Note about the Six Feet Under theme: It's no longer available here, but you can easily acquire it by downloading Morpheus. The composer is Thomas Newman.

If you're looking for the Weblog, Choizilla, click here.

THURSDAY, APR 25, 2002 - Memories of a shit box

I've had extraordinary luck with cars in my life. But of all that I've owned, none makes me smile like the 1979 Buick Regal I named Abbey after a Jewish vixen I met in 1988. We met at a concert, dated, and broke up, all by the second encore.

When I found the car, it had 56,000 original miles and a perfect interior, remarkably smelling of "new car". Apparently, the previous owner drove only to church and the supermarket.

In those carefree days, I worked at a Shell station in the Chicago suburbs. After the last mechanic punched out and I had completed my clerk duties, I backed my car into Bay 2 to get down to business. Mechanics made the best company. Rudimentary knowledge of Pink Floyd and zipped lips when they left to score a bag was all that they required.

They taught me that pre-fuel injection cars could be fixed with a wrench, hammer, and a blowtorch. But what that car needed most was lots of bodywork. My fellow grease monkeys took to calling me the Bondo King, referencing the ridiculous amounts of the hardening putty I used to fill every blemish on the car. I paid them no mind as I lovingly sanded, filed, and touched up for weeks. At night I dreamt of 305 rebuilt engines and quarter panel restorations.

Later in college, I ate my share of drive-thru fast food. I’d always had an unnatural aversion to drinking straws, so I’d put them in the passenger side visor. I never thought much about it until one day a friend pulled the mirrored visor down and about thirty straws spilled into his lap. The story told by friends is that I yelled “VANITY!” at that instant. So witnessed the birth of the straw trap, which remained a huge hit for those in the know.

At one point neither of the doors opened, or more accurately, would stay closed after being opened. I took to leaving the windows down and crawling through the windows à la Dukes of Hazard. There wasn't much shame in this either. We blended with the townies who had cars, in various stages of assembly, of their own on cinder blocks; this being a post-industrial town in the rust belt and all.

In the end, oxidation reached critical mass and nothing more could be done. In its final throes the frame was so rusted out that driving it further would have meant certain accordian-like death. Ultimately, the car, like the girl, was no less of a heartbreaker. A week later I traded the car for a free tow out to the junk yard.

WEDNESDAY, APR 24, 2002 - Oh goodie

Leslie Harpold can be found at http://www.leslie.harpold.com. (from biggerhand)

TUESDAY, APR 23, 2002 - Disappointed

First the domain fiasco with Hoopla. Fireland goes schizophrenic in the last month. And now Dooce dismantles. That reduces my daily intake by a third.

Oh boy, it sure does take a while to find a good blog that's consistent with one's reading interests.

MONDAY, APR 22, 2002 - Boston Blog Fest

The gathering met at 608, the best in Boston to see a show. I was pretty apprehensive at first, but no one I met was self-obsessed with his or her blog, opting instead to talk about people things. I was pleased.

People I met include: Brad, Mary, Matt, Glenn, Matt, Susan, Susan, Shannon, Alex, Heath, and Isaac. I'm looking forward to the next gathering.

THURSDAY, APR 19, 2002 - Contrast

With the Diplomat Ball safely behind me, tonight only confirms what I've always known about myself: I am absolutely terrible in group social settings. I prefer the familiar comfort of a dinner party, or a corner booth at a pub. What could be mistaken for snobbery is actually shyness.

Jen, by contrast, is the epitome of poise and grace. You'd never know that she's shy too. She's quite at home surrounded by extroverted and articulate international affairs students who can pummel you into geo-political oblivion.

This is something I'd like to change about myself.

TUESDAY, APR 17, 2002 - Mockery

When you've had a bad breakup, every song on the radio is about your relationship.

Likewise, when you've had a death in the family, every television show reminds you that he's really gone.

The property across the street is a funeral home that has long lines of people queuing in front of it, day and night, most days of the week.

The theme music from Six Feet Under held my head prisoner all weekend.

MONDAY, APR 16, 2002 - Early morning phone calls

My brother-in-law, Jen's only sibling, died in an accident on April 10, just five months shy of his thirty-first birthday. When hearing the news an icicle plunged into my heart.

Customary to semester's end, Jen went to sleep around sunrise, working on presentations and papers. When the phone rang early that morning, I couldn't help but steel myself for the harbinger of tragic news. I watched her sleep for the next hour; the last peace she'd have in the days to come.

* * *

Back home in familiar environments, I feel all kinds of emotions: shock, anger, numbness. And profound sorrow, not only for the loss of him, but for parents who outlived their son. For a sister whose progeny will never know their uncle. For his children whose memories will fade in Time's cruel, and yet humane, will to move forward.

SUNDAY, APR 7, 2002 - Tomato red

I'd say that three visiting friends, a buddy, and an impromptu invitation to two more equals a party. As expected, old stories were rehashed and conversations were lively-- at times, gut-grabbingly funny greased by beer's wicked promise. We spent the majority of the night in my kitchen before sobriety took leave, culminating in a steam roll from Andy.

With that coup de gras, there was nothing left to do but sleep.

And can you think of a better way to wash away a hangover than with jazz, and eggs drenched in egg sauce?

SATURDAY, APR 6, 2002 - Here you go, Norman

Thomas Newman - Six Feet Under Theme (MP3, 1.58 Mb)

*Downloadability disabled (04.16.02)

WEDNESDAY, APR 3, 2002 - Rained out

$66 bucks for the tickets. $15 for 3 Italian sausages. $10 for ballpark snacks. $10 for parking. $10 for gas. 1 hour drive to the stadium (10 miles). 1 hour waiting for the game to restart.

All together a pretty unexciting two innings. It's not clear to me why guys that make what they make can't get a little wet. But, the collective boos of 33,000 fans went unheard.

For the kind of time and money we all spent, they should be required to play through a magma storm, or we should at least be compensated in Italian sausage. Have you tried one? Madonn!

TUESDAY, APR 2, 2002 - Sometimes it happens

Sometimes the moon aligns with the tide and all the shit you've been shoveling takes itself back out to sea.

Nothing extraordinary happened today. I delivered early on a major project; which was incidentally the first impression my new boss got. A pair of decent seats for tomorrow's Red Sox game fell into my lap. I made frequent excuses to step outside, and the impending rain never came. Traffic was freakishly light. I advanced a difficulty level at the climbing gym. Hell, I did a few extra sets of ab crunches for good measure.

In any case, it was a good day for no other reason than at the end of it, I had a little juice left over to enjoy it with meaningful conversation.