So weblogging is in the news a brand new way.

You can read some quasi-psycho ramblings of a suspected child rapist and former fugitive here. (Well, you can check it out there until Google pulls the plug. Then you can read it on this guy’s space.)

Apart from the total tragedy of what the Groene family is going through, for which this guy might turn out to be responsible, it causes me pause about weblogs in general.

Selfishly and self-centeredly, I can’t help but note that this here rambling, pseudo-psychotic site, dee-rob.com, had it’s own accusers. But, fucking shit, apart from my not being even a smidge violent, I think my writing is clearly not crazy crazy. It makes me kind of glad my readership is shit, comprised of like three people, who also tolerate me live and in person. No daily surveillance or thousands of comments.

Of course, the flip side is I fucking hate the shit I went through even more. Some sick asshole tried to mark me in league with a guy blogging under a messianic handle about personal demons that really are evil.

I am overstating the compares and contrasts here. But, what started as a writing exercise, evolved into a way to keep in touch in a long-distance relationship and now provides a newsletter to the folks back home in Beantown is part of a web-based world with all of the nasty shit of the worst of real life.

I guess as in the real world, it’s hard to sort out happiness and tragedy, both of which are generally always around.

Yeah, the house is quiet and all is right with the world. The house-guest has flown back to London.

Here’s how I know the man is crazy, and it’s not just me. Early in the day yesterday, when they still hadn’t counted the dead in London, I emailed M. that maybe his bud shouldn’t leave quite yet. Sure I wanted him gone, but not in a killed by terrorists sort of way or cavity searched by hyper-vigilant security.

M.’s response was “Naaah, forget about it. If he ain’t going to London, he still ain’t staying here.” (Well, not that exactly, since M. isn’t from Brooklyn or a 1940s movie script.)

So, we come home last night, and I say to the house-guest something like, “Shit, what are you going to do?” He replied that the trip to London (so he could hop on over to France to see some bike racing) was still on. Since I had been listening to the BBC on the ride home in my car, I, in turn, replied something like “Yeah, well, they just said on the radio that the trains are running again.”

I mean, it’s pretty fucking huge when London shuts down all of its transit.

His rejoinder was “Oh, yeah, well they were running again on Tuesday, so I’m going into the city first.” The shithead thought I was talking about San Francisco’s subway system, because earlier in the week the union for the BART system was threatening a strike. In truth, the trains had never stopped running in SF, since there were late night negotiations and agreements, and no strike was called.

In the end, he said he didn’t think London would be a problem, because they’d “have it all cleaned up in a couple days,” and it would be a whole other day by the time he arrived.

Dude, fucking London, during high security G8/Live8, went BOOM. Knock yourself out on the maintaining your tourist agenda, but maybe a little perspective. It may very well be something of a deal when you get there.

Maybe some of your traveling on credit card debt fantasy adventure should include a cruise by the British Medical Association building. They probably haven’t hosed all the blood off yet.

In the end, I’m not surprised that during his visit he bragged to one of our friends that “He never wastes his time with television news or newspapers or anything, because it’s all just slanted and made up. You can get enough news by reading it on the Internet.” Or something like that.

The grand stupidity of that statement is twofold — (1) Does he really think he’s avoiding big media when he reads Google or Yahoo news, like he said? Where’s he think those stories come from and since odd news bits run side by side with conventional stories, how is it less slanted, more informative and less cartoonish than CNN? And, (2) fucking stay aware of everything and sort out your personal values. Don’t ignore shit that’s out there and say news is irrelevant, because it doesn’t affect you and is just lies. Last time I checked, lies can affect you too.

Arghh. But, it’s quiet and I am free.

Drove into work to the news of the London subway exploding. My first thoughts were to three new
co-workers who I knew were all in the neighborhood. They’ve called in and all are fine. (The down
side of the interesting world of working in global policy circles is that global thing.= )

My second, horribly selfish thought, was "Oh no, does this mean our annoying house guest
shouldn’t fly to London tomorrow?" Fucking, fucking terrorists.

There are actually two modes of conversation for the now wishing he were gone already house-guest: Extreme know-it-all and competition you in which didn’t know you were participating.

The know-it-all-ism is over a broad range of topics from the mundane to the grandiose. Examples thus far include, how to store lemons, why my obviously souvenir quality utility knife imprinted “Grand Canyon” is inadequate, how to shoot weapons and disarm the guy who recently brought us out shooting, what the potential BART transit strikers needed to do, all manner of world affairs (’cause, like, you know, he’s been traveling) and my personal fave, since he’s not without a little softness in the middle and it’s based purely on theory, how M. must train for the half-marathon he’s entered.

The competition thang is just about everything you do or say being one-upped. His faster, smaller computer, better bike (he had once, I guess), superior computer skills, while I made lemon bread with our lemon glut, he would have made meringue pie, he’s logged more countries seen, has more knowledge on everything (see above), cracks about everything he knows that M. doesn’t, cracks about things he thinks M. doesn’t know, even how his life has been harder. It’s relentless, constant.

My favorite was last night, though. I mentioned not needing to bring water or any other beverage to work, since it’s provided. He asked me how many drinks I drank in a day and then went on to enumerate how many he would drink if it were free. Apparently my free-soda drinking is strictly amateur.

Missing from all of my griping is the kernel of a fun weekend. M., as always, made sure I got to do the thing over which I would surely obsess. In this case, fireworks.

We saw fireworks at the Marin County Fair, pictures of which will be posted tonight, when I can fully access my site. The highlight of the fair for me was watching the gleam of excitement in M.’s eyes as he bore witness to the Hambone Express pig races. The excitement, the pageantry, the breathless anticipation of watching the porcine competitive spirit is unparalleled in the racing world.

The other cool thing about heading to Marin County is experiencing the weather. For anyone not familiar with Northern California climate, it’s pretty funky. San Francisco is pretty much always freezing compared to the surrounding areas, and unlike Back East, temperatures shift suddenly within say only a 50-mile radius.

When we left in the convertible, it was a pleasant 70-80 degrees or so and sunny, perfect top-down and T-shirt weather. As we got closer to SF, we put on windbreakers and the thermometer in my car registered an easy 10 degree drop. Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, there was a thick, cool mist, the thermometer read 63 degrees and we had the heat going.

Maybe 15 minutes later with the bridge behind us, passing by Sausolito on the other side, the jackets were off and the thermometer numbers were climbing like a timer. Parking our car in Marin, the thermometer had hit 83, and the sun was beating down relentlessly.

In less than one half hour and 20 miles, there was a shift from the low 60s to the 80s. It’s tough to know what clothes to wear.

But the fireworks were pretty good. And, last night it was a cookout at a friend’s place, who just happens to live across the street from where the city of Santa Clara shoots off it’s display. The scene was completely reminiscent of the annual Braintree fireworks extravaganza with b
ooths and family fun, but not as lily white as Braintree. And the finale was awesome (so bright from so many fireworks at once, that my camera couldn’t handle it).

Life in the California suburbs with M. is becoming my sitcom.

So, I’ve been posting up a bitch storm, which has led me to a place of calm. No quarrels at work and the quarrel at home should be packing it’s bag and leaving on Friday.

I figure the positives to take away from the clueless house guest are two-fold. One, my boyo is sweet and has put me first. And second, he must have some kind of pheremone surrounding him that attracts nerds who ot
herwise would be friendless. But, he has a ton of cool normal friends, too, so maybe he’s just a friendly guy.

I finally did take assertive bitch action, of which I am not proud.

My rationalization is I was tired, it was around midnight, and the constant commenting had worn down my last nerve. Yes, we should have had a can opener for your crappy Dinty Moore stew, but since you’ve been bragging on your intrepid world-traveling skills, I would have thought opening cans would be in your repetoire of survival. Did you really have to stand over me as I searched for my Swiss Army knife (especially as I was in my bedroom not a public area)?

Location and handing over my knife (which I had already said was a souvenir from the Grand Canyon not a proper tool) was met with more comments, specifically on its inadequacy and minimal improvement over what he already
had.

I replied, "The words you are looking for are ‘Thank You,’" and walked away as he mumbled something I didn’t hear, because I had already shut the bedroom door.

It was both liberating and anxiety producing. So what if he and I never become friends, right? Or he thinks me on par with Eva Braun?

Still and all, if someone’s a guest in my house, I really do strive to be vaguely gracious.

As discussed when my sister was visiting, I might not be the best host as far as house-guests go. I’m a bit uptight, I fear, no matter how hip and cool I presume to pose.

But, in truth, I’m becoming downright crotchety this fine long weekend. I’ve become an old woman who cannot live without a nod to Emily Post and Miss Manners. M.’s buddy and old roommate has been here for a week, and it appears will be here another week. Not once in that time has he uttered the phrase “Thank you.” Not once, seriously. I’m not just being a ball-busting, girlfriend diva.

Not when he ate our food, not when he watched our TV, not when he slept in our bed, not when he borrowed some software (and then complained about how the programmers should have handled mapping and GPS, because as noted earlier, he knows everything).

I want to fucking hear it. Actually, I just want to be acknowledged in some fashion, as in it’s my house along with M. I’m not another visitor living off of M.’s largess. I fucking live here. Acknowledge it. And, for Christ’s fucking Sake, please STOP telling me what M. is like and what it’s like living with him. You haven’t been around for two years, and I’m sleeping with the guy. Do the goddamn math.

Previously, I had witnessed sort of an unwritten guy code among my guy friends and brothers, in which you kind of defer to the chick in her own house. You know, like not sacking out in the living room, hogging the TV, drinking a Big Gulp with your shirtless gut hanging out in remembrance of some imagined fratboy camaraderie. Or jumping on my computer without asking. Or basically assuming anything at all about how the house is run and things work.

(Right now I have a serious panty knot of twisted knickers from his not bothering to ask about recycling, despite there obviously being two bins and his previous having resided in the green, hippie, recycling Bay Area. Today, he used the recycling bin for his un-rinsed, sticky, multiple Big Gulp cups, complete with the trash-worthy straws and tops. I so enjoy picking up after big boy men.)

But, even if all of the above happened, I, and many in my chick sisterhood, would be cool and relaxed and not wanting to bitch, moan or stab, if only, if only, you would use a little etiquette and civility. Maybe ask if something is OK or how something goes. And, occasionally brush a little eye contact in my direction or act like I’m here and belong here.

The most disturbing aspect of the picture below would, of course, be my gut hanging out below my shirt.

That’s a recent fashion trend I find quite unpalatable. On myself, it’s inexcusable. I might have to Photoshop in more shirt.

Last weekend was the Gay, Lesbian and Trans-various things Pride Festival in the city of San Francisco. (Here’s a link to the photos.)

This picture sums up the weekend for me, and clearly I am not pretty enough to be gay: