We got back from our Florida vacation last week. I really have to issue a public thank you to both the Byrd's and the Todd's for making sure that we had an excellent time in Florida. It stormed every day we were there, but never for more than an hour. There was sand, sun, beach, fishing, nightly pow-wows and daily kid chasing. It was a great time.

Holy shit! A timely-update! The end is nigh!!! The end is nigh!!!

Seriously, let’s not mince words. I hurt. And not in an, “ouch, I stubbed my toe” hurt, but more in an, “Oh my God, don’t ever let me play volleyball again! What the fuck was I thinking, my body is designed for sitting in front of computers and walking to-and-from my car, not smacking a ball over a net in sand”-kind of hurt.

For the uninitiated, PiQNic IV was a blast. We’ve found the best damned location in the world for it and we had the best damned weather of the summer for it. The turn-out was surprising, lots of new faces and the food was excellent. Big ups to Nichole and Angela and Missy for getting in touch with people. While I’m giving out props, much props must also go to Aaron Robert’s son for running approximately six kilometers in a small field chasing the tennis ball that Robin and I would (repeatedly) strike poorly with the tennis racket, and the lad would chase them down for us even going so far as to dive into the deep weeds and woods to retrieve them! Children were buried in the sand, and to their parents all I can say is: I’m very sorry. CJ didn’t get buried and we still ended up with approximately three cubic feet of sand in our bathroom – I can only imagine the deluge of sand that awaited some parents after the cleanup. Oh, and there was volleyball, dear God, there was volleyball. HEY! I’ve got a great idea! Let’s take a bunch of guys in their early thirties who have no business even contemplating anything more than a brisk walk to their car after work, put them barefooted in the sand under the sun (which most have only seen in during the brisk walk out to the car) and then, (ha ha!) have them jump and chase after a volleyball that would only make it over the net on a serve about once in three attempts. While we’re on the subject, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I ate, but I humbly apologize to everyone on my team. Also, let it be known that I have absolutely no hustle. None. If the ball is coming at me and requires more than a token lean toward the ball, I ain’t havin’ none of it. Nada.

Life has been what it has been, which is to say, good. I've kept myself busy with this project or that project, many of them wedding related, many of them training related. Seriously, I (usually) hit the library every Monday to check out documentary DVDs or books about self-improvement or training. I've found my mind becoming more and more sponge-like again. I used to believe that I'd hit a wall in my capacity to learn, but I'm starting to think that it was just a case of atrophy - I hadn't really pushed myself mentally, so my brain (like a muscle) forgot how to expand readily. I'm back in the saddle of pushing myself mentally now, and that makes me feel good.

It's so frustrating when I don't update, because the longer I go without updating, the less I want to update, which means right now I'm FORCING myself to get on with it.

Ah. LAN Parties. Robin and I held one over the weekend at Robin's home. DR and Devon were in attendance, and there was gaming goodness. I'd forgotten how much fun it can be to sit down with friends and shoot them in their faces. Wolfenstein and Counter-Strike were the names of the games, and gaming goodness did reign. Vickie and Jimmy were our spectators at one point, and Robin and I were team B2. We'll be doing this again within a couple months, this time with more people, and more gaming goodness.

The biggest news lately has been, what else, the devestation caused by Hurricane Katrina and the dismantling of New Orleans. I've been reading the blog of The Interdictor for an interesting perspective on the storm. I could honestly bitch and rant for hours on the entire situation, but I won't, suffice to say that George Bush is one hellaciously incompetent leader - not that he cares since he's already in his second and (thank GOD!) last term.

It's not that I update all the damned time as it is, but now that I read Vickie's website and see pretty much what I was going to say, I kinda sorta lose my urge to write.

So, yeah, I'd been planning Vickie's birthday party for a while now, had had it planned for a few weeks before she said "no parties" for her birthday even. Apparently I'd done a good job at keeping it a secret as she hadn't had a clue, even up to the bitter end. And it was bitter.

The plan: After work on Friday, Vickie and I were to leave quickly for a nice dinner together at Olive Garden. My estimates of leaving the house by 6pm were that we'd be finished eating by 7:15 and arrive at Vicki Wilson's sometime around 7:30ish. Well, we got to Olive Garden and it was packed. So we drove looking for someplace else to eat, all the while time kept on a'slippin'. I suggested some place like Chipotle which was met with some resistance. ("some resistance" == "a resounding HELL NO") We made our way, slowly, to O'Charlie's where we were met once again with a long line. I was fine with this; we'd be about 20 minutes late but we'd be supped and still enjoy our fine date. All was well until Vickie admits, "If we're going to wait in line, I'd rather just eat at Olive Garden." Frustration. By the time we made it to Olive Garden it was 7pm, and there was a 55 minute wait. I had to spill the beans and let her know that there were a "shit-ton" of people at Vicki's house.

Despite how horrible I made that sound, that party was amazingly successful, in no small part due to the efforts of Vicki Wilson, Amanda Lauer for organizing the whole thing, and everyone else for showing up and... well... for being so damned weird. I'm serious, Vickie's group of friends are an odd bunch. Upon first glance they look like a standard group of girls at a party, until you notice that there isn't a single bottle of alcohol in sight. These girls are literally high on life. I'm firmly of the opinion that there's some sort of chemical reaction whenever they're near each other that releases endorphins and helium. They get happier and happier in each others' company and their voices raise. It's true. By the time you get more than six of them in a room together they're squealing and talking in tiny chipmunk voices and laughing and literally about as high as you can be. Nuttier than a fruitcake, but they're a great group of people.

On Saturday Vickie and I went shopping. That was my gift to her, a total shopping spree, mostly to get stuff for her new car (that's what she wanted). Let it be noted that Vickie and I should not be allowed in public with a large supply of funds. We will spend all of our money and then some. As per John's recommendation we picked up a Mr. Clean Auto Dry system. Wow. The handy nozzle itself is worth the price of the entire system, not to mention the fact that, yes, it makes your car look brand-fucking-new.

I also picked up a cheapo copy of "UFO Aftermath" at the mall. This as left me pissy and unsatisfied. Now, I'm not saying that UFO is a bastion of stability, but people have played it. People who have had trouble playing it typically have the same problem, and that's ATI's GOD DAMNED SHIITY DRIVERS. So, since I've had Doom 3 on my box for a while now but unable to play it because my video card is an ancient Radeon 7200, I think it's time to upgrade. I've got my eye on a GigaByte FX5700 256MB ViVo, so that should set me pretty for a couple years. Maybe.

Oh, speaking of birthdays, mine will be coming up soon. Now, I'm not going to be one of those assholes who tells people to buy him stuff for his birthday. I haven't even been that great of a friend lately, so I understand if you're not too keen on getting me a gift at all. But, if any of you were looking for something to get me, I'm sure there are a few things I want that are inexpensive.

(Damn I'm funny. At least, I think so, I mean, I crack me up all the time.)

On Sunday Vickie worked and I struggled with getting UFO to work (I failed). Afterwards we returned the Mustang to my father, and there was much sadness and weeping and gnashing of teeth and wailing. However, Vickie's ride is fly, so it's not all bad. Her other ride, the one I'm borrowing right now, is far from fly. It's hideous, and it steels my resolve to buy a new car quickly.

School has started. It was very interesting to be on the other side of the bus stop this morning, standing with Vickie and waving CJ off to school on that big yellow bus full of kids (window licking not outstanding). Vickie was all kinds of choked up, of course. I happily welcome school because now there is a schedule we can wrap our lives around. Early to bed, early to rise, all that jargon, plus there's the quiet at night now, not to mention the fact that I won't be late for work again until May. Yeah, life is decent indeed.

And yes, I know that the RenFaire starts this Saturday. I haven't mentioned it because, while I'm anxious for it to start, I won't be able to attend quite as much as the past couple years. Or rather, I could but I don't need to. I have all the satisfaction I need at home and don't feel the need to get away quite as badly as last year. I will, however, be spending the next few days washing and collecting my outfit, polishing my rapier, dusting my hat and making ready for the day at the festival on Saturday. Vickie will be with me, which is appropriate as she's the only girlfriend I've ever taken to the RenFaire and it just seems right to have my arm around her there. Hope to see you all there!

This was one surprisingly busy weekend.

We'd planned for a shindig on Friday night, or rather, Vicki (that'd be Wilson, mind those e's!) had planned one based on the fact that she'd just gotten Trivial Pursuit 90's Edition. Rock on say Vickie and I, but we found out that we'd have the kids the entire weekend (a rarity which we planned to take advantage of), so the shindig was moved to our place. There was a bit of tomfoolery and buttfuggery trying to get all parties together, but in the end (no pun intended) it was Vicki and Lily who arrived for fun and 90's trivia. Lily effectively owned us (I was only one pie away though) with obscure knowledge of events of the early 90s. She's old though. (haha!)

First of all, in a continuing note from our last entry, let me say that yes, doing your laundry in your underwear is most gratifying. Beyond that, it's amazing that I can be standing four feet away from both a washer and a dryer going at full spin and the entire house doesn't shake with vengeance (as was the case with my last abode).

Second, let's get the shame out of the way.

I love you, Bibs, and apparently I owe you $10.

Something interesting happened a couple days ago while I sat at the computer. No wait, let me back up. Tori has a toy. Tori's toy, the inchworm, is despised and hated by yours truly. This toy, when rolled (or kicked or nudged or thought about) makes what is easily the most annoying array of sounds and gibbers and wiggles and noises since Fran Drescher. The toy makes these irritating sounds and then goes quiet for about two minutes. Once it realizes that it's not being played with (and this is by design) it makes one last cry for attention in the hopes that the child will pick it up again and start the cycle of vexation anew. I have generally kept this toy out of sight and hidden where it won't be stepped on or bumped up against, lest we hear it scream it's rattle and prattle, then go silent teasing you into thinking that you've survived another of its throes only to be assaulted again minutes later when your nerves have calmed.

So, Tori has this toy. I was at the computer at some point earlier in the weekend and Vickie comes into the living room and looks at me with confusion. "Please tell me you were just in Tori's room." She was concerned.

"Nope, I've been sitting right here. Why?"

"Because that toy of hers is going off." Peculiar, yes, but easy to shrug off in the daytime. We both went about our daily duties and prepared for guests. (More on that shortly.)

So, we'd rented Butterfly Effect and Starsky and Hutch, both of which being excellent movies. Vickie had to twist my arm to watch Butterfly Effect, and despite the Kutcher Effect, the movie was excellent. Vickie watched the director's cut first, which meant that I had to. I highly recommend watching that version instead of the Happy-Go-Lucky-Americanized-For-Your-Protection Theatrical Version. After the movie was over and we were talking about it (it makes ya think, the sign of a good flick) we heard it. It was laughing and giggling and shaking and making its damned racket from Tori's room - where it was dark - and the door was closed - and no cats could get in. Vickie and I opened the door to her room. (Much easier typed than actually done, I had to force her to accompany me to her door not wanting to open it alone myself. I half expected to see the Hulk riding Silver float before my eyes before a protractor extracted a tune from a rotating record.) There was the damned toy, and I do mean 'damned'. We picked it up, extracted its batteries and will be purging its demons within the next couple days (read: pitching it). Paranormal theories aside, any toy that causes that much stress in an adult's life that late at night should not be tolerated within its walls.

As I sat and shat yesterday, contemplating the toy and its nefarious tommyknockers, I had an idea about ghosts and their haunts, and it rose questions. Firstly, before you and I engage in this discourse of ghosts and haunts, let's immediately drop all the "I don't believe in blah, blah" or "Jesus Christ wouldn't allow blah, blah". We're talking about ghosts and spirits and the traditional fiction and cult fascination that follows them. Now, with that out of the way, a ghost typically demonstrates hints of his or her prior profession or habits in their manifestations. For example, the ghost of a farmer would be seen wearing overalls. Further, some ghost stories tell of the living-impaired having gone so far as to continue their profession of choice, dead gardeners tending to the vines, dead librarians sorting old books, dead murderers killing children in their dreams, etc, etc. It begs the question: Would the ghost of a plumber know more about valves than a non-plumbing ghost, and if so does the plumber ghost have to stay on top of new technologies? I mean, any ghost can rattle the pipes of an old house, but does a deceased plumber know exactly how to fracture a PVC elbow joint to cause total pressure loss throughout the entire house? Or could a plumbing business advertise that since all their pipes and plumbing technologies surpass the 70's, their plumbing is immune to ghosts less than 30 years old?

Moving on, I am a literary amoeba. I want to write, and the very few ideas I get for writing come from what I'm watching or reading presently, or rather, are heavily influenced by them. For example, last week I wanted to write a story about dragons teaching their young the best ways to lay siege on a town, or a dragon's thoughts on getting rich and lazy and eventually (as they always are) defeated by one man in armor, all from the dragon's point of view. I was, of course, reading The Hobbit. Now, having watched Butterfly Effect and XMen 2 in one weekend, I'm fascinated with the powers of the mind and its effect on the physical and temporal. I've rented Bubba-HoTep - I hope that it doesn't spark a sudden interest in writing about an Egyptian Elvis with the ability to travel time.

So, we had our gathering over the weekend. By all accounts it was good. At first it looked like no one was going to come out, then Matt and Colleen resolved their traveling issues (I have no clue either) and stopped by, and a phone call later had Colin, Jeanie and Annie stopping by. We sang, we chatted, we played with images and had an all around good time. Not once but twice that day, spoken by two different parties, spoken at two separate times, spoken without any prompting or planning, were the following comments made: "Quentin, your quality of life has really improved!" Apparently I was living in a wretched hive of scum and villainy before Vickie and I came together, and although I don't have any proof of it, I'm sure that everyone was disgusted at the concept of coming to my home in the past. My consolation is that there must have been something about me that attracted them to engage in festivities at the QPad or MobileQ so often, be it my charm, my festivities, or my copious quantities of alcohol.

Cause, I'm such a groovy guy.

Through the events of the past fifteen months, I've been granted the opportunity to be on two sides of the funeral fence: the bereaved and the support thereof. This second role occurring yesterday when I attended the funeral of John Wilger's mother who passed away Friday. John, DR and myself talked about how we'd each like our sepulture. John and DR are both in favor of cremation, a route that doesn't trap your body's natural energies selfishly in a sealed vault and a method that is considerably less expensive and therefore less of a burden to the suddenly bereaved. I disagreed, feeling that the interring of the body was important to the visitors afterwards, and that a grave just seemed hollow without the actual presence of a corpse buried below. I've done a good deal of soul searching on that subject and recalled now that just after Mom was buried I didn't feel complete until the headstone was placed. This makes me wonder if the headstone was the crucial piece that was missing. John and DR contend that ashes could be placed into the ground beneath the headstone. Something inside me tells me that it's a combination of the two, the headstone over the resting body, that hallows the site and becomes something you want to visit. Regardless, I'm a big fan of tradition, and while I detest the thought of a sealed vault underground and its cost to the survivors, I still believe that I'd rather be buried rather than cremated. Burial near a tree in an unsealed coffin would be perfect, but then I could never enjoy the company of a modernized cemetery. But really, it doesn't matter what I'd like, does it? After all, at this point I'm no longer a member of the voting populace. If my survivors want to see me hung from a lamp post as a warning to strangers, well, I guess that's their decision - I'd support it if it's what makes them feel more comfortable with my passing.

The joke we enjoyed was that this was the one party where you know that everyone you knew would be there. People have many birthdays, or may have multiple weddings, but they've only got one final goodbye party, and shouldn't it be up to them what happens? Well, yes... and no. I have my preferences, but the funeral is for the survivors, not the dead. People gather to say their goodbye, but they also gather to see old friends, fellows in mourning, and tell stories and recollections about the deceased and generally be there to offer a tissue or a shoulder or a full-fledged hug when needed. It doesn't need to be spoken but understood: "I'm sorry. They will be missed, and if you need anything I'm right here." I was amazed at the outpouring of support at Mom's funeral and it made the entire event enjoyable. I laughed a lot. I saw old friends. I caught up with family. Most of all I saw how many people cared about Mom, my brothers, Jay and myself.

I would prefer not to have a Catholic funeral. I would prefer not to have the funeral in a church but in a home. I would prefer that besides my best pictures there would also be my worst pictures on the casket. I would prefer that my eulogy be funny and a true celebration of me without the need to tear out the survivors heartstrings. I would prefer that my tombstone say something truly uplifting, perhaps even something to make you chuckle.

But in the same breath, I would prefer that my survivors do whatever they want, whether it is what I prefer or what they need. If they need a large ceremony with someone reading from the bible and everyone in attendance praying feverently that I be admitted into heaven (a not altogether unlikely necessity), then by all means they should have it. My funeral is not for me - it's for them, the people I love. (There's a large reasoning behind this, which I'll skip now, but understand that you must love any and all who come to your own funeral.) Conversely, if my survivors want to see me cremated, entombed, mummified, crucified or frozen then that's their choice. They'd not be in charge of my sepulture if I didn't love them, and in loving them I would give them anything they need. My vote in that matter is null and void.

It'd be nice if someone could keep my website going though.