I hope he's right...

...about item no. 12, 'cause no. 12 is about all I've got right now.

Dogpoet: Twenty Reasons to Join the Impact.

I think there's a movie named after what I'm about to do...

Well....maybe we should try being honest with ourselves.

There's a lot of anger directed toward the state of California right now (most of it coming from me, I admit), but the truth is, the people of the Golden State didn't do anything different from the rest of us who cast our votes for Barack Obama. Sure, he said he didn't think a constitutional amendment was "necessary" to support his position, but he made it quite clear that as a Christian, he believes that marriage could only exist between a man and a woman. He proposed glb (and probably some t) should get a separate set of laws, instead of giving us access to those that govern his marriage to his wife and his relationship with his children.

There were a lot of reasons--probably most of them good--to vote for Obama despite his denial of equal rights to members of the glbt community. Catherine suggested I think of the polar bears his energy plan might save, for instance (although there's an argument to be made that if we kept Palin tied up with business in Washington, D.C., she'd be too busy to go out and shoot more wolves from helicopters). So, yes, it's pretty easy to ignore, or at least to rationalize, the negatives of voting for Obama. The U.S. was a sinking ship, and a few people had to be thrown overboard to save it. Fine, I get that. But still and all...calling Californians bigots for doing exactly what we just did...that's a bit much. There really is some truth to that old saying about pointing fingers: you can point a finger at California, but don't forget there are three pointing back at you (unless you're that kid I grew up with who accidentally cut his finger off when we were still in grade school, he's only pointing two fingers at himself). Maybe we like our reasons for throwing our support behind someone who doesn't believe in equal marriage rights better than some of the reasons put forward by the pro Prop 8 campaign, but really....same difference.

I've got a lot of fury spilling out of me right now. Some of it is directed toward...well...the targets you'd expect, and some of it is directed toward targets that probably would surprise you. A lot of my anger is directed at myself, for once again voting for someone I don't believe in, a candidate obviously willing to extend fair treatment to everyone but me. Mixed in with that is anger at myself for being too selfish to take the hit--shouldn't I be noble enough to step off the boat before I'm thrown off, so others can survive, and even improve their position? Turns out I'm not that generous--who knew? I want to be one of those people jumping up and down with joy, I want to be happy for all those people for whom this was a real victory. But I'm not, I'm not even close. I can be happy about not having a McCain/Palin administration, but the rest....I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forget what it felt like to watch the President-Elect celebrating with his wife and family in front of all those cheering people on election night, effortlessly enjoying his position of heterosexual privilege, no matter how much good comes out of this administration in the next four years.

Thank god for globalisation.

Otherwise, I would have been forced to spend 20+ quid on a hair cut at a shop in the high street of Cockfosters. Thanks to aggressive capitalist markets, I instead spent only 12GBP for a trim at the Supercuts in Shopping City at Wood Green.

Actually, that's not true. I spent 15GBP--I gave the hairdresser a 25% tip. Part of my generosity was due to the fact that she took on the challenge that is my head 20 minutes before closing time. Most of my generosity, though, was because she was nice to me, and talked to me while she was working. Well, yes, hairdressers often try and chat with me (ask Catherine about the woman who sometimes cuts hair but mostly just talks in the shop out at Whitehall), but I tend not to engage in small talk. It's often the end of the day--or the beginning of the day--and I'm tired, and not really in the mood to chat. I'm polite and all, but not really talkative. Usually. I don't know what happened yesterday, but I had a real, honest to god conversation sitting in that tippy chair.

We went through all the usual questions--do you ever color your hair, why are you in London, do you have any children--and then got onto the topic of Skype, and how it was saving my marriage. She also uses Skype, but said she gave up using it with her mother, because her mother always cried at the end, and because she was a "big wuzzy", she also ended up in tears. It was easier to say goodbye on the phone than on a webcam. Somehow we moved on from there to a discussion about aging parents, and I admitted that was one of the worst parts of being away for a year, the worry that I might not see my parents again.

She told me that her father had died three years ago or so, and talked about how hard that first year was--hard for her, but also hard because she had to step up when her mother fell to pieces. She told me that it was something for which you tried to prepare, but until it happened, you just didn't quite understand what it was like. The father of a friend had died a bit before hers had, and she tried to be supportive, but it wasn't until her own father died that she realized just how much she didn't understand what her friend had been going through. The first year was the hardest, but then she was able to move on--it got easier with time. Still hard, but better.

I don't know, she was remarkably upbeat about the whole thing. Serious, but also looking out for the points where a positive turn could be taken--didn't I have siblings that could help, wasn't it good that my father had a course of treatment that kept him here this long, etc. It was the first real conversation I've had in weeks, and I don't think I'll ever forget her telling me about her parents, and how they loved each other, right up to the end, even after 45 years of marriage. "My father was a good man," she told me. I could tell she meant it, she was telling the truth, and it was really kind of her to share that moment with me.

Back to Work

Apparently the airlines know all about me. Our reservation reference number for our flight to Washington state last week was LEZKWR. That's some sort of coincidence.

Today is my last day of vacation. I've been working off and on all month, in five-minute to five-hour spurts, but beginning tomorrow, I will start following my 32.5 hour work schedule (3 hours of writing in the morning, 3.5 hours of "miscellaneous academic tasks" in the afternoon. I've got to stop this practice of sitting down for five minutes to do a task, only to discover eight hours later that I've lost the entire day to research. That kind of behavior makes me angry and resentful, and quickly reminds me why I hate my chosen career path. If I want to make it through the long haul, I need to start forcing myself to work within pre-set limits. I've downloaded an electronic timer, and as soon as I finish this post, I'm going to install it. Write for three hours in 50-minute blocks and then STOP. Research/academic tasks for three hours in 50-minutes, with an additional 30 minutes of wrap up time, NO MORE.

Anyway, as I said, today is my last day of vacation. We've just returned from eight days with my parents. We tarred the garage roof, painted the wheelchair ramp, mowed the front lawn, helped my brother build a new dog fence, ran a billion errands, went over to the Methow to explore Pipestone Canyon and drive up Eight Mile (ran into snow before the end of the road), went up the Sinlahekin, had dinner with my best friend from my hometown, visited with three aunts and two uncles, and watched too much TV. We flew into Spokane on the clearly omniscient Frontier Airlines via Denver, and I have to say, for an airline experience (of which I have WAY TOO MANY), it was pretty nice. Avis Rentals, however, will be hearing from me soon--what kind of car rental agency sends you off in a 4-wheel drive with transmission fluid in it? Did they think I wanted to get stranded out in the middle of the forest with frozen gears?

So, back to the grind. A list of tasks to be completed tomorrow afternoon:

Writing Session

1. Literature review notes
2. Adapt fellowship to intro
   

Afternoon Work Session

1. E-mail M.D.
2. SSRC-IDRF bio/abstract
   
3. Article revisions
4. Make copies of dissertation writing workshop forms
5. Find JS book!
6. Overdue library book
   

After Work

1. E-mail L.S.
2. Call tree surgeon
3. Trim photos
4. Pick up paint chips
5. Mail insurance papers
6. Check medivac insurance policies
7. E-mail Ayse re: bills
   

I'd forgotten. About winter, that is. Not just about having to clear 6" of fresh snow off the car every morning (and the sidewalk, and the steps, and the driveway, and everywhere it gets in your way), but also about having to remember which roads can be driven in the snow (state roads get plowed before county roads, city roads get plowed according to a strange schedule that leaves the main street running through town unplowed until the end of the day), which parking lots have to be avoided (turn left out of Safeway and go around back to the highway, don't try to take the front exit). I had to relearn the process of slipping an SUV into a driveway without hitting the ramparts of month-old snow protecting the house from evil hordes of snow barbarians. Learned to take off my boots at the door so I don't track mud and wet all over the carpets. Learned to wear a stocking cap. And gloves. And even a winter coat.

Luckily, I'm a quick study, because I didn't get much time to re-absorb all these lessons. Landed at the airport in Spokane mid-day Monday, and minutes later, after cleaning the snow off the rental, found myself driving through fog and dark and herds of mule deer that didn't care much about winter driving conditions. Alone, in an unfamiliar vehicle, driving on unfamiliar roads covered with compact snow and ice, this is exactly how all those news stories about people losing limbs to frostbite after a slide-off begin, isn't it?

But, I made it, and here I am, in north central Washington, reminding myself about winter living. Mostly, I think winter is brutal, and I understand why it kills so many people: it's a lot of work, all the time. There are nice winter moments to be had, like when I come down off the highway into town, and I can see all the hills behind town covered in snow, and I can see how complex the winter sky really is--it's never just one color of gray. Sometimes, even if you can't see the sun, you can see the glow of white light at the bottom edge of the clouds to the west of the valley, even when the north valley is socked in with a heavy, icy fog; the clouds over the reservation are rising up to show off the sagebrush on the hills, and the view to the south is heavy and dark and weighted down with more snow. But there's that ribbon of white to the west, reminding you that somewhere, just beyond your field of vision, the sun is still shining. And at dusk, when when I'm up on the highway and can see the lights coming on up and down the valley, but it's still not dark enough to hide the orchards on the hills or the dark curves of the river, it's breathtakingly beautiful. While I was standing out on the porch this evening, watching ice float down the river, knocking icicles off the back gutter with my fists, I saw a coyote hurrying along the bank on the other side of the river. He was trying to hug the water, but the ice is fragile on reservation side because the water is a lot deeper there (some kids have a rope swing on a tree over there so they can drop into the river during the desert months of summer, they really do exist, those dry, hot days), so he kept making delicate detours up the bank and back down again, keeping his head turned north. When I see the coyote, I can also see that winter--depressing, cold, dark, threatening winter--is really just a state of mind. The beauty of white-on-black, snow-on-rock, is there if I want to see it, but right now, all I'm thinking is, "I wish it would stop snowing. I'm so fucking tired of snow." Nothing too pretty in that thought, is there?

So, I made this unexpected trip out here because it seemed like the end was near for my dad. A week or so before Christmas, my mom called me and told me this was it, so I bought a plane ticket out here. But once they got my dad to the hospital, he seemed to rally. He improved enough to go into a rest home, and my mom told me to hold off for a bit, because maybe it wasn't the end after all. So, I waited, and tried (mostly succeeded) in having a bit of a vacation, and my dad got better, and eventually went home. But this weekend, my dad was back in the hospital, and my mom was saying, "Well, this time, you really better come out here." And so I did. But my dad seems to be rallying again, he's at home again, and he does seem a lot better today. Unfortunately, my brother, Carl, now has the flu, and my mom is completely worn out from trying to keep everything, including my dad, in working order. There's been a lot of people in and out of the house, home health nurses, volunteers helping my mom fill out paperwork to get qualified for in-home health care, nutritionists, some person today I don't even know what she was there for...

This is a small town, so everyone knows everything about everybody. The neighbors all watched my dad leave in an ambulance, so they all know what's up, and really, I shouldn't be complaining about the snow, since the neighbor to the north of my parents has been VERY KINDLY using his snowblower to keep my parents' driveway and sidewalk clean, even though I'm here this week to shovel snow. The neighbor to the south was out shoveling snow when I was cleaning off my mom's car this morning, and he asked, "Did you get a new car? You were driving a different SUV last time you were here." Clearly, the man has been paying attention during my annual visits. I called a friend from my hometown (30 miles up the valley) today to tell her what's up, but she already knew, because news travels fast around here, especially when your relatives are all part of the Brethren Church. I'm staying in the hotel up on the highway (next to the casino on the reservation), which is a lot like home, because Carl works nights here when he doesn't have the flu, and my Aunt Fern works the late shift, 3-11, so she's always here to say goodnight before I go to bed. My cousin Wayne made his weekly visit to my parents this morning, and my Aunt Rosie stopped by last night. I'm sure if I stood in one place long enough, other relatives would eventually wander by.

I'm typing like a graphomaniac, but not saying much of anything. Number one on my list to do when I get back to Illinois is schedule an appointment with the counseling center. Last semester was my worst semester ever in terms of grades, and this semester coming up will probably be my most stressful semester ever (Ph.D. exams/proposal defense). A lack of academic confidence isn't going to help me prepare for exams, so I've got to get over my sense of failure. A lot of stuff going on with my family, obviously, and I'm still trying to deal with my own lingering health issues (everyone will be glad to know that my cholesterol levels are excellent, I'm sure). My cats no longer recognize me, and I sometimes worry that my wife doesn't, either. I feel like I've got a lot on my mind, but I can't make my mind process any of it to completion. So, I've got to get that taken care of before I really mess something up.

I hope to god it's not snowing in Indiana. Or Illinois. Or anywhere. I'm tired of snow.

And speaking of family....

When I'm really stressed, I shiver, and I usually end up quaking when I try to sustain a lengthy phone conversation. Phones really do it to me. Even when talking to friends, I can shudder as if standing in a freezer, and I generally end up under the blankets, as if heat can dissipate the tension in my body.

So, imagine how my poor arthritic shoulders feel after a long political discussion with my father. I never, ever NEVER talk politics with my dad. Not since the first Gulf War, when he stopped talking to me for six months because of our difference of opinion. But what do you do when someone asks you point blank, "What do you think of the war in Iraq?" It's hard to change the subject. I know, because I tried.

By the time we'd finished, I thought my skeleton was going to shake itself free of the ligaments holding it together. It's funny. We generally share the same opinion about the war, but still, I felt like he was arguing with me. At least he didn't seem too angry when he pointed out our votes will always cancel each other out in an election. That's probably not true, but I'm not about to deliberately go deeper into political waters by trying to explain that I'm not a single party or single issue voter.

Ah. I'm shivering again. Time to hang it up for the night.

Didn't I say my Uncle Dale was famous? In September, my mom and all her siblings are going to Seattle to watch him throw out the first pitch at a Mariners game.

So, I totally lost it at the mall this afternoon. 
 
You know, Hallmark is all about "a card for every occasion," but they don't have one that says "It is so FUCKING UNFAIR that you're not going to get well soon."  And you know, the woman at the checkout completely missed her chance to empty my checking account, because she was all "would be interested in contributing to the fund to send cards to our troops overseas," and I was all "you can do whatever the hell you want with my debit card, just hurry the fuck up and run it through because we're about to have a scene here, and neither you nor I want that, okay?"  Completely missed her chance.

We have to stay home and stop socializing, at least for a day. That's not going to happen this weekend, though.

The in-laws left Thursday, so I finally got to sleep in my own bed. It's made such a difference. I came home from work on Thursday and pretty much went straight to bed. I'm still a little worn out, but not in so much pain.

Catherine had the entire week off, so she went to work w/me on Friday. She spent most of the day off wandering around looking at historic architecture, but we had a really nice lunch together, and I got to show her around the building we're renovating for the children's museum. It's not much too look at now, but it should be pretty nice when we're done. I didn't get a lot done Friday afternoon because Louis and I spent a few hours researching cementitious underlayment (don't ask). Old buildings can be a pain in the butt. The museum's current home page states that the building will be open by January 2005. I'm guessing that's not going to happen, but what do I know, I'm just a design assistant.

After work, we drove up to Indy for the season opener for the Fever. I'm not sure if we were just tired, or what, but the game seemed really, really boring. And not very well attended, which is a bad sign. I wish Bridget Pettis was still playing. I don't know...I think pro sports of any sort just aren't a good fit with me. It's hard to cultivate franchise loyalty when the players change season-to-season (or week to week, for that matter). I like college ball better, when you have 3 or 4 years to see a player develop. Anyway, Tamika Catchings is still the best player in the game, and the organization made a good deal for Kelly Miller, so it should be a decent season.

In other news, Brood X is finally here. I was beginning to think this cicada thing was all a hoax, despite reports from Catherine and Garry that campus was covered with them. Before today, I hadn't seen a single one, but today when we were out running at the neighborhood park, we saw tons. We heard them before we saw them, they sound like aliens have landed, quite different from the regular cicada noise. And they kept landing on us as we were running, and getting in our way. At one point, when I was gimping on ahead, Catherine let out this blood-curdling scream. I thought she was being killed, but it turns out it was just that a cicada had landed on her nose. They're about the size of my thumb, so I guess that would be startling.

Took the car in for it's first oil change (1,500 miles overdue, but who's counting?), went to the bank, bought some rabbit-proof fencing, had some coffee. Worked on a small project I'm trying to finish. Talked on the phone to a friend and possibly annoyed her by repeatedly expressing my opinion that cats cannot be trained. Hung up the phone and discovered I was supposed to be dressed and ready to go to John and Cindy's going-away part in five minutes. Had a very cute cicada on me at the party, it had one undersized wing and one regular-sized wing. I guess it was following its biological imperative because it kept trying to climb higher and higher on me. I eventually off-loaded it onto a tree so it could finish its reproductive task.

And we saw a big, cool snake while we were there.

Tomorrow we're having breakfast with friends, and I must get my hair cut. After that I am going to come home and work on some projects and hopefully spend some quality quiet time reading and relaxing on the back porch. Must put up that rabbit fence at some point, but other than that, I'm doing nothing that feels obligatory. I'm thinking I deserve a day off.

A little tired and stressed, I think. My mother- and sister-in-law are coming into town tomorrow, and we're having dinner for ten on Sunday. It sounded manageable at one point, but that was before my paycheck went almost equally toward my latest hospital bill and my student loan payment and left me wondering how I'm going to afford groceries next week. Suddenly I feel panicky and unable to cope. I feel lonely, actually, and that seems a bit silly given that I'm about to have a house full of people. I don't know...there's a lot going on in life that just doesn't translate well to text, so I seem to just carry it around with me.

Anyway, we must hope that it eventually stops raining, and we must hope the Brood X cicadas stay in the ground until at least Monday. If I can get those two things taken care of, maybe the rest will take care of itself.

Bee keeping.

My mom's dad was a beekeeper, and thus my mom and my aunts tend to collect things that have to do with bees. Back in the day, it was really hard to find bees on anything. Now, it seems, the bee is very, very fashionable. Still, I think my mom has enough bee stuff, or at least, enough store-bought bee stuff. Instead of going out and buying her a bee-themed something this year, I made her a bee-themed something. It was surprisingly difficult, and I'm never doing it again.

Today is my mom's birthday.

So, happy birthday, Mom, not that you read this, but still.

Last night was our last concert of the season, so I am free to be as lazy as I want in the evenings between now and January 12th. No more outside obligations, no more places I have to be no matter how lousy I feel, nothing between me and my recliner for the next three weeks. And once I get the rest of my Christmas packages sent on Thursday, I can come home from work and just sleep until I have to go to work the next day. Mmm..maybe I'll wake up around the 23rd and write some Christmas cards, hard to tell.

Courtesy of Alex: The Picture of Everything

My Mother, the Scientist.

Joan Feynman

How embarrassing.

Today, I missed the green left-hand turn arrow because I was thinking about baseball, of all things. I glanced up and saw the arrow turn yellow, and finally realized the car behind me was honking. I wanted to apologize, but what would I say anyway? "Sorry about that left turn thing, I was thinking about the World Series." Right.

When I was a kid, we lived pretty close to Tacoma. Some of my best memories are of my mom popping up a big grocery bag full of popcorn, and then my parents loading us all into the van to go watch Triple A ball at Cheney Stadium. I still think fondly of that greasy paper bag being passed up and down our row of box seats behind home plate.

Tacoma was a farm team for a lot of different clubs and they had a lot of different mascots--they were the Twins when we first started watching them, and then I think they became the Tugs. They were the Tigers the last time I saw them, part of the feeder system for the Oakland A's. I loved that last season--it was Jose Canseco's last (and I believe first) year in the minors. He showed up mid-summer, and our attendance record went up accordingly. We were all about seeing Jose play.

The last game I went to in Tacoma was Canseco's last game in the minors. We were bitterly disappointed when we arrived and saw that he wasn't dressed--we came to see him! But then this rumor started going through the crowd: he'd been called up, he was going to the Big Leagues! Ah...I get a sports tear in my eye just remembering the feelings of anticipation and excitement because of one of *our boys* got called up. He didn't play that night, but he did step out and hit a few home runs for the fans. Bashed three over the wall at center field, then stepped across the plate and did the same thing batting left. It was awesome.

Well, he was great to watch, he was the 40-40 man, after all. Before everything started going wrong, before he became a perpetual member of the disabled list and/or police blotter. Somewhere in there, around the time he was traded to Texas, I stopped watching baseball, and the strike made that a more or less permanent decision for me. Yeah, I've still got my collection of baseball cards hanging around, and I still think they're cool, but I guess I don't really watch much ball anymore.

Well, this is a long-winded explanation of why I've decided to go for Oakland to win the Fall Series. I know that "chicks dig the long ball" and all that, but that small-ball moment Oakland had the other night against Boston reminded me that I really need to be rooting for the home team, and for me, that would still be Oakland. So, I apologize to my partner, who is backing the Cubbies, and I apologize to my friend, who is going for the Giants, but I'm all in it for the A's. Or, as the t-shirt says, "My favorite team is Oakland...and whoever is playing against Atlanta."

Play ball.

Next installment:

Up early on Friday to go for a quick run, then a lot of hustle and bustle loading the cars to go camping. This is the first time my dad has gone with us, he usually stays home. He told Catherine at one point during the weekend he was only going because I wanted him to, and that partly made me feel good because he was doing something he thought was important to me, but partly made me feel bad, because it must have sucked to be around all that cigarette smoke. He told her it was hard to breathe, and I can believe it. My lungs are perfectly healthy, but when ten people are simultaneously exhaling cigarette smoke in my direction, I am forced to cough.

My dad and I don't talk much, he mostly tells stuff to Catherine and she passes it on to me. He told her how much he appreciated my coming home in February, and it seems that he more or less admitted that my siblings are less than responsible when it comes to taking care of things around the house, etc. And he also apparently admitted that Tim was a complete jerk, but since he's his oldest son, what can he do? I have a few ideas of what he can do, but I doubt he'd want to hear them.

I felt bad because Dad tried to start several conversations with me, but it's hard to re-train myself to talk to him. I'm afraid to say anything that really matters to me for fear that he'll pounce on it and use it to hurt me. We didn't really argue (well, okay, maybe once), we just didn't really say much because I was doing a "yeah/no" routine all weekend. It didn't start out that way, I guess, but one of the first conversations we had Friday morning really knocked me off balance. I've been puzzling for awhile now over our family tree, because let's face it, there is nothing on the paper version of our lineage that explains our ethnicity. And I was looking at some photos and thinking out loud, and that always leads to problems.

An actual conversation with my parents:

Me: (looking at photos of my cousin) I just don't get where our coloring comes from.

Mom: It's Lousiana French.

Me: How can it be Cajun? I've never met anyone with French blood from Louisiana as dark as Sean, Toran and Meaghan.

Mom: No, not Cajun, Louisiana French.

Me: That is Cajun. You know, the French? Acadia? That's what Louisiana French is.

Dad: She means they're niggers.

Me: (Saying nothing because I'm too shocked. Did he just say what I thought he said?)

Mom: Chuck, you know if I had said that, you'd read me the riot act.

Me: (Regretting I ever said anything but continuing to talk anyway, like the idiot that I am) We don't look African-American. Latino, Mexican, Native American, maybe, but not African-American.

Dad: I should sue your mom for lying to me.

Me: What?

Dad: She didn't tell me I was marrying into a black family. That's misrepresentation.

Me: I don't think that will hold up in a court of law, Dad.

Dad: She lied, she didn't tell me I was marrying a black woman.

Me: As far as I know, miscegenation laws weren't in effect when you got married.

Dad: I think I should sue her for misrepresentation.

So, maybe my dad was joking at least a little bit, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt. I find it incredibly depressing, however, that my parents--who have had every opportunity to learn more about the world, get to know their neighbors, inform themselves of how ethnic/racial stereotpyes harm people--grow more bigoted instead of less as time passes. My parents are literate, they both finished highschool and tech school, my mom is now in college, my dad was in the military, they read a lot, they have internet access and a satellite dish. Yet nothing seems to change, unless it gets worse. If it's this bad with them, what kind of hope is there for joe militia man, living up in the hills, shooting at everything that moves? It's just too fucking depressing, and this is a lot of why I dread going home.

We had another brief conversation on Sunday about using Spanish at work that I don't have the heart to type out, but really confirmed a suspicion I've had for awhile about my parents hierarchy of racism. In their eyes, it's bad to be African-American, definitely. But if you have to be something other than white, it's better to be black than anything else. It's completely shameful to be Native American, but it's better to be that than to be Asian-American. And it's better to be Asian-American than Mexican-American. And better to be Mexican-American than just plain Mexican. It's not just my parents, unfortunately. Maybe that's the worst part. I heard the same sentiments from other relatives, relatives I really like, over the weekend.

I don't know, by the end of the weekend, I just wanted to gather all my "of color" friends up, hold them close to me and protect them. Okay...I guess that sounds a bit paternalistic. It's not like anyone I know needs the weird white chick to help them out. But, maybe it's like being gay--I can get all the gay people I want to agree that I should be given certain basic rights, but unless I get the straight people to work for me, too, it's not going to happen. It's just...I can't stand to think of people I care about having to listen to and be hurt by this crap. Well, again, maybe it's like being gay. Pretty much by the time you get to be 30, you've learned how to tune things out so they don't bother you so much. If you get too distracted by being hurt and angry, you can't get anything done.
10:19 PM


Ten thousands notes to write down about our trip.

The trip out was pretty uneventful aside from a weather delay in Houston. It only set us back an hour, so it was just getting dark when we headed north from Wenatchee. I was wicked tired, with sandpaper eyelids, and not looking forward to driving in the dark, *but* dark is the perfect condition for watching wildfires burn. In the first draw just past Beebe Bridge (Chelan Falls), we pulled off the highway to watch the newest inferno. Terribly beautiful, like a John Martin painting, but done with the palette of Frederick Edwin Church.

After the excitement of watching pine trees explode into flames, we drove the rest of the way to my parents' house. I could hardly wait to get to sleep, and instantly made up our beds in the backyard. And I did get a few hours of sleep, but that was it. Of course, a windstorm struck as we were sleeping. The next day we found out the winds were clocked at 60mph. I toughed it out for almost an hour, trying to hold the blankets over my head, but we kept getting pelted with dirt and rocks and tree branches and twigs. When my mom's watering can hit me on the head, I finally said, "Fuck this!" and dragged our air mattress inside and wedged it between my parents La-Z-Boys. Of course, my dad gets up hyper early, so we only got a couple hours of sleep altogether. I didn't turn my parents' police scanner down quite far enough, and the storm-related calls that went out all night kept waking me up.
9:43 PM


Man, I go away for ten days, and not only do I not get any good real mail, I don't get any personal e-mail, either. What have my friends been doing for the last week and a half while I've been out enjoying myself? My god.

We seriously didn't want to come back from vacation, maybe we wouldn't have if we were a) independently wealthy and b) didn't miss the kitties.

Very cool that my brother went to visit my parents. I was pretty psyched about that. Mom says he drove up for just two days, helped my dad cut down the trees on the river bank. And she said he was actually singing! Imagine that.

I'm 100% sick of my philosophy lesson. I feel like I'm never going to finish it. I start on it, write a few sentences, drift off. I need to get it done so I can take the midterm.

Figured out why I couldn't do the endpoint snap on my BCFramer tutorial on Friday. Got lots of stuff to do for that class.