According to various map programs and such, the new place and the work place are in the 2 to 3 mile range apart. Should be one easy bike ride, righht?

Not if you apparently are so completely out of shape that Jabba the Hut could smoke you in wind sprints.

I made it back and forth huffing like a fucking locomotive. My ass hurts, and I am too damn lazy to write any more.

Conspiracy theorists love the one about the Kennedy boys, Jack and Bobby, and the late Norma Jean. But, let’s face it, they don’t make tomatas like Marilyn any more, and the current administration ain’t exactly full of babe magnets.

In other words, it’s a whole different millenium and enchilada. So, the hot, blonde broad is now Anna Nicole. The nation, far from Camelot, is all caught up in an unwinnable war, whilst it’s attention is constantly splintered elsewhere. And, GWB’s accent is as phony as the Kennedys’ is distinctive.

You look at the news reels and it makes it seem like folks gave a shit about civil rights and moon landings and “asking what we could do for our country” and pigs and bays and all sorts of news type things way back when. I was a mere fetus by the time Jack was picked off, so I don’t actually fucking know if people cared. Seems like it though.

I do know that attention today seems unfocused and shallow. It could be it’s always that way. But, for this week, the loss of Molly Ivins, sadly seems barely noticed. Tim Russert testifying in a trial, which could or should be the major historical footnote of just how fucked up the Bush administration has been, is itself a footnote to the busy news cycle of an astronaut in diapers and a lonely, tragic woman variously worshipped and vilified dying with just the right note of kinda, sorta possibly sordidness.

I’m pretty sure Cheney was behind the Plame leak, regardless of Scooter, the fall guy, and his trial. It’s not that hard to imagine his engineering all sorts of diversions to keep us the unwashed masses from noticing. Kind of like that WMD story we all were fed.

What’s one more fatality beyond the over three thousand losses the war has brought to the U.S.

She-it. You only work two miles from the homestead, and you are commuting in style.

I’ve added an hour to my life every day. We had eaten before 8 p.m., instead of after 8. So plenty of time to do some unpacking.

My god, I just re-read what I wrote. I am, quite conceivably, the most boring person I have ever met. That includes a career filled with accountants.

There are boxes everywhere.

The bedroom is a bit of an oasis. In something between art and cheese, I’m overly proud of the art we hung on the walls. ‘Cuz it’s mine.

Four pics I took in Santa Cruz, aligned in a possibly symbolic, transformative message.

Or it’s just pretty shit I snapped.

Here’s the long view.

Ain’t the bedroom looking all catalog fancy? As comedians imitating rappers might say, “It’s where the magic happens.”

What a fucking long day.

My hands are rough sand paper, and it will likely take a week or so before I get back the seven, or how ever fucking many, layers of dermis to which I have been accustomed.

I’ve been cleaning for days. Not so much because I’m particularly tidy, just a tad germphobic. I ain’t wearing no Hughesian Kleenex box shoes. But, I’m also not embracing the layers of someone else’s dust, cluttered with their long, black hair strands.

I tell myself the owner of the strands was an otherwise clean Asian woman with flowing, straight hair.

More importantly we’re here. The TV is hooked up to cable in the living room. The bed has been made. We’re all nestled in for the night. Maybe I can convince M. to fetch a glass of wine.

The ‘hood is spooky quiet. Western, spooky quiet. Like the only sound is the lonely blast of a distant train whistle. OK, it’s a commuter rail, but still and all, it’s an old one where in the wild untamed 1800s desperados and whatnot were going back and forth between San Fran and San Jose.

If only to have nice young men do the heavy lifting and to get your metal framed bed taken apart and put back together again, pro movers are the diggity bomb.

I ain’t moving from this couch or this block or this town for eons. Too fucking much work to move in any definition of the term.

Right about here, at this album, you can check out a gallery of shit having to do with the new lifestyle change location.

It’s the place and walking around the surrounding neighborhood.

The cows at the beginning really are in walking distance, although it’s a haul. That’s not so much because of our moving to the farm as Stanford being fucked up and having cattle grazing.

This picture isn’t so much move related as move causing. My poor slashed roof in our ghetto-developing ‘hood.

Now, we have the Buddha of Target keeping an eye on things and adding a meditative calm.

Best of all, I’m digging the emptiness.

By the way, it could be we’ve stayed in Cali a bit too long. I burnt white sage to purify the new digs, and we bought candles that induce harmony and prosperity to infuse the new home. And, M. bought a feng shui kit. (Apparently, they’re not born knowing that stuff.)

Yup, we are a sensitive new age cali-living couple. Come on over and please remove your shoes.

Yay, GW, for not choking on the tribute to Nancy Pelosi. I know it must have killed you inside, big guy, inside deep like where boys hide their tears.

It fucking kills me that a huge chunk of the post-game on the State of the Union is how well Bush did. Yup, it’s all good and well done, if the main quality you expect from a leader is just ridiculous piles of rhetorical crap.

If you’re rocking trillions in debt, trillions you fucking caused after inheriting a surplus, how can you start leading into the thing with “…To extend this nation’s prosperity … to spend the people’s money wisely … to solve problems, not leave them to future generations …” Come on, Big President Dude, you mortgaged it all.

I swear to GOD, Dick Cheney smirked, like, “Yeah, right,” when the pres said he’d cut the deficit without raising taxes.

I will give Bush a true A+++ on his stunning ability to stay on course on conflating Iraq, Afghanistan and terrorism. And, for keeping the whole 9/11 thing alive. How long can you milk that? Oh, right, pretty much eight years, it looks like.

Yep, Iraq was going to kill us, we did what we had to do. Despite all evidence to the contrary. Now we’re in it, we’re staying, because nothing says “success” like desperate floundering, civil war and angry martyrs. Oh, and dead kids in the military.

Other than that, it’s great to see old Nancy presiding. But, I feel kind of bad for her. Sitting there next to Cheney must kind of suck. And, now, she knows she’s on camera the whole time, right there peeking over a presidential left shoulder. So, you know, she’s thinking about baseball or something so she ain’t fidgeting and throwing him the bird behind his head.

She’s great at counterpoint clapping, though. Rock on, Nancy.

Sometimes I ponder my employment and I can’t help but think, “Jesus, it’s amazing I got one of them J-O-B thangs.”

I’m all shook up, worried, gnawing at myself, because I have a staff meeting in the morning. I mean, what the fuck do these people want from me, ‘specting me to get up all sunshiney early and BE THERE by 8 fucking 30 in the a.m. 8:30 in the morning, how dare they?

Shit, some mornings I don’t get up til 8:25 a.m., and tomorrow I got to be there 5 minutes later. As though I can rise, shower and drive 30 miles in minutes. I ain’t no friggen superhero.

I’ll never trust morning people. Early to bed early to rise, means you don’t fuck know how to party. You’d think we were farming, not like meeting about saving the world and shit.

I hope to get my shit together and my mojo up enough to upload some pics of the new neighborhood and new place.

I might even write about what I decided to call my buddha face. It has to do with the circular scratch on my left cheek bone that looks like someone cuffed me. I was abused not by man but by deity and a pointy deity hat.

Fucking Buddha.

I think M. is looking to explore some and put down some roots in this place. San Jose was more like transitional housing.