I fear I'm going to ramble again.

That's what happens when I want to say something, but can't decide what that should be.  My best and worst writing comes from moments like this.  More often, my worst.

In fact, there's so much I write that goes unposted. Unfit for public scrutiny. Much of what is here barely passed muster.

I am withering.

I am a tree with many branches, with fewer and fewer leaves on those branchlets each time you pass.  Soon you'll come down this road, chill winds snatching and pulling at you, and you'll behold a naked oak, its ragged spires clawing at a big white sky.  I'll be gone.

A few brief chapters yet remain between us.  Then this world will disappear behind the sun, forgetting us before it comes back around. Will you still remember me, come Spring?

You know me. I'll hold on quietly, like a faded portrait holds a ghost. Our paths, erased by time, won't cross anymore. You won't hear my voice again. But I won't let go. I never do.  We couldn't keep what we had, but I'll keep you.

It will be our secret.  Forever.

Hey, it's me again.  Mr. Internet Deadbeat.  I'm the guy who asks for feedback, then waits forever to acknowledge the feedback I got.

I'm so ashamed.  I don't deserve the few readers I have. 

It's been a hell of a week here.  Life's moving faster than I want it to.  Work is driving me crazy -- more on that a bit later, perhaps.  Also, I finally crashed. 

Let me explain.

I've been taking energy supplements to counter my willful lack of sleep, and to sharpen my mind for those deadlines that keep coming at me night after night.  The trade off has been that I sleep even less, but as long as I can trick myself into thinking I'm wide awake (energy supplements!), then I'm good.  Usually, I can shut the door on Sundays, lock myself in and snooze away the deluge until I'm brand new by the next work cycle. 

But not this time.  Too many things in my professional and personal life overlapped.  I couldn't slow down.  To make a long story short -- I blacked out for a few days.  I mean, I just shut myself down.  Got lots of sleep.  Took tiny sips of the internet instead of the big frat-boy chug-a-lugs I normally take.  Didn't read much.  Didn't write at all. 

I stayed in.  Ate popcorn.  Watched old, black-and-white movies.  Saw too many political ads.  A guy named Sam Cahnman (no kidding!) ran for a state congressional seat here.  Can you believe a guy with a name like that would get into politics?  What did he do before, sell insurance policies? Used cars, maybe?  Cahnman.  He pronounced it "CAN-man" (as in can of soup) in his ads.  He'd defy even the laws of phonics and pronunciation to get votes. 

Did he win?  I can't even remember.  I see that a lot of republicans didn't win -- which means George Bush has to be a good boy now.  He's going to hear the word "no" a lot in the next two years.

Meanwhile, the Isrealis felt the need to defend themselves against 18 innocent Palestinians.  Every time I think that things might settle down over there, an Isreali rocket lands in somebody's living room, and then a bunch of angry Muslims go carrying child-sized coffins through the narrow streets.  Tune in tomorrow for reports of suicide bombings in Tel Aviv.

Of course, Isreal apologized.  It was couched in diplomatic terms, but essentially it was: "We're sorry that civilians got killed. We were aiming in the general direction of where we suspected missiles were being launched.  Guess we blew up some kids.  Sorry 'bout that." 

That's a wife-beater apology.  Ever heard one of those?  It's after the guy buys the flowers, gets the kiss and then her tears start flowing, because part of her can't f***ing believe she's falling for it again.  And he gets all sheepish and humble, and he says:

"Well, darn it, baby ... Really now ... I'm sorry.  It's just ... well it's just that you really piss me off sometimes, you know? ... If you wouldn't piss me off, things like that wouldn't happen, baby ... Cuz I love ya ... You know? ... I love you, dammit ... but you gotta stop pissing me off, ok? ... ok?"

Ok.  I've got some catching up to do around here.  Some of you have heard this from me already.  I'm just rambling now. 

Here's a picture.  My daughter took it today.  Look at it, dammit.  Just look at it, and don't get me all pissed off.  Ok? ... Ok?  I love ya.

An addendum on my last post:

First of all, THANKS to all of you who replied on the "Fat Wedding" entry, one of two posts I made that day (what? you don't like the "Pissant Song?").  It's oddly touching how women can hop to it on a topic like dress sizes.

I'm still curious.

The past two days, I've been asking all the women I regularly talk to about the size of clothing they wear and I have learned something else:

A woman can be one size on bottom and another size on top.  For example, some women are a "2" around the waist, but a "4" between the neck and navel.  Or, probably more common, a "6" around the waist and an "8" up top, because some women, God bless 'em, have larger chests, or others are just more "fleshy" around the shoulders and upper arms.

Meanwhile, I've also learned that a "4" at one boutique might be a "2" or even a "6" at another.  How confusing. No wonder that women spend so much time in changing rooms, trying different things on -- either until she finds just the right fit, or until my head starts hurting.

Question:

Is it BAD for a guy to buy clothing for the woman in his life, if she isn't with him? Do new clothes make a poor "surprise" gift from a man to a woman? Would a woman rather have input on whatever clothing her man wants to buy for her?

Of course, I'm asking about regular clothes that can be worn in public. I don't have trouble at all picking out just the right night gown, camisol or thong underwear for a woman. I'm rather like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka's candy factory then.

But regular, nice clothes? -- Any and all input is appreciated.

Obesity in my country has gotten so out of control that a lot of folks either accept it, or pretend not to care anymore. Especially here in the corn-fed Midwest, where large men and women ride around in large, gas-guzzling automobiles.

Last week, as I was driving in MY car, I heard over the radio about a hot new business trend called Bridal Boot Camp. It's a place where women spend various lengths of time doing rigorous exercise so that they can get in shape for their weddings. These women don't want to look "fat" in their expensive wedding photos, you see, and many don't feel motivated enough to go through the regimen on their own. So these expensive 'boot camps' allow ladies to work the extra weight off together through intense physical drills and a nice, sisterly support system.

Here's the kicker: Despite all the boot camps, bridal boutiques report that the average dress sizes sold across the USA range from size 8 to size 14! Twenty years ago, the average ranged from size 6 to size 8. What happened?

Really, it's only about the wedding photos. Most women who complete bridal boot camp cheerfully (not gradually) pile the weight back on after their nuptials.

Who's a guy to complain? If she was a cow when he proposed to her …

Besides, a lot of guys are overweight too.  Or balding. Or both. We're not exactly lighting up the 'Adonis' side of the scoreboard, especially not out here in the Vote-for-Bush American Heartland. Guys watch their wives bloat up right before their eyes, and they might pick up a stone, but few dare to cast it. We get off lucky because a woman finds other odd, noble, peculiar things about us to fall in love with, even if we don't look like her favorite Hollywood actor.

So, women, I'm sorry if I sound unfair. I'm sorry that a lot of us men are unfair where it comes to inner and outer beauty — or the entire concept of beauty in general.

But size 8 to size 14??  Come on, ladies! Give us a break!

I am not dead yet, but I have written too little lately.  There will be no writing tonight, except for the flimsy entry you're reading now.

The birds don't come to my window at night and sing these days. So my head is cluttered with this and that, fragments of ideas that only could make sense to me. I'm not going to talk about my day. I can describe it best by saying nothing at all.

It’s 3:21 a.m.  I am awake.  I am cold.  I am restless.  And I’ve got nothing interesting to say.  Sorry, folks.

Hey, Ray. Play the pissant song again.

    Kill a pissant for Jesus
    Knock them right through the floor
    Kill a pissant for Jesus
    Then kill one pissant more