I have weapons; water bladders and bottles and drink mixes and most of all sweat glands forged by many sweltering summers.

The summer is an old friend.

Two days off from work have left me refreshed and eager to return to the concrete jungle and perpetual tribal warfare amongst cargo cults that is my work site.

And I picked up some gear from REI to assist me in my battle for...something.

Now that I've seen Transformers 2 I can rest easy knowing that cinema is dead and I look forward to the feelies described in Brave New World.

The movie's climax in Egypt reminded me of my job: an incoherent mess with multiple head injuries and a lot of spinning. The temperature is also about the same.

I enjoyed it because it was a lot like the cartoon. Including the Autobots driving from Washington to Egypt in what seems to be one day.

My nephews saw the original Star Wars. Just the end, the assault on the Death Star. They were transfixed. Forgot to even finish their churros.

I was pleased, and yet I despaired because I was providing more childhood joy for George Lucas to rape.

Perhaps I will only let them see the original films and refuse to acknowledge the existence of the prequels.

Shouldn't be that hard.

From the journals:

Luis died on the 22nd of February. The jungle vines of tubes from the life support devices were hacked away; the intravenous bags of solutions dangling like overripe fruit from stainless steel branches were plucked and packed. I was not there to protest. My goodbye had been that afternoon after a doctor had allowed me to go over the x-rays and the rest of the final pages of his medical history. I knew then that my littlest brother would not face tomorrow with me.

His hand was cold as I held it and my brain screamed goodbye. I regret now that I had not covered him up, that I had not insisted he be kept warm. Luis always wrapped himself up almost completely when he slept. As a baby, he had even refused to drink cold water. It had to be above room temperature.

He was cold then, in his last days. I hope he dreamt well. I hope he dreamt of me, and of the songs we would sing in the car. I hope he dreamed of his dogs. Luis had just undergone his Confirmation as a Catholic, and if he was right then I will not see him again. Perhaps I will go where the dogs are, and keep them company and whine along with them when we dream of our masters.