Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon

I think I have a reasonably decent little camera. Just took this photo of the moon this evening (about half an hour ago) with my digital camera -- naturally, in order get this much detail, I had to rely on the digital zoom (Mmm, 48x).

I dunno. I think it's pretty cool, anyway.

A Letter To Optimus Prime From His Geico Auto Insurance Agent

Ah, Mcsweeney's. Jolly good fun.

A Letter To Optimus Prime From His Geico Auto Insurance Agent.

Savin' the 'stache!

Yes indeed. Defend the moustache. Love it. Or grow your own. (I eagerly await menopause when I can nurse and coax my own Magnum PI-like growth.)

In just in case you needed convincing, swing by The American Mustache Institute for all info pertaining and glorifying ye olde moustachio.

Handlebars are my favourite.

As a token of our ending friendship, I give you...

...These Crocs.

You know... the shoes? Those awful bright foamy thing that are suited to children and gardeners -- but people wear anyways?

I was chatting with a friend and discussing how a very close friend had really pissed me off (I was unduly harsh with a comment -- but before I could retract it, they sent me this incredibly insulting, contemptuous, bloated-with-ego pile of bullshit).

You see, I'm trying to work on becoming less judgemental as I age... so it freaks me out when I see people making snap judgements that are not only inaccurate, but terrifically condescending.

Anyway, I was telling mychum about it, and said, "You know, everyone makes judgements. I know I do -- but I also make a concerted effort to see the other side...Except for Crocs."

(While I support the theory of crocs -- ultra-comfy, affordable, moderately environmentally friendly, anti-fashion -- I have to say that unless they're on the feet of children, I have an unnatural hate for them. By all means, do wear them at your leisure. But I can't say I have any affection for them whatsoever.)

Anyway, we've decided that the gift of these heinous pieces of footwear would be the ultimate seal of death for most friendships. So I say, so be it!

When telling a friend goodbye for good, finalize your exit with the gift that will make them never want to speak to you again:

Crocs.

Grrrr.

My bike is broken. I'm pissed.

Raleigh, you do make a shitty bike these days.

Where the truth lies... or doesn't

Some realizations are easy. A simple equation of A+B=C. Like the giant spot on your forehead is actually due to your bike helmet rubbing weirdly. Or that yes, the shirt you haven't worn since the early spring is going to fit differently during active summer months.

Other realizations are harder. A truth ignored or avoided. Or perhaps even a lie told to yourself to keep you from making a move that you really don't want to make.

Like a friend who has distanced themselves so much that you can't even be called friends... or even acquaintances. Or someone else who's core values have not only changed, but turned into those things which you oppose and avoid.

Sometimes you can see the cracks, and try to gently and diplomatically repair them. To hope that somewhere, a compromise or peace can be made.

And I am, after all, the queen of giving people second, third and even fourth chances.

But somewhere I still fear at being hasty. Sure, I can shoot my mouth off when the occasion arises, but turning my back on someone -- especially if I've known them for five, ten or even fifteen years? It's damn near impossible. I used to excel at it. Now in my dotage (hyperbole, my friends), I hold long friendships closely to my chest, knowing their worth. But when do you put your foot down?

At this point, I am "taking a break" from one friend. A time-out, so to speak. I figure a month or two will give me some perspective... and see if maybe for once, someone else will reach out and play peacemaker.

The other chum, I fear, is a lost cause. I think I simply need to make my goodbyes.

Although I am smart enough to know it's for my good -- not theirs.

Sometimes realizations suck.
I think there's something to be said for the safety of ignorance. "What you don't know can't hurt you." It's not always true... but there are times you can wish desperately for it.

And now, the guilt

I try to be peaceful with other living things -- well, things that don't spew bullshit rhetoric and condescending crap at me.

I have a sort of live-and-let-live attitude with the bugs in my apartment (I still don't understand how we have so many, though expect it has a great deal to do with being surrounded by trees and large gaps in the screens). I try to avoid ants when walking on the sidewalks. I will occasionally remove earthworms to soil if they're stranded on concrete. Large moths and bees I try to safely catch and release outdoors.

There are, however, a few exceptions: mosquitoes will always die, as will flies, earwigs and little green indoor spiders who bite (I was fine with them until one ran across my face and viciously bit my chin -- hurt like a fuck).

Unfortunately, it appears as though one of those greenish spiders has gotten busy. Its progeny have run amuck in the bathroom. Dozens and dozens of small little green spiders scuttling across the bathroom ceiling, dangling in the corners, lurking in the folds of the shower curtain...

On principle, I have to kill them. If I leave them, they'll have the run of the place within a few brief months, and they'll start raising their own young'uns. And they're too small to effectively catch and release.

So I am a murderer. I've killed about 25-30 shortly before bed tonight, all the while profusely apologizing and asking their forgiveness. Now my conscience is prickling almost as much as my skin. About five minutes ago, I removed an escapee from my hair, and set him on the side of the sink, telling him that I couldn't kill any more of his brethren.

However, I can't vouch for Chris, so the wee chap will likely meet his doom in the next day or so via Chris' vengeful, spider-hating hand.

Sorry, little spider guys.

Naughty!

I'm not sure which category of sin to file this under -- Dork, Loser or Lazy Fuck.

But I accidentally spent most of this afternoon playing Starcraft. Yes, curled up in front of my PC on a gloriously stinking hot day playing a really old strategy game.

So sad. So very, very sad.

In my defense, it was really only meant to be the tiniest of distractions. Now I'm running around trying to make it look like I've done something today -- work on deadlines, dishes... Anything to hide my sinful naughtiness of dorking out.

*sigh*

Quit staring at me...

One of my more peculiar traits is the ability to appear fascinating to babies, toddlers and small children.

As I sat at my laptop in Starfucks this afternoon, a woman came by the table next me as she waited for the bathroom to become available. She had a small son who couldn't have been more than 16 months or so -- and who stared at me, his little brown eyes utterly transfixed.

"I'm so sorry," gasped the poor woman, who appeared rather flustered. "I don't know what's wrong with him."

I very kindly explained that this was not an unusual occurrence, and that not only was it normal, but it didn't bother me at all.

"Really?" she asked. "Most people would find that unsettling."

"Nah," I said. "Happens all the time, so it doesn't bother me a bit."

But I can't help but think this is not exactly a normal thing. And part of me wonders if maybe those babies know something about me that adults and older children can't see.

What I do know is that babies will usually stare at me, and small children will tend to come grab my hand and have me play with them. Hell, even in Cambodia, those kids knew exactly which of our group would chat with them, ask them questions, and hand over US dollar bills if they were handy: ME.

Just another of my peculiarities, I guess.

Rainy rain rain

A rainy, humid, grey day.

While I can never handle too many of these consecutively, I do love a morning waking to thunderstorms and the sounds of rain overflowing over the eaves. The barest hints of green moss creeping across the shingles covering the verandah. The absence of city sounds other than a car slicing wetly through the street.

And while I did have a tennis date scheduled (and canceled), I do like puttery Sundays. Nothing planned, nothing arranged. No Monday deadline. No phone calls.

Despite one or two irksome annoyances nudging at my consciousness, I can revel in the smell of wet pavement and the sound of laundry tumbling through the dryer.

Small, simple things. Few people suspect it, but I actually love being alone.

-----
(later)

The beach was a fascinating place for a walk this evening. Creeping off Lake Ontario were patches of Atlantic Ocean-style fog, cloaking parts of the boardwalk in cold, damp haze... only to briefly clear away and return to pockets of hot humidity.

And it was stunning. People who avoid the beach late at night -- usually for reasonable reasons, like fearing for their safety -- sometimes miss fascinating facets of that neighbourhood. I take my chances, I take my risks... and sometimes it pays off. Knock wood.

Days, weeks, months...

How easy is it to get out of the habit of doing something?

You think you're busy for maybe a few weeks - a month or two tops - and when you look back, the seasons have changed over.

There are things to report, but how do you summarize severals months? Well, you can't. My time has been mostly filled with mundane crap, a mess of temping (nothing like it to convince you that you really don't belong in an office -- especially one dedicated to all things "alternative health").

The writing is going well. I've felt a strange cosmic shift in things lately. I'm not exactly where its origins were birthed, or even if it's real -- it's entirely possible that I've spelled myself into some fascinating delusion in which the life I've striven for actually seems possible.

Even if the gods aren't meddling in my affairs with a more forgiving touch, I'll opt for the self-fulfilling prophecy bit.

That sounds like an excellent idea.