. . for I have gone this evening and mingled among the common folk from whom I came, and to whom I shall to return.

So forgive me for I'm drunk as a skunk (with assistance of a bar tendress who served my needs rather than what I intended to order) and this document has not been proof read nor spell checked (nor do I intend to do either (so roast in your own private hell, CRC)).

(OK, tomorrow all I have to do is move Exchange Server from a server that can't be backed up to another server that ate itself totally last time it tied to sync to the domain. Piece of cake (as in "let them eat cake" ("cake" referring to the char on the inside of bread baking ovens for which there was no bread to bake in))).

I have achieved that state of intoxication where I see my reality as it is, not as I am normally blinded to it by familiarity. Clearly I see the smallness, the tawdriness, and the things that should be vacuumed, the piles of paper, the chips in the paint, the things my people(1) have taped to the walls and the damned computing machinery everywhere, fans roaring.

I see this with accuracy, infinite detail, in brilliant color, and without shame.

I remember a time I was in this place. friends were here, friends with no stamina, who left early, and I was not ready to sleep, so I opened a bottle of my best Cabernet (which I would not do sober). I pulled out the plans I had drawn (I was an engineering accountant at the time) to transform the blank wall between kitchen and dining. The plan was done with care, practicality, cost, and effort required, and I looked at it and admired it for that, and declaired it crap.

I drew a plan, on paper, with construction details, and then I drew the plan on the walls.

I sat down an looked at the plan and saw that it was good, but I knew myself, and knew I could rationalize, so I wrote insults to myself about how I would try to back out and procrastinate, and wrote them in exquisite detail - but I knew my capability to rationalize, so I found a hammer and I took out the wall (and a few other things too).

Saturday morning I rested as long as my nature permits, for I knew what I would be facing. When I could rest no more, I came out and made coffee(2).

I sat down and put aside the insults and examined the plan, and saw that the plan was good. I saw that the plan was without consideration for the difficulty of the work, and it required destruction of a load bearing wall, installation of a new beam in the attic and suspension of ceilings from that beam. I accepted the plan, but first I had had to clean up all the drywall heaped where the old wall had been.

Alas it is still not complete many years later, for I got involved in this technology crap and am truly fucked. I really do need to dump this trash and return to stuff that matters.

(footnote 4)

OK, so I went out and mingled with the common folk tonight, in a bar up in Tujunga (former biker territory). The place is not much bigger than my kitchen/dining room. Good luck - it was ladies pool night, so the scenery was better than usual. No beauties for sure (well, a couple near misses and an older lady with a thick braid down below her waist). Most a bit (or more than a bit) heavy, but still shapy. No one a reasonable man would cringe at waking up with, but all just plain folks.

Don's Den is different from Tin Horn Flats down in Burbank. Don's is cramped, barely room around two pool tables, but polished floors and everything scrubbed. Tin Horn Flats is way bigger, but with peeling plywood floors (wood shavings over) and looking a total wreck (despite it's "A" rating from the health inspectors). Don's has more women, which is good(3).

At 10:00 it proved to be karaoke night, and the common folk sang - rather well, actually - but then the "common folk" of this former biker berg are the grips, scenery builders, lighting techs and such behind what you see on TV.

So, now back to the main problem, Rose (not her real name (which is also not her real name)), my bookkeper, whom I love (am obsessed with). She is so sweet, and so beautiful (and old enough for me), but continues to be ever more cold and rejecting. OK, she's another nut case (see footnotes), but then all women are nut cases (same as (to women) all men are jerks). Well, Rose is actually a little more nutty, and I worry about her.

So, a year and a half ago, I decided to break my obsession and (having no time for normal social interaction) give a try to Internet resources. Unfortunately, I had Rose take the necessary photos, and when she realized what they were for she made a rather sharp remark ("So what does that make me, the female equivalent of a pimp?") which kinda blew my mood.

So I dropped that, but some stuff was already up and I got an inquiry, Molly (very nice, going by the photo (which, knowing women and photos, might be 15 years out of date)). We emailed a bit and talked on the phone once, but we were both buried in so much crap (me, Y2K disasters; her, parent's health problems) we never met.

So, a year and a half later I decide, (still with no time for normal social interaction), I'd try this Internet thing again (with pictures taken by someone else). I searched out my stuff, which had sunk deep in the sea bottom sedement of the Net, and refurbed it. So the refurb apparently stirred up the muck, and I got a response before I was ready - Molly.

So next week I expect we'll meet somewhere. Of course I know what both of us are thinking: "Hell, it's been a freak'n year and a half. What's that person doing still loose? There's got to be something amiss here".

But now I've become way too sober to write any more of this stuff and am going to bed.

**** Footnotes **************

(1). Ok, so my office assistant was celebrating last week because the State has has officialy declared her insane and she qualifies for disability payments (as soon as her (rather old) student loan debt is deducted - oh, and her former chiropracter has found her and wants restitution too). Oh, God help me (if only I believed in a God that gave a damn).

(2). Paula it was who corrupted my innocence of stimulents, who insisted on coffee in the morning (a ritual I have maintained since (though she soon rejected the stuff as a health hazzard and rejected me as not the person of her first impression)). Alas, she later married an Arab, and had to divorce him to save her life from the vengence of his Christian hating family. Last I heard she was shacked up with some dude she met on the San Diego Freeway (Paula, how you are doing?).

I remember the dream where I was married to Paula. It was so real I can still feel it nearly 20 years later. I got up from bed and walked through the kitchen and dining room. The wall between (see above) was different. there was a baby grand piano in the living room so Paula could practice her singing.

(3). OK, Tin Horn Flats has a daytime bar tendress who'd tend bar stark raving naked if they'd let her, but she gets so damned close it's pretty much moot (though the ring on her finger sort of hampers the effect).

(4). For you who program, let me tell you the truth, for you will eventually discover it on your own. Every hour you spend programming is an hour taken away from real life. Eventually you will realize this and it you will resent every hour you ever spent programming (anyone good at Pascal? I have some code I need updated)).

. . or I decided to leave it and see who made cosine jokes (both tactics went through my mind, but I'm not sure which one won.