Ladies and Gentlemen...

The JWERPod has landed.

And no, I can neither justify it nor afford it. Shut up.

Curses, Foiled Again!

Unfortunately for my burgeoning plans of world domination from my new commandeered HQ, the wily Rob seems to have snuck back in while I was out getting some 2x4's, and has changed the locks BACK, and issued a stern reprimand (which I think was something like, "hey, thanks for taking Goblin out, we'll see you soon!" the fiend...)

So now it's back to the craphole for me. I guess I should maybe vacuum, huh?

Oh, right, I forgot: "And I would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for you meddling dramaturg!"

NEXT WEEK: but they've forgotten, I still have their spare key! BWA HA HA, etc.

Squatting for Fun and Profit

So I was asked by David if I would watch his giant ferocious dog while he was away this evening, a favor to which I happily acquiesced; little does he know the true reason...

You see, I've changed the locks and have no intention of leaving, ever. His house is beautiful and immaculate and has no evidence of needing or undergoing massive renovation projects on any floor; he has better cable than I do, and a bigger TV.

I may have to leave to get some beer; once I've drunk the Beck's there's nothing left but Miller Lite, and that won't sustain me at all... I have not yet decided whether or not I'll let Rob back in; I haven't quite figured out the trick to walking Goblin without long lacunae of standing, waiting to see if she might want to, you know, move in some direction or another. So maybe Rob can help me with that. Also, I hear he's a great cook.*

I'm not letting David back in, though, until he agrees that this is now MY house, and his is the decrepit beast up the road with cat hair in every cubic inch... maybe if I can convince him to live there for a few months, I will agree to trade back, we'll have to see...

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go nail some 2x4's across the ground floor windows...

* Meanwhile, David, I made more Indian food last night, and have in fact used your kitchen to reheat and eat it, bwah ha ha... I mean MY kitchen...

Larry

Yesterday I arrived at work already in a foul mood from a conversation I'd had earlier in the day. I was so engrossed in thought thereafter that I almost missed my stop on the Metro. I tried to focus on work, banging away at the keys, my mind as blank as I could make it. I got a decent amount done, and gradually managed to put the morning's angst behind me.
 
A little later, just after lunch, my father called and told me that my uncle Larry had died that morning.
 
He's not really my uncle... when I was born, my mother asked her 2nd cousin to be my godmother, and she agreed; Larry was her husband. We spent more time visiting them than we did most of my other relatives, on either side of the family; they lived fairly close by, had no children of their own, were a little younger than my parents, and lived in an amazing house that clung to the side of a steep cliff.
 
Larry worked for Bell Labs, and his influence was part of the reason I ended up in computers. He had a modem, one of those old ones with the rubber cups you stuck the bakelite handset into, in the early 80s. Both he and his wife treated my brother and I like miniature adults, conversing with us intelligently and getting slightly annoyed when we acted too much like the kids that we were. Larry taught me how to play pool on his table in the basement. I was never any good, and to be honest, he probably wasn't any better than anyone with a pool table in their basement would be. The pockets had open tubes beneath them; when a ball was sunk, we would get on the floor and watch it clunk its way down them to the return.
 
They met on a ski trip to Colorado in college, and married shortly thereafter. Later, they bought a ski house in Telluride when everyone else was still talking about Aspen. They had a lot of hobbies, most of them active, most of them patrician, and they made a point of learning absolutely everything about these hobbies. They owned horses, and were each very badly hurt a few years ago while riding; part of one of the bones in his forearm was removed after the compound fracture he received falling onto the manure-covered ground became septic. His wife broke her neck in three places. They kept riding, but switched to dressage, with less-spirited horses.
 
Years later, when I was flying to London, I was seated next to some young nerdling who I learned worked for AT&T. I talked to him for a while, then casually let slip that my uncle Larry worked for AT&T. His jaw dropped. "You know Larry?" he asked, awestruck. It transpired that Larry was a near-deity in his division, the go-to guy for any problem, who knew everything about everything. The kid clearly idolized him. I promptly forgot his name, so I couldn't adequately recount the story the next time I saw Larry.
 
Friday morning, after coming home from his daily tennis game, he went in to use the computer. His wife heard his speaking, but couldn't make him out. She went to see if he was talking to her, and found him slumped over his desk. He had no pulse, and was making gurgling noises. He died as she tried to resuscitate him. He was in his late 50's. His 30th wedding anniversary was in less than a month.

Anywhere but here

Many years ago, almost ten at this point, I was desperately in love. I'd never felt this way before, never, at least, and had it reciprocated so convincingly. While the rest of our lives did not unfold, Calvinist, before me, I couldn't foresee an end, I had no desire to flee, and still less to fuck the whole thing up as I undoubtedly would.

We went to DC for the day, and with equal parts pretension and genuine desire to participate in shared culture, we went to the Hirshhorn.

At the entrance to a temporary exhibit, we were greeted by two large perfect stacks of 11" x 17" paper, and an invitation to take a sheet from either pile. On one stack, perfectly centered, were the words: "NOWHERE BUT HERE." On the other, perhaps not surprisingly: "ANYWHERE BUT HERE." We each took one.

I didn't really know it then, although I must've sensed it, it was not a good thing that we took from different stacks. She saw that I'd taken the "ANYWHERE BUT HERE" page, was clearly hurt, although it was not clear to me why. She looked at me, an adorable pout on her face (I can no longer remember specific details of the relationship, as I swore I would forever, no matter what, but I can still picture that expression), and said, "Nowhere but here! I'm with YOU!" I immediately realized I was on the road to Fuckupville.

"No no no no..." I began, compellingly, "I want to be with you too, but not IN PUBLIC..." Again perhaps unsurprisingly, this did not go over as the proper token of undying love. What I meant was: dear god, I want nothing but to spend my every waking moment with you, the person that I love more than my own life, but I want to spend a good part of those moments wrapped around you in some fashion, and you around me, and these sorts of desires seem somewhat inappropriate for a publicly-funded museum...

It wasn't clearly downhill from there, there were many vastly more insensitive actions for me to commit, and she had many more hurt reactions to undergo, but it was the first nail in the inevitable coffin; it was the first time our shared intent collided with the fact that we were different people, with different brains, and even when we thought exactly the same thing, different words suggested themselves to us, different images paraded themselves before our subconscious, or the same images in a different order, and we didn't perfectly intuit each other's deepest thoughts.

This is why, I think, we are all doomed. Now where'd I put that sandwich board...?

Tonight's Guest Blogger: Marie-Henri Beyle

Leave a lover with his thoughts for twenty-four hours, and this is what will happen:

At the salt mines of Salzburg, they throw a leafless wintry bough into one of the abandoned workings. Two or three months later they haul it out covered with a shining deposit of crystals. The smallest twig, no bigger than a tom-tit's claw, is studded with a galaxy of scintillating diamonds. The original branch is no longer recognizable.

What I have called crystallization is a mental process which draws from everything that happens new proofs of the perfection of the loved one.

-from Love by Stendhal

Um.

Yeah, so I actually have a fairly substantial post percolating around in my brain here, but:

a) I've already missed 4th July on which to post it
b) I don't want to try and post something lucid while this inebriated

So, let me just say, in the spirit of American Independence:

Campbell, you're not the boss of me.

Thank you, and good night.