I'm bored. I've played with Toll Road a little - haven't done any writing. I'd like to, need to, but can't. I'm just not feeling it... and I don't know how to feel it again.

I can't wait for school to begin again in January. I'm bored. I wish I was under some sort of stress or a deadline. Then I'd be able to get things done.

I've replaced my wires, cap, rotor and will be doing my plugs tomorrow if I can find the socket. My car failed the emissions test and I'm hoping the fix is as simple as that. I can't afford another smog test (this next one is free) and really don't want to drive on an expired tag. The state offers financial assistance for fixing smog problems - but I have to pay for the first $150 or so. Smog tests are $28 each. Tickets for expired tags are over $100. Seems like an awful lot of wasted money to make the environment "cleaner."

I'm in the wrong business. At least I know how to turn a wrench. Saves a lot of money on labor. I need to start charging my job more for my services. Everything costs more money and I'm still paid less than I'm worth.

Monday I had my first final. Aced it. Passed the class with a B. (I should have done the extra credit). Tuesday - nothing exciting happened. Wednesday - I worked and worked and worked building bikes. It was a good day. I made ton of money. And then I had an appointment to see an advisor at school. I stopped at Pep Boys on the way and purchased a new drive belt and fan for my car - a little preventative maintenance. As I was turning into the school parking lot, my air pump seized, rendering my car pretty useless. I got it into a parking space and left it overnight. I had my bike with me so I was able to make it to my appointment and back home afterwards, but not before stopping at the Pep Boys again to order a new air pump. I studied for two more Thursday finals, biked back to the Pep Boys for my pump, and went home to study some more.

Thursday, 6am - Rode my bike to school, began tearing the air pump out of my car. Took my first final at 8. Rode back out and finished my new air pump, installed the new belt while I was at it (since it had to be removed to get the air pump out anyway) and went back home to study for my next final. Drove my car back to school for my next final at noon-thirty.

And then I took a nap.

I don't like spending money on my car for parts I wish would last forever, but I like days like this. I got a lot done; aced two exams and swapped parts out of my engine compartment in between. And still had time for a nap.

This blog is a grammatical nightmare, but I don't care. I need a shower.

Wow, this has been a busy couple of weeks for me. The semester is building to its crescendo and I've found myself swamped in, well, everything. I even did schoolwork while visiting my brother in CA for turkey day. I was there for four days though. It took like 8 hours to transcribe a two hour interview - that was one final paper, and I'm writing two other papers for monday. That and studying for my first big final exam on monday (I had a test today, too). I thrive on the stress and excitement, and after a long and booooring semester at a new school trying to adjust, these past weeks have been welcome - and I still have two more to look forward to. Woo Hoo!

And then I'll finish Tollroad. I've given myself a mid-January deadline to complete and give it a first edit through.

Oh, I used my dishwasher for the first time today (lived here since July). I figured with a $30 electric bill, I could afford to splurge a little and give it a spin.

I think I'm going to change majors. Journalism isn't all it's cracked up to be and I don't really feel I'm learning anything useful...or new. I'm thinking Philosophy. I'm going to call an advisor tomorrow, methinks. Journalism can be taught by the newspaper or whomever, and usually is from what I hear.

Plus I'm just not happy with the school. Not ASU, but the whole Walter Cronkite thing. What a bunch of crap.

I was surfing Ebay today, as I sometimes do, and keyed in the words "Custom Term Paper." A few listings popped up so I checked them out. I would never use such a service, but I was curious to see just what a "Custom Term Paper" might cost your average cheater. Or if they sold at all.

I read through one listing after another and wasn't impressed; nothing caught my eye until I read this line, repeated in another auction by the same seller: "Wait the allotted amount of time and get you paper emailed to you."

When I finally pulled myself from the floor and wiped the tears from my eyes, I sent the seller a courtesy email to make him aware of his goof. I suggested he should revise his listing so that others may take his "service" seriously.

I received a response, but I'm not sure if it was a thank you disguised as a joke or if Mr. Seller was sulking or if he STILL did not see his error. Anyway, I checked the listing again. Hasn't changed. Should I email this Writer-for-Hire again? He says he's a "Free Lance" writer, but I didn't catch that goof on my first pass.

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=317&item=5934557146&rd=1&ssPageName=WDVW

Guess you get what you pay for, eh?

I repacked my open cyst wound myself. Maybe sadist is the wrong word. Maybe I'm a sadist AND a masochist. A self-sadist/masochist. I don't feel like getting up from my comfy chair to look up the right word. The Doc gave me the bottle of gauze strips to bring with me to my next visit...so I used it. At home.

It was a little unnerving to watch the old gauze strip as I pulled it out of myself, but the Doc made the mistake of explaining how I would go about repacking myself if the cyst wasn't in such a difficult place to reach. I asked, of course. I try to make conversation whenever I’m being tortured with a scalpel. It takes my mind off of screaming. Medicine is fascinating.

And painful.

I went to the Emergency Room at the VA Hospital this morning. I had a cyst lanced out of my ass crack. It was big. It hurt like hell. I wasn't particularly fond of spreading my ass cheeks for the doctor either. That's something I don't do for girlfriends. And then the Doc packed the open wound with gauze - inside the empty puss-pouch! INSIDE!

Anyway, now I'm sittin' pretty and have the Vicoden to prove it. To all of you who grow hair on or around your lower abdominal area - scrub it extra, extra clean. Always. I'm not a dirtbag, but from now on I'm using a Brillo and some Lysol. My newest goal is to never, EVER need to have a cyst lanced out of my ass crack again. The Doc said the pain was comparable to child birth, though I suspect he may have been embellishing. But not by much.

I'll be thinking of my new goal come Sunday, when I return to the ER to have my open wound "repacked." Then again on Tuesday. And maybe Thursday. Stupid Cysts.

What is peace?

Any of the great philosophers of our time and past will tell you. Just ask Lennon or the band Incubus. They’ve all got it figured out. They don’t believe in dying or killing for others, for any reason. But I can tell you what peace is NOT: passivity.

No one likes to go to war, be it neighbor against neighbor, nation against nation, but there are times that peace can only be achieved through action. Military action. Brute force. And sometimes killing.

It’s a harsh reality that won’t disappear, even when drowned in the lyrics of the latest protest song.

Imagine you live next to a family of five. Mom, three kids, and Step dad. You’ve lived next to them your whole life, though Step Dad wasn’t always a part of the picture. He seduced Mom, seduced her children, pushed their father out of the house. Your family was great friends with that family until Dad was ousted. That’s when things changed.

Your friends across the street began receiving threatening letters in the mail. Step Dad’s neighbor to the other side did too. One day, windows began breaking, tires slashed, bags of trash scattered across lawns. Not to you, of course, but to your friends and neighbors. Once in a while Step Dad has even seen perpetrating the crimes, or Step Dad’s step kids under his close “supervision.”

Your friends and neighbors try speaking to Step Dad about the “problem,” only to be pushed away and abused verbally. But as the talks carry on over time, the abuse escalates and turns physical. Your friends and neighbors aren’t invalid, but they are not equipped to deal with the violence. They try to fight back but in vain. Step Dad is too powerful a bully.

Outside sources are called upon for aid, such as the Police, but the burden of proof is too much for your friends and neighbors – because they have none. The Police even stake out the neighborhood from time to time, but to no avail. They see nothing, but still “keep watch.”

Your friend across the street tells you he found Step Dad in their house one day, rubbing his hands greedily, standing over their child’s bed. Step Dad slipped away into the night but left no proof of his visit, so the Police could do nothing.

The violence hasn’t trickled to your doorstep yet. Your family preaches peace, but what are you really practicing?

Step Dad murdered his neighbor to the other side, your friend, tried ousting his family from their house so he could expand his own. The Police did nothing. Step Dad set fire to your neighbor’s cars across the street, vandalized everything in sight. The Police did nothing. Step Dad’s been lighting lots of fires lately. But maybe it’s your neighbor’s fault, right? They could always move. They could always abandon the places they’ve called home since childhood. Hell, you’re being peaceful, after all. Why can’t they do the same? Step Dad set fire to one of his step children when he spoke against the violence, buried him in the back yard.

Your family continues to preach peace. What do you do? You decide to speak to him and ask that he stop, but Step Dad turns his palms to the sky as if to say, “I’ve done nothing wrong.” Step Dad has no accelerants in his garage, nothing that could cause the fires that have been set in your neighborhood. The Police have checked.

So what do you do? Turn your head and pretend to believe Step Dad is a changed man? Send Jesse Jackson to his house to preach peace? Send him a gift basket full of fluffy teddy bears and exotic chocolates? I think not.

Step Dad is laying low. You know it. The entire neighborhood knows it. But he hasn’t bothered anyone in a week. Perhaps it’s time for peace, your family suggests.

Instead, you open your garage door, grab the shovel off the wall, walk to Step Dad’s house, and knock on the door. His remaining two step children answer. Step Dad is missing and they won’t let you enter. So you push your way passed his step children and his wife, causing a few nicks and bruises on the way, and continue to charge through the house. You find Step Dad hiding in the basement, cowered in the corner.

You can’t hand him to the Police. The Police won’t help. The neighborhood has tried that route. Instead you beat Step Dad with your shovel until he fucking bleeds. But this is not your battle. This is the battle of your friends and neighbors, those who could not fight it themselves. Step Dad fights back, but one of your own children are there to take the blows and you quickly recover your balance. You beat Step Dad until he submits to your control. The sight of Step Dad being dragged into the street by his hair, begging for his life, liberates the souls of those he’s seduced. His wife and step kids lift the blanket of fear from their hearts and run to your aid. Your friend’s and neighbors come running as well.

There are critics. Some of the most powerful voices come from within your own family. “How could you send my child into battle!” your wife screams. But the child had grown and volunteered. The Police are furious, but they were blind to the evidence. You even learn that there are some in your neighborhood that feel the same.

This could go on and on, but I’ll stop it short. There’s a difference between peace and passivity. Sometimes a neighbor, a nation, must act on behalf of others, even if it’s a week late, even when no one can seem to find the accelerants where they were supposed to be.

Now, go write your protest song. Go use your celebrity to sway the public to your will. And then when things don’t go your way, move to Canada and stop your bitching.

Something strange happened last Thursday. I was driving to my apartment from work and for the first time since I moved here four months ago, I felt I was driving home. That in itself might not sound that strange, since I was in fact driving home. But it was the first time home felt like home, and not just another place where I happen to sleep at night. In truth, it's the first time I'd felt that since living in this state. I moved here four years ago.

I only hope that when I leave here I can feel that feeling again... in another state. Near an ocean again. In a place where both time and seasons change. As they should.