I'm writing this from the fabulous Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Woo.

Closing went off without a hitch. Easiest thing I've ever done. Thanks to everyone for their support.

The flight here was the one of the most painful experiences of my life. Due continuing sinus problems, my left ear would not equalize pressure properly, reslting in near-paralyzing pain for almost four hours. Yes, I know all the little tricks for getting ears to pop. No, they didn't work. Trust me, I've been flying for thirty years. When we got here, Mel revved up and went gambling, I had a few drinks and collapsed in a coma while the overly loud band at Harrah's outside bar played "Rock You Like A Hurricane" until 0300 or so. This year's Rollercon is shaping up to be less entertaining than last years, or maybe I just need to change my attitude.

In other news, what do you call someone who dosen't write or call his best friend or six months, and misses his birthday? A bad friend. Or Chris. Same thing.
I'm sorry, b. I'll call you when I get home.

Sick again. Motherfucker.

Here's a fun story:
I hate going to the doctor. Really, really, hate it. I don't have a phobia or anything; I just don't like waiting around for a ridiculously long time before a doctor comes in and asks me a few somewhat random questions, nods solemnly, and says "It's a virus. You should feel better in a week. But if you don't, then it's bacterial, and we'll start you on antibiotics."
Well, thanks for that. It's good to know that I'll only be sidelined for two or three weeks, max. For what is essentially a cold. And then I'll get to deal with the insurance company. What a colossal waste of time.

Today at the local sports-themed haircut place (just shut up, they do an acceptable job), I was watching one of the many, many television sets as a bored employee flipped through the channels. She paused for just a second at a bold-looking title screen that read:
"World Cup of Poo"
...or so I thought. As it turns out, the oblique viewing angle I was at cut off the ending "L" from my perspective. How long did I have to think about this before I figured it out? Pretty damned long. No man should have to sit in a barber chair for ten minutes thinking that there is such a sporting event on cable t.v.

This might be the worst possible time to be sick. I don't know when the best time to be sick is, but I do know that is not when you need to be setting up home inspections, termite inspections, dropping off papers to your lender, going to roller derby practice and band practice. Am I pathetic? Yes I am.

Yeah, so, I was at a party the other day and someone mentioned that a mutual friend had a great blog, and then we talked about blogging, and I thought of this thing, all covered in dust, hungry and cold, scared and alone in the dark corners of the web, waiting for me to post some random, poorly-written trivia about my life. So here I am, nourishing my blog, spurred on not by pride, but out of a nagging feeling that these little electrons may well be the only mark I leave on earth.

Also, I am buying house. Right now I'm basking in the warm and fuzzy feeling of accomplishment that I get from having come from the very brink of financial ruin five years ago to soon-to-be homeowner. It is true that the lion's share of the work to make me into a responsible human was done by Mel, but I'm proud anyway. I close on the 29th.

Oh, and the roommate I mentioned in the last post has been the greatest roomate ever, despite his lack of doing dishes and his obsession with World of Warcraft. It's been a great time, Josh, and we'll miss you. And your unicorn.

Bless me, blogger, for I have sinned. It has been about four months since my last confession. Paying rent and a mortgage sucks. Hopefully someone will rent out our condo soon. I'm going to midnight shift for the phat-ass shift differential. We're taking a roommate. He's in the Army and just got back from his first tour in Iraq. Our mutual friend is there right now. Our computer hard drive took a shit last week, so we bought a new laptop. Goodbye, all of our mp3s and photos. Missed most: pic of my favorite hot girlfriend with my favorite hot bartender; pic of B holding a can of PBR like he's endorsing it; mp3 of Little River Band's "Reminiscing". My parents are psychotic. Maybe more later.

It's Savannah. I start with my new employer on 10/16/2006. I am fucking terrified.

Now, those of you that know me may be thinking: "Chris may be unable to pay bills/taxes/traffic tickets/whatever on time, lives in constant fear of many, many things, and doesn't bathe regularly/punched me in the face that one time/broke my heart/stole my car/still owes me ten bucks/called me an asshole, but he usually has his shit together when he's turning wrenches."

You'd be right. However, it's not the job I'm worried about. It's this damned house. Here's a scene from two years ago:

Me: "You know, honey, since we're planning on staying for a while, we should stop paying rent and get in on some of this gi-friggin-gantic Northern Virginia real estate boom, you know?"
Her: "That's retarded. Do you have (a very, very large number of dollars) to buy a house with?"
Me: "No, but we could save a little, and they have these creatively structured mortgages now that allow first-time home buyers like us to afford places."
Her: "Well, I don't really want to get something expensive. Let's just buy the cheapest place available that dosen't have an ongoing tuberculosis outbreak in it, and see how that goes. Let us call a real estate agent."
Real Estate Agent: "Did someone call me?"
Us (in unison): "We'd like to buy a tidy and inexpensive apartment. We would prefer it to not smell like dog, curry, or gunpowder. Actually, it should not smell like anything."
R.E.A.: "Here are several to choose from."
Us: "We'll take the least expensive."
R.E.A. "That will be (a number of dollars which I had previously thought to be made up; something like "eleventy billion" or "infinity time infinity"). See you later."
Me: "What a beautiful home we've made, darling. I hope a combination of economic factors, job dissatisfaction, and personal distaste for the Mid-Atlantic region in general don't come together to screw us later on."
(Ominous music swells)

I want a do-over. I feel like a complete moron. I've finally been trained to start acting more or less like an adult, and I completely fuck up the one big decision that I lobbied so hard for. Yay for me.

Must be time to post again.

Item: Looking for a new job/venue
Status: Ongoing
Details: Interview next week for Gulfstream in Savannah (Pros- Large, well-run company. Good products. Near the beach. Cheap. Closer to friends/family. Cons- No nearby schools for Mel. Hot. Closer to family.)
Chicago station opening up (Pros- Post is with current employer. Schools available for Mel. Cheaper than D.C. Living near some cool stuff would be a good change. Cons- Don't know anyone there. Cold in winter. Work may suck ass. )
Plenty of work in Greensboro (Pros- Cheap. Some friends live there. Cons- No schools for Mel. Not near anything. Work may suck ass.)

Item: Installing A/C on the Miata
Status: Ongoing
Details: Vagaries of metric standard hardware initially impeded progress. Now need condenser fan. Suck.

Item: Getting rid of the Acura
Status: Under Consideration
Details: Initial problems (No goddamned ipod adapter on a car manufactured in 2006? Screw you.) overcome by installing new headunit (Thanks, Mel!). It is now the perfect car. Except for the payment.

Item: Selling the House
Status: Terrifying
Details: I don't even want to discuss how this might screw us for the next thirty years.

Item: Trip to ATL
Status: Under Consideration
Details: Maybe for my birthday.

"Let's go out and buy a statistically average meal from a large multinational restaurant chain. That usually fixes about seventy-five percent of life's problems."

I never know when the newest Douglas Coupland book is coming out. Actually that's not true: the newest book comes out after I stop checking to see when the newest book comes out. It usually comes out about a week before I wander into a bookshop and randomly look in the "C" section. The only exception to this is when I sent Mel transatlantic to get me a copy of Eleanor Rigby, because it wasn't scheduled to come out soon anywhere around here.

See you in hell, 2001 and 2002 tax seasons!

A crushing burden has finally been lifted, and it would not be possible without the help of my lovely girlfriend.

If we move to Savannah, will any of you visit us?

A dream of mine:

That Guy vs. That Other Guy

Brought to you courtesy of my having watched Lebowski last night and Batman today.

P.S.- Dear Christopher Nolan: Alfred the Butler is supposed to speak in Recieved Pronunciation. I love Michael Caine too, but he's strictly working-class in the accent department.

My friend and collague, DF, while listening to Aldo Nova's Fantasy:
"When I was twelve, I thought nothing could ever be more metal than this song. Maybe some sort of song written by robots. Robots with laser guitars. But this song already kind of sounds like that, so I guess I was right in the first place."

I am honored to work with the finest.

Also, [belated] birthday wishes to my [slightly-older-than-me-but-much-much-cooler] main man, b!

I only ever think of this thing when I'm reading other people's (vastly cooler)writings. Then I sometimes click on the link to see if I wrote anything. I didn't.

Wednesday, 0530 local- Body temperature: 100.1F, chowing down on a delicious salad at Amphora Diner. Feeling euphoric for having snuck out of work early. Knowing sickness is imminent. Not caring.

Wednesday, 1520 local- Body temperature: 101.2F, calling in sick to work. Driving to the doctor, knowing that diagnosis will surely be H5N1 strain of influenza. Thinking of how much gravity that will lend to blogging and general demeanor.

Thursday, 0230 local- Body temperature: unknown, weeping with pride in having set personal best by coughing uninterrupted for past fifteen hours. Without inhaling.

Thursday, 0550 local- Body temperature: 312K, mentally composing vicious rant about total inadequacy of alleged "cough supressant" products offered by modern medicine.

Thursday, 0640 local- Body temperature: Spicy Cajun, rant now includes scathing indictment of entire heathcare and pharmaceutical industries. Contains allusions to Restless Leg Syndrome (...my leg is restless to head straight up all their asses!) and Viagra (...some fat, pasty, millionaire in his erect-penis-shaped pool diverting cough-supressant research dollars into boners for Social Security recipients.).

Thursday, 0900 local- Body temperature: not funny anymore, girlfriend employed in healthcare industry offers comfort, drugs. Rant scrapped as juvenile, nonsensical. Blessed sleep.

Thursday, 1300 local- Commence Chapter 1134 of "Shogun". Another first: enough pills to actually fill stomach! No room or desire to eat other meals today!

Friday, more of the same...

Friday, 2130 local- unveiling of new Mel hairstyle. Fetching. Actually, pretty damned sexy. Temporarily forget about badger in chest gnawing on lungs.

Saturday, 1300 local- against better judgement, attend local beer festival with locals. Imbibe.

Saturday, 1430 local- monsoon season begins. Search in vain for shelter for new $500 digital camera. Endure endless witticisms concerning shirt color and desire for female companinons to have worn instead. Imbibe.

Saturday, 1800 local- aimlessly noodle on guitar while naked and semi-dressed women meander around condo.

Saturday, 2100 local- eat Mexican food while being entertained by band whose singer sounds disturbingly like Natalie Merchant.

Sunday, 1300 local- back to work

Monday, 0230 local- decide to compose rambling, disjointed, poorly written post due to lack of broken aircraft, reading material, and nocturnal associates.

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I am waiting for parts for a thrust reverser.

nor do I understand why you would want to waste the time and money rounding up eleven million people who obviously want to be here quite badly.
I work with a guy named John. He's retired from the British Navy, and retired from United Airlines. Imagine that. Two fucking pensions. I wonder what I'll get when I retire.
"I worked my ass off for thirty years and all I got was this stupid fucking t-shirt."

We spend money like it might suddenly rot. At the Tyson's Corners mall, my tired mind alternated between "What an orgy of consumerism!" and "This bird flu will certainly kill us all."
I was sure the index case was lurking around somewhere. At least the new car and flat panel t.v. will keep us numb until we die, raving feverishly and shitting out our own intestines. Also, she got a lovely cashmere sweater.

About an hour ago, my boss' boss walked in and informed me that the new office at DCA would need parts. Imagine that. An aircraft maintenance facility might need to stock aircraft parts. He also informed me that he didn't know what parts to get, or how to get them there, or how to account for the inventory. (That darn F.A.A. is so picky about aircraft parts and their whereabouts.) He decidied that at 0300, I should drop what I was doing and get him a nice, well-planned inventory in a tidy box for this station that opens Wednesday. I don't want to whine, but everyone has known that we were opening a station for six months now. Additionally, at least three people are on the totem pole above me, and jobs like this are squarely in their purview. They are specifically not in mine. So fuck them in the ass with a pointed stick.
(I'll probably do it, but I'd better get another fat raise.)

Tonight I browsed through some old pictures in my phone. I like this one, but it makes feel guilty because I haven't talked to this guy in a while. I guess that's easy enough to remedy.

My car is fucked up. I do not look forward to tearing it apart tomorrow. Which is why I've been glomming rides off co-workers and friends for two weeks.

Motorcycle or expensive symbolic jewelry? The decision has been made...

Gas station food for dinner every night: I love taquitos and Icees.
Gas station food for dinner every night: My stomach hurts as if I have been bayonetted.

I am proud to work for a Canadian company. As soon as I learn French, I'm moving to Montreal.

Hello, blog. I would say that I've missed you, but we both know that that would be a lie. I've been so busy, but for some reason, I feel guilty about offering the details to you as a consolation prize.
I can tell you that West Virginia is pretty around this time of year, and you'd have to believe me.
I might mention that I now know a bit more about a certain airplane, and quite a lot more about inter-company politics, and you couldn't question me.
My eight-ball game is absolutely ripping. You can't deny it.
I am a year older. My car is broken. We are buying a garage. M- started a new job, and will soon be traveling to it in a brand-new car. My parents are divorced. My father is basically unemployed. My brother is building an airplane. One of my best friends is getting married soon. My ten-year high school reunion is being planned as we speak.
These are facts. But they won't console you in my absence. You want to know how I feel.
I am alternately elated and apprehensive.
But mostly, I feel fine.

Highlights for the week include: her return to the states, and more importantly, our home; time spent together; meals enjoyed; my first trip to Atlantic City; her miraculous repair of my ipod.
The blooper reel for the week includes: indigestion; losing money in Atlantic City (okay, I kind of expected that); ipod malfunction.

Really, it's a resounding victory for the "pros", and an utterly humiliating defeat for the "cons". Take that, you stupid cons!

She comes home tomorrow. Actually she comes home later today. I let the robot vacuum the floors when I left for work, put the sheets in the dryer, and generally tried to not mess the place up too bad. I think I feel a fake cold coming on for Tuesday night.

Friday night- after cleaning the house all day, friends from work came over to play some Madden 2006. For twelve and a half hours. It was fun, though. We drunkenly destroyed the living room and kitchen that I'd lovingly prepared for my beloved's return. I even put the PS2 on-line and we took turns playing random 14 year olds from New Jersey, while the non-playing two of us took turns talking trash on the headset. A good, but extremely dorky, time was had by all.

Someone has told me that the new Bret Easton Ellis novel is good. I really respect this person's opinion, so I guess I'll buy it. I only wrote this as a reminder to myself. Now I just need to put a reminder to blog in my refrigirator, and a reminder to buy groceries in my car, and I'll be a functioning member of society.