June 21, 2004

I got my windows tinted on Friday morning. I was told to wait two sunny days until rolling down my windows. Friday was bright and hot. Saturday and Sunday were half sunny and hot, half overcast and not quite so hot.

I worked from noon until nine pm on Sunday. And I figure, hey, I can put the windows down. Score. It's a nice night out anyway.

So, I go home, give dad his little sampler box of ten cigars for Father's Day, because I love him so much I'm going to give him the gift of throat and mouth cancer. Anyway.

After changing out of my work clothes, I go to meet up with a few friends. About a half mile away from my house, I'm driving along, windows down, forty in a thirty-five, and listening the Blue Man Group when out of nowhere, I hear a sharp KRAK! from above my head, and almost immediately feel something hit my head above my left ear.

"The fuck was that?" I ask myself, and pull into an empty driveway. I reach down, expecting to find a rock. Hoping, actually, to find a rock, so that I may track down the asshole kids responsible and knock out some teeth.

That's odd. Something feels almost fuzzy.

Mr Homeowner comes out to investigate, and I get out and plead my case. Hey, I was driving along and something hit my car, then my head, and I think it's furry. Can I get a garbage bag?

He goes in his house, I look down, and see a pair of bird's legs.

What the fuck?

He comes back, sees the carnage: Holy shit, he says. I'm surprised you didn't crash. Yep, it's a mockingbird. That's fucking incredible. Maybe you should put your windows up, eh?

Dad goes into surgery tomorrow. Actually, it'll probably be "today" by the time I finish writing this. In fact, it's already "today" according to E2, since it goes by Universal time. Oh well. Semantics.

I don't know if I've daylogged about this. I don't think so. You see, about two months ago, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. It's taken this long for them to do anything about it for two reasons: first, because it turns out Dad can't have microsurgery done due to his weight; and secondly, due to further testing to see whether the cancer has spread (it doesn't seem like it has). Still, he's somewhat frightened that it may have, though he seems to harbor more trepidation about the anesthesia. I can't really blame him, though as I've pointed out to him several times, the number of people who die from the anesthesia itself is statistically insignificant. I'm worried for him too, but - much as I hate to admit it - most of my reasons are rather selfish. The cold reality of the situation is that I don't really feel anything about it. That's pretty normal for me, though.

Thankfully, Dad's been pretty diligent about attending work over the years, and he's accrued over a year's worth of "annual" (The USPS' name for paid leave) and sick leave. He's going to need it; recovery time from this surgery is two to three months.

We've been having a run of bad luck all around. My brother has to move to Las Vegas (where he'll be studying at UNLV this fall) earlier than he originally planned. He works at Michael's (an arts and crafts chain in the U.S. and Canada), and the store which he's transferring to told him that if he's not available by the end of this month, they won't hold the position for him. Since my Dad won't be able to move anything for several months after tomorrow, they had to take all his stuff up to the condo last weekend. (Again, despite the problems that this caused, there was a bit of luck; if Adam was staying in a dorm, there'd be a bigger problem, since they don't open this early.)

In addition, my mother was fired from her job last week (managing a mini-storage facility). The given reason was that she didn't have enough units rented (as if that's in any way her fault), but my parents believe Dad's inability to work for the next few months plays in. (The managerial job is technically for two people, and Dad was on the payroll, but Mom did 90% of the work, mostly because Dad still works for the post office.) Since this was a live-in position, they had much of their personal effects there, all of which had to be moved out by Friday. The house is now extremely messy and disorganized, not only from the sheer act of moving, but because in many cases - from silverware to the furniture to the big screen TV - my parents simply bought new stuff rather than moving it from the house.

So...yeah. It's been an interesting month.

Whoo-hoo! I just watched spaceshipone land in the Mojave. We now live in a world with civilian astronauts! I can't believe how unmoved my fellows here at work are...this is the dawning of a new era!

So it was my birthday yesterday. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Big deal. Where's that downvote button?" But hold on a sec. First of all, it was kind of cool that my birthday fell on Father's Day and that I will indeed, for the first time, be a father in a few months. But that's not the main reason for this daylog.

I'm twenty-eight now. Two years from thirty. I would like to know if anybody else has experienced this phenomenon that I've been experiencing for years: my late twenties are just running together. You see, sixteen is a significant birthday, at least in the United States. This, for most, is the legal age of driving. Yes I know the laws have changed a little on that, but when I turned sixteen I could have run out and gotten a full driver's license - I didn't, but I could have. Anyway, eighteen is a significant birthday because that's legal adult age. And it is when most kids graduate high school and start college. Twenty is significant because you are entering your twenties and it's a nice round number. Twenty-one is important - again, at least in the United States, because that is legal drinking age. Twenty-five means you're halfway between twenty and thirty. But after that year, whenever I have been asked what my age is, there's been hesitation.

Why?

It seems strange to have to think about it when asked what your age is, even if it is only for 1.5 seconds or so. It was something I used to instantly recall with no problem. I guess these mid-to-late twenties are just running together. I'm no different, and I feel no different, than I did at twenty-seven, twenty-six, or even twenty-four. It could be that not much has changed in my life since 2000. I've been living in the same house. I've had the same job. I've had the same neighbors for the better part of the last four years. Has anybody else out there experienced this? Do any of you experience hesitation on your part when asked to come up with your age?

This age of twenty-eight will be significant, though. Big changes are coming. And I can't wait.

The Believer

the wind stripped
the warmth from his face
as he walked but
his God whispered to him daily
singing songs of death
and the fire of faith
spoke within his heart
comforting him as he
stepped across the land

so that when he
stood before the temple
and spoke softly
into the darkness
his words of prayer
flowed easily from his heart

my God has overcome chaos
and placed order
in the hearts of men

my God is watching me
no matter which way
my face is turned

my God will comfort me
when the sky is dark
and filled with fear

my God will pour
the fire of the heavens
down on my enemies
and turn them into dust