TMI?

Have I said too much? There's nothing more
I can think of to say to you
But all you have to do is look at me to know
That every word is true...

- "Don't Cry for Me Argentina", Evita

Hope I didn't scare anyone too bad with last night's post. I'm fine, really. I've been through much worse than this and managed to survive. I'm not saying I'm having a fun or easy time going through where my head is at right now, but there's no need to start fitting me for a straitjacket or booking a room with padded wallpaper.

After posting last night, I thought about if what I had written was over the limit of what I should have shared in this format. When writing an online journal, there's always two different ways of looking at what to include and what to leave out. Since I chose to make Acid Covered Espresso Beans open to the public, I am acknowledging that anyone can have access to what I write. I have accepted that I have an audience, and in some way I need to inform or entertain. Without those elements, anyone who stumbled across my site would maybe read it, and move on, having no reason to stick around or return. I'm sure many people have read what I write, found it underwhelming and gone elsewhere. Thems the breaks. I cannot be all things to all people.

But on the other hand, it's my journal. I can put anything on here that I choose, without regard for my audience. If I choose to document that I'm going completely insane, or voice my political views, or talk about the dirt under my fingernails, that's my prerogative.

Ah, the double-edged sword of free speech.

This has been the subject of discussion at one of the forums I read on a regular basis. How personal is too personal when you publish online? Where is the line that shouldn't be crossed? Just because you can say it, does it mean you should?

I think the question lies in who you are writing for - your audience or yourself. Yes, I know that I have a few good souls out there that read what I have to say from time to time, and occasionally offer feedback. They've been kind to this point, but I'm sure that even my most dedicated readers don't agree with every word I type. I don't expect them to. I'm no expert on anything and I hold no answers to the great mysteries of Life; I'm just offering up opinions and observations. It's the readers' right to take what I've put out there and use it as they see fit in their lives. (Well, unless you're plagarizing, and then I'm kicking your butt.) What I say may make you laugh or cry, it may make you see things in a new light, or it may make you throw things and mutter obscenities under your breath. That's why you have a brain, after all - to think what you want.

For the most part, though, I write my posts mostly for me. Like I said way back when I started here, I wanted to get into a habit of writing something on a semi-regular basis, and I have a tendency to write what I know. When I'm happy or excited about something, I feel comfortable posting without hesitation. I want to share my joy with whoever wants to read about it. If I have an opinion that I feel strongly about, I will most likely post it here. (After doing research to enhance what I'm writing about...and that's usually where I get bogged down. Someday, I swear, my rants on banned books, controversial art, and the cultural definition of beauty will see the light of day. I just have a lot of editing to do to make them coherent.)

Unfortunately, writing what I know isn't always lollipops and rainbows. Sometimes being me really sucks, and I often have doubts about whether I should share my difficult experiences with my readers. I feel bad about taking all of you along for the ride. After all, if you had wanted a one-way ticket to Crazyland, you'd be reading Prozac Nation (Elizabeth Wurtzel is a much better writer than I am) or you'd be watching Girl, Interrupted. (Believe me, no matter how good I think I might look at any particular moment, I'm no Angelina Jolie. Or Winona Ryder, for that matter.)

What usually wins out, though, is that I feel obligated not to lie to you folks. Most of my readers (that I'm aware of) are people I know from somewhere besides the computer, but there are others of you who I've never met and have only conversed with via email. And for all I know, I may have a bunch of other readers that check my site on a semi-regular basis, but have never stopped by to say hello. Some of you have been here since the beginning and stuck around for the long haul. How could I not be honest with you? It's been said that a problem shared is a problem halved, and the same can be said for writing about the unpleasantries of my day-to-day life. Getting it out in the open feels a lot better than holding it in. Sometimes writing here is like talking to a friend. A lot of the time it's good stuff, but sometimes it's break-out-the-Kleenex, cry-on-your-shoulder kind of stuff.

I know I'm not the only one who goes through this dilemma of what's too personal to talk about. I've followed pamie through her experiences during a colposcopy, the sickness and death of her cat (I cried all the way through it), and most recently, the breakup of her relationship with her live-in boyfriend. None of it was pleasant to read, I'm sure she had a difficult time writing about it, but I felt privileged that she felt comfortable enough to share those parts of her life with me (and her other readers). It made her more human, more interesting, more real. If what she wrote was all style and no substance, I'd have given up long ago.

I'm sure there are some things I will never talk about here. I'm sure I'll write about things that some of you won't want to hear. Listen to me, don't listen to me, take my message and make an origami swan out of it. It's up to you. It's up to me. It may not be art, but it's part of me. And, no matter how ugly it may be, that's what makes it OK.

Enough of this ethical debate. After my oh-so-serious blather, go check out the latest installment of Survivor: Monster Island on Destroy All Monsters. Musashi has T-shirts now! Give him some love (and your money)!

Will We Be Graded on This?

Know thyself. - Socrates

I apologize in advance for the fact that a lot of my posts have been real bummers to read. I write what's going on in my head, and lately it hasn't been a pleasure cruise. This one's not much better. I'm trying not to be poor little myopic, and I'm honestly not doing this for sympathy. I write what's on my mind, in hopes of finding answers and solutions by getting things out in the open, out of my system. And at this point, Blogger is cheaper than therapy.

There's a recurring part of Rosencrantz's novel where various people are asked the question "Who are you?" by an unidentified voice or person, and the interviewees scramble to come up with an answer to satisfy the questioner. Lately this has been on my mind. I'm having trouble coming up with an answer.

It seems like an easy enough query. I'm a 33 year old woman...

(No, that just classifies you. Who are you?)

Umm...I'm a corporate trained raccoon, a former bartender, a would-be writer...

(No good. That's what you do. Who are you?)

Fine. I'm my parent's daughter. I'm a sister. I'm an aunt. I'm friends with...

(Did I ask about your relationships? No. Answer the question. Who are you?)

Hell if I know. Lately I've just felt empty inside. Not necessarily depressed, just...not here. Depressed would at least be something, an emotion. (Well, pondering on the emptiness sometimes does lead to depression. Then I find myself all weepy-eyed with Radiohead's "Just" on continuous repeat.)

Last week, after numerous attempts to post my latest entry failed (the server at work chose to crash as I was hitting "post," my entry turned out to be too long and Blogger ate the whole thing and replaced it with the cryptic phrase "[BigBody]"), I gave up and started to head home. My mood was not great, and the anger I was holding within my body gave way to the empty feeling. It felt like I was just watching the world from my body, but not in any control. My body felt too big for me, and I was running on autopilot. It scared the hell out of me, and resulted in me texting Roger Mexico at a late hour. He told me to come over, and when I arrived at his door, he asked me what was wrong.

I had no answer for him. I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea what it was.

You'd think after 33 years, I'd know my way around my brain. Sometimes I do, but at times it seems like someone's been moving the furniture and I feel like a stranger in my own head. It's turning into the house in Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves with hallways and doors and staircases that weren't there before, and may not be there again. Pathways that go on for miles, even though it's physically impossible. Exits you may never find your way back to, even if you leave a trail of breadcrumbs or flares marking each twist and turn. Exits that may not even exist when and if you find your way back to your starting point. I'm afraid of finding myself trapped in that unending labyrinth for eternity, with no one even noticing or suspecting that I'm somehow concealed behind that blank wall with a few chipping nail holes.

I know it's human nature to define ourselves by what we do, who we know, our relationships with them. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Friend. Writer. Slave to the Man.

If all of this is true, then who am I when I'm not with friends and family? When I'm not at my job, when I'm not writing? I feel less defined when I don't have something to be to someone. It's easier to "be" when I can be concerned with a full inbox at work, my sister's pregnancy, or Nash's job woes. Taking Roger Mexico to work when his car is in the shop, feeding Zappagirl's cats while she's visiting Timmy, researching facts for a lengthy opinion post - that gives me something to do, someone to be. A cause. A purpose.

When it's just me and four walls, there's an uncomfortable silence. Kind of a moment where I look at myself and ask, "Well, now what?" only to be met by no answer. There's just nothingness, and it stretches on as far as I can see. Contemplating the infinite void and trying to make it fit into a nice, neat, finite and tangible "something" doesn't seem to be a task I can even comprehend.

Then I realize that the infintie void already is contained in a nice, neat, finite, and tangible "something" - me, which means I can't define myself and I'm back to square one.

Defining yourself is not something you can crib the answers for from a friend's paper. And asking them isn't much a help either because they're too busy trying to figure out who they are to give you the solutions to the mysteries of Life. Besides, I've gotten to the point where I feel bad about calling friends to save me from myself. Too many of us have been on crisis watch for too many other people, and it takes a lot out of you. I should be able to handle this myself, and not be asking for help every five minutes. Sooner or later, people get tired of continually throwing out the Life preserver, and would like to get out of the storm, retire from the rescue committee, warm their feet by the fire and sip a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

So, yeah, I'm reluctant to ask for help. I keep figuring I'll find my way out if I keep moving down the perpetually winding darkened hallway. But right now my torch is starting to sputter, and the blackness that surrounds me is starting to give me the weebies.

Linda thought her life was empty, filled it up with alcohol.
- "88 Lines About 44 Women, " The Nails

Sometimes I think that's why I'm good at useless trivia, or why I collect pages of notes for poems and stories and Blogger entries that I never get around to writing. When something seems empty and the emptiness is frightening, there's an instinct to fill the void. Maybe I'm trying to fill up the nothingness with tiny scraps of paper with dumb facts written on them. It's a habit, an addiction, something to do. And it's less damaging than alcoholism or a crack habit.

After I go home and take off all the hats that define me that I've been wearing throughout the day, sometimes I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I DON'T HAVE A HAT. I LACK DEFINITION.

Of course then I worry it's like that scene in Singles, and not having a hat is actually my hat. And I don't know where to return my invisible hat for a refund. There are no metaphysical millinery shops in the Yellow Pages. Nor have I been able to find a store that sells Cliffs Notes for the questions I keep asking myself.

Can I take an incomplete in this class and start over?

Mixed Feelings

Hey, all. Thanks for everyone's concern about my sister. She's doing fine; once she got to the hospital (and off her feet) the contractions stopped, so the nurse chalked it up to overexertion and sent her home with orders to rest all weekend. (How she managed to do it with a toddler and a dog running around the house is beyond me, but....)

The Clubhaus/Metro reunion was loads of fun, despite the fact that the bands were the low point of the evening. Sad to say, but all things do not improve with age. I was never a huge Love Assembly fan - in their defense, I heard a rumor that they reformed specifically for this show, but at one point I was sure my ears were bleeding. I spent most of the set snickering into my beer and texting critiques to Roger Mexico. I felt the need to share my pain. And Red Flag went goth, which is not necessarily a good thing. I remember them being much better when I saw them in 1989. Maybe I was just stupid back then.

The DJs, on the other hand, kicked ass. There were several times I stopped dead in the middle of a conversation because OH MY GOD THEY'RE PLAYING PROPAGANDA AND I HAVEN'T HEARD THIS IN A CLUB IN A MILLION YEARS AND I MUST GO DANCE RIGHT NOW! One of my friends (who was too young to remember the glory days of the Clubhaus) was amazed by how good the music and the mixes were. "Now you understand," I replied. "This is what I grew up on. This is why I'm so unsatisfied by most of the clubs out there these days." I danced like my life depended on it...but I'm paying for it today. Oh my knees. I can't dance like that anymore. I'm in pain.

Also, the bouncers were conspiring against me last night, in a concerted effort to get me drunk. If anyone offers me a Jello shot in the near future, I'm busting some heads.

I taped the Oscars last night, and haven't had a chance to watch the whole tape yet. I do have a few comments, though...

Will someone please buy Russell Crowe a sense of humor? This is the second year I've watched him sit in the auditorium with that sour expression on his face. I think I'd like him a bit more if he'd lighten up.

I really wish that someone would teach Jennifer Lopez how to select an appropriate dress. Granted, in buying a dress with a see through top with nothing underneath, she guaranteed that her name would be in the next day's headlines, but I for one didn't really need to see her nipples. (My male readers may disagree.) I'm the furthest thing away from a prude, but for crying out loud! Show some sense of decorum, girl! She should just change her name to J-Ho and get it over with.

Ang Lee looked happier than anyone else there.

Please kill the interpretive dance numbers. Please. I'm begging here.

Bjork. Dead swan dress. Now I've seen it all.

I will never ever again drink Pepsi. I would give up coffee if Britney Spears started hawking it. Ick.

Before I get started on what's been irritating me all day, a few minor whines...the last time I checked my calendar, it was SPRING. Enough with the snow and 18 degree weather already!

And by the way, downstairs coffee shop employees? There's this thing called stock rotation. Yes, I know everyone in this building drinks Diet Coke, but it usually helps if you move the cold ones to the front before you restock with the room temperature bottles. That way I wouldn't have to reach my arm all the way to the back and make a big mess in your cooler.

Alright. The main event. The rant du jour.

There's a Shel Silverstein book called The Giving Tree that's been on my mind this weekend. The book is open to a number of interpretations, but the two most popular ones either portray the tree as a) a symbol of unconditional love, or b) a codependant doormat. Funny, it kind of reminds me of a few relationships that I have in my life right now. There are certain people that I will drop everything for, that I attempt to be as giving and compassionate and caring and supportive as possible towards. Sometimes it's a reciprocal relationship, and my feelings and efforts are mirrored back. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a wall, except the wall is more supportive.

In their defense, I don't think they realize they're doing it. Maybe it's my fault because I've allowed them to treat me this way for all this time, let them make me feel insignificant but still continue to come back for more possible abuse.

Am I being a doormat? Is it wrong of me to expect what I perceive as common courtesy? Should I throw in the towel with these friends because they are occasionally fallible and don't follow through on what they say they're going to do, back out of plans without any prior notice, never return emails, and only call when they want something? Should I be upset when I actively support their creativity, but their support of mine seems empty because I know they've never really listened to my poetry readings, never even opened the collected works I gave them for Christmas two years ago, never read a single entry on this page? Does the problem lie in my expectations being too high?

A lot of the time I can dismiss it, blow it off and move on with my life. But every once in a while the casual disregard these people show for my feelings really hurts. Recently both of these people have let me down, and made me feel rather small and unimportant. I think they are completely clueless how they've made me feel. I've been a little bruised on the inside lately, but I love these people too much to let them go.

I'm starting to identify with the tree. And it's making my roots hurt.

Priorities

Tonight's entry has been postponed due to the fact that my sister is currently en route to the hospital; she may have gone into premature labor. Or it may be something minor. Whatever it turns out to be, suddenly I don't feel about writing about popular culture's perception of "beauty." I think it can wait until I'm doing worrying.

I'll keep everyone posted; sorry for the brevity. Have a good weekend, all.

The Politics of Dancing

First off, an announcement...Full Contact Poetry will be opening for Gojira and Diamond Doug's band (which I regrettably do not know the name of) on Saturday April 14th at Sudsy Malone's. Stop on by, have a beer, do your laundry, listen to us screaming from our soapboxes. Oh, and you might want to bring earplugs. The music promises to be LOUD.

Of course this means I need to piece together a set. How many times can I read "The Unbearable Niceness of Being" before someone rips my head off, muttering, "Write some new poetry, bitch!" under his breath? I do have a new piece, but I wrote it for a collaboration with Roger Mexico. I'm not sure what he plans to do with it (adapt it into lyrics? do some sort of spoken word thing? crumple it up and make an ultra cheap cat toy for Iggy and Bowie?), so I'm a little reluctant to perform it until I know what's going on with it.

OK , now that I have that out of the way (and I will remind you a million times before the show), it's time to step into the Wayback Machine and set the dial for the late 80's....

Back in the days when I was a naïve young woman, my best friend from high school snuck me into a bar downtown called the Metro. It was my first experience in a club, and I was in awe. The bar itself was a dive (it was in an alley downtown), and women were in the vast minority (it was a gay bar, but they were for the most part hetero-friendly), but I was completely sucked in by the music and the lights and the ebb and flow of the dance floor on the second floor. (I was also drunk off my ass, and underage, but that's not important right now.) By the time I transferred to college in Cincinnati, I found myself going there practically every weekend. In the burgeoning days of alternative dance music, the Metro was one of the hot underground spots.

Somewhere around 1987 or 1988, the Metro changed its monkier to the Clubhaus. At this point, I practically lived there on weekends. There were other places to go on other nights, and clubs came and went and changed formats, but the Metro/Clubhaus held a special place in my heart. It was the first place I'd heard the music I liked (remember when Depeche Mode wasn't Top 40?). I'd hung out there until 4 or 5 in the morning with my best friends. I'd seen my first drag show there. I'd seen local bands like Redmath and Sleep Theatre there. I'd been part of idiotic melodramas with other regulars. It felt like home.

Somewhere in the early 90's, the Clubhaus lost its liquor license for what had to be the hundredth time, and it finally closed. We moved on to other clubs, but every once in a while someone would mention the Clubhaus and the older members of our group would get this glazed look in our eyes as we reminisced about the good old days. Ah yes. I remember my friend teaching me how to dance (in a non-Top 40 way) before he took me there the first time. I remember the go-go cages. I remember hearing Ministry for the first time and not knowing how to dance to it. I remember sitting out on the fire escape when it got too hot inside. I remember helping my best guy friend put on eyeliner for the first time (it was the 80's, it was an alternative club...shut up.). I remember the point where I didn't need my ID anymore because the doorman knew me. (Actually, the doorman was one of the few - if not the only - straight employees, and was constantly hitting on me. As a result of this, he consistantly stamped me for mixed drinks when I was only able to legally buy beer. Thanks, Breeder John.) I remember sitting on the back couches, singing along with the DJ's mixes when we got too tired to dance. I remember being herded downstairs at 2:15 in the morning so the bouncers could clear the alcohol, and then rushing back upstairs to reclaim my spot on the dance floor. I remember trying to appear somewhat awake in the morning after staying out all night. (I was a breakfast waitress. My shift started at 7:30. I drank more coffee than the customers. Come to think of it, I think I owe my coffee addiction to weekends spent at the Clubhaus.)

The alleyway that I walked down so many nights was repaved and rehabbed when the Aronoff Center for the Arts was built. It's now considered the "Backstage" district, and the shady alleyway is now well-lit and home to an Italian restaurant and the patio for the local Scottish tavern. My office building is right next door. (I didn't realize this at first. I was standing in the alley on a smoke break, and déjà vu set in. I was smoking a mere 50 feet from where I'd spent too many weekends of my formative years.)

There is a point to this trip down Memory Lane (or Gano Alley). In a fit of nostalgia, the Warehouse is organizing a Clubhaus reunion. That's right, it's a party for the old kids. The old DJ's will be spinning, and Red Flag (remember them? "Russian Radio?") will be playing, along with Love Assembly. (Damn, are they still together?) I CAN'T WAIT. I think some of us are even dressing circa 1987.

I checked the Warehouse website, but it seems someone's slacking because it's horribly outdated. But I called Kevin for the details, so here they are.

Clubhaus Reunion Party
Sunday, March 25th
Warehouse Nightclub
1313 Vine Street, Cincinnati
(513)684-9313
Doors: 9pm
Cover $15.00

Featuring: Red Flag
Love Assembly

Featured DJs: Joe Nicholson
Christian Wilhelmy
Brian Arnberg (DJ Troll)

I can't believe I'm skipping the Oscars for this. I guess that's why I have a VCR. Does anyone know where they sell orthopedic Doc Martens? I think I'm gonna need 'em.

(Yes, I came back to edit this. Seems I forgot to include the date - thanks Jooles! - and it's apparently been so long that I forgot tht Clubhaus spelled their name with the "oh-so-cool" pseudo-German ending. So now it's fixed. Quit your bitchin'.)

Short Takes

This was initially going to be a lengthy recap of what's been going on in my life over the past few days, but time constraints and sheer exhaustion call for a very short entry. I'll sum it up quickly: I had a great extended weekend, and this year's birthday festivities made up for a couple of years of mediocre and crappy ones. Way too much food, way too much to drink, and more fun than one person should be allowed to have. Thanks to everyone who helped make it so, especially Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, JohnnyB, Zappagirl, and Roger Mexico. You guys are the absolute best friends I could ask for.

A few random phrases from the goings on. If you were there, you'll understand. If you weren't, draw your own conclusions:

"We look like spies!"

"Dude, those are rock star pants! How many peacocks died to make those?"

"Are you scared?"
"No, but I'm very late."

"He's the Stephen Hawking of kittens."

"This music sounds like the ice cream truck of Satan."

"Alcohol, firearms, and semi-naked chicks. Now this is fun."

"But I don't like tequila."

"I shot a gun! A big gun!"

"When you talk to my mom, none of this happened, OK?"

"They're out of the cheese pie."

"You are the goth Pimp Daddy."

"It's like Rice Krispies. With Pop Rocks."

"Tell me we didn't actually follow up the Afghan Whigs with Van Morrison."

"Don't drink and scan."

"Dude! I'm seven again! It reminds me of the place where I used to play when I was a kid. We lived near a factory, and we used to play behind it, and there were train tracks nearby, and it was all dangerous and stuff and we really shouldn't have been back there. And that one sound has a factory kind of sound, and that one sounds like a train whistle, and there's this desolate feeling to it and I'm not making anymore sense, am I? So I guess what I'm trying to say before I went off on a five minute tangent is that I really like your new song."

"Can I smoke before we go on this journey? Because if not, I'd like to request a later flight."

" I'm afraid of the bunnies."

"A lounge version of Limp Bizkit. Oh God, we're such losers."

"Whoo! Now I'm a rock star! I'm wearing these to the next show."

I'll leave it at that for now. I'm off to relax and research tomorrow's entry. I started to write it, but I need to look a few details up so I don't sound like a raving lunatic. Oh wait. I am a raving lunatic. Oh well.

Decisions, Decisions

I've been mulling over whether I want to attend JournalCon 2001 or not. It all depends upon a lot of issues.

Back in September, when I first spilled the Beans (sorry, it was too good to pass up), I read in Squishy about the first annual gathering for online journallers being held in Pittsburgh. Pamie was a scheduled speaker, as well as Beth from Bad Hair Days, and I wished I had found out about the convention earlier. Granted, I had less than a month's entries under my belt. The idea of meeting a roomful of people that had years of archives on their websites was downright intimidating.

The idea appealed to me, though. The idea of meeting other people who shared my interest for rambling on and on and posting it on the internet for anyone and everyone to see; perhaps they could give me pointers on how to improve my techniques. At the very least I'd walk away with a list of new websites to check out, and quite possibly I could forge a few friendships out of a weekend trip. But since it was too late for me to register and I felt too inexperienced to participate, I dismissed the idea until the following year.

Well, the dates and locations have been announced (Chicago, October 12-14). Chicago is well within driving distance for me; I could request a day or two off in October to allow for travel time. But now I find myself not sure if I want to participate for a whole new set of reasons....

Back in September, I had no idea if anyone was reading my site outside of family and friends. I hadn't "met" anyone via the internet, and I was interested in getting my name out there. Yes, I was writing my posts mostly for myself (still am), but I wanted readers. I wanted an audience. I wanted sites like Diarist.net to laud me with awards. I wanted to open my email inbox every day to find it overflowing with fan mail. I was gonna be a star, just by voicing my opinions to the virtual world!

No, I don't know what they slipped in my drink back then. Must've been good stuff, huh?

At this point, that's not so important. I know I have a few readers who have been kind enough to offer me feedback, and link to my site. I've listed with a few directories, and at this point I can't even remember the names or links. This little page is never going to make me a millionaire or put me on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. Big deal. What I write makes me happy, and if it entertains someone else in the process, then so be it. As Crew put it the other day, "I guess I'll always be a member of the Internet trailer park set."

So for one, my priorities have changed. But my perspectives have changed as well about other online journalists/bloggers/whatever you want to call them.

First off, there's the whole label thing. Since I publish through Blogger, it seems easy to classify what I write as a blog. However, average Joe NetSurfer may not be familiar with the term, and by the technical definition, this is not a weblog. I don't link all that much unless it's a subject I'm babbling about. Yes, I realize that the technical definition has pretty much been thrown out the window at this point and blogs no longer refer to merely a list of "places I've been on the net and cool/weird sites I've seen." But some people online still are purists, and tend to look upon weblogs as anathema. Some directories won't accept "hive sites" like mine at Blogspot. Frankly, bloggers are the red-headed stepchildren of the internet.

Well, that bothers me. I think about what I write on this page. I work pretty damn hard on it (when I'm actually posting to it). I have plans for the future; I want to eventually get a site that supports graphics and a search engine and merchandise and all the bells and whistles. But at this point, I'm poor. I'm still a programming moron. And posting here is free and easy, two of my current favorite words. So while I generally refer to what I do as a website or online journal to avoid confused looks from an uninformed companion, the truth of the matter is I'll still affiliated with two websites that have the word "blog" in them. And to some people, that adds up to "a big page full of links and not much else." I saw posts to bulletin boards about whether webloggers would be welcomed at JournalCon that could easily be described as discriminating.

The thing that bothers me the most, though, is actually fear. I don't know any of the journalling community per se. Some cities seem to have an interactive group of online journalists; Cincinnati isn't one of them, so there really isn't anyone I can network with over a Mocha Latte at Buzz Coffee Shop and CD-O-Rama. I only read a few other journals on a regular basis, and of the ones I read, I've been reluctant to correspond with most of them. It's like being at a high school dance; I'm standing over in the wallflower corner, wishing I had the courage to go talk to the really popular kids, afraid that they'd ignore me if I even thought to raise my voice. And if I can't start a conversation online with a fellow journaller, then what makes me think I'll be able to do it in a noisy hotel conference area?

So therein lies the dilemma. I could go and be ostracized for not being cool enough to program with the big dogs and spend the entire time in my hotel room chain smoking and watching HBO, or I could go and have a great time and meet lots of new people and learn something. Or I could just sit at home and never know.

What to do, what to do.

Of course, I am worrying about this a bit early. It's only March. The date was just finalized, and the hotel location hasn't even been decided. I suppose I have plenty of time to decide if I'm going to go to the Prom.

Like a Bad Penny...

Yeah, I'm back.

I wish I could say I was gone due to some great mind-expanding sojourn to find myself, but the truth of the matter is I was just really depressed about a lot of stuff, and I wasn't sure how to even begin to explain myself. Strange things were afoot at the Circle K.

Yeah, myopic, you say to yourself. Whatever. So what the hell have you been doing for the past six weeks?

First off, an update on the kitty crisis. Apparently, Elvis did sneak out of the apartment as I had feared, and managed to get himself stuck in the hallways. There are several fire doors in the hallways, which are closed most of the time. He got stuck in between two of them, which meant he had 25-30 feet of carpeted nothingness to prowl up and down. After the novelty wore off, I imagine he got panicky. By the time he was found, he was hissing and attacking anything that moved. The SPCA was called, he was carted off. Since the SPCA has a policy about not keeping "vicious animals" (which he was considered at this point), he was euthanized upon arrival.

I cried a lot when I found out. Actually, I can't remember doing much else for those first few days. Go to work, cry. Go home, cry. Go to visit Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, cry. The apartment seemed so empty without him, and now that I knew what had happened to him, it became unbearable. I packed a bag and went to visit JohnnyB for the weekend. Probably not the brightest idea in the world, since it involved driving through a snowstorm for 4 hours to get there in my sad sad little car. But I arrived safe and sound and spent the entire weekend doing nothing but watching bad TV and playing with the family dog.

Just a side note here. Over the Rhine is not good driving music. Pretty, but after following a salt truck through construction for 25 miles, Karin Bergquist's voice starts to make you sleepy. George Clinton, on the other hand....

I went to Louisville with my parents for a family wedding. Not much to note here, except my father snores louder than anyone on the planet. I kid you not. It was funny at first, but after a few hours, not so funny. (Of course, this is the worst thing I can think of to say about my dad. He's a fine man. Who snores really really loud.)

I finally got around to seeing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Wow. If you haven't seen it yet, go. Go now. Don't let the subtitles scare you. Stop reading this and go see it.

Didn't I just tell you to go see a movie? Oh well.

Went to visit JohnnyB again over President's Day weekend. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern joined us, and a good time was had by all. Only problem was I came down with a nasty cold, which turned into a sinus infection and bronchitis. I spent the entire weekend sitting on the couch, doped up on cold medication and demanding tea.

On the way home, my exhaust system decided to go kablooey, and I spent the last hour of the drive dragging a pipe. My car was louder than the Mack trucks that were passing me. And after I got home and did a quick check of my finanaces, I realized I couldn't afford to get it fixed. Fine. I'd just leave it in the parking lot and bus it for a week or so.

This would have been a good plan, except I was on a timetable to get the car fixed. My registration was up for renewal, and I had to pass an emissions test before I could do so. Crap.

I arranged to borrow some money from Zappagirl to get my car in working order, and drove off to CarX for necessary repairs. After waiting for something like 20-30 minutes, the mechanic came back in to tell me that my car was fixed and there was no charge. Yes, you read that right. No charge. A few bolts that held a bracket in place had come loose, so they replaced the bolts, put in a new gasket, and wrote the whole thing off. To quote Eric Cartman, "SWEEEEEEET!"

I love CarX. They have my business forever.

While all this was going on, I found out that Angie, a girl I knew from the clubs, passed away. I wasn't especially good friends with her, but we knew the same people and had gone to the same bars for ten years. I'd had a few good conversations with her, and somewhere in the back of my head, I'd always wished I knew her a bit better. The last time I ran into her at the Warehouse, she seemed happier than I had ever seen her. A few weeks later, she had a pulmonary embolism and died.

The Warehouse had a moment of silence for her last week, and while I was there I found out that another person I knew had died in a house fire over the weekend. After the moment of silence, the DJ played "Return to Innocence" by Enigma, which he played every Wednesday night after the mosh pit. The song was a favorite of our former barback, Eric Orendorff, who passed away a year ago from a heart condition. (After playing it for one year, the song was retired last night.) His death was very difficult for me, because I had been his mother's secretary 10 years ago, and he used to hang out in my office when he got off school. I had know him since he was 16. He was the first person in my peer group to pass away.

All of these people were younger than me - less than 30. Add to this the most depressing episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ever (which I know sounds incredibly trite, but anyone who saw it would understand - Buffy's mother died from an aneurysm, and the resulting hour was possibly the best representation I've ever seen of dramatized grief on television or film. I sobbed uncontrollably for the majority of it, and went through half a box of Kleenex.), and suddenly I found myself rather drunk, contemplating the meaning of life and the possible existance of an afterlife vs. the theory of reincarnation. I found myself wondering why (to paraphrase Billy Joel) the good ones die young. Wondering if I would ever listen to Enigma without thinking about my friend and co-worker. Realizing that all the "under construction" signs on Angie's website would remain there, never to be updated.

Yeah, that was a fun night out.

But life goes on, and we put aside our grief to move through our lives. I'm attending a memorial service for Eric on his parents' farm this Sunday, and it will be difficult, but it will be good to be among friends, people who chose not to mourn his passing, but celebrate and remember the great times we had with him.

Some good stuff has happened in my absence. Musashi finished his revamp of Destroy All Monsters and added a bulletin board as well as some nifty Cafe Press schwag. Check him out, drop him a line.

Diamond Doug finished his latest chapbook. It's a collection of vignettes rather than poetry this time out, and it's hilarious. Sometimes he makes he really jealous, because he's a prolific and talented writer, while I've been kicking around the same hackneyed plot outline for my novel for what seems like a million years. Doug doesn't beat around the bush when he has something to say, no matter what anyone else thinks or who he offends in the process. (I'd pimp the Black Hoody Nation label with a link, but he doesn't have one. Dude, we gotta talk about this....)

My sister and her husband just bought a new house and, more importantly, sold their old one. My niece is enthralled with the stairs (the old house was one story), and spends all her time going up and down them. Ah, to be easily amused.

My mother's business website went up today. If anyone needs wedding invitations or stationery, now you know where to go. C'mon kids. Make my mommy a rich woman.

And oh yeah. My birthday's this weekend. Presents and the like will be graciously accepted. Kidding! I am looking forward to a big dinner with friends, with cake and ice cream to follow. JohnnyB will be driving down to spend the weekend with us (partially for my birthday, partially for Eric's memorial, and partially to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon since it will never play in his Small Northwestern College Town). And I am taking Monday off. Just because the government hasn't realized my birthday as a national holiday doesn't mean I can't.

It's good to be back. I don't know if any of you missed me, but I missed you.