-Celery Season-

Is it redundant to season celery with celery seeds?
It is?
How about celery salt?

-When I have a bad day, the last thing I need is Daniel Powter rubbing it in.-

What sort of gumption is needed to kick oneself in the ass to accomplish one's goals?
Friday was not really a bad day, any badness being sins of omission discussed but not resolved over drinks with Set, who is on some kind of Lenten fast. By the time melancholia comes, the alcohol has worn off and cannot be blamed. Actually, I think it might be a delayed reaction from last weekend's melancholic visit with my cousin - bad moods can spread, after all.

1. I need to get the latest resumes and cover letters out there.
   There is no good excuse. I find time to edit all of the writer's pieces every week, and contribute a new story of my own. There should be time enough to revamp a cover letter or two.
   
   
2. I need to watch my tongue around the writers.
   Accidentally, I mentioned something about my cousin's process for reading scripts. When I finished, one writer got the pitch glow in his eyes. "So, what studio does your cousin work for?" I absolutely don't know, and I'm not sending him any scripts unless he asks. He's been working there for a month, tops, and he doesn't need unsolicited material weighing him down.
   
   
3. I need to get that bike.
   Nothing fancy, just something serviceable. I've been meaning to acquire one for the better part of a year, to cut down on the gas I've been burning around town.
   

Instead of accomplishing all of these goals, I spent Sunday hiding Easter eggs.

-Quisling-

I mentioned earlier that my cousin and I 'mostly' failed to connect with any of his friends and coworkers after we left his establishment. This is true; the two we did meet later were only coming in as we were leaving.

To be friendly, we stayed long enough for one more round.

The two female friends of my cousin hadn't come alone. They now had a drunk ex-marine in tow. I know he was a marine because he shouted that he was as he tried to crush my hand. Then he added with much pride that he was also an HVAC technician.

And, then, remarkably, all the tumbles in all the locks in my brain aligned. For the next half hour, I was loquacious and witty and uninhibited. The Red Bull helped, but I think it was just one of those miraculous moments you can't create with chemicals or training. I had the women laughing, and the marine confused. Soon, he was Semper Flea, pretending to laugh with us so we wouldn't think he wasn't getting the joke. Completely disarmed.

In victory, I desired a prize to commemorate the occasion, and also to push my brief social skills to the hilt. I asked for the one woman's e-mail address (not the woman hanging on the marine, I'm not suicidal) not because I really though we had anything in common. The contact info symbolized success, a wreath of laurels for taming the beast.

I got it. This may seem insignificant, but it was an incredible high. I wanted to share the story of the taming of the hoo-ah. (Army, not Marine, I know. Go with me on this.)

As we were leaving my cousin pulled me aside and told me not to contact that girl.
I think my face fell. Had I committed some horrible faux pas that I wasn't aware of?

Earlier, he told me, her friend had pulled him aside and warned him that this woman was flirting with his cousin.

You don't want to contact her, he said. Her friend tells me that she has two children by two different fathers, and that she has a stinky vag-

WHAAAA?

Apologies for that, everyone, but I kid you not, those were his words, which he claims are her words. Where do we begin to process everything wrong with that statement? Are these the kind of things friend are supposed to say about each other behind each other's backs?

I didn't email her, of course. Far better for both of us if we don't try even to be friends, with that awful sentence hanging over our heads. But what gets to me, what keeps me thinking about this scene over and over again, is the perfidy of the friend.

-Weekend Retreat-

My heart to heart with my cousin this past weekend has me slightly worried about his state of mind. It is dark, and he is miserable about many things; work, his lack of a girlfriend, his housemates, the university education he is finishing at twenty-eight years of age.

Not so old, I maintain, to be single, in school, or working a non-career path restaurant job. But whether my rationalizations or consolations are worth anything isn't really the point. If a guy believes he has been saturated with failure, he may also believe failure is a visual stain detectable by anyone who hasn't.

Earlier in the evening, we drank our "first" beers at his restaurant. Perhaps that is a warning right off the bat - that our unstated goals are inebriation and beers are bullet points, but this is not about alcoholism.

As my cousin went about the elaborate preparations of closing the restaurant, I waited at the bar with four of his coworkers, non-career servers all, four women anxious to get out and party for the remainder of Saturday.

Plans were made to go out together, but already an outsider can see that would be impossible. Names of different bars are thrown out, servers complain about needing showers, no one listens the first time anything is said.

When my cousin and I left, we were alone, with the prospect of meeting the others later. He confessed that it was unlikely to happen, and he was mostly right. We did not meet up with his coworkers, despite his cell phone, which he checked incessantly for messages while we waited in a college bar. There he stewed, observing patrons whose attitude only seemed to embitter him, and we returned to his home with a six-pack and a deck of cards.

He won, but it didn't help.

-To The Lighthouse-

We climbed the lighthouse.

An older woman waits just under the revolving lens - not the original fresnel - and answers questions that she herself asks. She is particularly proud of the wooden walls, which are original. Wood typically doesn't last this long in this climate, it is true, but wood typically is not separated from the elements with three feet of brick and mortar.

We climbed the lighthouse, and walked around the cupola. For one-third of it, the air is calm, if colder than on the ground, and warmer than in the tower. For the next two-thirds you are pushed by the wind this way, or that.

The wind pushed. Time passes.