A · Tale · of · Two · Settees

That's one more "what if" I don't have to concern myself about.

Now I can go about my business.

Meanwhile, in the background I was listening to a fascinating episode about Vikings on the History Channel. King Harold's Saga was mentioned, and it occurred to me that I have that book, but I've never actually sat down and read it. Njal's Saga, yes, but hasn't everybody? I mean seriously. Greatest comedy I ever read. It's all about threatening people living in Iceland.

But, yeah. I've collected a lot of books over the years. Sometimes libraries to raise money would sell them for a dollar. Sometimes, people living in the dorms would leave them out for whoever wanted them. At least those books, however, bear the air of respectability. That is, at least they look like they've been read. Someone comes over to visit and inspect my books and notes, "Ah, so you're a fan of Proust?" And, I can chuckle knowingly and quietly push them away from my book collection.

Then, there are the other books I've either momentarily glanced at or have been meaning to read. There's no way to pretend I've read those.

But now that the shelving is up, I'll have to find time to re-alphabetize them, and I suppose at that point I'll once again make a whole bunch of other discoveries along the way. King Harold, though, I think I'll take a look at. If he's anything like Njal, then I'm in for a laugh riot.

It's always that way with me. The delayed reaction. The fight or flight kicks in for most people at a point when they have the chance to actually chose. I seem doomed to experience fight or flight when it's too late. Which is why I can sometimes find myself doing something completely stupid or out of character.

Oh well... can't say the course wasn't unenjoyable. There's a certain Zen quality to the whole process. And today, it was freeing to tell myself that I'd excuse myself from every responsibility except for one.

I got to observe the cat today. We seem to interact like old chums now. Every once and a while, he'll emerge from the bedroom to see what I'm up to, meow for attention, and then amble back to his spot for another nap. I feel bad for him, though. Cooped up in the apartment day and night. No wonder he wants to bolt outside all the time. But it's not safe. He's enough playthings, and I play with him sometimes. Of all his toys, though his favorite seems to be a cork from a Chimay bottle.

Still, it seems a bit sad to see that his life's options are reduced to batting something around the apartment, eating, and sleeping. I wish he'd take up a hobby. Watercoloring or something. Just to show that he's keeping himself occupied.

Well... whatever. I grow tired. The TV drones in the background.

Speaking of which... History Channel has a relatively new program called The Works. The host, Daniel Wilson, bears an uncanny resemblance (both in appearance and in manner) to a guy I used to know. A bit frightening, the similarities.

Where am I?

Indoors. Studying German for tomorrow's big exam.

If I pass tomorrow, I'm one step closer to my PhD. If I don't, then a few weeks from now I have to take the test again. No big deal, but I'd like to get it over with while time is on my side. Besides, I spent my entire tax refund on this class. If for no other reason, I want to pass it because I spent cold hard cash for it (as opposed to college loan money, which doesn't seem real for some reason).

Back at the beginning, when I just mused about the idea of getting a PhD it didn't seem so intimidating. I'd be impressed with professors that allowed me to call them by their first name in the same way I considered a person who would only be called "doctor" an arrogant wanker.

At this point, if I were to die, all I'd have to show for myself is a huge stack of paper. Just paper. Worthless to no one but myself.

Oh, and some pretty decent furniture.

Oh, and a car.

Oh, and an iPod.

And a bunch of books.

And some cool hats.

And CDs.

And DVDs.

And dishes and pots and pans and the stuff in my refrigerator.

And a refrigerator.

And a cat.

Oh... and a mountain of debt.

Not much, really.

Not much to boast about to friends who have already become accomplished, started their own families, traveled, married, etc. Still, in my own way, I am accomplished. It just doesn't show.

But, in due time I will have my PhD. And then I'll move on to my next challenge. And life will go on.

But, on that day, I have a feeling my first instinct will be to go up to the podium, accept my fake diploma (the real one will be mailed later on), and before the entire world, shout, "Suck it, bitches. I'm a mother fucking Doctor."

"Mother Fucking Doctor," by the way, will be fitted somehow onto my vanity plates.

Do I really have to ask my doctor if X medication is right for me? I don't really have ED, nor is my hair thinning, nor do I suffer from heart problems, nor am I looking for a birth control pill, nor do I suffer from the allergies mentioned in the commercials, nor do I have the type of depression mentioned in commercials.

Nevertheless, the commercials keep telling me: "Ask your doctor if ___ is right for you." I want to be polite and do what commercials suggest, but enough's enough.

Item #2

I am really getting sick of the term "perfect storm." I didn't read the book, nor did I see the movie, and furthermore, neither the book nor the film hold any appeal to me. Nevertheless, eight years after the film was released, and eleven years after the book was published, pundits always use the term to describe any crisis that comes up.

Item #3

The European Union is going to build their own manned spacecraft so they don't have to use Russia's capsules or the US space shuttle.

Once the European space program really gets underway, I bet the Italians will finally realize what Galileo was saying all along: The moon cannot hit one's eye, nor is it like a big pizza pie.

Item #4

I'd really love to visit the Canal of Schlemm, but unfortunately, just like the fibres of Müller, it's located in my eye.

What is up with Germans and the eyeball? It's like they couldn't chart enough territories, so they had to start planting their little flags all over the human body. Of course, the genitals had already been conquered by the British (i.e. the Cowper's Gland). So, apparently, they were left with the eye. If the Germans were out for natural resources, then they were out of luck. Not much can be found in the human eye, unless gunk can be processed into gold.

Item #5

I can't emphasize enough how much I wish I had a pouch like a kangaroo. Why didn't divergent evolution also take place with advanced primates? Technically, Australia or South America should have been able to produce a marsupial human.

They'd have looked a bit strange, though, because they wouldn't have nipples, since the mammary glands would be relocated in the pouch.

Speaking of which, in the same way that nipples are erogenous zones, does it feel good to have one's pouch fondled? If so, then I'd really want to be evolved from marsupials, because then I'd keep my hands in my pockets all the time.

I'll have to ask a kangaroo.

That's all.

In celebration of this historic event, I present a woman eating what appears to be a squirrel:

And this is America
where anything can happen
if you try.

(a popular WWI folk ballade)

I have already composed two letters requesting the man who parks his truck behind me to not park there any more. Yet he persists in ignoring me.

Here is the situation:

Most of the apartment complexes on one side of the street are owned by the same landlady. We at times share laundry facilities with one another, but that's about it.

The man who lives in the apartment complex adjacent to mine parks his truck in our parking lot despite the fact that there are enough garage spaces in his own complex to accommodate his truck.

When I moved in, he once caught me by surprise, introduced himself, and asked me to tell him if parking his truck behind me became a problem. We were supposed to be cool--chill, even--so long as I was willing to sacrifice my own comfort and peace of mind.

As a result of his parking, the amount of space I have to navigate in and out of the parking lot is limited. Thus far, I have scraped the side of my car on the pole that holds up the car port four times. Buffing compound has rescued the car, but auto detailing doesn't come cheap.

I have informed him of this twice in letter form. I have asked him to contact me if there was a problem or a good reason for parking behind me.

He has not contacted me. He has not moved his truck. He has not provided any reason why he needs to be where he is. Currently, I can hear him loudly discussing something with a woman. He was drinking a can of swill beer the last time I saw him. I didn't acknowledge him, as it is now up to him to contact me. As he has chosen to ignore me, war has been implicitly declared.

Tomorrow, I inform the landlady, and we take it from there. If she can give me a good reason why he gets to park there, maybe we can work something out.

Meanwhile, my personal Spider Sentry has friends... BIG friends.

No, no, no. It's a spider!

I have no idea what kind it is, because Wikipedia has failed to inform me in a timely period of time, but she's enormous. I think she's some kind of wood spider. Unfortunately, most of the photos I took of her didn't turn out well because it's too bright outside.

Here's a photo of her napping:

Yesterday was the first time I noticed her. Or rather, I noticed the web. Huge, beautiful, intricate thing. It was obvious that this was not the work of an LSD spider. Then, later that night, I saw her descend onto her web and wait. This morning she was gone again, but I spotted her hiding underneath the little rain gutter, probably trying to avoid the sun.

This is pretty cool. I want to name her, but I'm not sure what a suitable spider name would be. Since she seems to be taking sentry duty in front of my apartment landing, I think it's appropriate to give her a bad-ass Roman-sounding name (like the one General Petraeus has), but I don't think there were any female soldiers in the Roman army or the Praetorian Guard. Lucinia? Livia? Cleopatra?

I don't know... I'm not good with names. Also, typically my cat tends to kill insects and arachnids before I get the chance to name them.

I've got my eye on her, though. And it's comforting to know that she has her eight eyes on me and my apartment. My new spiderguard should keep intruders at bay.

His name is "Jack." Apparently, they didn't opt for the best name in the whole wide world (hint: rhymes with "aims").

8 pounds, 8 ounces, and 21 inches long (3.86 kg and 53.3 cm; or 0.61 stone). I guess that's pretty big. Of course, my roommate was a pretty big guy.

Pictures have not yet arrived, though from previous experience, I'd have to guess that the kid must look like one of these babies here:

Probably doesn't look like the girls, though. I'm guessing Jack will look somewhat more maleish.

I've never actually attended a friend's wedding before. Family weddings, yes. There, all you have to do is show up, listen while people you barely know tell you how much you've grown, and eat some cake. Friends' weddings are different.

My only cue as to how to properly behave comes from the films I've seen. Comedies indicate that I should be trying to sleep with the bride or bridesmaid. Also, I should probably tell the bride that I was secretly in love with her, and that she can't marry my friend. That'll be awkward, though, since I don't even know her.

The Deer Hunter tells me that I should get drunk with all my Polish mates before we're shipped off to war.

The Godfather indicates I should seek out the bride's father and hit him up for some favors. Either that, or go around smashing people's cameras.

"Hey, how would you like to try... oh, wait. You can't have that, can you. Sorry. It's really delicious, though. Are you sure you can't try just a little?"

Then again, I don't know... the only reason why I'd get a new TV is because the speakers on my present TV fade in and out. I'm afraid that at one point I'll be completely without sound. So, really, what I need are new speakers.

Before that, I've been considering getting a water filtration unit for my cat.

In addition to filtering out fur, smegma, and other debris common to the common house cat, it creates gentle white noise, enabling me to sleep almost anywhere in my apartment.

What I really want is my own smilodon but my landlord won't let me.

We'll see what my smilodon has to say about that.

If Obama loses the youth vote, the urban vote, or the hipster vote, then he's a complete moron.

He still needs to convince the following groups:

1. The older population

2. The Bro Contingency

3. The working class

First, the Older Population

Obama must convince older people that he is worthy of trust, that he is either the good son they never had, or a guy who is just like their son. Someone who doesn't mind playing a game of peanuckle. Someone who values classic television shows. Someone who isn't always in a rush, but will also remember to call them up or visit from time to time.

A visit to Branson, Missouri may remedy this. More specifically, Obama needs to arrange a meeting with the Emperor of Easy himself, Andy Williams, and sing a duet of "Moon River."

Next, the Bro Contingency

Typically socially conservative, the Bro Contingency will almost certainly vote as a single bloc. Convince one, and you've convinced them all. Bros are chiefly concerned with the rising cost of elevating one's pickup truck and truck accessories in general. They are especially sensitive about getting tased. In addition, Obama must address the underlying question found in the often-emoted complaint: "Dude. The fuck's your problem, man?"

If all these issues are addressed, the Bros will find themselves by and large, pretty effin' stoked.

While clothing manufacturers are now beginning to market Obama t-shirts in places like Urban Outfitters, these are not the general places were Bros are likely to shop. In addition, Famous Stars and Straps, A&F, Hurley, etc. must also begin marketing Obama paraphernalia.

Being spotted associating with Dane Cook can't hurt, either.

The Working Class

Here lies one of Obama's major obstacles. A complex group, the working class is, as a whole, united in one way, and that is, their chief concern is: Will the future president "git 'er done?" The phrase remains a rallying cry as well as a general form of commentary about the world at large. Gas prices, the cost of living, jobs getting sent overseas, are only a few of the major issues concerning the working class as well as the ever-growing "working poor."

And, it remains a serious question: how much can Obama, or any president, for that matter, do in a single term? Will the next president be a person of action, or is what we're witnessing just rhetoric? And here in this area, I can't really joke about it, because it is a serious question. While to me a vote for McCain is also a vote for social conservative Republicans and all the baggage they bring, I have yet to be convinced that Obama is the so-called messiah he is being touted as.

For starters, I'm going to have to work out some diplomatic way of telling the guy who parks his truck behind me to park it in his own garage space (I need to be diplomatic, because I'd hate to find out he's the type of guy who deflates people's tires as an act of revenge). I've already nicked my brand new 2007 Civic twice, and I'll have to get my car repainted come the day I begin my Fall payment schedule. I was going to splurge on a fancy-shmancy television set, but I suppose that's going to have to wait.

I saw Les Miserables at the Hollywood Bowl with my mother, my sister, her husband, and our nephew. Good fun all around. I have a new way of annoying people: I shall tell everyone, "My name is Jean Valjean." Usually I tell them, "I'm Sparticus," but now I'll be able to mix things up.

Oh...By the way, once I get a bigger apartment or condo, I'll get a new pet (a small dog or another cat) and his name will be Sparticus. What a perfect name for a Burmese cat or Wire-Haired Fox Terrier, no?

In fact, all my pets from now on will be named "Sparticus." Except for Bernard Katz (my main man), Chairman Meow (the ceramic cat statue in the bathroom) and Jean Valjean, my future goldfish.

Because of Les Miserables I have been inspired to build a barricade. Or maybe a fort. But I haven't anyone to play forts with. Very sad...

Which brings me to Item #2 to bitch about.

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