Studying the many ways that I can solve a particular problem, I was struck low by the details that emerged surrounding the problem itself, and how it'd been solved twice before, but the solutions were ignored.  Worse than ignored, they were initially demanded, then were ignored.  We need an answer, and many were offered, but none were taken.  Now the problem is a smoking crater, and the solutions are much more severe.  And we can only laugh and say "we told you so" but that gets old when we're the ones who have to fill in the crater, make it all golfcourse pretty again.  A life lesson: there is no joy in pointing out flaws when those flaws only affect you.

Suffering Haley.

I have a friend who had a girlfriend whose name is Haley.  Was Haley.  Her name is still Haley, and she herself is not past-tense, but she is now an unknown ex, a ghost to my friend.  She she was a girl called Haley for the purpose of his life.  He was young at the time, and wild.  She was older, but just so much more wild.  If someone had seen the Ramones at CBGB in 1979, she had blown the stage manager and snorted coke off of Joey's thighs a year before.  If someone had been skydiving, she'd actually base jumped from  twelve story tower and fallen to her death, was resurrected by angels and delivered, fully clothed in heavenly robes, to the door of Donald Trump.  She's not a one-up queen, she's a one-way-up queen.  She's named for a comet.  The first time I met her, she showed me her pierced nipples and her  lacey black undies.  She headbutted me once at a concert.  When the breakup, inevitable, happened, she stalked my friend and his friends for about two months, then crashed her car into his house and walked away.  No-one has heard from her since.  The universe swallows people like that at times to balance things back out.

My Shoes.

I purchased shoes form zappos.com.  I showed them to my office mate, a skinheaded rugby-playing tattooed genius called Gabe.  He approves.
I can't begin to tell you how strange all of that paragraph is.  I can tell you that my shoe requirements border on fetish, and my current choice of footwear is elitist and trendy, which raises much self loathing.

The Back.

While doing press ups the other night, working on my McKenzie exercises, doing some basic pilates stuff, my dogs both joined me: I'd press up into cobra (or sphinx) position, they'd both do a down dog pose.  When I laid on my back and did the hundreds, they both lay on their backs and waved their paws in the air like they just. didn't. care.

The Car.

Racing to work, I was passed on the shoulder by a cop going at least 100 miles an hour.  He had his lights on but no sirens.  He startled the Dodge Monster Hemi Truck in front of me so badly that the Dodge Monster Hemi Truck jumped into the middle lane, nearly killing a Corolla with a type C secretary at the wheel.  I used the gap to my advantage and lept ahead of the fray at roughly 92 miles an hour.  The cop was smoking a cigarette furiously, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily flicking ashes at my windshield.  He didn't notice me until I dropped behind him for my exit.  He waved me past and slowed, shaking his head as though I'd waken him up.  I waved at him as I slowed for my turn.  He drove into the FBI parking lot, across the street from me.

Four Score and A Million Bees.

It is roughly summertime outside.  My head is spinning with springtime compressed, a million bees buzzing my brain.  Girls these days make it too easy to get distracted.  I go through my day blinders attached, fully ready to jump from windows if confronted with any more cleavage.  I am not prepared for this.  My blood is too thick for this place.

The last thing on the list:

I am selling my digital drum kit, a Yamaha DTXpress, if anyone is interested.