mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kind of a reflective night I sincerely apologize to any of you who tried to add an entry in the guestbook over the past week or two. I also sincerely thank Jennifer, who informed me via my messageboard that every time she went to sign my guestbook, she was automatically redirected to some funky-assed website. I say funky-assed website not because it was just weird. It literally was funky-assed. It was some website for people who think eating poop is a sexual turn-on. Not judging anybody or anything. Except the fact that it makes you have a lot more in common with my dog Daisy than with normal humans. Ok. Let's toss the "not judging anybody" crap out the window for a bit. Do I think I am better than these people? Yep. I think those people are sub-human. And I look down on them without any guilt. This reminds me of a story. Last year, when I was in Chicago, I was walking the streets looking for some ink for my fountain pen. I was keeping a pretty intense travelogue (which you will be able to read in the near future), and I went through two ink cartridges. I asked the folks at the hostel if they knew of a place that sold ink, and they directed me to an old tobacco store that had, I think, one pack of ink left. That whole trip was full of luck. On my way back to the hostel, excited that I had the last ink pack in Chicago in my greedy, giddy little fingers, I passed by a bum on the street. Usually, I follow the standard practice of saying a quick and hushed, "No," when they ask for a few bits of change. They usually quickly move on to their next target. I admit that I am one of those uncaring, cold-hearted bastards. That, I am ashamed of. Mostly because of this particular bum. This guy asked, as I passed by, "Pardon me, Sir. Do you have any spare change?" Very polite. More respectful than anyone who had ever asked me for spare change. And I did the usual, "No." And as I kept walking, he said to my back, "Thank you, sir. God bless you, and I hope you have a very good day." And idiot me kept walking. What makes this chance meeting most meaningful for me was that the trip to Chicago was incredibly... gosh... incredible. I met more people on that trip from all areas of the world than I had ever met before in my life. It was a beautiful, wonderful trip for me. Very touching. And from the moment that man said those words to me while I was walking away, excited that I had ink in my hands, I perhaps missed having lunch with Chicago's most interesting man. I know he had a story to tell. Because as I turned the corner, I heard him belt out in a beautiful voice, "Under the Boardwalk." I hate this memory was sparked by someone altering my guestbook to ruin a bit of the experience for you. I'm kind of excited. I have my own little garden! Granted, it is the smallest, wimpiest, cheapest garden I have ever had. But it is a fun, cute little thing that I can't wait to grow. I am growing my own herbs in this little $1.97 elongated plastic container from Wal-Mart. I have basil, sage, mint, cilantro, and lavendar slated to come out any minute now. And I feel that literally. I planted it yesterday. About 4:30pm. When I came home from work today, I checked it for new sprouts. Natta. Oh, well. This is why I am not a farmer. Well, I will shut down this entry with a fond adieu to Mr. Gene Amole, a columnist from Denver, Colorado. He passed away on Sunday evening, just as I was eating dinner in Jefferson City, complaining about the rain. Enough cannot be said for a good writer. Especially a writer that makes the task look easy. Mr. Amole used his online "blog" (really, an online posting of his daily columns in the Rocky Mountain News) as a documentation of his failing health and eventual death. He knew for quite some time that he was dying of cancer. What I liked was that he was refreshingly matter-of-fact about his death. To him, it was just another annoying life stage. Like acne or extended nose hairs. If I die in Hawaii, that's OK. I can be cremated there and my ashes interred in a military cemetery there, and Trish can bring the American flag back home. Or we can work out details with John Horan at Horan & McConaty to return the ashes to Denver for interment at Fort Logan. What's to worry about? Indeed. 9:51 p.m. - Tues., May 14, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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