Into Darkness We Go, For No Apparent Reason

I saw Star Trek Into Darkness last night. If you know me at all, you know that I'm a Star Trek fan, and I can be a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to movies. So it won't surprise you to learn that I won't be adding this title to any list of favorites. But let me begin by saying that it's not the actors' fault. I love Chris Pine as Kirk, even though he seems to only ever get the shit kicked out of him and has none of the wry confidence of Shatner. I love Zachary Quinto as Spock, even though the friendship between him and Kirk is only apparent in that the dialogue says so. I even love Karl Urban as McCoy, even though he has never played the practical, emotional role he is meant to to be relevant in the friendship triad between him, Kirk, and Spock. But since we're given no reason to believe there is any friendship there in the first place, this issue is moot.

And, yes, it's important that the franchise is finally being given budgets that allow for the kind of epic sci-fi storytelling that fans have craved for decades. But there's the rub. Even with a very respectable budget and a fine cast and a fan following that is willing to accept less in hopes of getting more -- even with all these things, the failing of this movie is in the hopelessly terrible storytelling. Despite its urgency to stick its head up its own ass, this movie can't even figure out which hole that is. It is a mess. A mess that I will refrain from going into, because you will have things spoiled for you. And even though once you know what those things are you will want to kick something, I afford you the right to be disappointed on your own terms.

I will also say that -- for his years of mantra-like insistence that he never liked Star Trek -- J.J. Abrams signed off on an embarrassing amount of fan-targeted hand-jobbery, all of which still misses the point. The way I described it last night was that it's as if there is a deck of Star Trek flash cards that was used to populate the film with references and species and memorable quotations in a completely context-free and haphazard manner, to the point where, if you actually know the context that is being ignored or care about the story that is being co-opted, it's difficult to not be offended.

I will clarify that I don't think J.J. Abrams needed to be a Trek fan. I don't dislike him for not knowing the series. Nicholas Meyer wasn't a Trek fan, and his was the finest of the franchise features. It's not the fandom that matters. It's the desire to make a movie that doesn't suck. Whatever his intentions may have been, the movie J.J. Abrams made is a pastiche of formidable elements that does not coalesce into anything significant. And that would be easier to excuse if he hadn't had at his disposal all of the necessary resources to make something great.

If you know me, let's talk about this in greater detail over drinks, because you won't want to talk to me about this without them.

Like the man said, "Nothing lasts forever."

Every time Deep Space Nine ends, I feel as if I've ended a small life of my own. Every time I hear Vic Fontaine sing The Way You Look Tonight, I feel like I'm saying goodbye all over again. To something that was never quite in my grasp. It all ended in a blaze of white light six years ago. And now it just ends and ends and ends. For some reason, I never feel such attachment to the beginnings.

This has been a difficult and painful week for me. Challenges and cares floating on a raft of small successes and hopes. I have cocooned myself away. I have slept nearly not at all. I have rubbed my eyes a lot. Blown my nose a lot. Felt like I'd been run over by a truck. Wished the truck had stopped to cart away some of my belongings before driving off.

This month -- this week -- is filled with many anniversaries. Many birthdays. I am marking the milestones the way you measure distance on a map. With fingers swiveling, itsy bitsy spider-style. An inch is a hundred miles. A year is a lifetime.

I am sorry for not holding on more tightly. I am sorry for many things.

That man loves me. Couldn't you see it? It was written all over his back.

Beisuboru or "I was hoping for that reaction."

I know no one wants to hear how much I love Deep Space Nine, but I can't shut up about it. And season 7 is airing on Spike TV these days, so I'm watching my two episodes a day and being sent into a familiar reverie of anguish and delight. The "Take Me Out to the Holosuite" episode is on right now, and Sisko, having been challenged by the smarmy Captain Solok of the Starship Tecumbra (a ship with an all-Vulcan crew), tells his senior staff that he has accepted Solok's challenge to "a contest of courage, teamwork, and sacrifice" on their behalf. Worf's stoic reply, "We will destroy them," is priceless to me.

I used to date a rabid Yankees fan, and I loved playing in the orchestra for Damn Yankees. Adding in this television program, I think I might actually be a bona fide baseball nut. I even have Dodger Dogs in my fridge.

Nana Visitor also looks hot in her practice duds. Maybe that's all American baseball needs to catch my permanent fancy: Bajorans.

Epilogue

Then Nog doesn't know what to do when the runner doesn't touch home plate, and Worf yells, "Find him and kill him!" Ah, if only.

Second Epilogue

And then they are trying to give Rom batting signals, and he says, "What?" Who knew heaven could happen on a baseball diamond?

Master at Arms

I'll say one thing for Jean-Luc Picard. He doesn't have to be physically held back by his crew as frequently as James T. Kirk. What a hothead that guy is. At least once per film, he's being restrained by two or more crew members, lest he do the thing that will jeopardize the safety of himself, his crew, his ship, or the universe. You'd think a guy who made it to admiral would have begun learning to suss things out when emotions run high. But then, I guess that's maybe why he lost his admiralship and ended up a mere captain again. Even though that's what he actually wanted. Maybe he just likes having his crew manhandle him. After all, it never takes that much effort to hold him back. And I've seen people who are making a fuss and have to be restrained. They may not break free, but they usually manage to mess their own hair up a little at least. In Star Trek: The Motion Picture, McCoy and Spock hold him back as the Decker Unit gives himself up to V'ger for the sake of Earth, but he's really just standing there protesting verbally. I suspect posturing. He never liked the Decker Unit anyway.

I often revert to my Star Trek vexations after coming across suspiciously human. It's my way of reminding you that I'm really just a cartoon character. Or it's how I throw you off the scent. I expect pursuit to be greatly depressed by a whiff of my Federation-issue pheromones. Back off, curious. It takes effort to make it to the grave alone.

Finger Foods

I accompanied Kevin to a screening of two shorts being hosted by the company he is about to begin working for. One was an animated Indiana Jones-y thing that was very cute and had no dialogue at all. The other was Most, a lovely and sad little film, mainly in Czech, written by two guys, one of whose names was immediately familiar to me. I told Kevin he's the guy who played Johnny Lawrence in The Karate Kid, the mean blond boy and star pupil of the Cobra Kai dojo. I don't think Kevin believed me. But it turns out I was right.

After the screening and a small reception, we went to the Cat and Fiddle where Jeff met up with us, and we gabbed and drank and avoided befriendment from the guy to our left who obviously wished his companion had as much to say about Star Trek and bathroom etiquette as we did. To be fair to Jeff, Kevin and I were the only ones talking about Star Trek. But we are defined by the company we keep.

I've had difficulty getting past the gloom. Seeing sad movies sometimes makes me think that it is necessary and appropriate. That things aren't as beautiful when they are perfect and pretty. I am more likely to take a picture of something broken or smashed or chipped than of something brand new and untouched. I like the desolation of abandoned buildings. I like to picture how things used to be or how they might have been.

My body is sore from many gymnasium visits. My teeth are tired from gritting. I think working in an office promotes nostalgic episodes in me, because I am more inclined to listen to music and be reminded of things. And yet, there is nearly no sensory input that doesn't have the potential to send me off into a reverie. I am so busy remembering I wonder if I'm ever really here.

A Crinkle in Time

I stayed home from work today. Woke up with a piercingly painful sore throat. So I decided to work from my couch. Out of concern for my co-workers. With the consumption of copious amounts of water and tea, I actually feel fine now. Fine enough to watch my pair of Deep Space Nine episodes, which happened to be the final episode of the series. It still makes something in me flutter. It still makes me tear up a little. It still makes me yearn for the lingering tendrils of nostalgia that once made remembering both wonderful and horrible. That final shot of Jake and the station is so lonely. The theme music, too. I long for a world of wide open spaces.

The future is a place you go by yourself. What you find there; there are no guarantees.

And the further you get from the origins of nostalgia, the more varied strata of other things stack up between you and the thing, and suddenly your memory isn't of the thing anymore but of your last memory of remembering the thing. I've talked about this before. Even this is an observation once removed.

I used to make popcorn and chicken sandwiches late at night. I never liked the scent they left on me. But it mattered less then.

As Good As It Was

I drove to San Diego yesterday to perform in some comedy shows. I also stopped over at Sarah's for Paul's birthday party, where some fun was had. We even went to The Lamplighter because Sarah wanted me and Beulah to sing karaoke. And I ended up on the stage alone. I sang "Rosanna." Then I left. And I really think The Lamplighter is a shitty bar. I always have. I always will.

I had to rush over to the comedy theater to play the late show and our monthly midnight show, in which I am allowed to say words more representative of the words that actually come out of my mouth when talking than one might be able to tell from watching the regular PG-13 show. The midnight show is a fun excursion. We don't do the short-form games of which I grow so bored. We do long-formy stuff, and we get to be more creative with edits. And none of this is entertaining to talk about. I had a fun enough time, despite some disappointments. And I drove home in the rain in the wee hours, listening to a very old playlist on my iPod that sent me into a strange reverie. Strange and painless. I was almost trying to force myself to feel nostalgic and wistful. It's like I miss all that heartache. Like I don't know how to want things in the absence of being denied them. This all ended in getting into bed at the hateful hour of five a.m., where I was neither sad nor happy and where I was so tired I couldn't sleep. So I read a Star Trek novel for a while and then forced myself to turn off the light and be quiet and still.

Who cares.

Now, I'm working again. And As Good As It Gets is on the television, and Audrey is my little Verdell, and I can't believe Helen Hunt won an Oscar for this movie. The movie itself is still reasonably enjoyable to watch, but Helen Hunt's performance didn't wow me the first time I saw it, and none of the letters in "wow" are in my feelings about her performance today. I much prefer her in that educational film where she takes PCP and jumps out a window.

"Apologize to THEM."

Oh, it's sunny and brisk here in Jobville today. Yesterday, the day the city was founded, was surprisingly windy and cold, despite the sunshine and cloudlessness. The wind provoked comment from nearly everyone. Especially in the elevator.

Sharing a parking garage with a middling shopping center offering Starbuck's, Borders, Nordstrom Rack, and a waffle place, Jobville is more convenient than Formerjobtown. And far more pleasant, despite the absence of a fancy pants Miele espresso machine in the kitchen. I'm surprised that no one has noticed or commented on my LCARS screen saver yet. In a way, an aspirational nerd like me is protected by the relative unknownness of the things she likes. If there isn't a picture of Captain Kirk on it, most people don't know Star Trek from Beatrix Potter. Soon enough, I'm sure everyone will learn the many unfortunate facts about me that first impressions obscure. Beginning with my clumsiness, my addiction to Super Text Twist, and my fear of using the phone system.

Are you shopping for me?

How sweet of you.

Here are some of the things I like:

Full Metal Alchemist
Paranoia Agent
Herman Miller Aeron Chair
Star Trek
Star Trek Deep Space Nine
Disneyland
Izawa/Hijikata Puppet Story Books
Marilyn Monroe
Violin
Duran Duran
ABBA
Photo albums
Art supplies
Ernie and Bert
Lenticular images
Art supplies
Film scores
Visine
Mel Torme
Bing Crosby
Moleskine notebooks
Winnie the Pooh
Paris (by Yves Saint Laurent)
Things from Japan

Here are some things I have:

PlayStation 2
GameCube
Intellivision
Laserdisc player
Record player
DVD player
DVD burner
Most commercially available DVDs
Reel to reel
Typewriter
Macintosh(es)
Lomo LC-A
Canon A-1
Canon SD500
A Kodak Disk camera
Sony DSC-V1
Gym membership
Queen bed
Viewmaster
A full set of Cutco knives (even the cheese serving tools)
A tape gun

Here are some things I used to collect (but no longer do):

Snowglobes
Erasers
Elephants
Sewing patterns
Everything

Here are some things I don't like at all:

Cannabis candy
Must Love Dogs
Old lady perfume
Old lady jeans
Old lady underwear
Nutrition bars
Hershey's chocolate
Blue cheese
Raisins
Shoes that have been worn before

Word of caution? I am hard to shop for. When in doubt, opt for consumables. I far prefer things that can be used up, if only because I have no more space to keep the things that can't be. And don't worry. If I really like you and you give me something that I use up, I'll probably keep the package.

P.S. My birthday isn't coming up right away or anything. I was just thinking is all.

Sensory Explosion

Star Trek III and a hot pepper.
"How soon is now."
Pon farr. The seven year itch.
The needs of the many. The needs of the one.
When Kirk's voice catches in his throat as he delivers Spock's eulogy.

I did a bit of stand-up tonight. It was less time than I thought it would be, and it was over before I knew it, but it was not so very painful, and that is something.

I was in workshop in the Andy Dick Theatre at I.O. West the other night and Andy Dick walked in. With Dino Stamatopoulos and some other guy whose name I don't know. We were close to the end, but it was still a weird interruption. Andy offered to "work out" with us. Craig Cackowski maintained a placid silence during the brief but bizarre little episode. It was surreal and awesome.

Yen took me to see Of Montreal at the Ex Plex, and it was wonderful. Afterwards, at Chip Pope's dance party, I was waiting outside, because Yen and her pals were coming to meet me, and I know M Bar is hard to find if you haven't been there before, and Willie Garson -- the guy who played that guy on Sex and the City bummed a cigarette off me. He made a to do about the fancy type of cigarettes I had. They're Dunhill Lights.

Last night, I appeared with the Winchester Preparatory Sketch Academy at the UCB Theatre. I donned a short, dark wig and glasses and a school-girlish outfit to portray one of five Asian girls who were poisoned by lemonade and died in front of the stage in a dogpile. I'm pretty sure my skirt flipped up when I fell over dead. I hope the people in the front row didn't bother to notice my shame.

Bryn and Kerri gave me another box of porn for Christmas. Martín borrowed some of it for his "friend at work." I walked him home with Audrey tonight, and we went inside, because Audrey loves to run on his wall-to-wall carpet. And he put in a disc, which I think was Black on Black 7, and it started with an image of a flag waving in the wind and the words "In memory of 9/11/01" superimposed and then promptly went into the fucking. I laughed myself dizzy.

I like Thai food.

I'm going to play Pac-Man World 2 on my PS2 now. I keep dying in Canyon Country, or whatever it's called. I also like bases ball, Martín. But I think I got it right, and you got it wrong. We can fight it out Dance Dance Revolution-style.

The World, the Flesh, and the Devil.

I've been reading Rilke -- and just so it doesn't sound like I'm trying to come over all bookish, I've just finished a trilogy of Star Trek novels by William Shatner and a trilogy of Deep Space Nine novels by the people who always write the books with William Shatner -- and having that experience of epiphany that makes me admit and lament that I could not exist in a vacuum. I am independent in many ways. But there is this craving in me to commune over ideas. When you're reading all night and it's six a.m., the urge to call someone and wax sophomoric over something you've read is easy enough to suppress. That's what blogs are for, I suppose. That's why I jot down quotations and pilfer authored phrases and song lyrics to label and spur on my writing. Something in me wants to capture that instant when I experienced a flash of meaning. Something in me wonders if such things can be shared. Even with the most ample and exhaustive descriptions, I often feel as if the exploring mind is a doom of sorts. A curse. I don't know if you can share a realization. I imagine many people read what I read but don't think what I think about it or feel what I feel. Even in something as seemingly empirical as language, there is the beast of nuance. And I hear every word through the filter of the whole of my experience. Each song that plays is performed by an orchestra of memory. And I am sad when it occurs to me that no one else has ever heard that orchestra. And that is why I clutch at the connections that exist within some shared experience. That is why I treasure the mingling of histories. If only to be able to look at another person and say, "Remember that time?" and have them say, "Oh, yes."

I have been reading and thinking a lot about time travel. Both in fiction and physics. I have been trying to make sense of the various paradoxes and trying to vet the logic in it. And occasionally I drift off into those flights of fancy wherein I have the power to choose such things. Would I change my past? Choose my future? Split off into a veiny mess of alternate timelines? Would I be clever enough to fix it? Or strong enough to leave it be? Bound by science. Neck-deep in fantasy. I never know which end is up. And there are times I can't tell if I am awake or dreaming.

I have been reading humor and history. Philosophy. Psychology. And I have been underlining things on the pages of books I don't plan to resell. I am in the middle of eight things at once. And I am always careful to carry a pencil.

Just a perfect day.

I started the morning out by panicking and thinking I'd left my camera at The Standard. I hadn't. But I didn't confirm that until I'd called Sarah and the hotel and then found it in my car. I was going to charge my battery for a few minutes before Jeff arrived, but then my camera was not in my bag. Disaster. I can't imagine going to Disneyland without a camera. I can't imagine going without at least two. Luckily, I wasn't forced to find out what that would have been like. And truthfully, I have plenty of other cameras I could bring. I was more upset over the prospect of losing all the photos I took the night before and the night before that. And also at the prospect of having to admit that I lose one camera a year in a bar setting.

Jeff arrived with coffee for me, and we headed to Disneyland where the line at the tram pick-up was long, but it was misrepresentative of the population in the park. It's as if everyone who was there showed up at the parking lot at exactly the same time we did. But then no one else came. Making it perfect.

The weather was lovely. We easily got reservations at the Blue Bayou. We never required the use of a Fast Pass. The longest we had to wait for any attraction was twenty minutes for that new Monsters, Inc., thing (which was monumentally disappointing, by the way), and that's just because it was brand new. We just breezed in and out of the things we wanted to see and do. And it was gorgeous and sunny the whole time. And it was the best Disneyland sales pitch I've ever been able to give to someone considering upgrading the passport I just bought them to an annual pass. Well done, Disneyland. We make quite a team.

I bought the photo that was taken of us on the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. For some reason, even though I've totally been on that ride before and knew what was coming and even took pictures of myself mid-fall the last time I was on it, I was really sent for a loop this time. I involuntarily screamed words like "shit" even with children nearby. And I found myself pounding on my knees in a weird way, like I was trying to keep myself from freaking out. I was sort of laughing as I was screaming. I wasn't having a panic attack. If anything, I was amused and completely disarmed by how bizarre and uncontrollable my reaction was. Anyway, the picture the Disney cameras took shows me with my hands covering my mouth and Jeff looking at me like we're having a normal conversation. Maybe I've just accidentally shared something that should have been secret. It's not the best thrill ride photo I've ever been in, but it was worth buying if only because it's completely different from any other that has been taken of me. Plus, I have a premium pass now and I get a discount. So the value is inarguable. Once I get my desktop problems squared away and can start conveniently playing with my scanner again, I will post it. But it won't be that big a deal.

While we were in line for that Monsters, Inc., thing, there was a little girl being held by her Spanish-speaking mother, crying in the onomatopoeitic, "Wah! Wah! Wah!" way. It was like she had learned crying from a cartoon made in the forties. She eventually shut up. But not because of anything her mother did. That girl was one of a few notable cases of children making noises as if reading them from the pages of a comic book in which the noises need to be written as words. I wonder what causes that.

Jeff and I even rode the Disneyland Railroad, which I seldom bother to do. That's what's nice about going to Disneyland with someone who doesn't go very often. Even the boring stuff has awesomeness in it. And, of course, I made Jeff go on everything that I love the most. Including my beloved Winnie the Pooh ride. And Soarin' Over California and California Screamin' (I don't remember if they use those apostrophes or not, but it seems like every attraction in Disney's California Adventure is trying to be folksy in that way). It's a Small World was closed, which is a disappointment I don't care for. But that was the only misfire. We got lollipops at the candy store in Critter Country. Jeff learned how good those chocolate-covered pretzels are. I still didn't have any ice cream. And I didn't even look for turkey legs. And in the end, well-placed coffee purchases kept our spirits from flagging. And I never even required the support of the whiskey I was carrying in my purse. I guess not having to wait in line makes it a much less tiring day.

We drove back up to The Standard to meet Sarah and Paul and Arnold. Then we left almost immediately to go to Magnolia, which used to be Bar 66. I went to a party at Bar 66 back in late 2003. I think it was the birthday of my friend Hillary's friend Anna. Or maybe it was Hugo's birthday. I can't remember. I just remember that it was a party, and Hillary was wearing the pink Jem wig she had worn to the Halloween party we had gone to only a week or two earlier. It seemed like a hard rock kind of bar with a hardcore kind of crowd. And there was a patio in the back that people smoked on. A rickety wooden landing atop some uncertain looking stairs. When Sarah gave me the address, I realized I had been there, but I never would have recognized it. Now it's a very fancy-looking bar and restaurant with an outside dining area back there and nearly no evidence of leather pants or studded belts. The food was good and the service was friendly. And Sarah and Paul shared the Mint Chip Ice Cream Sandwich after dinner, and that was something to behold. They wanted to go to Shelter, and I absolutely did not. So we went next door to The Bowery and had a drink, and then we went our separate ways, and Jeff drove me home, where Audrey and I continued our love affair and where I had work to do.

My throat was feeling scratchy, so I heated up some chicken broth. Then I read a few chapters of a Star Trek novel with On Her Majesty's Secret Service on at very low volume. The fact that James Bond falls in love and gets married in that one makes it seem somehow more sad and sentimental to me. It doesn't take much.

I sometimes feel as if I no longer have beautiful things to say. It pains and frustrates me. There was a time when my words might surprise me. There was a time when I might be pleased with the places my typing might take me. But I fall into these phases of list-making and traveloguing, and I wonder what the point of writing is if all one writes is where one goes on a night of the week. I want to write something lovely. Or something clever. Or something funny. But it isn't always as easy as that. I long for the times when it's precisely that easy. But I am in a state of longing for things more often than not.

In the end, I didn't take very many pictures at Disneyland. So many of the pictures I would have taken are pictures I've taken before. I was looking for something different. Something magical. And for a moment, I felt like congratulating myself for exercising standards from time to time. Quality. Quantity. They almost sound the same. And yet.

Oh, it's such a perfect day. I'm glad I spent it with you.

A Gripe

I sure do miss having better reasons to be up this late. I take care of my clients. I entertain my IM buddies. I accommodate my dog. I meet my deadlines. And all the while I search for meaning and reward and so often come up emptyhanded. I bite my tongue -- I stop my fingers -- when I think of typing out lists of druthers and missings and longed-fors. It serves no purpose.

And I would so much rather be reading a Star Trek novel in the bathtub.

What You Leave Behind

I've been doing a lot of reorganizing. I got my apartment halfway tidy, and then I decided to just redo it all. At the moment, that means, most of my books are in stacks on the floor. It's coming along, but I couldn't have anyone over right now without having to waste their time with a lot of apologies and explanations.

In the process, I've been finding things I'd forgotten. And sifting through things I'd put away with the express intention of sparing myself having to look at them again. Time. Wound-healer. Some of those things I was actually able to take out of the box and re-introduce into circulation. Some of the sting is gone. An ache gone dull ages ago but never tested. I went looking for a few books. One because I sold it on Amazon and now need to pack it up and ship it to someone. The other just because it occurred to me that I know I own this book, but I can't seem to find it. I wasn't able to find either. The one I've sold is a tragedy, because that's twenty dollars I will have to refund. The other one is less of a big deal. I just ordered another copy. But it still nags at me. I know I own that book. I know it. I just can't figure out where I might have tucked it away, whether for self-preservation or for space-saving.

That book, the less of a big deal one, is a Star Trek novel. A Deep Space Nine novel, to be more exact. When I went online to rebuy it, I found that there is a novelization of the final episode of the series called What You Leave Behind. And just seeing the title made me think again of that show and how devoted I was to watching it every Sunday night. And how sad it made me to watch that final episode and to see the disposition of everyone's lives. He ends up with her. He ends up alone. He'll come back someday. She'll wait for him. It's what made graduations sad. The diaspora everyone embarks on. Not always in opposite directions but never on exactly the same path.

I watch Deep Space Nine on television a lot these days, so it has lost some of its rarity. There was a time when a DS9 marathon would thrill me right to my Tivo. Or when I applauded the various networks who carried an episode a week in some late night time slot. Spike TV has spoiled me. But it doesn't make me any less grateful when I get to see those several episodes I really love. I sometimes feel as if I just keep living my life over the same few points, hitting the same notes each time I pass them. Reliving. Sometimes the nostalgia is welcome. Sometimes less so. I've been able to be less sentimental at times. I've been able to steel myself against the habit of remembering. I've been able to adjust the lens a little and see things more accurately. But it doesn't change that event of transportation I experience. Being thrown into a sense memory.

I haven't left enough behind. I carry far too much with me. You should see me trying to get on a plane.

But maybe some of the colors are fading. Some of the candy coating has grown moth-eaten and dull. I'm learning that you don't have to keep a stock of everything on hand. You can get new things when you need them. You might have to leave the house, but it can be done.

It's not just the stuff with me. I can get rid of the stuff. It's the memory of the stuff and the getting of the stuff and the use of the stuff. I was folding up some shopping bags, and I found a store receipt. It was from Counterpoint, that used book and record store on Franklin. And it was from April of 2003, and I remember exactly when I was there who I was with and what I was wearing and what I bought. I remember every tick of it. I had the same thing happen with a Jack in the Box receipt I found on the floor of my car once. Receipts are like the Dead Zone for me. I pick them up and it's like having a psychic interlude. I guess I can't complain. Some people can't remember a thing. Maybe that's its own curse. But then when people get Alzheimer's, it's the people who aren't sick that suffer the most. The person who is sick lives in the bliss of not knowing that anything else has ever happened. And the people who love them grieve and wish that they could just remember that time they danced together or that meal they shared when it was raining. I feel like that's me. Struggling to reawaken some form of awareness in my senile dementia-ravaged surroundings. I'm the keeper of the history. But no one wants to hear the stories anymore. And a friend of mine just invited me to join a knitting circle. Clearly, I'm one hundred years old.

Favoritism and Checklist

Double down. Organ favorites. "If you want it to be good, it's extra." Cut corn. Hot bathwater. Fresh air. Goosebumps. Excellent service. Plans. Sneakers. Pancake breakfast at Disneyland. Housecleaning. The light at the end of the tunnel. Fulfillment of obligation. World's Softest Socks. Space Battleship Yamato. Steak au poivre. Neckrub. Sweet doggy love. Victory. Soft drinks in glass bottles. Happy family pictures. Concert encores. Violin strings. White nail polish. Milk chocolate frosting. Avoiding disaster. An economical meal. Arcade sounds. Eggs. Someone to lean on. Strawberry ice cream. Calling one hundred dollars "a bill." Star Trek novels. Making fried rice. Distraction. Specific kinds of pornography. Robots. Stargazing. "Welcome, swingers. Pull up a groove and get fabulous." It's December. Can you believe it?

Item 2: Rosy Cheeks. Obviously.

I've been working for twenty hours straight now. Well, I took a 45-minute nap at 3 A.M., but I've been going the rest of the time. So it's no surprise that I just hit my head on the door of my freezer so hard that my jaw was rattled by it. Nor will it be surprising tomorrow, when I can't remember or figure out why there is a sore spot on the top of my head. I am a disaster.

I gave up on televised happenstance at about 5 A.M., and I finally put some of my DVDs to use. A Guide for the Married Man. Tommy Boy (the Holy Schnike Edition). Mary Poppins (the 40th Anniversary Edition). And then I watched something else I can't remember. And then it was time for the Star Trek rounds. Pretty soon, the James Bond marathons will be running their circuit. I don't like being reminded how many hours on end I spend at my computer with my television chattering in the background, but then, I can't get enough of James Bond.

If only I could be sleeping right now. What wonders that might do for my occasionally cheery disposition. It's so easy to forget myself otherwise.

And now my finger hurts. The finger I cut like a sandwich a month or two ago. Maybe it's going to rain.

So you think you can love me and leave me to die.

It's midnight and there is a fog on my street that makes it look like my imagined version of Merry Old England. I've been working from the moment I woke up. I haven't even had time to have a shower. Or to go running as I'd planned. I took a short break to make some chicken curry and some peas. And then I got back to work. And I ignored the phone calls from Jessie that would have told me she was coming over to check on me because she was worried about me. Lord love her for caring enough about me to not allow me to self-destruct the way I am prone to. She knocked on my door, and I momentarily considered not answering it. But that's only because I didn't know it was her and didn't fancy a visit from the creepy guy across the street who intends to marry me despite the fact that he will have to kill me first. Fortunately, I took a chance and opened the door, and Jessie came in and sat with me for a while, and listened to me talk (and cry just a little bit) and blow things out of proportion and trivialize them in the same breath. And never once did she let on that she is tired of me or my mountain range of bullshit. And then I heated up a bite-size portion of chicken curry and rice for her, and she said "yum."

So Jessie just left, and I took Audrey out for a walk, and that's when I noticed the fog. It's nearly white outside. And bright. It's the middle of the night, but it looks like early morning. It looks like daytime. Everything is wrong about it.

Yesterday, Sarah and Paul took me to see Robert Wells at the Civic Theatre in San Diego. I would have stayed in San Diego a smidge longer, but I had so much work to do, and switching computers has left me occasionally up the storied waters of Shit Creek. I end up far from home realizing I don't have the software I need or the files I thought were on the hard drive. Without fail. It's hard to plan for things. It's hard to pack for trips. It's hard to be prepared for everything that happens. I, for one, nearly never feel prepared, though I'm certain I give the impression that I've always got it together. And I certainly carry most of the right things in my handbag. But to be truthful, much of the time -- most of the time -- I am at a loss. I feel out of place and uncertain. Nervous, awkward. When Martín and I were at Disneyland last week, I heard it in my voice. The sound of that silly little girl in my voice. The one with nerves all a-jangle. Maybe I don't let my voice take on that cast as often anymore. Maybe it's because I am so seldom in the comfortable bosom of enduring friendship. Instead, I'm so often playing at being this version of me that even I've gotten used to. And I detest playing the role so much that I think I've shut down. And maybe that's why I never want to answer my phone anymore. Maybe that's why I don't know what to say.

In addition to a fine rendition of the beloved Bohemian Rhapsody, the musicians at the Robert Wells concert (who included Ruben Studdard, and he didn't appear to have lost any weight, but he sang like an angel -- a big fat angel) also came out for an encore that was a medley of ABBA hits. Of course, I sang along. The man to my left was wearing a tuxedo. He did not sing along. And he also did not seem to be able to remember to clap on the twos and fours.

I worked all day, through episode after episode of Little House on the Prairie and then Star Treks Deep Space Nine and The Next Generation. They were all episodes I remembered. Even the Little House ones. And I haven't watched that show since childhood. It was the two episodes with Jason Bateman when he and his sister lose their parents and then end up being adopted by the Ingalls family after being temporarily adopted by a really mean family and then by a bear trap. Deep Space Nine is in the season seven portion of its rotation. One of the episodes today was the one where Sobor is disgusted by Kai Winn's carrying on with Anjohl (who is actually Dukat in disguise). Kai Winn sends him away one morning, and he asks what she will be doing, and she says something that isn't "making out with Anjohl," and then Anjohl comes in, ever the lothario, and Sobor says wryly, "I see." I remember how much it made me laugh when I first saw this episode back in its original airing. I laughed again today. And then I thought (wryly) how disappointing it is to have to find all of my pleasure in the memory of it. Among the three Next Generation episodes today was The Inner Light, one of my favorites and the origin of that pretty pretty flute melody that I used to listen to on this CD when I worked at Protein Polymer Technologies. I listened to it over and over. Mostly to that flute theme and then to the music from The Trouble with Tribbles. The days seemed endless back then. I listened to this CD a lot during those days, too. So pretty. All those variations on La Folia. Something I like to play on my violin a lot. I played one of Corelli's variations at the Governor's Mansion in Guam. Later, that governor killed himself. Like a few years later. Not "later that night." I don't think it was my fault, but you never know. Everything seems to find its way back to everything else. At one point I eventually started listening to this CD. Which serves to remind me that there was once a time when I only had a CD player that could play a single disc at a time. And now I have in iPod. And my control of the music I listen to is much more masterful, but all the music I listen to still seems to mean the same thing it used to.

And yet it doesn't. Driving home from San Diego, I played songs that mean certain things to me. Songs that have meant 2002 or that trip to San Francisco or updating my web site in the winter. And I could barely pay attention to them long enough to remember how they used to make me feel. I remember what they used to remind me of. I remember being made to feel things by listening to them. But now, for some reason...well, it all just seems blank now. I seem to have cauterized all of my nerve-endings. I just can't feel a thing.

Cold and hot. Something tingly? Everything is...strange. My measurement devices don't seem to work. I'm even tired of taking pictures.

Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters to me.

I think about this loveless fascination.

A tempest of driving and concertgoing. Beulah took me to see Beck on Thursday night. I drove down to San Diego and then, for a number of reasons, drove back up to L.A. later that night. This is an exhausting choice, for the record. Also for the record, Beck was wonderful. But I hate the crowds that Rimac draws. And I am beginning to hate concertgoers as a category. Perhaps even including me.

Saturday afternoon, after a long, long Friday and too little sleep and a nostalgic resurrection of Jane Fonda's Workout Challenge, I scrambled to get my Halloween gear a-bundled. I even made a trip to the wandering Halloween superstore down the street from where I live. But it was a disappointment. It's like a Party City outlet. With fewer costumes than a regular Party City. And fewer mylar balloons. A couple of years ago, on a very hot Saturday, I visited a Halloween superstore in City of Industry I think. It was not a super experience, but it was indeed a superstore. Those overheated, un-air-conditioned warehouses remind me of Guam. On the Navy bases, "Toyland" is a seasonal location. A place that is for some portion of the year and then is no more. Much like these Halloween superstores. And Brigadoon. Toyland would have its grand opening in the fall. And then it would stay open until Christmas. And then it would go away. The grand opening had balloons and hot dogs. And it was a hot, sweaty, complaint-inducing disaster. I remember waiting out in the hot sun for what seemed like weeks. I remember wanting a Lite Brite. And a pink Huffy bicycle. I got both. These warehouses would be hot with large industrial fans blowing. Cement floors and the smell of cardboard boxes. Pallet jacks and personnel wearing trusses.

Anyway, the Halloween store on South La Cienega was a complete waste of time. But it did sort of smell like the Toyland I remember. Only I got nothing that I wanted and someone glared at me in the parking lot.

Hell Bent for Leather

All that done, I packed up and drove down to San Diego again. Beulah took me to see Anthrax and Judas Priest. We encountered the enemy of a good time in the form of a blonde squirt in a Staff Pro jersey with a military haircut and an overexuberant love for the rules. But Rob Halford is indeed a Metal God. Still. He is also a man who owns a stunning number of coats.

When I arrived in San Diego, I realized that I had forgotten one of my bags. This happens to me frequently. It is maddening. The bag I left this time had all my shoes in it and a number of crucial cosmetic items if I am to wear any of the costumes I might be able to cobble together out of the portion of my wardrobe I brought down (all of it). When I did this in December with orchestra shows to play, I ended up having to do a number of shopping errands and spending hundreds of dollars trying to replace the items I already own but hadn't been smart enough to bring. This time, being between projects and just generally fearful about whether I will taste poverty again before we set the clocks forward, I didn't want to have to try and re-buy all these things I already own. So after the concert and after a brief visit to Brians', I left Beulah and sped up to L.A., grabbed my bag, changed into something warmer, and then sped back down. That's three trips in one day. And five trips in three days. That's nuts. On the way back down, Highway Patrol was running a traffic break to allow for time to clean up what looked like it had been a nasty smash-up. Once I got past it, I revved back up to nearly 100 mph, I being not one to believe in portents. I was tired, though. And I could completely imagine driving into a wall or another car. I'm just glad I didn't.

The Final Frontier

I brought my iPod with me on the trip back. The trip up had been somewhat lacking in entertaining songfare. I was glad I did. Having the right soundtrack makes all the difference. When I hit that no man's land stretch of the 5 between San Juan Capistrano and Oceanside, I was nearly alone on the road. The only thing to look at were the white reflectors (people in the industry call them "bot dots" -- and by "the industry," I mean the traffic safety industry, not the entertainment industry; I have no idea what James Cameron calls them) on the highway, speeding past me like in Night Driver, a game I always preferred to Pole Position. One of the (good) tracks from Star Trek First Contact came up in the shuffle, and I had a gruesomely geeky swell of elation and I could sort of pretend I was navigating my Honda through outer space, the reflectors looking much like the stars do when one pretends to travel faster than the speed of light. I dream of having that far to go.

Efficiency Expert

I took something like 1300 photos at Lucha Va Voom on Wednesday. 728 of them are posted on my flickr account. Eventually, some portion of them will find their way onto the roundup page. But for now, if you were to want to see them, you could go here. This all reminds me of how much I continue to fall behind in the words I plan to write, the pictures I plan to post, and the promises I plan to make good on. Such reminders make me frown.

This is your eighth grade gym teacher Mr. Baumann.

I reset the clock in my car while I was driving and it became 2 a.m. for the second time. The other clocks are networked and reset themselves. I'm glad for the extra hour. Perhaps it will help me to not miss the four or five hours I wasted in unnecessary back and forth, or at least to miss them less.

Your Day of Days

On this day, you will find the sky the perfect blue, the air the perfect sweet. Your hair will have that little swoop in it and effortlessly. Your shoes will fit better than they have ever fit. You will want to run in them. Your toothbrush will taste like candy. You will not require a decongestant. You will find a tender note from a former love in a book you had never intended to read. You will get a phone call from someone who just wants you to know that you're great. Your favorite Star Trek episode will be airing as you get dressed, and it it will end just as you are walking out the door. You will discover an action figure that looks very much like you. And is not one of the ones kids hate. You will suddenly have need of your blender and be glad you've had one all this time. Your cellular telephone will work perfectly. You will find an article of clothing you once adored but had since forgotten you owned. It will take you back. You will be delighted by the newspaper headlines. You will be pleased with other people's driving. Your skin will be perfect. You will have lobster sandwiches for lunch and prime rib for dinner. And you will get just enough of both but not so much that you feel bad about it. You will walk in to a mirrored elevator car and love the way you look. Bypassers will stop you on the street to pay you a compliment. You will enjoy something at the movies. You will find joy in the simplest of things. You will hear that something terrible happened to someone who wronged you. You will realize that you are so over it that you are able to feel bad for them. You will not accidentally watch anything bad on television. Each drag of your cigarette will taste like your favorite food. Something precious you lost will be found and returned to you. You will laugh for all the right reasons. You will revel unselfconsciously. Everyone in the room will wish to know you. That poem you wrote will be published in The New Yorker. You will be busy with important and fulfilling things. You will remember your favorite days, and they will pale in comparison.

God Bless the Randomizer

Wanna be just like me? Here is how you can fake the serendipity of my music collection by copying my iPod's shuffle pattern. I would make you a CD, but you would lose it. And it would make me feel sad and unappreciated when I asked you about it later.

That You Might (Home Video)
Music Is the Victim (Scissor Sisters)
Seachange (Wendy Morrison)
Supersonic (S#arp)
Alabama Song (ex-Girl)
Better Luck (Scissor Sisters)
Subterranean Homesick Alien (Radiohead)
All the World Is Green (Tom Waits)
Precipitate (Interpol)
Loro (Pinback)
Somebody to Love (Queen/George Michael)
Return to Oz (Scissor Sisters)
I'm Gonna Be the Lonely Boy Tonight (Cherry Twister)
Indian Summer (Pedro the Lion)
Praskovia (Calexico)
Willing to Wait (Sebadoh)
Perverted Undertone (Prefuse 73)
Secret Oktober (Duran Duran)
Like a Ghost (Tarnation)
UMF (Duran Duran)
Fly (Nick Drake)
Alec Eiffel (The Pixies)
He Took Her to a Movie (Ladytron)
Another Morning (American Music Club)
Cosmopolitan (Joe Jackson)
Land Lovers (The Auteurs)
Money for Nothing (Dire Straits)
Hair of the Dog (Nazareth)
The Middle (Jimmy Eat World)
Beyond Belief (Elvis Costello)
Radio, Radio (Elvis Costello)
Wonder Wonder (Edith Frost)
In My Time of Dying (Be Good Tanyas)
Kill You (Eminem)
Me You and Everybody (Gomez)
The Same Race (Star Trek Insurrection)
Hyper Music (Muse)
Conjugate the Verbs (Enon)
Another Love Song (The Frames)
Sonic Turtle (Melt-Banana)
Suffer Never (The Finn Brothers)
The Littlest Birds (Jolie Holland)
Consider Me Gone (Sting)
La Negra Celina (Charanga Cakewalk)
Not Even Close (Tim Finn)
dick is a killer (rx)
Life Is Full of Possibilities (Dntel)
Ever Falls the Twilight (The Gothic Archies)
Pressed in a Book (The Shins)
The Birds (narration) (Nilsson)
In Between Days (The Cure)
Natural Disasters (Enon)
The Chauffeur (Duran Duran)
Laser Love (After the Fire)
Quartet, K.285 Allegro in D-dur (Mozart Flute Quartets)
Die on a Rope (The Distillers)
See a Little Light (Bob Mould)
Banjo Favorites (Nickel Creek)
I Wanna Know What Love Is (Foreigner)
Born (Over the Rhine)
Surfin' USA (Melt-Banana)
A Hole in the World (Thursday)
Cry Me a River (Diana Krall)
Noodletown (Mitchell Froom)
The Way Old Friends Do (ABBA)
The Bird that You can't See (The Apples in Stereo)
Gypsy Moons (Mystery Science Theater 3000)
Busby Berkeley Dreams (The Magnetic Fields)
Slow Bicycle (Mum)
Red Dress (Jonatha Brooke)
Fortress (Pinback)
New Born (Muse)
Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday (Stevie Wonder)
Sour Times (Portishead)
Tin Pan Miracles (Aspera Ad Astra)
The Book and the Canal (Calexico)
Bow Down (Westside Connection)
Oh, You Are the Roots that Sleep Beneath My Feet and Hold the Earth in Place (Bright Eyes)
One Hundred Percent Free (Digby)
You're the Storm (Cardigans)
Superstitious (Stevie Wonder)
Mr. Brightside (The Killers)
Can't Take My Eyes Off You (Andy Williams)
Heads High (Kill Dem Wid It) (Mr. Vegas)
Nightporter (Japan)
I Missed the Point (Neko Case)
You Was It (Spoon)
"How Many Ships?" (Star Trek: First Contact)
From a Balance Beam (Bright Eyes)
Before You Go (The Frames)
Invisible Ink (Aimee Mann)
Seven Nation Army (The White Stripes)
86 (Green Day)
Lost Cause (Beck)
I Beg Your Pardon (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) (Kon Kan)
Suit of Fire (Parker Lily)
Twin Cinema (The New Pornographers)
Sora (Gutevolk)
Paint by Numbers (Danger Mouse & Murs)
Club Foot (Kasabian)
Fistful of Love (Devendra Banhart)
Rebellion (Lies) (The Arcade Fire)
Stormy Weather (Nina Nastasia)
Melancholy Serenade/Yesterdays (Jackie Gleason)
In a Funny Way (Mercury Rev)
Goodnight Goodnight (Hot Hot Heat)
Smile Around the Face (Four Tet)
Viola (Girlyman)
I Feel Love (Cobra Verde)
Reflections After Jane (The Clientele)
Barnowl (Caribou)
Lobsteriscos Rocketiza (Applied Communications)
Complaine de la Butte (Rufus Wainwright)
What'll I Do (Frank Sinatra)
Persephone (Cocteau Twins)
This Time (Bryan Adams)
Crush with Eyeliner (R.E.M.)
Last Chance on the Stairway (Duran Duran)
Breathe Me (Sia)
Lawrence of Arabia (Jackie Gleason)
Princess Poo-Poo-Ly Has Plenty Papaya (Alfred Apaka)