sorry for the whininess (is that a word?)

I think we're all occassionally guilty of eavesdropping on conversations merely to hear how obnoxious people can be -- when you see an old couple eating at a table next to you, or a mother arguing with her child in the supermarket, or the roommates bickering the campus dining center. Even if you claim to never engage in such behavior, I have no trouble admitting that I do it regularly. Just the other day I was completely feigning interest in my friend's conversation just so the people I was eavesdropping on didn't realize that I was intently listening. My friends didn't even realize I was faking interest in their banter until we'd moved a ways away and I was able to tell them about the conversation I just heard.

Today I found myself trapped in the local CD shop. I occassionally stop in if I have time to waste, to see if they have something that I might be looking for at a good price. It usually takes me about 45 seconds to re-remember that they never do. They don't have that Cage CD I'm curious about, and even if they did it would inevitably be $17.99 or more. They only stock two new Prince CDs, both overpriced and ones I already have, and then 5 copies of the same used one which I don't want (at least at this point -- I still need Sign O' The Times before I move onto his weird religious stuff). But there's a conversation I can't resist:

"I think we need those anarchists, you know? Without them there wouldn't be anybody to keep Dick Cheney in check, you know? Those aggressive people in the front lines -- but not violent, not any violence -- just good non-violent anarchists ready to fight for what's right."

I know for certain they won't have the Res CD I'm curious about, but I still look for it.

"I think it's ridiculous that they want $300-400 for a place to live. Like, and I have to share a bathroom. Why would I pay that much to be cleaning up after other people? I need that money for other things, I can't be wasting it on some unsatisfactory place to stay."

I know Res won't be in the rock section, but I look there anyway. I even go back to check the used rap section to see if that has the Cage CD (as if anyone in this town has enough taste to buy such a thing to even be able to resell it).

"Yeah, our band is the Ravens. It's just like some rock and roll. We do shows around and everything."

Eventually I realize that I'm just getting cruel in my enjoyment of this man's failures, and every time I settle on a new CD to browse for and not find, I'm reminded of how small and obnoxious and limiting this little town is. This guy was much more amusing 2-3 years ago, now he's just depressing.

decisions decisions

As I'm walking home from school today my friend J. comes up alongside me on his bike. He's on his way to the bank and he has an important decision to make. He's just recently receieved his financial aid check and he's trying to decide what to do with it. He's already told someone that he would buy 64 grams of hash at $10 a gram, which he knows normally goes for $15 a gram and that he could easily move at $12 a gram, but he's not certain he knows enough people interested in hash. He asks me if I know anyone who might be interested.

I don't, so we review the situation further. Obviously he would get a fair amount of private usage out of the supply; it's not all for profit. He knows lots of potheads, but he doesn't know that many people that regularly crave hash. Even he admits that smoking hash isn't as enjoyable as good weed. Plus he's already told the guy that he would buy it, and he doesn't want to go back on his word. But at $12 a gram surely people would be interested, right? I'm helping him the best I can, offering what little knowledge I have about hash, hash smokers, and the drug trade in general (which as you may have guess, is very little). J. is on his way to the bank right now and obviously this is a difficult decision to make.

You know what wasn't a difficult decision to make, though? Throwing my plant out of a second story window into the alley below. That one was made hastily and with little second thought, with no input from me. That one I wish I had input into.

kids can be so cruel

And oh yeah -- I visited my old house again and my plant wasn't there. I asked about it. Apparently it was thrown out of the window (a second story window) for shits and giggles. I bet my plant didn't think it was very funny.

the ether

Sometimes I get headaches so bad that I cry, little tears running down my cheeks and pouring into the pillow I'm inevitably pressing my head into. I have various positions which I've determined help reduce the pain, both arms wrapped around my head, hands grabbing in the back, with pressure being applied against either temple, or one arm laid across both eyes, pressing against the temple which gives me the pain. Sometimes I just bury my eyes in my hands and press like that for a while.

On Saturday I was laid out with one of these headaches. I was actually kind of pleased about it, as I didn't really want to do anything with the day and now I had an excuse to just lay around. I ended up watching a marathon about Muhammad Ali, The Greatest, which actually might not have been the best idea, given the state of my head and the amount of cranial punishment I would see in the various boxing matches. But I just couldn't stop, Ali is amazing.

The marathon culminated in showing the Thrilla in Manila, Ali v. Frasier III, very likely the greatest boxing match ever fought. I don't care if you're a sports fan or not, this is a spectacle to be admired regardless. The storyline leading up to it -- the cocky Ali torturing Frazier with taunts of being a Tom, an ugly gorilla, the completely contrasting styles represented by both boxers in the ring, the preceding fights setting the stage for an epic showdown. I shouldn't bother writing too much about it, because I rest assured that someone else has done a much better job of it that I ever could. But let it be said that the fight was amazing. I spent Saturday lying on my couch, hands pressing against my temples, tears running down my cheek, knowing I should be resting and not watching a fight from 30 years ago, still watching and cheering for Ali all the same. It was a pretty good Saturday in the end.

my big purchase

I made an important purchase today. It was a long time coming and I really have no one to blame but myself for its delay. Its necessity has been known by me for a few years (yes, a few years) but I've still avoided the inevitable. But today I did it. I purchased a set of nail clippers.

Now you might be wondering what happened to my last set of nail clippers. In truth, today's nail clippers were the first I've ever purchased. My original set were a white elephant gift at a Christmas party when I was 10 or so. My strongest memory was not understanding what a white elephant gift was, then figuring out that it's a present from a stranger, and then realizing that it was a lame-ass set of nail clippers. As I was at the age when biting and tearing your nails were completely accepted grooming practices, I wasn't too excited about the gift. Eventually I found the appropriate use for them and I enjoyed them very much. As a matter of fact, eventually they became one of the best gifts I ever received. I took to responsible nail care and got more use out of the white elephant gift than many other gifts I might have clamored and cried for. Unfortunately I also found an inappropriate use, clipping the extra wire on my new guitar strings. I'm not certain where the wire clippers I should have been using were (probably in the garage and I was just too lazy to leave my room to go get them), but once I realized this new use of the nail clipper set I couldn't stop.

As you might predict, my nice set eventually dulled. Around 18 or 19 I finally had to come to terms with the fact that I'd ruined my nail clipper set, actually one of the finest gifts I was ever given, due to repeated misuse. It was a sad day.

But as the initial paragraph told you, I didn't buy any new clippers until today. What then have I been doing all this time in between? Did I resort to the nail biting technique? Have I gone Howard Hughes and just let the suckers grow? Did I begin paying for weekly manicures? No, I was much more clever than that. I've managed to live off other people's nail clippers. I've had roommates with nail clippers, girlfriends with nail clippers, co-workers with nail clippers, friends with nail clippers, everything I can get. As my nails would grow to unkempt lengths I would scramble to find a nail clipper that I could use. There's been points in my life where I've made specific stops at friend's houses just to use their clippers; it's been that bad.

But no more. I now stand before you a responsible, independent man, who is able to clip his nails at any time, in any place, and for any reason. I don't own any guitars any more, so I won't be clipping any more strings. I also think that, as part of my debt to the various generous people who provided me with clippers all these years, it is my duty to attempt to clip as many different people's nails as possible with my new set. I'll have to keep a careful eye on my friends' nails, always ready with the clipper in my pocket, in my backpack, perhaps swinging from a chain around my neck: "Oh, I couldn't help but notice that one of your nails is slightly protruding from the tip of your finger, dear friend. Perhaps you'd like to clip them with my clippers?" There's years of debt to be repaid, and it's going to take lots of work to even begin closing the account.

PS -- And for those loyal readers who suffered through my plant post a few entries below (I wrote that when I was drunk and then re-read it a few days later -- jeez if there was ever an entry in sore need of revision in this place, not to mention the damn whininess, but I'm kind of a believer in honesty as well. (Note to self: minimize drunken entries)) there is no conscious metaphor in this nail clipper entry. While you're welcome to give it the old Freudian analysis to your heart's content, I can't say there's been any deliberate construction on my part. That's probably why this entry isn't as obnoxious as that damn plant one, although it might just be the booze.

Sarah, I hardly knew ye

I just received a text message on my cellphone. It says:

Hey sexi ~sarah~

This is interesting for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I don't know any Sarah's. In fairness I do know a Sara (I actually just double-checked to make sure the one I know drops the "h") but I don't think she has my cell phone number, she lives in Texas, it would be rather unprecedented for her to suddenly text me "Hey sexi", and the number that sent it was a (707) number anyway. It should also be added that I don't think I currently know anyone else that would refer to me as "sexi". I would expect to notice someone like that, not only because I would be a little concerned about this person's spelling ability. With their spelling so bad, perhaps they just mistyped the name, too, and it's actually Steph or Jenny or Neal or Joey (but then again, Joey doesn't have a cellphone). Who can know with such obvious disregard for basic English spelling, anyway? But like I said, I don't think I can honestly say I'm currently rated "sexi" in anyone's book.

And then the second dilemma -- what if I do know or have recently met some Sarah here, perhaps while I was drunk (although I haven't even been drinking very much lately) and she's attempting to make a polite request for attention? The note does appear somewhat flirtatious, so if I don't respond will I terribly crush the poor girl? If I can't remember or even know who she is, should I really be concerned if my response is crushing? Would it be completely uncalled for to send a message along the lines of, "Do I even kno u?" to get to the bottom of this mystery?

But I think the easiest explanation is that I'm not the "sexi" person this message was actually intended for. The friendly young Sarah probably just mistyped a number when preparing the message and by whatever stroke of random chance it ended up becoming my telephone number, so I'm just going to ignore it and hope that keeps the general embarrassment level, all things considered, at the lowest possible point. But then ... what if? Maybe it was for me ... I could be sexi to someone, couldn't I?

mad hot ballroom

Teachers, it should be noted, are a strange breed. I, of course, have strongly considered a career in teaching, I'm currently studying in preparation for it, and I also figure that I'd be very good at it should I ever apply myself, but I still have serious doubts if it's a profession I would feel comfortable in.

Witness Mad Hot Ballroom, the documentary about competitive ballroom dancing in NYC public schools. It's an amazing film and I recommend you watch it. The pressures and expectations and completely bizarre stuctures and justifications that we adults make for how we treat out children can be completely impenetrable, yet completely fascinating to me. I suppose I can accept that our school system and our teachings can simply never be perfect, but I'm also stuck wondering just how often it's down right terrible, and where I might fit into all that should I ever apply myself.

I frequently joke -- in that fashion that it's really just a truthful admission but other people find it odd or funny, so I can say pretend I'm kidding -- that I consciously and actively attempt to black out my childhood. I could recount some of the more terrible memories to prove why it might not be so outlandish a proposition, but that would obviously involve revisiting those times, which is something I just told you I don't like to do. In the end all that's really important is that I got through it and it brought me to where I'm at today, so in retrospect I don't feel too bad about it. But I also don't feel too bad about leaving it in the past and never revisiting it. There's not much to miss about it.

As I admitted in an entry a few posts below this one, teenagers make me nervous, particularly when they're in groups. Seeing teenagers interact with each other is an unwelcome reminder of all the anxieties that tortured me back then as well. Yet as I admitted in the beginning of this post, I've seriously considered making a career of exposing myself to these harbingers of pure dread on a daily basis, and then attaching that dread to my paycheck. In part I feel a responsibility, a debt to these children to save them from as many of the horrors that I faced, but on the other I fear for myself. In all likelihood I am one of these insane weirdos determined to continue the cycle of adult-teenager abuse. Who's to say I'm really fighting for the good team? And it's a huge responsibility taking care of America's future by the thousands and I already have a hard enough time sleeping as it is. I'm not certain I need to encourage my insomnia.

So instead I avoid sleep by watching films like Mad Hot Ballroom. I get the thrill of seeing institutional success, the dread of watching the teenagers fight through tough times, and the anxiety about what, if anything, I owe to these children in return. At this point, I think I'm just going to continue volunteering at the polls. That's been fulfilling my sense of civic duty pretty well up to this point, and at least in California the pay is okay.

blind loyalty

It has recently come to my attention that blind loyalty seems to have taken quite a beating in recent times. When discussing the topic with my friends, I seem to be one of the few who still feels there's something attractive, something endearing about irrationally supporting something or someone. Sure, I'm not about to blindly stand in the corner of a friend who steals from me to pay for heroin and I would have quite a hard time supporting the Warriors should they trade Jason Richardson tomorrow for some 2012 second-round draft picks. In more benign matters, though, I will stand by my friends purely on the basis of the fact that I call them my "friend". It's blind loyalty, even if it might not be reciprocated, and it's pretty cool to me.

I would encourage you to try it for yourself some time. Just choose something innocent at first, like Kevin Smith films for example, and decide that you love them no matter what. Defend Jersy Girl to a friend, see how it feels. I hope you can learn to enjoy it as much as I have, because blind loyalty, you'll see, can be a powerful thing.

my plant, I'm worried, is dying

When I moved here to Arcata one of the first things I purchased was a plant. It was a plant recommended as being an ideal houseplant -- easy to care for, highly resilient, and eager to grow. I particularly understood at the time that accepting a new plant is always a serious commitment. You can't just purchase one and expect it to grow on its own. There's lots of maintenace, lots of care and love, lots of attention that must be poured into it.

So we brought it home, L-- and I, and began its care. I won't lie -- I was a little neglectful to begin with. I didn't care for the plant as much as I should have. We set up a weekly watering schedule and, although I was aware of it, I rarely kept it. It was mainly L-- that completed the required watering. No matter who decided to water it, the plant continued to grow. It was stong and positive and eager to show that it had done well by moving out of the plant shop and arriving in our home. Sometimes we bought plant food for it; we really wanted it to grow, and we helped it as much as possible.

And grow it did. Eventually we were buying larger pots and updating our watering schedule. It began noticeably leaning toward the window in the room we kept it in, and I felt a certain amount of paternal pride toward it. Was it short of sunlight, or was it just finally beginning to reach out toward its own sustenance? At this point we might occassionally miss the watering schedule but the plant seemed to continue undisturbed. It had moved beyond our on-going maintenance. I began to wonder if it really needed us in the first place (it did, I know, it was was just trying to show a little independence while it could). We continued to care for it and it continued to grow. It was a beautifully reciprocal relationship and I was very happy we had decided to purchase a house plant. I have to admit that initially I was very nervous about the purchase -- if we bought a house plant first thing and it died straight off, that would surely be a pretty terrible sign. But not only did it survive, the beautiful little thing actually thrived, so any nerves were easily laid to rest.

Eventually L-- moved out and I became very neglectful toward our lovely plant. Although I was aware of the weekly watering schedule, I was pretty terrible at maintaining it on my own. I had faith in the plant's resilience and decided that the strict watering shedule might in fact be too much for the poor thing. I opted instead for a more liberal schedule of watering -- watering only when I noticed the need for it. I would usually only notice when the plant began to look a little rundown compared to its previously chipper and upbeat spirit, which means that I was really just barely remembering to water as the plant finally started to show signs of serious distress. Either way, the plant was a goddamn trooper and continued to soldier on through all these troubles. Our relatinship wasn't perfect, but it worked. Every time that the plant began to look a little rundown, a couple bottlefuls from an empty Gatorade container (the older, more illustruous specific watering instruments from the L--+Tieg Era having been replaced by the more common, readily available empty bottles which seemed to litter the household on any given day; it wasn't just the watering which suffered) seemed to restore it to its previous luster. Every two weeks or so the plant and I would go through a cycle of it feeling grand and alive, followed by a period of it becoming disappointed at my shoddy maintenance, finally inspiring my renewed maintenance leading to a period of fresh prosperity and happiness, only to lead right back to the circumstances that began the process in the first place. I suppose I was aware of these patterns while they were occurring, but I can't really say I took the necessary steps to correct them.

The love/hate, maintenance/neglect cycle kept up for quite a while between the plant and me. Every time that I began to seriously chastise myself for neglect of the plant, wondering if I had, in fact, gone too far without watering this time, it would seem to rebound beautifully, allowing me to continue further along in disillusionment about its general well-being. I feel guilty now.

Eventually I moved out of my apartment and left the plant behind. I had nowhere to take it, no matter how much I wanted to. I believe that I actually offered it to L-- at one point, secretly hoping that she would take it without explicitly verbalizing the importance of the whole affair to her, the continued survival of one of the most speical plants I had ever met, hoping she would care for it like she used to without me having to pathetically beg, alleviating me of the guilt which I had been accumulating by continuing to roughly care for it. Basically a pathetic, half-hearted stab at repairing the neglect and guilt I had accrued toward the plant during the time L--, the plant, and I had been separated. It really deserved better. But like I said, I never made the point of guilt and neglect too explicit; I more just let it hang there and hoped that the plant would survive all the same. So yeah, in the end I just left the plant behind and hoped for the best.

For a while the plant carried on without me present. Someone, I'm not sure who, from my old apartment was caring for the plant while I was gone and this gave me an awful lot of relief. I usually made it a point to put a little water on the poor creature whenever I returned to my old house, guilt still hanging on me like a bad credit report, but I couldn't solve everything. The plant deserve better. The plant seemed to be holding on even in my absence and dreadful neglect (even though my previous continuing presence hadn't exactly been stellar for the plant's care) and all of my visits were one part for seeing my friends and one part for checking up on my gorgeous flora.

But who's kidding who -- we were definitely on the down-turn by now. My glimmers of hope would be screaming distress compared to the luxury of the plant's early days.

And so tonight I returned ... I visited my plant ... and I saw it in the worst shape I've seen the thing in its entire life. I'm gravely concerned its dying. The roomates seem oblivious to it and there's a cat running loose to terrorize it. I wasn't certain if I should pour water upon it or not during this visit because that might only extend its suffering. I still have no solid way of saving the plant as my current residence might actually be more inconducive to plant care than the residence I left behind. So I sat in the room drinking Pabst, watching the absolutely choking amounts of pot smoke pour into the atmosphere surrounding my long-time friend, wondering how the hell I reached this point, remembering the vigor of the plant in previous times, desperatley hoping that it might find some way to rebound from its current situation, but more just trying to accept the fact that my plant was finally dying. There was a paper-clip on one of its leaves. I have no idea what the paper-clip was doing there or why anyone would ever put one there in the first place. Obviously it hurt the poor thing.

But I think it might be a losing battle ... my plant, I'm concerned, is going to die.

And yes -- the is undoubtedly an extended metaphor about my time here in Arcata. Feel free to read between the lines, search for double meanings, and make all the Freudian assumptions you please. But when you're done with all that know that I am seriously worried about my plant's welfare. I'm seriously considering making some phone calls in its regard, first thing tomorrow.

different day, same result

I took a specific note as the act was occurring:

"He's a soldier. If it's a hairy ass, he'll still tear it up."

This is a conversation in reference to Rocco Siffredi (please don't google him). I believe actually that he was referred to as Rocco Sifferelli (or something). I know they definitely didn't get his name right when they referred to him, because I personally marked it as hilarious.

When my roommates spoke of Rocco, it appeared that they approved of his work. I began to harbor serious doubts about their critical capacities. My only experience with Rocco is renting out his work to scores of pathetic losers who were looking to live out their sick fantasies through disgusting porn videos. All of the tapes these people rented were marked with a silver dot, as Rocco was in fact granted his own section in my previous place of employment, his own section of ass fucking, european orgy-ing, reverse gangbang-ing, and woman degrading in general. It wasn't just any ol' porn section, it was Rocco's special section of twisted male fantasy and extended debasement of women.

My roommates made special note to remark upon how when Rocoo demanded that women suck on his toes in the video, they sucked on his toes.

The whole thing made me rather uncomfortable. See previous post for inferences as to why that might be. But this was some special kind of uncomfortable -- not only were they talking about incredibly degrading porn that I am all too familiar with, not only were they approaching this man's videos as anything besides extended, perverse male dominance fantasies, not only were they talking about all these things as something desirable and admirable, they were talking about the silver dot. I know way too much about the silver dot -- the things it represents, the amount of money it makes, and the people who rent it -- for its discussion to pass uncommented upon.

I'm living with people who like watching the silver dot.

cats, dogs, and beer

This is how it begins:

"Hey man, taste this beer. It tastes like pussy."

A few times now I've wished that I had a tape recorder on me when my roommate strikes up conversation. I'm going to have to look into this. And for the record, I've never tasted pussy which tasted like beer.

My roomate's response:

"I dunno man. I don't eat pussy no more."

This is the opening prompt for a 8-10 minute conversation between my roommate and his friend re: the various strategies, tactics, and requirements of cunnilingus. P. apparently doesn't do it any more, because he dislikes the taste. M. says he always does it on the first sexual encounter in order to set a good precedent and then he never does it again. M. also claims it's a good strategy when you know you're real worked up and you're only going to be able to manage 10 seconds or so of intercourse. It's best to get the girl off a few times before jumping in for your brief release; this way she has nothing to complain about, M. explains. P. agrees that while these points may be valid, it's still not a good enough reason for him to eat pussy. M. relates the powerful feeling that occasionally overcomes him which just makes him want to eat pussy more than anything. According to the emphasis M. places on the description of this emotion, I would have to assume that it can be a pretty powerful one.

Frankly, I've never engaged in such crude discussion as the one described above. Living with two men has, in the past few months, introduced me to such randy bedroom talk for the first time in my life. I sit mute during these times, with nothing to add, feeling uncomfortable and confused. It's middle school locker room talk all over again. They aren't going to ask me about my experience, are they? Will I have to make up a lie to satisfy them? Is he fucking serious that he thinks his beer tastes like pussy?

I simply can't speak that crudely about the topic of sex. Even between intimate partners I have a relatively toned down and personalized vocabulary to discuss our bedroom relations. Whether it's for shame of my own sexuality or respect for my sexual partners that I can't approach these topics in the manner of P. and M., we may never know. All I know is that I really need to start shopping for a portable tape recorder.

"Orick is completely cut off from the outside world"

I recently installed Firefox on my computer, finally subverting that evil Bill Gates and his ridiculous IE. It's a good program and one of the fun things I got for it was a constant weather report which updates in my status bar. This was fun for a little while, until I realized that there were constant "Severe Weather" warnings coming up. I know the weather is kind of crappy where I live, but I don't know if we have to go around labeling it severe all the time.

What I do know now, though, is that they weren't joking. There was indeed severe weather on its way. I went to bed around 4 am on Jan 31st, looking forward to sleeping in before celebrating the New Year's. There wasn't much sleeping in, though, as I was awoken around 9:30 by what I believe would best be described as "Severe Weather." Wind was absolutely tearing around my house, and there was no way to sleep through it. Occasionally there would be a volley of rain against the front wind shield as the wind turned in that direction and threw a spray of water against it. Rather eerily my door began making occasional thumping noises as the wind hit it. My gas heater developed a bizarre humming which I still can't understand how it relates to the wind.

It should also go without saying that the power went out. This happens rather regularly up here; I wasn't too concerned about it.

When I finally decided to get my day started I called David, seeing if there was power near him or not. He had no power, and there was no power near him, in fact no power in all of Arcata. We made plans to go out to lunch, over to Eureka hoping to find somewhere which was still had electricity. Our electric stoves weren't going to be much help in food preparation. We discovered that Highway 101 was closed between the two towns and there was bumper to bumper traffic along Old Samoa Road (where typically one can easily reach 70 mph without even realizing it). Trees were down everywhere and water was filling in gaps and reservoirs that it doesn't typically fill up. It was a bizarre scene.

Eventually we found the one restaurant in Eureka that was still open. It was predictably incredibly busy. I felt a little bad for the staff, but I also felt pretty hungry. After a bit of a wait we were finally served. The meal was okay, but not nearly the quality the price might suggest. Then again, who were we to complain? This was the only lunch being served in town.

While waiting I was able to call my friend. My cellphone had become the only electronic distraction available to me and I was certain to get all the use from the battery life I still had. She told me that power was out in the whole county, 60k people unplugged. There were 150 mph winds measured at various spots during the morning and much of the coastline had felt it. I wished her a safe New Year.

Before we left Eureka I wanted to stop by Myrtlewood Liquors. I wasn't sure if they'd be open, but we'd try. Fortunately they were still selling their goods, with the entire business in the dark except for the cash register which had been hooked up to a truck's car battery out front, red and black cables running through the entrance and up to the counter. I can't even begin to imagine how much business the place had been expecting with the New Year's traffic, and obviously the owner was determined to make as much money as possible. This little weather incident had the potential of really wreaking havoc on this poor business owner.

Back in Arcata I didn't want to be alone. Sunset was approaching and it was going to be dark, better to pool what little disaster resources I had with someone else. Eventually I headed over to Joey's house, Safeway was still open and it was on the way. I'd be able to get some beer and celebrate the occassion properly.

Safeway was the busiest I had ever seen it, despite having extremely little power. They were using generators to power the row of cash registers at the front of the store and nothing else. Every single cash register, roughly 12 or 15, had a line of 3-4 people. Every aisle was full of people shopping. The power had only been out for 6 or 7 hours but people didn't let that slow their expectations for the worst.

As I headed to the back of the store to find beer, I realized how much like a dungeon the beer section is. It's slightly set into the back of the store with a lower ceiling, meaning that it was the darkest section of the entire store by far, but on this holiday also one of the busiest. It was too dark to be able to easily see the brands, and you definitely couldn't make out the prices. I realized that I still had the section somewhat memorized -- higher priced, quality beer on the left, cheaper American brands on the right. All I wanted was Pabst but I couldn't find it. How many times had I been there purchasing it and I hadn't memorized where it was located? It could also be that they were sold out. The alcohol was moving briskly. Some shoppers even came through the section with a flashlight, and I was able to use the brief glimpse of light to grab what I wanted.

In true American form, the cash registers worked great and I was able to pay with my debit card. The cash register told me she had been working since 6 in the morning (it was about 4 now) and I couldn't say anything to her. There's no real way to pretend that would be enjoyable.

In the parking lot Rico's Tacos was still open. They had a gas generator sitting outside with a line running into the kitchen. Inside the restaurant they had a line outside the door.

At Joey's house I was able to sit, drink, and await the sunset. Once it went down the town went dark. There was nothing on. You could see all the major roads as cars drove up and down. Old Samoa looked like a spotlight because of the constant stream of headlights pointing at Joey's house traveling along the road. Once it got dark, it got extremely dark. Going to the bathroom became an adventure, a novelty, something you had never done before. This was going to be a New Year's to remember.

So there, that's basically just a quick description of some of the more important things I want to remember about the night. Obviously the power is on again. Around 9 in the morning it came back on, meaning we had a completely dark New Year's Eve. I don't know how terribly interesting all these details are to any potential readers, but it's something I need to put down to save for later. Hopefully I'll be able to work some fun story out of all of this, and I'll be sure to throw it up here.

Anyway -- for whoever is reading this, Happy New Year's.