How was your day, Dan?

CLASS

Hi.  It's a little after 10 on Tuesday night, and I'm at work.  It's a lovely night in South Florida, although currently in my office it's a little hot for a reason that is unbeknownst to me, I hear the air conditioning running.  I did not log on to Typepad to write about air conditioning.  NEW PARAGRAPH--

I have these very odd working hours, where I come in sometimes at night and sometimes during the day, and sometimes not at all.  So working at 10 is not so bad.

Today when I was walking down the halls of work, I wearily clomped down the hall taking steps flat-footed, somewhat like a duck.  My shoes hurt my feet.  They're new, I love them, but they fit terribly and the only way to not apply pressure to any of the sore spots on my ankles is to walk flat-footed.  Flop flop flop.  Everyone can hear me four doors down, clomping on the tile.  But I deal with it.

Life can be like wearing an uncomfortable pair of shoes.  What are you going to do, stop walking?  Just keep going, it's no big deal. 

I deal with the weariness of working at night because in the day I'm taking classes, so a few years from now I can land a job that will make me some money. MONEY, DO YOU HEAR ME?  Being a runway model was great and stuff, but it was easy to be poor when eating wasn't allowed.  Now I like to have a sandwich from time to time, with the fancy bread thanks. 

I'm thinking of becoming a Physician's Assistant. Although first, I need to pass chemistry, a terrifying course that I am taking from the Cuban version of Professor Snape. If I wasn't having panic attacks for hours on end trying to figure out the molarity of a solvent, I would ask him the secret to making a good love potion.

OMG I need to buy a lab coat. Forgot.

So yes, I am approaching my 40's and I'm back in college, part-time, where I left off when I joined the media circus of MTV...and then subsequently spend years galavanting around the globe having fun, which it was.  But I always presumed I would just marry rich, some guy I'd meet bouncing around, and I wouldn't have to worry about my future, because someone would pave the way for me. 

Then I did start dating a string of rich men, who were good-heared people and they meant well, but dealing with their whims and wishes was more work than any job I would ever work on my own.  My morals, they got in the way, and I had this idea I should live my life for love.  So, that was that.  Several times, "that was that," as the saying goes, even though each time my mother begged me to get back together with them, just until after Christmas so she could get a really good gift, I can break up in the New Year.

So...yeah, I'm back in those heady days of college.  Thanks to having stayed out of the sun, I don't look that much older, except for the plentitude of gray hair atop my ever-widening brow.  The other students just blankly look at me as they choose to talk to just each other, but that is fine.  I am friends with a few single mothers who truly understand what it is like to fight your way through life.  I give them homework help.  In exchange they give me strength.

The great thing about going back to college?  Sometimes when you're sitting at a table in the commons area, studying Anatony & Physiology (notice the scribbled notes about Adenine and Cytosine), and there aren't any open seats, a strapping student will ask if he can sit there and share your table.

 

I'd like to introduce you to His Bicep.  Nice to meet ya, says I.  Excuse me while I jump to the chapter about the muscular system.

Alright.  Chemistry awaits.

Have a good day, y'all. 

 

 

TIDBITS

Hello.  It's Monday.

I went to the spine doctor a few days ago, in a post-car accident checkup.  I regret to inform you, my dear readers, that my request to have a new metal skeleton installed within my body like Wolverine from "The X-Men" was denied.  Apparently I have to keep working with the skeleton I currently utilize.  And if anything hurts, take Advil. WTF?

So far there is no answer as to why my lower right quadrant (a.k.a. my right leg) hurts and tingles.  These are the mysteries of life.  Rumor has it I have constricting muscles around my nerves, so I need to exercise them, or something?...what is this "exercise" of which the doctor speaks?

I can't wait to get a car again.  At this point, I would take the Flinstonemobile.

In other news: I was dumped by a person I did not realize I was dating.  How seriously must you take yourself to call someone after one date and give him the "let's just be friends" speech?  Men can be such self-absorbed pigs.

Speaking of pigs: I want one please.

 

RAJA

I interviewed Sutan Amrull, a.k.a. Raja, the winner of "RuPaul's Drag Race."

Hold on to your girdles, ladies, it was QUITE the conversation.

There aren't any naked photos, but the story itself is a little racy.

CAVES

Fascinating story of Osama bin Laden, as told from the perspective of the wife who was shot.

Who is going to play bin Laden when the movie is made?  It's obviously in development somewhere in Hollywood.

WHERE TO SIT?

I have an appointment at a spine specialist on Friday.  Apparently there is something wrong with my central electrical wiring, thanks to the sideways lurching encountered in the car wreck.  I am going to ask, instead of repairing the skeletal system I currently utilize, I'd like to upgrade to an all-metal skeleton like Wolverine in "X-Men."  I already mentioned this to the receptionist at the doctor's office, but she didn't seem to understand what I was asking for.  Either that, or she simply has no sense of humor whatsoever.  Not that I was kidding.  I'm just sayin', a little chuckle would've been nice.

Do you want to hear (I mean, read) a crappy story?  Let me tell you...

So April 30, I had plans to move across the street to a slightly-larger, slightly-nicer apartment than my current abode.  Please understand saying "slightly nicer/larger" than where I currently live does not signify much.  It's like saying something has a "slightly more pleasant" personality than Donald Trump, or is "slightly warmer" than Martha Stewart's heart.  You're starting point is really low in all three instances.

ANYWAY--

The guy who previously lived in the apartment left a decent green couch; the landlord asked if I wanted it; I said I would keep it, as it is nicer than my old couch, which I would donate to the thrift shop down the street.  It's a win/win.  So on moving day, my "help me move" friend and I loaded my couch into my car, drove it to the shop, and bade it farewell.

Then I drove my friend to breakfast.

We ate breakfast.

We left, I tried to drive across the street, and whamm-o.  Car totaled.

As my friend went home, his nerves rattled, I had no way to move any belongings.  And my back started to get sore, I decided it wasn't a good idea to do anything crazy.

So I decided...there will be no move.  Give the apartment keys back.  I hadnt' signed a lease, it was no big deal. 

And when I went home, I moved to dejectedly toss my keys on my couch...

...aaaaaand there was no couch there.

(le sigh)

I could've retrieved the other couch that was supposed to be mine, but there was no way to get it, and it was a heavy hide-a-bed thing.  Hopeless.  Sometimes it's all you can do to just sit and pout for an hour or two.  So I sat...on my bed...and did so.

Now I think it's funny.  My old couch was ugly anyway.

KYLIE

Let's discuss Kylie Minogue.

I went to her tour last night, here in South Florida.  I've been a casual fan of Kylie for years, I very much enjoy her later music that is a little moody as well as the earlier stuff that is Pop Princess dancey-happy fluff. 

I say that to establish the fact that I think favorably of Kylie.

Whenever she is discussed amongst Americans, it is usually mentioned that Kylie Minogue is arguably one of the biggest pop stars in the world.  Her music has a trademark sound of being very sugary and happy, which has been more characteristic of European techno-pop, while U.S. music became mired in dark hip-hop songs. She has fans here in the U.S., although she doesn't have iconic status like Britney Spears or Madonna.  Kylie Minogue is to music what soccer is to sports: everyone is obsessed, except America, no real reason why.

Normally Kylie concerts are filled with dancers flailing about the stage, dressed in bright colors with big smiles on their faces.  With this tour, everything is much slower, as if making the music sound moodier and less happy will make her show more sophisticated for American audiences.  So no one smiles on stage.  There's barely any dancing.  It's just lots of dancers walking around, posing, and looking at the audience with smoldering eyes like Zoolander. 

Kylie sings the entire show--THE ENTIRE SHOW--live, so she obviously can't dance at full-blast.  But nothing happens on the stage, except for dancers posing in stupid costumes.  It's like a bad Las Vegas revue.  If her dancers were wearing slightly less clothing, she'd be appropriate as the main stage performance at a gay pride festival somewhere in the Central Time Zone.  I was really disappointed.  And it's surprising to imagine this person--again, world-famous and a mega-celebrity--would be so mundane.  Someone needs to be fired. 

QUESTION

I am curious about how much information extracted from the U.S. torture-interrogations was used in finding Osama bin Laden.

UPDATE, May 3:  Apparently it did, according to Time.

CRUNCH

Well hi.

So I'm sitting here in my apartment.  I was SUPPOSED TO BE in a new apartment, across the street.  But that's not happening.

Yesterday I took my friend out for breakfast.  He promised to help me move, so I had to fuel him up for all the heavy lifting.  Waffles in our bellies and coffee in our veins, we headed back to my apartment--a trip that is 11 blocks--and were halted mid-course when a red Nissan of some sort ran a red light and T-boned by poor, beloved car.  WHAM.

My car is currently crippled on the side of the road, as wait to find out what to do, from her insurance company that is of course not calling me back.

The move across the street: scrapped.  It's not possible to lift desks and beds when one has whiplash and a sore, freshly-whacked head.

I called my mother from the doctor, and she reacted with a combination of motherly love and vengeful bloodlust.  Then she began to worry I would have a brain hemmorhage while I slept. An excerpt:

~

"Did you get a head x-ray?"

No, the doctor looked in my eyes, he said I don't need one yet.

"You must insist you get a head x-ray."

Okay I will.

(pause)

"I'm serious! Tell your doctor you need a head x-ray!"

Mom, I got whacked on the head.  Shit happens.

"But what if you pass out?"

If I pass out, I'll call you and tell you to send help.

"Not funny. Do you have a friend who can come over and stay with you?"

Yes.

"He's going to come over?"

Yes. 

"Who is he?"

He's my friend...he has kids, so he's used to dealing with whining babies.

"Is he going to stay with you?"

Yes.

"Is he going to stay the night?"

(pause)

MOTHER...I don't know how to answer this.

"Oh.  Okay."

I have to go, the doctor is coming back.

"TELL HIM YOU NEED A HEAD X-"

Goodbye.

(click)

~

So now here I sit. 

Sore.

Can't go to work at the restaurant.

Blah.

If my car is not on a tow truck by tomorrow afternoon, getting appraised by the other driver's insurance company, I am--as Kathy Griffin says--getting "lawyered up."  I feel like Russel Crowe entering the coliseum, ready for battle.  Bring on the lions.