"Poop" is a palendrome.

Then again, so is "A man, a plan, a canal: Panama." Of course, without the punctuation. But I just couldn't help myself.

So. It appears that there is this ongoing battle between good and evil. Wait. Let me be more precise. There is an ongoing battle between crazy bitches and assholes. It appears that according to men, all women are insane; and according to women, all men are complete jerks. What I find interesting is that men would never even deign to understand women -- this is something they openly admit. But women? They actually purport to understand men.

Well, it's time for the truth to come out.

I don't get men.

Wait. Let me rephrase that. I don't understand men. Actually getting men is very easy to do if you're willing to let them ejaculate in your vaginal canal. But I digress.

The point here? It's not the "poop" is a palendrome, or that women are crazy (which I admit -- they drive us to it). The point is that I don't think think I'll ever understand men. At all. Feel free to shed some light on this. And if you need clarification, lemme know.

PS - I just felt like writing in color tonight.

I am an alien!

I've been trascribing seven years of old journals. You know, getting them on the computer just in case anything should happen to the books. This is my favorite entry so far:

April 18, 1994

Dear Diary,

It’s time I told the truth. It’s time I came clean. I’m really a space alien. I only pretend to be human. In reality, I am a loathsome, tentacled, squid-like creature. One look at my face would kill anyone with eyeballs. I’m that ugly. I also eat my boogers.

I'm going Bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I have but one question for Ms. Stefani: why?

The other day I was cruising along I-91, listening to the radio, smoking a cigarette and enjoying my ride. The day was pleasant, the window was down, and I was lost in thought. Things were groovy. And then it happened. "Hollaback Girl" came on the radio. I quickly changed the station.

Alas.

The same song was on another station. I changed again. To a third station.

Damn. Not again.

Will I ever escape this song? It's driving me, well, bananas.

But hey, as I was told the other day, it's a good thing she wasn't singing about pomegranites.

I am dead. I am pregnant.

Prepare yourself for a grammar rant:

Alright, people. The word of the day is: unique.

It means: "Being the only one of its kind."

Therefore, unique does not come in degrees. Something cannot be "a little unique" any more than it can be "very unique." If something is the only one of its kind, there are no levels.

Hungry like the... Wolf Boy?

Before I begin, I must give credit to the source of my inspiration: Marissa. Marissa is a friend who attended Emerson College with me. She started her own web 'zine. www.bucketmag.com. I was perusing it today and found a piece about Wolf Boys.

When I saw this, I stopped my browing immediately and focused on the Wolf Boy exegesis. Hungry Like the Wolf started playing in my head - and still is. I was interested. I was invested. I know some Wolf Boys. And I had to see if what the article said was true.

Thus, what follows is a detailed Wolf Boy analysis. I have taken the primary points in the article, and compared those points to the Wolf Boys I have encountered personally. Thus, I put together my own Wolf Boy composite. For narrative purposes, I will call this composite "Bob". What follows is a step-by-step process to determine the validity of the Wolf Boy stereotype as promulgated by the author.

Always strong, the stench of wolf envelops those who pass within a four-foot range of the Wolf Boy. My Wolf Boy at work chose a cologne of the urine odor variety, but many others opt for simple, designer imposter musk.

Okay. Bob does not smell like urine OR designer imposter musk. I tend not to go around sniffing others (I attempt to act like a human, and not a canine - when possible). However, if Bob could be assigned a smell, it would be a heady mix of cigarettes and incense - an essence I tend to enjoy, and one that doesn't require the voiding of a bladder.

If a Wolf Boy, for some unearthly reason, has cut their mane short (balding, dress codes, and accidents while cooking are just some of the reasons why this would occur), they almost always appear in public wearing a shirt, usually black, depicting a painting of their spirit animal.

This, obviously, must be addressed in two parts. (1) I hate to admit it, but Bob did at one point have long hair. The mane. And it was scary. (2) Doesn't everyone usually appear in public wearing a shirt? Though Bob does have a few black shirts, only one is ALL black. Also, I've never seen Bob wear a shirt with his power animal on it. He sticks to fading t-shirts with dumb bands on them, or Calvin Klein. Oh, and Bob showers regularly. Bob is very well groomed. And when I say groomed, I do not mean that his wolfy brethren lick him back at the den. Though if they did, I may be apt to watch.

His cubicle allowed room for artistic expression, which Wolf Boy eagerly adorned with photographs of other fellow members of the order of the wolf, as well as with pictures of wolves themselves.

Bob is way cooler. No wolf pictures. Just blacklight posters.

There are two main categories of Wolf Boy when it comes to socializing: those who are loud, and those who are quiet.

There are generally two categories of people as a whole: those who are loud and those who are quiet. I'm not sure that this relates to Wolf Boys in particular.

Many wolf lovers celebrate their love of the moon through Goth clubs, Wiccan or pagan festivals, and magik (always with a K).

Yes! At last. Another magik-hater. Yes, it's true. Bob does frequent goth clubs, but only for the dollar drinks. Bob also likes spiritually-based activities. But he doesn't paint the Japenese symbol of the wolf on his forehead, and he doesn't do the whiteface thing, nor does he sport a cape to any sort of social event. No nipple clamps, either. At least not that I've seen. But I'll check on that and get back to you.

His only other method of enticing women- scotch. Oftentimes he could go on for upwards of twenty minutes about blends of his favorite beverage...

Bob likes scotch. But he's never used it as a means to seduce me or get me into bed. Except for that one time. Oh wait, no. I used scotch to try to seduce Bob. And it didn't work. Bastard.

And thus ends my Bob/Wolf Boy analysis.

Finding: Like all stereotypes, this one just doesn't hold water. So I'll keep my Wolf Boys to myself. And the author of that piece will never know what she's missing.

Breakfast of Champions.

My friend was telling me yesterday that she's trying to get her fourteen-year-old daughter to read Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. Since I'm not a big fan of Mr. V, I told her what the real breakfast of champions is:

Devil Dogs and Diet Mountain Dew.

Fenced in.

When I was about fifteen years old, a close friend of mine told me that I put walls up around myself in order to block out the rest of the world. He told me that I draw invisible boundaries that don't really exist in order to protect myself from people. He called me silly. He called me crazy. He told me that if I remained that guarded, I would never be able to be close to anyone. Ever.

He was right, of course. Ah, the wisdom of a seventeen-year-old boy.

But he was right only insofar as my guarded nature applied to people I never wrote to. For some reason, once I start writing, I stop thinking, and the walls come down. I've always known this, I suppose, but it wasn't fully realized until today, when I was perusing the Web site of my college newspaper and found old articles and columns I'd written. I would say anything. Anything at all about what I was feeling or thinking, and it never seemed to matter.

So in that manner and spirit, I throw this thought out there into the World Wide Web - a strange faux-Universe unto itself.

Advice to all you men out there.

Men:

In case you were ever wondering, "Let's fuck" is not an effective pickup line.

Do you believe in magick?

I'm well aware that there are many people out there who are spiritual who enjoy gallivanting with faeries and wizards and whatnot. But does that mean they have to spell incorrectly? Magick. What the hell is that all about?

According to a close source, "magick" is about to be included in Webster's Dictionary. This fact makes me even more irate.

Picket fences.

For years I thought I wanted the traditional life: doting husband, 2.4 children, dog, station wagon, white picket fence.

Over time, my ideals changed. I imagined an urban fairy tale life of me, a wife, a husband, and a very closed community of other very close friends and comrades. And though what I wanted evolved, I don't think I ever thought I'd actually end up with what I want, but rather, with what I was supposed to want (see above). Then, all at once, the sort of relationship I'd evolved into wanting became a possible reality. I dove in. And now I've realized I can't go back to the picket fence ideal.

The problem?

Traditional social conventions are so easy and so convenient. The realization that I ought to end my quest for normalcy has left me with an overwhelming sense of discomfort.