toastforbrekkie.com

I know you were wondering, "Where the heck is George?" Well, now you know. So, welcome to the last post on lay-c.com. Most of them made it over to the new site unharmed (excepting a few punctuation errors).

Update your links. This post won't be there, but make comments on the new site instead of here. Pretty soon this will be just a redirect page.

Arrivederci!

Murphy's Law of cellphones: Tyrone's warranty ran out last month. Verizon has a neat little gimmick: they'll give you a new phone every two years. Sounds great, right? Until you realize that no warranty lasts more than a year, unless you pay for it. This gives them a full year beyond the warranty to wait for your phone to crap out before they have to pony up for a new one. If it dies during the second year, as has now happened to me twice, the customer is culpable. If you want the same model, they'll sell you a refurb sans battery (you mean I get to keep my old, worn out battery? yay!) for fifty bucks. You want a new model? Fabulous! But you get to pay full price. New customers get a discount. Loyal customers? Ask Samuel L. Jackson.

We live in a uniquely frustrating time. The digital revolution has ushered in innumerable advances that should make our lives easier. Instead, we use the added efficiency to heap more onto our plate, to cram more into our schedules, effectively negating progress and maintaining the same level of busyness. We do the same thing with cars. Engine advances? Huzzah! But rather than use them for better gas mileage, we choose more power.

Beyond that, though, is what happens when you port your life into the information age: random failure of electronic equipment. Yes, yes, we've all heard it a thousand times: back up your information. I've even had a hard drive crash on me, and I still don't back up. I read a study on msnbc.com recently that put the backup rate somewhere around an abysmal 2%. Apparently it's too expensive, time-consuming and difficult to be practical. Or else we're all too lazy because electronics have made our lives insufferably easy.

You would think with the internet, GPS, bluetooth and the like that information could be easily shared in the 21st century. I mean, it is the information age, right? Instead we swim in a sea of incompatibility. Sure, it's possible to use the cell network to back up your contact list online. But you don't expect us to just give that to you, do you? Of course not. With Verizon, as with most cellphone providers who seem to have every customer over a barrel, everything has a price.

Until now. What I refused to pay before, for the low low rate of $1.99 a month, is now free. Thanks for telling me guys. I know what you're thinking. "George, seriously. You have over 300 contacts. What's two bucks when you pay $110 a month for your cellphone plan?" My answer? Two bucks is two bucks. It's the principle of the thing. I shouldn't have to pay extra to back up my contacts, which are the most important part of my phone. Now, it seems, Verizon finally agrees with me.

But it's too late for all of that now. When Tyrone gave up the ghost, he really gave it up. Eric, the tech, refused to hazard a guess. "Could be any of a dozen things. It just crapped out." Thanks, man. That really helps. You should go into grief counseling.

So now I'm fifty bucks poorer and my only recourse is to go through my online phone bills and try to guess which numbers match all the people I know. No names, just raw numbers. As if I'm going to be able to do that.

So I ask you this: if you know me and want to continue to be able to contact me, would you mind giving me a call or emailing me your contact info? For all the people who don't read Brekkie, I guess I'm just out of luck until they call. I apologize in advance if you don't hear from me first.

Believe it or not, there is a bright side to all this. It's called a clean slate. Everything happens for a reason. In this case my contact list will never regain its original dimensions, at least not with the same people. But there's something refreshing about starting over. Now my phonebook will only include people who really want to talk to me.

It's interesting how things come in threes. This is not the first clean slate I've been handed in the past month; this is not the first loss I've dealt with in recent memory. Very soon the third cat will be out of the bag. And it will become evident that change and growth are good things. Watch this space. It may be drastic.

Some of you are probably wondering, as an epilogue, "Why Tyrese?" It's simple: the replacement is the same model. They look exactly alike. They could be twins. Heck, they are twins. But Tyrone's name shall be retired along with him. Let's all give a warm welcome to Tyrese.

Mind you, I had a good time:

But then, I have experience with rope swings. This one was particularly technical, if you can apply that term to a rope swing, because it required a leap, a good grip, and a tight tuck to clear a steel retaining wall. Especially if you chose to go from up in the tree.

Farah went from the wall itself first, so we all assumed she could go from the tree. Everyone, myself included, was encouraging her to go for it but I had a bad feeling about it from the beginning. After ten minutes of vacillating and several failed countdowns, she went for it and...

hesitated. She leapt, but then tried to pull back. This put her off balance from the beginning, and the poor girl didn't make it over the wall. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sound of her hitting that wall, then tumbling into the water. She's fine now, don't worry, but let's just say it was an adventure carrying an injured passenger home through a labyrinthine swamp populated by eight-foot gators (trust me, we saw over fifteen, including a 13-footer). But about two seconds after that picture you see above, she broke her finger. Believe me when I say, however, that it could have been much worse.

We love you Farah! Hope you're not too afraid to come play with us again. Get well soon!

To everyone else that would like to join us, put some time in on your local jungle gym, and you can look like this:

I sail the river of time
and disembark decades hence
to shake hands with my future self

he greets me warmly
and shows me my children
introduces me to my wife

we talk about everything
he's done and will do

he says it's all
going to be ok

and one day you'll be
nothing but a memory

I see the scars in his heart
where the cracks are in mine now
and it beats strong and true

but as I float back down the river
I shed my tears into her depths
one for each sliver

and lament their future mending
for though it now is broken
and least it was shattered by you

I skipped volleyball practice this afternoon to lift weights because I hadn't been to the gym in almost two weeks, and I could feel myself getting weak. After working out I headed straight to the store. I perused the aisles for some fuel injector cleaner, asked about brake pads and looked longingly at the hydraulic lift and jack stands I'll be purchasing for that future job, then moseyed over to the counter. The clock read 7:45pm.

"I'd like a set of spark plugs and plug wires for a '92 Camry LE 4-cylinder, please."

Tapping at the keyboard. "Four cylinder?"

"Yep. And by the way, do you guys have deep socket, extender and ratchet I could borrow?"

"Sure. You can even wheel that cart out there for a workspace."

Excellent. This was going to be a breeze.

I rolled out to the car, its hood already open to let the engine cool. This is the car I remember my Dad getting serviced in Nolensville, Tennessee several years ago. This is the car I drove my Mom and sister Liz from Las Vegas to Nashville in. She's seen better days, especially before I ran over a stack of wood in the road a few months back, but she still runs.

As I popped off the first plug wire my memory kicked in. I flashed back to that scene in Nolensville, the veteran mechanic swearing as he tried to finish what should be a simple job: changing the spark plugs. One thing you need to know about this Camry is that the plugs reside deep inside the engine, each down its own forbidding shaft through the crank case. The holes are just wide enough to accomodate a socket, and eight inches deep. Uh-oh.

If I remember correctly, that mechanic in Nolensville finally gave up trying to repair cylinder one and just jammed the plug wire back on. Perhaps that's why the engine has been missing all these years. It was only now that I began to understand why.

The plug wires run from the distributor to the crankcase, but terminate in long plastic sleeves that traverse the distance down the hole through the crankcase and end in rubber grommets that hold them onto the plugs. I pulled the first one out: no grommet on the end. Great.

My friend Maysoon calls. I hold the phone to my ear as I work on cylinder number two, and we chat about recent events and how Chicago could use a man who can fix cars and repair houses. After several minutes of trying to get the wire out, I yank with all my might and POP!

I swear into the phone.

"I'm gonna have to let you go Maysoon. This just went from bad to worse."

All that's left on the end of plug number two is a frayed wire. I peer down into the hole to see what remains of the plastic sleeve. Luckily, the store lent me their whole tool box, so I grab the needle-nose pliers and carefully slide them down into the hole. I grab the plastic and SNAP! It breaks off in the jaws of the tool. This is fabulous. But brittle is what you get when you subject plastic to hundreds of high-temperature heat cycles. On to cylinder three.

Praise Jesus, this one came out intact. Thank God for small favors. The plastic sleeve comes out of hole number four, but no rubber grommet. Well, one out of four ain't bad. I guess. I run back inside to ask if they have a coat hanger. No dice. I ask a girl at the apartment complex next door.

"We only have plastic hangers."

What, do you live with Magneto? Reluctantly (for his sake) I dial my friend Timmy. Voicemail. I break a few more pieces off the stuck sleeve until he calls me back.

"What's up?"

"Could you bring me a coat hanger and the longest, skinniest needle-nose pliers you have?"

"Huh?"

"I'm at the auto parts store. Stuck."

He says he'll swing by the house and see what he can find. Whew. I wipe the sweat off my brow. Literally.

Shortly Timmy arrives. I check the clock: it's 8:45. We have fifteen minutes. One of the clerks walks outside.

"Y'all done yet?"

I explain the situation to him, and he takes a look.

"Good luck with that."

Thanks, buddy.

Timmy has come prepared, and I go to work snipping off sections of the coat hanger wire and bending the tips into hooks. Tim holds the flashlight for me as I begin surgery on the first cylinder.

"I can't wait to read about this on Brekkie."

Yeah, I think. If I can get home tonight to write it.

After ten minutes of wrangling Tim asks, "Would gum help?"

I explain that, unfortunately, the rubber grommet at the bottom seals into a chamber that's actually a bit larger than the plug hole itself. So it won't simply slide out. It has to be pried past a lip with a considerable amount of force. From eight inches away. With a wire.

Suddenly the mechanical fairies smile on us and I get a hook under the grommet. I can only see down the cylinder when the balky flashlight (that Tim is so graciously holding) chooses to shine, and even then only with one eye. But I manage to get it halfway turned, stick another hook through the other side with my left hand, and voila. Out pops the grommet. We both extricate ourselves from underneath the hood, rest our backs and heave a sigh of relief. One down, two to go.

I look at the clock. 9pm. Closing time. The clerk comes back out.

"I got one out!" I exclaim before he can speak.

"Great," he says with feigned enthusiasm, "We're closing. A few more minutes, we're cleaning up."

I get back to work.

Cylinder two turns out to be a nightmare. Tim's pliers do a credible job of breaking off most of the remaining sleeve piece by piece. Then it's only a matter getting past the hard plastic bottom, then the grommet. Easy, right?

After ten minutes I give up and move on to cylinder four. Three's already done, remember? Less than a minute later I have the grommet out. Awesome! I must be getting good at this. Maybe I'll try my hand at the stuffed animal crane game at Wal-Mart after this. Maybe not.

"I swear," Tim says, "If this thing starts after all this, I'll be amazed. I don't care if it stops two blocks down the road. All I want is for it to start."

I'm visualizing that frayed wire in my hand and thinking the same thing. Back to cylinder two. By now the clerk has come back out twice to say his manager is getting pissed. There are plastic bits filling the hole, keeping me from getting to the rubber. Apparently there are no shop vacs within a five-mile radius. I step back and look at the hole, its gaping ring shaped like a mouth, laughing at me. Alright, that's it.

I grab the pliers, thread them inside, squeeze tight and pull. Out comes the metal lead with frayed wire attached. Woo hoo! A bit more wiggle room to get after that plastic.

The manager comes outside. It's 9:30.

"I hate to do this to you, but we're closed, and we have to go."

We stand there for a few minutes, going back and forth. Somehow Tim convinces him to let us keep the socket wrench, just in case we can get to the plug, and promises to return it himself in the morning. Score two for Timmy.

After this minor victory, we take a break. I look over at Tim.

"Maybe we should try that gum."

He runs to the closest gas station while I stand and wait, suddenly noticing the cramps in my legs. What the? Oh yeah, I just came from the gym and haven't had any water or food for three hours. As if he had read my mind, Timmy returns with gatorade and watermelon Bubblicious.

"I figured the more sugar the better."

You figured right. We each take a piece and chew.

"If this works, I'm retiring," Tim says. "This is straight up MacGyver. He's all bent over the engine, and the girl is watching from the other side, all 80's big hair, chewing away and blowing bubbles. Then the camera zooms in on MacGyver's face, and in slow motion, you see the idea hit him. Silently, he holds out his hand. She spits in it. No no no! The gum! Now her face lights up as she realizes what he wants. She expectorates the one thing that's going to get them away from the burst dam/killer bees/bad men with uzis and seconds later we cut scene to them driving off into the sunset."

After sharing a good laugh, Tim and I duck back under the hood and act out the scene. I'm laughing so hard I can barely catch the gum. I stretch it out a few times and wrap it around the end of the hanger-wire hook. Feed it carefully down into cylinder two, fish it around, and slowly pull it back up to reveal...

...large chunks of broken plastic. Timmy, you are a genius.

Long story short, by 10pm I have all the plastic out, replace all the plugs (not without protestations from number two), insert and snap in the plug wires on both ends, and wipe my greasy hands on a paper towel. We clean up, I open the door, and insert the key into the ignition.

"Moment of truth."

I turn the key.

The engine roars to life, then settles into a nice soft purr like a happy kitten.

"Thank God."

I thank Tim profusely and give him a big hug.

"Catch ya later, buddy."

He gets into his car, and I follow in mine out onto the highway. My engine is happy. I'm happy. She purrs.

"Kitty!" I exclaim. This car always needed a name.

I look down at the odometer on the way home, just in time to see it pass 301,000 miles.

Tim, I owe ya, buddy. Maysoon, I'll call you back.

Shattered glass
And tainted hope
Changing skins
Like jumping rope

Without foundation
Without reason
No nod to next year's
Changing seasons

Wither my green
On your naive vine
Dim my flame
Refuse to shine

And glow not on
As I hoped from the start
When you cry your tears
Shed one for my heart.

No, guys, that's not the direction I was hoping you'd take this. Ok, readers. Take this as a primer, and get ready for my next big entry, which I hope to polish to a nice finish this weekend. This one's gonna be a rant. So brace yourselves.

I need you to admit that speeding tickets are just a revenue generator. I argue that it is not speed that kills: it is untrained drivers who don't pay attention and drive beyond their limits. It is my contention that your prime motive in so vigilantly enforcing speeding laws (to the neglect of other traffic laws) is not due to your altruistic aims to improve the safety of the driving public, but to positively affect the bottom line of your annual budget. How else to you explain monthly quotas?

"Well, that's all fine and dandy, Mr. Big Words McFancyTalker, but you just want us to say that the laws don't apply to you."

Oh, for sure, all the basic traffic rules, like red lights and school zones and stop signs do. But speed limits on highways don't. Just look at Germany and the autobahn: unlimited speed on certain sections, and far fewer accidents per capita than the US. Gosh, how do they do it, Andy?

"Yeah right, kid. Don't try to impress me with your foreign statistics or Mayberry references. You just want us to say that you're a better driver than most people."

Yeah. I do.

"Oh yeah, Speedracer? Prove it."

That, my dear officer, is an exceptionally good idea.

Lest you imply that I'm one of those people who are always pointing out the problem but never offering a solution, I humbly present to you the fruits of my most recent epiphany. If we can both agree that traffic tickets are your primary source of income, allow me to propose a system that would satisfy your need for cashflow and my need for speed.

First, I submit that there exists an infinitely variegated spectrum of drivers, from the incompetent to Michael Schumacher, from the safe to the downright "dangerous to society." The solution? Graduated licenses.

I can see it now: it would be just like the progression of racing licenses, from amateur to professional. The average person would need nothing more than Class D to cart the kids to soccer practice, get the groceries, and commute to work at the speed limit. But for those of us that like to go fast in a competent, responsible and safe manner, I propose the option of higher grade licenses, like so many grades of beef. My skills would place me somewhere around, say, a filet.

Now before you start in with your infinite list of naysays, allow me to present the details:

There would be a rigorous test for each grade, created and refined by the readily available community of performance driving schools, engineering test centers, professional and stunt drivers, and all-out racers. For example, you don't get to go 100mph on the freeway in your Camry until you can complete a 600-foot slalom in an unmodified Mitsubish Lancer Evo VIII at and average speed of 70mph. Make it as rigorous as you like, but make it fair. Indeed, the unlimited license (Class U, above Class A) should be nigh unto impossible to qualify for.

All the normal traffic laws would still apply. Don't pass a flashing schoolbus. Right on red only after stop. Absolutely no speeding in school zones and congested areas. Don't tailgate. And on and on. The crux of what we're discussing here is travel on our nation's highways where the speed limit is already elevated, and the road is essentially smooth and clear from obstructions and intersections. I'm talking about interstates with 70mph limits, or long four-lane highways that run through the empty midwestern states at an excruciating 55mph.

"But what about enforcement? We'll have to come up with expensive high-tech methods to allow the speed license holders through speed traps." Not so fast, Smokey. You wouldn't need to make any changes to your time-honored system of hauling people off the road for a crime they might commit. I'll be happy to pull over for you (if you can catch me), as long as you wave me off with a smile when I show you my platinum license. But make it quick, I don't have all day.

So that clears up the enforcement issue. "But how will we afford it? Surely it will cost us." Ah, there it is. The prime mover of the world, the grease for the wheels of society: How do we get paid? The answer: charge me.

I pay north of $200 when I get a traffic ticket and fork out for the ensuing traffic school. How valuable would it be to my wallet to essentially pay in advance? How valuable would it be to my psyche when I'm not constantly distracting myself from the grave duty of paying attention to the road by looking for your nefarious speedtraps?

What I mean is this: work out how much you think you're going to lose in speeding ticket revenue over the lifetime of the license (retesting would be required as we age), then charge me that amount to either take the test of acquire the license. Your choice (pssst: the former would be more lucrative). You would not only cover the expenses of developing and enforcing the new system, you stand to profit. Not to mention create a watershed industry of driving schools that help would-be speedracers attain the skills necessary to make themselves better drivers!

On the question of "equality." People are not equal. Period. Remember, all of you out there in Politically Correct Land: diversity is to be celebrated. Our differences make the world exciting and interesting. Variety is the spice of life, and any other cliche you can think up. Also: discrimination is not a bad word. Now, before you burn me at the stake, listen carefully, and don't confuse my meaning: just because people are not equal does not mean they should not be provided equal opportunity. Everyone gets to test for a license. Everyone gets to try for a higher grade. And discrimination should not be applied to unchangeable attributes, most especially those we are arbitrarily born with, and which have no bearing on our spirit or character, such as skin color or country of origin. That's unfair discrimination. But it's perfectly OK to discriminate upon qualities that are achieved through hard work, whether college degrees or racing licenses, olympic trial qualifying times or attempts at a world record.

Allow me also to put to rest any lingering doubts about the safety of speed: graded licenses would be subject to the same censure as normal licenses. First, a screening process would deselect any candidates with an extensive record of accidents or recklessness (with, of course, a chance to prove on the test course that their record is "just a fluke"). Second, the test would be difficult and expensive enough that once the speed license was attained, there would be a strong incentive not to jeopardize its benefits through poor driving decisions. Third, the license would be immediately suspended upon any accident in which it was determined that the licensed driver was at fault, with a necessary suspension period (a year, say) and a required retest. What needs to be understood here is that you are actually improving the average quality of drivers on the road by implementing this system.

Which brings me to my final point: this is a win-win-win situation. You, the police, win because you get your all-important money. I win because I get to exercise my driving skill without fear of punishment. Society at large wins because people will be more likely to drive at their skill level, and those who are unsatisfied with their amateur license now have an impetus to enrich and improve their lives through learning while simultaneously stimulating the economy!

So there it is. If you need help, I can work out all the nitty gritty details. Heck, I'll even run the school that certifies drivers so that all you need to do is see my students' certificates of completion and issue them their corresponding graded license. All we need now is a city or county progressive enough to try a pilot program. Any takers? Indianapolis, you run the 500. You could set an example for the nation! California, you're the de facto leader of progressive states. Wanna make all your SoCal street racers safer?

Please. I beg of you to take back one small measure of our lost culture of responsibility. This could be a first step toward the eventual elimination of frivolous lawsuits and corrupted, money-driven government. But before we get too ambitious, can I please just drive fast?

I spent the drive home from the airport this evening writing in my head what to my mind is a sweeping, recursive, synthesizing treatise on the beauty of friends, family, music, creativity, atheticism and astronomy, all put to the glorious soundtrack of Beck's newest masterwork The Information. And now as I sit down to write, I realize it's nearly two a.m. and I must arise NLT seven for work. So chalk this up to the ever-growing list of entries never written, filed away and unpublished, slowly gathering dust on a server farm in Topeka or decomposing in my fertile subconscious. As my mother and I came to agree yesterday: I'm too busy living life to write about it.

I hope that doesn't sound arrogant. If it does, I'm sorry. I'll try to write more if things ever slow down. That or adopt the sleep schedule of Tyler Durden.

-Octave Chanute, Progress in Flying Machines

And as if that weren't enough to endear him to me, I gather that he loved Chicago. He was responsible for the Chicago Stock Yards, and passed away there in 1910, seven years after the Wrights' first successful flight.

"What the crap?" you say? Well, have you ever heard of the World Beard Championships? It's sort of like that, except for men who have no hope of ever growing a full, contiguous beard. Call it a Special Olympics of facial hair. I might be wrong, but I think the idea is to see who has the best beard at the end of the month, to coincide with the handlebar-sporting, lederhosen antics of Oktoberfest. Except that Oktoberfest is going on right now, at the beginning of the month. You'll have to ask my friend Timmy. He's the one who came up with it.

The strange thing, aside from seeing how white my cheeks have become, is realizing how often I stroke my soul patch. I'll be thinking hard about a math problem or how to phrase an idea, then reach for my chin only to come up empty-handed. After the competition, I may shave the beard off again, but I think the Cadillac is here to stay.

Van Gogh's Family Tree

The dizzy aunt who loved volleyball and the color green................Vert E. Gogh

The German cousin with a love of prunes.........................................Goethe Gogh

The brother who worked at a convenience store...............................Stop N. Gogh

The playboy grandfather from Yugoslavia..........................................Hugh Gogh

The latina cousin from Illinois who loved the color orange.............Chica Gogh

His magician uncle who moonlighted as a rapper.........................Where "Diddy" Gogh

His friendly, French/Mexican/Taiwanese cousin...............................Ami Gogh

The nephew who drove a stage coach.................................................Wellsfar Gogh

The constipated, philosophizing uncle...............................................Kant Gogh

The bronze-skinned, ballroom dancing aunt.....................................Tan Gogh

The birdwatching uncle prone to spontaneous combustion...........Flamin' Gogh

His nephew psychoanalyst.....................................................................E. Gogh

The masculine, fruit loving-cousin.......................................................Man Gogh

The flyfishing aunt who taught positive thinking................................Wader Gogh

The athletic, bipolar goth poet nephew............................................Poe Gogh

His sister, who loved funk, boots and Asian boardgames................Go Gogh

His Milne-reading niece who traveled to San Fran in a van...............Winnie Bay Gogh

His vertically challenged, sign-making cousin....................................Low Gogh

His millionaire Rastafarian uncle from Monaco...................................Monte Gogh

And there you Gogh. Please add your own to the comments. Bonus points for double, triple and quadruple (!) puns.

Big ups to hurricane Florence for using its heat engine to churn up some water, then blowing its wind across the ripples that slowly grew into waves, traveling all the way across the Atlantic to crash on our shores. I realized today, only after reconnecting with the sea, a few of the reasons why it holds such appeal. Beyond the joy of being immersed in water or the memories of childhood. Beyond the infinite capacity to support our endeavors, whether shipping massive cargo, sailing, or surfing. Beyond controlling the weather, tempering the climate, recycling our water in the grand cycle, or supporting the web of marine life from which we reap a bounty. Beyond even being the key ingredient of life itself, or the place from which we arose, the cradle of primordial soup that spit us forth onto the land and exists to this day, teeming with all manner of life.

What struck me tonight, after the sun went down, is its continuity. Calling it the Atlantic or Pacific, Indian or Arctic, Mediterranean or Caribbean is just our way of categorizing, compartmentalizing, and conceptualizing the great big reality we find around us. Naming brings things into terms easily understood by the finite analytical machines we carry around in our skulls. The truth is that when I step into the Atlantic, I'm dipping my toe into every ocean, and by extension, every un-dammed or non-landlocked river or sea in the world. It's only our names that separate it, just as it's only our names that separate us. The ocean sees no difference; from the Ross Ice Shelf to the glaciers of Alaska, from the turquoise waters of Tahiti to the Maldives, the ocean is one. Billions upon trillions upon sextillions of water molecules just rubbing up against each other, sliding all over each other, holding in suspension countless minerals and chemicals, giving fish oxygen to breathe, making the surfer and the tanker float equally. When I swim in the ocean, I am swimming with every other human, every other creature in the ocean. In daytime or nighttime, for pleasure or for their very lives, we swim together.

The ocean is a metaphor for life, for humans, for the universe, for God. It is the mother of all metaphors. It is simultaneously hot as an undersea volcanic vent, cold as the sub-freezing water of Antarctica. Clear as the waters of the Bahamas, turbid as the mouth of the Amazon. Clean as the open Pacific, dirty as the rivers and ports we treat like landfills. Alive as the Great Barrier Reef, dead as the Rio Grande. The ocean, at any given moment, supports rogue waves, tsunamis, hurricanes, typhoons, and waterspouts. It drinks our dirty rivers and spits them clean into the sky again. It carves our coastlines relentlessly, leaving behind the beaches of Florianopolis, the grottoes of Capri, and los arcos del Cabo. It kills, it gives life. It destroys, it restores. It is angry and calm. Furious and smooth. All at once. All the time.

I love the ocean.

We're floating in space.

It's Saturday, my favorite day, and already the Shuttle has launched and I've watched The Fearless Freaks, a documentary on one of my favorite bands, The Flaming Lips. Boy, my high school English teacher would love that last sentence. I can hear her saying now, "The commas! TOO MANY COMMAS!" Interestingly enough, my friend Denise was actually skydiving during the launch. Hopefully soon (much sooner than I get photos online, at least) we'll see some photographic evidence of it. Still on the agenda today are the chores of domesticity: the lawn, the cars, the house. But they're not so much chores as evidence of the good life.

Thank God for dirty dishes.

Thank God for being on this Earth.