The album you see up there is my latest acquisition of CD (over the Internet <ding!>).  This may have been the last album where Weird Al took shots at Michael Jackson.  And IF, at that age, I'd have heard how their lives would have changed, I probably wouldn't have believed it.  But it's a good CD.  Check out "Melanie".

NOTE: this is a theoretical recipe.  This has not--NOT--happened to me--as far as I know.

"Lack of planning on your part does not consitiute an emergency on my part."

Start with a series of just-in-time, no-inventory, small suppliers.
Add inattentive supply-chain people, and uncaring inventory keepers.
Go ahead and toss the machine shop in a blender, making it quarrelsome, slower, and frustrated.

Mix well, set aside.  This is the supply-chain breakdown.

Combine engineers with dreams of domination with over-eager salespeople.
Stir until large orders form, then whip in a frenzy until promise dates appear. 
Continue to froth until premature promise dates appear.

These are the rush orders.  Coddle until combined with the last ingredient.

Stew assembly in its own juices until company spirit boils away.
Crush quality assurance with cycles of rush work and endless boredom.
Use jelly-bean awards and big-talk speeches to suppress further morale.

This is the quality colloid.

Roast in overtime until complete.
Note: this recipe is VERY fragile.  The potential for disaster cannot be overstated.  Be prepared to beg forgiveness if deadlines are missing from the finished dish.

By the way, the above book, which I now am reading, is funny, and worth the price.

Yep, here's to 'em.  To all the ones who gave me that cute little smile that melts the heart--right before they said they were sorry, but  they still wanted to go hang out.
To all the ones who stuck near me, let me follow them, gave helpful advice when they thought it was necessary.
To all the ones who noticed me, cared about me (in some way) when I was wandering life by myself.
To the ones who defied their own friends to go deal with me, knowing that thir friends wouldn't approve.
To the ones who bolstered my confidence, fired my imagination, and inspired me to nobler actions.
To the ones who showed me sushi, snicker-bar pie, tapioca balls, and truly hard liquor.
To the ones who taught me the value of being myself, even if it wasn't what the world expects.

     And to cut this treacle, here's a few lines from "When Harry Met Sally":
     "What I'm saying is - and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or
form - is that men and women can't be friends because the sex part
always gets in the way."
     "That's not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved...You say I'm having sex with these men without my knowledge?"
     "No, what I'm saying is they all WANT to have sex with you."
     "So, you're saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive?...What if THEY don't want to have sex with YOU?"
     "Doesn't matter because the sex thing is already out there so the
friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story."

     No, I don't agree 100% with that, but it was amusing the first 10 times I heard it.
    
    

Some people around me are pretty obvious in their  heritage--I work with Vietnamese, Mexicans, and some Russians.  And of course,  there's a  large number  of "Americans", those who, unless pressed, cannot tell you.
I could not, and won't ever.
I understand national pride for nations that stand proud (or, semi-proud)--Ireland, Canada, Mexico and (to some extent) Germany are all dandy places to be from--culture, language, and food all bound up ok.
And I can understand pride for bygone nations or bygone cultures, such as Chinese--the lost Han dynasty may be gone in the mainland, but those that fled--to Taiwan and points American--still uphold the pride (and the food).

But I refuse to leave anything resembling pride for the places my relatives came from.  Former East Bloc, Former second world, Eastern Europe, call it what you will--these places hold no worth whatsoever to me.  My spiritual brethren (a perpetual minority--IM if you must know) were hounded there, lived miserable lives under the thumbs of dictators, and were left in the crossfire of World War 2.
To sum this up, it doesn't necessarily take a sealed chamber full of shower heads to kill people--many of my once-were brethren don't even have a name like "Vilna" to hang on their now-unmarked graves--they were ground into the dust beneath the German war machine.

So, I'm an American.  No use asking where I'm from--it doesn't exist anymore.

P.S.  The next entry will be cheerier, but I felt like sharing this.

The fact that I've whined about some of the people who see me at play  might make you wonder if I ever enjoy it.  If not, I'd probably have quit (or gone berserk) at some point. 
So, what's the oddity there?  It might be anyone watching.  I've gotten cheers from little kids, applause from older adults, and anything at all from the in-between.  Which is really what I'm there for.  It's a thrill to have complete strangers approach and admire.
And--rare as it is precious--I sometimes have conversations with those that gather.  It's fun reflecting on how I got into the game, and why, and the time it's taken me. 
It also keeps me grounded--there's humility indeed when great moves draw
mere puzzled shrugs from those with bigger things on their minds.
I wouldn't say that it's the be-all, end-all of meeting, but it's random, and it's fun.

"You can't judge fishing / by looking in the pond. / You can't judge right / by looking at the wrong. / You can't judge one / by looking at the other. / You can't judge a book by looking at the cover. /"
--Bo Diddley "You Can't Judge a Book by It's Cover"
   

"They all ran away so nobody would know / and left all the men 'cause of Cotton-Eye Joe."
--Rednex, "Cotton-Eye Joe"

"See a woman in the night.../with a baby in her hand.../under an old street light.../near a garbage can."
--Neil Young "Rockin' in the Free World."
[Truth to tell, Neil was wrong (as happens to rock stars).  The idea so disgusts me that I had to find out--there have been, as of now, an insignificant number of said cases.]

"...but I've made up my mind--I'm keeping my baby!"
--Madonna, "Papa Don't Preach"

Time was, children entering the world were considered a danger to women's independence.  Women have, for centuries, used things like wet nurses, orphanages, and adoption to make sure that "unwanted" births found another place to go (someplace warm and caring, perhaps).  At other times of history, women were actively discouraged from pregnancy, knowing how it might affect them and their lives (read the story of Onan, and how the children betrayed their father's legacy rather than help a woman conceive).  Women would sometimes leave home to avoid revealing what casual encounters did to them.
    And of course, the rotten ol' Patriarchy has told women with kids to rear them exclusive to a career--stay home and keep them well, or abandon them and abandon the father.
    Throw off those shackles, you say?  A woman with a kid from an anonymous, careless partner can still lead a healthy normal life, full of normal career and normal following partners?  Perhaps, but the lack of male role-models, the juggling of work-home-sleep and the constant reminder that a child is "Daddy's mistake" can't be any good for "self-esteem", "sense of manhood" or any such thing.  These boy-men are now wandering the earth, and some as careless as their daddies were. 
    I got nothing intelligent to say about that

"1.  Know that G-d exists
2. Don't worship anything else--no false Billy Idols, for instance
3. Don't take G-d's name in vain, dammit
4. Honor the Sabbath--take a day off
5. Honor Mom and Dad
6. Don't kill in anger
7. Don't screw around on your S.O.
8. Don't take what isn't yours--Money or otherwise**
9. Don't lie about the important stuff
10. Don't want what you don't have--Get Your Own**"
--Decalogue, paraphrased

"They say money can't buy happiness?  Look at the [big] smile on my face--ear to ear, baby"
"Anyone who says money is the root of all evil?  Doesn't [really] have any!"
--Ben Affleck, "Boiler Room"

"What is that doing in there?  Why would G-d, with just ten things to tell Moses, choose, as one of them, jealousy..."
--P.J. O'Rourke, referencing the Decalogue, in "Eat the Rich"

"'Where was I?...Said his father was "too rich to know G-d".  I'm afraid [he] had a point...no doubt about it, wealth makes materialism easier to bear.'"
--P.J. O'Rourke, quoting a friend in "An Atheist in the Foxhole"

"Ascetism is a virtue of the unchallenged.  In everyone else, it is called hardship."
--White Wolf Games, "Lost Paths", Taftani philosophy

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kindgom of G-d."
--New Testament, K.J.V. (verse unknown)

"For the love of money, people will steal from their mother / for the love of money, people will rob their own brother."
--the O'Jays, "For the Love of Money"

I don't really understand why certain religions value poverty so much.  True, the poor might be enticed to believe that they are better than their well-fed, clean brethren (brethren?) who ride cars and eat at good restaurants by virtue of some faith that no one else has, but to expect everyone to keep at it boggles my mind.
    Am I honestly supposed to feel bad because I pull down more than minimum wage (quite a bit more, really)?  Should I stop earning money? 

"Economic liberty cannot be untangled from ...other kinds.  You may have freedom of religion, if the rabbi can get off night shifts on Fridays.  You may have...assembly, but where are you all going to go if it rains?"
--P.J. O'Rourke, "Eat the Rich"

Money allows us to do everything else we want--no, need--to do to be happy.  And maybe that's it.  Perhaps inability to do good works encourages people to take up a belief that faith alone is sufficient.  Perhaps having a pool of poor people to give food, clothing and shelter (as well as sermons) to is a requirement for some ministries...
    I leave this debate at the door, and will only say that hard work with your best skills is hardly a bad thing, and that money gotten thereby is a good thing.  Besides, someone has to donate that food, those clothes, and that shelter.

    I was in class, minding my own business, listening to a classmate read his newsgroup and relay to us what, exactly, was going on.  The enormity of it didn't hit until much later. 
    I suppose I was insulated, in a faraway state with no-one to care about in Manhattan. 
    And I like to think it gave me perspective, but it really hasn't.
    So grieve, celebrate our new togetherness, gird for war (or calamity), but remember, life--your life--goes on, whatever else happens to New York (unless you live there, in which case consider London (and if you live in London, consider New York)).

I like the crowds that watch what I do.  The oohs and aahs that might follow from a great performance are icing on the cake.  What I hate is people watching me do foolish or stupid things, and I'd never think to document my own guilty happiness at observing others' failure.
    Awhile ago, cameras that fit into pockets (and purses) became an easy-reach item for the nightlife of Irvine.  People frequently whip them out and snap photos of things that amuse them. 
    I've been on the Pump It Up stage of Irvine for about 18 months, and sometimes attract these people.  And while I love the cheering, the chatting, and the occasional question (except of my age, for perviously stated reasons), I can't stand the photographs.  It wasn't until last night, when I jumped off-stage to get those photos erased, that I realized why.
    The UMA factor.
    That it isn't for my edification that those photos are taken--the girl (it is ALWAYS a girl) doesn't care who I am, only what I'm doing.  This is tantamount to seeing birds as checkmarks on a bird-watchers list, or making boullion cubes out of a steer, or something.  I'd rather be a mystery than a nameless photo in someone's on-line gallery, and not have someone's mis-queued photograph as their only link to me.
    And if you were that girl, I hope you understand--respect me, like me, then take a picture, but I'm not a weirdo in chinos.