ISleepInADrawer.com

Man of the People

Ouch.

So, what now? Is Robert Schuman rolling in his grave? Before throwing my hat into the ring, I'll wait for the final French tally, and I'd like to hear what the Dutch have to say this coming Wednesday.

Friday, Valery Giscard d'Estaing, the EU Constitution's architect and former French President, said any countries who reject the constitution will be asked to vote again. They have until 1 November 2006.

The Caring Meter

About five minutes before I left work today, I suddenly had to use the bathroom. This is really nothing new. I've been doing that all my life.

Sometimes, my right knee hurts. This isn't directly correlated with the above urge to use the bathroom. But, it's relevant. Just hang on. Anyway, I'm pretty sure the occasional right-knee pains lead back to the fact that I'm half flat-footed. That is, my right foot pretty much lacks an arch support. I'm sure, in 20 or 30 years, the imbalance in my posture will lead to something more bothersome than occasional knee pains. But, for now, every month or so, my knee hurts for a number of hours or days. I deal.

One of the ways I "deal" is by sitting down. It's simple, yet effective. I stand or move frequently much of my time at work, though, so, five minutes before leaving work today, though I only had to stop by the bathroom for #1, I chose a sit-down toilet over the urinal.

When choosing a sit-down toilet (as I call them, obviously), I prefer the handicapped stalls. Despite what you read in the papers, I have no mental handicap. And, aside from some rather ugly moles, one flat foot, skin that burns rather than tans, and a variety of other superficial imperfections that will forever keep me out of People magazines "Fifty Most Beautiful People" issue, I've no physical handicaps. But, I like the room in the handicapped stall. I'm sure this confession will get me a Politically Incorrect Award or something but, as we shall see, I'm not the only non-handicapped person who uses the handicapped stall.

You see, upon entering the stall to do #1 in the sit-down toilet, I saw a wallet on the floor.

Since my bladder was about to explode (I suppose I could count my small bladder as another minor imperfection), I urinated, washed my hands, and returned to the handicapped stall to retrieve the wallet. I opened it to locate a driving license or other ID, and found that it belonged to a non-handicapped person who worked in a lab near me. I went to his lab to return it, only to find that he'd returned home for the day. For reasons I have yet to determine, his labmates asked me to hold onto it, perhaps simply because I assumed responsibility for it when I picked it up in the handicapped stall next to the sit-down toilet. His labmates, however, provided me with his contact numbers, so I could ring him on my way home, inform him that he left his wallet on the floor in the handicapped stall next to the sit-down toilet in the men's restroom on the second floor of our building.

Thus, I exited my building, walking through a small park on my way to the bus stop...

...and spotted a purse sitting on the sidewalk in that park.

At this point, I became convinced that the Almighty/Almighties was/were testing me.

My first reaction was to look around. This purse was medium-sized (I've little experiences with purses, despite what you may have read in the papers while sitting on the sit-down toilet in the handicapped stall of the men's room on the second floor of my building), and black. It stuck out like a sore thumb on the sidewalk, not twenty feet from the bus stop. There were six or eight fellow FHCRC employees at the bus stop (with a bus moving up a half block away). So, I figured, this must belong to someone nearby. I mean, who would see a purse and just walk away?

Apparently, the guy walking five feet behind me. He looked at me, and the purse, and ran to catch the bus that was now no longer a half block away, but was now pulled up to the bus stop and was picking up the six or eight FHCRC employees who also probably saw the purse, but were getting on the bus, too. So, I did the only thing I knew to do.

I picked up the purse, and decided to take it to the Hutch security office.

The main security office is in another building on the campus, and required me to pass the six or eight Hutch employees (plus the man who was once walking five feet behind me, but was now five feet in front of me), and a bus full of afternoon commuters, while holding a medium-sized purse firmly in my right hand.

As I was passing them, I realized that I'm entirely daft. This may not be an innocent purse.

I don't pretend to understand terrorism; thus, I cannot fathom why my place of employment, a cancer research and treatment facility, would be a target for terrorism. But, as I, a (girly) man, strode past a bus (jam-packed with Seattlites and tourists heading north from downtown on a hot spring day) carrying a medium-sized purse, I began to wonder whether this purse had been put in the park for a nefarious purpose.

Momentarily anxious for my fragile body and big, sexy brain, I attempted (and failed) to reassure myself with, "You've already come this far, and nothing's happened yet. Except you're carrying a purse, and you also found another man's wallet next to a sit-down toilet."

I wanted to break out into a brisk jog at that point, but I didn't want the purse to unleash some ne'er-do-well scheme upon frequent jolting.

"Just get to security, James. Get to security."

I reached security! Success! Gently, and ignoring the stares of passers-by, I placed the purse on the counter and not-so-subtly took five gigantic steps back. I also checked to make sure the man's wallet I'd found next to the sit-down toilet in the handicapped stall was still in my bag, as I thought it'd be a shame to have dropped it in place of the purse. I also thought, if the purse did something nasty right then that would lead to my untimely demise from this Earth, the first officers on scene inspecting my body would have a hell of a time identifying me, as I'd have the wallets of two men on my person, and I'd be the closest victim to what was formerly a purse that a bus full of witnesses could identify me as carrying five minutes prior on the sidewalk.

At this point, I began to hum my undergraduate alma mater. I have no idea why. I was waiting for the single security guard in the office (the rest were on patrol) to get off the phone and come take this potentially nefarious purse from me. But, for some reason, my humming eventually evolved into singing "By the Mighty Mississippi" (quietly, as I'd already done plenty to deface my character today).

As I got to "Though the future years may part us...", she got off the phone. At this point, I had to retrace my five gigantic steps back to the counter to let her know that I was the source of the medium-sized ladies bag. I told her about the purse and she reassured me that it was, most likely, an innocent purse that no one had bothered to turn in. I explained that I had not opened it, and she had me fill out an explanatatory statement of how I discovered the purse.

Relieved, I exited the building, making sure there were no other purses or wallets in my path. Three hours have now passed without me discovering any other discarded personal items of critical importance. I also rang the man to whom the wallet belongs, and he recognized me from work. I will return it to him tomorrow.

But, after I set foot in my (incredibly warm and unfortunately un-air-conditioned) house), I re-analyzed this afternoon's turn-of-events, and came to a startling conclusion:

I didn't care.

Perhaps I should clarify: I'm certainly glad I found those items, and did my best to report and return them to their proper owners. But, there were a few moments in this incredibly odd set of circumstances that, under any other set of circumstances, should've bothered the hell out of me:

Me, with a purse, walking by a bus loaded with people.

I try not to care about potentially (or blatantly) embarrassing events, especially as they are often self-inflicted. But, 99% of the time, I'm mortified, and later disgusted by my mortifications. Zach, time and again, urges me to "not give a sh*t" what others think. I try... oh damn, do I try.

And today, I succeeded. My Caring Meter was down near zero as I strode, purse-in-hand, with one flat-foot in front of a well-arched-foot, small bladder empty (thanks to the sit-down toilet in the handicapped stall), past a busload of strangers (and some not-so-strangers) on my merry way to discover whether or not this purse had any nefarious intentions...

and I didn't give a damn.

Home Brew

My PI, who spends half his time between Seattle and another lab in Taiwan, is back for a brief visit to make sure the lab is still doing science stuff with gusto. I'm only too happy to oblige. But, since his next trip back isn't scheduled until early August, he and I had to discuss "my future," and how long I'd continue working in the lab. Luckily, it didn't take us long to reach a consensus: I'll stay working in the lab up through the end of August. Then, I'll have roughly two weeks of nothinginparticular until I begin various orientation procedures for graduate school and have departmental retreats to attend. Classes and rotations themselves begin at the tail end of September. It's a different school schedule than I'm used to, since high school and such began for me in late August, and the academic year during undergrad began around Labor Day. I realize a lot of these Pacific Northwest schools tailor their academic years to start and end "late" compared to others to fit with the duration of the lovely dry season (June through September), but, not ending spring quarter until late June will take some getting used to.

Hell. Grad school will take some getting used to.

The conversation with my PI brought the whole ordeal to head. I realized I've only a handful of months left before I'm a student again, and - I'll be damned on this one - I still don't feel like I have the simplest grasp on what I'm getting myself into. A friend of mine, who's heading to a much more demanding program (read: M.D./Ph.D.) in Wisconsin this summer, doesn't seem nearly as bothered as I do. Either those M.D./Ph.D. wannabes are supplied with quality crystal balls, or I'm overthinking... again.

Luckily, I feel like I've plenty to keep me busy... enough, at least, to postpone the bulk of the grad-school-overthinking I'd otherwise spend my summer doing. Moving day (1 July) is looming somewhat. A renter has already been found to take my room here, which is lucky since I was beginning to worry about the constant need for a clean, presentable room for the next month. Zach and I are starting again to look for places. At work, my PI has several large experiments for me to tackle prior to my departure, not to mention a request for thorough organization of my data, notebooks, and the like - a titanic feat when one considers my odd methods recordkeeping. Zach and I are also hoping that we'll have some time in early September to take a mini-vacation and visit some friends. You know who you are.

But, since I've devoted tonight to procrastination of packing, here I sit... pondering my future. Thanks to the aforementioned moving-to-Wisconsin friend, though, I'm thinking about it less and less. Several months ago, this friend, J, began brewing beer in his apartment (it helps, you know, to be as gifted a biochemist as he is). Today, sensing some slight tension about the future while we were chatting at work, he went back to his lab, and brought back two bottles of his home-brewed I.P.A. In a word: magnificent.

Things are indeed looking up.

Olfaction

When it comes to laundry, and when to "do laundry," my underwear supply is my limiting factor.

You would think, since underwear is so important to me (there, I admitted it), that I would own underwear in abundance... that I would have enough underwear to last through a nuclear winter, or a few back-and-forth trips to Proxima Centauri. But, instead, underwear is the limiting factor. Once a week, I make a concerted effort to look in my underwear drawer, and note whether or not I can see the drawer's bottom. If not, I'm fine. If so, it's time to do laundry.

So, Saturday, I did three loads of laundry. Now I have underwear a-plenty. And other garments as well. This morning, after my shower, I put on a recently-washed t-shirt, underwear, and jeans that had already been cleaned. I pulled a sweater on over the t-shirt and merrily skipped to the bus stop.

About halfway to the bus, I realized that I smell. Did I put on deodorant? Yes. Cologne? Most definitely.

What the hell was going on, then?

I stopped in my tracks, and took of my sweater. Upon careful scans with my nose, I determined that the sweater smelled great. So did my skin. An awkward lifing of my leg with simultaneous lowering of my nose allowed me to determine that my jeans smelled fine. So, carefully, after making sure no one was peeking, I slowly lifted my shirt, to gater enough of the garment under my nose.

Ah-ha! My shirt stinks to high heaven!

Wait... didn't I just wash it?

I'm 1,000% sure that I actually indeed washed it, and even put a generous amount of laundry detergent in the machine. That shirt should smell like a freaking bed of roses. Why the hell did it stink?

Realizing how much time I'd spent on the sidewalk smelling my clothes, I sprinted to the bus stop, and barely made it in time. I resolved to keep the sweater on for the rest of the day, no matter how hot it go, in the hopes that it would mask the shirt stink. But, of course, I also spent the entire day wrapped in paranoia, thinking every second that my co-workers, or even folks I casually pass in the hallway, are brought to near nausea due to the overwhelming stench of my shirt. To make matters worse, Zach and I dined with a friend tonight, and I could just imagine the friend (and Zach) walking away full of pity for James, how apparently thinks "washing shirts" means "rubbing shirts with warm, fresh buffalo patties."

So, what the hell happened to this shirt? Why did the gods/goddesses up there decide to make this single garment (a valuable t-shirt, no less, as it advertises paleontology) stink to high heaven? I haven't had the courage to check my other clothes from this weekend's laundry yet. I figured, at this point, it's easier to spend the rest of my life in bed, shirtless, with the covers clutched around me.

The Envelope

Zach recently bought Season Four of Seinfeld. We've been going through it bit-by-bit together.

Today, we somehow made our way through three episodes. During one of George Castanza's fits, Zach and I had the following exchange:

Me: "You know, you do [something George was doing] sometimes, too."
Zach, smiling: "Yeah, I know."
Me, thinking: "Actually, you [something George did in the previous episode] as well."
Zach: "Yeah."
Me: "And... remember when you [something else George has done]?"
Zach: "Yeah. Wasn't that weird?"
Me: "Yeah. And kinda scary."
Zach: "Why's that?"
Me: "You're short, too."
Zach: "Yeah. But I'm not balding."
Me: "Still... it's like I'm dating George..."
pause
Me: "I'm... dating George Castanza."
pause
Me: "I'm dating George Castanza."

The perfect ending to this exchange would've been Zach asking me to lick an envelope for him. But, instead, he got up to use the bathroom.

Actually, it's a good thing he didn't ask me to lick any envelopes. I might've lost it.

Night Life

Thursday night, both Zach and I experienced some difficulty falling asleep. I blame anticipation of our nearly-three-day weekend. You see, we were getting up Friday morning and going - no, not to work - but to see the newest (and final) Star Wars film. Not VI, but III. The most fascinating things, after all, are done out of order.

Wait, could it really have been excitement in anticipation of seeing George Lucas' latest childhood fantasy plastered on the big screen? Is that what really kept me from falling asleep like a my six-year-old self, just before going to Disney World for the first time, found slumber an impossible goal?

Sh*t. It was.

Oh well. Seeing it so freaking soon after it was released was Zach's idea. Whew.

Anyway, we saw it. We weren't the first ones in line, having chosen to dine with our movie-going companion, Straton, at the Five Point Cafe in Tillicum Square near the Space Needle. If you're looking for a "grungy, but delightfully grungy" place to consume any-ol' meal, served with a heap of graceless (yet entirely well-meaning) brusqueness, then this is your place! Never again shall I find an all-black exterior (and interior, for that matter) intimidating. The real dilemma now is whether a t-shirt that proudly displays the phrase "Alcoholics serving alcoholics since 1929" is too inappropriate an advertisement. After all, I've only tried their breakfast.

As for the film, you'll have to make inquiries with Zach regarding his own Star Wars philosophy. He's put so much thought into it that my humble suggestion of teaching a course entitled "An Introduction to Philosophical Themes in the Films of George Lucas" at Columbia University was actually interpreted as teasing. Perhaps because I didn't have my game face on. Drat.

Unfortunately, two-and-a-half hours of special effects on a large screen overloaded my brain. Work in the afternoon (only a half day off for me!) was a bit of a blur. I felt like it was already night. Aside from an hour-and-a-half interlude, where Zach and I dined with friends, and a shared pitcher of Mac and Jack's (for reasons I've yet to comprehend), gave me my second wind long enough to enjoy the well-earned meal at A New York Pizza Place, the rest of the evening was spent in a technology-induced coma. Zach somehow got me home, and into bed.

Just in time for one of my hosuemates to begin his rather extravagant birthday celebrations.

Of course, I'd been warned about festivities well ahead of time. Originally, I'd planned for Zach and I, after dinner, to head out either to TheatreSports, or perhaps to stir up some mischief on Capitol Hill or in the International District. The Dark Side of the Force must have drained my spirit, though, as I found myself instead exiting A New York Pizza Place, bidding Rachel and Brad farewell, and begging Zach to take me to a bed. Why neither of us chose the bed in his own, relatively quiet apartment is beyond me. Habit, most likely. Damn primate neural patterns.

Anyway, as I noted above, the party was barely beginning by the time we stumbled upstairs and my head hit the pillow. I'm usually a light sleeper, which can lead to sime interesting experiences. Last night, however, was an exception for both of us.

Until, several hours later, the party evolved into a pseudo-karaoke festival, complete with shrilling trills and other vocal patterns that made me curse the primate heritage of all Homo sapiens, as I was woken suddenly from my Skywalker-induced coma-like state. The next two or three hours are a blur... as I fell in and out of consciousness with an abruptness unbecoming for someone with such a... fragile, coalition-based constitution. Each time I awoke, I found that, in my semi-conscious states, where I'd struggled to remain asleep (or, at least, refrain from completely waking up), I'd torn and tugged at covers, pillows, and boyfriends. Zach, more able to sleep through the commotion downstairs than I, contented himself with grasping hold of me and holding tight, lest my elbow find a stray eye socket to poke.

Why didn't I merely wake up alltheway, stumble downstairs, and demand that the party volume decrease by a minimum factor of ten? Well, first off, that would've required waking up alltheway... which, though I was obviously in between REM cycles, was possible, my pride got in the way. I'd spent way too much effort refraining from sleep earlier at dinner to deprive my body and soul of its slumbersome reward (such as it was). Besides, though I'm not at all close to either housemate, and I'm moving out (thankfully) in five weeks, they did give me warning of the festivities, and ample time to object. Blame George Lucas.

As the party died down, so did my semi-conscious slashings. Zach was able to let go, and I finally into a true, deep sleep again.

I woke up this morning, however, not-very-rested. I calculated some 10 hours of sleep under my belt, though only five to six hours of which was what I could call a "productive REM period." Sluggishly dragging my feet, I thought of the perfect juvenile solution to my problems-that-aren't-really-problems:

"Hey Zach! Let's go to the zoo today!"

Though they lack an Enhydra lutris exhibit, and they make the horrific mistake of letting children in, I'm still generally satisfied with the Woodland Park Zoo. Zach knows full well that, for me, "going to the zoo" is more than walking through and seeing the animals. It's almost a religious experience, combined with droll lectures I insist on giving as we travel from one exhibit to the next.

"Tigers, like leopards, are generally classified in the mammalian taxon Carnivora. Here we see a mother and two Panthera tigris female cubs, who were born on..."

"While mammals are believed to be derived ultimately from the Reptilia taxon 'Synapsida,' these turtles here are from the 'Anapsida.' These terms refer to a unique skull feature displayed on the sides..."

"The peacock seen over there is pretty far derived from what paleontologists often call the first 'true' bird, the 150 million year-old Archaeopteryx lithographica, which was discovered in Bavarian limestone in the 1860s..."

Luckily, I spent so much of the zoo adventure still in a primordial daze that I skipped the lectures and instead oogled at my favorites with provincial wonder and delight. I even shoved a few kids out of my way to get better glances at
-Orangutans
-Rabbits ("But it isn't girly to like rabbits, is it?")
-Northern and Snowy Owls
-Siamangs
-Hippopotami
-Toucans
-Brown Bears
-Fennecs
-Wallabies
-Turkey Vultures
-DeBrazza's Guenons
-Pygmy Marmosets

But really, if I go to the Woodland Park Zoo, a visit is not complete without the "Day and Night Exhibits." The building, aptly named, houses various day-and-night exhibits. First, one must wander through the "day" exhibits of various desert and tropical reptiles and amphibians. Oh, and wading through the screaming children is a 'must.'

Yet, I really live for the night exhibit, at the very least because the number of visitors allowed in at a time is strictly regulated, and signs encourage all to keep quiet. So, I have no qualms, in theory, about telling a child of any age to shut-the-hell-up when his or her bad parent won't do it for me.

Every time we enter the night exhibit, I tell Zach that I'm coming for the blind cave fish. Yet, I'm really going to see the Slow Loris, my favorite prosimian. At this point, if you're wondering why you don't have a favorite prosimian, rest assured that I'm wondering the same thing. And I'm concerned.

Anyway, arboreal and obviously comfortable with nocturnal activity, I ungraciously shove my way through the darkened halls of the night exhibit to reach their habitat, shared only with nocturnal armadillos that gleefully speed along the ground, occasionally hitting the thick panes of glass that separate Spectators from Spectated (I'll let you decide who's who). A few times, I've been lucky enough to catch one of the lorises steadily grasping a branch close to the glass barrier, so we can briefly, and blessedly, make some primate eye-to-eye. I'll sit, transfixed, contemplating its large, inquisitive eyes, steady hands and feet, and even coating of fur until the loris, satisfied that our distant cousinly connection no longer warrants his or her presence, skillfully (and, yes, slowly) climbs back up to the top of its enclosure.

Today, I was greeted with - not one - but three lorises perched on a branch near the glass barrier, grooming and stroking one another with the care that Zach showed last night, as he grappled with my semi-conscious body. All three, at one time or another, would take time to stare in my direction. I did my best to fill their field of view, grinning from ear-to-ear while trying hard to refrain from squealing like the children nearby viewing the nocturnal porcupines, anteaters, and bats. I briefly considered raising myself on the platform (I was seated on a bench installed up against the enclosure) and opening my arms wide in a kindred gesture of understanding - "I am, like you, a primate. Come, for we belong together!" I was content, instead, to fold my arms and lean in, resting my chin on the edge of the bench back. Watching, like them, my primate brothers and sisters, and waiting.

They groomed and groomed and grooomed. Delicate and persistent. Then, one moved. And another. Then, the third. All selected their own courses, their own branches. They were moving, slowly, deliberately, purposefully, to the glass that separated us. This was it! They understood my non-vocal call, and were answering! I was about to experience a bonding with my primate cousins on levels trumped only by Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey! All the recent difficult nights - Thursday night in suspense of George Lucas' latest manifestation of his special-effects-laden primate urges; Friday morning in a dark theatre filled with Jedi primates and their school-skipping younglings; Friday night grappling with noisy hominids - it was all washed away in this pure connection, millions of years in the making.

Delighted and uplifted, I leaned in...

...and unceremoniously banged my head against the glass barrier.

Startled and annoyed, my prosimian compatriots performed abrupt about-faces, retreating back to their arboreal home, leaving me below... with a startled armadillo the next enclosure over curled in a ball, two nocturnal porcupines darting to safety, a room full of children and parents staring wide-eyed at me through the dark, and a boyfriend doubled over in laughter next to me.

Next time, my friends. Next time.

Ten Minutes of Unnecessary Laughter

Sometimes, I think Zach simply tries to hard:

last night, in bed
"I really love your... uh... manly skin?"

Statistics

More often than not, quick little question-and-answer analyses of my complex political, socioeconomic, and cultural values make me vomit. I dislike being pigeonholed into a small number of possible answers (especially when I can't find an answer that I agree with 100%). As usual, the answer choices were abysmal. But, I was at least encouraged by the results, which showed my fiscal side leveling out, as opposed to the days of my youth, where I was far-left 24/7. Whew. It's true: I can think for myself!

Asterisk

Sometimes, complete strangers really lift my spirits.

A (presumed) couple, on the bus, are having a heated discussion.

Guy: "I listened to NPR at the end of work today on the computer."
Girl, annoyed: "What's that got to do with it?"
Guy: "Well, it's a year after [same sex marriage] started in Massachusetts, and only like a third of gay 'couples' [hand quotation marks used] have even gotten married."
Girl: "So?"
Guy: "So?! Don't you get it?! Even THEY don't want it. So I thi-"
Girl: "No. Don't even."
pause, both take a deep breath
Girl: "It's odd how you do that."
Guy: "Do what?"
Girl: "Assume that it shouldn't be enacted just because 99% of all gay couples in Boston didn't immediately run off and get married. There are plenty of reasons many of them may have stayed away, including fear of taking such a public commitment when people like my sister and her girlfriend can't even plant flowers in their front yard without getting heckled."
Guy: "Well, they might not get yelled at if they wouldn't act all butch."
Girl: "Shut-up. And since when should a group of people be denied basic rights of committed partners simply because a majority of them haven't taken advantage of it, for whatever reason? If a majority of kids in Seattle went to private schools, should the city shut down the public schools?"
Guy: "You're just twisting the argu-"
Girl: "No, I don't think I am. Should the city shut down all public education simply because a MAJORITY of kids aren't taking advantage of it?"
Guy crosses his arms in frustration.
Girl: "Yeah, I thought so. So, under what you just implied, the government shouldn't offer a service unless it'll work for the majority. Over half of all marriages end in divorce or separation. Should we get rid of that?"

Unfortunately, they got off the bus at this point.

You go, girl!

Magic Yo-yo

Recently, Cookie Monster on Sesame Street began telling America's youth (I suppose I should count myself in that category, too) that cookies, though good, are really a "sometimes food." Good show, Cookie Monster.

I suppose it's the same with me and Nintendo. A "sometimes activity." With almost distrubing therapeutic properties. Now, perhaps once a month, I subject the old NES (or sometimes SNES) to a thorough work-out. Well, not exactly thorough... but quality. While I'm playing, I don't seem to be concentrating on the game, exactly... I go through the motions, but find my mind wandering to other matters. Ordering my head. Who knew Star Tropics could be so beneficial? That damn magic yo-yo does EVERYTHING.

Last evening, and again this morning, ended up as "sometimes Nintendo" hours. My mind was ordered (though I doubt neural pathways were re-routed, alas), and the take-home message: "You'll be okay."

With all the change looming in my world, I'd been moving from "calm and centered" to "slightly apprehensive and frankly peeved." Sure, I'm excited to move, end my job this summer, and begin graduate school. But... hell, though it sounds good on paper, I'm not a person who changes well. So, I've been thinking a lot over the past week... concerning how exactly all of this will play out. I wasn't, quite frankly, getting anywhere. Well, that's a lie. I was getting plenty of logistical thinking done... how to do this... how to accomplish that, etc. But, James' soul (I'm pretty sure I have one) wasn't catching up to all of the changes, plans, and so forth. I was feeling tired, restless, and anxious.

But suddenly, whatever introspection I was capable of while playing Nintendo, things began to fall into place. The conclusions are simple enough to induce laughter: "I will be okay." What the hell does that mean? Well, I'll move on 1 July, set up a (hopefully quality) primate dwelling with Zach (minus piano, unfortunately). Then, sometime in the late summer, I'll depart my job, and hopefully do a little traveling to see some friends before late September rolls around. Finally, come late September, I'll start graduate school... and... well... I'll go from there.

Yeah, it's a pretty simple progression of events. But, my mind didn't grasp hold of it until... well... last evening. At first, it seemed like a daunting task - so much change in so little time! Now, though, it's something I can wrap my brain around, think about, and begin to accomplish a little at a time. My housemates are already showing my room today to an interested party. Yes, that meant some cleaning (just a little!). And, I thought, since I'll need to start organizing and packing things eventually, I might as well start now. I began to take a few things off the walls (if you know me, you'll know that my walls are often covered... I don't do well with negative space), but not too much. I didn't want to end up with blank walls to stare at for the next six weeks. But, I felt like I was accomplishing something - moving towards that 1 July goal. Now, it seems that, one small step at a time, I'll indeed get this done. I suppose it's easier for me to do tasks like these in small pieces. Little-by-little. I've heard enough from other friends concerning "marathon packing weekends." While I'm sure I'll have some marathon packing as 1 July looms, I feel much more centered doing at least some of this bit-by-bit.

As for graduate school, though I admitted to a current graduate student on the bus the other day that I still "have no idea what I've gotten myself into," I'm more optimistic these days. At a co-workers bowling birthday bash yesterday, I spoke with two current graduate students about what I'll be getting into this autumn. Both were frank, yet encouraging. They acknowledged that it's daunting, but, being friends who know me pretty well, also pointed out that it's something I'll be able to handle. I've also been speaking to another graduate student who, while I can't place him in the "friend" category, I'll easily put in the "acquaintance" pile. All-in-all, yes: it'll be tough and time-consuming, but I'm feeling more that this is something I can get through, and still go home at night to my primate dwelling and tickle Zach.

Also, at that bowling gathering yesterday, I re-discovered that I'm a sh*tty bowler. Yet, I like to bowl. Contradiction? Perhaps.

But, then I went home, cleaned a little more, played a little Star Tropics, and suddenly all the cards fell into place.

Damn. That magic yo-yo can do anything.

The Jeffersons

I gave my landlord and housemates notice today... I'm moving out 1 July. Yes, it means that I, the One Who Hates Change and Fears Uncertainty, must now find a place to live with Zach.

Oh yeah, and I have to move there, too. Damn.

We're scouting out cat-friendly places (just in case), and I've actually had to clean my room, in anticipation of showing it around to possible replacements in the coming month.

Though I don't own much furniture, I found myself, both last night and this morning, looking around my room and realizing, "Wow... I have a lot of stuff." Perhaps a purge (or twelve) will be necessary before July comes.

You never know. We may even have an apartment-warming party. *gasp*

Dawn

It all started at around midnight last night. I woke up (or, at least, I'm pretty sure I woke up) to Zach tapping me furiously on the shoulder. As is usual when one interrupts me in the midst of a REM cycle, I was disoriented and groggy...

Me: "What? What is it?!"
Zach, indicating to the clock: "See? It's both upstream and downstream!"
Me: "Huh?"
Zach, suddenly very serious: "Go back to sleep, James."
Me: "What? What are you talking about?"
Zach: "Go back to sleep."
Me, suddenly full of panic: "But I don't understand!"
Zach: "Go back to sleep."

Perhaps the whole situation, or part of it, was a dream. Perhaps Zach was playing a joke on me. In any case, this morning, Zach claimed no recollection of the conversation last night. He proposed, as I have, that I was dreaming. Or, that I had been talking in my sleep, woken myself up, and roused Zach in the process, and his midnight urges of "Go back to sleep" were the only "real" thing he said.

In any case, I resolved to devote today to some Good Thought regarding this matter. I've no Thoughtful Spot, unfortunately, so decided I must go about my day, and just keep this incident on the back burner.

But, for some reason, I had trouble remembering details. My memories of the incident were enveloped in fog... details were jumbled, chaotic. Usually, such an inability to recall would leave me anxious and unnerved. But, today, it kind of tickled. The kind of good feeling that urges you to turn up at least one corner of your mouth and give a self-satisified (though entirely internalized) guffaw. You just don't feel right unless, at least to yourself, you admit, "This is all rather daft and silly." Go on, try it.

Anyway, I decided that, since I sometimes do my best thinking in the bathroom, my morning shower would shed some light on it all. Well, it didn't. Instead, I became incredibly groggy. Almost as foggy as my memories of the (alleged) conversation at around midnight last night. The next few tasks, including drying off, dressing, assembling my lunch, and so forth, went from "hum-drum and simple" to "extraordinary feats requiring as much gravitational pull as the Andromeda Galaxy." Perhaps I exaggerate a tad (but just a tad!), yet you get the idea. I somehow stumbled to the bus stop and crawled into lab.

Obviously, about an hour into this morning's work, a trip to the espresso stand downstairs became my sluggish cerebrum's top priority. Lurching down the hall, my bladder and my grey matter momentarily touched base, and decided that a second trip to a bathroom (remember, my best thinking can be done in bathrooms!) would be mutually beneficial to both organs. I still, after all, despite my near diseased state of unconsciousness, had to give some Good Thought to the (alleged) conversation/dreamlike state from last night.

Approaching the bathroom, however, Good Thought was derailed. I saw a sign posted by my employer advertising Friday, 20 May, as "Bike to Work Day." Good Thought Regarding (Alleged) Conversations was replaced by Good Thought Regarding Me and Bicycles. "Bike to Work Day" participants get free t-shirts for being environmentally friendly and willing to embrace "alternative transportation routes." I love free t-shirts.

But, as I painfully pointed out (to myself, and thankfully not out loud) in the bathroom: I haven't touched a bike in over twelve years.

I was (and remain) too foggy to recall all of the details regarding WHY?. Let's just rack it up to a combination of persistent childhood teasing from my peers and an overly-ambitious father. Yet, the result: no bike for James. Yeah, even in such a bike-heavy city like Seattle.

So, as I washed my hands, I thought not about the (alleged) conversation last night, but about how I felt robbed of a free t-shirt and water bottle (I forgot to mention that detail earlier), just because of some nose-picking rugrats in rural Illinois fourteen years ago. Plus, I already embrace "alternative, environmentally-friendly transportation": I take a bus daily that runs on electric power or reduced-pollutant gasoline!

I began to imagine my own t-shirt:

"I take a bus daily because I haven't used a bike in twelve years because I was different as a child and so I was teased."

Eh, it could use some trimming down. And need we say "because" twice in the same sentence?

"Since I was teased as a child as I rode my bike, I haven't used one in twelve years."

Better, but mention the bus before they envision you commuting down I-5 in an SUV.

"Your snot-nosed kids would tease me if I rode a bike. So would you ungrateful bastards, as a matter of fact. Get of my bus!"

Less rage. More substance. You're not a supervillian.

"I'm riding this bus because I was teased."

Better... but let's try-

Oops! Suddenly, I found that I'd reached the espresso stand! I quickly had to shelve my t-shirt plans. Two friends from a neighboring lab, S and C, apparently saw me stumbling and lurching down the hallway, amused at my near-sleepwalking habits of locomotion today. Luckily, they didn't suggest that it would've been better for me to take a bicycle. I probably would've cried.

S pointed out how tired I looked. I can only imagine what he saw. I explained to him, C, and the barista (A), about the dream/conversation I'd had with Zach last night. Entirely weirded out, they took Zach's stance, insisting that I'd been dreaming. I shrugged my shoulders in response, though inwardly vowing that I really had spoken to Zach, even if he'd only been urging me to go back to sleep.

Latte in hand, I began to stumble back up to lab, assuring myself that, once the caffeine coaxes its way through my veins, thinks will make much more sense.

And, you know what, by 9:30AM, I was right. I'd resolved to complain (mostly to myself) in only small doses regarding "Bike to Work Day." So what if I can't join the ultra-cool (and oftentimes ultra-hot) bikers in their morning commute next Friday? I'm more inclined to walk to places anyway, and am a huge fan of mass transit. Plus, the money that I don't spend purchasing and maintaining a bicycle (plus accessories) can someday be put towards a purchase that will really settle my soul and provide me with the ultimate Thoughtful Spot: a piano.

And the (alleged) conversation with Zach last night? Most likely, it was at least half a dream, and the rest was probably a conversation induced by my confusion, after either talking aloud or waking myself up. Poor Zach was probably scared out of his wits, but is used to waking up suddenly at night and urging me back to sleep. Perhaps he's so used to it that he forgot all about the incident, hence his memory lapse this morning.

I was about to ring him at work and inform him of my morning spent in Good Thought, when I realized that, during my two trips to the bathroom, I'd failed to zip my fly.

Color Wheel

The other day, I irrationally snapped at Zach: "I'm feeling vulnerable, okay?!"

Which, of course, begs the question: Why, James? Why feel vulnerable?

I'll just lightly sidestep the issue a little bit... and merely point out that I've been feeling a little paranoid lately. Not like NASA's trying to kill me or anything (damn geeks). Just that I feel a bit... well... picked at. For one reason or another, various minor criticisms have been tossed my way the past week, and I've been unable to brush them aside, with a mental, "F*ck off" tossed to the sources of criticism. Thus, I ended the week on a rather low mental point... which culminated in snapping at Zach for no reason. I told him some of my major beefs, and a few of the minor ones. Since the major ones aren't quite suitable for sharing, I'll just share a few of the minor ones.

Of course, showing only the minor criticisms, or "pickings on," can be quite dangerous. You could all walk away with, "That's all that's bothering him? What a freak." But, I figured that's an opinion that can easily be inserted up your hindquarters without much discomfort.

Confessional:
1. Sometimes, when I see certain words, or even combinations of letters, or just listen to certain tones and musical selections, I think of colors. We're not talking Terry and Laurie Bohner, here. But, say the word "dinner," and I think of something black. Yeah, I'm insane. But, at least I don't think I've inspired this:
"Terry and I worship an unconventional deity. The power of another dimension. Now you are not going to read about this dimension in a book or a magazine because it exists nowhere... but in my own mind. Through our ceremonies and rituals we have witnessed the awesome and vibratory power... of color."
Anyway, the opening to Brahms' Symphony No. 4 in E minor is a dull salmon color. The numbers 2 and 8 are blue. My name? Tan.

2. Pink Floyd's The Great Gig in the Sky alternates between a dark navy blue and black. But, when I admitted to liking that particular tune (I omitted the color information), their reaction was worse than the color confessional.

3. I'm also a cat person. I got sh*t for that, too.

4. I'm reading a book about Tudor England, the period of British history I find most fascinating. It's yet another non-fiction account of the six wives of King Henry VIII. Someone inquired about their significance. I barely got past Catherine of Aragon before several folks launched into formal freak-out mode.

5. I paint my toenails. Can we deal with that?

6. I also watch South Park, which is apparently demeaning to women.

7. Finally, I apparently don't know "anything" about the geologic time scale, which is saying a lot since I studied geology in college.

So, with all of that off my chest, I hope the world can forgive the above shortcomgings. And, if not, then frig' ya'!

Forty-Nine and Fifty

Co-Worker #1: "...Let's ask James. He'll know."
James comes around the corner.
James: "What?"
Co-Worker #1: "When did Alaska become a state?"
James, without missing a beat: "1959."
Co-Worker #2: "Well, when did Hawaii become a state, then?"
James, again, without missing a beat: "1959... about six or seven months later. So, there's a brief period in between where the flag has forty-nine stars."

I spent the next hour filled with pride... and the next hour after that sitting, wondering if I indeed should be proud that my head is filled with such... stuff.

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition

I am a good person. A responsible, law-abiding citizen. A decent human being.

I am active in society. I vote, only after careful consideration of the issues and candidates. I am wary of blind straight-party voting. I believe government cannot morally ignore the needs of its people, or deprive one group of citizens of the rights conferred upon another.

I believe that the best parents love their children, and read to them. I donate money to charity. If I know someone expecting a baby, I purchase them copies of The Lorax or The Sneetches. I recycle enthusiastically. When I don't know something, I look it up. I am learning Latin. I love broccoli and encourage children to eat their vegetables. I can feel guilt.

If you're going to get married, I will gladly buy you a toaster.

I believe that life is a series of morally-defining moments. My mother likes the man I've fallen for. When driving, I brake for pedestrians. I greet the bus drivers with a friendly, "Hello!" I feel it is a matter of responsibility to know what is going on in the world. I don't bite my nails. I appreciate music.

I do not cheat on my taxes. Though I could eat all of the food in my kitchen, I won't.

I am friendly, kind, and considerate. Though I am shy, I will give you a hug, if asked in a respectful manner.

So, can someone PLEASE explain to me why a pimple is forming on the tip of my nose?