Nekkid, Clueless and Feelin' Good: March 21, 2001

Wednesday,
March 21, 2001

What the shit?

Aw, what the hell is going on with this thing NOW? First Mr. Grinder writes me with a polite note to inform me that the email link at the top had apparently shit the bed, to quote the beauteous Nance, and now I find out that not only has the Clix link been multiplying upon itself like a Republican lobbyist with free PAC funds, but so has the link to Cool Canadian bands.

Okay, fine. Dreamweaver wants to play weird-ass games with me? I can fix that. This page is now templated, dammit. Be easier to keep everything updated now, anyway.

Now that that's done, I'd like to say a big hello to my long-suffering husband Lyndon, who called me today at work to inform me that he's been reading the journal and wanted to know:

Who this waiter guy was, and;

Why was I mentioning the waiter and Dave Matthews more that I was mentioning him ("I did a headcount -- I'm just ahead of David Duchovny, which is only marginally reassuring," Lyndon said in mock grumpiness)

All of which is understandable, as Lyndon's on his own in the icebox of Europe and has nobody to ogle. Perhaps Lyndon should start his own journal, complete with musings on his thing for Kim Cattrell and other real-life lovelies whom he encounters (and I know full well that Lyndon knows a few. And Lyndon knows who I'm talking about, right, pumpkin?). In any case, I'd like to mention my dear husband Lyndon here and reassure him that no matter how much I may natter about the nice scenery, he's always tops in my headcount.

More importantly, I mailed off the affidavit of support via UPS Express today. According to their 1-2 business days policy, hon, it should be in your hands by Friday, and by Monday at the very latest. I know you won't actually relax until the interview is over, but hopefully the fact that the stuff (forms, marriage and birth certificates, pictures, letter from TSB attesting to my employment, recent pay stub, and the Swedish tax records with accompanying explanation) is on its way will help.

I owe Samantha Ling yet another debt of thanks for her suggestion about story elements yesterday. Ahem:

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It was a gorgeous spring morning on the Pax America Commune, the new load of hay was almost stacked away in the barn, and Marcus Aberham had already enjoyed his first joint of the day, which is why he didn't panic when the bat circled out of the hayloft's dusty darkness and plopped down on his shoulder. "There you are!" it squeaked. "Jesus, Allah and Zoroaster, do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?"

Marcus blinked at the small winged rodent. He didn't think that he'd mixed any of the Woodstock Special in with his usual weed. "Uh, are you talking to me?" he said.

"Who am I supposed to talk to, the cow? Do you see any other people in this damn barn?" the bat huffed.

"Hey, chill, little winged dude," Marcus said soothingly. "It's just that sometimes Astral likes getting creative with the shit and doesn't always remember to tell us. Like, last time, I wound up toking some of his Jefferson Airplane Deluxe, and had this really deep rap with that big oak out in the north pasture, only it turns out that the oak really wanted to rap with one of the cats and ask it to stop pissing on the bark, so, like, I just wanted to check."

It was the bat's turn to blink. "You had a conversation with a tree?"

Marcus smiled. "Well, it was a really deep tree, man."

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