Mind Your Own Business, Boy, How Was I To Know, That He Was Just A Fiend And A No-Good Cheat, Well It's All In The Past Bitch Cuz Now I've Got It Beat

--"Dirty Glass", Dropkick Murphys

"It's alright, Heidi. What's a little plagarism among friends?" I told her as I handed over my years-old Hamlet essay.

Of everything I ever wrote in high school, nothing has followed me as much as this one Hamlet essay on the topic of whether or not the ghost of Hamlet's father is a friend or foe to him. It has remained a favorite topic of discussion of mine for two anecdotes.

One, it was the only essay that any teacher or professor of mine ever graded 100% within less than ten minutes after reading it. I basically saw my English teacher in the cafeteria before school had started. She'd been a favorite instructor of mine and I was, by far, one of the best, if not the best, student in her class so she was anticipating what I had written on this most sacred of texts. I turned it into her right there, four periods before her class, thinking that she would peruse it and officially grade once she read it in class. When she placed two marks for spelling errors and handed it back to me with the notation 35/35, signifying a perfect score, I was shocked. Not only did it seem she read it rather quickly--if it took her more than seven minutes to get through it all, it would have been a miracle--but to give me a perfect score without hesitation was quite a nice surprise. She told me to still hand it in, but, yeah, she definitely liked what she had read. I thanked her and to this day recall it as the only paper I've been both proud of getting a perfect score with the full knowledge that it probably did deserve a perfect score.

Two, it remains the only paper I've actually marketed as capable of earning one a perfect score. Before Heidi, I "sold" it to one of my other friends for a couple of good dinners. Those two instances, also, I have no qualms about repeating as quirky examples of my whimsical nature.

"But aren't you bothered that you're basically helping me to cheat?" she asked me as she readily accepted my paper.

"Not really. I offered, you didn't ask for it. I just chalk it up to the troublemaker in me," I smiled.

Granted, the real reason I was doing it was because I had an undeniable workplace crush on Heidi, but the reason that's more insightful is that I love to cause just the tiniest bit of chaos whenever possible. It's the whole reason I like to read about pulling scams and learn how to pull them myself. I love chaos as long as it doesn't really hurt anyone. I love messing with people whether it be with a well-placed non sequitor or a little white lie that masquerades as a practical joke. It must have something to do with the whole concept of setting myself apart from the norm. I cannot do anything straight-forward. Like my cousin says, there always have to be some kind of "twist" involved when I'm relaying anything. More often than not this twist involves doing something rather unconventional and sometimes rather underhanded since, by its very nature, doing something out of the norm is breaking one rule or another.

When Heidi told me about the problems she had been having in getting started with her Hamlet essay I was more than willing to jump in. It was nice to have the perception that I was somehow coming to her rescue and the little rascal in me couldn't resist pulling one over on somebody, even if it was only some a teacher I would probably never come into contact with.

"And you're sure this will get me a perfect score?"

"Well, I cannot guarantee you perfection, but I'm confident it'll get you an A at least."

"Thanks, Patrick, you're saving my life."

"No prob, Heidi."

Sometimes I worry that this streak is bigger than me, that deep-down I really have a need to be deceitful or chaotic. I've discussed this many times with my fellow wicked child, Breanne, and the discussions never turn out well. Sure, there have been these few instances where I assisted in people getting better grades than they deserved, but I always justified it with the rationale that these people weren't taking up English as a major anyway so any achievements in that field wouldn't be too long-lasting. It'd be a different story if one of the two individuals ended up becoming an English Lit Professor or Novelist. In that case I would feel any advancement in their profession would have been earned falsely and I would have stood strong in not giving out my papers. It's this same rationale that allows me a clear conscience every time I had a friend do one of my art projects or accept assistance in the form of people doing school projects for me. It's not like I was ever going to go into a field where dexterity with my hands would be a factor so I don't feel wrong for taking advantage of the kindness of not-so-strangers.

Yet it didn't just stop there. I have short-cutted in other areas of my life that weren't as clear-cut in terms of morality. I've cheated on a girlfriend, thank God. But I've cheated in just about every other aspect of my life. I got confirmed by saying what people wanted to hear when I knew the last thing I wanted was to remain in any religion. I allowed people to help me with the full knowledge that they would be the last people I'd ever help out of a similar jam. I've probably convinced dozens of people to willingly give me money on the assumption I was in a position of authority or had the ability to give them ridiculous great rates of return on their investments. Worst of all, I've said and done horrible things to people I considered friends all to put myself in a position of getting what I want. Any of those ideas, those actions, or thoughts, have caused me more than one sleepless night.

"But you don't plan on continuing with this do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't keep cheating. Before long it's going to eat away at you? I mean--I'm glad for the help, but I sure wouldn't feel good about myself if I kept doing it, Patrick."

"I guess you're going to have to ask me in a few years how I feel and if I'm still up to my old tricks, Heidi."

I've never claimed to be a saint, but after a particular nasty run-in with someone who was none too pleased with me basically conning him out of fifty dollars, I've all but given up trying out new scams on people. And I'd like to think I no longer have it in me to wantonly lie to my friends or family. For sure, I no longer am in the habit of resorting to physical altercations when I lose my temper like I did with DeAnn. I think I'm a better person than I was before. I've learned one or two concepts due to reading about Rachel and seeing how my previous mindset affected people that have led me to believe there's a better way than always looking for the angles.

Yet I'm still really proud when somebody bites hard on an obvious story I've been spinning. It still puts a smile on my face when I can pull away the curtain and reveal just how much I've fooled them. That mischievous prankster will never go away.

And, yes, I'm still in the habit of allowing my expertise with writing to assist people I know. I can't help it. When somebody I like needs help in an area I consider myself proficient in, I still jump at the chance. When it comes to helping my friends, sometimes there still isn't a line between what I think is right and fair, and what is being a good friend.

"I think that's what being a good friend is all about, helping someone out when they need it."

"Even when it means being less than honest?"

"Especially when it means being less than honest. Anybody can be helpful when it's the right thing to do. It's when it's the wrong thing to do and you still help anyway that you know who's willing to go to bat for you."

"Well, whatever your reasons, you sure saved my butt."

"Hey, I did it as much for me as I did for me. It's just fun for me."

And it always will be.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Truth

Shut up already!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=419040&in_page_id=1879

Haha...

For Your Eyes Only, Only For You, You See What No One Else Can See, And No One Breaking Free, For Your Eyes Only, Only For You

"For Your Eyes Only", Sheena Easton

My rule for writing stories is that I've always adhered to telling what actually happened even if what actually happened isn't exactly the most comfortable and pleasant story to tell. It doesn't matter if it's a fictional story or if it's a story ripped from my own life; if the opportunity presents itself to dress up the story by altering the underlying truth, I immediately get paranoid that I'm delving into the realm of meglomania. I am not speaking of changing lines or events because my faulty short-term memory has left me unable to reconstruct them as they once happpened. Nor am I discussing talking about re-writing a short story or novella because on the first go-around I neglected chances to place the drama where it should have been. I am merely speaking of remembering and getting an idea, then replacing it with something else for fear that I'll be misunderstood or the idea will be misconstrued. I'm not a big fan of re-writes where wholesale plot changes are enacted or editing of any kind which involves the removal of scenes deemed too personal, too incendiary, or too taboo to speak of. I tend to write from the gut and often times everything you read here is the first and only draft (which you'll notice from the several grammar and spelling mistakes).

With that manifesto in mind, you can understand my conundrum when I say I'm suffering from a bit of shyness when it comes to writing my screenplay. It's not that it's about me. Providence knows my favorite subject matter is me. It's not the subject matter. My favorite story from my history has always been my meeting Breanne and that first meeting in person was, as Barney would say, legendary. And it's not that I'm afraid of stepping on toes or saying something that I shouldn't have. I've gotten okays from all the principals involved--her parents, her friends, her family, and, of course, from my co-star. What I seem to be growing timid at is that I'm starting to feel that the subject matter falls far from being what anyone else would be interested in.

It's a simple story. It doesn't have huge dramatic turns except for the fact of her running away and subsequent search for her. It doesn't have a huge knockdown drag-out fight or anybody dying. What I think it has is a lot of inter-personal and familial drama. What I think it possesses is a lot of small moments that I think could be told to great effect and really touch people. I mean--I know it's touched me to live through it and I think anyone else, when really matched up against their life, could see a bit of themselves in my story. I just don't know how much people are going to be interested in hearing something that doesn't have that big concept going for it.

It's one thing to spill my guts here, where I'm pretty safe to not be recognized or called on for things I've done or said. But if I write this screenplay out, even if it never gets made into an actual film, the story itself will become alive for me. The names may be changed and the dates may be changed, but, to the best of my ability, I am going to be writing this as close to the bone as I possibly can. That means that, for better or for worse, it's not going to be some guy named Elliot (or whatever I fucking decide to name that guy) on the screen; it's going to be me. It's not going to be some story about two people who slowly discover that all relationships do not work out despite how much we want them to; it's going to be my story about how the one relationship I wanted to work out just couldn't. More than that, for me, it's not going to be reading or watching some story about some resplendent girl named Cadence; it's always going to be a story about my Breannie. Always.

I just don't know if I want the whole world to know everything about everything. For the most part here I can break it up into small bits and pieces. I can post a piece about how funny we are together one day and how much she infuriates me the next. I can break it up with the stories that have nothing to do with her. The same goes for her. Here, she doesn't have to waste space talking about what an idiot I am sometimes or what she remembers of me from five years ago. That's here. Up there on the screen or there on the page, it'll be a different story. It's sickening to think that I could ever write an entire two-hour movie where most of the action focuses on us two. The truth is I could fill volumes about the two of us, what I think about the two of us.

The only question is I don't know how well the transition will go to opening up the front doors for so much of that part of my life to be shown. It isn't just the terribly romantic crap I espoused with her; it's all the negligible small talk I engaged in with her family. It's the nervousness of being in a new place. It's the rush of it all that I can tell you know is going to make me queasy seeing on-screen. This is literally going to be the one piece that stays true to what kind of person I am and I don't know if the world at large is quite ready to see that much of me.

And I don't know if I'm ready to show the world that huge chunk of me when so much of me thinks that I'll be treated differently because of it.

But I have to hew my convictions. I like this story and that's got to be good enough for me to proceed with what may be my craziest endeavor yet.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Grow up!

Choices come in life. Should I eat a double-double with fries and a shake? Or a salad with light vinaigrette dressing? Should I go buy the latest seasonal clothing line from DKNY? Or buy some new equipment for my photography? Should I go out tonight, get drunk, freak some crazy club whore, and try and get some booty? Or stay home and save that money for my next investment?

I guess I tend to become overwhelmed with the general question, should I grow up and start becoming a responsible adult? Or should I continue to have fun and just be concerned with what makes me happy right now? This happens to me every time I see my family from the islands.

Contrary to popular opinion, I was not up in San Francisco this past weekend to get rammed by a giant gay black guy named Black Hammer. I was there visiting my cousin who's been checking out some grad schools here in the U.S. Spending time with my family is one of the most enjoyable things I do now and days. But on the other hand, every time I see them, I find out how well they're doing, and how driven they are to do even better!

Which comes back to my dumb ass. Instead of working on my craft, going back to school, or starting some new business on my own... I'm at home telling my roommate to give me a mohawk because I think it would be cool and funny. Sure, I get a few laughs out of it, and I probably look more the part of an artist. But it hit me this weekend, that when I'm around respectable, serious people, I look and act like a little kid who's fun to be around with, but has a lot of growing up to do.

So should I turn over a new leaf? I don't know. I'm constantly told that there's a good balance between being mature and responsible, and still going out having a good time. Where it is, I haven't figured that out yet. I guess I'll go think about it later. I'm late for happy hour...

But Now I See It Clear, Life Ain't Always Fair, Oh, What Can You Do, When You Don't Want To Hurt Him, Cause You Don't Deserve Him

--"Coming For You", Jojo

speaking of compulsions...

Heather headed home on the freeway afraid of what she would find when she got there. On one hand, it'd be nice to hear from Ryan that he was okay. It had been agony the last seven days with him being so handicapped and her the direct cause of it. It was part of the reason he had agreed to take care of him. On the other hand, there was a certain dread to his return to perfect working order. Heather had taken care of his needs from the time she arrived back at his place after work till when she left again in the morning. He had depended on her. He had needed her. She didn't know what to expect when he possibly might not need her so much any more.

She wanted to be practical about the whole matter, but the only practical thought in her head was the thought that everything was going change once Ryan could see again.

When you look through your eyes, Heather had always thought, you tend to believe you have some semblance of control over your life. You feel empowered and emboldened. Take that away, she knew, and people start acting differently. They become more deferential. They become more co-operative and open to consideration. This was her job. She offered people a look at what they were really like behind the bravado and cockiness. She offered people a chance to peer inside the person they were inside. Well, maybe offered was too strong of a word. She took. She took the luxury of vision away from people on behalf of courts when it was deemed necessary that an individual be reprimanded for the crime of short-sightedness, of being so wrapped up in their own pursuits they neglected everyone else's rights to the same pursuit. She'd worked with drunk drivers, abusive personalities, criminals of all sorts--wherever the victim or the victim's family wanted an extra measure of introspection from the guilty party. She would go in, take their sight, and let them know when they could expect it back. Sometimes it would be for only a day, sometimes a week, sometimes a year, and, on rare occasions, even longer. She would snap her fingers and that would be it.

They would be blind.

When Ryan rear-ended her Jeep, her intention hadn't been to misuse her ability. On the contrary, if the damage hadn't been too severe she was willing to even joke about it with him. But as he stepped out of his car, waving his hands in the air, her skepticism reared its ugly head. Not only did he have the audacity to blame the whole accident on her, but he had been very in-your-face throughout the whole discussion. She couldn't even count the number of times he pointed to his Audi and then wagged his finger in her face. Through all that she remained patient. Even when the cops arrived to take down the traffic report and he let loose with the allegation that she may have knocked back a few at lunch, she didn't say word one. It wasn't until he picked up her driver's license after she had given it to him and announced, "Now I know where to find you, bitch," that she decided he would be losing more than an hour or two out of his day.

She waited till that evening to revoke his status among the sighted. She wanted to make sure he wouldn't be on the road. She wanted to insure it looked completely like a freak medical occurrence. Sure, it was an abuse of her power, but in her mind she was entitled. She gave him one week. She thought that would be sufficient time to knock him down a peg.

When the phone rang the next morning the last voice she expected to hear was his.

"Good, I wanted to catch you before you went to work. I just called to say that I was out-of-line yesterday and that's not normally me."

At first, she thought it was remorse. She could imagine him laying in bed, helpless, and trying to atone for his actions in the vain hope that whatever god he prayed to would restore him back to how he used to be. She had seen it often enough, sitting in those courtrooms, as the man or woman would be sentenced. She would see them break down into tears as the realization of how much they had forfeited dawned of them. They would plead with her, beg her to undo what she had done. She'd feel sorry for them for awhile, but she could always rationalize it away with the thought that she was getting paid to a job. It wasn't personal, it was her profession.

Yet, as he refused to hang up the phone that morning, she never heard him once mention about how freaked out he was. In fact, it wasn't until the conversation had begun to draw to an end that he made mention of his condition.

"Well, I'm going to have to let you go, Heather. My friend Rob's here."

"Big plans?"

"I've just got an appointment with the eye doctor today. No biggie. But, hey, we should definitely grab that lunch you talked about."

She had no clue why she talked to him as long as she had. The more she considered it, the more she thought it was probably due to nothing more than curiousity. She had never to do any follow-up once it had been done. Their sight always returned right on schedule. She thought of herself as akin to a watchmaker, who builds the device, sets it into motion, and then doesn't waste time worrying about the fate of his creations. She was pragmatic that way. Though, if she really considered it, her powers were more devestating in nature. She tore people down in order that they could rebuild themselves again. That was her job. It was the people's job to do the actual rebuilding.

After they had the first lunch, she was surprised at well he was taking it all. His doctor had been at a loss to explain it away. Hysterical blindness was his best guess. His doctor had been sure it had something to do with the accident but could not explain the particulars to Ryan.

"But aren't you scared?" she asked him as he was paying the check.

"Petrified," his words said, but somehow she knew he wasn't as petrified as much as he was supposed to be.

When she dropped him off at his place, he invited her inside. She declined, giving some excuse about already having a previous engagement, but he would not be denied. They sat talking for about two hours. After those two hours it became obvious to Heather that she had made a mistake. She didn't know if he had just been having a bad day or that he had a momentary lapse in restraint, but she found him pleasant to talk to and be around. He was not at all someone who deserved his fate, temporary as it may have been.

Maybe that's why she showed up the next day at his place. He had mentioned to her that he had taken the month off from his job in an effort to gather some answers. She thought it might be nice to drop by to look in on him. The truth, however, was that she couldn't quite get him out of her mind. She felt she had wronged him and she was too ashamed to admit she had made a mistake. Not to mention, there were serious legal consequences if he ever discovered what she had done. Honestly, everything that had come out of his mouth during those two hours had only served to ratchet up the nagging guilt she already felt. She wanted to make up for it somehow and the only way she could think of was to assist him in all the small ways he would be unable to assist himself during the following week.

The day after that she took off an hour early from her appointments. She wasn't due in court and her boss owed her for assigning her overtime the month before. She brought him to a fancy place for a dinner and they ended up talking there well after closing.

The next day she spent over at his place, still unable to ease her conscience. Yet she knew there was another reason. She was definitely beginning to fall for the guy. He wasn't everything that she had been looking for, but he was enough for her. She already knew she liked being around him. Combine that with the fact she was so damn humble and courageous around a situation that she knew would completely unhinge the average individual, and she knew she had found something special. She also knew there were rules against this type of fraternizing. In court she wasn't even allowed to give out her name for fear of someone wanting to pay her back for doing her job. Spending the night at somebody she had blinded the week before was not only a no-no, it was against every rule in the code of conduct.

She couldn't stay away, though. She thought of him like the wounded sparrow she had hit with her car. She couldn't turn her back until she knew he would be fine again. Until that time she made it a priority to entertain him.

A week came and went without so much as a by-your-leave, and now she was driving once more to his place. Except this time, if she stayed, she knew he would be regaining his sight at precisely seven days to the minute she had taken it away from him. The nagging doubt that the person she had spent the last couple of days with would disappear began to take hold of her mind. The theory behind her job came bubbling back to the surface. People act differently when they don't have the luxury of being able to see. Would he be so vastly different with his sight as to be unrecognizable? That thought scared her more than the thought of him finding out what she had done. She wasn't a bad person. She had morals. At the time she had stolen his vision away from him, she thought she had been doing it for the right reasons. She thought he would come out a better person for the experience. When she had realized he was already a decent fellow, she worried that she had made the worst error in judgment she had ever made.

Then it began to crystallize that it wasn't he would come out better for the experience. Maybe it was her. Maybe he was her test on what kind of person she was. She began to consider that for a long time, for most of her professional career, she had taken a blind eye, no pun intended, to those she had caused to suffer. Yes, she knew the majority of them had done something so vastly unspeakable to deserve their punishment. A few of them, however, she may have believed hadn't done anything so heinous to go to such extremes as calling upon her ability. Truth be told, she couldn't see the corrolary between someone burglarizing a house for a watch they had given to an ex-girlfriend as a gift and now wanted back, and having to go blind for six months. She couldn't see the justice. Yet she had always abided by what she had been told. She was a blunt instrument in the hands of people she thought were wiser than her. Now she began to give real creedance that had set aside her own idea of fairness and developed an apathetic perspective about the way she conducted herself at work. These were human beings and maybe she couldn't exactly quit her job, but she thought she could have taken the time to really examine the cruelty of her position.

This experience with Ryan showed her she was capable of feeling something more for someone else. She'd always thought she was helping, but this was the first time she truly felt what it was like to actually help someone she had affected directly.

All this, all that she learned was being threatened to being taken from her. She didn't want to see that happen. She began to really consider telling him the truth, tell him what she had done. Perhaps, if he was the guy she really thought he was, he'd understand and the two of them could continue their relationship free of her lies. She thought how much she would like that, to build that kind of life with him. If there was to be any real future she knew that this was the only option.

Or was it?

As she pulled into his driveway, she thought of one more alternative, a way to hold onto what she had began to build. She stepped out her car, afraid to contemplate what she was actually contemplating. It would solve all her problems. It would insure that the two of them could have a real chance of staying together. It would definitely show what kind of person he was and what kind of couple they were going to be. More to the point, it would show what kind of person she truly was.

She didn't deserve him. She knew that. But she couldn't let go of him. Not now, not ever.

Before she stepped inside the front doorway she made sure that the two of them would be together forever, even if meant he could never see her again nor how far she was willing to go to keep him happy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'd Go The Whole Wide World, I'd Go The Whole Wide World, Just To Find Her

--"Whole Wide World", Wreckless Eric

I was talking to Brandy today about the whole reason why I was in Florida was because I had grown obsessed with the Disney Channel. Shows like MMC and especially Avonlea had taken up a huge chunk of my brain matter in those days and, rather than try to divert my attention with other activities, I thought the healthiest solution would be to visit the belly of the beast. Something about going to where they were responsible for creating some of the magic that filled my afternoons put me at ease. Granted, it wasn't meeting Sarah Polley or getting to ask the Mouseketeers a question as a part of the live studio audience, but it was something actually visiting the Disney Channel Studios and seeing the set where they filmed some of their shows.

I've always been an obsessive individual. When I was younger, I didn't just take a passing interest in entertainment or culture. I invested myself in learning everything I could about a particular subject, whether that subject be a particular show, piece of history, country, and especially if it were a person. The part of my brain that regulates how fanatical a person gets went wholly missing when they put me together. It may have been lost when they tossed out my sense of smell, who knows? All I can ascertain is that it's not normal to watch two hours, equal to two episodes, of Avonlea every night for three years. Come sickness or vacation, loneliness or company, or even, in one case, the total breakdown of all VCRs in the household--I would not be denied. It's not normal to divert one's every essay in high school onto the topic of Canada simply because the aforementioned show was set in Canada. Nor is it normal to start subscribing to Maclean's on the silly reason that it was the Canadian equivalent to Time or Newsweek. It's not normal to want to do things in eights because back in the Fourth Grade someone commented that one had a predeliction to do things in eights--cut my pancakes into eight slices, leave an eighth of egg yolk runny when I was making scrambled eggs, &c...--leading to behavior such as setting the microwave to 1:07 or 3:32 because the digits add up to eight.

Nor is it normal, as I was telling Miss Carly today, to tell everyone at one's high school that one knew Jenny Lewis. Indeed, it is even less normal to walk around saying I attended her fifteenth birthday party and that I was as close as one could be to celebrity without actually being friends.

I've tried to explain to myself why my behavior was formed thusly. I've tried to figure out the root cause of this personality quirk. I still have a clue why I tend to get more obsessed about something when someone else may merely take a fancy to it. Basically, the only thing I have pieced together is that I have a rather strange aversion to doing things the normal way. Like Rachel said once, I won't be labeled as average. This has led me to have non-existent mores when it comes to being considered strange, weird, or even kooky. Such nomenclatures don't phase me as they would anyone else. Consequently, I tend to engage in activities and pursuits that average people would be too embarrassed or too guilt-ridden to engage in. Some people are born without a sense of fear, I was born without a sense of common sense. Simply, I like something so I tend to try and make the thing second nature to me, damn what everyone else thinks.

But I'm not the only one. I think everyone who has gotten lost in a vendetta, a quest, a pursuit of an unreachable point of being, loses, even if only for a moment, the voice of sanity telling him or her to turn back. Attempting to own that small portion of the universe by learning about it, studying it, even stalking it is not the rational manner in which most people live. It's a very irrational act. It's the act of someone who has a goal in mind and doesn't mind breaking the rules of convention to achieve it. But neither is it the act of desperation. I never lost sight that I was going overboard. I was never deluded into believing that it was somehow okay to be entranced like I was for my whole life. I knew my enamoration of a show long ago cancelled would fade. I knew my crush on that bewitching redhead would ebb away once I got involved with objects of my affection who actually knew my name. And, yes, somewhere in the back of my head, I always retained the nagging question that, yes, I loved Canada, but did it ever love me back?

Eventually all one-sided love affairs, no matter how all-encompassing they may be, come to a close.


Why am I hanging around in the rain out here
Trying to pick up a girl
Why are my eyes filling up with these lonely tears
When there're girls all over the world

Now the only obsessions, if you can call them that, I still retain are the ones where I never received that closure. I still fawn over people that I'll never find out the answers to questions I forgot to ask them. I still wonder what I'd say if I could have one more visit with people like Tara and Heidi, who I cut out of my life rather unceremoniously. Those two I still haven't been able to locate anything about. I still picture if I could meet Rachel. And I still hold a candle for a girl named Jackie who I never quite knew enough about.

I still contemplate the road not taken when I chose USC over NYU.

I still judge my decision to visit that clinic with DeAnn sometimes.

But do I ever go full board into Scooby-Doo research mode? Do I still take time out of my day to visit the library to learn facts and figures about some new country? Do I ever watch the same show over and over again ad nauseum? Probably not.

I don't obsess about finding out about stars, shows, or factoids. These days the only obsessions I possess are the ones that involve finding out who I was and who I want to be.

(and Calvin and Hobbes...)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Eki Kara Umi E To Tsudzuku Sakamichi, Kudarinagara, Nani Mo Nai Keredo, Tsumaranai Kedo, Kimi No Machi Wa, Kotaete Kureru, "Okaeri" To

--"Tadaima", Do As Infinity

I recently bought two tickets to the 8 p.m. showing of Wicked on March 3rd. They arrived today and the anticipation has yet to subside. Yet I know with such an interminable wait that I'll reach a point where I'll almost forget that I have these tickets. Sometimes I ask myself what the point is in even purchasing tickets this far ahead. I do the same thing every year for my Boston trip. Even though I don't take the trip till May usually, I'm scouring the internet for baseball tickets by January, and booking rooms and flights by February. But this is going to be the first time I've ever purchased show tickets this far ahead. And what makes this time special and the other times not? Two reasons. One, Wicked is one of my top three favorite shows and, two, I promised Carly I'd take her to the show for her birthday and her birthday isn't till February. It was very important to me to insure that I get tickets for this particular time and date for those two reasons.

However, I'm an impatient person by nature. Waiting for a show that's months away is like waiting for a friend to get home after a long trip. Every day I grow antsy, wanting to that person to hurry up and return so I can welcome them back. It honestly bothers me when there is someone or something I want and I'm forced to wait for it. That's why I have a grudge against Christmas. If there is something I want, I usually get it myself. Having to bother to wait for presents on a specific day defeats the point to me. Having to wait for something is not going to make me want it any more; it just means me getting annoyed. Again, using the example of waiting for a friend to get back from an extended vacation. I already know I care about that friend. The idea of them being gone doesn't make me care for them any more; it just means they're gone.

I hate missing people. I hate waiting for people. I hate waiting, period.

I know a show is not in the same class as a person, but the whole concept of absence making the heart grow fonder is kind of bullshit to me. I already know I like the show and, by all rights, I should be able to see it tomorrow and not four months down the road if life were fair. I'm anxious to see if it's as good as I remember and I'm anxious to see Miss Flib's opinion of it.


dare demo tsumazuki, sukoshi tsukarete
nakitaku naru

I may be impatient but, seriously, March cannot come fast enough.

Four more months... and I can finally say "welcome back".

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Said I Love You And That's Forever, And This I Promise From My Heart, I Could Not Love You Any Better, I Love You Just The Way You Are

--"Just The Way You Are" (cover) - Maggie Gyllenhaal

People make mistakes. That's just the nature of the lives we lead. We make our choices with the information we have at hand and we deal with the consequences. Very rarely do we have the complete picture of how events will unfold or how other individuals will impact or respond to our choices. We gamble our future happiness with every step we take and place ourselves in jeapordy with every word we say.

Under such pressure, how is an individual supposed to make up his mind without succumbing to overwhelming regret?

Trust in the Goonies, I say.

It's OK, you're a Goonie and Goonies always mess up... just... don't mess up any more.

That's the best any of us can do. Try our hardest to get every choice right, with the full knowledge that there will be times when we get it all horribly wrong.

----

I sometimes think that we didn't pick the bowling alley to have that discussion, I sometimes think the bowling alley picked us. I mean--I've had discussions of importance in cars, in restaurants, in bedrooms, on balconies, and even in churches. Yet I have only ever had one talk in a bowling alley that stuck with me for years and years. I could say that it was just the environment--the crashing of pins, the loud and boisterous voices yelling over each other, the bright lights and even brighter balls and shoes. All that could have made this lasting impression. Yet that doesn't explain it all away. Not by half. I think we could have that conversation in the dead of night in a sealed room with no furniture and I still would have remembered every detail, every syllable, as if it were yesterday. You know me, I have the shortest-term memory ever. I would forget my car keys everyday if I didn't need to get to work. But certain things I hold onto like a pit bull and conversations, meaningful conversations, seem to be one of those few examples where my mind cannot seem to let go. Even when I would much rather forget painful words or sad words or even hurtful words, sometimes they linger on like the ghost in the machinery of my brain. I remember how strange it seemed that we were saying what we were saying there, like a bowling alley was too irresponsible of a place to allow what needed to come out to, well, come out. Yet even with all the nervous sensations, somehow it was important that we have it there, out in public, with curious onlookers and eavesdroppers. Somehow it needed to be in that bowling alley.

"Patrick, you're up," your friend Jake told me as I looked in your direction. I didn't see your oceanic blue-green eyes just then, hidden as they were by the chestnut brown bangs above your face. You refused to look in my direction and I couldn't blame you. I had let you down again.

"Give me a minute." I tried harder to gain eye contact with you. "Are you alright? Did you want to go outside for a minute and talk?"

"Just bowl," is the only answer I received back.

I watched as your other friend Renee stood up from where she was sitting beside you. She walked over to me and gave me some simple instructions.

"I think it'd be better if you just move on. She's upset. She won't be in any mood to talk calmly for awhile yet."

"Maybe you should just bowl," Jake said.

I stood up, grabbed my ball, and strode towards the line as if what was happening to you wasn't affecting me. I did my best to not let you see how perplexed I was. I thought I was being the bigger person. I thought I was looking ahead for the both of us. I couldn't see the logic behind your disappointment or your bitterness. It was like I had told you that in ten years I'd build you your dream house and you were mad at me for not building it for you now. In truth, I thought you were being self-absorbed and impatient. However, I couldn't say it didn't hurt to see you hurt. You were and still are the most important person in the world to me. Witnessing you in such a state never puts me in a good mood.

I didn't even see how many pins I knocked over. It didn't matter to me what the score was. Whatever it was, I was losing. I was losing my confidence. I was losing my equilibrium.

I was losing you.

When Renee got up to take her turn, I took her seat next to you. You made sure to turn your head away from me. There are times when I find your stubborness sexy, an appealing display of your gumption. I hear you tell me stories about how you stood your ground against somebody, didn't take any guff, and I swell with pride that I know somebody who's that unafraid. You create this aura about you that, once you've made up your mind to do something or be some way, you would rather die than have your mind changed. I've always respected that about you. I've always respected that, while others might falter under the pressures of making things cordial or uncomplicated, you were always right there to make things interesting and complex. You have a boldness rarely seen in others. There are times when I find your stubborness very sexy, indeed.

That wasn't one of them.

I put my hand on your back and start motioning in tiny circles. At first, you resisted by shrugging and shaking, but eventually you allowed me my small offering of peace. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"If I keep bowling this bad, Breanne, they might ask me to leave, huh?" I asked you, trying to elicit a smile. "'Son, enough is enough. We've seen your scores and I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to step out back with us so we can put you out of your misery.'"

I thought a heard the beginnings of a laugh, but it may have been the couple in the lane next to us.

"At least you're on pace to break a fifty. I'll be lucky to break a quarter," Renee chimed in. I heard both Jake and Renee laugh. We were all nervous for you. We all knew that tonight had been a trying day for you and I was the cause of that. We all had high hopes that something of the night could be salvaged, though. Giving up on you was the last thought on our minds.

"Not one laugh, Breanne? Not even one titter?" Jake asked.

That's when you turned around, smile fading from your face.

"You can't make me laugh if I don't want to." Then you fixed your gaze on me. "Apparently, you can't make somebody feel something if they don't, right, Patrick?"

"Yes."

"So, guys, I appreciate the effort. Really, please, thank you. But let me be."

I should have let it go. I shouldn't have pushed. But I could no more let you be as leave you for good. It would be one and the same for me. I never want to be the guy who regrets something they didn't do as opposed to the guy who regrets something they did. It doesn't always work out that way, but I try to keep it as a guiding principle in my actions. The choice to wheedle someone into talking to me has always been an easy choice for me to make. Silence kills trust in my book because you never know how long the silence will go on. All that interminable waiting, wondering if the last words you said to a person will actually be the last words you say to a person, bothers me. It fills me with a sense that I'm being too passive. That's why I push, push, push, always. I never want it said that I just let something happen to me, that I never fought back. I've been accused too often that in my history and it's always been an area of weakness that I've tried correcting. In a sense, the idea of your getting through the evening without incident never stood a chance. You were going to talk to me, one way or the other. Inevitability, remember?

"I can't. I can't just let you be. I need to help. I want to help. It's all my fault, remember?"

"Well, you can't. You can't help."

"I can try."

"No, you can't try. I won't let you. You lost that right when you twisted everything into knots, Patrick."

"Everything wasn't that simple to begin with."

"It was simple. It was you who made everything complicated."

"I think Renee and I should let you guys work this all out, Breanne," Jake said.

"No, stay. Stay," you told him. "Hell's bells, both of you are part of the reason why I'm in such a funk."

"I really think we should leave," Renee pleaded with you.

"You'll stay, Renee. You want to help me, you be on my side and stay." You stood up and walked in front of me with your friends sitting, slightly embarrassed, behind you on the other side of the console. "Tell them what you said. Allow them to know how you're going to blame them for your cowardice."

"I didn't say it was their fault. You're putting words into my mouth."

"Am I? Excuse me. He didn't say it was your fault. You two just gave him the idea."

It was true. When I woke up that morning, all my thoughts were focused on how we as a couple were going to work. We had a future ahead of us. When I woke up that morning, I had little idea that the night would end up like this.

It wasn't until lunch that the first signs of trouble started to appear. It had been the four of us--you, me, Renee, and Jake. You had wanted to introduce me to your friends and your friends to me. I went along with it because it seemed important to you, though, if I had my way, I wouldn't have taken any of our alone time away. I was glad I went, however. If I hadn't, I might have never started to seriously mull over who you were (and maybe still are) as a person. To put it simply, you acted differently in front of them. You spoke differently. You talked about different topics than you did with me. You even moved differently. It was like watching a whole other version of you, a more immature and silly version of you. It was a version I wasn't quite sure I liked. Sure, you acted occasionally childish when we were talking, but you always tempered it with a maturity beyond years. With me you had always been a ball on the precipice between youth and experience; you were right where I wanted you. With them all I saw and all I heard was someone who was miles away from me in what I thought was important. You were still exuberant and still spirited, but you ceased to maintain that precious balance that I admired in you.

That, coupled with the comments your cousin Shelly had given me in passing--speaking on how she was much closer to me in age, how she was in college and you weren't, and how you could never possibly understand everything I was going through at the time--gave me reason to pause. Possibly, I had taken a page from your playbook. I might have jumped into being in love with you before I really found out who you completely were.

I knew the you that you were when it was us alone. I liked the alone you. It was the you with your friends that I wasn't sure of. I started to think of all the different scenarios. I could never go to one of your high school parties. I could never attend one of your dances. I would never be somebody who would feel completely comfortable hanging out with the high school crowd. My tolerance for making allowances for adolescent tendencies began and ended with you. I could appreciate only that in you because you were different, because you were special. I don't know what I would have done if I'd been surrounded by more than a handful of them. Jake and Renee, even though there was nothing specifically unpleasant or annoying about them, were enough to get my hairs up every time they enticed you to say or do something silly. You were only allowed to be silly with me. It was fun when we were silly together. With everyone else it just seemed, well, silly.

I think that was the easiest way to say it. When I had you all to myself you appeared every bit my equal, but when you were placed against your peers I had no choice but to look down upon you.

"All I said, guys, was that she acted differently when she was around you two. I told her that I wasn't sure which was closer to the real her. And I told her that a part of me thought she'd be happier with someone closer to her age, who could talk about the things, all of the things, she wanted to talk about."

"Did you ever consider, sugar," you said sarcastically, "that I'm capable of having more than one type of friend? As my daddy says, 'a man who only wears one shirt every day never leaves his house.' I can't be everything to everyone so I don't even try. I thought you understood that about me, you of all people."

"Understood what?"

"That I can only be little 'ole Breanne, no more, no less. I stopped trying to be a different person with everybody. Instead, I just try to go with the flow. I try to show the part of me that makes each person I know the happiest. It's not me trying to be a different person. It's just me being me. For instance, with my friends I'm goofier and a hoot-and-a-half 24/7. Sometimes we'll just go and moon people because we think it's funny. And that's alright because it makes me happy. With my family I'm more reserved, more cultured, and more well-mannered because that's the way I raised."

"And with me?"

"I've always tried to split the difference with you because you're like that. And that's what I always liked about how we worked together, that we had it all. We had the thunder and the little fall of rain."

"I'm not asking you to change that."

"But you are accusing me of pretending with you. You're saying the person who's been on the phone with you practically every night was a lie. You're saying that I've been fooling with you this whole time. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Patrick, you're not worth that much effort. Certainly not from me."

"You're telling me you can't see how you're different?"

"No different than you are. You act differently around my parents. You act differently around my friends. You act way differently around my cousins."

"Then why does it bother me so much?"

"Because with you if it's not perfect, it's shit, excuse my language."

I saw your point because I think all of us act in this manner to a certain degree. It's not that we're completely different personalities, but we all have facets to our character that come to the forefront when we're in different company. I saw you point, but I didn't know yet how to give into it.

"I have no response to that," I told you after I sat underneath your scrutiny for a few minutes.

"That's just great. Then can I bowl?"

The three of us watched you gather up your ball. Your cheeks were flush and there was a definite defiance still in your eyes, but, for the most part, you had said what you had to say.

Your first ball landed in the gutter. You could have cared less.

I was trying to formulate a response to what you had just said. A little late, to be sure, but, you know me. There's something about having the last word or maybe having fights reach a point of closure to my liking that I cannot quite grasp. I don't know why I can't ever let people off easily. I could have very well allowed you to gripe and we all could have moved past all of that. Who knows? We may have managed to salvage the night yet.

I'm a hopeless fretter. I worry about issues that most people cannot even contemplate. And at that moment I was worried about you. No, I wasn't worried about upsetting you even more. I had moved beyond that. What I was worried about was that you were going to convince me to change my mind. And I couldn't have that. I couldn't appear weak in front of you and your friends. I didn't want you to lose respect for me. In my weak logic, to keep you I had to appear strong, which meant I had to convince you to let me go. It wasn't even about whether or not staying with you was the right choice. It was merely about the apperance of sticking to my guns.

I didn't want you to win because if you won that fight I knew there would be nothing you couldn't talk me out of. I had went into that bowling 100% sure that I was doing everything for the best and at that point my conviction was faltering by the second. I've never been able to debate you effectively, Miss Breanne. The only way I win half of arguments is through sheer pigheadedness and irrationality. I can feel I'm winning an argument and then you have to cheat and start using logic. That's when I feel like saying, "well, if you're going to cloud the issue with the fact then there's no point in debating this with you any more."

I walked up behind you as you retrieved your ball.

"I know it hurts you to hear this. It hurts me to say this. We're never going to work, Breannie. Not because I don't care about you or because I think you don't care about me, but because we're not there yet. Neither of us is old enough to be what the other needs."

You turned to face me.

"What you're really saying is that I'm not there yet. I'm not old enough."

"I'm not saying that at all."

"Yes, you are, Patrick. You just don't know it yet."

That's when I took your hands and placed them around me. Then I did the same with mine. I embraced you in the middle of the lane probably with dozens of people who had heard us arguing. I embraced you tightly to let you know that I loved you. You have to know it was hell mouthing the words that we needed to wait when what I really wanted to say to you was yes, yes, and yes. It hurt to have you dislike me and turn away from me when all I wanted to do was take you back to your room and take all of you. Everything had fallen apart, but, instead of being the one trying to convince you to put it back together, I had to be the one who had to tell you to let it be.

"What I know is we have a long time to get where you want us to be. I'm willing to wait if you are," I whispered in your ear after you let me go. When you didn't say anything, I took it as a sign that you were too overcome to respond. I thought you had given your silent acknowledgment.

However, your answer turned out to be very different from the one I expected. I watched as you threw your ball once more down the lane. When you came back, you didn't sit down next to me. In fact, you didn't sit next to me at all. You continued to walk past me, up the steps, and turned towards the front counter.

Then you walked out the bowling alley, bowling shoes still on.

You ran away for the last time in your life.

----

I made a mistake and the mistake was this. I should have told you I loved you and made you believe that, instead of trying so hard to make you believe that I cared less for you than you did for me. I should have told you that it didn't matter to me how you acted around your friends and that I was just being a jerk about feeling insecure fitting into your world. I felt like the outsider looking into a world where you could be happy without me and that didn't sit right with me. The whole silly part was that you never asked me to change, you never tried to force me to squeeze into that world. Your plan had always been to slowly integrate me into your world, allowing me to find a comfortable place to nestle. You never tried to push me. You never wanted it to feel awkward. You were always understanding about everything.

You couldn't have cared about me any better or any more than you did. But I couldn't see it for what it was. I was uncomfortable with your life. I was insecure that I would never fit into it to any comfortable degree. I thought I could never care about you enough to make the leap and just move out there with you. I could have transferred. I could have sacrificed more than I did. I could have made you happy the way you know you could be and, in the process, make myself happy as well. I could have done a thousand things differently.

I did none of that, though. It all went horribly wrong.

I made a mistake and the mistake was this. I thought at the time we were a mistake and that everything would be better in a couple of years. But the real mistake was ever letting you go.

Oh well, maybe next time.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

If You Want To, I Can Save You, I Can Take You Away From Here, So Lonely Inside, So Busy Out There, And All You Wanted, Was Sombody Who Cares

--"All You Wanted", Michelle Branch

In the interim of my computer feeling ill and receiving it back I was left with the nagging sensation that I rely on it far too much. It isn't only that I seek its comfort in pleasurable activities such as chatting with friends, posting on here, or looking up scores of informational materials, I also rely on it to do much of my "work". All my stories are on here, all the drafts I've concocted in pursuit of a completed screenplay so far are lodged on here, and even topic starters and snippets I've saved in hopes of mining creative gold are all tucked away in this hard drive. The last two days, being without convenient access to my life, basically, has showed me that I have an over-reliance on an infernal machine. If this computer were to tragically perish in an inferno, flood, or even a plague of locusts I would totally be adrift in a sea of sorrow. I honestly do not know how my life would function if I could not turn on this stupid computer.

The blasted corrollary is that I've been without access to one of my closer friends for almost a week now. Through various misunderstandings, I thought our friendship was in a strange purgatory where both parties would have been okay if they were to never speak to the other. I tried to be strong. I tried to pretend that my life did not, in part, depend on the ability to stay in reasonable communication with this friend. I wanted to believe that my life had more outlets for company than one young woman.

But the truth is I have a sickening dependence on this individual as well. I don't need to see her everyday. I don't need to call her everyday. Yet the thought of not being able to pick up my phone and shoot the shit with her placed me in a funk that came close to the sense of loss that my computer's recent fits brought with it. That idea, frankly, frightens me. For most of my life I thought I was somebody who didn't need any one person to complete my life. Sure, I had B., but hers is a special case since best friends do not adhere to any rules that other friends may have to adhere to. Everyone else, though, I treated like con artists treat their family and friends. Never make any connection you cannot walk away from at a moment's notice, is their theory. Never fall in the trap of caring too much. The way I was always told was you should be grateful for the time you've already had with a person, not for the time you expect to have with them. All friendships, relationships, &c... are in a state of flux and to think otherwise is utter folly.

I want to be the person who doesn't need to rely on a computer to spit out his life. Also, I want to be the person that doesn't need anyone as much as I want to be the person who appreciates everyone for what they have already given. I want to have that gratitude for the memories I've already been given.

But the truth is the first thing I did when I got my computer back was jump back into my old routine.

And the truth is, the minute she left a message for me last night, I welcomed the opportunity to fall back into that old, familiar comfortable sense of being acknowledged by someone who genuinely enjoys my company.

Yes, I'm weak.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And they said they were clean

Coincidence? I think not. But for some reason, since I got back from the Philippines I've had E. Coli, the cold twice, and now the flu. And I think it's only been about a month since I've been back.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Well Fob, that's what you get for sleeping with an eight year old little boy who did tricks with fried lumpia..." And to you I say, that only happens in Thailand!!! I couldn't find that in the Philippines...

But seriously, this trip I actually behaved. No candle wax on the natives. No love you long time. Basically, no fun for the Fobby. And still, I come back infected with the PI plague. What the heck?

Most likely my illnesses have nothing to do with the homeland, and more to do with the change in weather. It does sound like a medical ward here in the office with all the coughing and sneezing. But still, part of me thinks I got something there. From who or what? I have no idea. I just hope when I go back in January, there won't be a baby Fob calling me daddy. Because it sure is hard to get rid of those babies...

Gotta Get Up Gotta Get Out Gotta Get Down,Time to Go Out And Have Some Fun, Gotta Break Away From This Day To Day, Gotta Get Away On A Summer Vacatio

--"Summer Vacation", The Party

I'm not afraid to admit it. Back in the early 90's I was a diehard MMC fan. Every weekday I would watch the show not because I thought it was highly evolved and thought-provoking television, but merely because it was fun. Even in those days very little of my day was spent in activities that could solely be classified as fun. Those thirty minutes were probably my fun quota for the day. I left the thought-provoking and emotionally wrenching material to the likes of Avonlea; MMC was my E-ticket to enjoying a small part of my day. There was a time when I could rattle off the casts from each of the 7 seasons in the order they appeared in the opening credits. There was a time when I would actually try to predict which member would sing that day's music video or star in that day's big comedy sketch. There was a time when I actually thought I knew what they were like off-set just by how they acted in the show. For instance, Miss Brandy Brown, even though I thought she was the cutest member of the show ever, I thought had to be the biggest bitch on set just because whenever the camera wasn't focused on her for a sketch she always seemed to have a scowl on her face. Or, in another case, I thought they had to have hired Ricky for his dance moves because that guy never tried his hand at acting or singing or the show.

It's a little known secret that about 50% of the reason I agreed to travel out to Disney World with my aunts and brother was to go and see a live taping of that show. I was also hoping to meet up with Miss Brown, given my enormous enamoration of her. However, the closest I came was meeting another Brandy.

Another highlight of the early part of that decade was when the five oldest members of the original cast went ahead and formed a singing group called The Party. I don't know about you, but even then my musical taste was being formulated around what was socially relevant and globally ambitious. You had performers and bands like U2 and Michael Jackson, musical propaganda like Band Aid, and this general idea that music had to serve a higher moral purpose than mere listening. While that was all well and good, a part of me just wanted music that was great to listen to. I didn't want to think about what the lyrics were signifying or what kind of action I needed to take because I'd heard these songs. I just wanted something catchy to occupy a small portion of my day. The Party was perfect for this pursuit. It is still my belief that their first eponymous album stands up as one of the finest albums just to lay back and lose yourself too. Or, better yet, to break out your goofiest dance moves and just laugh at yourself and your friends with. Many times I would break out this specific album and get my mind off the drama, the stress, and the general malaise that had become my life once high school had begun. To this day, even though I've lost that album to the black hole of forgetfulness and misplacement, I still find myself humming a few bars of "That's Why" or singing the chorus to "Sugar is Sweet" ("Sugar is sweet / But not as sweet as you"). It takes a lot for a person to remember an album one no longer possesses in any shape or form, but The Party was that kind of album.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not choose to surround myself with the most melodramatic and tragic pieces of entertainment possible. Yes, I do enjoy a good tear-jerker like Little Manhattan. Neither is it true that everything I consume for pleasure needs to involve exercising my brain. Yes, I do enjoy a good novel by Julian Barnes. But a big part of me, like Carly says, is just a giant goofball waiting to be set free. I'm still the guy that has an overwhelming desire to build a 24-square-mile maze and a spinning house. I'm still the guy that would kill for someone to open a 24-hour drive-through buffet. I'm still the guy that wants someone to incorporate pure, uncut caffeine into sundaes or pancakes. I'm still the guy that enjoys listening to The Party to this day.

And, man oh man, did Tiffini and DeeDee provide some of the best hooks for their songs in their day.

Yes, folks, even I get tired of the doom and gloom of writing intellectually morose or somber posts day-after-day, just like even I get tired of searching for the deeper meaning to a Rilo Kiley song.

Sometimes I want to write a post about my days of being an honorary Mouseketeer and sometimes I want to get away on a Summer vacation from my own thoughts and be thirteen again. Sometimes I just want to be that thirteen-year-old whose biggest pressing engagement was to catch The Party singing on The MMC.



Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers