It’s Halloween! It’s also 7:30 and the sun still hasn’t cleared the mountains yet. Though it’s not something I’m consciously doing, I’ve been daily protesting this whole extended daylight savings time thing. Simply put, I’m not exactly fond of the extension. I like my days long, but really, what were those folks thinking when they declared that we could “save energy” by postponing the turning back of our clocks? Like, maybe we could keep the earth from spinning on its axis, or something. But the days keep getting shorter anyway. As in: we have just as many hours of light as we do without changing our clocks. Could it be because it’s fall?

To be honest, I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other for changing the clocks twice a year. I’m passionate, though, when it comes to having to wake up early in the morning. I generally have to get up every morning around 6:00 or so, in order to get to work on time. I consider any wake-up time prior to 7:30 to be cruel and unusual punishment, and best avoided if at all possible. I’m willing to make an exception (not that my job gives me much choice), with one caveat: I want the sun to be coming up. If I wake up and it’s still dark outside, I’m probably going back to sleep. Let me also point out that it’s generally my subconscious making such decisions, so who am I to argue?

This year, Halloween has new significance for me. First, it’s been an exciting holiday, and fun. It’s Robert’s and my second Halloween together, but the first one I’ve actually done right. Last year I had some crazy theater stuff going on, so I missed it. Second, today is the last day of October, and this year I decided to have a go at National Novel Writing Month. I’m a little intimidated at the moment. On the one hand, given all that I write for work, and all that I’ve been working on for a graduate school application, I think it’ll be feasible. On the other hand, given all that I write for work, and all that i’ve been working on for a graduate school application, I wonder whether I’ll even have any energy to put into a novel.

But that starts tomorrow, so I can’t worry too much about that yet. First I have to get through the workday, sans students. Because all the students at my school have the day off. Because apparently, Halloween has become so controversial in this city (and maybe elsewhere, I don’t know) that, rather than use the opportunity to teach some history and culture and new and open-minded perspectives on how to celebrate such a cool holiday, they’d rather kids have the day off and learn nothing about the world. Oy vay.

I’m not sure whether I should be happy that my weekend ended on the note it did, or depressed. On the one hand, it ended nice and low key. On the other, it’s kind of depressing. Given just how awesome a weekend I had, it could just be par for the course.

I got to do the usual amount of lazing around the house, sleeping in, and generally lavishing in having nothing to do except what I wanted to. Saturday night, Robert and I went to a Halloween party. Though in recent years, I’ve been considerably remiss in my Halloween costume obligations, I came back with a vengeance this year. We got a head start on costume ideas, which proved to be invaluable for me. No more waiting until the last minute for this guy. We got started in September, and it proved to be totally worth it.

I went Rastafarian. Sort of a Bob Marley meets Matisyahu sort of mix, I suppose, if you want my personal Reggae outlook. But check it out: baggy pants, chill shirt with the Hawaiian shirt combo, awesome tattooed arms, and dread locks the likes of which only the most chaste of people could go without touching, even though I know they really wanted to.

Robert went Egyptian for the evening. It was pretty much what you’d expect for a storybook, should said storybook follow some pattern of cross-century, cross-cultural theme: Rastafarian meets Pharoah, Rastafarian falls in love with Pharoah, Rastafarian runs off with Pharoah. Sure, an unlikely pair, but hey, it’s Halloween.

Of course, once the Karaoke started, the Rasta suddenly became rock ‘n roll, belting out tunes to rock the party and even incorporating a stunning yet dizzying display of head-banging, a la Brian Fair from Shadows Fall.

Red and blue united today, in the form of 3-D glasses. Robert and I hit the theaters and went to see Disney’s re-release of Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas, in 3-D. I can’t think of a better movie for my first ever 3-D movie theater experience. I suppose I could have gone to see Spy Kids 3D: Game Over, but that one was out of the question thanks to my swearing to never watch any movies in that series, due in large part to their previews. But seriously, I jumped first at the chance to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in the theater, and the added bonus of 3-D was quite fantastic.

Here’s the part where things get sad. After all that fun, I went to the grocery to pick up some food for the week. To Albertson’s I went. After getting everything I needed, and then purchasing the goods, the cashier told me to hold on and wait for my special stamp. That super reinforcing thing to encourage people to shop there: the stamp that, should you collect enough of them, can get you free cookware, or at least reduced cost cookware. The cashier actually left to go find some while I was on my way out. And what’s worse is that I actually waited for her to return. A nearly-three-minute wait for one measly stamp. Not even worth the product value ratio, but darn it, I want that square grill.

Today was day two of having slightly improved vision. After nearly two weeks of wondering why my eyelids always felt so heavy by the end of the work day, even though I knew I wasn’t all that tired, I finally broke out my glasses and tried wearing them for a change. While I can usually pull out my glasses that help with my light sensitivity, I hadn’t found them to be as effective lately. So I tried using my regular glasses, and voila! Clarity.

My current specs aren’t a perfect solution, because they’re about eight years old, but they’re better than nothing right now. I can actually make it through the day, and am even able to make a lot of progress on all the crap I have to do because I’m not fighting my fatigued eyeballs. Good thing I’m going to the eye doctor here soon.

It’s weird wearing my normal glasses again. I’m generally used to only wearing sunglasses. And if the glasses I’m wearing aren’t those, they’re most likely my glasses with colored lenses that I use for my light sensitivity. It wasn’t until I was at Pei Wei on Wednesday night that I realized that people could actually see my eyes through the lenses. There I was, in the midst of chewing a bite of delicious tofu, and sort of zoning out thanks to the sweet and sour meal I was enjoying, staring but not seeing in the general direction of the counter. Some lady was there, and after a few moments it dawned on me that, given her rather sour expression and her direct gaze (directed at me), she must have thought I was staring at her. Whatever she feared or hoped, I can’t say.

For the most part, it’s been nice to see more clearly for a change. It’s only day two, but while driving around town today I unfortunately had to share the road with a gigantic diesel testosterone-fueled jet-engine wannabe ass-ugly souped up pick-up truck. Three foot tires, giant exhaust pipes placed right behind the cab and pointing skyward, and the word FORD plastered across the hood. As if the driver hasn’t already proven that, despite his biological status as a male, he still has penis envy, there’s one more item of bling on the ghastly thing: a pair of silver testicles hanging by a chain near the rear tires. That metallic ball sac is so tacky that I’m afraid of looking at it up close (especially with my glasses on), lest I go blind, turn into a pillar of salt, or else have my spirit eaten out of my very body like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The last time I saw one of those things on a big truck, which incidentally seems to be the only place you ever see them, I actually saw the driver of that particular truck. I’m not generally one to judge people, but I do make exceptions. I mean, when I see a sticker plastered proudly across a Chevy Silverado that proclaims, “Sucking Gas, Hauling Ass,” you’re asking for it.

No studies have conclusively or statistically shown it, but a trip to the dentist is always best on a Monday. I know this based on experience. Experience from this very moment, as a matter of fact. Monday dental visits are good for two very good reasons:

• You get to leave work early. On a Monday, no less.
• The rest of the week is blissful, having gotten the trauma of the dental visit over with right from the start.

I’m not a very big fan of dentists. It’s not that I don’t like them as people. I’m sure they mean well, and most of them are probably perfectly nice. In fact, I think I take a don’t hate the player, hate the game approach with them. As in, I like them well enough, but what they do sometimes really makes me hate them appreciate their profession a good deal less than they might hope.

Of course, before every trip to the dentist, I must brush my teeth before I get there. Yes, I’m one of those people. I really have no idea if dentists appreciate this sort of thing, or even expect it of their patients. I do it because I operate under the most likely misconstrued notion that I can somehow brush away every single bit of tartar and plaque residing on my teeth in one fell swoop. And it’s not that I don’t brush my teeth effectively. I brush twice a day, sometimes more, and floss on average once a day. Despite such good textbook care of my teeth, I still go to the dentist’s office thinking that this time, they’re going to tell me that all my teeth are half-rotted and are going to fall out within the next two months, and I may as well go ahead and schedule an appointment to get my dentures made.¹

I suppose, though, that holding expectations this low could be some twisted form of coping mechanism. Imagining the worst so that when they tell me everything is fine and looks great, I can breathe a sigh of relief and continue living. Today, the worst of the news was that my one and only filling seems to be coming apart a little bit. I distinctly remember that day in fifth grade when I found out I had a cavity. I thought for sure my parents would skin me alive. Instead, I got a stern “You need to brush your teeth better” lecture from my folks and a snazzy white filling that’s only visible to those in the dental field. How cosmetically awesome!

¹This irrational fear usually only occurs to me about an hour before I have to be at the dentist’s office. There’s also a strong chance that I exaggerated some, if not all, aspects of said irrational fear.

J.K Rowling is an amazing woman. Pressure from fans. Pressure from people too religiously rigid to have any sort of an imagination. And pressure, no doubt from herself, to stay true to the story she’d written. Yesterday, when I heard the big news of her revelation at Carnegie Hall, I was thrilled.

I admit that I sometimes, fleetingly, wondered if Dumbledore might be gay. As we learned more about him throughout the last two books in the series, it occasionally crossed my mind. By the same token, if one wonders about Dumbledore, then one also wonders about other characters. There are a great many adult characters in the Harry Potter series who seem to be single. Indeed, most of the professors at Hogwarts are, from the reader’s perspective, quite unattached.

I have mixed feelings on this news. First, I’m thrilled that J.K. Rowling is so upfront and honest. Her honesty brings to light a new attribute to an already very dynamic character. It’s great that she’s willing to let us get to know Dumbledore even better than we did before.

On the other hand, I can see a great many people reacting poorly to this news. The far right already hates her books because of their use of magic. Right here in New Mexico, there were book burnings in which her books were thrown into a bonfire. And it happened at a church. Opening the door into Dumbledore’s sexuality will, I fear, lead to even more such unacceptable behavior. I could see many groups fighting even harder to denounce Harry Potter now that a prominent character in the children’s lives is gay. Never mind what we know about Dumbledore being an advocate for what is right, a good disciplinarian, a bad-ass wizard, and an all-around great guy.

Another thing I can see happening, and it no doubt already has happened, is people going back through the books and finding passages that can be viewed with double entendre, and questioning events that before they never thought twice about. This I find an even sadder thought. Rowling clearly thought it unimportant to publicly mention what is a very personal characteristic of Dumbledore, at the very least until after most fans have read the books. Had she not been asked, I doubt she would have offered up this information. She did this for one very strong, very simple, reason: it is of little importance to the story. Yes, it sheds some light on a few events, and it does add to Dumbledore’s overall dynamic. But it has virtually no impact otherwise. To go back and “read into” certain parts of the books would be extremely disrespectful to the author and to the story, especially considering how respectful the author was to her fans and to her books.

I admire J.K. Rowling now more than ever before. Had I been in the audience when she made the big announcement, I would have been one of the first ones jumping up and applauding. Even after having read the entire series, all but the last installment multiple times, she continues to amaze me.

Damn you, Isaac Newton. This is all your fault. And damn you, Birkenstock. This is all your fault too.

What has so far been an otherwise perfectly splendid Saturday morning was marred while I was doing laundry. As if the laundry itself wasn’t enough to take away from my Saturday, I had to go and make a human train wreck of myself while climbing the stairs back up to my apartment.

It’s easy to be lulled into a sense of complacency once you’re used to living somewhere. You forget that climbing stairs is potentially very dangerous, especially when wearing your comfy Birkenstock sandals and when carrying a couple of empty laundry baskets. Couple all that with thoughts along the lines of trying to come up with a way to leak to the press that Ann Coulter is really a raunchy leather dominatrix who has a penchant for making clergymen her bitches, and you’re in for it.

Here’s a breakdown, as best as I can remember it, of what happened:

1. After putting all my laundry in the washers, I head back upstairs, clutching the empty laundry baskets in my arms.
2. Midway through the climb up the second flight of said stairs, I don’t lift my right foot quite high enough to make the next step.
3. My Birkenstock shoe meets the concrete step head-on.
4. Newton’s third law (”every action has an equal and opposite reaction”) comes into play: my moving foot hit something inanimate, and immediately moved the opposite direction.
5. Of course, the moving force (train) that is the rest of my body continued to move with its forward momentum, while my foot moved backward.
6. As I fall onto the stairs and then down them (wreck), I fling the laundry baskets away from me as I scramble to catch myself.
7. The laundry baskets hit the stairs above me and follow me down.
8. My left knee and arm make contact with the concrete steps, and then with the stupid laundry baskets.

Long story short, I picked my laundry-ass-whooped self up and headed inside to inspect the damage. And the score came out thusly:

Laundry Baskets: 1
Phil: 0

Whereas my laundry baskets barely got a scratch on them, I walked away with a bruised and scraped knee, and also a cut, scraped, and bruised arm. This I find sad. Here I could have broken some bone, or perhaps torn my skin and required stitches. Thankfully, this isn’t the case. But my point is it could have cost several hundreds of dollars to repair myself. The laundry baskets, on the other hand, could be mended (if broken) for practically a penny, or else replaced completely for a hundred pennies. I see a serious discrepancy in the product value here. You’d think the cheapest of the two would take the heavier beating.

But no, we can’t have that, apparently. For me to measure up, I’d have to wear a suit of body armor made by Sterilite. That would be a terrible fashion statement, though, so let’s not go there.

Whoever came up with the concept of meetings was clearly a psycho lunatic glutton for punishment. I’d say some form of action should be taken against said sorry excuse for a human being, but… that someone would probably enjoy whatever retribution was inflicted.

I had to wake my ass up at 6 o’clock this morning just to go to what could very well have been the worst meeting in the history of the world (though by the aforementioned creator’s definition, maybe it was the best one). I am a firm believer that of all things worth waking up for in the morning, anything termed a “meeting” belongs not on such a list, but in the seventh circle of hell. That’s how much I hate them.

As fate would have it, I also had an afternoon meeting. Which, to do the math, means that I had to be at work early for a meeting, and then I had to stay late for a meeting. The extra time I put in at both meetings does not get me any additional pay. While I’d prefer at least time and a half, I suppose I’d settle for brownie points of some kind. But I don’t even get those, dammit.

The main plus for the workday, which only barely counts for anything because it really wasn’t all that great, was the trip to the grocery store. I forgot to get some supplies for a speech activity today, and so had to escape to the grocery to buy them. While hunting for the bottled water, running through the store at top speed and simultaneously marveling at how a normally familiar store suddenly becomes a foreign country when one is in a hurry, a single thought suddenly popped into my head: I should ask for help.

Phil: Excuse me, where do you all keep the bottled water?
Bewildered Woman: I’m sorry?
Phil: I’m looking for bottled water but can’t find it anywhere. Can you point me in the right direction?
BW: …
Phil: …Yoooouuu don’t work here, do you?
BW: No.
Phil: You sure had me fooled, what with the white shirt and navy jacket, and I see your name tag on, too.
BW: I’m on my break and decided to run across the street.
Phil: Oh how interesting!
BW: Hey look! There’s the bottled water!
Phil: Wow, look at you! You’re sooooo helpful. Thanks!

And we parted in silence. A good idea considering how awkward a moment it was. But that should teach her to dress like all the grocery’s employees and fool the unsuspecting. I wouldn’t be surprised if that happens to her on a regular basis. If this was true, I just might feel a little less lame.

Here’s some good advice: if you’re wearing a skirt and want to get your neighbor’s attention, don’t do so when he’s one floor below you. Even if your neighbor is gay, and has no desire whatsoever to see what you have to offer. Even then, when you have nothing to fear, it’s really best to wait until you’re both on an even keel. And for future reference, overly blustery days are not, generally, good days to head out on the town in your newest skimpy piece of clothing.

Really, you should be so lucky to have someone like me offering up such sage advice. I’m the perfect audience, as it were, to do so. True, I wasn’t eager to see what it is that you subjected me to, but in the grand scheme of things, I suppose subjecting me unwillingly (and unwittingly) is better for you than, say, some crazy sex-starved womanizer, i.e. the gross downstairs neighbor. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. It’s hard for me to tell.

I say this mainly because the only thing I really know about you is that you like peeking into my window. I see you walking by, or clunking, more like, given your affinity for wearing high heels. I see your gaze as your eyes alight upon the contents scattered across my “dining room” table, checking out my bodacious tropical house plant and the many scattered papers, puzzle pieces, toys, stamps, food, etc. that happens to land there. I’m a fascinating person, I know. I was hoping that you seeing me peeking out the window, shirtless, to check on the weather outside, might be an encouraging means, however unintentional, for you to change your ways.

But alas, I was sorely mistaken. You were at it again tonight, and this past weekend, and several times last week. Maybe I’ll start waving at you every time I see you looking in here. Or perhaps I’ll make a little sign that says “Howdy neighbor!” and place it in front of my plant. I could even leave cards or notes or something for you on the outside window sill, because I know you’ll find them. It would be just like Sleepless in Seattle or Sleepless in Seattle 2, with the one difference being that I don’t want to date you. And I don’t really want you to respond, either.

I’d settle for less of you peeking in my window, but I know that’s not exactly realistic of me to expect. So I’ll just hope I never have to see up your skirt. Ever. Again.

I spent my day at work today with my mind in a completely different place. But it wasn’t my fault. Honestly. I’ve been contemplating, for a while now, the purchase of digital camera. I’ve had my trusty 35mm for years, and lately I’ve been thinking it’s time I get with the times in the photography world.

The time is ripe anyway, considering how many pictures I’ve been taking. Trips to Wal-Mart have increased in frequency, much to my chagrin. I hate that place with a passion. But they’re the only place in town I know of that sends film to Fuji to be developed, so I’ve managed to hold my nose, breathe as little as possible, and run into and out of the store as quickly as I can. It’s definitely worth it, though, because most of the pictures are taken during various adventures with my wonderful partner.

Yesterday, because we didn’t have any plans for the day and I was feeling spontaneous, I asked Robert if he’d mind going camera shopping with me. I wanted to get out there and learn about them, and see if I could find a camera I liked. Whatever I had envisioned, I didn’t plan on spending nearly an hour at Circuit City, more than two hours at Best Buy, and then another hour at CompUSA. Nor did I imagine that I might make a totally split-second decision and buy a camera. But that’s what happened.

At first, I sort of entertained the idea of getting one of several different fabulous cameras, right then and there. Next thing I know, I’m buying a souped up version of one I had considered; it was marked down an insane amount, given its original price. I’m not terribly good at making big purchases, especially such spur-of-the-moment ones. The whole process seems a blur, in slow motion. One minute, I was but a humble person with an old-school camera (which I still love). Next minute, I’m the proud owner of my very own ass-kicking camera of digital coolness.

The answer to the standard “how was your weekend” question was the same each time: “I got a digital camera! I got a digital camera! Did I tell you I got a digital camera?”

Throughout the day, my thoughts drifted back to where I had left it at home. I knew better than to bring it to work with me, lest I get nothing done whatsoever. But dang. I got a digital camera! I got a digital camera! Did I tell you I got a digital camera?

I’ve officially gotten my balloon fiesta fix for the year. As my life-long residency in Albuquerque has taught me, the fiesta was every bit as wonderful as it always is, and also every bit as nerve-wracking.

When I went to the balloon glow on Sunday, I had my heart set on getting a cool pin for the Darth Vader balloon. Needless to say, I was crushed when I discovered that every single balloon pin vendor was sold out. Some punk sales economist person was seriously milking the whole supply and demand thing: each pin vendor only got 500 pins at a time. Okay so 500 pins to each of three vendors, that’s 1,500 pins. That’s plenty, right? Except that about 15,000 people (per event) each want a pin. When you consider how big a field has to be to support almost 1,000 hot-air ballons, and then you add some extra space for shops and everything, and then account for the fact that for each event, you’re lucky to find a single square foot of ground that doesn’t have at least one person’s foot in it, you realize that that’s a shit-load of people. And let’s face it, they probably all want Darth Vader pins.

Still, Sunday was a fabulous time. I went crazy taking pictures of balloons, because I’m a total balloon nerd, and I went through about a whole roll of film. When it was over, Robert and I decided that we had had so much fun that, hey, we should go back! So we decided to go to the special shapes balloon glow Thursday or Friday.

We opted for Thursday. I was stoked, and throughout the day looked forward to the afternoon and evening. The day went by quickly, thankfully. One of my supervisors brought her Miniature Dachshund puppy in to work, which was a big help. He was so cute! Not to mention rowdy and playful. We got on famously, and by the time he had to leave our company, more than an hour had passed. But then said super’s husband? boyfriend? came to pick up the dog. And suddenly I was stuck in Straight World limbo.

Husband Boyfriend Guy: Oh, geez. Honey, is that the collar you bought for the dog?
Supervisor: Mmm hmm.
Husband Boyfriend Guy: It’s kind of feminine, don’t you think?
Supervisor: I like it, and it looked the best on him compared to the others. Plus it’s adjustable and he’s comfortable in it.
Husband Boyfriend Guy: Yeah, but it’s really feminine. Don’t you think, Phil?

As he said this, I was in the process of slinking down to hide under my desk. I wanted more than anything else to not have to to be dragged into the debate simply because I was the only other man present in the room. Damn you, straight man! Only you would ever question whether your dog’s collar wasn’t macho enough. I was tempted to snatch the nearest baby pink bow, attach it to the collar, and then point out that that was feminine. Instead, though, I merely shrugged and responded honestly:

Husband Boyfriend Guy: That collar is totally feminine.
Phil: Actually, it looks fine. Are you metro?

Awkward! By the time the dog left, only an hour remained of my work day, and I was ready to go. As soon as I got off, I raced home. Robert and I then got ourselves all set to go, and we headed off to the nearby amusement park for the park and ride. Where we remained for the next hour, standing in line on the hot pavement. So much for a quicker way to get to the fiesta. I even went up and nicely told off the people “working” there. They were, for the most part, total assholes, and instead of feeling bad about voicing my discontent (which is my usual), I wished I’d been more of a jerk.

Eventually, though, we made it to the fiesta! And once we were among the seething masses of sweaty bodies, we were both happy to be there. Because we were going to get to see balloons!

First stop was the pin booths. We headed into the first one came across, and oohed and ahhed at all the cool balloon pins. Afraid they’d say they didn’t have any, and half-expecting them not to so as not to get my hopes up too much, I asked if they had any Darth Vader balloon pins. Here’s the answer I got:

“No. We’re sold out. Only one place here has them and they’re selling them for $60, which is totally outrageous and they’re a bunch of fascist jerks. Oh, and be sure to look and make sure it says Lucasfilm on the back because if not, then it’s a knock-off. See? Fascists.”

Disappointed, we left the pin booth. We wandered to the next one, which was super small and didn’t have any either. And then to the next one, where, joy of joy, they had the incredible pins from the Dark Side! As it turns out, these people were extremely nice, unlike the name-calling punks from that first booth. They were selling the Vader pins for $40 each, which isn’t too bad when you consider how inflated it actually could have been. I mean, $20 cheaper than what we had expected? That’s a bargain!

We knew that if we got the pins, we would be the envy of the town. We also knew that if we displayed them proudly, we might get jumped. So we got the pins and then I kept them safely in my pocket. Once that was said and done, I was walking on air. We set off to go enjoy the rest of the fiesta, now that we had the elusive ring of power Darth Vader pins.

We got to see the Darth Vader balloon himself, in all his glory. He’s a massive balloon, and he glows surprisingly well. My theory about his black color being too dark to glow well was proven wrong, and I [hopefully] have the pictures to prove it. I went through another full roll of film that night, and have now only to wait until Tuesday to see how they turned out. I’m counting down the days.