(I'm still experimenting with the format for my Daily Logs. Please feel free to send me your ideas!)

April 11, 2002
Thursday

My on-call partner agreed to cover for me for about an hour tonight so I could go to Yoga with Steph from the Scream'n Bean. I couldn't begin to name the various types of Yoga, but this one was the "relax and stretch your body" variety. I love Yoga. It's my intention to become much better at it.

A mutual friend of ours was teaching the class. He comes into the coffee shop about once a week and smiles a lot. I'm glad that I was finally able to do another class with him. This was my second -- not much for someone who expresses so much interestl; I hate talking about things and then not doing them.

In other news, earlier at work, Eros sent me an instant message:

Eros:   I met your twin this week.
Sushi:  Really?
Eros:   A frigin dead ringer for you on a different timeline.
Sushi:  lol
Eros:   Looks like your sister... Programs neural networks... Plays piano
Eros:   Same wry wit... Same laugh
Eros:   It was frigin ereeeei.
Sushi:  Wowsers,
Sushi:   I thought I was the only one!
Eros:    Doesn't play chess.

It's fun to know that I have a twin out there! San Diego, apparently. I asked him if she was gay, bi, poly or in some other way available. He didn't think so, which is just as well. It would be weird dating my sister.

By the way, I want to take a moment here to mention that Shack is pure scrabble-evil. We've been playing online and now his secret is out. I'm officially publishing it here for the world to see. EVIL!

Thinking about playing a word that ends one title away from the board's perimeter? Not worried because your word is five titles away from the "Triple Word Score" tile and ends in a J? Think again!

HE DOESN'T EVEN GIVE YOU THE DIGNITY OF A COUPLE MINUTES THOUGHT BEFORE PLAYING HIS WORD!

And when the last tile falls, you can hear his contempt fall on you like a proclamation: "B-e-o-t-c-h!"

Finally, always seems to occur just after he meekly says, "Oh. You're going to win this one -- it looks like." From now on when he says that, I quit. "Do you hear me Shack?!" I just don't even want to be ahead anymore. I'm just going to trail behind and enjoy the ride.

April 12, 2002
Friday

This afternoon I had the pleasure of recommending that we not use the script that I've spent at least a week and a half working on. It's a script for applying file system security permissions on new Windows 2000 servers. I busted my ass on and it was going to save us a ton of time. At least, that's what I thought until I started to do the final testing.

Microsoft sucks. Wake up people! You can't pretend that your operating systems are enterprise quality if they aren't fully manageable from the command line. And you sure as the hell can't say that they are suitable for datacenters and enterprise customers when the resource kit command line tools that you *do* provide, like (xc)acl_exe (written oddly here to keep it out of the search engines), behave so unpredictably and are documented so poorly.

Child objects inheriting permissions from parent objects immediately exhibit their new properties if the parent permissions are changed with windows explorer -- but not so with your command line utility. Though, if I then change the ACL on said child object, it will display the new ACEs as well as the correct permissions via inheritance. Please! Please! Give us tools that work! It's not like you don't charge enough money...

Since I'm in a Microsoft hammering mood, what if Microsoft actually sold... hammers... anyway? If you wanted to build, say, a bird house, you could pick up their Home Hammer for $250. But if you wanted to build a real house, you would have to buy the Contractor Hammer for $2000. It would be the same damn hammer, of course, but with a different licensing agreement.

And let's talk about client access licenses. Every time you pound in a nail, that's going to cost you .25 over and above what you already paid for your Contractor Hammer. "And don't even think about lending it to your buddy there! She needs her own Contractor Hammer agreement! Please report violations to 1-900-cash-cow."

Everyone deserves to be fairly compensated, but come on now. How much is Bill Gates worth? I can't wait until it is illegal to lend a friend that great book I just read, or until the cable company bills me per number of friends and family watching my television. They already have the audacity to demand that you pay per television within a single household. Tell me again? Who's stealing from who, because I'm confused.

Friday night, it took a lot of courage to go back to the Double Meat palace. I feel like such a lurker not really knowing anyone there! It's one thing to hang out at a place when it isn't so crowded. (Like now -- I'm at the same place, typing away.) But it's another thing when people are packed in like sardines on a busy Friday night. The whole "I'm just here to read my book" routine doesn't hold as much water.

Nevertheless, that's what I did. I worked up the courage to go again, alone, and try to mingle. I brought Some People Say...God Is No Laughing Matter with me to validate (Funny, happy book, that.) my existence when not talking with anyone. The neat thing is, because it took me so long to actually go, the crowd was much less than the previous couple weeks. I bought my grande, decaf, soy, flavor de jure latte, found a spacious spot on a couch upstairs and nuzzled into my book!

I made progress on my book and had some good conversations! I talked with a couple of the women I met last week, and met some new people.

Everyone is so friendly! And almost half of women I'm meeting are single. It's as though a gateway to a new world materializes on Friday night and I can peek through to the other side. Still, I haven't met anyone outside of the shop. I mentioned to a couple people that I was going to be working a table at the Nader rally tomorrow, but that's it.

Still it's enough. And besides, I need to get involved in some actual groups -- which must be, by far, the best and easiest way to meet people. Oh but to meet your soul mate while working side by side on a project to which you're both dedicated! To sweat side by side in mutual passion, and to realize one day that you are in love.

April 13, 2002
Saturday

The rally was today. There were thousands of angry, yelling, clapping, cheering supporters impassioned to make a difference. It was remarkable -- like a bonfire. Jello Biafra was there. Patti Smith was there. Michael Moore was there. Of course, Ralph Nader was there. Rows and rows of booths lined the walls. There were four rows of them, actually -- filled with people and causes.

Aside from the terrible headache that all the noise and lack of food caused, it was invigorating. Not that I get excited about every Cause, mind you. I had to giggle at the table dedicated to opening nude beaches in the area. It was a little bit sad as well -- people were noticeably absent from the space. Not because it is wrong or bad, but I suppose the tables documenting the obliteration of the Palestinian people were a bit more striking.

I haven't seen pictures or videos like those on the news.

Sometimes I wonder if it is the stereotype that keeps people away from progressive events. Really, you know, there is no excuse for not bathing. You know who you are!! Except maybe having your home bombed to smithereens and being forced into a concentration camp -- that would be an exception. But to that smelly guy who I never did actually see, put on some damn deodorant.

Then of course there was the guy with eyes pointing in different directions that kept bothering me at the table I was helping Amy and Steph with. I would never make fun of someone with lazy eyes, but I don't think his were. I think he was actually looking in two different directions while he talked at me. And he was kinda mean. Once he came back, completely out of nowhere, un-wadded the little ball of paper that was his collection of post-rally literature, then further unraveled a little green flier and asked me, "Have you heard about the million march for pot?"

"Hey man, are you related to baby Bush somehow? I know you are; so get the hell away from me you psycho-freakazoid!" I wanted to say it, but I was afraid a little head would come shooting out of his mouth, like on Aliens, and bite me.

Proving that miracles are in fact possible, Jen stopped by just at that moment to say hello. I leaned over the table and gave her the biggest, heartfelt hug I've had the occasion to muster in a very long time. I whispered in her ear, "Please save me from this guy."

Those stereotypes aside, the overwhelming majority of people were normal and I met some very pleasant people while doing my own perusing. I signed more petitions and registered on more lists in a single night, than in all my years as a sentient creature combined. I'm really excited about finding a local group that is active and vibrant.

The real treat was Michael Moore. I have never heard a more prolific and inspiring speaker. Every time I listen to the man, be it a recording on the Internet, a talk show or a rally, my jaw drops. He stories are captivating. He style is endearing. His laugh is contagious. And the information he presents is dumbfounding. Today started reading his new book Stupid White Men and I'm half way through it. It's amazing. It's now several weeks on the New York Times bestseller list and in its 19th printing.

It's also interesting to note that the book was a few days away from being "pulped" before the HarperCollins changed their mind and decided to release it. After the terrorist attacks on September 11th, they decided that the American people didn't want to read a book that said what Michael had to say. Negotiations were tried -- they wanted him to rewrite half the book, take out everything negative about George W. and change the title.

He told them that he would be willing to change the title to "Bring Me the Head of Antonin Scalia," and thus they remained in deadlock until the decision was made to pulp fifty thousands books that had already gone to print. What happened then was that he was giving a speech, downtrodden with the recent news, and asked the audience if he could just read a couple chapters -- since it was doomed never to hit the shelves. A certain librarian had been in the audience, in the back, and after going home that evening, logged into a chat room with several other librarians. From their discussion, a message was sent out via a list server to many, many other librarians who in turn wrote very angry letters to HarperCollins.

Moore got a call soon after that. "What did you tell the librarians?"

Fear the librarians! He was surprised to discover that he had won his battle, the book would go to print, also that his career was going to end in humiliation and nobody would buy the book...

Steph got my copy signed while I watched the table. When she brought it back I let out a "whoop!" and danced around silly. Then we gave each other a great big hug and danced around some more. "What was he like? What did he say?" She said that she had butterflies in her stomach. Tee hee.

I didn't get to hear Nader speak because I had to drive Steph back to the shop then so they could open. But that's okay, because Sunday was the book signing for Crashing the Party.

April 14, 2002
Sunday

The book signing was at ten in the morning at Barnes and Nobles. Mind you, I was up late at the Scream'n Bean drinking coffee and being happy with people. When I got home, I had way too much energy to go straight to bed. And so when I finally did fall asleep, ten came very fast.

I got there a little later -- closer to 11 actually, but I figured he would still be there. He was, and he was doing a question and answer session. I wish I had known. I might have been a little more energetic about getting there on time, or early. Still, I got to hear him speak for about 15 minutes.

He does much better in this environment than giving motivational speeches like Michael Moore does. If he hadn't been prevented from participating in the 2000 presidential debates, he would have mopped the floor with Gush and Bore. Severely. He would have made it something to be proud of -- instead of an insult to intelligent people around the world.

"Can we finish with one more? Does anyone have a domestic question?" Everyone was questioned-out perhaps; I was the only to raise my hand. But after he acknowledged me, a crazy-type interrupted before I could pose the question. No worries; I was determined to ask it when he signed my book, though I was worried he wouldn't have the time to respond.

But he did! He was so great! Restrained in nature to be sure, but helpful in the way that I imagined brilliantly productive people might be. "How can I learn to do my own research? There are some great watchdog groups -- with yours being some of the best -- but how can I learn to do it myself?"

He looked up. "You mean corporate crime, for instance?"

"Yes."

He began to write. "There is actually a manual you can buy. Also, call this person." He wrote down a name and a phone number. A phone number?! Not an email? Not a VRU or a secretary? Not a web site with generic information? A person! And a number! Maybe I'm easily impressed, but there it is.

When he was done, I thanked him for a lifetime of dedication, but by then my time really was up. He was signing the next book. And besides, I'm sure he's heard that tune a million times already. Though he did say, "Thanks," and, "Keep in touch," asking me to sign his contact sheet, which I did, of course -- and being very impressed for just under 60 seconds of personal interaction.

I've spent thirty years being angry and wanting change. But aside from an occasional donation and a vegetarian diet, I've done very little to get it. I've been tossed from despair to empowerment, from cynicism to eagerness and back again with few results. And even now, it isn't likely that I will dedicate my entire life to activism. But (in several ways) I'm beginning a new period in my life -- and some corrupt people are going to be much the worse for it.

April 15, 2002
Monday

It's almost midnight. If I'm going to stay current on the Daily Logs, I should get this started.

What a depressing day. I just couldn't get motivated to do anything. Today everything just seemed like too much again.

Nothing was done for work. When that happens, I feel guilty as hell.

Probably I would have at least gotten some things done after lunch, but the Universe was conspiring again. My tax return was done and ready for me to sign. So I went to do that at lunch time only to find that they had missed my last months that the Dot-com. Then I found out that to estimate the W-2, I had to go home and find an old pay stub. Then I had to drop it off. Then I had to come back at 6:30 again.

That's exactly when my piano lesson was supposed to be -- not that I've practiced in weeks anyway. Louis was pissed when I canceled.

Even that might not have been as bad, except that when I came back from dropping off my old pay stuff, I found that my speaker phone was on. Before leaving, I had called Louis at his house hoping to speak with him instead of just sending an email. Nobody answered, and I got the voicemail.

His wife did their voicemail message. It's perfectly normal -- except for the Madonna effect. Like Madonna, she's American. And like Madonna, she has an accent. It's not quite American. It's not quite European. What it is, however, is irritating. All the more so because she's married to Louis, who I have a minor crush on, and because I don't think she likes me.

Opera singer. Diva. *Whatever*

Anyway, one of the luxuries of living by one's self in the privilege of talking to yourself. Walking around naked is another privilege, but it has nothing to do with this story. When I had hung up the phone -- favoring email to voicemail -- and said something to the effect of, "God I hate that voice." Of course, I did my best to imitate it as well. It took several tries to get right.

Probably nothing actually happened. No message left. But, I'm just not having a lot of luck with phones recently. I might switch to smoke signals or written letters. Letters would be good. That seemed to work well for Emily Dickinson. Maybe I could re-learn how to write pretty as well.

Depressed by the possibility of another phone disaster, I called Shack asking if he wanted to play some Scrabble online. The site wasn't working however, so I wandered into a Boggle room instead. It was supposed to take my mind off of hopelessness. But consistently scoring last in a room full of twenty people didn't really help. If I were smarter, I might have realized that before losing so much.

Ultimately, my taxes were completed on time. The return, of course, was less than the original estimate. I grabbed some dinner on the way back and got home just in time to watch Angel, which I had forgotten about.

Angel was like a Star Trek movie where most everything that could happen, does happen. Shack further pointed out that, also like a Star Trek movie, you walk away realizing that none of it actually mattered.

Love the White Room. Hate the child actress. And were they behind their deadline when they filmed the ending? Maybe they also were filing their taxes at the last minute. Talk about pin the tail on the donkey.

So I've been cleaning since then. Mom has been pointing out that I've always gotten depressed when my apartment (room) is a mess. I'd better get back to it.