The word Fairie has taken on a new meaning to recent generations; if you ask somebody what a fairie is, they will likely tell you that a fairie is either 1) an effeminite man or 2) a little, magical woman with butterfly wings. Going by the vast English writings on these creatures, I think it is safer (and more accurate) to imagine them as more like Tolkien’s elves, except most often being depicted as more mercurial, mischevious, and above all, contradictory than the stoic beings of Middle Earth. I say that fairies are contradictory because Wikipedia says they are. I only say this because I’m reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, which is chiefly about fairies (and the stoic English men who deal with them). This book, which I highly recommend, made me think of my very favorite poem ever, by Rudyard Kipling. It is titled The Fairies’ Siege. I have been given my charge to keep — Well have I kept the same! Playing with strife for the most of my life, But this is a different game. I’11 not fight against swords unseen, Or spears that I cannot view — Hand him the keys of the place on your knees — ‘Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true! Ask him his terms and accept them at once. Quick, ere we anger him, go! Never before have I flinched from the guns, But this is a different show. I’11 not fight with the Herald of God (I know what his Master can do!) Open the gate, he must enter in state, ‘Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true! I’d not give way for an Emperor, I’d hold my road for a King — To the Triple Crown I would not bow down — But this is a different thing. I’11 not fight with the Powers of Air, Sentry, pass him through! Drawbridge let fall, ’tis the Lord of us all, The Dreamer whose dreams come true!

To avoid politics. That is all.

Mr. Doughty has shepherded me through another long day – I owe him many thanks. — I had dinner and a beer with Nate and Lindsay last night. Nate is a rock, an impurturable monument of calm contemplation. Lindsay is a bottled spark, scintillating at the edges of the cork. I sat between, not sure how to fit myself in. I was quiet, tired, nervous, angry – jumbled thoughts bumping into each other, and me too jiggered to pick one out of the air and examine it. I doubt I was very good company, but they have no claim to that about themselves – it was one of the best evenings I’ve had in a very long time. I hope that the next time I can be more myself, and less of the hastily stitched-together simulacrum that I felt I was last night. — I have been online for barely an hour, and already I have received three MySpace spams. Does anybody really think that the scantily-clad cuties in the picture are actually interested in them, only to click into some fetid crypt of porn ads and banners advertising penis enlargements or the intringuingly illiterative “Pocket Pussy?” Do they also believe that they have been contacted by a gorgeous model’s friend who thinks that they look exactly like her ex-boyfriend and long-lost love? I suppose somebody must, perhaps a somebody as lonely and socially inept as me. — I shall post more, later. I promise, interweb.

My brother Will calls me that once in a while. Then I call him Willbo. I used to have a blog of my own, on my webpage. I get a hundred views a week with this one, so I’m just going to keep posting here and tofuckwidit. At the risk of turning this blog into a TV column, I’m currently watching Sex and the City. Captain Nixon just broke up with that hot chick from L.A. Story by writing a note on a Post-It. I don’t know if I particularly like the show itself; it is easy to dismiss as The Estrogen Show, but it is odddly compelling. If women out there think that it depicts an accurate representation of the female psyche, then it might comfort them to know that men, in general, are very similar. At least my friends are similar. We don’t talk about sports, we talk about sex. And it’s usually a little more graphic than even the stuff that Lieutenant Valeris says. No, I won’t elaborate. Trust me, you don’t want to know. I encountered real boredom today, for the first time in ages. None of the usual distractions worked, not even computer games. The only cure is an early bedtime, and the iron resolve to write like a million monkeys tomorrow. I took a bunch of pictures of myself – you can see two of them in my photos. Yes, it did feel like masturbation. But I think they’re pretty decent. What about you? I changed my profile name, too. I’m really finished with the Chuck Norris junk drop-kicking itself all over the internet. I think it has run its course. None of this is as good as anything I’ve written in this space previously. I’m not trying to be good, but it does strike me that this is utterly uninteresting. Maybe I should stop now.

Last weekend, the three eldest women of my immediate family took it upon themselves to make me look presentable. This was not for any specific purpose; they’re female, and have a more ernest understanding of the value of looking good as a way to improve one’s mood and self-confidence. Men, in general, lack the knowledge of this fundamental truth of our species and our society. They shaved me, cut my hair, bought me clothes and told me how handsome I am. — I once read about the experiences of American soldiers in Germany at the end of the European front of World War II. These men had fought Nazis within the borders of many countries, from Holland to France. The citizenry of every single nationality, except one, would cower in their basements, run as refugees from the fighting – what many of us would consider normal, reasoned reactions to a terrible war. But not the Germans. Many American soldiers watched as German men and women repaired their shattered roofs and walls in the middle of combat, as if oblivious to the destruction and carnage around them. I feel very German. When things go to shit, there’s no time to worry about how things are going to turn out. I don’t know how things are going to go. I don’t know what happens next. That’s the best part about being alive and living in a continuous present – the next thing to step around the corner can be glorious or it can be disastrous. The key is to convince the disasters that maybe they’re not so bad after all. The bombs fall, the streets slide into sink holes, the lights flicker, the wolves claw at the door and the whole world looks like it’s falling apart under our feet, but we cannot ever stop fixing that goddamn roof. — Law and Order SVU is a clearing house for washed-up actors. I’m watching an episode with guest stars Richard Thomas (of the Waltons) and Karen Allen (“Marion!”). I might also be one of very few American viewers who prefer L&O:CI to the others. Most people like SVU, and I can see the draw – it’s prurient and sleezy and compelling and impeccably acted and brilliantly scripted. Watching CSI after any L&O show is a bit like watching Armageddon after seeing Schindler’s List. — There is great satisfaction in writing a story, having someone else read it, and then hearing their interpretation of it. It’s a bit like looking into a mirror that shows you the best parts of your face that you never noticed before. — I love my brother Rob’s sense of humor. Every so often, he updates his MySpace profile as a different character – sometimes it’s Klytus, the Darth Vader of 1981′s Flash Gordon movie. Sometimes it’s an older man who worked at the company he temped for. Through them all, it’s always Rob, and it’s always funny. He also happens to be the sort of brother that everyone should have. — It’s 2 AM, and after watching a marathon of Law & Order, USA has decided to show Uncle Buck. Am I the only one who remembers USA Up All Night? They would show soft core porn movies, except blank out the naughty bits or cut them out altogether, resulting in some very banal, very short movies about perpetually oversexed young adults. I remember Rhonda Shear hosting it with Gilbert Gottfried. My memory is of a lot of jiggling and a lot of shrill screaming. — I should probably go to sleep now. I have to get teh dogs into the kitchen first, though. Corey’s easy, and very eager to please, so that won’t take long. Rosie, on the other hand, is the opposite. She’s an aloof old girl – only a few years shy of being the oldest Newfie on record. After a near-death experience and perpetual arthritis, she still runs outside and barks at loud noises. But she doesn’t like to go to bed. Sigh.

Everybody keeps talking about it, and I’m already sick of it. The goddamn parade is tomorrow, too – timed, naturally, to coincide with my pre-arranged pranial period. The crowds of screaming yinzers will no doubt affect my commute home, as well. Look, I’m happy for everybody who’s excited about this. I really, really am. But please, and I’m begging you here, please don’t expect me to share the intense, transcendent joy you must be feeling. I don’t own a Steelers jersey. I don’t own any article of clothing that is both black and gold at the same time, let alone one that invokes a pouce as the suggested recipient of an anneau superbe de cuvette. This has not, however, dissuaded my coworkers from noticing (and commenting upon) my apparent lack of spirit. Yes, I understand the social significance of the city’s champions returning from battle in foreign lands to bask in the adulation of the assembled populace. When Big Ben rides down the Boulevard of the Allies on a chariot pulled by two white horses of the finest Arabian stock, I might be more inclined to participate. But only if I can be the guy holding the laurel crown. Memento mori, I would whisper. Memento mori, Pittsburgh.

1) My mother gets a magazine about Newfoundland dogs. They put out an annual run-down of the winners of various titles throughout the year. This issue is called Titlists, but when I look at it, I see Tit Lists. This conjures images of what kind of magazine that would be, and I think I like my version better. 2) Grizzly the Newfie is the sweetest, most affectionate dog who has ever lived. Nikki the Protomutt is the sweetest, most affectionate dog who has ever lived. I cannot reconcile the paradox, and I don’t intend to try. 3) My ass is soaking wet, but not because of me. I’d rather not question it too closely. 4) COPS is not as interesting as World’s Wildest Police Videos. The former has a docudrama feel to it. The latter is pure, unadulterated trash. 5) Date Night TV is still on, even though the hosts were fired from the radio station two years ago. I think the most recent episode dates from 1998. The people on that show are, largely, disgusting. 6) A very small dog sleeping with a washcloth under her head is intensly cute. 7) I miss my sister. She is an outstanding person, and the world is her oyster. 8) I’m watching too much TV. 9) There are many, many people who are having a much harder time than me. That sounds like an aphorism, and I hate those. 10) David Brin once suggested (accurately or not) that the primate’s instinct is to run toward a shistorm of a disturbance rather than run from it, as every other animal does. Sometimes, I feel like a primate.

Well, I’m here. My dear mother bought me a crap-ton of new clothes, after seeing the state of my wardrobe. She did a very mother-like job, dressing me in what she thinks I should wear to work. Luckily for me, she was rather spot-on. I seem to be hyphenating a great deal lately. Is this a habit I should break? No. Grizzly the Newfie, Rosie the Newfie and Corey the Fruitbat Pig Seal (a rare breed, to be sure) all greeted me at the door, barking and licking and slobbering. I should mention that the above individuals are all dogs, lest somebody out there thinks that my family houses affectionate Canadians. I have felt rather lonely lately. Even here, surrounded by my loved ones. Strange, that.

- misplace an apostrophe. For instance, one only uses it’s as a contraction of the words it is. The contraction should never be used to indicate ownership. – use the abreviation LOL. In a text chatting situation, it is almost acceptable. On a static webpage, it is utterly pointless. Try the exclamation point instead, and use it sparingly. – tell me that the Steelers are going to the Super Bowl. I am aware of this. – say that you enjoy having fun. The use of the word fun is pregnant with the implication of enjoyment. Be more specific. Try stating what, specifically, makes you have the fun you so enjoy. – mention how many tattoos and/or piercings you currently have. I don’t care. – you eschew punctuation. If it hurts to read your profile, I won’t. – state that, given a choice between long or short hair on men, you choose short. In response, I choose “not skank.” – John Grisham, Dan Brown or Stephen King appear in your Books list. – you use an inappropriate z instead of an s. This serves no purpose. – you use white text on a black background. 99% of all copy appears as black text on a white background. Why should your list of shitty bands deserve otherwise? – you intersperse the number 4 instead of simply writing for. Are two extra keystrokes too much of a strain? Also, note my correct use of the various forms of to.

Tomorrow, to work. Then, to Wheeling, where my parents await my return. I plan to be there until Sunday, when I shall return to Pittsburgh and bask in the glow of a certain Super Bowl victory. I never cared about football. I moved here, and that changed – I will actually find myself watching the vaunted game. I may even curse a bad call, or praise a good one. I’ve decided that there are no decent pictures of me on this profile. I bought a camera recently, and may try to remedy that. Taking my own picture feels like masturbation, so I may decide against that. I haven’t decided yet how I’ll decide. It’s only 10:39 and it feels two hours later. I think I’ve actually been getting too much sleep, a problem I never thought I would have. I feel good, in general. I actually found myself typing to the rhythm of a Nikka Costa song today. That’s a good thing. As Johnny Cash once sang, the coldest hour is the one comes just before the dawn. Right as rain? Almost. Nearly there.