OK, that’s enough schmaltzy, yet genuine, sentimentality, got to get the focus back where it belongs — on me.

Actually, I have nothing to say. Jesus, being relaxed and happy certainly does fuck with my ability to be acerbic and witty. Fucking happiness, it’s so relentlessly cheery.

I haven’t wanted to stab anyone for days. My blood pressure didn’t even register Super Tuesday. We fucking drove around yesterday with the windows rolled down, sun and wind on our faces, and sang along to the Eagles.

THE EAGLES!

If this keeps up, I’ll probably buy some Keds and get my hair frosted and cut into the cutest bob and drive a Volvo.

Won’t that sunshiny suburban dream be quite the contrast to the note and the revolver they find near the shards of what used to be my face?

HAPPY WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING TODAY WORLD. KEEP ON SMILING!

The fabulous and wonderful M. is a day older today, but he still looks great.
Here’s a big, public salutation:
Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you.

I hope the year is full of fortune, heat and all sorts of good stuff.

As alluded to in a comment section below, we hung out in Santa Cruz on Sunday. Fun day, I love amusement parks. Here are some photographs.

I really liked this one, because of the bright yellows and the purple in the background and, of course, Jonathan Livingston Seagull: Seagull picture.

But, I hate the flagpole coming out of the seagull’s back. Presto chango with the magic of Photoshop:

It’s here! The big 4 – 0

All in all, not so bad. Waking up on a sunny day with my arms around M. with not much to worry about today, it feels alright.

I do think his forced march of last night was designed to make at least my legs feel OLD. But, hey, it least I got some fun sushi out of the deal. (I was going to link to the sushi restaurant, but this is much better.

Big shout out to the chubby from the East, who have given up rice for fries.

I’m officially on vacation, and to me that is the sweet taste of freedom. Sadly, this sense of possibility translates inside my head to:

Things just couldn’t be the same
Cause I’m as free as a bird now
And this bird you’ll never change Oh Oh Oh Oh
And this bird you cannot change
And this bird you cannot change No No I cannot change

Not good to be waking up feeling all Skynyrd, unless, of course, I had lynching on my agenda.

So, this is it kiddies, the last day of my 30s. A decade to remember, as tomorrow I wake all grown up and 40.

As I type this line, the counter to my 40th here shows 10 hours 16 minutes until the day starts. By flying out to California, I prolong my youth by three hours! Thank god for time zones.

In a lot of ways, I don’t honestly give a fuck. I already have a mortgage, no parents and a “career” type of job. Ergo, my life has been stodgy and middle-aged, and the path to inevitably mortality is crystal clear. But, it is fun to milk the sentiments as long as I can.

And, while it lasts, I also have to enjoy the reaction of people who say I don’t look 40. Like the guy on the plane from Phoenix to San Jose, just getting back from a fishing trip to Cuba with his buddies and with whom I solved all of the world’s problems during the flight. Correcting for the fact that he was just on a fishing trip with his buddies, so his meter for seeing womenfolk was probably skewed in my favor, he did ask if I were a student. A student? Yeah, like 20 years ago.

All in all, it’s a fair trade. When I was 12 I looked old enough to by liquor, and I was (thankfully in retrospect) blissfully unaware of my adult appearance. Essentially with the body I have now, I could have gotten into piles of trouble, if I did not act my age. Now when I am older, I’ve gotten those years in appearance back and look maybe a decade younger. Without gray hair at all and only a couple of faint lines, I really can’t complain (I will but I shouldn’t).

Speaking of mortality, I saw The Passion of the Christ last night. I was a little afraid that M. is thinking of converting to Catholicism, he was so eager to see this flick. Forget emotional investment or feelings his becoming Catholic would be a deal breaker in this relationship with a capital ‘D’.

Here’s my brief comment — What the fuck is all of the hype and whatnot about anti-semitism and radicalism and whatever the fuck Mel was doing? All you Catholics and former Catholics out there need only refer to your nearest wall in a holy structure or maybe a few stained glass windows; it’s the Stations of the Cross. Or for you youngsters, the kids’ version. Although, the kiddie version confuses my admittedly faulty memory of Catholicism. I thought there were 14 Stations of the Cross and then an un-numbered coda, the Resurrection. But, the kids get a 15th station. I suppose if I cared deeply, I could figure it out.

So the

The Aramaic and the “historical accuracy” and all seem to be smoke and mirrors. No doubt Mel is one of the faithful, but the construction of the story is straight, old-fashioned Catholicism, the whole “holy and apostolic” church, Amen and all.

Granted there’s a whole lot of torn flesh right out of Wes Craven. But, if you think about what a Roman scourge could do, it makes sense.

Vacation, Happy to get away!

Apart from channeling the Go-Gos, I’m feeling so much better. If I had listened to M., I would have already known this factoid, but I didn’t so it was a pleasant surprise. That is, my flight doesn’t leave until almost 6 p.m. I have hours to get my shit together tomorrow. Yahoo! I will need every minute.

I am so tired, I can’t believe how tired I am. Definitely should have gotten more sleep this week, but sometimes I just hum a little Warren Zevon, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” and keep going. ‘Course he died, so maybe not the best role model.

I mostly finished everything at work. Mostly. My albatross project still follows my ship as a harbinger of doom. But, hey, what are you going to do?

Tomorrow, I wake more relaxed and well-rested and tomorrow night, M. and I will be together. Not so bad a life, I guess.

Here’s a little insight into how my mind works. When I finally got home tonight, I headed straight to the shower trying to relax. I decided to shave, and in some movement of massive anti-grace I managed to gouge my foot with the razor. It’s been pouring blood, and the shower ended up bearing a remarkable resemblance to the one in Psycho. Afterward, I realized I’m walking through the house dripping blood. My thought, “Cool, if something happens and I don’t come back from California, leading someone to search for me and search my house. They would find the blood and suspect foul play. Even better, I have kept telling people that I’m going for the long dirt nap by my own hands in honor of the big 4-0. Everyone would think I’d done it. Cool.”

Shit, I’m dying. I need sleep.

I suck at paying my own bills, which is ironic because I earn my pay managing money. Consequently, my bills tend to pile up untended with vital payments set up as automatic bank withdrawals, thanks to the Internet.

SOOOO, imagine my surprise when I look my Visa statements over and have AOL service charges since November. WHAT THE FUCKING CHRIST IS THIS SCAM that feels like a bad prank?

I’m on the phone now. I’ve already called one customer service number and got a recording to try back during business hours. Then, I tried another, and reached India. A nice young Indian man, transferred me to the number that could definitely help me out. That led to a nice young woman who was going to help me set up my new account registration. Ahh, no. Another nice young woman earnestly told me that she could help me. I explained again that I had not signed up for AOL and I am getting billed. She transfers me to exactly the right department who can help me. That was the longest wait between people. Now, another young man, Alwen, I think might be his name. They all have melliflous names that they repeat and sound like Elvish in the Lord of the Rings.

Hmm, Alwen might be kind of a prick. Because the credit card is mine, and the sign up name is dee-rob, it’s mine, this account that I have never set up on any computer I have ever used. FUUUUUUCCCCKKKK. What Alwen can offer me is the next four months of my AOL service for free to compensate me, since I have called.

Alwen, I don’t use your service. I don’t need your service. AOL BLOWS, Alwen, and even if it didn’t, dial up? You want me to use fucking dial up?

Alwen is insistent that is the best compensation. I have waited too long there is nothing he can do. He will sign me up for my four free months. No, Alwen, no you won’t. I do not accept this solution. I do not use your service, I will not be using your service ever, fuck your damn free months, cancel me NOW. He is reluctant, I will get no compensation, because I have opened this account. He knows, because it has my name on it.

Maybe in a fugue state, heady with the dreams of the early days of the Internet before SPAM, before ‘blogs, when innocence was in my grasp, I slept walked my way into an AOL account. One that I do not use, that I cannot use unless I install software that is on none of my computers. Is it possible? Is this how middle age is mugging me and my memory, throwing me into a stranglehold of lost thoughts?

FUCK YOU AOL, YOU WILL NOT WIN. CANCEL ME, MOTHERFUCKERS. I WILL CALL YOUR FRAUD OFFICE AT 800 307 7969 AND REFERENCE CANCELLATION CONFIRMATION #944220238.

I type it here, because my mind is soft with holes of slipped memory. I cannot be trusted.

I think one of the good things about outsourcing is the melody and calm of disembodied voices that will be deliverying shitty news about a shitty product; information that will not help you. It is so much better to be told to fuck yourself in fluid tones of overly formal English that lilts over the phone line.

I heard a radio news brief thingie that said Mitt Romney, searching for new ways to cut spending, is reviewing who gets legal aid and setting thresholds. Here’s a newspaper article about it (Incidentally, The Cape Cod Times is Massachusetts’ newspaper of record).

So, you’re a mom barely getting by who indulges in a little basic cable to calm the kiddies while you’re cooking dinner? Guess what, Sunshine, you ain’t poor, you can afford a lawyer. Fuck you leeching off the system, we know that you have the cash to pay for your own damn legal representation, we see you watching Lifetime. Oh, and tell your 80-year-old mom, she’s a parasite too. What with the pack and a half of Basic smokes you know she’s living pretty fucking high on the hog.

Shit, I ain’t poor, and I’m not sure I can afford a good lawyer.

So, how in the fucking world is Massachusetts maintaining it’s old school rep as tax-and-spend, liberal welfare state. You know that’s coming up to haunt Kerry, and it’s a goddamned, dirty lie.

Get us, U.S., we Republican now.

By the way, I can’t think of Mitt without thinking of his underwear. The Mormons have their own undies.For me, the ceremony where they give you ‘wears and tell you it’s for keeping holy, right about then I’d be think “Yeah, right, holy underwear. Sure. That makes sense.” But Mitt must be down with it, right? Under them expensive businessman suits, holy long johns. I prefer a politician in boxer briefs or maybe even tighty whiteys.