Ray. Want to know what Ray looks like with her bangs trimmed? Not quite as much cleavage, though.

Recommend-don't-tion.

Don't go to Jade Palace, Colorado Springs, Co.

Next door is a storefront, "Jade Palace Gifts." Hours are by appointment only. The glass door and all the windows of this storefront are completely--floor to ceiling--covered by venetian blinds. The paint on the outside of both buildings is suspiciously old, slightly flaking, unkempt.

The interior doesn't match the exterior. Or it does. Too much money has been put into tacky decorations that haven't been cleaned in a while.

The service was prompt but too familiar. My entire meal was a distraction, with both waitresses sitting at my booth and attempting to feed Ray, who doesn't take food from strangers.

The food was bad. Not disgusting, but poor. Ironically, with my waitresses having difficulty with English, the cook was latino.

One of the diners behind us said, "This soup doesn't taste like it used to."

Film at Eleven.

No offense, but I'm going to say something offsensive.

I'm sick of a certain type of news commentary that's a response to original news commentary, specifically, the derivative news commentary that states that the original news commentary is bullshit, and here's why, with quotes so extensive I should be paying royalties. OK. It's not news. Not everyone can report the news. That's what you have the AP for. So...you write commentaries. You give the news some spin.

Now, everyone descends on your commentary, and adds commentary to that. And so on. And so forth.

I'm not talking about posts that refer me from one website to another, for the purpose of reading original commentary. I'm talking about people who have to rant about other people's rants--er, commentary. I'd rather read an original commentary, even if I don't agree with it, thanks. Or maybe even some news. Original content, I mean, content you came up with all by yourself, I like that.

I'd like to say that the irony of writing this has passed me by. Fine.

The irony of writing this post has passed me by.

It must just be the time of year. Usually, people have something insightful to say about their own lives and environments--including the media news. Sheer, dumb burnout. It's stuff like this that makes people like me start using non-sequiteurs in conversation as a desperation ploy to change the subject.

Chess.

You and I
we've seen it all
chasing our heart's desires
but we go on pretending
stories like ours
have happy endings...

Dreams.

First dream. Well, it starts out as one of those fantasy dreams whose details I won't divulge, but I start crying because all of a sudden I don't know where I am, and then I start crying harder because I do realize where I am, and that's not where I started the dream.

Second dream. I'm working my way through a college-level chemistry class. All sorts of Frankenstein details, and there's no room. I'm crawling on my knees. I recognize the professor as my high school chemistry teacher, who's the picture of the mad scientist and called, of all things, Mr. Burns (I also had a junior high English teacher called Miss Word, but that's beside the point). All of a sudden, I have to pee, and there's a bathroom just to the side of the podium. I go in. I have to hold the door shut. Some woman throws open the door, and there's a whole room full of people that don't stare at me, but there you go. Lee's there. I pull myself together and start terrorizing the woman. I threaten to kill her while Lee laughs cruelly. "What kind of motel are you running, anyway?" he asks.

Third dream. I'm the caretaker of an infant in a weird test experiment. There's about twenty of the kids paired with caretakers, and for some reason, we love them all passionately, as if they were our own children. The babies are all deformed, but that's because--they're developing. The feeling of assurance that we're involved with a valuable project is overwhelming. I can feel the weight of the baby. One day, while the caretakers are at their meeting, all the babies are removed. We'll never see them again. I wish, and I wish, and I wish, and the dream changes. The experimenters come to me and tell me that I'm ruining the experiment by changing reality to fit my desires. I tell them I won't stop, because we all love the babies, and they're babies, no matter what else they may become.

I woke up.

I didn't particularly have to pee.

Raynews. Ray had her fifteen-month checkup yesterday. The verdict is "the picture of health."

The doctor subscribes to a whole-life treatment view of medicine, so we're always getting these weird questions, like, "How do you discipline your child?" which shoots me off on a discussion.

Ray doesn't respond to spanking. I've tried it on those occaisions when she's putting herself in danger (like pulling out the vaccuum cleaner cord for the nth time). Pop on the bum, and no behavior change. Yelling does little. The louder I holler her name, the more she ignores me. So we're going with the go to your room philosophy. I told this to the doc, and she said, "It usually takes about a minute per year to get your point across."

Hm...

Sometimes it takes more than a minute for me to calm down, though. Food for thought.

Karma.

If you know Colors, I'm a green. If you know Meyers-Briggs, that means NT. Among other things, it means that that strange and wonderful art known as "tact" is not only one that I am unable to create but one that leaves me as mystified as most people are about Kandinsky.

I finally finished Doyce's novel from NaNoWriMo, Hidden Things. I wrote up my comments pour l'auteur, click, and zzzt.

Nope, Doyce says, didn't get 'em.

The Perfect Gift.

The thing about people people is that they think the gesture is everything. "It's the thought that counts."

The thing about analytical people, like me, is that we think the gesture is diddly squat.

It's the stuff that counts.

It isn't the timing--fuck birthdays--it's the essence. Casual conversation will lead us on quests for that perfect gift, quests that'll last years. If necessary.

When I see it, it's like the thing itself has a voice.

Pistachios. Once a year or so we buy pistachios.

There is no forseeable point to this story; you can skip it.

Not some pistachios, but a bulk of pistachios. I will avoid chewing off my fingernails for a couple of day so I can pick them open. This year was a "wreath" of dyed pistachios, red and green. Usually it's a plastic mesh bag the size of my skull.

I am tolerably long-headed, you know.

I don't remember who said it, or where: "You never learn how to write novels. You learn how to write this particular novel." The thing about writing this particular novel is that I don't follow my rules that I use for short stories. In the first chapter (anticipating 40-50 pages), I have eleven characters to handle, as well as all the other details that you have to handle when you're writing a fantasy of any type--you have to define the rules.

First rule: don't rewrite your first draft until you're done with it.

I can't handle that many details at one time. It's still mostly action and dialogue at this point.

That's enough rules. Rachel has thrown all the empty pistachio shells on the floor with squeals of delight. "Mmmm!"

She also likes to eat the nuts.

Afternoon off. Used bookstore in town called "Author Author," run by two women writers. They had Bridge of Birds and Eight Skilled Gentlemen by Barry Hughart.

"Barry Hughart," one of them said. "Any good? 'A novel of an ancient China that never was.'"

I was dumbfounded for about three or four seconds. What do you say?

"He quit writing after the third book," I said. "Couldn't stand the publishing industry. People cried."

"The publishing industry isn't so bad," she started-- Writerly types. What-ever.

I mumbled something about shy, retiring types, and left. Next door was a sushi restaurant, so I went there. The waitress wasn't a native English speaker, and after I stared at the menu for a few minutes right before lunch ended, offered to bring me the special of the day. I have no idea what I ordered, but it turned out to be tasty. If I had to write the hick-midwest version of the name of the dish, I'd call it "Shrimp log with rice and god-damn if that isn't some kind of raw fish on top. With, uh, teriyaki sauce involved in there somewhere." And miso soup.

I could eat miso soup for breakfast. Not every day, mind you, but I could. The bottom of the bill was printed with tipping guidelines. I went to the coffeeshop down the road, avoided all the tea-type products, and ordered a triple decaf cappacchino. I wanted cheesecake, but they didn't have any.

"My surname is Li my personal name is Kao and there is a slight flaw in my character."