In order to explain my father's recreation, I shall have to first elaborate on the design system of my house. So, bear with me.
When you enter the front door, there are steps in front (that go upwards) in front of you, and a doorway that leads to another flight of steps (that go downwards) to the right. This is house the house was built, which was about 5 years ago. A few months after our house was built, my mother and I took walks around the growing subdivision and looked into the houses that were being built. We saw that the houses that were the same design as ours had a new, quirky idea: there was no door, nor a huge wall that separated the flights of stairs. My mother noted this and told my father, which -- since that day -- has had his sparks flying.
Now, he has removed the doorway and some of the carpeting downstairs. He is depressed that he cannot do more because he has no wood. He's downstairs, clutching onto his car keys, watching TV. He's expected, so he says, to remove a wall by Christmastime... doing it solo, of course. This wouldn't be a problem if that particular wall was the main support for the roof. So if the roof caves in on us, it won't be pretty.
Still at Meredith's (formally known as Her) house, sitting next to Patsy's flushed body, staring at every little word I type on the computer. She is waiting for something to happen -- but what, you ask. I myself am thinking of the same thing -- what is Patsy thinking about? She is shaking her head and smiling at this, thus giving away the feeling of some sort of heavy emotions for someone or something -- perhaps a member of a band? I am waiting -- as I type this -- for her to reach over and smack me, or to flick me off. And at the same time, I am curious of which she'll do first, and if she will do either with a generous smile of some deep guilty thought.
To change the topic a bit, I will mention about our adventures through the night. This walk in the dark was shorter than the others, lasting only an hour. We walked down a crowded (for being this time of night) road, through a subdivision, sat on a playground for a few moments' breath, and then adventured on. The moon (as well as the mood) was full tonight, with our egos and the reflection of the natural sattelite guiding us. (At this point of typing, I turn to the Eeyore of my Pooh -- Patsy -- and declare, "I have no idea what I am saying." She wholesomely agrees, and then I continue by declaring, my ego at a short-lasting peak, "But it sounds real good." And to be honest, it does. Especially since, at this time of the night, I have energy... and, for once, I can actually say something half-witty, half-poetic. This doesn't come too often.) To end this, Patsy declares a finale... "Cheers."
I am at Meredith's (formally known as Her) house, just "chilling" with my "homies". Patsy is wound up on peanut M&Ms, Meredith (formally known as Her) is in another corner, and I am on my knees, typing, because Patsy will not give me her computer chair.
The picnic went good. Patsy, Meredith, and another friend were interviewed by the local news about politics. It's kind of weird having these guys surround you, "like pigeons" (Patsy's quote). At the same time, there were some protestors holding signs like "get down with the Devil" and the like. It was crazy just seeing all the action there -- and the tourists were terrible. They kind of stood at the crosswalks and talked to each other, causing the drivers of cars nearly colliding with each other.
In all, it was pretty good. And now I'm at Meredith's (formally known as Her) house, typing this up. Waiting for everyone else to arrive to watch the movies. Talk to you tomorrow... whoever you are.
I'm going on a picnic today. Then, afterwards, I will be spending the night at Meredith's (formally known as "Her") house. Yes, I will be home between the picnic and going over there. Yes, I will blog about my adventures in the park. The picnic's at 1 pm. I am responsible for the chips. I am excited to go, really. This is one of those quality picnics in the park with stuff that wasn't ordered -- just good, old sandwiches, and buddies. In a park. Around people. And laughing together.
It's the end... I might cry.
Everytime I watch "MTV Cribs" (on the rare occasion), I find myself turning off the TV midway through and going to my room. There, I clean. Until I feel as if MTV itself will walk into my room and say, "WOW, DIANA, THIS IS DA BOMB DIGGITY CRIB, DAWG FOO!", or something in that proximity. Call it an egotistical thing. But I guess it isn't terrible to love someone's room.
(Yes, my posts have been short and stupid today. I will try to do better tomorrow. Maybe I'll talk about George W. Bush a little bit, just to make it sound like I know what I'm saying. -- I really hope Gore wins. Honestly.)
I swear to goodness, I have a headache. And to think that next time, I'll be involved in all of this.
There's a sudden curiousity in me that wants to research TWA flight 800, which crashed thirteen minutes after leaving John F. Kennedy airport in New York, New York. Though the crash itself was number 16 of the 20 most disasterous aircrashes and number 2 of the 5 most disasterous US aircrashes, the infamous crash killed all 230 aboard. The crash itself was sudden, with the crew unavailable to react and the air control station nearby (Boston) left clueless to the happenings of such a large plane.
To this day, some people believe that the original reason for the loss was due to a US Navy missle, but the real cause was in the plane itself. Though a (promised) 1000-page letter was going to be created in early 2000 by the NTSB (the people responsible for investigating plane crashes), there has been no real showing of any honest proof of the deaths.
But, for now, there are at least some once-banned articles and an official page for the flight's information -- as well as a dedication to every life that was lost that day.
In the new YAHOO! magazine, there's a huge section dedicated to the future of the Internet. Which, to be honest, scares me: there'd be no point in interacting with anything if you can receive smells via file to your computer, or eat things from the printer. When I first went online around 1997, I never suspected that the 'Net would be this big of a deal that everyone and everything would rely on its ability to dialup. Knowing what digital availabilities there are (computers the size of cell phones, and cell phones the size of beepers, and beepers being the length of a person's pinky finger), you can almost do everything and anything digitally with no fear in sharing a bit of privacy. People are gullible, and people want everything digital.
A good example would be TV commercials. There are companies that survive on the web alone, with no phone calls to make. There are others that are following in the footsteps.
I hate the future of the Internet. I hate the idea that houses are being made to be explosively digitalized. And I hate the idea that the computer has taken over the role of hypnotizing that the television possessed in the 1990s. I hate all these things, and yet I own two computers and rarely watch TV anymore. There are lessons to be learned, and futures to be changed. Maybe I should change mine.
Sylvia Browne, a "highly appraised" psychic, thinks that Al Gore is going to win America's 2000 election. I've had that feeling for quite a while, I suppose, that Gore would win, and George W. Bush wouldn't. I guess we'll see what happens with this, won't we?
In entirely other news, He is getting his driver's license today. I think I am the only one that's entirely excited with that happening.
Every afternoon, on the bus, we pass by this trailer park that is right across the street from this sparkling new high school. And every day, as I sit at the stop light, I watch the people move in and out of the trailers, walking around half-dressed and moaning. And it kind of breaks my heart knowing that in that crowd of people, there is probably someone with a PhD, or someone who has the knowledge to do something magnificent with their life.
And yet, there they sit in a trailer park -- right across from the bright new school.
Millions of words, thousands of combinations... and I have nothing to say.
Today is my parents' 17 year anniversary. Though they have had their low times (and, thus, high times), they lived through their troubles and still have each other to show their loves.
Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May the future years be as good as the past.
WORK, BLOGGER, WORK!