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Where have all the peeps gone, and other various sundries

December 16, 2001 ~ 11:41 a.m.

I was beginning to wonder where everybody had been during the past week. Out of all my favorites, only Astralfrog was keeping his diary up to date. (Mr. Levski, did you ever make it home from the Jazz game???) Not that I�ve been on-the-ball either. I run out of steam and/or ideas every now and then myself. Readers may have noticed my style by now, which runs the range from light-hearted jaunts to hot political rants. I think it�s a style that suits me well. I don�t want to be known for just writing in just one particular genre�that would be limiting myself, or so it seems to me. Besides, it keeps up the air of mystery for which I�ve always been known. Ask anyone, I�m a hard guy to get to know, and even when you know me, you�ll never quite understand me. Anyway, even given a broad range of topics from which to choose, I still get into funks and writer�s block knocks my brain unconscious, which it is quite well at doing�not that I necessarily need writer�s block to knock my brain unconscious; daily living is sufficient for the same purpose. It�s a hard-ass too, that nasty writer�s block. I guess the other good folks on Diaryland suffer from it too and that would explain their absence.



Saturn has opined on a particular matter with which I couldn�t possibly agree more: �I have an especially low tolerance for the kind of disembowelling of William Wallace in Braveheart.

I know what she means. If I�d been expected to watch that whole movie in my high school Lit class, that would have been expecting too much of me. I once requested that I be excused from Biology class when I found out that we were going to watch film footage of an actual birth. Knowing that I�d probably end up rolling on the floor with agony by the time the film was over, I approached my teacher with my fear. Considering that I was earning straight A�s in her class, she was open-minded about it and let me go. As I left class that day, she did turn to me and said, �But you�re going to have to deal with this sort of thing someday.� I smirked and said, �I really doubt it.� And it�s true. My wife and I are both in our mid 30s and we�ve been married three years. We don�t have children yet and we don�t ever plan to. Having a family is not something we�ve ever cared about. We got married to have each other and for us, that�s good enough. I�d love to visit my high school biology teacher and say, �Well, ma�am, it�s been 16 years and I still haven�t had to witness a birth yet!� I love it when I get proven right.

Anyway, I�m a sniveling coward when it comes to blood and guts. I�m fine when watching the brief gore on shows like �The Sopranos� and �ER,� which last only a second or two. But in the movies, where the blood can flow on screen for several minutes, you�ll find me throwing up in the gentlemen�s room. When I have to get a blood test�which I always try to avoid and talk the doctor out of, if I can�I never look. I keep my eyes closed and my head turned the whole time. I don�t like blood, it�s been a lifetime phobia for me. I don�t know if Saturn is as bad as me, but I could totally sympathize with her squirming at the thought of watching the juicier bits of Braveheart.



Damn it all, every time I write in Word, I have to switch the language to American English. When I installed Word, I listed our London, U.K. address, so now every document that opens automatically defaults to British English. So unless my readers want to see silly spellings like colour, sympathise, or defence, then I have always got to remember to reset everything I write. I may live in England, but I�ll continue to use the words I learned at my mother�s knee (so to speak) and use the spellings I grew up with. You can take the man out of America, but not America out of the man!


I�ll leave you with this little heartwarming story. This is how last Tuesday morning went for me: I was standing at the bus stop, waiting to catch the #358 home. I was waiting behind a small crowd. The 358 is a popular bus, so I naturally assumed that most of them would board the bus along with me. I was wrong. When the bus arrived, it let one person off and then started to take off. I had to gently push my way past the other folks standing in front of me and knock on the doors in desperation. I got on the bus, showing the conductor my pass and smirking apologetically at him. �Thanks, I�m sorry about that.�

His reply was to mutter something under his breath which, combined with his rather thick accent (I think he may have been Scottish), made it hard for me to understand. But I�m sure I heard him use the word �fool.� Nice, eh? The first thing I did upon boarding the bus was to apologize, and all I got was garbled verbal abuse in return.

The bus was crowded, and I dread public confrontations. I�m a very low-key guy, who likes to settle nasty business in private. However, I wasn�t in the best of moods either, so I wasn�t about to take this. My look darkened and I said, �Look, I know I inconvenienced you, but I did say I was sorry, didn�t I?�

�Don�t argue with me.�

I nearly laughed in disbelief. �I�m not arguing, I�m explaining myself. If you�re going to insult me, I�m going to defend myself. There was a crowd of people in front of me. What was I supposed to do, push them out of my way? I grew up with manners, you know.�

At this stage, the conductor hinted at the possibility of throwing me off the bus. I could feel my muscles getting stiff, the classic biological response to the fight-or-flight effect. The adrenaline was flowing. �No, I don�t think so. If I was vandalizing the bus, annoying the other passengers or acting irresponsible in any other way, you�d be right in throwing me off. Instead, you want to throw me off simply for sticking up for myself. Well, sorry, this pass certifies me as a paying customer.� I was about to take a seat, when the darkest sense of anger caused me to add, �So do what you�re paid to do�drive the goddamned bus and leave me alone!� Before the driver could do or say anything to that, I marched all the way to the back of the bus, receiving strange looks from the other commuters. Crazy American, they probably all thought. I shocked even myself. I hated it. I cringed and wished for nothing more than the Earth to swallow me up at that moment.

But it goes to show what happens when I�m pushed just a little too much in the wrong direction. Damn public employees ...

� M.E.M.

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