I've been wanting to go to Myrtle Beach on a little short backpacking trip for awhile, but I'm having trouble finding someplace to set up camp.

But I've also wanted to go to California forever--I've got so much I wanna see on the west coast. I'm sick of the east, as much as I really, really love Myrtle Beach. I'm kind of caught between the two options--on the one hand, I want a one-way ticket to California (and the general west) so I can find something great there; I want to go to San Francisco and Berkeley and Los Angeles and visit the deserts and see Seattle and all those other places.

But on the other hand, I want this little test-trip to Myrtle Beach--I just want to enjoy the things down there that I love without the interference of drunkards who just want to hang out at the local bars. That's basically it--a quick rehash of all of my usual beach haunts, then onward to the next great adventure.

I don't know whether Mum would help me with both of these trips--I don't need a LOT of help, mind you. It's more of a moral support thing (and spotting me $139 to go to California on the bus). I'm more-or-less prepared for travel at any time I leave the house--I've got a hell of a lot of supplies in my backpack. But I want to go somewhere and find Something. I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for, but I know it's Something important.

I want to go to both of these places; I just want it to get warmer and brighter out before I do go anywhere long-distance. The Myrtle Beach trip would be a short practice test--to see if I really CAN make it Out There. Moving to California would be the final exam. Going out there and being there, somewhere where I can be among friends... I'm gonna put some flowers in my hair and collect my things and move on.

But I wonder--could I convince Mum to spot me that trip for a birthday present, and perhaps a couple of nights' stay in Backpacker's Paradise Hostel? I don't know.

On the other hand--...

HOLY FUCK WHEN DID I GROW AN EXTRA HAND?!

A random thought:

For all the Biblical thought of "God loves us and wants us to live good lives," I note that a lot of his most outspoken lunatic supporters seem to be very distinctly against anybody having a good time.

Sure, I believe that God loves us, and wants us to have a good time while we're here. I think that's why we've got such good stuff--songs, sunrises, pleasurable sex--going for us--we're here to enjoy all that great stuff we were given while we're here on this particular plane of existence. I also think that we're all different, that we have different things that please us--hey, I enjoy sitting on the side of the river and digging my nails into dirt, while someone else might enjoy playing videogames on the computer. Different strokes and all that. That's not the kind of thing I'm talking about.

What I'm talking about is that a lot of God's Holy Folks seem to work themselves into a sweaty fervor when anybody is seen enjoying themselves. Rock n' roll. Heavy metal. Some different forms of dancing. Sex. GAY sex. Herbal enjoyment. When enjoyed responsibly, these things are great. Enjoying these little presents that God--or Whatever--gives us is part of why we're here, I believe.

But a lot of folks line up around the block and complain very loudly about it. Waving signs, trying to get laws passed, trying to raise "awareness" through misinformation and faulty propaganda. "Those children are listening to Black Sabbath! Stop them! Those girls are buying birth-control pills and being responsible about their futures by attempting to prevent unwanted babies! SOMEBODY STOP THEM! THOSE TWO MEN ARE HOLDING HANDS AND KISSING! WON'T SOMEBODY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP THEM!?" Harmless activities, all! There's always a few bad nuts who spoil the whole bunch, but that's just it--it's a few of them. Most of the sane folks are enjoying it and not bothering anybody in any way.

Their defenses usually come in the form of "It's for the CHILDREN!" or "God wants us to live this way!" I've got problems with both of these statements.

One: "For the CHILDREN!" Look--if you don't want your kid participating in this stuff, then parent them the way you want. The village shouldn't be the sole entity raising the kid--you, as their parents, should. Keep an eye on your own chilluns and make sure they don't get into anything that's too grown-up for them. Alternately--let them GROW UP a little at a time. Don't seal them into a cocoon and only allow them a glance at the world when it's a nice and shiny time to do so. Much as I like to pretend otherwise, the world isn't all rainbows and ponies.

Two: "God wants us to live this way!" Well, if God seriously wants us to be miserable robots, totally conformed and conditioned into one massive hive mind of morality, then I hang up my hat entirely from my search for God-or-Whatever-it-is-Out-There. If this is God and God's feeling toward humanity as a whole, then I want no part of it--I'll live outside the church doors, thanks, even if I have to dodge lightning bolts in my dance.

Relax, folks. We're only here for a little while. Enjoy it while you can. Don't work yourself into sweaty fervors over such trivial matters. Lay back; look at the sky; take a deep breath; relax, and enjoy the world around you. Allow yourself to see and feel instead of being blinded by anger, hatred, fear, and "moral" outrage. Look through the eyes of love, and you will really see. And then you'll be able to free yourself and maybe you'll laugh once in awhile.

I often wonder if there's anywhere for me in the world, or if there's anybody for me.

It seems terribly emo-tacular of me to think so, but sometimes I begin to suspect that I shoulda been dropped off about forty years earlier in time than I was. Like I should've been attending the real Woodstock, hanging out at the Haight, being with other people who believe. You look around the world today and you don't see many people who believe anymore. You don't see many people who Understand, who slow down or stop to enjoy things. The country's almost paved over, and its people are sad and sluggish.

Think that's the source of my various silly fangirlish infatuations with figures of the past, either dead or just old by now. I freely admit that they're silly, yes. Because they ARE. But I haven't many heroes to look toward from my age bracket--not when they've grown up idolizing Nirvana and My Chemical Romance and Green Day. The hopeless generation. It feels strange to be hoping for so much when the rest of your generation expects nothing but demands everything.

I don't want a lot, really--a sunny afternoon to just sit outside and dig it all; a true, loyal, Understanding friend to be with; good music to listen to while we play and dance and be together. That's about it, really. I don't ask for expensive gifts, I don't ask for lavish attention and luxury, I don't ask for worship or praise. I just ask for someone to Understand me--for a bit of love and loyalty.

I think this is the source of my not-so-secret crushes on people like John Lennon and Pete Townshend. They were/are terribly strange people, people who seem like they're lonely madmen, but like they have a deep and intimate understanding of the universe. So I admire that and envy that and wish I could make other people feel as wonderful as their music makes me feel.

Does that make me a weird person? Bet it does.

That's what I want. Not money, not luxury, not material success... just a bit of love from someone who's special.

While on a walk, it occurred to me--

I don't care. I don't care whether I've got a $300,000 house. I don't care whether I've got a gas-guzzling monster SUV to show off to the neighbors. I don't care whether I've got twelve kids running around in the yard. I don't care whether I get a husband or a wife. Don't care whether I can buy expensive liquor, fancy show dogs, with people all at my beck and call to tend to my every silly whim.

All I need, all I want, is a sunny afternoon. A warm, sunny afternoon, the chance to stare up at the blue clear sky, feel the grass and dirt of the Earth between my bare feet, and feel the kiss of the breeze on my face. A chance to touch not only the Earth, but the world--to touch it and be touched, sweetly and gently, by the Spirit. There's nothing in any world like it. It's something that my soul cries for that can't be silenced with a DVD player, an iPod, and a Hummer. I want to touch things; I want to feel things that have been long forgotten or just ignored by others in the world.

I'd like to slow down and enjoy life while I'm here; I don't want to spend all of my time running around, then, when I'm seventy-something-years-old, find that I've got so much I've left unaccomplished and no time left in which to do accomplish it. Or that I lack the physical ability or I Can't Leave What I've Built Up Here or whatever.

I'd just like to be close to that Something beyond the world. I want to get to know that Something, without the unpleasant intrusion of bills bills kids car gas house payments time to go time to go gotta go gotta run run run... It's a simple thing that's so hard to get, and I'd like to enjoy wasting my time in trying to get to know it a bit closer before I don't have any time left to learn.

I want to make people smile. Fuck profits and dollar margins and stocks and bonds and Wall Street. I'd be just as happy standing on the street in Berkeley, making good-luck charms and telling jokes and playing a ukulele or something. I wouldn't care whether it got me a million dollars. I'd just want to see a sincere smile from a fellow human being. That'd be payment--more than enough for my taste, thank you.

Something real and Something that's just fleeting, like the White Stag of Lewis' stories... I'd like to catch up with it.

People say I'm stupid or silly for wanting to do it, that I should just give it up and resign myself to Mundane Reality--that I should and "must" abandon my dreams in order to live a "successful" life. Money isn't the measure of success. I can stand penniless on the seashore, feel the breeze on my skin, and be richer than any man in the world. And that's the kind of riches I'm after--that spiritual mansion, that place of comfort deep in the human soul, that Jesus and Company would talk about.

Something eternal and shining, yet fleeting and hard to catch... I'm gonna catch it!

I'm on a Steppenwolf kick lately. I do not know why.

But a few nights ago, I had a dream that I got to go to a CCR concert that had Steppenwolf opening. That was pretty cool. I had front-row seats and would dance around instead of sitting the hell down and listening. John Fogerty would tease me, but threw a flower to me because he thought I was funny for how badly I danced. Which is probably what would happen if I danced at concerts, except for partaking in moshpits and suchlike. I have eight unseen left legs, I swear.

I've always wished I could dance. I wanted to take ballet and jazz and that when I was a little kid and would always run straight home with the forms that they'd pass out in elementary school. "Mooooom! Mooooom! Can I take ballet?" She'd always say no. So I never got to do ballet. Or karate. I was left to be on my own in the afternoons, to make up my own games and listen to my own kind of music.

So after awhile, nobody wanted to be friends with me, because I was getting rather "strange." I wasn't acting like a ten-year-old girl "should" act--I wasn't into boys, I wasn't into makeup, I wasn't into shopping and sleepovers. I was into adventures and daydreams and playing outside! Even the boys thought I was weird, so they left me alone.

I can't help but think that if I'd taken ballet, I would've had a few more friends as a kid and maybe I wouldn't be so screwy and lonely now. But maybe not.

In a way, I'm glad I'm screwy. It opens up a whole new world to enjoy when you're a few screws short of a picnic. You're not bound by expectations and "what should be." You're only bound by your crazy imagination, your own daydreams. Basically, you're free.

But what is freedom without friends to enjoy it with you, I wonder?

Man, I just flow from one tangent to another, don't I?

Today was an absolutely gorgeous day!

It was 72 degrees outside, sunny, and slightly breezy. So I went on a walk and just grooved on it all for awhile. Then we had pizza with Grandma Allie (that cheezy-bites Pizza Hut pizza is great). But more importantly, it was just a beautiful day to be outside. I even went out and curled up in the hammock for awhile, staring at the sky.

And it occurred to me--if I never have an expensive house, if I never have an expensive SUV, if I never have twelve kids in the yard, if I never have a million dollars... I will be happy.

I will be happy to curl up under a blanket and stare up at the endless sky; I will be happy to touch the earth, feel the dirt in between my fingers, and smile at the stars.

I don't want a lot of money; I don't want an expensive house or a gas-guzzling car. I don't wanna eat expensive food and drink thousand-dollar liquor.

I'll be happy just to be, and nothing more. To make people happy and to be happy myself--to touch the world and feel it, carefully and gently.

ABOVE THE INFLUENCE OF YOUR STUPID FUCKING COMMERCIALS

You know, I am TOTALLY never going to smoke pot, simply because I saw a thirty-second, poorly-drawn cartoon about aliens and a stick-person sitting on a park bench.

Poorly-drawn emotionally-driven-rather-than-logically-explained PSAs will totally keep the kids from tokin' up!

*eyeroll*

A nitpick: "Above the influence." If you were above influence, then wouldn't you be immune to THIS influence as well, and thusly, you would be able to make your own damn decisions rather than obeying the demands of either friends OR a television advert? And I always thought "influence" was a different creature than an absolute, irrefutable, DO-IT-OR-DIE!!!! order from your supposed higher-ups.

I do not care what comes in, on, or out of your body. As long as one does not harm another being on this Earth, it is none of my business. And so far, I have never seen a pothead harm anybody else (though my brother and his friends did some sizable damage on that freezer full of food I was planning to eat over that weekend) while stoned. I've heard a pothead laugh his ass off at children's cartoons. I've listened to a circle of 'em chat about reincarnation and stray cats and the nature of reality. Never seen a pothead knife someone else.

However, I have seen a lot of bad things come out of alcohol and cigarettes. Yes, not every boozer and smoker is a nasty person. Lots of them are nice. But some of them turn into rather nasty beasts when drinking, yet alcohol is fully legal. Huh.

I've also never noted that my pothead friends are evil homicidal fucks who care nothing for my well-being, as pothead friends are portrayed in commercials and after-school specials. Most of my friends are kinda spacy, but they're friendly people. Get even friendlier when stoned (though sometimes they get more annoying with giggles and munchies). I turn down their offer--smoke bothers my lungs and sinuses--and they leave it alone, then go get stoned a little bit away from me, so it won't bother me.

Not all stoners are angelic, not all boozers are evil. Of course not! But I'm rather annoyed with the fact that stoners are continually portrayed as evil, evil fucks and boozers as good, upstanding members of society who just happen to be drinking a smelly drink. Depends on what your poison is on whether you get nasty or nice, really. But seriously--think for JUST A SECOND about these kinds of things.

MY TOP TEN FAVORITE GUITARISTS OF ALL TIME:

1) Jimi Hendrix. You probably saw that coming. Not only was Jimi an absolutely fantastic guitarist, he was a great songwriter, too--Little Wing, Fire, Wind Cries Mary, Red House, Remember, Voodoo Child and all that.

2) Pete Townshend. You probably saw that coming, too. Pete's a fab guitarist, but like Jimi, also a fabulous songwriter. ♥ I've babbled fangirlishly about him enough already. Pick an entry at random--I'm sure you'll find something about him somewhere. I have a not-so-secret fangirl crush on the man. I'm so pathetic. But that's not the point. He's a wonderfully creative person and can play anything you throw at him, but I think he does the guitar the best. There's something... different, almost mystical, about the way he plays. I'm not quite sure how to explain it.

3) Criss Oliva. He was the guitarist for Savatage until 1993 (killed by a drunk driver) and I think he's sadly underrated. He does some absolutely mindblowing work--especially on Hall of the Mountain King, Silk and Steel, Sirens, and Jesus Saves. Ahh, my childhood.

4) Tony Iommi. Come on--the man is missing a bunch of fingers, but still manages to play some fucking brilliant, dark, evil-sounding guitar. Wow.

5) George Harrison. His guitar wasn't as wild or insane or LOUD as some of the other people on the list, but that's precisely the point. George wrote and played wonderful music that made you think, made you laugh, and made you listen to it instead of just throwin' up the horns and rocking the fuck out. Which you could still do--but George had a lot of deep, thoughtful guitar in his songs.

6) The guys from Thin Lizzy. I love Thin Lizzy, but dammit, I can't remember any names except Phil Lynott and Mr Gorham (whose first name escapes me--it's either Scott or Brian... I'm so bad. *hangs head*) At any rate--great guitarists, work well in harmony, like on The Boys are Back in Town.

7) Jerry Garcia. Same reason as Tony Iommi... but reflected. Where Iommi's guitar is wonderfully dark and evil-sounding, Jerry's is peaceful and thoughtful and relaxing. I like it a lot. Plus, Jerry was just awesome all over.

8) Donita Sparks and Suzi Gardner. Wow. That's all I've got to say. Well, not really. These are the guitar ladies from L7. Their music is just bad-ass. It's hard, it's loud, and it's completely unlike a lot of "chick music." Where on the one hand you have Mariah fucking Carey moaning about her boyfriend with the cookie-cutter dance beat in the background, on the other, you've got L7, screaming about people who get on their shitlist with some loud, pissed music. They're pissed, they're women, they won't be quiet and sexkitteny like they're "supposed" to be, and I LIKE IT! Rock on, riot-grrls!

9) Joan Jett. Joan Jett is an awesome woman. Not only is her singing fabulous, so's her guitar work. In my opinion, anyway. She's bad-ass. Just about the same reasons as L7, really, except Joan came first. :P

10) Stevie Ray Vaughan. Childhood favorite; I still love his songs, and his Jimi Hendrix covers are great. I didn't know Little Wing was a Jimi Hendrix song until quite awhile down the road. I like Jimi's original more, but holy hell, Stevie came close to doing it just as well.

I had a dream that I was part of Tokyo Mew Mew. I was part squirrel and had a gun that shot acorns. CORNY!! Also, the Green Man was my personal sidekick. That was awesome; I've always loved stories about the Green Man and he figures into a few different stories I've written (most notably, the only story in which I don't have a superpowered main character).

I took (and surprisingly, passed) my pre-test in math today. That surprised me very much. I'm absolutely horrible at math. I was expecting to get a 420 (just barely squeaking past the pass mark), but I got a 630 instead. Hooray! Now Josh's friend definitely isn't gettin' his hat back. It's lucky. :P

I went on a walk today and met up with two very different people.

One was the crackhead. Dude was pretty wall-eyed and strung out on something-or-another, reached out to grab my arm and slurred as to whether I wanted to know someplace to score something good. D: I started to back away. Then a big black dog came to my rescue and barked him away. Hooray for dogs! D'ya think animals can be guardian angels? XP

Then, on the way back, I met a sweet old man in a flannel shirt and overalls. He was picking up trash with a bucket and a grabber-thingy and chatted with me for a couple of minutes--about how lovely the weather was, how we hoped it stayed this way, and how much nicer we hoped it got in future days. I liked him. Hooray for cute, sweet old men! :DDD

The aeromodelers (people who stand around in an empty farmer's field flying model airplanes) were out yesterday, since it was a holiday. I spread out my towel and sat and watched them for awhile. Played in the dirt. That was great. X3

All in all, yesterday was a fab day! ♥

Tomorrow is my math test. Bah! I was never good at math. Sure, I can do most of the basic stuff, like multiplication and division, probability (and I was pretty damn good at predicting the outcomes of the dice-rolling games we'd play in elementary school as an illustration of it), geometry, that kind of stuff. But I'm terrible in most other respects. Bad at algebra, bad at percentages, bad at remembering what step is supposed to go where...

But I'm kinda glad it is tomorrow. That means I'll be that much closer to gettin' out of here, out on the road toward better and bigger things!

I've been spending the lazy day researching. Average temperatures for late March-mid-April over here where I'm gonna go, proper things to pack, a possible road name, routes, that kind of stuff. Busy busy busy! But it's more fun than reviewing my math activities. D:

I stole a vagabond's hat today. Well, really, didn't steal it, and it's from a former one. My brother's friend left his hat here and I decided it was fair game.

So now it's mine. It looks good on me, dammit. It's hard to find anything that looks good on me.

I think it's lucky, too. I put it on and found some stuff I'd been looking for, then wore it to the mall yesterday and some cute punkish guy checked me out. (Trust me--this is not an everyday occurrence. This is perhaps the second time it has ever happened in my pathetic life.) Nothing came of it, but I was still appreciative that it happened at all. It's the little things and all that.

I've pretty much given up on having any true, close friends and resigned myself to having figments of my imagination and silly daydreams to accompany me. I keep on displaying love and compassion toward everybody I meet regardless of the affection or lack thereof they have for me, but it seems that I couldn't keep a friend to save my life. I figure, it's been... *counts on fingers* Almost nine, ten years since I had a true, really close friend. The one that came closest was Kristen in fourth grade. My friendship with her was very important--I learned a lot about myself--but upon reaching late fifth grade, she dropped me like a sack of rocks for the more popular sixth-grade girls. I'm a bit bitter still, I suppose--she was a wonderful person, fun to be around, and very imaginative. I want another friend like her. Male, female, androgyne, whatever--I just want a loyal friend who's as nuts as I am.

And I gave up on romance LONG ago. Here's a person who believes firmy in peace and the saving power of love, but sneers at even the barest prospect of romance and intimacy. It comes of never having, in my entire life, somebody who's taken an interest in me beyond friendship or even mere sidekickdom. I'm fine with being Just A Girl Friend instead of being a girlfriend, I suppose. But sometimes, it does get lonely. Sometimes, just sometimes, I get bored with being the Independent Hippie Riot-Grrl figure, the Wise Earth Mama figure, the Unapproachable But Alluring Loony.

I think that's why I've got such major fangirl infatuations with old folks like Pete Townshend and Ringo Starr. They're the kind of people I'd like to hang around with. People who are crazy, but still good-hearted and kind. Cynically optimistic. Creative and destructive. Silly. Strange. People who understand. People who have a very important message to tell the world. People who are missing from today's generation--my generation. So, feeling lonely and isolated, I transfer my affections onto these strange old men that I've never met and most likely never will, and they become sort of knight-in-shining-armor figures for a lonely teenage nerdasaurus like me.

I go into the world every day searching for a companion, someone who Understands, someone who's looking for the same person. But all I find in the company of my generation is deadness. Dimmed, despairing souls who never even go searching for hope; complaints and anger without hope and determination to back it up and make a change; greed and stagnation and the pollution of the heart.

Sometimes I think I've been born in the wrong era--that I shoulda been born between 1940 and 1950 sometime, so I could've partied at Woodstock or seen a real Doors concert or attended an SDS demonstration or learned at a free university. I wish I'd been something important in the past. But then the thought occurs to me--

Maybe I'm here for a reason. Maybe I'm here and now instead of there and then so I can do something just as radically important as my heroes.

Got so hard, but we gotta keep tryin'~

I did a biiiiiig, long rant about Kidz Bop awhile back about how much I hated it when kids sang tone-deaf, droning covers of pop songs. Girl Authority just reinforces my hate for such things... but my rage for Girl Authority just goes beyond the fact that they can't sing for shit. A lot of kids can't. (Some can. But they typically aren't the ones who get albums and television shows. Except that one little thirteen-year-old girl who sang a pretty damn good cover of Janis Joplin's "Piece of my Heart.")

But my main problem with Girl Authority is how they're presented and the material they deal with.

It says somewhere on their godawfully glittery site that they're "never prepackaged." Then how the hell do you explain them at all--"Country Girl! 'Bohemian Girl'! Sporty Girl!" If that ain't prepackaged, then I'm a monkey's uncle. These girls dress and act within their one-word personalities and their hobbies seem to only fit within the range of what one would expect of "Country Girl" (she likes riding horses), "Sporty Girl" (she likes soccer). I prefer my stars and idols and heroes to have more than ONE aspect of their personality presented, thank you, and I prefer that my musicians have something unique about them. You know... talent, like.

Another thing: "PARTY GIRL." Party Girl. Is. Ten. Years. Old. Wearing fishnets and heels. Please tell me that I'm not the only one whose Inner Rocky Horror Fan is screaming "SLUT-IN-TRAINING!" or singing along with Janet's piece in the stage show. Ten-year-olds shouldn't be wearing heels and fishnets, and they certainly shouldn't be paraded around as party girls for the media. What does Party Girl do? Does she go on the pony rides and get the first slice of cake? First dibs on presents? What the fuck would a ten-year-old "Party Girl" do?!

Then I've got issues with the songs they cover as well. Hollaback Girl... I hate that song anyway, but the woman says "Shit!" like fifty times in that song, doesn't she? How did the producers manage to skirt that? And then there's an abysmal cover of Hit Me With Your Best Shot... I think Toxic and Oops I Did It Again are in there somewhere, too. Look, folks, just because kids--relentlessly prefab kids--are singing these songs doesn't make them any less sexual or anything.

I hear they also toured with the Dresden Dolls. Now, I'm not at all familiar with the Dresden Dolls. But aren't they about twenty times harder rock than Girl fucking Authority? What the blue hell? That's like one of the sunshiney flowerchildren with the acoustic guitar and a flower crown in her hair opening for GWAR with songs about rainbows, fluffy pillows, and kittens. With no ensuing jokes and pranks and general mischief and mayhem from GWAR.

Besides--what about the other girls? Butch Girl, Nerdy Girl, Bitch Girl, Girl Whose Personality Cannot Be Summed Up Entirely With One Word, That Girl Everybody Is Sure Will Grow Up to be a Raging Lesbian, Smelly Girl In The Corner Reading Books about Nuclear Physics and Ghosts, all of those? Also: How about Minority Girl!? These kids are all probably upper-middle-class and as white as the fallen snow. Except Urban Girl, whose skin is sort of the tone of a cream-filled mocha--she just looks like a white girl with a tan.

Forgive what may seem a bit of a tangent, but I love the Monkees. The original Pre-Fab Four. Say what you will--at least they each knew something about music, at least they could carry a fuckin' tune, and at least they weren't nine-year-old kids portrayed as party animals--at least they each have a personality that can't be summed up with one word per member. Sure, they were sort of "typed" in the show--Mike was the Smart One, Peter was the Sweet But Kind of Dim Guy, Davy was the Cute One, and Micky was the Crazy One. But they were more than that and were--to a point--allowed to express it on the TV show and through their music (though there were some things that weren't allowed to be expressed on TV, which is why, I believe, they made HEAD.)

Girl Authority has none of that. They're so bloody prepackaged, one-dimensional, and what's worse, I could sing better. Keith Moon could sing better. YOKO ONO could sing better. Hey, at least she has some idea about tunes and melody, rather than using the same general hum for every song she's ever done. (...Yeah, I'm a bit of a Yoko fan. I'll stop there.)

I'll freely admit that I'm a Crotchety Old Music Nerd at Only Eighteen, but seriously, this is just fucktarded.

On the bright side--I haven't seen the commercial torturing my television in months, and that's a very good thing.

Now I just have to get Kidz Bop, Now That's What I Call Music, and the Naked Brothers Band to will themselves off of my set so I can watch my cartoons and crime shows in peace.

Something I've often pondered:

Why is Robin dressed in such bright, gunfire-drawing colors? Unless that's the point. Take the focus off of the crazed shadow-stalking vigilante in the black, sweeping outfit and shoot at Robin so Batman can jump in and nail your ass.

Seriously--such a bright costume would seem kind of impractical considering the kind of work that Batman n' Robin do. You can kind of excuse Superman and Wonder Woman for having bright sparkly costumes, because they run around in broad daylight foiling robberies and such. Everybody sees them. But Batman's schtick is to run around in the shadows of Gotham, mowing down psychopaths in goofy-ass outfits and common random thugs. His thing is stealth--darkness, mystery, secrecy. But then you've got Robin (and a lot of other barely-pubescent teen sidekicks) running around in bright primary colors like yellow and red.

Don't get me wrong--I've got nothin' wrong with teen superheroes. I love the Runaways and Captain Marvel's whole family. Hell, the X-men were originally just a bunch of teenagers, and they still have a bunch of them among their ranks. But it seems the only reason that the big-boy solo superheroes ever get sidekicks is to keep them around is so they can distract their enemies when swooping in for the win. (Look at the latest X-books from Marvel--all of the central characters like Jean Grey and Cyclops stay fully-powered and more-or-less alive, but all of those kids in the background are either depowered, killed, or just THERE, in the background.)

There was an unintentionally hilarious comic back in the day where Batman had, like, a whole battalion of Robins waiting in the wings to replace Dick Grayson. Look it up on Superdickery somewhere. Fortunately, Dick managed to grow up with no super-duper-apparent psychoses from this. Unlike Batman. :P But some of his successors didn't fare so well (Jason Todd in particular). Guess the Joker finally picked up on that.

Anyway.

If I were a superhero, I'd pick a costume more suited to my environment and the hours I spend active. Or something related to my powers and training.

I had a dream that I was heckling Criss Angel at a show. It was funny. XD Love his show, and if I had my way, I would be a magician, too. Sadly, nobody ever gave me that magic kit I wanted when I was seven, so I never really got into it and it might as well be REAL magic for all I know. Anyway, that's what I was doing in that dream--sitting up front and mocking Mr Angel, until he yelled at me to shut the hell up and let him get on with it. XP I have weird dreams. But they're always fun.

Kind of wish I'd been teasing old British dudes instead, though. :P I love old British dudes. ♥ Ufufufufufufu. They age well. Most of them, anyway... I think Keith Richards died in the 1970s and has just been wandering around like a zombie ever since. But he's a nice zombie, isn't he? XD

I had a dream that I got to hang around Deadpool. Not by choice. He just saw me loitering somewhere and decided to drag me along on his rounds. I had superstrength and a gigantic iron fan that I kept smacking him around with. XD Most of the dream was spent bickering with Deadpool, who had to--in order--get some milk for a cake Blind Al was making, find Cable, ride the elevator up and down a very tall building, and then run around doing bloodier things. Also on that list--I guess--was dragging along a chick with pigtails and a tie-dye shirt. And an inexplicable giant fan.

The elevator that we were riding in stopped in-between floors and we found a new dimension. Jim Morrison was there tinkering with some machine. He waved and said hello. After that, we went up to the next real floor. A possessed little girl was there and she frightened me. Deadpool said I was a wuss. I ran off to get Jim, because I figured he could do something about it. I do not know WHY. But I guess he did, because the little girl passed out and nothing else was heard of her.

Then we headed up to Ohio in a stolen car for a music festival. Yeah, guess who was there. Pete just kind of rolled his eyes. "You again." I rescued him from somebody who intended to kill him and he rewarded me with a shiny new quarter and a pat on the head for my trouble. XDDDD

Also, David Bowie was there. I lurked around outside his hotel room until I could get an autograph. I asked him to say one of Jareth's lines, and he just kind of rolled his eyes much in the way Pete did. XDDDD

But then Deadpool dragged me away again saying we had things to do. Which included teleporting into the future. It was weird. I remember four horsemen. Color-coded and gay as a march morning, the lot of them. O____o That would be hilarious if that was what really happened. XD

In dreary real life: Took my test. Had to fight with Mr Whatshisname again. God, I'm so sick of that guy. I try to take everything in stride, but he's getting on my last nerve. In fact, all of FTCC is. TWO MORE FUCKING WEEKS AND I'M OUT. *tears hair*

I went on a walk to fetch some more spaghetti sauce for Mom. Tonight is Gram's birthday and we're having cheese ravioli and red velvet cake. :D That'll be good, at least.

The guy at the gas station wished me a happy Valentine's day. X3 That made me a bit happier. ♥ No idea who he is, but he's nice--he's been at the checkout a few times before.

Oh God, I just found the Hash House website. I remember Hashing.

By their own admission, they're a "drinking club with a running problem." I grew up around that atmosphere. What a goddamn weird childhood I had. On the one hand was Dad--ranting about the God Damn Niggers and the God Damn Liberals and generally being a fountain of hatred for everybody outside his immediate family. And on the other were the Hashers--a bunch of weirdos in funny outfits getting together to run about five miles on Sundays, then stop and drink beer and eat chips and sing songs about fucking and beer and pot.

Our dog was the mascot for the local chapter a few years back. Big English bulldog named Tug. He loved running; everybody loved Tug, and they'd share beer and water and food with him in the circle at the end. Unfortunately, Tug died doing what he loved--during a Hash right after Hurricane Fran, he was bitten by a copperhead and died. Afterward, everyone was depressed. We took out permanent markers and drew a big "gravestone" for him on the table at the place where we went to eat afterward.

I liked Hashers. Wild, insane party animals. But very friendly.

That was about the only real exercise Dad got. He would only go because there was lots of free beer at the end of the trail. And everybody else on the street was busy on Sundays, so we'd go with him on the Hash. At first, my brother and I would go in the beer truck and hang around listening to music. But when we got a bit older, Josh would go running with everybody else, and I'd go with the two or three other walkers. I loved walking through the woods like that. It was awesome.

I just found the local-chapter website. I'd like to go again--perhaps the Sunday after the coming one. I wonder if I could hitch a ride there. I miss the party atmosphere. Maybe I could get Taylor to come along--that'd be pretty fun. :D (Also, I could wiggle out of the whole "virgin Hasher" thing--I HAVE been there before, several times, so technically, it wouldn't be my first time running with the rest of the group. I just don't wanna get beer poured over my head.)

Bored.

I'm looking forward to Sunday--I'll have my braces off (on Thursday) and I'll be on my way to Ohio with my brother and a bunch of near-strangers. Huzzah! I'll be going somewhere different.

I just wanna get out of here. I don't really and honestly care where I go. I just wanna be out of here, around new people, seeing new places. I've been here for the past fifteen out of almost-nineteen years--I'm BORED with being here!

Being out on the road helps renew me. If I'm inside for more than a few hours, I start getting depressed and lonely and bored. No bueno. I prefer to wander along the road for hours, waving at the drivers who go past, chatting with the little old ladies out to get their mail, seeing the strange things one sees when one slows down...

...like last week, when I went on a walk to the next town up the road. About eight miles from here. I saw a house with a Jolly Roger flag flying--half-staff and upside-down. I have no bloody clue WHY it was that way, but I found it funny and spent a good few minutes giggling at the sight of it before moving on.

Drew this entirely by hand, but I had to recolor it in MSPaint because the colors of the original didn't scan that well. It took a bitch of a long time to do his hair/beard, but I'm still happy with how it came out--it's one of the best bits of art I've ever done.

I like how his nose came out. :P But then, I like Pete's nose anyway. ...what? The man's got a nice nose.

I also drew a portrait of a grinning Roger and a silhouette of "the ether man." Who, coincidentally, has a large nose. :P Even though Pete says it isn't him, I have my secret suspicions.

In other news: I'm going to Ohio again with my big brother next week. Hooray! He's going to record an album with his band. I'm just going along to help him out with random things. I'm just going to go there, really. I need a change of scenery~!!

I have cheddar cheese cubes, dipped into sweet-n-tangy mustard.

Life is good.

Mustard and cheese is possibly my favorite food combination... XP I'm famous in the family for, in my early years, existing on mustard-and-cheese sandwiches. No meat, no veggies in the middle of that. Just the mustard and a slice of cheese. Mmm. Hell, I still have that pretty often, even if I've got my soy-lunchmeat. I just love it. Someone at church once told me that mustard-and-cheese combos were popular in Germany, but I don't know if that's true or not. I like to think my weird tastes are my own. :P

And I've got some weird tastes, too. Chocolate sauce on carrots. BBQ sauce on green apples. Stuff like that. XD

The only foods I will absolutely NOT eat are celery (which is not a food--it's bent scrap plywood with a puff of green on top), mushrooms (never liked them), and hot peppers. I love sweet peppers, particularly the yellow ones, but I don't like jalapenos or other super-spicy peppers like that very much. And, obviously, I don't eat meat, as I'm a vegetarian (in addition to the usual tree-hugging reasons, meat gives me horrible gut-wrenching stomachaches, even back when I DID eat it on a daily basis--I guess something just didn't fit well with my digestive system or something).

I like Doctor M's design. I went through a lot of them before settling on the on he's got now. All that's clearly visible are white shiny fangs, glowing green eyes, and a fluttery cloak. Otherwise, he's like a big, spiky black shadow. He can sprout tentacles and claws and scales and such.

He uses his tentacles to freak people out, really. Amit offers Sophie a box of Junior Mints and the Doctor reaches over with one of his tentacles to take some. Both of them freak out, but he just shrugs it off--"What? WHAT? You offered."

Also, I hate the "e" key on my keyboard. It isn't pressing down properly and now I have random e-less words in my entries. Bah!

I always wonder what happens when somebody buys some bizarre thing off of eBay that's been advertised as "a great conversation piece!" What kind of conversations do you have over a six-foot-long winged wooden penis? (I'm not kidding--I saw this once. WTF?)

"So, uh... Jim... why do you have a six-foot-long winged wooden penis hanging from your ceiling?"

"So I can have this conversation. Over and over and over again."

One must wonder...

I think I've finally figured out the answer to that old philosophical dilemma--"If God exists, why doesn't He stop the wars and disease and all that?"

It's because He is very busy with appearing in slices of ham, bags of Cheetos, and in the holes of your sandwich bread.

Forget little Timmy Smith's muscular dystrophy and Grandma Lynn's cancer--Jesus and Mary have an appointment with some redneck's breakfast plate! They're too busy for miracles these days!

eBay is frickin' weird, isn't it?

My stepmother loves eBay and buys all kinds of damn things off of it--particularly Longaberger baskets. Before the house burned down, you shoulda seen our kitchen--baskets everywhere. Now most of those are charred ash bits in a trashcan somewhere. But before that, she had, quite literally, hundreds of them. Sometimes she buys me cheap jewelry off of there--stuff with fairies and the like on it.

My aunt's big into eBay, too. She got a bitchin' neon sign for her living room that reads "Voodoo Lounge," like the Rolling Stones album. Four bucks! I shit you not. Wouldn't mind having a lamp like that to read by.

Listening to an interview with Pete about Psychoderelict. I think he's a knight in shining armor. Like the crazy White Knight from Through the Looking-Glass. He's totally out of his mind, but he's got a lot of important, interesting things to say; I'm kinda like Alice. Except I don't have Pete dragging me through Looking-Glass Land. Which would be rather fun.

But in the interview, he talks about Lifehouse and Psychoderelict and all that--about how Ray High is like a shining-knight figure (except not). I think of Pete as a knght in shining armor. Yeah, I'm making absolutely no sense and I'm totally being a halfwitted fangirl again. But still. I'll listen to him until the day I die. Maybe longer. He's got something important to say in every little tune he writes, even if the songs are seemingly meaningless. I wanna listen to what he has to say; I wanna hear The Note; I wanna learn from him. I've got such a goofy crush on him. Trying valiantly to get rid of it, because eighteen-year-old dork-hippies shouldn't obsess over old, wise men with large noses and large brains.

Well, anyway.

Weird things going on around my house. I laid down last night to go to bed and turned on my side... and on the other side of the bed, I felt the mattress depress. Like someone had sat down there. I do not have anybody else in my room when I go to bed. That kind of creeped me out. And my mum has been hearing things all over the house--tappings, knockings, whistles, soft chatter, and so on.

We have sort of a "not-me" ghost in our house, named James Stern. Sometimes I daydream that he's really real and he's just kind of bumming around our house. But then, sometimes, I suspect that he really is real and teases us. Just sometimes. Think I'm losing my mind? What little I've got left to lose, anyway.

Wrote a letter I'm not sure I'll send.

It's a fan-letter to Pete Townshend. I managed to keep it fairly sane, with a minimum amount of pointless fangirling. Still kept it pleasant and encouraging.

But I'd only send it if I had the chance to do it without Mom or Dad or someone seeing. I'm known for avoiding things like this--I'm famous for steering clear of crushes and other such things. But I've got a massive fangirlish crush on him. I don't ever think I'll even meet him, but I'd like to send him the letter anyway. Which would give everybody in my family license to mock me for the rest of our natural days, as well as some of the unnatural ones. I'm known for being independent, tough, all that.

So, in some respects, I feel like I can identify with Pete in several of his songs. They're so universal, but they're also intensely personal. That's why I love his music, with and without the Who. It's like magic, channeled through a guitar and microphone, conducted with strange dances and gestures. No... it IS magic. That's what it is.

I might revise the letter a bit before attempting to send it off. Wonder if I'll request an autograph... I'll have to try to print off a picture of him, even though I'm sending some I drew of him (and "the Ether Man", who just so HAPPENS to be a silhouette with a large nose in my interpretations :P).

I feel so silly for being like this over an old stranger that I'll never be less than a hundred yards away from. I'm usually known for chuckling at people like this and reminding them of harsh reality. But now I'm one of them. It's kind of odd. I like the warm fuzzies I get when I hear the Who or solo-Pete coming on the radio--it's like early Christmas for me. So easily amused.

Maybe I will send it after all. Have to get some international stamps, though, according to my Invisible Internet Friend from Belgium. Doubt he'll read it at all--he probably pays a clerk to forge his handwriting on a form letter or something--but on the off chance he does, I'd like him to know how important and enchanting his lyrics are. I'm sure he knows, though. I'm sure he knows. But it bears repeating. Doesn't it?

Don't think it's that long a walk from here to the post office.

I continue my geek-rage over the new Bridge to Terabithia movie.

Part of the point of the story is that you can't escape everything in your fantasies--you can't hide in your beautiful imaginary world because your reality is a bit harsh. That's part of the point of the end of the book--that Leslie dies and Jesse can't seem to get back to the way Terabithia was because Leslie was part of the magic of the world they created TOGETHER. He has to grow up and face reality without her. That's what was so tearjerking about the story, and I think, it's the point of the story ending the way it did.

But in every commercial I see, it's "the secret of Terabithia!" "they have to save their fantasy-world!" "they unlocked a REAL Terabithia!" No, dammit, no! You're missing the POINT!

Bah. I smoulder in geek-rage.

IN OTHER NEWS:

I drew a decent realistic portrait of Pete Townshend, and I think it looks good. Maybe I'll send it to him in a letter. Not like he actually reads his fanmail--at the very least, it'd provide some good heat for a poor, cold hobo when it gets tossed in the incinerator. I also drew two of Roger that turned out looking fairly good. But the Pete one turned out the best--I liked his eyes the most.

These are the first pictures I've ever done--in a realistic style--wherein the subjects didn't come out looking melancholy, confused, or completely blank. I've done a portrait of myself, of people from my dreams, but they always come out looking like that. I don't know why Pete and Roger came out looking like they're actually expressing emotion (I particularly like how Pete's lips came out--they look like they belong to a human being and not a mutant squid monster with giant fishlips.)

I dunno whether I will, indeed, wind up sending them off, though.