Van's Journal: Year 3

2001-Nov-18 | 2001-Nov-03 | 2001-Nov-01 | 2001-Oct-23 | 2001-Oct-23 | 2001-Oct-20 | 2001-Oct-13 | 2001-Oct-13 | 2001-Oct-07 | 2001-Oct-07 | 2001-Oct-02 | 2001-Sep-26 | 2001-Sep-25 | 2001-Sep-23 | 2001-Sep-22 | 2001-Sep-20 | 2001-Sep-12 | 2001-Sep-07 | 2001-Aug-14 | 2001-Jul-28 | 2001-May-18 | 2001-May-18 | 2001-Apr-24 | 2001-Apr-22 | 2001-Apr-01 | 2001-Mar-29 | 2001-Feb-14 | 2001-Jan-13 | 2001-Jan-04 | 2001-Jan-01 | 2000-Dec-30 | 2000-Dec-27

2001-11-18: You know, a year ago, I could have named my price. For a job, I mean. That was before the economy got worse, and before terrorists flew planes into our buildings. I have great experience, but my GPA isn't nearly what it could be. It's not bad, but it's not great, either. It's hurting me somewhat. And you know what? I don't even feel guilty about it. You'd think I would. I guess it's because I'm so secure in knowing that I did the right thing while I was in college—I learned.

Why do people strive for a 4.0? Usually, to get a better job. When they get there, they work extra long hours. Why? To get a promotion, or an even better job. And why do they want that? Presumably, to make more money, and have a better life. How does this give them so much of a better life? Umm... that's the one that's a little harder to answer. As you know, it often doesn't.

Granted, I couldn't have been a 4.0 student if I tried. I'm simply not very good at the whole academia thing. But I could have done slightly better, had I worked my little butt off a lot more. What was I doing instead of studying? Well, let's see. I was making friends from all over the world while I had the chance. I learned about life. I had late night conversations with really wise people. I learned about my profession on the job while working extra hours not for the money, but for the pursuit of knowledge. I forged relationships with a variety of people so diverse and rich that I gained more insight into the world than I could have in a thousand textbooks.

The dangerous thing about a 4.0 is that you might actually get what you were looking for. You might get the best job with the best company, where you'll have to perform as one of the best of the best. Could I actually resist it if it was offered? And, you might get the six-bedroom house with the high-maintenance jag in the carport. The lifestyle I have now certainly isn't the poor house, but it's not what people strive all their life for, either. But you know what? I'm happy. Aside from a few recent lonely depressions, I'm generally content. I feel like I should be more worried than I am, but I'm not. I feel like I should feel guilty, but I don't. If anything, I feel like I cheated the system. I feel like I got several lifetimes of real, human experience for the low-low price of $10,000 in tuition spread across four years. I feel like, for the most part, I used my time wisely.

I don't think I did too bad for a scrawny little white kid from Mississippi. I wonder if Harvard grads have it this good.

2001-11-03: I really can't afford to keep going here. Starbucks, I mean. I'm a poor college student. I went up to the counter this morning and ordered my usual. However, there was a new guy there who was having "one of those mornings" (to use his words). He tried desperately over and over in vain to enter my order into the little computer. I saw various numbers flash up on the price display until one caught my eye... it was somewhere in the neighborhood of $-4,600,000 and some change. I stared at it for a moment, counting the digit places in my head. I spoke to him in a nonchalant tone, "You owe me four point six million dollars." His eyes grew as big as baseballs as he peered over his panel at the price display. I wanted to ask him how long that was going to take him to make up, since mistakes are supposed to come out of his pay check. But if I gave the poor guy a heart attack, I'd never get my order.

2001-11-01: Age—real age—happens when we have little attention to devote to it. It happens while we're busy concentrating on everything else in our life. Long ago, I decided I wasn't going to get any older in ways that I didn't want to (at least, aside from the physical, for which there was no helping). I set a commission aside in the bureaucracy of my mind to pay attention to trends, and to identify those times when I was aging. Or, if possible, to identify times when I was about to age. I'm afraid this is one of those times.

I'm about to have to make some sacrifices. Some real sacrifices. Not the kind where you make a cut in your budget, or have to move to a city you like less than your current one, or where you have to add five years on to your house loan payments. Instead, the sacrifices that age us are the ones that ask us to give up parts of ourselves. They're the kind of decisions that test your principles, and require a sacrifice no matter what choice you make. They're the kind that you know may very well make the rest of your life harder. They're the kind that beckon you to change who you are, possibly for the worse. These are the decisions that cause some old men to look back on their lives with a cold, distant eye, to find solace only in telling a younger generation that it lacks adequate experience.

It happened while I was driving, you see. I was thinking of the personal decisions I've had to make as I prepare to leave college, and that little alarm went off. It's that little alarm that goes off so rarely, maybe only once every several years. So, I paid attention. And the realization that resulted spread like a fire storm, drowning out the rest of my thoughts.

The problem that remains is to integrate these experience into only their positive elements. How do I ensure that I grow as a person from this situation without growing cynical, without losing something of myself, and without hating myself for the decisions I've made. And most importantly, how do I do it without diminishing the sacred youthful core of my persona that breathes so much life into the entire system? In other words, how do I have it all? My ways are stable, but vulnerable. One sacrifice against my principle of preserving youth also sacrifices the strength with which I can face future decisions. With every principle that goes unenforced, the foundation of all the others loses ground.

I will not allow this situation to occur without benefiting me in every conceivable way. My conscience will not let me pass this by without squeezing every bit of life's blood from my circumstances to only feed my already surplussed juggernaut of expansion. I cannot view this situation as a worthy adversary, but only as nubile prey to fill my gullet just after it finds itself transformed into that which it never wanted to be. Anxiety serves only to heighten the senses and make the self more equipped for battle.

'Tis a good day to be me. I was born a flagship predator of Darwinian Earth, and I shall die the flagship predator of these helpless, sniveling situations that attempt in vain to age me. Let the hunt begin.

2001-10-23: Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally officially declared my sexual orientation for your information and enjoyment. Have at it.

2001-10-23: In these hallowed halls of my distinguished belief system lies a great controversy. As my college years draw to a close, there's been an administrative rush to get business out the door, as I realize my ability to spend time on these intellectual endeavors will diminish greatly in a few mere months. The most prominent order of business is, of course, increasing the efficiency with which I can carry out these endeavors in my new environment. But the biggest single issue at this moment takes place before the same altar that passed down historical decisions revered in the rich mythology that stretches to the farthest corners of my mind. This time, the altar sits not in judgment of such lofty questions like, "What is sentience," or "Is punishment justified," or the landmark inquisition on the relationship between evolution and moral justification. This time, the altar sits in judgment of..... pigs. Well, not pigs per se.... more like, "Am I morally authorized to eat pork?" Ask anybody who knows me, and they'll tell you I'm practically a carnivore. I love meat. But recently, I've found myself questioning the sentience of pigs. You see, my belief system doesn't designate humans other than to say that humans are "the only entities verified to be conscious and sentient." Elsewhere, the belief system refers only to "conscious and sentient beings," opening the way to later incorporate animals, extraterrestrials, supernatural beings, whatever.

I've avoided answering the question for other animals thus far because it seemed like a moot point. Let's say, for example, that dogs are sentient and conscious. Would it matter if they were? Not really. I don't eat dogs. I don't mistreat dogs. I can't directly communicate with dogs in any complex fashion. If dogs meet the requirements or not, it won't change my actions. So, the question becomes a masturbatory intellectual pursuit that takes up valuable brain time while I have much more important matters to tend to.

However, I do eat pork. And recent information coming into my system indicates there is a slight possibility that pigs may be conscious, sentient beings. So, let's assume that they are. What does this mean? Let's examine my "degrees of sin": First, let me say that the word "sin" here isn't the same as the typical religious sense. But I will use the word here for convenience, as defining sin could lead to a 100-page appendix. A "first degree" sin in my belief system would include opposition of rights for conscious, sentient beings, for the purpose of satisfying hate or convenience. So, genocide where you kill six million Jews (murder of hate), or abortion (murder of convenience), are both equally "sinful," as they both oppose the right to life of an entity declared by the system as a conscious, sentient being. Likewise, murdering another human on the street for the purpose of eating him would be murder of convenience, since I have plenty of other sources of food. So, what happens if I find that pigs are conscious, sentient beings? Boom, eating pork would become a murder of convenience by proxy under most circumstances, and doing so would make me just as "sinful" as Hitler. You see the magnitude of this situation?

I know I can never prove or disprove that pigs are conscious, sentient beings. However, if I find that they have a reasonably good chance of qualifying, then they'd be protected under the same doctrines that protect an unborn fetus. I should probably research pigs now. It's been so long since I've actually been in close proximity to one, that I forget what they're really like. Anybody have some pigs they'd let me observe? Please e-mail me.

2001-10-20: OK, so I was sitting at Hooters, waiting to order, and our waitress bounces up to the table. Hooters makes me nervous because I always feel like no matter what I do, I'm going to be seen as a guy there just to gawk at women. I find myself thinking.... what if they think I just see them as a piece of meat? What if they go home hating me because I'm one of those awful guys they have to tolerate all day at work while wearing a skin-tight shirt and tiny little shorts riding up their ass. I mean... can you imagine having to do that job on your period? Not that I would really know what a period feels like, but come on... think about all the dynamics of that situation. I mean... you're wearing these clothes clinging to your skin, leaving next to nothing to the imagination, completely exposed... all the while feeling bloated with the world staring at you, holding you to the exacting standard of your many coworkers, while having to wonder when you'll have to get back to the bathroom to tend to the fact that you're holding back a few pints of blood with a little gadget designed by men who don't know what it's like to have a vagina, and who probably don't even know their way around the ones they've actually felt. And you get to do all this with drunken guys watching sports, thinking that since you're acting perky at his table, then he might actually be the one lucky bastard in the place who has a chance. And you know the guys are thinking that you wouldn't be dressed like that if you didn't want it bad. Oh yeah.... deep down, you're really an exhibitionist, begging for guys to stare.... you just pretend not to notice because you're acting hard to get. Yeah, right. Just like the beer breath, crotch scratching, and the same pick-up line for the 100th time that night turns you on.

So anyway, our waitress comes to the table, standing in a pose demonstrative of her Hooters indoctrination. I'm determined to treat her with respect. I'm determined she's not going to think I'm just another guy who cares only about the way she fills out that uniform. First, what's her name? She has a name, doesn't she? Hell yes! So, lucky for me, she has a name tag. I look at it... her name is Emily. Shit! Now she thinks I was looking at her breasts. This is not good... I was failing miserably so far. I shut up and go on to order... as she's finishing up, I say, "Thank you, Emily."

Aww fuck, that sounded so much like I was trying to pick her up. How was I going to let her know I actually respected her? How was I to let her know that I didn't just see her as another piece of meat on display for my eyes? This is awful... is it even possible in an environment like this? Can I even be friendly without her thinking I'm trying to pick her up? I felt like a gentleman at a feminist convention... no matter what I do to try to be nice, I'm just a lusty, dirty guy out to treat women as objects.

See, it's not quite like this with guys. I keep running through the scenario... what if I was just like a drop-dead gorgeous guy, and women stared at me all the time. What if they constantly gave me cheesy pick up lines. Would I really feel bad? Honestly? Hell no, I wouldn't. I mean, a tiny bit annoyed sometimes, sure. I've been in a gay bar before where all the beefcake guys are running around in nothing but a speedo and boots. Do I care if they think I'm looking at them like an object? No, I don't care. I'm a guy... I know they don't really mind. At best, they're flattered, but at worst, they don't give a damn. But because of the various dynamics in our society and within ourselves, acting that way with women has a much different connotation.

Of course, sometimes guys are just obnoxious, and will be annoying no matter who you are. The difference is, of course, that if you're a beefcake guy... you know you can clock the other guy between the eyes, and knock him out cold. That certainly changes the dynamics of the situation a bit.

So, back to the waitress. It came time to decide on her tip... oh dear... I mean, I felt like I wanted to give her a really big tip just to apologize for the fact that she thinks I was staring at her chest and flirting with her. But then she might see the big tip as more flirting... like one step away from leaving by calling card on the table. How cheesy is that? What if she's poor, and she's taking this job only because the tips are good and it feeds her abusive boyfriend's coke habit? What then? I become just another man working in the system against her, contributing to the fistful of dollars that she cries over every night in horrible shame. AHH! Ok, she gets 20%, and I won't think about it any more.

If I were a hooters girl, I'd probably turn lesbian.

2001-10-13: She drives a Miata? I don't think I could love anybody who drives a Miata. they just seem so trite. It's kind of like all these little sorority girls running around in those little white BMW's. There's just something really eerie about it. My kind of woman would drive..... let's see.... maybe a Mustang. Yeah.... mustangs have an edge only when women drive them. When a guy drives them, they're just an ordinary compensatory frat boy car. But a Miata? I mean, come on. that just screams, "I'm girly, so I need a tiny cute car to so I seem more delicate and feminine. Now check out my blonde highlights."

Guys in Mustangs deserve girls in Miatas, I suppose. While the latter stretches for the apex of vulnerability, trying to trim those hips down just a hair, the former goes for that long hood and bad boy image, stretching that....... ego to its limits. It must be a happy life, when they can both go home and put in their blonde highlights together.

Of course, I drive a flaming yellow XTerra, affectionately known among my friends as the "Happy Mobile." I wonder what Freud would say. If nothing else, I'm secure in my masculinity. Or, rejecting of it, depending on who's opinion you get.

Look! There goes another Miata! They're taking over. It reminds me of a conversation I had while in the guidance counselor's office in high school. We'll call her "Miss D" for the purposes of anonymity. Picture it.... Natchez, 1996. It was in the midst of the presidential race between Slick Willy and Bob Dole. She got a phone call.... apparently, some kind of associate. "Who are you voting for," she asked the person on the other end. "Clinton? Are you serious?!" She pulled the receiver away from her face, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and hissed at me, "Van! He's a Democrat!"

"They're everywhere, Miss D."

"I can't believe I got one on the phone. They're like... crawling out of the woodwork!" She put the receiver back to her ear.

I sat reading my papers and added, "They're like cockroaches, Miss D. They come out when you least expect them." With pierced eyes, she gave me a slow, silent nod.

Yes, they're like cockroaches. And Miatas. When you think a bout it, they look about the same anyway. I mean cockroaches and Miatas look alike, not cockroaches and Democrats. But I digress.

How did this start off? Oh yeah, that heinous bitch in the Miata. Did I say that? No, she's really not a heinous bitch. I take that back. I don't even know the girl. But you see, it's my time of the month, so any hot girl that doesn't want me is automatically a heinous bitch. Which, at this moment, makes just about every hot girl on Earth a heinous bitch. Congratulations, Darwin. Three million years of evolution, and you've produced a whole race of heinous bitches. Your mother must be proud. I bet she was a heinous bitch, too. Was your father a frat boy with blonde tips? Probably. He even drove a Mustang, I bet. With racing stripes, even... every fraction of an inch counts, you know. It's almost enough to turn someone into a creationist, you son of a heinous bitch. Almost. Why am I taking my frustrations out on Darwin? How did I get here? He just kind of popped up in my journal.... like spontaneous generation or something.

I'm in a bad mood.

2001-10-13: So anyway, I'm sitting here at Starbucks (big surprise), and this girl walks in. She's cute. Really cute. Not like the glamor high-maintenance type, or the whore chic college freshman type, but an all natural, no-nonsense.... shit, she just walked out the door.... where was I? Oh yeah, an all natural, no nonsense woman. She had one of those don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-rip-your-balls-off scowls going on. I find that very attractive in a woman. Fortunately for me, my balls exhibit a quite impressive tensile strength.

You know the problem with frappuccinos? They separate out into like..... a foam on the top, and liquid on the bottom. So if you let it sit too long, you just get the potent syrup on the bottom in your straw. Ahhh, the trials and tribulations of my life. While most of the world is amid holy wars, crumbling buildings and anthrax outbreaks, I sit here quietly, tapping on my toy computer about the intricacies of overpriced coffee.

Yes, guy behind the counter, that's right. I'm typing really fast on a fold-out keyboard. Don't worry.... if you stop staring, it won't go away.

There's another guy that just walked in... he looks lost. I think I talked about this before, how all these guys my age seem to look lost all the time. And oh, this is great... now look at this shit. He has a girl with him..... a cute one, even. She's going over to read the New York Times while he um... sits there and um..... looks lost. Oh well, at least she's not reading the Wall Street Journal.... then I'd absolutely have to go murder the guy in a jealous rage. Oh wait! There's hope. She just left without him. Maybe they're not together. Oh great, now I get to watch him sit there and look lost while he drinks his coffee. At least he's reading a paper now. Wait... my god look at him! He's friggin' lost while reading! I think he's like... trying to figure out how to get out of parentheses or something. Look at him! LOOK! This is crazy.

How do these guys master that look? I don't get it. And what do they do to lose it when they get older? I mean, this other guy came in just now, maybe in his mid-40's, and he didn't look like that. He looked quite distinctive, actually. So what is it, on your 18th birthday, you're suddenly endowed with muscles and a blank look, set to expire the moment you turn 26? Where was I when they had that meeting? I bet they had it in the weight room after class in high school. Damnit, that's what I get for thinking I was above being that superficial. Well, that and working joints.

OK, here's an older guy who came in, who looks somewhat lost. But he also looks determined.... and presents an aura like he has a right to look the way he does. When I look at him being lost, his face seems to say, "Boy, I went through a major war, two recessions, a couple of wives, four kids, fourteen labor union negotiations, and countless liberal hyporcites telling me I still owe them something, all to give your spoiled anti-American generation a chance at the good life. Now I'm going to sit here and drink my coffee in peace, without you writing a damn thing about the lost look on my face. If you were on labor union negotiation number fifteen in the middle of a recession while battling hemorrhoids, you'd look lost, too." Sir, I bow to your wishes.

My friends, life is as interesting as you make it, even in prefab coffee joints. Make every day a new adventure.

2001-10-07: Speaking of superficial body image issues and contributing to the materialism of our culture, I designed my perfect woman. Check her out.

2001-10-07: Perhaps the greatest dilemma I face is to live a life of such exquisite sensuality in the vessel of such a mediocre body. I tell myself that if this is the greatest dilemma I face, then I'm doing pretty good. But it still doesn't help the fact that I've got a problem. I've got a real problem. No matter how much else I control, I go to bed ugly, and wake up not knowing if I'll have the courage to look at myself in the mirror. That's how I see myself. Some days I don't look, and in the back of my mind, I live the rest of the day as a coward. Somewhere in high school, I went a year or so having not once seen myself. Jeez..... I'm pathetic. I know I have a problem.... but I don't know what to do.

I can look at myself in pictures. They seem more surreal, like I'm not really facing me. And the worst case is I can delete the picture, or pull up Photoshop and correct a minor imperfection. And then, of course, I'm a coward again.

I was just lying in bed with a need for a catharsis, but I could not find the avenue. Emotional constipation. I couldn't scream... I couldn't cry... hitting wouldn't help..... I wasn't collected enough to write. I needed someone to unleash it on... someone on whom I could express myself in the one way know how. But there's nobody here but me. What do I really want? Affirmation, maybe? Affirmation of someone who can acknowledge me as a sensual being, as a human with real, physical aspects?

I'm so tired. Sleepy. Cold. Hungry. Cold? That's odd.

I know it's silly. I really do. I'm not stupid, I promise. I know that for me to be concerned like this is illogical, nobody has to explain that to me. I know. But I still feel the way I do and I don't know why.

You ever notice how most guys my age look lost? I see them around campus. They just kind of walk around looking lost. You can see it in their eyes. I honestly want to reach out to some of them and say, "Are you lost, little boy?" I really, really hope I don't look like that. Or maybe I do? Maybe all this time I've just been a fuck up. All this time, I've tried to learn how to make people around me happy, and how to satisfy a partner in every conceivable way, and to expand myself as a person, and, and and... But who needs all that shit? Hey, if you know how to flex your muscle in the mirror, crush a beer can on your head, and wear your hat backwards, then you got it all covered. That's how people notice you, hmm?

I know lots of people who just say "I hate this fucking society." And I want to say that.... but I can't. It's not the truth. I love this society..... I love seeing the people. I love watching their forms move and interact. I love absorbing the culture. I love being among intersections of walkers, absorbing their words, their actions, their very essence. I love feeling the people around me course through my veins. And as someone who once lived without emotion, I even love the pain I feel when I'm not a part of any of it. I appreciate them... I appreciate the society that supports these conditions... I appreciate the very fact that I can feel pain. Even today, I found myself appreciating my standstill in football game day traffic, as I knew it gave me an opportunity to absorb such a treasured part of the culture here. Sometimes all my appreciation makes me sick. My insides scream when I love so much about so many people, yet I'm not a part of any of it.

It's not all my body, I know. It's not even mostly my body. Yes, yes, I know.

My keyboard is black.... my chair is black... cripes, look at me. I look like a fucking chalk stick figure on black pavement. Sigh.

2001-10-02: Greenspan is getting kinky on us, folks. The fed lowered interest rates by yet another half point. Ah yes, feel all that yummy money coursing from the Fed, into the nation's economy. It's like an orgasmic explosion of sinful bliss, erupting from the halls of our nation's central bank, deep into the bowels of investors far and wide. It's almost like a nationwide economic orgy if you think about it. You know, it's talk like this that drives the chicks crazy. Yeah.

2001-09-26: Food, you see, is expensive—especially for a college students with fast metabolisms. Recently, I realized that I'm hungry. I don't mean just now... I mean I'm pretty much always hungry. If it's been an hour or so since I last ate, I'm hungry again. The problem is, fast food is expensive, it's hard to cook for one, and even if it wasn't hard, where would I get the time to do all that cooking? And I have yet another problem... I'm skinny. How can I ever expect to bulk up and become an idealized man if I stay skinny, hmm? I've been thinking that a lot of the food I eat is pretty healthy. Perhaps that's not serving me well. While most of the guys running around stuff their faces with McDonald's on a daily basis, I spend that extra money on a healthy deli. I eat turkey and chicken, and red meat only in moderation. I never have sausage or other grease-laden meats. I drink a lot of water instead of soft drinks. Perhaps I'm going about this all wrong, so maybe it's time to change.

Today, I went to Burger King and burned through a whopper like there was no tomorrow. An hour passed. I had no more food. So, I set out on a mission to buy food that would help me gain weight. I mean, let's face it... sometimes I have a salad at lunch because that's the shortest line on campus, but is that what my body really wants? Hell no! My body is carnivorous. My body wants to tear apart half a cow before brunch. With this in mind, I went to Albertson's.

I passed the turkey. I passed the chicken. Often, I make chicken and pasta dishes, but not this time! No sir, I went straight for.... the sausage! Cajun sausage at that! Next time I cook, watch out! Then I hit the freezer section. What bachelor's pad would be complete without..... frozen pizza! That's right, more calories in every slice than an entire third world nation gets per anum. But wait, there's more! I can't eat constantly. So, what to have while I'm in that void between meals? You guessed it... potato chips! And none of that fat free crap either. I got the cheap, two-for-one special. That's 3,600 calories for the low-low price of $3.00.

I stocked up my shopping cart with everything I shouldn't be eating. I expected the guy at the check out to gain ten pounds just looking at it. But, alas, this was apparently normal for him.

Now I'm eating half a pizza before bed. I hear that's how they get sumo wrestlers to get real big... they feed them a lot, and then make them sleep. I know I'll be hungry in the morning, but it's OK. I'll still have the other half left then.

A salad would taste so good about now.....

2001-09-25: A quote from the song "Patches", by B.B. King and George Jones:

He said, "Patches, Patches, boy, the hammer of life done beat your old papa down to the ground, and I ain't got nobody to turn to to take care of mama and the young'ns. So what I want you to do is promise me, son, is that.... you're gonna do your best to help your mama as much as you can." I said, "Papa, I'm gonna do my best." But little did I know then like I know now, that tryin' to climb life's mountains searchin' for a top where there ain't no top, sometimes you find yourself frustrated, lazy. But every time I feel like I can't live my life like I want to, my mind goes back to that day when I see those tears in my daddy's eyes. But most of all I remember his words, "Patches, I'm dependin' on you, boy." Every time I feel like givin' up, I hear his voice. "Patches, Patches, Patches, Patches -"

And in a single work of art, two quintessential black and white artists of their respective genres summed up the common denominator that joins so many together. That song reminds me of Johnnie.

You see, Johnnie was a friend of mine in high school. He a black block of a man, with a reverberantly soft voice and arms thicker than my neck. One day, I was in the school library, sitting on the floor, my knees against my chest, while reading some papers. The bell to let us out had just rung, and Johnnie was with me, I believe waiting for his little brother. He was standing in front of me and invited me to go outside with him. He reached his hand down toward me to help me up, so I grabbed his hand, and he grabbed mine back with the rare and refreshing display that he wasn't afraid I'd break. Most other people treated me like I was made out of porcelain, it seemed. It's a good thing I'd locked my arm muscles in place, because he quickly lifted me up like I was some kind of toddler.

I straightened my school uniform and we walked out to the convent courtyard. We walked across the campus, near the chain link fence that separated us from the surrounding neighborhood. Our school was 150 years old, and ghetto had grown up around it. Many people asked why the school never moved further away, as many others had retreated. But the Church and the school responded that it was not going to leave simply because the race of the people surrounding had changed. The eighty year old nuns felt safe being there alone at night. And besides, if the school wasn't going to offer a point of stability, what was the point of Church involvement? At least, that's how I perceived the situation.

Anyway, my school was one of three major private high schools in the city. And the fact that nobody wanted to talk about was that it was the only private one which allowed blacks, who made up maybe 20% of the student body. Technically, I suppose, the others did. But it was an unspoken rule that only white washed people of European descent should bother applying. Sometimes we faced criticism from people in more rural areas surrounding the city. During the civil rights movement, our local church was afraid of vandalism. It had priceless stained glass windows, and a steeple that rose above the skyline when you looked at the city from across the river. The caretakers feared that the Church's rejection of segregation would entice vandals to throw rocks through the windows, each of which was separately commissioned and paid for by donors over a century before. And of course, they feared for a much more prized possession..... the children who went to the unsegregated school.

I think that to most people on the outskirts of the city, though, we were just "the Catholics." In my generation, long after the turmoil of the civil rights movement had gone by, the idea of a private, yet multiracial school was probably just another idiosyncrasy that they added to their long list of everything weird about Catholics. We went to a school in the middle of "the ghetto," if you can call it that. We went to a tall church steeped in rumors of false idols that their friend's brother's friend saw once inside. We had not an organ on wheels that could be moved in and out for the latest church supper, but instead a mass of fixed pipes three stories up. Those pipes cut through any other sound, much like Johnnie's laugh could shatter a crowd's combined noise into nothingness—if you were ever lucky enough to hear it.

The city was small. But in an area only 1% Catholic and 99% adamant about anything but, we were a much smaller community. I never really realized that until recently. But it's a testament, I suppose, to how supportive of a community it was.

2001-09-23: Gregory came over to share some music with me, and we got to talking about Louis Armstrong. He said, "You know, New Orleans took him in as a son. They named a park... an ENTIRE PARK after him."
"Mmm hmmm," I nodded.
He went on, "The park, it takes the entire length of the street! That's one long ass park!"
I added, "And the airport. Don't forget the airport."
He jumped forward in his seat, "That's right! Louis Armstrong International! And do you know what?"
"Hmm?"
Gregory looked to the side with his puckered lips like he always does, looked back at me, and exclaimed, "The mother fucker got buried in St. Louis!"
"Mmm hmm." I still like Louis Armstrong anyway. What a wonderful world.

2001-09-22: I'm alone and sad. I have the feeling that drives some men to cry in the arms of prostitutes. We need companionship.... we need intimacy.... but not necessarily to talk. We need someone who will be there for us, but who won't be burdened by us. We need to not think about how the weight of our vulnerabilities will effect them in the morning. We need to have back that feeling of resting our heads on our mother's chest and being able to cry, and knowing it's all OK, because that's what she's there for. But we know we can't have our mothers back like that, and we don't know how to say what we need. We don't know how to say that we don't need to talk about it, we don't need company, and we don't even need someone to tell us it will all be OK. We just need to, if only for a few moments, be vulnerable in front of only God and her. When you have a real relationship with communication, you can get all that. And you know that if you're vulnerable with her, it's OK, because you've been on the other side a thousand times before for her.

But I don't have that kind of relationship any more. And here is what drives men to prostitutes. Your debt is already paid.... you can cry on her shoulder, and pay for it out of your wallet. And then there's no guilt. In the morning, she doesn't even have to think about you if she doesn't want to.

The problem is, of course, I know better. I know I'm not needing sex. I know I'm not needing someone just to come over and talk to me. I know what I really need is that level of intimacy that you can only achieve in the long term, and with a lot of hard work. And I know that even if I were the type to turn to a prostitute, it wouldn't solve the problem. The school nurse would place a band aid on the bobo, but mommy wouldn't be there to make it better.

Of course, this analogy would prove quite sickening to some. Unfortunately, it's a fact of psychology, and shows internal voids, not needs for certain external individuals.

But god, do I dread going to bed at night. I feel so alone, and I don't know what to do. I know there's not a lot I can—am willing—to do to make it better. And I know that the next night will be similar, maybe a little better, but maybe a little worse. I bury my head in a black down pillow, and drown myself in the black sea of sheets that is my bed, and I look down at my ivory skin floating atop the waves. I say to myself, "I've been alone before. It's never a big deal." And that's the truth... I was more or less alone for the first 18 years of my life. So, I ask myself if it would be easier if I had just anyone here with me. And no, it wouldn't. I say to myself, "There's several people I know who would come lay beside me, offer me conversation, offer me emotion, offer me sex." But that wouldn't make it better. It's a phone call away, but it wouldn't make it better.

So, I close my eyes, and wait for sleep. And I pray that in the morning, I'll be too occupied, too rushed, too attentive to myself to remember the feeling of drowning alone in that sea of black.

2001-09-20: Gather around, children. I'm going to tell you a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a Beautiful woman. She was so Beautiful, in fact, that only Her husband was allowed to witness her, for displaying such divine Beauty to the masses would surely be too painful for their people. And Her husband loved Her so deeply that he lived his life for only Her. At dawn, he would walk out to the fields and begin his day of plowing to one end and back again. Some days, he would find it so hot that he would think he must give up. He would want to give up his labor and walk back to his house, where there would be no sun beating on his back. But he found his only inspiration in knowing it would mean facing his Beautiful wife empty handed. And he could not bear to let Her go without food for one day, or to leave Her wondering if he was entirely devoted, or to fail in his duties to Her for just a single day. So, without fail, he plowed the rows knowing his love for Her would fill him with the resolve he needed to finish every day.

One day, She came to him after his day in the fields. She told him She was with child, and she would need to prepare their house. He was overjoyed that his Beautiful wife would bear a child, and looked at her with awe. He placed his hand on her belly and looked into her eyes as tears of joy streamed down his face. Her ability to give birth was such a mystery—a miracle—to him, that he was now sure his wife was sent by God. He was certain that She was something more, and that he was truly fortunate to have Her as his wife.

The next day, he worked in the fields twice as hard. He found new inspiration in his life, and brought back more food every day than he had the previous. They stored the excess for their child, and She was overjoyed that he accepted her gifts of Beauty and divine creation into his life so completely. Eventually, She gave birth to a little girl. And over the years of the girl's life, he worked in the fields every day, to provide for his family and play out his devotions. One day, they decided that their girl would soon become a Woman, and that his wife would have to talk to her about what that meant.

She brought the girl and told her to listen carefully. She told her, "My beautiful little girl. Soon, you will be a Beautiful Woman, and there are some things you need to know. First, you must always remember that you are of God. Only you can create as He did. Second, you must always remember that no matter what, you are ultimately Beauty, befitting of every bit of divinity God gave you. But this Beauty is a power that you must use with wisdom and care, for it is too dangerous to put in the hands of the masses. You must allow only one to see your beauty, and he will be eternally devoted to you, as your father is to me." With time, the girl came to understand the powers she had, and soon, She became the Woman that Her mother predicted.

One day, he was walking from the fields when a group of outsiders stopped him. Their women were dressed unlike his wife, barely covered, with their bodies for the world to see. At first, he hid is eyes out of instinct, but then he realized that they were not like his wife. They were not Beautiful. They asked him, "Why do you keep your wife locked away while you are free to roam?" He explained that his wife was free to leave, but that he was only out to work the fields. The crowd grew angry. They demanded to know, "Why do you cover your wife, and not allow her to wear what she wishes?" He tried to explain that she did wear what she wished, but she had a responsibility to their people to make the choices she had made. The crowd became enraged, and chased the man, determined to make him pay for the atrocities they placed on his head. From the fatigue of working all day, the man could run no longer, and he collapsed. The crowd trampled him, and beat him, and punished him for all of their accusations. And since they had punished the guilty, they decided that they should go free the innocent. The crowd stormed to the house, where they threw down the door to find the two Women covered from head to toe. Torn between fury and sorrow, they screamed, "We are here to free you! We will liberate you from your oppression!" The Women begged and pleaded for the crowd to go away, but they would not hear. The crowd pulled the Women from their home and tore off their clothes and presented them in front of their people. "Behold," they shouted out to the people. "We are here to liberate you! We have saved this woman already! See, she is beautiful like us!"

Little did the crowd know that they could not save divinity. The Women were never saved, but their people had been raped.

The crown left, confident that they had done the people a great service. The people lost Beauty that day. The crowd, however, lived happily ever after.

2001-09-12: On September 11, 2001, mad men attacked the world. One plane hit the symbol of American military supremacy. The others hit the symbol of American economic supremacy. The former was an act of war; the latter, an act of unspeakable horror that struck not against America alone, but against everything the civilized world worked to achieve. They attacked the core of world commerce, where drug companies meet to cure diseases, and farmers meet to feed the masses. They attacked organizations that educate children the world abroad, as well as the people who build shelters for the homeless, pave roads to the isolated, and transport nourishment to the farthest corners of the globe. They did not attack a symbol of greed and a free market gone wrong--they attacked the borderless, unprecedented, international effort to teach our children, feed our hungry, and cure our ill. And for the first time in world history, this center of commerce represented "our children, our hungry, and our ill," to mean those of the world, not just of America. It was the World Trade Center, and the people in those buildings touched not only the lives of their friends and family, but the lives of everyone on Earth.

Though the mortar and steel symbol no longer stands, the true marvel of human innovation and spirit lives on. The next morning, banks opened their doors. That morning, drug companies resumed their efforts flawlessly. That morning, countless acres of crops were watered, innumerable shipments of staple foods arrived on schedule, and the infrastructure that the world built to take care of all people, no matter their nation, scratched the itch on its arm, and moved on with its life.

The idea that nearly all nations wish a stop to these acts of cowardice and terror is a testament to how far world politics have come. But the true testament to how far we have come as a world lies in idea that the underpinnings of their political efforts--the fuel for their state cars, the lamps over their secret documents, and the food on their diplomacy tables--went unnoticed. Instead of screaming for retribution from behind a podium, our only true worldwide foundation whispered softly, "I'll be here for you tomorrow, and the next day, and the next... no matter what you need to stop this."

My fellow humans, mourn your dead, but never forget that they built a foundation on which you stand. Remember them for the heroes they are.

2001-09-07: Yesterday, I was eating alone in the student union, and got to talk to several new people. But a certain few were very memorable.

Sporadically, I'd been talking to a freshman music education major two seats to my left. There I sat, on a long table, when two girls sat down across from me and to my right. One was a cute blonde, who sat smiling at me. Instinctively, I engaged the two girls in conversation before someone else could. We exchanged names and other formalities.

"So, is your salad good, Van," one of them asked.

I had forgotten I even was eating a salad. "Oh yeah, I guess, as far as salads go. It was the shortest line."

They laughed in a friendly way as they munched on their McDonald's-flavored mounds of grease. I went on, "With McDonald's, you at least know what you're getting. But every time I finish eating there, I say to myself afterwards, 'Now WHY did you just do that?' And every time I go in, I know I'm going to say that to myself afterwards. But my dumb ass does it anyway."

We went on talking about food. They asked me what year I was in. I asked them what year they're in.

"Oh, we don't go here. We go to Bible College nearby."

Bible College? There's one around here? I guess so. "So, what do you do in Bible College? I mean, what are you planning to do?"

One of the girls was studying scripture. The blonde was studying missionary work. As usual, I started a conversation that I should have known to stay away from. But also as usual, the obvious didn't hit me in the face until I was too deep in it.

"So what are you going to do after college, Van," the cute blonde asked.

Hey, she was cute... she was blonde... she was talking to me. I honestly couldn't turn her away, could I? "I don't want to leave, to be honest. The college life is too much fun. But I guess I'll have to find some IT work somewhere."

With disdain, the other girl asked, "Oh, are you in one of those fraternities or something?"

Hmm... she's in Bible College. If she thinks frats are that bad, wait until she finds out I'm Catholic. This will be good. "Oh no, I'm not a big partyer or anything. I just like the lifestyle. Flexible schedules, long vacations, stuff like that.

Suddenly, they lit back up. Perhaps I was saveable after all! The blonde scooted in towards me. She started telling me about her faith in Jesus, and about accepting Him into her life, and how it has made her such a better person. Yes, this is when I realized it was too late. Why didn't I see this coming? The freshman music major conveniently left me to the wolves, gathering his books together as he scrambled to get out of his chair.

As she was talking, two of their friends, also from Bible College, sat down beside them. Now I had a row of four, directly in front of me, at any direction I looked. Finally, when she was done, she said, "So, what's your spiritual life like Van?"

I wondered if now would be the time to start choking on the tomato in my mouth. The blonde was looking less cute by the second. As I prepared myself to say what I was going to say, I made a bet with myself. Were they going to immediately disengage, or would they do that whole pregnant pause thing, and then decide to approach me with a braver heart.

"I'm Roman Catholic. I went to Catholic school all my life."

They decided on the pause.

Oh, what to do? Should they run now before Satan has them in his clutches, or should they stay, and earn mucho points for saving me? In spite of their strict puritan beliefs, this was apparently a group of gamblers. Big time gamblers. They were going for the gold.

The one guy among the group of four turned to me finally, looking at me with the sympathy of a reformed alcoholic talking to a drunk. "So did I," he said. "So did I."

One of the girls turned back to me and said, "Yes, but..."

I knew what she wanted to know. I knew what she wanted to ask. I decided I want to watch them reach for it. "I'm Catholic. I believe in God. What else do you want to know?"

She finally replied with a grin, "Yes, I guess that's about it to Catholicism."

Ouch, girl. You kiss your mama with that mouth? Now, I don't even practice the religion. I don't prescribe to a lot of the teachings. I haven't been to church in... um... well, let's just say I came to LSU in '97. But I wasn't about to let them know that. They have to work for something, right?

The two girls started tag teaming me for the longest time. The guy chimed in every so often to offer backup. And the fourth person, a rather large woman, watched and observed quietly, as a mother lion would watch her children play.

Finally, I told them the truth. I told them something that's gotten me called an "apostate" before (that's one step away from Satan himself, from what I can gather). I said something so scandalous, so heretical, so out there... that they didn't even notice. "I have inner peace. Perhaps I didn't find it the same way you did. But I am truly content."

They watched and nodded in a way that showed they had no idea what I was trying to tell them. One of the girls then said, "Yeah, you may have inner peace and whatever, but I think what she's trying to tell you is....."

Inner peace and whatever? Inner peace and WHATEVER? Last time I checked, that was a pretty big deal. I mean, wasn't that their main selling point, or did I miss something? Eventually, I had to excuse myself for class. They gave me the requisite invitation to their next meeting, and I thanked them. And I really did thank them... I truly did appreciate their effort. I wasn't interested, but it was nice of them to give up an hour of their life for me. Or, for Jesus, rather.

This reminds me of the time I was convinced to buy a subscription to Maxim magazine.

I was sitting quietly in my dorm room during my sophomore year. I got a knock at my door, and opened it to behold yet another cute blonde girl, alone. She said she was with a roaming band of students from some kind of organization, I can't remember what. I invited her in.

She told me that they were selling magazines. That's how they were paying their way on this trip through the country. She started going through their catalog of everything they offered as I kept telling myself, "Must be strong... must be strong.... can't buy anything."

I was nodding as she went through, being friendly, but convinced that I wasn't going to buy anything from her. I didn't need any magazines, and no femme fatale was going to convince me I did. I'm strong..... I have willpower, damnit!

"Do you have a girlfriend," she asked. "You have such gorgeous eyes."

I am weak. And lonely. Where's my checkbook?

She told me lots of guys like Maxim, and that it was growing fast. So, I told her I'd take that, even though I had no idea what it was. As it turns out, she had great advice. But even though she was better trained at selling her goods than the girl at lunch... I don't think she could have convinced me to join Bible College.

2001-08-14: Lesbians. It's interesting that if a woman walks into a room full of gay men, she's somewhat accepted, almost like she's just "one of the girls." But if a guy is in a group of lesbians, they can reject him with scorn. Sometimes, if a guy is lucky and knows how to hang out in the background, they'll forget he's there, and behave in their natural lesbionic state. I was talking with one of my clients about lesbians, and he said that it's understandable because many lesbians were sexually abused as children, and feel threatened by men. That may very well be true.

I recall a time when this concept became all too apparent with an eighteen-year-old lesbian I knew. I'd always tried to get to know her on a more personal level because I liked her as a person, but my efforts rarely met with much success. Usually, I can crack past someone's defenses in record time. But with her, it was different. There was always a force within her that didn't reject people in general, but instead rejected me—or something about me. Obviously, I didn't like that idea. I mean, I'm harmless, right? I look like a docile, innocent little fuzzball. Who could be scared of me? Anyway, she made a few comments which led me to believe she might have been abused. And given what I knew of her family, it would have surprised me if my suspicions were untrue.

I'd known her for so long, and the idea that she was actually being abused at a time when I had regular contact with her flooded my heart with a rush of so many different emotions, that I couldn't discern exactly how I felt about it. If I was right, she'd never confirm my suspicion for me. Instead, I tried to figure it out for sure. While having a casual conversation, I slowly leaned closer to her from her left side, just as anyone would when engaged in a private discord. I slowly raised my hand and placed it nonchalantly on her shoulder. With most men and women, this gesture is met with their coming even closer and opening up. But instead, she radiated tension that filled the space around us.

I was a man. I was touching her. She didn't like it.

I took my hand away and she relaxed. Behind the facade of a casual conversation, horror saturated my mind. I thought of the picture I saw of her from when she was five years old, and wondered if anything happened to her the night it was taken. I couldn't imagine what people did to her, and I didn't want to think about it. I wanted to hold her and tell her it was OK. I wanted to tell her I could never hurt her. I wanted to listen to her story, and try to understand when she went through. I wanted to make her feel better. But the sad, cold truth was that I could never do any of that with her. I could do it with so many people and in so many situations. But not with her. It seemed she rejected me not for what I've done, but for what I am.

In case you didn't catch that last sentence, it's significant. Read it again. As I always try to do, I take the experience for whatever I can gain from it to improve myself. At first glance, the lesson may seem obvious. Maybe it's that you shouldn't try to touch a lesbian. Or maybe it's something more philosophical, like, there's just some things in life you can't change. But instead, I choose to gain something else out of this. I choose to take this experience as understanding finally what it means to be rejected for what you are, and not what you've done, or even who you are. To the best of my knowledge, I don't get the opportunity to be rejected for what I am very often. I know some people are... sometimes because of their color, or race, or anything else they were born with.

The idea that I will likely never understand her, experience her, know her, or be an intimate friend with her, pains me deeply. There is so much I want to say that I know I never can. I am male, and even if I wanted to apologize for it, I'd always be male. It is a tragic loss on both our parts.

So instead, all I will do is silently support her. I've tried to do it, and will continue. I only have to remember that I will never get back what I put in. In all likelihood, she'll never really trust me with her feelings. She might lean on me in some round-about way that doesn't require her to put any of herself on the line. And I can live with that, as long as I know. I'll be there for her when she needs me. That's all I can do.

2001-07-28: I wave at babies. Have you ever noticed how babies always wave back? They don't really care who you are, or what you look like. They always wave back. I guess it's just a thrill for me to wave, and experience a returned unconditional love, untouched by our culture's rules and bureaucracy. The baby won't ask if I want anything back for the display, and won't ask for a commitment, and won't speculate on the sincerity of my gesture. He will simply wave back. And for a brief moment, there's bliss.

Yesterday, I was driving, and saw a toddler in the back of a station wagon in the lane next to me. I waved at her. She waved back at me. I waved at her again.... this time she lit up bright. She waved back at me, a little more excited. And then I started to get excited too, and waved back at her while bouncing around in my seat. Then she got even more excited and jumped around, waving at me. By this time, my car was bouncing around a little, since I was moving so much. Then she stood perfectly still... smiled... and waved back at me gently. I smiled back at her like I was saying, "Ha-ha, good one." Then the light changed to green, and I slowly drove off ahead of them, as we waved bye to each other.

The meaning of this experience relative to human cultures is astounding. We are the ones who say we should teach children about life and love.

2001-05-18: "She was screwed up in the head.... but damn, what an ass." I heard a guy using those words to describe his former girlfriend. It's amazing how we fail to truly experience things in life by only taking bits and pieces of them. Apparently, this girl had real emotional problems, which her boyfriend found so easy to dismiss. He took the good without wanting to deal with the bad. The resemblance between this and my contradictions in thrill seeking is uncanny. I'm the type of person who could, in one breath, talk about the sanctity of the mass--and then, in the next breath, talk about what a thrill it would be to have sex in a Cathedral.

I've been to the district in Amsterdam. I've been to the quarter in New Orleans. I've been to the strip in Vegas. What is there left in life? Let's hope a lot. I want to go to a New Year celebration on the islands of Tonga, where they set the shoreline on fire. And I want to be part of a Japanese tea ceremony. And I want to go to a party at the Playboy mansion. And I want to have dinner with monks who've taken a vow of silence. I want so much, but I never stop to ask what I'm willing to give up. Would I be willing to take the time to understand the culture and history of Tonga, and to slow down my entire life to experience it as they do, just to fully understand the meaning of the fire? Could I ever actually comprehend what it means to be a part of the Japanese tea ceremony, when it isn't even based in Western culture, much less American culture? Would I be willing to give up the trip to the Playboy mansion for the monks to let me sit with them?

I really need to audit my experience-gathering procedures. In the past, I've moved from situation to situation in Borg-like fashion, taking what I want and adding it to myself. It's efficient, that's for sure. But whether or not it's "right" is an entirely other issue, and whether or not it's ultimately "effective" is now up for debate. I've found solace in thinking that I've had as little contaminating effect on other cultures as possible, and that I've left them with something that helped them as well. It's something to think about.

Speaking of nuclear energy, why aren't we pouring more research into nuclear fusion? I mean, it's a source of enormous energy, and it doesn't create the kind of waste that fission does. But I'm sure environmental wackos will find something wrong with it. Anything that makes life easier for humans is obviously bad, right?

Did you ever wonder how many head administrators of PETA have ever actually seen a live cow? Or a chicken? I've pet a cow before and looked it in the eye. Trust me when I say this.... they are not smart animals. If you want to argue that dogs, or bears, or dolphins shouldn't be killed, then maybe I'll entertain the idea. Those animals are obviously pretty bright, and you can even make a case that they're sentient. But a cow? You know what a cow chases around in a field? Grass! How smart do you gotta be for that? You know how you kill a cow? You look it in the eye, you pick up a sledge hammer, and you say, "Hey cow, I'm about to kill you. Wanna run?" The cow will then sit there munching on grass. After that, you hit the cow on the head with the hammer. Boom, dead cow. Can you picture a bear or a dog standing for that? Of course not! You know why? Because bears and dogs aren't dumb as a brick. And I'm sorry, but the same goes for chickens. Chickens make cows look like friggin' Einsteins. Oh, and have you ever seen chickens and cows together? Now that's some funny shit right there.

Hey, let me ask you something. Why do you think there's so many chickens and cows in this country? I'll tell you why.... because we eat them! Yes, they exist in such numbers only because of the miracles of private markets and our beautiful capitalist economy. Go ahead, make it illegal to eat cows and chickens. Then what will happen? Let's see.... all the farms and ranches that grow them close down, they will release all the animals into the wild, and the animals are immediately eaten by other predators who aren't kind enough to raise them in safe conditions. Watch the cow and chicken population plummet like never before. Yeah, that really helped our animal friends, huh? Why is it sinful for us to eat a cow, but when another animal eats one, it's some friggin' miracle of nature?

2001-05-18: I don't want kids. It's too big a responsibility. And at least any time soon, I have no plans to have any. But you know, if I ever do have kids, I've got to remember not to make some mistakes that are so trendy to make these days. The state of child raising in this country just sucks. Now Van, I'm writing this down for you..... don't forget it. And if you ever try to, you'll have these words haunting you no matter what.

First, when you have a child, your life is no longer your own--it belongs to the child. And everything you do in any sector of your life, for all eternity, must be done with respect to what's best for the child. End of story. So, when you're faced with a decision, what should go through your mind? "Hmm, what's best for little Billy?" What kind of house to get? "Hmm, what's best for little Billy?" Get a better job for money you don't really need, or stay at home to spend more time with the kid? "Hmm, what's best for little Billy?" Take a promotion that makes you move, or stay here? "Hmm, what's best for little Billy?" The red pants or the blue ones? "Hmm, what's best for little Billy?" Remember that! Except.... don't name your kid little Billy. That's just stupid.

Second, once you have a child, your relationship with your partner is no longer there to satisfy your trivial emotional needs. It's there as a support structure for little Billy. That means you have neither the right nor the authority to end the relationship. Only when the relationship does more harm than good for little Billy does it mean you can end it. And there's no loopholes here... "We're just mad at each other, and it would create a volatile situation for little Billy." Sorry, that doesn't cut it. Get over it. Wanna fight? Tough. Deal with it like adults, go to therapy, do whatever you have to do. Even if it comes to you having to bottle it up your entire life, only to wallow in selfish pity over it on your deathbed as you gasp for your last breath of air, then that's what it takes. You're the one who fucked up and ruined your own life by getting in a sucky relationship in the first place. Don't take it out on your kid.

Third, you sure as hell better never utter the word "nanny." I don't care if you're president of the world. You had 'em, you deal with 'em, buddy.

Fourth, your child isn't on your political agenda. Think a kid doesn't need parents of both sexes around? Good for you.... but your kid's not a guinea pig to test that theory.

Fifth and finally, don't make a terrible mistake that so many parents do by refusing repayment. Learn from your child. Grow from him. Take the opportunity to have fun. When you miss a meeting an work, you'll get the chance to wrestle on the floor. Which one is honestly more fun? You'll get amazing insight into yourself that you never even considered. Why deprive yourself of that? You'll get more from little Billy than you could ever hope to put in, if you only accept it.

I try to make it policy to only give myself advice, as I try my darndest not to sit in judgment of others. But if any aspiring parents out there also want to follow this advice, I doubt it would hurt.

2001-04-24: Today I sat in a little deli talking about nuclear fusion and antimatter containment with the guy behind the counter. One of the things I like most about college atmospheres is that you have intellectuals in the oddest places. I think it's also one of the things I'll miss most. I get so bored in normal social circles, yet I feel oddly compelled to make every effort to enter them. I think it's because I've always been so close... close enough to taste it, but not close enough to ever really feel like a part of it. I think I'm in a really odd position. Growing up as a member of the white middle-class who doesn't look too odd, I guess you're guaranteed a certain degree of acceptance so long as you don't screw up too much. That "mainstream culture" can be pretty forgiving of its own kind, even if it doesn't entirely embrace some of them. Perhaps this limbo between embrace and exile is far better than either end, but I have this twisted, sick want for society to decide my place. If they embrace, I gain acceptance; and if they reject, I gain the freedom to devote so much more energy internally. I think my biggest problem is because my lack of experience with either end contributes to romanticized notions of both. People closer to an end probably feel just as lonely and isolated as I.

We humans, particularly the introverted ones like myself, are really self-centered when it comes to feeling isolated. We expect somebody to come along that meets our entire range of our social needs, and complain when they don't. As if it's society's responsibility to deliver the goods. I've always tried to develop the widest range of communication that I can so that I can pull social interaction from a wide variety of people. But it gets so tiring. Sometimes I just want to rest and stop trying, and wish somebody would come along that can talk about antimatter containment while listening to Willie Nelson, all the while conjecturing on the cultural reasons behind body language in the passing crowd. But to ask for somebody that satisfies a huge spectrum of social needs that I have is really selfish, and I wonder how I would feel if somebody complained that I didn't meet all their needs because I didn't have the same interests. Aren't I supposed to be over this by now? It feels kind of embarrassing.

2001-04-22: Do you ever wonder why minorities vote democrat in such large numbers? In modern times, it's pretty obvious that there are a lot of organized forces behind in, but where did it start? I dare say that the actual historical events leading up to the voting patterns aren't as material as the type of identity each party appeals to.

A lot of people try to tell us that it's primarily an economic motivation. They associate minorities as generally having less money, and then make a seemingly logical connection. Democratic candidates portray themselves as being more sympathetic to those who have less money, and more willing to give handouts. Seems logical enough, right? But I don't think it's that simple. Because of the contrasting histories, whites can adopt a more individual-based self identity than minorities. I guess this identity of a strong individual over a strong collective is what many people credit as the main difference between American culture and West European cultures. But it's a lot easier for whites to adopt that identity than, say, blacks or Hispanics. White culture is the dominant culture, and many aspects of it are referred to as the "American culture." On the other hand, blacks have had to find other sources of identity, and often those other sources necessitate collective support of the community rather than individual support of ones self.

The black family unit was long ago torn apart through slavery, and in many respects, continues to degrade further even today. Their rich oral history was largely lost when they left the African continent, and because Africa has little or no written history, an African identity is more difficult to maintain outside of the culture, and even harder to get back after you've lost it. But the degradation of the family unit, I think, is the primary factor. This would explain why blacks have a harder struggle to resolve a strong identity than, say, American Indians, who were almost completely wiped out, but still weren't broken apart at a fundamental family level.

What's gotten me thinking about all this stuff again is the debate over Mississippi's flag. The Mississippi populace voted overwhelmingly to keep the current flag, which contains the confederate battle flag in the upper left corner. From what I can tell, the debate comes almost entirely from outside the state. To someone like me, that's a scary prospect. When you call an election for something that concerns your own state because of outside political influences, then where's the insulation provided by this wonderful Federal system of government? The day that Washington knows more about Mississippi's interests than Mississippians is the day that they start serving chitlins at White House banquets. Until then, I'd prefer that national powers stay out of state politics.

But I digress. This wasn't the Federal government, but rather the national NAACP. I'm really unaware where the NAACP started its move to get rid of the rebel aspect of the Mississippi flag, but I would be interested in finding out if it started in Mississippi, or if it is just part of a national campaign the organization has to get rid of the flag entirely. Perhaps if I saw that entirely internal forces within the state were working to rid the flag, this issue wouldn't disturb be so much. If a whole bunch of Mississippians got together and said, "This offends me," or even if they had just said, "You know, that flag is pretty ugly, and it clashes with my outfit," I wouldn't have a problem with it. But it's the fact that people from outside the state are involved is what really gets to me. And after reading message boards on the subject, I've been surprised at how much the rest of the country actually cares about it.

Some people were claiming we need to get the Federal government involved and boycott all Mississippi products, and place economic sanctions on the state until it gets rid of its flag. Then you have people who applaud the state for not submitting to politically correct pressures and just bending over to change the flag because they're afraid of what others will think. But the amount of pure hatred some people have at the state really surprised me, especially since most of them have never even stepped foot in Mississippi borders.

Apparently, lots of people haven't learned very much from history. The United States declared war on the Confederate States, which they defeated. Immediately thereafter, economic sanctions and national cultural bias sent the confederate states into economic ruin, fueling poverty and racial hatred. Meanwhile, the conditions lured the most intelligent and capable people out of the South. All this was apparently "justified" punishment. Whether or not it was justified, it's clear that the punishment, in the long run, made race relations worse, much as the European punishment of Germany after World War I gave rise to Hitler's regime. Still, some people want to boycott the State of Mississippi for holding a legal election to keep its flag. Anyway, I think the State handled it well. By putting it to a popular election, they deflected a no-win situation from the legislature and onto the people, who are much harder for special interest groups to attack.

I guess this is what they call a "rant" on the web. I try to stay away from rants, which most personal web sites seem to embrace. I think the situation evoked my "Damn Yankee" genes.

2001-04-01: "I can't believe you're from Natchez," he sighed as he buried his head in his hands. "They don't even have computers in Natchez."
Rushing to my home town's aid, I replied, "Yes they do! Lots of them."
"Man, I was in Natchez last week, and I heard on their news that they just found out Kennedy was shot."
Ouch... low blow. "Man, you shouldn't dog Natchez like that. That's wrong."
He stared off into a blank corner of the room, deep in reflection. "I can't believe I'm being outpaced by someone from Natchez."

This was part of yet another conversation struck up by my Palm Pilot. I was doing some volunteer work for a local charter school, and apparently, a senior member of the Athletic administration was visiting and noticed my little computer. The poor guy was so distraught that someone from Natchez, Mississippi, had more technology than he did.

I've met so many interesting people that it leads me more and more to worry about how dull I might be. Tonight I was at a little semi-party where there were so many fascinating people. The oldest person there was probably in his 60's and the youngest there was probably myself, at twenty-two. One was a gay senior who had been married for many years before he discovered his sexuality... he has traveled the globe and holds two Ph.D.'s. One was a beautiful Chinese woman who came to the United States as a refugee from Vietnam, after her family had run from Communism for two generations. One spent time in prison and can make a razor blade out of a cigarette filter. Three were partially deaf, one taught English in Japan, and one made his own special brew of beer that he brought to the gathering. Oh, and one was a New Yorker... well, I guess no party can be perfect. And, we all talked. As I looked at the people around me, I realized how fortunate I was. I had more exposure to the world in one night than the typical frat boy does in his entire college career. And I also reflected on how I paled in comparison. What could I possibly offer to this magnificent display of humanity at its finest? I gathered up all the bits and pieces of life experience that people offered with their words, as a starving dog would run to catch bits of food that fall on the floor at a grand feast. When I think of where I've been and where I am now with people, I feel as though I'm from an impoverished background and have just been thrown into the glamorous world of the rich and famous. And I look at all these fascinating people, and don't understand why they even spend time with me. I'm afraid that when I grow old, the only interesting stories I'll have to tell are of the people I've known. But if nothing else, at least I'll have that.

2001-03-29: I am twenty-two years old. I was born on December 17, 1978. I've never been able to say that before on this web page. I think it was always some left over fear of ageism, or fear of people putting on those particular goggles and looking at me through them. For a long time, I've been kind of sick at myself for the hypocrisy surrounding my coveted monopoly on the knowledge of my age. I set out to be strong, saying that if people wanted to judge me, it would be them who would ultimately hurt themselves, and I didn't want to play a part in their own demise. While I am not violent, I have a long, proud history of letting people destroy themselves. But this one major pillar of my old-style defenses remained for so long, as it protected some of the wounds that were most tender. Today, I take this pillar down, and I grant myself absolution.

Soon, I'll start being a big-brother type mentor to somebody. I'm signing up. There are many among my circles who will ask why I'm doing it. And I'll tell them the truth, I'm doing it to learn. I'm doing it to understand. And if all goes well, the kid will get something for himself while he's giving so much to me. "But Van, why do you need it?" You know, I think I've finally reached a stage in life where I no longer have to ask that question. Unless you're one of the lucky few in this country who have been taught it from the beginning, you eventually come to understand that there are some needs that are ultimately part of human nature. This belief has been part of my personal theology for quite some time, and I've had faith that I would come to eventually realize it in my everyday life. I think I'm finally getting there. And every time I fulfill one of my theologies like this, I feel so much like a child. I feel that I'm discovering something I should have known all along, and while I'm a little sad and angry at myself for not getting there sooner, at the same time, I'm overjoyed that I'm that much closer to being fully human. I think back on the people and places, on the examples in nature, on the text in books, and I am in awe that so much wisdom lies before our eyes every day. All we have to do is something most people can't do--listen and only listen. And so, following in the tradition of what has worked so many times, I will listen. I'll hear a child's words not as something to judge and correct as I see fit, but rather as a priceless whisper uttered from the lips of God. This is the philosophy that has worked so long, so well, and I shall not abandon it now.

Today I am more complete. This is cause for celebration.

2001-02-14: OK, so today is Valentine's day. Right now I'm at a city beach that borders the LSU lakes, and there's a whole bunch of college couples out acting all lovey dovey and stuff. Unfortunately, it's not all that pretty of a view, but the weather is nice. You'd think that the lakes around LSU, one of the most beautiful and manicured campuses in the country, would have prettier lakeside beaches. But what do you expect from the planners who put up monstrosities like CEBA and Lockett in recent times.

A lot of people were not in class today. Maybe they were all here, on the beach, with their honeys. As graduation draws closer and closer, I have this constant sense of impending doom that I've missed out on something that you can only get in college. After you leave, you can't always just "skip class" with other people to go do something. Once you leave, you can't just hang out casually and do the things that you could in College. Suddenly, you're thrown back into your old socioeconomic class that you were so glad to leave after high school. And then, you're with people who have to work all day, who are stressed out after 5:30, or 6:00, or 8:30, when they finally get home. When I was on my student trip to Europe, I probably tried harder to learn about the culture of my peers while I had the chance, rather than to learn about the cultures of Europe. I knew it was one of the few opportunities I'd have to be thrown together with them, and finally learn some of the concepts that had eluded me all my life. I feel like if I leave college not having learned, I'll never know. Everybody will get married, have kids, and start their own lives. And all those secrets I wanted to find out, and all those experiences I wanted, will die with them. It's a depressing thought.

And you know, a lot of depressing thoughts are universally human. But I really wonder if this one is, or if it's just reserved for a select few souls, under strange circumstances. I have about a year left. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. And a fear it's going to all pass by without my finally figuring it all out, just like it has for the years before. But all in all, I have to say, it's been an enjoyable experience. Not only will I have a degree, I will have had fun getting it. Compared to high school, that's a pretty good deal.

2001-01-13: Now I'm finally on the plane back to the states. I can't wait to land in Atlanta. Praise Jesus, back in Dixie once again. OK, well all I have to say is, Amsterdam ruled. I wish we'd had more time there. The first night there, I was intent on going to the red light district. I stuck with a group that was headed that way, and the little venture made the whole trip worth it. It really was about like I expected. Most of the women don't look very appealing, but a few were absolutely gorgeous. It's hard for a lot of people to understand why some of these women became prostitutes. Some of them have looks that could get them many other jobs, and probably a lot more money. If they want to use their bodies like that, why not do something... I dunno.... safer? With cuter guys? The red light district had surprising civility for what was going on all around us. People casually browse the windows, some people not even bothering to look, as they're just passing through en route to another destination. Every several windows, you'll see a guy at a door discussing price. And all the transactions are carried out with this cordial smile and jovial overtone, that the guys seem to need and the prostitutes seem to entertain. It sounds dorky, but the most tempting thing to me was to go up to one of them just to talk about her job. It seemed worth the price just for the conversation. But throughout the time I was in Amsterdam, I went to the district with two different types of groups--one that would not dream of getting too near one of the windows, and another who would have considered paying just to talk a far more shameful act than paying for sex. So, I refrained. In any case, that first night in the district was definitely a learning experience. Later that night, another group from our tour said they were going to a live sex show. I had to see this, right? Of course, I knew what it was going to be like. We all did. Nobody thought they were going to go to a live sex show and actually see anything new. Once you've seen 10 minutes of mainstream porno, you've seen it all. But how often do you get to say that you watched a live sex show in the red light district of Amsterdam? So of course, I joined the group, and probably 20 of us, a roughly equal number of men and women, set off to the show. It cost about 50 guilders (somewhere around $20-25 at the time) to get in without any drinks included. They have the show constantly going on, and you can stay as long as you want for the price. Sure enough, it was just what we expected. We walked in on a man having sex with a slightly portly (although the proprietors considered her "voluptuous," I'm sure). The people weren't all that impressive. They alternated show types. You would have a couple with each other, and then they'd switch to one of several female strippers. Through all the shows, there was only one really good looking girl, and she was in a lesbian scene. I just don't think that's right. The whole ordeal got old after about 10 minutes, but we ended up staying over an hour. We had to get our money's worth I guess. Unfortunately, we all had to get up early the next morning to make it to a meeting with PriceWaterhouse Coopers. I went to bed. Alone, in case you were wondering.

The second day in Amsterdam wasn't as eye-opening, but it was fun anyway. I took a nap after our meeting so I could stay up all night and make the early flight I'm on as I write this. I told myself I'd sleep on the plane. We see how that's turning out, eh? After the nap, I went out to eat with some people at a little Italian place. And then, of course, we went to..... the red light district! We came across this erotic museum. At this point, we were all running out of dutch money since we were leaving the next day, and thought we probably couldn't afford to get it. But as it turns out, it was really cheap, and several of us were able to get in after pooling some money together. Some of the people with us were wimps and decided not to go. Apparently, it came as a huge surprise to everyone that I was actually doing this stuff. I guess I was viewed as the sweet and innocent one as normal. I'm really not that bad, but I guess combined with the image people have of me, it seems so bad. One of the tour members, on the last day, went around with his video camera asking for a 15-second blurb from each member. He got to me, and I started with, "Hi, I'm Van Goodwin from Louisiana State University. And I'm apparently the pervert nobody knew about." Anyway, back to the porno museum. They had erotic cartoons, erotic artwork, and at one point, they even had a real porno playing. And on the top floor, they had a bondage room. I got my picture taken in a restraint chair. We walked around the district some more and went back to the hotel. Then I went out to a bar with my roommate and one other member from the group. The second we walked in, the aroma of various drugs filled my lungs. When you think about it, pot actually smells kind of nice. I don't know how it actually feels or anything, but it smells a whole lot better than, say, cigarette smoke. Anyway, we hung out there, playing pool with some Europeans, and went back to the hotel at around 4:00 AM. Then we just kind of stayed up until it was time for the flight. At one point in the room, I smelled my clothes, stared off into space with my glazed, sleepy eyes, and said out loud to my roommate, "Dude.... I smell like pot." And that was the end of Amsterdam.

2001-01-04: We're now on the bus on our way from Paris to Geneva. As I go further on this trip, I'm developing a new appreciation for America. While we go around Europe, there's little that we can't compare to something that we have in the states. These rolling hills, for instance, we have in Wisconsin. According to Billy the bartender, because the U.S. has so much, it hurts the Parisian ego. He explained to me that Parisians have a complex going on. They like culture exported from the states, but at the same time, they have to feel like Paris is better. I think they view Paris as the center of the universe, above everything else, including the rest of France. One really good thing I took from Paris is an experience that I couldn't have gotten very many places in the Industrialized world. It's one of the few places a white male can go and experience intense prejudice. Of course, there was a big difference--I knew I was leaving in five days.

2001-01-01: Yesterday was new years eve. Earlier in the day, we went to see the Louvre. It was OK. It was big, I'll grant them that. It's scary to think that it's a castle that was outdone by Versailles. I think I'll see Versailles on Wednesday. Later that night, I finally managed to hook up with a group of people. Later on, I found myself with them playing cards in a hotel room, and I was actually part of the conversation. I think last night was the first time in my life I was really a part of a peer social situation for any length of time. I'd managed to do it for short spurts before, but never hours as I did last night. If I could have spent the $5,000 this trip ends up costing for that one experience, it would have been such a deal. Slowly, I'm trying to learn this formula about how these social situations work. That group of girls to my right... I can listen to their conversation and tell that I could participate in it just fine. But nevertheless, it's a girls conversation. And there are some things that they'll refuse to let any male participate in with their social circle. I've seen entire group dynamics change once someone of the opposite sex comes in. Anyway, after that, the group I was with went to the Eiffel Tower to watch the display when the year changed. It was a great experience, but kind of disappointing. The display was not very much to brag about. Just a whole bunch of blue lights, with some fireworks provided by the people on the ground. No matter. Years from now, if somebody asks me where I was when the millennium changed, I can tell them that I was at the base of the Eiffel Tower. After that, we decided to go towards the other famous French monument, whose name I won't even try to spell. However, about 5 of our group of 8 got freaked out by this alarmist telling them how dangerous it would be. It has a history of people throwing fireworks and bottles at each other. So, those 5 people chickened out, and left the three of us to go into the rioting crowds alone. This actually ended up being better, because a group of three was much more maneuverable. The energy in the air was amazing. It was like the energy of a huge music concert, but it was everywhere you walked. Everybody would scream out in the air, "Bon Ani" (spelling?), which is Happy New Year in French. Eventually, I yelled it back at people when they yelled it at me, and you could see them just completely light up when I replied. They are so happy just to hear the words. I'm not sure if I accent was such that they could tell I was American. I asked the guy at the front desk of our hotel how my accent was, and he said it wasn't bad. Yesterday, I told him that Paris was magnificent in French. He smiled and said something back to me, broadcasting it to his colleagues as well. I have no idea what he said. I hope it was good. If nothing else, I actually got him to smile. We walked around Paris until 4:00 in the morning, and then went back and went to bed. Today I slept in late, and then went out to eat with a few people. We eventually traveled up to the Eiffel tower's top, and that was the highlight of my day. As I've been typing this, I struck up a conversation with the bartender (a different one than I already mentioned). I just asked for water, and he asked if it was for my computer. He's an Englishman living outside of Paris. He told me because I commented that his accent was different. He replied, "Yeah, I change it every night." His name is Billy at the Mercure by the Eiffel Tower, in case you want to meet him. Now I'm telling him how I'll send him the address of the stuff I'm writing about him, so I gave him my e-mail address. Billy told me that I must not have originally been from the South because I didn't have the Southern American accent. I told him I was, so he had the idea that my parents weren't from the region. They were. Finally, he deducted that I must not go outside much. Well... I couldn't really argue with him on that one.

2000-12-30: Yesterday I went to Harrod's of London. I went with them because the other people in my group went off to see The King and I, and the vendor didn't have enough tickets for all of us. So we go to Harrod's, and we're walking around, and we come across this section dedicated to horseback riding. Now forgive me as I write this, because I've had a bit too much of that wonderful Merlot now that I am in Paris. But anyway, we are going through this section of stuff on horseback riding, and apparently, nobody in my group understands how erotic this section of the store is. I took a riding whip in my hand and ran it between my fingers. It was only something like 10 pounds (that's money, not weight). I wanted to buy it, but my group was keeping up a pretty good pace, and I didn't want to hold them up. It's really sad that while all of my peers are young, they refuse to live up to their youth's full potential. I'm going to have to wait on these people to get old and decide their marriage needs more spice before they figure out the erotic nature of that whole section. I mean, really! You go around these whips and restraints and other accessories strong enough to hold back a stallion, in the middle of an ultra-capitalist Herrod's department store in London, surrounded by all these rich, beautiful people, and as I'm looking around, nobody else gets it. Sometimes these people piss me off. Poor souls. Age is sickening, you know? I'm here, wanting all of my peers to understand these desires and wicked passions, and apparently, none of them will understand or submit to them until they're too old. And then they'll mourn their lost childhood. I really feel sorry for them sometimes. They miss out on so much, and I want to force them to look and see their potential and their energy, and really discover that some of these desires shouldn't be contained.

Today we went to Paris on the Eurostar. I struck up a conversation with this gorgeous girl named Andrea. Of all things, she seemed to be impressed with my Palm Pilot. You know, my Palm Pilot is so sexy, it'd get laid every night if it had a penis. I had a really informational walk around Paris with two people I've met on the trip, a Mexican and a Lesbian. they're both very interesting people, and we seem to get along really well. We were apparently in a very small group on this trip who understands that you don't have to travel across the Earth to go out every night and get drunk. Getting drunk back in Baton Rouge is just as good as getting drunk in London. Well, maybe the drunks in London are a bit more colorful. Drunks from Italy are definitely more colorful. And they're actually friendly at that. Speaking of getting drunk, I seem to be much more extroverted when I'm drunk. Thirty french francs is not a bad price for making me more apt to meet people here. Plus, my Southern accents comes out a lot more when I'm drunk, and people get a kick out of that. OK, 30 francs won't get me drunk, but at least a tad buzzed. Enough so I talk more. And I think the wine costs more than that normally, but the bartender gave me a good price. Probably because I actually tipped him pretty well. I tipped him 10, and he gave me a 15 price break. I made 5 francs for the gesture. I'm forcing myself to be friendly no matter how rude the Parisians seem. I had to come downstairs four times to get the front desk to fix my room. On the fourth time, instead of complaining, I apologized for causing them so much trouble, and used French words whenever I knew them. That had pretty good results..... he then apologized to me for the problems, and came up personally to fix my door lock. It's OK to get pissed, but getting pissed doesn't mean you should act rude or complain. Acting nice usually gets better results, even from the socialist Parisian pigs. Oh, did I type that out loud? Umm... that's a problem with acting nice. You bottle up the anger, and take it out on your journal. Bonjour.

2000-12-27: Right now, I am on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It's been a pretty good trip so far. I was seated on the aisle in both flights. this one, I am sitting next to a Mexican girl named Patty. She's from Mexico City and is in her Senior year at a university in Tennessee. She's en route to London to visit some friends. I wish I could see outside, but it's all dark. I guess all I would see is Ocean anyway. It's really amazing how safe it is to travel these days. How many Vikings risked their lives to travel lesser routes than this? I shouldn't say that-I'll jinx myself. I'm glad Patty can sleep. I can't. they have these tiny airplane blankets to cover yourself up with, which aren't big enough to cover anyone but the smallest child. Since I can't sleep, I laid mine over Patty. It's funny how these social protocols work. I didn't want to put the blanket over her too gingerly, because that could be interprets the wrong way. And, I didn't want to just hand it to her still folded and say, "Here, have a blanket." So, instead, I unfolded it, and kind of let it fall on top of her with enough force to make her aware of what I had just done, but not so much that it seemed like I threw it at her. There are so many nonverbal nuances in human communication. In about four more hours, we should land in London. It's too long away, especially since they won't play any more movies for me. I mean, we all have private screens. Why can't they just play the movies over and over? Maybe they're afraid we'll keep other passengers awake if we watch them. It's so hot in this plane. I guess I'll be glad I'm wearing this thick shirt once we land in London. Until then, I'll just have to burn up. How come everybody on this plane is asleep except for me? Oh yeah, nobody else has a backlit palm pilot to keep them occupied. Figures. I can feel the air starting to get stale. I don't deal well at all with stale air. Unfortunately, I was never able to exchange money before I left the States. I hope I get a good chance to do so in London.

Copyright © Van Goodwin, 2000-2001
Format revision on 2001-12-21
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