Well, I know I haven't posted in forever, but if a couple month's absence from the LJ scene (I've been reading, though!), seems negligent, I wonder what the next two years may be like? Well, I just thought it curtious to give you all a final goodbye as I check out of the Sheraton in Philadelphia. I'm getting on a bud, heading to the airport, and flying away to Madagascar via South Africa. I'll arrive on the 16th.

I have more second-thoughts and misgivings than I can count, and I'm not a good enough writer to really describe the intensity of what's going on in my head as I say goodbye to America. I'm not the world's most emotional person, and I'm fairly inured to travel at this point in my life, so I find it unusual that I get so antsy today. I'm not worried about homesickness - home is where I hang my hat, and it's not like America is gonna get up and move on me. And I'm not even really worried about loosing friends - Kris, Russ, Gabe, Nicole, etc are all smart, tough, honest folk, and they can take care of themselves, and I know they'll be there when I return, so no worries there. I suppouse the big concern is for Mona. There's a huge part of me that says I'm an idiot for disappearing from her life like this - when's the next time a beautiful girl who is such a great match for me on a personality level expresses an interest in me? What idiot gives up an oppertunity like that? And if I come back and things are different, I know I will have only myself to blame.

On the other hand, even if I was staying, we couldn't stay together - I have no future in LA, and she currently has no future outside of it. And this way she's got time to establish herself and decide what sort of life she wants and where she wants to take it. And when I get back, we'll both be in a more solid place in our lives and be able to make bigger commitments and have bigger adventures together.

Yeah, I keep telling myself that. But what this ultimatly boils down to is me taking a much larger risk than I thought I was going to. When I applied, I didn't have near as much to lose. Now... I see the couples who are in my little team, and turn green with envy. That should be Mona and me.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It's time to get on that bus and face the moment of truth. Thank you all for being my friends. Stay strong, live your dreams, and I'll see you on the other side. Peace and love (especially to you, Mona).

Over and out.

... especially because I don't have to endure it anymore. But I was listening to this Terry Prachett novel on tape, and he summarized nine out of ten conversations I've ever had with people on this subject. Observe:

"They say, 'Well, mabey it IS smelly, mabey it IS overcrowded, mabey it IS a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fires off and stabled a herd of incontenent cows there for a year. But you must admit that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic... LIFE!'

And this is true, even though it is poets who are saying it. But people who aren't poets [me] say, 'So what? Mattresses tend to be full of life, too, and no one writes odes to them.'"

Dear Friends and Family,

So I sat down about a week ago with the intention of writing a bajillion 
very personal good-bye letters, thanking them for the wonderful roles 
they have played in my life, describing my (admittedly vague), 
predictions for the next two years, and affirming my continued affection 
for them with the hope that upon my return we might sit down for tea (or 
perhaps a good beer) together, or something like that. As it is, I made 
it to about letter six before my carpal tunnel acted up, and I began 
reconsidering exactly how much I loved everyone versus how much I loved 
the idea of my wrist not being in a splint again. And

though I love you all, the most I’ll see of any of you over the next few 
years will be the occasional visitor who thinks it’s clever to greet me 
with something like, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” My wrist, on the 
other hand (ha,ha), is going to be with me 24/7, 365x2, so I feel it’s 
best to ingratiate myself to this more constant traveling companion. 
That being the case, I just don’t want anybody to be put out because 
they did not get the personal letter that they really do deserve - the 
fact I put your e-mail address on the “send” thingy means that I did 
give you, the individual, my thoughts. And as I imagine the climate of 
my new home is likely to agree more with my wrist, anyway, it’s likely 
that you’ll be getting something more substantial later on. That said, 
we can get down to business.

For anybody who might possibly have missed my last ten thousand e-mails, 
I have signed up with the Peace Corps to work as an agroforestry 
volunteer in Madagascar. I had originally applied to do something on 
coral reefs in the South Pacific (visions of grass skirts and drinks in 
coconuts were figuring prominently in my ambitions, at the time), but my 
marginal French skills locked me into West Africa. I missed that 
departure date due to a mix-up in the medical files, which caused me no 
end of grief, but soon afterwards was informed that the next available 
post was in Madagascar, and would I be interested? So it turns out that 
I do get my tropical island nation, after all, though I’m unsure about 
the availability of grass skirts and drinks in coconuts. If I’m lucky, I 
may be able to twist the definition of “agroforesty” into “working on 
coral reefs,” but I won’t cry if that doesn’t work out. Compared to some 
AIDS-riddled desert in Chad, the “land of the lemurs” sounds darn toot’n 
wonderful. 

Besides, as exotic, far-off locations go, Madagascar can’t be beat. It 
really is the “far side of the world.” I checked. The only way I could 
be further off from Portland would be to charter a boat and sail it off 
the south end of the island. College in New England, a semester in 
Moscow, and now this. I guess I must be doing something right.

For a quick overview, Madagascar is a large island nation off the SE 
coast of Africa. It is inhabited by a ethnic group called the Malagasy, 
descended from Malayo-polynesian/Indonesian seafarers who started 
arriving in waves about two thousand years ago. This core population was 
later supplemented by immigrants from mainland Africa and the 
Middle-east. Though all considered Malagasy, the population divides into 
about thirty distinct cultures ranging from Muslim traders to animist 
hunter-gatherers. Both Catholicism and Protestantism are present, though 
the most popular religion is ancestor-worship (always treat your 
ancestors well - eventually you’ll become one). The country is a 
parliamentary democracy, currently recovering from a civil war in which 
the late president (president for the last few decades), was ousted for 
his dictatorial ways and voter fraud.

Madagascar is also famed as on the Earth’s “biodiversity hotspots.” Its 
size and isolation from mainland ecosystems encouraged the evolution of 
totally unique species (the tenerec, resembling a cross between a vole 
and a hedgehog with stripes), as well as the preservation of other 
species out-competed elsewhere in the world (lemurs, for example). Its 
north-south orientation, coupled with a rainshadow effect from the 
island’s mountain range results in a fantastic array of microclimates 
and associated ecosystems. I’m personally shooting for the arid 
Southwest, home to a totally unique family of plants, the “octopus 
trees.” Word has it that they are unlike anything else on earth, giving 
the landscape the look of a sci-fi movie. Besides, it’s as far away from 
the equator as you can get, and has the longest dry season. All of these 
ecosystems are in peril, the largest single culprit being the 
slash-and-burn farming practiced by the Malagasy. It’s a fine system 
when there’s just a few tribesmen making a subsistence living in the 
jungle, but when the population booms and people start producing for the 
global market instead of just for their own meals, it’s a system that 
needs a serious second look. I’m thinking... free-range iguana farms 
require the trees to stay intact. Besides, iguana tastes like chicken.

In any case, I arrive in the capital of Antananarivo on February 14th, 
or 15th, depending on how long the flight is. It’s so long that the 
guidebook has recommendations for how to avoid fatal lower-leg blood 
clots that occasionally knock off tourists before they even get to their 
destination. So let’s say the 15th. I will spend three months there, 
learning Malagasy and desperately trying to revive my French from the 
amber it has fossilized in since high school. I will be living with a 
Malagasy family, and receiving training in agroforestry/environmental 
fieldwork that I will use during my tour of duty. I will also be under 
constant scrutiny by the Corps staff to make sure that I don’t go 
postal, what with culture shock, suddenly living on less-than-affluent 
conditions, weird food, isolation from friends and family, etc, etc, 
etc. I don’t normally have issues with dropping everything to go live 
somewhere far away without my usual safety net (my dad is still giving 
me grief for going off to Hampshire without a backwards glance), but 
this will really test my ability to live by the maxim, “home is where I 
hang my hat.”

Presuming I don’t loose what vestiges of sanity are left after four 
years of negotiating through Hampshire’s bureaucracy, I will then 
receive an assignment appropriate to my technical and linguistic skills. 
Agroforestry, I have been given to understand, is interpreted in fairly 
general terms. Thus, I could wind up doing anything from mitigating the 
effects of slash-and-burn farming (a huge problem there), through 
beekeeping, tree farms, shrimp fisheries, possibly even
 the coral reefs I was interested in in the first place. I am given to 
understand that, unlike the Volunteers who teach computer skills in the 
capital, I am likely to be out in the boonies. We’re talking mud hut, no 
electricity, no plumbing, no air conditioning, no supermarket (just 
local, seasonal food... no 
mangos in the winter...), the local people still recovering from the 
effects of the civil war, and the Peace Corps doctors (all two of them 
for the entire country) days away in the capital. Oh, and did I mention 
some of the more remote communities of Malagasy have folktales about 
pale-faced spirits that rip out men’s hearts, and have been known to 
flee at the approach of a white man (or make their displeasure known in 
other ways. They’re quite inventive with spears, I hear).

Well, I hope this short book clarified to everyone what my first real
 post-college step is going to be. I’d love to talk more on the subject 
with any and all of you, and of course I will try to keep people updated 
with e-mails and letters. My new e-mail address is eightsongdogs@gmail.com

(I’m still using the Hampshire address, but only for business). No electricity

and a somewhat lethargic postal service will make communication intermittent,

at best, but I’ll do what I can. And I would love to hear from you, whatever

you have to say. As long as it’s in English, I’ll love it. Attached is information from the 
Peace Corps about how to stay in touch with me (pleasepleaseplease do!).

Also, for Christmas my darling Mona gave me a wonderful gift - a 
scrapbook with donations from various friends, so’s I’d have something 
to sit down and look at whenever I felt lonely. It is amazing as is, but 
still far from complete. Anyone who feels like sending something for the 
scrapbook - a photo, a little bit of writing, a memory, a bit of art, or 
something weird I haven’t thought of - please do. It would mean so much 
to me to turn a page in Madagascar and suddenly be no further from you 
than that book. If you do decide to send 
anything, it would be best to send it to Mona’s house, my last stop 
before I leave (11 Mayflower Road, Scarsdale, NY, 10583), to make sure I 
get it before I leave. This would make a serious difference for me, so 
if you do have anything you’d like to send away, please, please do.

Finally, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your 
friendship and love over the years. I figure I can either freak out at 
the idea of leaving you all behind, or just be grateful for the time 
we’ve had. Gratitude, I’ve found, is a lot more restful. And a lot more 
genuine. Some of you I have known all my life, others less than a year, 
but you’ve all touched my life and given to me more than I can ever 
repay. You have been strong when I was weak, wise when I was foolish, 
patient when I was unreasonable, generous in mind, body, and spirit when 
I needed it most. Often, I did not realize the value of what had been 
given to me until long after the fact. Even when I did, my gratitude was 
not the stuff of legends. I know that I sometimes even have trouble 
asking for help, let alone receiving it gracefully. So for every time 
you have reached out to me, whether I realized it or not, thank you. 
Thank you so much. It has been my honor and privilege to have you as a 
part of my life, and I will carry a piece of you with me till the day I 
die. I hope the next two years give you plenty great stories - I’ll be 
waiting for them.


Fair winds,


Colin

No, this is not about small-town lynchings, or that damn Santa on a noose in Florida. Tomorrow, I say goodbye to this hellhole that passes for a civilised Western city, I hop on the big white bird, and wing my way back to God's country. I shall here pause to inform such friends of mine as may not be aware, but the Pacific Northwest and Israel are the only places in the world where the sacred myrtle tree is to be found. Coincidence? I think not.

In any case, Christmas with my family is a fairly predictable affair, in which the entirity of Clan Duncan is plunged into three weeks of utter chaos brought about by miscommunication, technical difficulties, human error, human malevolence (never proven, but always suspected), childishness, and above all, a bewildering array of unrelenting and occasionally contradictory traditions that an observant individual might note seem to be growing as the years go by ("What's this? No Yorkshire pudding? But we always have Yorkshire pudding for Xmas Eve dinner!" "What the hell are you talking about? We've had Yorkshire pudding twice in the last two decades!" "But it's a Tradition [note the capital T]!" "But Aunt _______ is vegetarian! We can't feed her Yorkshire pudding, it's practically pure pork drippings!" "I don't care, everyone eats Yorkshire pudding on Christmas! It's a Tradition!" "But it's not her tradition! Hell, it's not even ours! I feel so goddamn stupid even having this conversation!".... and so on). In simpler terms, I don't know if I'll have a chance to even look at a computer any time in the next three weeks, let alone write LJ entries, e-mails, etc. I'll make every effort I can, but if I can't here's a quick run-down of how the holidays should go for me. Of course, there's a one-in-ten chance that it'll turn out like this, but a guy can dream.

Bring Mona to Portland, hope the Clan doesn't put her through the meat-grinder. The ultimate test of whether a signifigant other is to be considered part of the Clan revolves not so much around questions like "how serious is your relationshp?" and more around how the applicant handles herself during a family game of Trivial Persuit. This is no small challenge, as these games tend to dissolve into something bearing a close resemblance to inter-Clan warfare in the Scottish Highlands circa AD 1450. It tests not only your ability to remember otherwise useless trivia, but also to bullshit, detect and attack the bullshit of others, form alliances, stab your erstwhile allies in the back whilst dodging the reciprocal stabbings of said allies, and occasionally hold your own in a physical confrontation. I belive blood was once drawn over some question relating to Elanore of Aquitane and her primary achivements in Dark Ages France. I've got my fingers crossed for Mona - she's small, but mighty.

Among other goals:

Tea with Maya (old HS friend) at the Portland Chinese Gardens

Tracking in the Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness with Colin L.

Samurai night with Uncle Jamie

Beers with the Kris, Russ, and Gabe

Get a few bartending gigs at neighborhood holiday parties

Returning the book I stole from my oldest friend, James Veber, when we were in 8th grade

Go to the Krav Maga place with Kris, and see what I remember

Xmas shopping/gift making

Xmas Eve dinner (minus arguments over the pudding)

Usher at the Xmas Eve service at church (ends at midnight)

Xmas

Xmas dinner (I always wear my kilt, so that should be fun)

A week at the Ranch with my family - will we survive, or will life imitate art (see "Ravenous")?

New Year's Eve (gotta do something nice for Mona. Any ideas?)

Post-New Year's Eve party at the Ranch

Sell/donate my worldly possessions before my Mom can take advantage of my absence to do so, herself.

Pack for Madagascar

Say my goodbyes

Disappear

If I don't get a chance to write in the next three weeks, be chill, my friends. You're in my thoughts and prayers, and you'll be in my letters once this whole crazy event is dealt with. Till then, merry politically correct, non-denominational festive occasion to you all.

Peace and love,

Colin

Sith Master

You scored -86 on the Force Sensitivity/Jedi Chart!

Other Sith like you are: Emporer Palpatine (Darth Sidious), Exar Kun, Darth Plagueis and Darth Bane.

You are the Sith Master the epitome of evil. The dark side completely consumes you. There is no light left in your soul.

You have no concern for others and use your powers to gain anything and everything you want. You have probably killed more then any seasoned soldier ever will and are probably very cunning. Those who you can stand are there because of any feeling you have for them, its because they fear you and you have at least some use for them. You kill without remorse and take without thinking twice.

You are hardly afraid of anything, as your power is nearly absolute but you should be wary of the dealings of Jedi Masters as well as keep your apprentices in line; as it is with all Sith, there is always one seeking to take your place.

Dear David,

My time working at the Venice Bistro has been interesting and educational. There have been a great many positive experiences (the music, in particular, has been wonderful), but I have also noticed several ways in which the bar could improve its business. I feel it is the duty of an employee to provide feedback on the establishment to his/her employer. I hope you will find my observations useful.

For one thing, as a bartender, the contents of the backbar have been frustrating. I have well over 150 different drinks memorized, but without the necessary materials, it’s useless knowledge. I cannot count the number of times I have had to refuse to serve a drink to customers simply because we lacked the necessary components of the drink. Below is a list of the components I most sorely felt the lack of:

Bacardi 151

Sloe gin

Drambuie

Green Crème de Menthe

Brown Crème de Cacao

Cream, at all

Ginger ale

Collins glasses

Shooter glasses

Cherry-flavored brandy

Blackberry-flavored brandy

Lime juice

Crème de almond

Bailey’s, not Carolan’s

Chambord, not Chateau Monet

Apple Pucker

Bombay Sapphire gin

bitters

Also, I have never yet served a wine in the Venice Bistro that did not elicit a grimace from the customer. I am no wine snob, but I’m fairly sure that each glass of the wine we sell costs the customer more than the entire bottle did for us. If we are to charge such high prices for a glass of wine, it might be wise to make sure the wine is worth it. It might also be a good idea to lay in a small store of slightly better beers than our current selection – perhaps you know of a few local microbrews looking for a little more exposure?

On the note of prices, the overall prices at the bar are steep, to say the least. I understand a certain hike in prices due to the fact the beachfront property cannot be cheap, and property taxes must increase accordingly. However, like the wines, charging $8 for a shot of Krista gin just doesn’t seem right. And when you consider that a shot of the well rum costs the SAME as a shot of Bacardi lemon, you start to wonder at the logic, as well. I mean, these prices may be appropriate during the summer, when tourists are flowing in and out, spending money as if it were water. But during the off season when you’re trying to rely on local trade, it would make a great deal of sense to reduce your prices, especially for the well drinks and the beers. This would allow you to capture a greater proportion of the off-season/local market, who otherwise go to other establishments and spend their money there.

Finally, the communication of prices is very unclear to both the bartenders and the customers. In the reference sheet provided for the bartenders above the cash register, for instance, it clearly states that all well drinks cost $7.50, each. I have been yelled at for undercharging customers when all I was doing was following your written word. It is only one of many discrepancies to be found on that sheet. Likewise, the happy hour menus are in dire need of an updating. They communicate to customers a set of prices that are often lower than what we employees are instructed to charge. Customers have expressed a great deal of dissatisfaction over this, and I must admit I have some sympathy with them. Clear communication is everything in maintaining good relations with your customers, especially the regulars.

On that note, I should also mention that communication of a regular work schedule is a mark of professionalism that has been lacking during my time at the Bistro. It took me over two weeks to see a written work schedule, two weeks during which I was basically on call for the bar, and all other aspects of my life ground to a halt for it. I had been hoping to get a second job, to supplement my income, but was unable to give potential employers any reliable hours, because I could not get any reliable hours from my first job. I have finally seen a schedule for last week, but even that proved unreliable – I was supposed to work the morning of the 23rd, came in punctual at 10:30, waited 45 minutes for Esperanza to arrive (late, as usual), only to be told that my work shift had been changed to the evening, without my knowledge. In the same exchange, I was informed that switching shifts with the other bartenders was unacceptable, even if it meant no real inconvenience to the management. In other words, it is perfectly all right for the management to jerk around the employees’ schedules without communicating such changes to them, but not alright for the employees to take an active role in deciding when they will work or not.

The subject of communication brings me to my next point. I don’t want you to take this personally, but I have to question the wisdom of hiring a manager who is incapable of communicating clearly with many of the customers and staff without the aid of a translator. I do not say this as a prejudiced white American who thinks the entire world should speak English to suit him – I am tri-lingual, and believe that having people from different cultural backgrounds working together is a wonderful thing. On a more practical level, however, management that cannot communicate clearly can be worse than no management at all. As a particular example, I note the night of November 21st, when Esperanza got into a horrible argument with a customer over a simple misunderstanding. She actually called the police on this man, a repeat customer, whose only fault was asking her not to micro-manage and to stop harassing the customers. We lost some excellent business forever that night, business that there was no need to loose had Esperanza had a better grasp of the common tongue used in her own establishment.

In addition, the points this man made about micro-managing, harassing the customers, and second-guessing the employees were all dead-on. When Esperanza is in the bar, it becomes more difficult for us, the staff, to do our jobs. Having someone yelling corrections to mistakes we haven’t made in barely comprehensible Spanglish takes our attention away from the job we are supposed to be doing, and hurts the quality of our work. What is more, she brings with her an air of suspicion (I have heard the word “paranoia” used by customers), that hurts the atmosphere and drives business away. To give you an example, when making a gin martini for a customer, I have been yelled at for trying to put more than a shot-and-a-half of gin into the mixer. Our cocktail glasses are designed to hold three ounces of liquid, and when I poured the “corrected” amount of gin into the glass, it made a very sad martini, indeed. When my girlfriend came to visit me at work, Esperanza also told me that she did not want friends and family of employees to come into the bar, for fear that I would give them free drinks. Frankly, this was insulting to my integrity, and showed me that though I had given the benefit of the doubt to her upon coming to the Bistro, no such benefit was to be extended to me. As a matter of fact, friends of mine have indeed come into the bar, and I have charged them full price for every drink I served. That she made her declaration loudly in front of the customers only made it more humiliating and insulting. I considered giving my notice then and there, but I try not to act out of anger, and held my peace. I am unsure what reasoning led to Esperanza becoming manager of the Venice Bistro, and I beg you to reconsider your choice.

What this all boils down to, I think, is that you probably don’t care about the Venice Bistro anymore. I have worked for a variety of amazing people, including (but not limited to) Congress, itself. Though I have little interest in business, I am close to many successful businessmen, and have had an opportunity to see how they run their establishments. One thing that the best of them all have in common is that they love their businesses. They go the extra mile, make sure that a cleaning service comes in to sanitize the bathrooms, that a repairman comes in to fix the locks on the upstairs windows, that the backbar is adequately stocked. They treat their employees and regular customers with respect and inspire them to care for the establishment as well. The result can be seen in the atmosphere of trust, care, and happiness that pervades the business, as well as in the cash register (if you’re interested in more concrete returns). A low turnover in employees is also a good sign, one that the Venice Bistro notably lacks. In talks with your regulars, it seems that the Bistro was once treated with this kind of love, that you once cared enough to go the extra mile. However, this is not the case, anymore. Frankly, many of the regulars think you’ve gone off the deep end, though I am more inclined to believe that you just stopped caring. I’ve seen businesses that were run by people interested only in making money – they try to get the maximum cash return in exchange for the minimum investment of time and resources, and they don’t really care for the business worth a damn. The Venice Bistro fits that description perfectly, which is probably why it is no longer the happening place it once was. A business can be like a lover, at times - sometimes the flame dies, and its time to move on. Your sin, David, is not that you stopped loving your bar, it’s that you didn’t sell it to someone who would.

The final straw, however, occurred Nov 26th. As you may recall, it was a day of exceptionally strong winds. During my work shift, a bucket fell from on top of either the Bistro or the Candle Cafe next door, and struck one of our customers in the head. I am First Aid certified, and immediately set about grabbing ice and a first aid kit for the girl who had been hit, but was told to stay at the bar instead of coming to her aid. I was told that it was not my problem, nor was it the Bistro’s problem. When concerned customers came in asking for assistance, they were treated with suspicion and declarations that the Bistro was not responsible. A blow to the head can be a very serious injury, possibly causing concussion, and, if severe enough, death. In this case, the damage seemed to have been negligible, but the important thing is that until one of us got outside to help her, NO ONE WOULD HAVE KNOWN HOW BAD IT WAS. By the time I was able to override my coworker’s objections and get out to the patio, a seriously injured person might have died. In short, the Bistro seemed far more concerned about protecting its own financial assets than the health and safety of the people it claimed to be serving.

I have decided that any place which fosters this sort of selfish, uncaring behavior is not a place where I wish to work. I need money, sir, but I do not need yours, and you may consider this letter of Nov 28th, 2005 to constitute my two weeks notice. I shall, of course, continue to provide the best service possible to you up to and including Dec 10th (though if you find a replacement for me before that time, I would take it as a kindness if they could assume my duties as soon as possible).

The fact is that while working at the Bistro, I have gotten the distinct feeling that I was a rat on a sinking ship. It’s now time for that rat to get off. I would have quit my employment at your establishment long ago were it not for the fact that I was planning to move on in December, anyway. Though I had earlier considered helping you find another bartender to take my place, I cannot in good conscience encourage anyone I know to come work for you, and will recommend that your bar be removed from the “hiring” board at the National Bartenders School. I can only hope that you will see fit to sell the Bistro to someone who will treat it and the people who work and drink there with the dignity and respect that they deserve.

Good day to you, Sir,

Colin Duncan

I am proud to say that in my entire life, I have almost always been able to talk or otherwise maneuver myself around a fight. Of the two times my silver tongue has failed me, my fists, feet, and forehead were able to bring the dispute to a decisive resolution. Never has my ass been kicked, and I intend to keep it that way. Given the events of last night, and their likelihood of recurrence, I see yet another valid reason for quitting my current job.

Most of the people who come into the Bistro are actually pretty nice, some are sad or silly, but this was the first time I've seen someone come in looking for a fight. Dude plopped himself down at the bar and started eyeing the other customers like a pit bull at a dogfight. He ordered an $8 shot of tequila, I served him, he took out $4, said it was all he had. I don't particularly care for my employers, so I didn't really mind stiffing them $4, and let it slide. As the evening wore on, however, he became more abrasive and offensive, harassing the other customers, and generally being an ass. When I saw him waving a ten-dollar bill around, after his little stunt with the tequila, I kinda hit my limit, told him to finish his beer, and go. He pretty much blew me off. Then one of the regulars, a guy I know and trust, took me aside and told me that this hombre was "bad news," that he'd come in here and started some pretty serious fights before, and the sooner he was gone, the better. So I went over to this fellow, an informed him on no uncertain terms that I would give him 5 minutes to make a graceful exit before calling the cops on his ass. He rained abuse on me and refused to move. I returned to my bar, watching him. At four minutes, he took his drink and moved out to the patio - not good enough. I followed him out, saying as politely as I could that he had a minute left. Eye contact. He stood up, we stared at each other for a while. Wasn't a tall man, only topped me by a few inches, but stocky. Maybe 220, 230 lbs. Big enough. If he threw a punch, I knew that some of the regulars would be happy to help me out, and I could also make good on my threat to call the cops. But folks were watching, and if I had to go running for help, that would be a serious blow to my authority as bartender. Without that authority, every day was gonna be a struggle with customers who would think they could pull a fast one on me. So it became mono a mono. I felt like I was in a Jack London novel, where two dogs vie for supremacy in the pack.

"You got ten seconds, buddy."

He left on the count of eight.

I stifled an unreasoning surge of machismo, and tallied down yet another fight avoided. It's the best kind.

I have no words to describe the events of last night. The mind-boggling stupidity of what happened between Mona and my manager at the bar is beyond the capacity of the English language to really describe (despite Mona's best efforts, see her LJ entry). I'm not even angry about this - there is no room in my mind for anger, when the whole of my brain is still trying to process how a reasonable, loving God could allow something so totally senseless to happen. Perhaps HP Lovecraft was right, and existence is truely controlled by Azathoth, the blind idiot god at the center of the universe... The closest I can come to wrapping words around the rediculosity of this event is a Willem Defoe quote from the Boondock Saints,

"Bad television. That's the explanation for all this. Little assault guys crawling through the vents, popping out of the ceiling... This shit doesn't happen in real life. Professionals don't do this!"

And that's the closest I can get. Holy shit.

So now that I'm a member of the Rat Race, I can look at things from the perspective of one of those rats. And I finally have an answer to a question that's been bugging me for years - what goes on in a rat's head as he leaves a sinking ship? Not surprisingly, it runs something along the lines of, "What the fuck am I doing here, and where's the nearest exit?!"

As you can probably tell, I'm about to rant about the bar, again. Don't worry, I'll try to keep it short. I worked there last night, under the watchful eye of the owner and the manager. The owner took me aside to criticize me about the fact that I ripped off the previous night's tab halfway through the title. A simple mistake, not even one that damaged any important information, but it still earned me a lecture on "I don't know if you're stupid or just not paying attention, and if you do this again, it could mean your job." I swear, if I wasn't going to quit in a couple weeks, anyway, I would have walked right out of bar then and there.

Instead, I walked behind the bar, where I got to share my space and job with our manager, or should I say, micromanager. She's a horrible little hyperactive woman whose only qualifications for the job seem to be a joy in making life difficult for the staff, yelling at them in front of coustomers when we have done nothing wrong, trying to show us how to do our own jobs (which we can do far better than she), oh, yeah, and sleeping with the owner. I forgot to mention that our manager is the owner's girlfriend, didn't I? And I also forgot to mention that she only speaks Spanish, which means that every time she wants to communicate, she either draggs the only Spanish-speaking employee away from whatever job he is doing at the time and forces him to translate, or she just screams in Spanish, waves her arms around, and acts like you've somehow never learnt Spanish just to spite her. What the hell? Even assuming she had any managerial skills to begin with, why do you hire a manager linguistically incapable of communicating with her staff? If your employees speak English, isn't it a good idea to get a manager who can speak the common tounge? I'm not saying this as some asshole white kid who thinks the whole world should speak English - I've paid my dues, am to some extent TRI-lingual, and will be working on a fourth lingo in a matter of months - I'm just saying that she should either learn to communicate without a translator or give the job to someone else.

On the note of those ultimatums, I've decided I finally know why this place is such a dive. The owner doesn't really care, anymore. I've talked with some of the regulars, who can recall the days when the Venice Bistro was THE place to be, when there would be four or five hundred people lined up outside to get in, when the owner had to hire professional bouncers (instead of relying on the bartender's ameture efforts), to deal with the volumes of people... And when the bathrooms were presumably cleaned on a regular basis, the cash register was not an antiquated piece of shit, technical problems were adressed with alacrity, and the backbar was adiquatly stocked with quality booze. In a word, when the owner gave a rat's ass about his bar.

The common consensus is that he's not that way, anymore. In fact, the common consensus among the regulars is that he's gone off the deep end. I'll try to be a little more forgiving than that and say that somewhere along the line, he stopped loving his bar (one of the servers swears on his mother's grave that this place is just a money laundering operation, not in inconcievable possibility). Now, I'm no businessman, but I have known several, and I can say this - when the higer-ups love their business, it shows. They go the extra mile to make things work, they take pride not in how much money they, themselves get, but in how healthy the business is. I suppouse a rough analogy would be the way someone feels about/treats their pet. When an owner gives a shit, you can tell. They lead by example, and this inspires their subordinates to emulate that example, and to care about the wellbeing of the business, too. And though I've never been particularly inspired by the business world, I gotta say, that's kindov a beautiful thing.

Alternativly, an owner can see his business as little more than a means to fatten his wallet. In such a situation, he will try to get as much return from the establishment as he can (for instance, charging outragous prices for a bottle of crappy beer), with a minimum of investment (for instance, stocking the back bar with crap booze and imitation brands). Such a business is marked by a worn, dilapidated feeling, cut corners, a high employee turnover rate, and in this case, roaches. Guess which catagory the Venice Bistro and its owner fall into?

I have a continuation of the movie idea I mentioned for Russ and Gabe a couple entries ago. The management is hell, and actually does use the establishment to launder (drug?) money. The employees discover this, and aided by the college kid's "book smarts" (I still can't belive someone used that word in reference to me at the bar), engage in an effort to expose the owner and take over the establishment, themselves. Instead of disappearing into the Peace Corps, the college kid sticks around to become the manager of the newest, hottest establishment in LA, becomes a philanthropist, marries his girlfriend on a tropical island, etc, etc, etc. A coming of age film for college grads. What do you think?

Well, OK, this turned out to be long, after all. Forgive me, there was a lot of steam to let off. I hope everyone has a nice weekend. Peace out, yo.

So last night, the folks owning the bar decided I had learnt enough to fly solo. Up till now, I've just been working the bar as junior bartender, or co-bartender (or going solo during the afternoons, which doesn't really count). This is the first time I've ever handled the bar without anyone to turn to for assistance. I suppouse it could have been a lot worse, but it could have been a lot better.

If you discount the amazing music this place has, the Bistro is otherwise little more than an overpriced beach dive. Needless to say, it doesn't attract the same kind of clientele that I would have gotten to deal with had I gotten those other jobs at the Ritz-Carlton, or the Seafood Co., etc. Tonight, I got to deal with a fellow who came in, ordered a beer, and started talking and gesturing violently at thin air. I had to hit him and yell at him to get his attention and payment for the beer. He started freaking me out, so during one of his long rants, I stole his half-drunk Bud and tossed it in the trash. When he realized it was gone (20 min later), I managed to convince him to leave. And then there was the lady who walked in, demanded a drink, sent it back, demending another for free. This kept going for a while, with me getting more and more flustered, and screwing up on stupid things, and getting tripped up by the fact that my bar is no high-end joint, and every once in a while the ARE flies that get into the drink, there's no need to make a huge fuss out of it, lady, I'm getting you another drink why are you raining abuse on my head like this you godawful BITCH! And then she got all sad and started talking about how she was a beautiful woman, and demanding that I tell her how beautiful she is. I figured that this would be the final unreasonable charity of my bartending career (dealing with the clientele, I've been giving out charities left and right for the past 1 1/2 weeks, and I'm plum out of human goodwill), but when she took my hand and started licking/love biting it, I drew the line. That woman went out the damn door, and the last charity drew to a close. Finally, there was the creepy beach bum who stood outside the bar for the better part of three hours, staring at me. Not at the bar, at ME, eye contact and everything. Didn't move an inch during that whole time. I begain to worry that he'd be there when I closed down the bar, just waiting for me to come out into the dark, solitary boardwalk (the place totally clears out by around ten). Dealing with some yahoo who might be willing to kill me for the sake of his crack habit was not the way I wanted to end my night, and I planned a sneaky escape out the back door of the establishment (in itself a gamble, as he might have been planning on that, and had friends waiting in the alley out back, which is even more secluded). And to top it all off, my tip money (a piddling $19) was confiscated for a couple measly cashing irregularities. I did all of that mor minimum wage! What the hell?

For anyone who has any damn illusions about this job, let me now be your truthbringer. I will listen to you talk, but I am not your psycologist. If necessary, I will bodily evict you from the bar, but I am not a bouncer. And most of all, I am not your damn trained monkey! I am a bartender - I mix and serve drinks. That is all I am paid to do, anything else is extra, so if you don't get the bartender you see in the movies, too bad BECAUSE HE DOESN'T EXIST. So don't get pissy if I'm not Tom Cruise, or that guy from Cheers. I deserve the same respect as any other human being, probably more because while everyone else is going home to their loved ones and a good dinner, or else out partying, I am stuck in this hole serving the dregs of society for minimum wage, so tip nicely, damn your stingy little fingers!

There, I think you all know how my day went. Goodnight.

Here's how I score:

1. Unitarian Universalism (100%)

2. Mahayana Buddhism (96%)

3. Theravada Buddhism (94%)

4. New Age (90%)

5. Neo-Pagan (89%)

6. Hinduism (87%)

7. Liberal Quakers (82%)

8. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (78%)

9. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (75%)

10. New Thought (73%)

Well, the past weekend+ has been... active. After four months of post-college unemployment, the working world hit with a bang.

Saturday - start work at the bar 4 PM - 10:30 PM. Start 2nd job spraying Tite-Grip (an extremely caustic formula that coats floors to improve traction under wet conditions) on the floor of a mall from 11 PM - 5 AM. Sleep

Sunday - back at the bar at 4 PM - 10:30 PM, get hit on by a gross old lady, grin and take it because I need the tip. Start spraying at 11 PM to 5 AM. Sleep three hours. My feet hurt.

Monday - open the bar at 10:30 AM, work it till six PM. Sleep two hours, start spraying early because I want to finish this damn mall tonight, stumble back into the house a five AM, job complete. Thank god that's over with. Now to enjoy a little free time and my $500 check. Who feels like a drink in a coconut?

However, my old man has a favorite saying, "If it's not one thing, it's another." No sooner did I have free time and $, than both were snatched from under my nose by a horrible accident. Upon entering my room last evening, I closed the door to prevent the house cats from entering and eating Mona's little cockatiel, Isis. Unbeknownst to me, the aformentioned bird (whose wings are way overdue for a clipping) had decided that the top of that door looked like a great place to perch. I became aware of the bird only after serious injury had been done to her foot. Mona freaked out - she's raised Isis from a chick, and the mother instinct was kicked into high gear. She worried that the foot might be broken, that the vets would have to put Isis under, that that she might now wake up again (not unknown for avian anesthesia). We hopped into the car, booked it for an animal hospital, and spent some anxious time waiting for the X-rays to come out. Luckily, there were no broken bones, and though the bird will be limping for a few days, she's probably gonna be OK. Now, there are other ways I would have preferred to spend my evening, and since I caused the injury, I'm paying for the hospital visit (goodbye paycheck!), but the important thing is knowing that Isis is gonna be alright.

I'm now gonna try to catch up on all the e-mails I've recived since telling people about Madagascar, and start the ball rolling on getting my Visa and Peace Corps passport. Oy, vay. If it's not one thing, it's another.

So I went outside to watch the ocean at night, and it was very peaceful. There's something about being alone on the beach in the dark that is very... I dunno, conducive to contemplation. In light of recent entries in which I said "I hate this place," I must say that being able to walk out to the beach at night, when the air cools and clears, and you can't see the trash washed up by the tide, is one of the redeeming features of this place. I do love living near the ocean.

Returning from my alone time, I saw a package in the mailbox. Hmmm... lessee, this is adressed to me... from the Peace Corps office in DC. Thick envelope, too... Well, let's open it. OHMYGOD, it's my invitation! Holy crap, after nearly a year of horrible administrivia, blood tests, jumping through hoops, misrepresenting my qualifications, lost medical records, more blood tests (presumably to ensure that I dont introduce AIDS to Africa, or some such nonsense), missed mail, phone calls up the wazoo, I am finally being offered a position! Finally, I'm going to go to West Africa, to plant trees against desertification, to teach about the dangers of STDs, like I've been planning on ever since they said I would be going to that part of the world, months ago. Well, lessee where I'm actually going...

Madagascar.

Hm.

Well, that's not exactly what I've been prepping for for the past few months, but zounds, I'd be a fool not to take it! Hell, that's even better than going to Senegal, I'd say! Further away from the equator, for one thing. And I leave in... Early February, it seems. Well, that'll give me time for a few goodbyes, folks I'm not likely to see again till May 2008 (unless some of my friends feel like visiting...). Well, I'm all sorts of agitated, I gotta go read more about the specifics of what I'm gonna be doing. I'll tell you all more, later.

Now, I've heard about how life in Hollywood and LA in general can be sort of... taken over by "The Business," the movie culture, but I had no idea of exactly how insidiously true that saying was. As I stood behind the bar at the Venice Bistro, trying to impress my potential employers with my charming ineptitude at earning an honest living, I begain to think, "Whoa. My life has just turned into some crappy coming-of-age movie."

It was all there. Like some weird mix of Animal House, Empire Records, and a couple other films I can't remember (not all of those were crappy). You know, bookish kid from the suburbs with lots of education and little real-world experiance finished college and trys to make a living. Finding there is no demand for his highly specialized knowledge, he drifts to the city, where he lets his gigantic brain cool during the day-to-day struggle to put food on his plate. He winds up at a quaint little bar on the beach, inhabited by a host of colorful characters who accompany him on zany adventures and teach him to loosen up/grow up/something equally heartwarming. For chrissake, I've even got the cast here. There's the quiet senior bartender, a Cherokee covered with tatoos who provides guidance and encouragement (and a little deth metal). The jolly Mexican cook back in the kitchen, and the black maintenance man with a chip in his shoulder about racial profiling (did I mention it's important that the bookish kid be white? Yeah, this movie has to be about people coming together despite their racial differences, or some such). There's even the stoner who doesn't actually work here to the best of my knowledge, just hangs out all day buying drinks for bums and trying to get them to fight each other. The management is pretty much nonexistant, so the young people at the bar have all day to engage in crazy antics (like trying to spit fire, place bets on which bum beats the other one, deal with all the other colorful characters that walk the beach, etc), that might even teach them something, or some such. At the same time, this does seem a nice place to work, once I get the hang of it. Russ, Gabe, I'll keep notes in case you need material for a screenplay. Pretty much any place seems nice when your life savings are reduced to ten dollars and a piece of cheese. Well, the boss man (never seen him, but he calls every once in a while), says he wants me to come in Friday at three, so we'll see how it goes. Better review my drinks. So far the most complex thing I've been asked for is a margarita, and I don't want to look stupid first day on the job when someone asks me for a mai tai and I go "does that have amaretto in it?"

Well, hell, I'm tired. I'm gonna go watch Lost. Those guys know how to live up unemployment.

So I woke up at six in the morning, in order to have time to do a little yoga before driving Mona to work at 8:30 (she neglected to inform me that she actually didn't have to leave till 9:30, but compared to the rest of the morning, that aggravation is really quite minor). In the predawn chill, I walked out to my secret spot overlooking Baloona Lagoon, rolled out my mat, and got down to yoga.

Didn't go so well. For some reason, I wasn't able to take my mind away from a series of unkind (but totally justified), thoughts about our de facto landlord, Scott, who I'm pretty sure ranks somewhere between slime molds and cockroaches on the moral evolutionary scale. Every time I would clear my mind and relax, it would be no more than a few seconds before I was once more dwelling upon an ill done unto me, or my concerns about leaving Mona alone in LA, where guys like him seem to be the rule, rather than the exception (Gabe and Russ, think about a particular guy I really hated at Hampshire, and imagine him six years from now. And then imagine a city full of the bastards. Scary, yes?). As the sun rose I gave up on yoga, realizing that I wouldn't get anything done till I'd at least addressed this problem to myself. So I sat down, cleared my mind, and tuned into my senses.

The first thing I noticed was not bird song. It was the white noise buzz of the pump station off to my right. The tide had gone out in the lagoon, a registered bird sanctuary, leaving a scattering of Styrofoam, cans, and random plastic lying on the beach. The water had an oily sheen. I could smell the fumes of the city and see the way they obscured the Hollywood hills (really not that far away). Cars honked in all directions.

It didn't hit me in a sudden flash of insight, but after ten, fifteen minutes of sitting quietly, I realized that it wasn't Scott who was upsetting me so much. This is not to say that he wasn't really a bastard, but normally I'm above letting the aggravations of people like him get at me. What was upsetting me so much was this place as a whole - my mind was just using one particular jerk to represent my accumulated disappointment with the city of Los Angeles.

For a while now, I've been toying with the idea that "God created Man in His image, but Man re-creates God's Earth in his own image." Seen in this light, the declarations by some members of the fringe environmental movement that humans are no more than a cancer that should be expunged from the planet make... a frightening amount of sense... Not that I ascribe to their belief, but live here long enough, pay enough attention, and you can understand how people might wind up thinking that way. After all, if what we do to the Earth is a reflection of ourselves (and I'm pretty sure it is), we are some ugly mother fuckers.

I know, I know, a lot of my friends are thinking, "Colin, you nut, you're just not a city person. You're missing the beauty of the architecture, the arts, civic life, the free flow of ideas, the amazing movie culture, the fun recreational opportunities, and the knowledgeable, sophisticated people who live in cities. After all, Colin, it's urban centers that voted blue in the last election. They were your best chance at avoiding another Bush presidency. Aren't you biting the hand that feeds you?"

Good point. I'm the first person to admit that cities do have a lot to offer. I don't think we should get rid of them. But have you ever noticed how much people in a city seem to live inside their heads? They're planning on the next meeting, the next party, the next paycheck, the next lay. Or they're bemoaning their poor fate, bitching about stress, other drivers, or reliving a particularly good movie. Or they're staring at a TV/computer screen, totally immersed in the world represented by the flickering lights. They're almost never RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. Why is that? I try to make a practice of engaging in awareness exercises on a regular basis, and I've noticed that since coming here, my enthusiasm for that has lessened. For some reason, yoga, deep breathing, and sensory awareness were much more attractive to me among the ponderosa pines of the central Oregon foothills than they are here. In LA, I'm just as happy to sit back and tune out reading a book, watching TV, or otherwise distracting my mind from the present moment - just like any other Los Angelan.

Now, my unscientific theory is this. People tend to tune out things they don't like. Like Helen Cresswell's "Grandpa Bagthorpe," who chose to turn off his hearing aid whenever his wife was talking to him, people become "selectively deaf." Instead of paying attention to everything around them, they put on metaphorical blinkers so that they can only see the things they want to see - the plays, the flashy restaurants, the past, the future. They choose not to walk down the dirty back alley, have the trash that washes up on shore cleaned away by cleaners each morning, and when the sun goes down in a blaze of crimson, they give only a passing thought to the air pollution that makes the sunset so red. In short, people living in a place with so much stimulation, both good and bad, choose to focus only on the pleasant things. If they saw everything, they would have a hard time justifying their continued lives in a place where breathing the air can shorten life by up to three years, lower lung capacity by 15 to 20 percent, and damage the lungs roughly equal to smoking half a pack of cigarettes a day (according to the University of Missouri). So they simply choose not to see it. They willingly erect up a barrier between themselves and reality.

And the last time I checked, that was the definition of insanity.

I'm living in a city of approximately ten million people who are, to one degree or another, madmen.

Frankly, I don't feel safe.

Well, the big day comes for all of us. For some of us, it comes twice in one year. Now I have two diplomas to hang on my wall - a BA in "Environmental History" from Hampshire College, and a certificate from National Bartending School. I've already commented on how that two week, $500 course is gonna start paying back into my wallet long before my vaunted college degree, so no more on that irony. In any case, after two weeks of pretty grueling training (150+ drinks, background info on liquors, jargon, customer service, alcohol laws, etc, etc, etc), I finally walked into the school yesterday afternoon and took the test. 1/2 written, 1/2 a practical speed drill. I'm from Hampshire - we don't do tests, we write about our feelings, so I can't say I was exactly in my element. But I figure I did well enough. They don't pass you unless you get an A, so anyone who passes can be assumed to have his shit down. And yesterday was the first day in living memory in which everyone who took the test passed. I and my core group of bartender friends decided to celebrate that evening at a Mexican place that was having a margarita happy hour. Ah, fun. Now, I actually gotta get a bartending gig and start making back all that money...

In other, more somber news, the money I make may well be necessary to continued living in LA, as Mona has been fired from her job. There's no worries about her getting another, or perhaps even recovering her same gig (though why she'd want to work under Larry, the yahoo who fired her, is beyond me). Till then, though, it may be necessary to bring a few tips home to help out with rent, utilities, etc. That she was in a car crash Thursday doesn't serve to have made her week any better. We're going in to the hospital this afternoon to get a x-ray. Everything's probably fine, but the way her luck's been going this week, it's best to make sure.

There's a small wetlands out behind our house. I went out there this morning to watch the egrets and herons as the sun rose.

Mona and I have just finished a massive overhaul of our room - vaccume, tidy, dusting, the whole sheebang. We're committed to doing a Skyler Schrempp-style weekly cleaning. In a house as full of potential allergins as this, I feel it's essential, and Mona graciously tolorates it.

My average day this week follows this general script:

0700 - wake, practice yoga while the air is still relatively clean. Gotta win that bet!

0830 - shower, breakfast of cereal and banana.

0930 - drive Mona to work at Threshold Digital Research Labs, drive to Keller-Williams Real Estate Office.

1000 - data entry and odd jobs at Keller-Williams

1230 - get in car and drive

1300 - bartender's school. Spend hours on end trying to mix nine different drinks in three minutes.

1700 - drive to the Promenade, spend two hours practicing French and reading about African history.

1900 - pick up Mona, drive home

1930 - dinner, usually something involving chicken, or a protien-enhanced smoothie. A little TV time.

2200 - Mona quizzes me on drink mixes, I try not to feel like an idiot.

2300 - Hit the hay. I'm pooped.

Hell, I'm pooped, now. We just finished drinks quiz, and I didn't perform as well as I'd hoped. Exhaustion tells on you, stupid mistakes, etc. And the damn cockatiel on my shoulder, demanding attention isn't improving things. It's probably just a matter of time before she drops one on my shoulder. What will my life be like after I've got my bartending certificate and the job I'm hoping will be associated with it? Assuming I'll be working a full-time job during the day, as well (hell, what else will I do? All my friends will be at work, anyway), as well as, say, 4-hour shifts three nights a week...lessee, 52-hour workweek... yeah, what I'm feeling right now is just the tip of the iceberg... Well, I suppouse I'd better get to bed, then. It's gonna be a full couple months.

So I've been dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century by all my livejournaling friends. Hey, what are friends for? So I suppouse I'd better start out my livejournal career by giving ya'll a quick-and-dirty about who, what, where, when, and how I am.

Had everything gone according to plan, I would be sitting in a mud hut somewhere in West Africa right now, rapidly becoming the Great White Hunter. However, given how often my plans and my life actually match up, I suppose it would make a lot more sense for me to make plans to do exactly the things I know I would truly hate, as it seems that what I plan is what I'm least likely to ever do. As the Peace Corps unexpectedly deferred me for anywhere from 3 to 9 months, I would up with even more unexpected free time (see my unemployment in Amherst this summer), and no money with which to support my chocolate/tea/books/beer habit (or pay of my considerable debts, at some point. Loans are only held in abeyance while you're acivley on Peace Corps duty, waiting doesn't count). So what did I decide to do with my gift of free time? Have an adventure, of course.

So now I'm down in Los Angeles, one of the most hateful cities in a state that any proud Oregonian looks upon with nothing but disgust. But I survived Moscow, so I'm thinking there can't be much that this minor pit of villainy can offer by comparison. I mean, at least blowing up your competitors with radio-controlled mines in their front yards is not a standard business practice of the more respectable segment of Los Angelian society. On the other hand, any land in which you can't see the horizon because of a band of brown smog obscuring the place where sea meets sky should set off alarm bells in any reasonable persons head. Christ, people raise their kids, here?

I'm living with Mona in a small house near the beach. At least the pollution makes for a nice sunset over the red-tide-infested ocean. I have some issues with the four cats, but my homeopathic allergy remedies seem to be holding strong, for now. I've enrolled at the National Bartender School, and two weeks from today, ought to have my certification, setting me up for an interesting job with good return (if crappy hours), and the mystique of being the man behind the bar. In the meantime, some part-time work in a real estate office will keep me in food (Mona is generously handling the rent, with her amazing new job). In my spare time (?), I'll be catching up with my old high school friend Lindsay, keeping tabs on my dear buddies Russ and Gabe (as they adjust to their new lives in Portland, OR), get back into playing my mandolin, teach myself French, try to retain my Russian, and win my bet with Kris that I will do the full splits by Xmas (I got a free dinner coming to me for that one, baby!).

Well, that's quite a bit of me, there. I'll call it a good first entry.

From all the guys at Possum Lodge, "Keep your stick on the ice!"

- C