Hello everyone. I just got back from the Seattle Greek Festival and it was fabulous. Rain or shine, it's all covered (heh, I just made that up) I am full of food and drink, mostly food and entirely bottled water. We skipped the gyros to concentrate on everything else, which included kataifi, tyropita, spanokopita, calimari, Greek coffee, souvlaki, and much much more.

Tonight I'm making Jer take me dancing. We will stay in an inexpensive inn and walk there and back when we are done. The poor cats will have the run of the house and should wreak much havoc if they know what's good for them. The end.

This is difficult for me to say, and may be even more difficult for you to hear. I've held back, not wanting to strain our relationship, not wanting you to judge me. But I can't stand the lying any longer, it's tearing me apart.

With every fiber of my being, with every breath, with every cell and pore, I hate Battlestar Galactica. It offends me on a primal level. I can't even watch the commercials without suffering a surge of rage. I want every single character to die gruesome, horrible deaths. And I want the camera work -- if such a thing were possible to pinpoint -- to spontaneously combust and rid the world of its jerkiness.

Everyone loves this show. Everyone but me. And Jer. So we console ourselves in our sad condo, muting the Sci-Fi channel during the vast chasms of advertisements between Eureka and Doctor Who and try not to hear lines like, "This baby may be the shape of things to come..." because if you didn't know, "The Shape of Things" is one of my favorite plays by Neil LaBute and now the mental connection will destroy me. Or at least make my head explode.

Why do I hate this show so strongly? Have I even watched it, you might ask? Yes, yes I have. It made me want to squirm out my skin. Mostly I hated the dialogue, plot, characters, and the camera work. The rest was okay.

I know there are things I love that you do not love, and that's all right. But I'm puzzled that I can hate anything this strongly, actually resent its existence, when so many people I admire and respect anticipate its return like a holiday.

Now you know the secret of my terrible burden. I hope it will not affect the shape of things to come.

On the street, walking, a woman stops me. She says, "You want a trim?"

I shake my head, no.

On the street, standing, corner of 2nd and Pike. A bird shits on my back. Later I will take off my fake sweater and wash it in the restroom sink. It's damp for the next two hours.

Right off the street, sitting in the city park that overlooks West Seattle and the 99. I wear Polarized sunglasses that make everything orange and eat my sausage sandwich with sauerkraut. The onions fall out. I watch a parasailer suspended by a colorful sail, getting dragged across the sky by a motorboat.

I took the water taxi home across the bay and watched the sun set. Pink sky, purple hills, and an iPod full of music.

I've been reading "Naked Lunch" for weeks. I can only get through about 5 consecutive pages before it becomes too overwhelming. When it's done, I'll watch the movie, and cross another thing off my list. It's very interesting but there's only so much ectoplasm and man ass I can handle in my morning commute.

Speaking of overwhelming, work. Going to have to do a lot of it in the next month. Sort of feel guilty right now for not being at work or doing work. Here I am, goofing off at home. Sleep, work, or eat? That should be the only question I'm asking myself these days.

I haven't been working out or eating well either, which doesn't help. All I want to do is rebel. Disappear for awhile. Go somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn't have Framemaker. But unfortunately I'm addicted to salary, a dish best served with peanut butter.

Ba-dum dum.

My breath reeks of garlic. My pores probably do too. But by now I've consumed so much of the stuff that I can't tell how offensive I am to anyone else. I just know I can vaguely taste it, and if I can taste it, it is bad for the rest of you. So stay back.

Today Jer and I went to the Italian Festival at the Seattle Center, which was on the smallish side. We ate a sausage sandwich each, meatballs, lots of garlic knots, a Salumi sampler, a cannoli, and then spent some time in the beer and wine garden. Also, we bought roasted garlic bread and a brownie to take home. Then we ate garlic pizza at Zeek's and now we breathe fire and garlic. So stay back.

Also, we went to the Science Fiction Museum, which was totally awesome. I am all over that. We totally saw Gort and Captain Kirk's chair and lots of books I want to read and THE Alien and omg, best. museum. ever! And there was a mystery machine and they invited you to guess as to what it could possibly be for and I totally guessed it was an air freshener, which is much funnier if you read the whole paragraph I wrote about the danger of sulphur emissions and olfactory enhancers available in the western boundary of Known Space, and although no one else may crack a smile, I crack myself right up.

But oh the garlic burning all the way down all day long. Now I am pretty sure that I will exude garlic from my person for days, so in case you forgot or thought I was joking, I implore you to stay back. I have established a perimeter of funk and you cross it at your own risk.

Hey! Got another rejection letter today! Whoo hoo! Let's party!

Too late. Beat you to it. Hello, vodka. Hello grapefruit juice. Welcome to me.

I'm planning a party. For work. I'm having two kinds of cake delivered from a fancy bakery. I made marinated carrots, which as we sit here communing, are marinating in the fridge. There will also be meatballs -- which are actually a cheat brought to you by Costco and the crockpot -- turkey wraps (Costco), vegetables (also Costco), and Velcro darts, a game. And prizes. I even made flyers. I am a social butterfly for hire.

The neighbors sound like they're on dueling pogo sticks. I used to love my pogo stick. Nothing like a giant spring between your legs to make you feel alive.

Hi Mom!

Not only is fall in the air, nipping at summer's six-inch stilettos, but it's also concert season! We bought tickets to see Regina Spektor at the Moore Theatre 10/26, The Decemberists at the Paramount Theatre 11/17, and (my personal favorite) Mike Doughty opening for Barenaked Ladies at the Everett Events Center 11/26. Finally. Something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving weekend that doesn't involve corn! Unless it does. Then I take it all back.

Since our last installment Jer and I went to fabulous Idaho to visit the lovely and talented Lily. It was an excellent visit -- if we ignore the drive, which on Friday night involved a zillion hours in the dark, a variety of nasty farmland smells (strong herbs, likely rotting), staring at a narrow triangle of freeway, a windshield smeared with bug juice, a praying mantis, a huge red moon hanging over the horizon like an evil penny, and a gas station that was probably haunted. The best parts were seeing Lily's beautiful home, trying on costumes in a comic store bathroom (black vinyl?), driving around town, eating and drinking (Sangria, Monte Cristo, burrito, international!)... Then on the drive back we stopped in Roslyn, briefly, and geeked out a little. That means I hung out the window with my camera and snapped several shots of the mural and the Brick, then we sped off into the setting sun. You might even say we absconded.

Peer Pressured!

Here are five songs that make me cry. For George. I am not as good as George about explaining why the songs make me cry so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Frou Frou, Let Go

Two lines get me:

"Don't you know that all that stuff's a sideshow..."
"...'cause there's beauty in the breakdown..."

This one was on repeat for weeks until I became properly desensitized. Something about the swelling of the music and those two lines combine to make me weepy.

Rebekah del Rio, Crying (Llorando)

First heard it in "Mulholland Drive." I can't sing along because I don't know Spanish. Plus I can't sing. So I sit there, listen, and I am sad.

Barenaked Ladies, Break Your Heart

The live version on the Rock Spectacle album, in particular. He howls. Howls in the middle of the song.

"I couldn't tell you I was happy when you were gone
So I lied and said that I missed you when we were apart.
I couldn't tell you, so I had to lead you on
But I didn't mean to break your heart.
"

Ani DiFranco, Untouchable Face

Reminds me of things I'd rather not think about. Namely, me on a bad day.

"so fuck you
and your untouchable face
and fuck you
for existing in the first place
and who am i
that i should be vying for your touch
and who am i
i bet you can't even tell me that much"

Garth Brooks, Standing Outside the Fire

I am defensive about this one, but I have to include it since I just cried when the music video came on about a week ago. (I told Jeremy it was allergies.) I blame the video. The video is very dramatic. Your heart would be cold and dead if you did not cheer on that tireless young man who the coach tried to force into the Special Olympics, but oh no, he insisted on running in the "real" race and then he tripped and fell and the stadium caught fire while Garth Brooks was singing in his cowboy hat and then the boy's father, who was only worried about what was best for his son and didn't want to see him ridiculed, helped him rise and then the boy crossed the finish line and everybody hugged. The end.

Damn you, Garth Brooks. Damn you for making me feel.

My ten-minute play is finished. I'll let it sit a day and reread it, see if anything stands out, but I could call it quits and not be sorry.

I want to follow that up with something defensive, like: so there. But I'm way too mature for that.

It was a good day. I worked hard and mostly spoke to no one. The few people I did speak to wanted something from me, something outside of my regular duties, and I managed to only give a little of myself. So I guess it was a good day.

Sometimes I think there's no such thing as being too selfish.

So there.

cheap books i bought

It was another warm, lazy day. I'm almost done with the ten-minute play I'm working on; I think I've figured out the last twist. Achieved closure with Yu-Gi-Oh vs the Pharoah, the best duel ever (says the promo) and chased the cats around with a brush. Jer thinks we might take to the road tomorrow and just approached me with printouts of possible activities. (He doesn't respect the laptop, but that's okay.)

Half-Price Books is having a Labor Day sale, 20% off everything, and we spent our time and money there this evening. I bought a couple Haruki Murakami books (Dance Dance Dance and South of the Border, West of the Sun), several tech writing texts, a book of 27 short plays by Christopher Durang, a few CDs including Sugarland and the Avenue Q soundtrack, a Lovecraft anthology featuring "The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath" and "Eats, Shoots, & Leaves," which I've been eyeing since it was released.

Last night Jer and I walked around the University of Washington campus. The experience left us feeling cheated because our alma mater pales in comparison. Words wouldn't do it justice; it's the most beautiful campus I've ever seen. We walked around with jaws hanging open, shaking our heads, "Is that another library?" "Look at all that ivy." "Wow, nice freakin' fountain." "Damn."

On the way to the campus we stopped at a used bookstore and I bought Paul Auster's "Moon Palace," Angela Carter's "Shaking a Leg: Collected Journalism and Writings," and Christopher Moore's "Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal," which was on my list for about three years.

I love used bookstores. Love love love. Love.

I don't want to examine it too closely, but so far on my assigned day of introspection, I've done several loads of laundry, written a couple pages of a play, flipped the mattress, and watched TV. Also, I ate a can of Beanie Weenies. As for introspection, there has been little to none of it. But maybe that will change when I finally put clean sheets back on the bed. Maybe I will achieve inner harmony then.

Here we are. On this, my day off. I have these grand vague plans about how I'll spend the day, but so far it's turning out like all my other days off. Three hours after facing the harsh light of morning, I'm still unshowered, and sipping Bailey's and coffee. I'm running the dishwasher and doing laundry. I'm thinking about going for a walk along the water. I can see that it's a temperate seventy degrees out there with a nice breeze, clear blue skies, and not too many people in my way. I can't stand people in my way. But mostly I'm enjoying these quiet moments, watching the cats sleep on different levels of their cat condo,(Tony Danza's talk show on the tv behind me so it's not entirely quiet) and drinking down my second cup of coffee.

Sometimes I need to isolate myself from the whir of everything. I get so caught up in my job and my stupid problems and people that I reach a saturation point and from then on I let it all wash over me without reacting. So one of my grand vague plans for this weekend is to spend time trying to mentally detox. Relax. Sort and shuffle the craziness into their individual piles for processing. Defrag my mind. That sort of thing.

Alone with my music and thoughts, occasionally assaulting my liver with drink, and crawling out clean. That's the plan.