My first cigarette of the day now tends to dull the information sent by the nerves in my limbs and face, rather than making me float.  Have I graduated to addict from "afficianado" or something?  Also, why do I have the urge to talk to the bitter, mean walrus who has the weekly night shifts at my 7-11?  The woman has grey hair, a bulbous body, and facial expressions ranging from annoyed grimace to disdainful scrunch, and was bothered that I made her stop mopping for a minute to sell me some jades.  And yet, as another side effect of that first cigarette, I felt some slight affection for her and wondered if she might appreciate a customer talking to her to lighten the gloom of a tedious and uninspiring job.  What is wrong with me?

I have a place in Santa Fe now.  This is good, even though I was somewhat looking forward to wandering the streets of hippietown with a bag full of CDs on my shoulder, looking for a place to circle and lick my hair before going to sleep. 
 

I will be living in a guest house.  My father originally misunderstood this term.  He thought it was like the servants' quarters.

 

My place is not far from the ironically named Santa Fe river, which is now nothing but a dusty culvert for most of the year.  The house is one of many bumps of adobe sown into the landscape of foothills, pebbles, tough and ugly bushes, long and angled shadows, and druggy college students.  I've seen a picture of the lawn.  It looks like a nuclear test site, and maybe it was.  This is New Mexico, after all.  The dirt has been baking all summer, and is ready to freeze and crack this winter. 

 

The nights are long in Santa Fe, and the bars are western-themed.  The moon frequently has a very pretty ring of light around it, the stars are far more visible there than in this smogy and bright area, and it's the first place I was able to see the Milky Way.  During the winter it was usually cold, but not too cold; and in the spring the sun shat its blinding rays upon us and I stayed inside for most of the day.

 

Anyone want to visit me next year?  I'll build a guest house to the guest house if someone comes.

My always expanding opinion of Jess Castle:
 
Jess qualifies as "a pretty cool guy," and yet, when my mother asked if Jess is "nice," I said, "no."  It never really occurred to me before, but Jess really isn't nice.  Neither am I, for that matter, as my readers would likely agree.  Jess and I are assholes.  This term often means one who makes himself look bad in the view of qualified judges of character.  In this case, however, it means we often think badly of other people.  We are qualified judges of character with a lot of cynicism.  Jess's descriptions of people he doesn't like are often howlingly funny.  He tells me that I, too, have a talent for describing people I don't like with exceptionally unflattering terms. 
 
I had previously thought of myself as liking "nice people."  This is not true.  Scott, you are nice, and I like you.  However, I probably don't like you because you're nice.  If you weren't nice, I wouldn't like you any less. 
 
Jess has above-average intelligence, and he makes efforts to build on it.  I respect that.  I couldn't say why.  I suppose I subconsciously think of him as a useful resource, likely to be a good person to know in the future.  There are probably other, less selfish reasons, but I don't know what they are.  It's similar to cats: do I like cats because they provide me pleaseure, or because they're "cute?"  I dunno. 
 
Intelligence gives people the option of having complicated and enjoyable discussions, of course.  That probably has a lot to do with it.  But I respect the fact that Jess builds on his intelligence (studies national issues and philosophy with equally scrutinizing care).  Why should I respect this?  Hell, what's respect, for that matter?
 
So, if anyone has comments on Jess, namely, those two of my readers who met him last night, please give them to me.  I study all of you all of the time, just so you know.  You are never alone.

Things Scott could have done in New York in addition to eating at McDonald's:
 
1.  See a movie that's also playing at the Harbor Center.
2.  Look into a mirror.
3.  Exercise.
4.  Talk to his brother.
5.  Clean his glasses.
6.  Buy The Capital.
7.  Pet a puppy.
8.  Go to sleep.
9.  Masturbate in a bathroom stall.
10.  Obsessively button and unbutton his pants.

Vet go "hello, cutie." Midnight go "rwarrrrrr!" Vet go "That's alright, I've got magic fingers. Let me just get you out of there now . . ." Midnight go "Rwrarrrararrrwrraarar!" Vet go "Shit! Sedate her! Sedate her!"

Here's to Scott, who cannot tell a lie and didn't have to chop down a cherry tree to prove it; to Scott, who is a model of a struggling artist; to Scott, whose mere existence gives me pleasure. I hereby dedicate to you the meatless supreme pizza I am heating up. Now please, blog already. I've been going to sadpanda several times a day in hopes of seing another post, however small it may be. I am even glad to see your new comment (which is awesome, as usual). Please think of me, and all your fans.

And now I've got a pizza to attend to.

Tonight I was driving home from D.C. on 97 north. The road splits a thick forest, winding past gaps and ditches, over bridges and up hills. During the day, I usually speed by; Maryland forests are pretty boring, unless you're walking in one. I have never driven there at night, however; and, although it still wasn't visually impressive, what with the darkness and all (I could only see about ten feet in front of me, and not at all on the sides), when I saw a 40mph limit sign, I decided to go 30 instead. Lot of deer around here, I thought. Within ten seconds of slowing, a deer appeared in my headlights and slowly ambled across the road. If I had been going 40, she would have died.

This is my 100th post. Unlike most of its predecessors, this post is written mid-day. Sunlight's falling on the mouse pad and keyboard, having been strained through the window screen as if by cheese cloth. Ray Charles's group is smearing keyboards and horns all over the living room; they are drenching the carpet and furniture, and the funk content in the air is even higher than when Flagg walks by.

Jeff woke me at 11 this morning and shouted at me to look at highlights from last night's game between the Yankees and the Red Socks. I watched as Derek Jeter caught a ball and, propelled by inertia, tumbled head-first into the stands. I saw the two home runs hit in the twelth inning. I heard the fans exult, and saw the team rise up and devour each other in a pile as if they had just won the pennant. Then Jeff left, and I went back to sleep.

Jeff has been a fan of the Yankees since the early 1980s, when they sucked. My father has been a fan since the early 1950s. Some time in the last forty years he has developed a neurosis that whenever he watches them as they are playing, they begin to lose. He knows this cannot be, but he believes he is cursed. Jeff tells me that every time he calls my father in to watch, when the Yankees are up the the ninth inning, things begin to go wrong. The oppossing team begins to get a few hits, and Rivera turns at the camera to shake his fist. When my father passes by the tv when a game is on, the other team gets a double play against the Yankees, or the Yankees begin making errors.

He tapes the World Series when the Yankees are in it, so that he doesn't have a heart attack. He stays up at night if he has heard that the Yankees have lost, thinking about God knows what.

The pop-psychological diagnoses are, of course, fascinating, but I find the symptoms themselves to be intriguing enough. This is a man who uses reason in most every aspect of his life. He is not religious. His biggest faults are quickness to anger and excessive worrying, but he rarely displays fear. And yet he experiences an intense and irrational effect on events that are taking place hundreds of miles away, which prevents him from taking joy in watching his childhood team.

Whenever Jeff sees the Yankees losing, he gets sick to his stomach and turns the game off. He also gets feelings about what Yankee batters are going to do at the plate, and he is frequently exactly right. "Gonna ground out at second. Gonna get a hit way into left field. Gonna hit it right down the line for a triple." He has no such ability to predict the performance of other teams.

For those who don't know, my family is from Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, and my father was born in 1951, long before the existence of the Mets. They are not Yankees fans because of the team's outstanding abilities, or because it is trendy. They do not have a hatred for the Orioles, but simply feel no connection to that team.

That is all, 100th post.