B1ue

So. Mo. It has taken me this long to remember to bring the notebook up from my car. Note: This is the very first thing I've written for him. His character is not fixed yet, so some of the jokes may be different from how I sold him a couple weeks ago. ************ "List every priority you have, in order, of what you want in a job." It seemed simple enough, just too bad I couldn't list, "hot coworkers" as the primary consideration. I put down "large company" and hoped for the odds. "Missouri Weeks" was the name on the top of my sheet, though most people called me Mo. Yes, my parents did drugs during the eighties, but my Aunt Michelle says they were weird even before then, so they can

I'm suddenly happy that my user name is already an adjective, and my actual name is culturally significant, and can't be tied to just me. Kevin already knows far too much about me for comfort.

Oh, so its YOUR fault our freeways were knotted up all Thursday. I wondered. By the way, that was winter. In case you were wondering. It's now spring again, the sun is shining, and we've all been able to peel off our outer layers. Edit: Friday. I meant Friday.

1. Considered the coloring. I need to be careful, because I really, really like the shade of black I lucked out on. 2. Premature greying doesn't run in my family either. Well, possibly on my dad's, but we're not sure. My dad went bald before going grey, and his sisters approached the problem using your method.

I knew intellectually this time would come, eventually. I always thought that I'd be mature about it, accepting my fate with some dignity and perhaps a bit a levity. Actually, that's a flat lie. I was depressed most of my teenage years, and never really thought I'd live to see drinking age, let alone twenty-three. It didn't really hit me that I was going to have a full-fledged adulthood until I was standing there in the sun with my BA in hand and wondered, "Well f**K. Now what?" So worrying about how I was going to accept the slippery decline from my physical peak just wasn't a high priority for me. Until this holiday weekend, when I found four grey hairs. For those that missed it above and to the side, I AM TWENTY-f**kING-THREE. I'm not ready for this shit! I wanted at least another five years before these kind of problems started entering my life. But no, not my body. In fact I should have known my hair would turn traitor. It knows it is my best, most distinctive physical feature, which is probably the single most Hispanic statement I will ever make*, but it is the truth. And like it has been doing every chance it has ever been given, it's warped little personality has spawned a new way to drive me batty. On the plus side, though, in about two years I'm not going to be carded anywhere near as often. There were other events this weekend, shadowed other by this one, including a flight up to visit my sister in Washington state. The flight there and back was fantastic, as both airport and plane was filled with college freshmen, but once on the ground up there I noticed a certain something lacking. Apparently, in Washington horn blasting, creative swearing, and colorful hand gestures while driving are defined as road rage and penalized. This idea is perplexing to me, since you can scarcely cross an intersection, let alone change lanes on the freeway, without one or all three of the above actions taking place. Speeding is considered four miles over the speed limit and fined $75 dollars per mile. If California, hell just Los Angeles county, adopted similar practices, the state would be in the black within a month. And none of us would have our licenses anymore. *In order to illustrate the seriousness of this problem, consider the following quote from Project Rungay. Switch it to masculine terms, and this is pretty much me. My hair is that good.

There, there. I had an argument similar to this topic with a friend of mine, when she asked me why gay characters in books seemed to either have or crave sex 24-7. Not wanting to point out (admit) the obvious reason, I told her that since having sex is the only thing that separates a gay character from a straight character, if the characters aren't going to be having sex, then why not just make them straight and speed things up? It's akin to Chekhov's law.

Thanks. Work is just getting to me at the moment. But it'll pass, as all things do. I know lots of people like Mo. I'm like him at times, though not often. Hopefully often enough that I can capture what makes that an interesting quirk without him coming off as an idiot. Anyone that doesn't know quite what I mean...Evanna Lynch in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Elisa off this season's Project Runway is a pretty good example as well.

Oh yeah, I always go through them and dismissively sigh "eh, maybe next time" Wow. I mean, I've thought about that, but never actually followed through. I totalled my first two cars, and since then I've been VERY careful when driving. Especially since I live in Los Angeles, where normal streets + freeway trained drivers = crazymotherf**kerohmygodwhatthehell ishedoingohs**tohs**tohs**twe'reallgoingtodie!

I had a rather...bitchy rant posted here up until a few minutes ago, but I've decided to nuke it. It wasn't particularly healing or necessary. Instead, I'm going to introduce y'all to one of the characters floating about in my head. His name is Missouri Weeks. Mo for short. He's a bit of a loser, in that he sort of drifts through life in a happy daze most of the time. He is, in other words, what my mother calls a space cadet, only sometimes touching down on earth before his mind is off on another galactic adventure. He's the first character I've attempted to write with that quality, so he's both exhilarating and somewhat scary to me. For those that have read my anthology pieces, he's Khayyam's roommate for all of college. And as soon as I find the notebook I had written his story into, I'll post the first blurb I have on him.

I have two. The first I use anyways (to the great irritation of my many grammar maven friends), the second I just thought up a week ago. Y'all n. Contraction of "you" and all, and the informal plural form of "you." Athena v. 1. To create a character or persona out of an aspect of ones personality. I athenaed Jeremy out of the part of my mind that writes poetry. 2. To be given a massive headache or migraine. If she keeps talking, she's going to athena me.

For those that are desperately seeking Gentle Persuasions, the address I have for Matt is http://www.geocities.com/matpazcas/ It doesn't look like it's been updated in forever, but there you go. Gabe

In college I took a creative writing class, because it was an easy GPA boost, counted towards my major, and there was a chance I might actually learn something important. The story I wrote for the class was by no means life-changing, but I liked it. However, I noticed a trend among my feedback. "This sounds like a porn, but where's the sex?" "There's a lot of sexual tension between the characters. Do something with it." "Those two need to knock boots." By the time I was in the second round of edits, my class was unanimous in their desire to have a sex scene in the story. Even the straight guys, one of whom was so embarrassed that he turned bright red as he said "They should be screwing here." Even the professor got into this, but as he edited gay erotic fiction on the side, I could understand it from him. For a while, I didn't know quite what to make of this.

I am to visit my parents over the next couple of days, which are my "weekend" days this week. My mother in particular has been asking when I'm coming up for several weeks now, so I decided to just say, "the hell with it" and make the drive, which is about seven hours, one way. I know I don't visit them often enough, but it's a lot harder to break away from my obligations than it was a couple years ago. My job was through my college's housing department, so when I had no school, I had no work (and since I lived in the dorms for two years out of the three and half, I usually had no home either). That meant I had a solid week four times a year I could veg at my parent's place. Now though, with no break anywhere in sight, its more complicated, what with work and all. Plus, its a lot more traumatic. While I'm a fairly typical example of my generation's version of the Yuppie, my hometown has not quite made it out of the twentieth century as far as communication technology goes. So no email. My parents don't have broadband, because dial-up is the only game in town. My cell phone doesn't work, because apparently "All of California coverage" really means "All of California people see in movies." As my cell is the only number I have, and the only number people I'm not related to have for me, I'm getting no phone calls. Due to the number of trees surrounding my parent's house, radio reception is sketchy at best, and limited to two country stations. People have asked how I acquired my taste for country music. It was that or go crazy, and I didn't have too much of a margin to begin with. On the other hand, the water tastes a lot better, and I won't have to cook and do dishes, so its not a total loss. And they have satellite television, with 24 hour music video channels, so I can look forward to that as well. Most importantly, I'll be able to reclaim my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which my mother has had since July and told me I needed to reclaim in person if I wanted it back. She was apparently serious about that threat to find ways to force me to show up.

I nearly always get carded. For everything. I got carded trying to buy crazy glue once. I can sometimes buy a Rated M video game once in a while, or go to a Rated R movie, but not often, and only if I take pains to make myself look as preppy as possible. It doesn't help that my ID only sort of looks like me. I've changed quite a bit in the last eight years when that photo was taken, but, sadly, I honestly look older in that picture than I do in real life. I live in dread of the day when some bartender decides to confiscate it, telling me to tell my older brother to claim the ID in person. Last weekend, I got together with my aunts and cousins for a champagne brunch. There were five of us in the 18-25 age bracket, and only two of us were of age to drink. Guess who got offered alcohol without getting carded first. Guess who had to show proof even to get a glass set. I could take the twenty-year-old not being carded, as not only does he not possess the babyface which both sides of my genetics favor, but he also looks like someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. I wouldn't card him either, without at least someone for backup and a knife my other hand. But the eighteen-year-old does have the baby face. Or, at least, he did. Seven years ago. But somehow he outgrew it by the perception of the general populace. We, his family, can still see it, and we are continually amazed that he doesn't get the same treatment that my two closest female cousins (who independantly of each other, and in completely different cities and times, worked in strip bars) and I regularly get. I sometimes look forward to my thirties, when there's a good chance I won't be carded everytime I want to buy wine. Then again, certain store policies may mean I'll not be safe even then. My mom was carded a couple years ago when we were at a target. When we all gave the poor cashier goggled looks, she explained that she had to card everyone that didn't look forty. As my mother had just hit fifty-five at the time, she damn near skipped back to the car. I, meanwhile, prayed this was not a sign of a coming trend.

I have to view it from a skewed perspective, reducing it to a less detailed shape that I can manipulate my perception of, in order to view her spinning counter-clockwise. A coworker got this in her email, and we all tried it out. I was the only one that couldn't see her going in both directions. I half-thought they were lying to me, to be honest.

I think there is the crux of the matter, and the solution to your logic tangle. Incompetent SAs with little to no experience (or, granted, sometimes with heaps of experience) get hired all the time, because somebody has to wear the kick me sign. I find that they generally blend unnoticed, because it is fairly difficult to tell the difference between a competent SA that is either dealing with faulty users or faulty management, and so unable to do their job, or one that is unable simply because they don't have the skills. High level tech apps might as well be black magic, for all that most people are willing to learn about it. Hell, at my last job, it was difficult to find someone willing to refill the printer when it ran to empty.

Short entry today. Three years ago, I was trying to write my second novella. The first had been demanding as hell, and I never did complete the follow-up. I have since written a second novella, however. Two years ago, I was trying to figure out why a boy from work had let a third boy, who we'd all assumed was gay and had found many reasons to talk to me in the few weeks since I'd been hired, believe we were a couple. This is a question that has yet to be answered to my satisfaction. One year ago, I put in my two weeks to my first after college job. The CEO, who I reported to directly, told me no. I wouldn't wind up leaving for a further five months. November isn't a traditionally good month for me. Here's hoping my plane doesn't crash in a few weeks. And this little image is something I came across at work. She looks like she's spinning either clockwise or counter clockwise, depending on whether you are right brained or left brained. Apparently if you have genius level IQ, she'll spin both ways for you. I'm not so sure how much stock I'd place in the last, knowing as I do that Visual intelligence doesn't show up well on an IQ test, but that's what the email I recieved with this image said.

Seriously? I didn't notice at all. I meant to mention this in my other post, but my favorite "California-esque" quote from a movie is during Independence Day. "Is that an earthquake?" "Baby, it's only a four-pointer. Go back to sleep." I...hope you mean that in a joking way. Keep in mind I am a couple years older than you. I'd hope I'd be a little further along in building a life for myself. You'll be there soon, quicker than you believe.

Okay, California does periodically shake off the dander that acumulates, but no more so than anywhere else. Everyone fears earthquakes for some reason, but really they don't happen all that often. Our last big one was what, almost fifteen years ago? Even then, compare the damage of the Northridge Earthquake with the Kobe earthquake.We've got it together fairly well here. And as a counter point, weather. While we have seasons in California, they aren't really as energetic as they are elsewhere. In New York though, you'll get seasons that mean business, including summers that will leave you dripping just at the effort of getting dressed and winters that will shut the city down for hours at a time. Oh, did I mention we have hardly any humidity here? Plus, the housing market isn't near as crazy here in LA as it is in NYC. (Bay area gets close though, so I hear, but there is always the central valley). I have my own 1 bedroom apartment for under a thousand a month, in a clean neighborhood within walking distance to the beach. Find that in New York City.

A bit delayed, but how that was a good link. I grinned the entire time I read it.

You are absolutely correct, of course. I merely stated that the topic lent itself to tales of regret, bittersweetness, and wist, which was the first thing to pop into my mind when I started to think about the topic. Well, the second thing. The first thing was a story about getting lost in the woods, but I discarded that as a bit flippant. I may go there, naturally, but I wouldn't stop there. But as you say, the topic also lends itself to themes of, "There but for the grace of god go I." My problem with that interpretation is that one of my favorite authors, Lois McMaster Bujold, has written extensively on this topic, enough that most of the words I am using to describe this type of story come from her novels. See, in a large way, I learned my style of writing reading her novels, so it would particularly easy for me to simply retrace paths she has already walked. I never thought about it before, but I learned how to create characters from her, how to dialog and describe from Alice Hoffman, and how to structure (sentences and plot) from William Faulkner. How very odd that I've missed that all these years.

Contrary to popular belief, California does have seasons. They are Tourist, Fire, Holiday, and Flood. I find myself strangely homesick, because I can smell ash in the air. Not that I can escape out of the city if I wanted to, all the places I would run to has a fire blocking access. I wonder how the people at my old job are coping. At my current job, hair is being pulled and feet are being stomped, and I got to gently tell customers that it sucks to be them that the fires cut off major shipping routes. I'm trying to think of a way to approach the next anthology, but I'm having trouble. I think my intention to do a more humorous version of Khayyam may not will out, due to the heavy tinge of regret the theme seems to lend itself towards. Now I don't in general regret, so that in and of itself is unfamiliar to me, but the idealized and simplified personalities that I use for my characters never regret. That's a flaw I have as a writer, I know, but you will never hear me state that I'm any kind of great novelist. Also, I have already pretty much summed up my feelings on "the Road Not Taken" right here1. Anything even close to that would only be a sloppier rehashing of that poem, of which I am quite proud. The opposite view, relief of a danger avoided rather than wist, might work, but I need to think about it. Edit: I accomplished something this past week, I finally beat Final Fantasy XII. This isn't a major accomplishment, but one nonetheless. As usual, it was the story that I played for, though the gameplay was a thousand leagues ahead of the previous incarnation. What I liked this time around was that they deliberately f--ked with everyone's expectations. There was the usual band of misfit heroes: the mercenary, the witch, the thief, the princess, the sidekick, the knight, etc., and I'll bet money that everyone who followed the games expected the story to fall into a certain pattern and to revolve around a tormented love between the princess and the main character. Except it didn't happen. In fact, the main character didn't get any action at all, which I cannot recall ever happening since the first game. Hell, in seven, eight, and ten the main characters got a couple beauties to choose from (in nine the main character was hit on by just about everyone, including a male villain and a six-year-old girl). I kept waiting for them to pair off, sure that, even though she was clearly still in love with her deceased spouse and he was more interested in a big brother than a girlfriend, they would get their minds untangled and knock boots. I waited until about two thirds of the way through, when I realized that it wasn't going to happen, and that the game was subtly mocking that expectation. Usually, that kind of behavior irritates me, but it only made me smile this time. It wasn't mean spirited after all, just a joke. 1Whoa. 700 reads. Crazy.

...are getting out of hand. The Terry Pratchett row has not only spilled onto the next shelf, but that shelf is fighting back. I can't fit anymore there, but I also don't want to break up what organization I've manged to create. I don't want to buy another bookshelf, but I fear it may come to that before too much longer. I try not to take myself too seriously. I know that I'm basically a twit in the general scheme of things, but I have an Education, a Salaried Position, and an Interest in the Arts, and sometimes those parts of me do more talking and non-thinking than I really want them too. My biggest flaw in this regard is my book collection. Now, every friend and family member I have is book mad, and has a collection of paperbacks that is probably easier to weigh than to count. I try very hard not to think about how much money I spend at bookstores, as a more exact figure than "lots and lots" will probably depress the greedy bastard that is at the heart of my soul. As a rough estimate I put it at around 10,000 over the last six years, which is just f**king stupid. Despite the fact that I was an English major in college, bookstores worry the liberal in me. Yes, it can be argued that television stupifies the masses (hell, I'll even agree), but that doesn't change the fact that it is a relatively cheap way of distributing a lot of complex information very quickly to a hell of a lot of people. While for the most part that information tends towards what the lastest Disney Blonde is wearing, that doesn't mean the medium itself is worthless. ON the other hand, books are expensive, and getting more expensive as the years pass. Owning as many books as I do serves no purpose. Oh, it'd be fine if I still intended to devote my time to semi-professional analysis of those books. In fact there is nothing really stopping me from doing exactly that. But since I'm not reading for research, having heaps of paperbacks is pure conspicuous consumption, nothing more. And that bothers me. Now, this isn't to say having an Education, yadda, yadda, yadda, is a bad thing. It isn't. Nothing can convince me of that, because my parents, teachers, and I made too many sacrifices to get me where I am today for me to now say it wasn't worth it, that it'd be better if I was half-killing myself to survive like my parents had to do at my age. What I am saying is that I'm letting myself act like an idiot, and worse letting myself think I'm superior to others because I have a high enough disposable income to waste on books. It's like being good-looking I suppose. I have never nor will ever really think of myself as good-looking, but I've seen other people let themselves be defined by their looks, let it set them apart from everyone around them. I can't really say that it was a bad thing, and indeed knowing when their physical attractiveness gave them an edge and how to exploit that edge is something only to be admired in my opinion, but still... I've wanted to ask them at times what it felt like, to be treated as a hollow object of only skin and air. I never did ask, because I was afraid they wouldn't understand the question. I'm afraid of a similar process taking me over. I don't want to be a person that disdains others, that feels superior because I never watch television, like only drones would ever let themselves fall so low. I know that attitude it bullshit, yet I can feel it happening anyways. So I don't know. There has to be a way to act that would satisfy my own tastes and morals, but damn it if a part of me doesn't feel I deserve to feel superior, and I'm afraid pissing that part of my personality off would have long term consequences of its own.

The opening chapter of The Sound and the Fury, as well as Of Mice and Men, sound like good things for you to read and consider for this venture. I'm fairly sure most are familiar with the general outlines of the Steinbeck novel, but the Faulkner is slightly more obscure, due to its obtuseness. Basically, the opening chapter is written from the point of view of a developmentally challenged man, whose grasp of "now" is tenuous at best, let alone his understanding of morals. Even if you don't ultimately use it, I've found that another author's take on a challenging subject to be helpful.

I had to sit down and draw a diagram for that second to last paragraph. I think I got it now, but it was a near thing . You're lucky that you can forestall crushes like that. I wish I could. I develop crushes often, and almost always on either a straight or taken man. It's rather irritating, actually, but fun also. Oh, and that guy does sound like someone worth keeping around just for himself. --Gabe