Lola and I have this figure-eight that we follow through the living and dining room; around the dining table in one direction, then around the coffee table in the other. Can’t reverse course or we’ll careen into each other on Lola’s next pass. Actually my route is something of a simple back-and-forth, just enough to make Lola THINK she’s being followed the whole time.

Starting to get the idea of this whole Weblog concept; each of us, as spoiled Americans, has every day thoughts – perhaps several, perhaps hundreds – that we would LOVE to share with the world. Maybe a funny joke that only we heard. Maybe a selfish bit of introspection or philosophy that most people wouldn’t bring up in standard party conversation.

Either way, we’re stuck with these things; the dorkier, less socially adept people will find ways to awkwardly slide them into conversations where they don’t really flow. I remember Zach Ritter, in 8th grade English class, would occasionally repeat jokes aloud if he didn’t think the first go-round got enough of a response. It’s like the grown-up version of that.

I won’t bore the nonexistent readers with an example of my own; too tired for that. I’m just saying this: the Weblog is the perfect venue for this shit. The place where we can spout off things that anyone COULD read, even if nobody actually DOES read them. That doesn’t quite matter. It’s a diary as performance art, even if we’re playing to an empty house. Turns the whole thing into a sport.

Ready, hike.

Every time I become convinced the day planner is gone forever, it returns. I will never doubt again. Next time Mr. Day Planner vanishes, I’ll be like a parent with a missing child: “It will come back…”

And now for a story.

In December of 2000, or so, I visited my sister with Dad in New York City. It was my first time in this massive massive city, and I was rather intimidated, and quite determined to keep my head on and not lose anything.

I left the backpack containing my CDs, toiletries, and day planner on the subway from LaGuardia to Manhattan. Just left it. It was gone. Gone gone gone. I had thought previously that my day planner was invincible, but when I realized I’d left my backpack on the subway, I thought I had met my match: the MTA.

Oh, me of little faith…within TWO HOURS a homeless man of some sort had called my sister’s dorm room in Chinatown saying he had my bag. The next morning my dad met this guy in the Bronx and and retrieved the bag for the ransom of $20. The day planner was secure.

Now that I’ve repeated this story, I realize what a putz I was for thinking it was lost at the BANK. Never again will I doubt my trusty day planner.

The caveat to the story is this: indeed my day planner DID fall in battle, to my brand new dog Lola, after I’d had her less than a month. My opinion is that she was systematically destroying everything in the house that might have competed for my love: in the very same week, she chewed on my beloved (and trademark) black hat. Fortunately, I had a spare day planner from one of my earlier lost-planner scares, so it took up the yoke. However, this one is irreplaceable; it must not get lost. And it won’t.

And why is neither “despondent” nor “panicked” a word in the emotions list? And what the hell does exanimate mean??

Other than the missing day planner, which contains virtually irreplaceable bits of paper from years back in addition to my checkbook, my current crisis is figuring out what to do with my mornings. See, I don’t work until 10:30, which leaves me with the potential for a couple of productive daytime hours before heading in for another fun day of tech support. But it’s the same routine: every morning I wake up around 8, decide I have nothing important to do, and snooze for another hour or so.

Is this a bad thing? Do I need another hobby to wake me up? Working out, maybe? I hate the idea of burning daylight, especially when it’s nighttime by the time I leave work. Hmph. AND I have to edit these papers for a Japanese exchange student named Rie. At least I’m pulling $2.50 a page.

I think that as of late, capitalism as we know it has been showing its age; most visibly in this whole corporate-scandal thing, and the post-9/11 reexamination of America’s position in the world. But also, at work. Here’s the thing: Apple makes superior products to almost any other computer company, yet we can’t gain market share. There’s something wrong with that, you know? People won’t just buy the superior thing; they stick with what they know. Does capitalism allow for that?

Must poop dog. One moment.

There’s something nice about walking outside in your socks. Just the fact that you’re too wound down to put your shoes on adds, pleasantly, to the wound-down-ness. Tonight my feet ended up a little cold, but it wasn’t so bad – not having shoes on was worth it.

Hmm. I didn’t really have anything important to say tonight. Just wanted to type, I suppose. I suppose it belies my generation that typing is at least as relazing as writing. You just miss out on the whole handwriting thing.

Argh – out of milk!

Fine, let’s go with “chipper.”

Bolstered mostly by a rock-em-sock-em 25-call day today, I’m feeling groovy as to my current job at Apple. This is also reinforced, however coldly, by the fact that some of my coworkers are fed up with the whole tech support gig. You know I think I’m cut out for this sort of thing? What with the whole Mr. Patient thing and all. I hear people speaking harshly into the phone and I wait for those calls to hit me. Except they don’t.

Perhaps on very, very rare occasions; there was that guy who asked to talk to my supervisor within 2 minutes of me picking up the phone. People watch too much TV. What does “let me speak to your supervisor” mean, anyway? Some perception that he/she will get the job done quicker? Mostly an ego battle with the techie, i.e. me, I suppose. Fortunately I’m ready for that. This might help me deal with kids, come to think of it.

Ya know, my dog can be mighty stupid sometimes, but when I ask her “Want some food,” she always knows EXACTLY what I’m talking about. Second place: “Wanna see Mommy?” I have no idea if she gets the same reaction from “Wanna see Daddy?” Is there a way to test this?

Last night I was running improv scenes in my head instead of sleeping. I think my hobby is too high pressure! At one point – and this doesn’t happen often, I hope – I leapt out of bed into my darkened room, ready to begin acting out a scene. Hell, I may have even said a couple of words to the blank wall before recovering, reminding myself in rather harsh terms that I was NOT at an improv show (thankfully, due to my underdressed state), and returning to bed. This can’t be healthy.

And then, inspired perhaps by my little memory diary project, I had an even more unhealthy dream: that Olivia and I were together, spending one last day together – at a shopping mall, that minor symbol of juvenile peer pressure – before she returned to her husband. The weird part of the dream is this: she was holding my hand, and it FELT like her hand. Olivia always held my hand in a certain way, firmly from fingers to palm, letting me know that I was NOT getting away. How very possessive of her. How tragic to recall. On top of that, I smelled her in the dream. Why do women have to smell so good? Is it just the perfume and body wash? I think not.

I’d had a minor debate with myself as to whether the memory diary should include bad memories. Suddenly I suspect there’s not too much difference between good and bad. I woke up and realized ouch, no one has held my hand like that since then – since I was 18.