I'm no longer paranoid about work. I'm too damn busy. I'm guessing that's a good thing.

Mary and I went to see Metropolis, the opening of the Chicago Silent Film Festival, at the Gateway theater, which is way on the Northwest side of Chicago. Cool old theater, with the whole organ that rises from the floor thing. Tragically, I'm not that into theater organ music, but what can you do.

The film itself -- See, I wish I could turn off the whole 21st century ironic detachment thing and just let things sink in. Some of the visuals were stunning, and parts of the story were gripping, but I kept getting distracted by my own litany of barely suppressed snarky comments. It's just so different, seeing everyone in that seriously overdone pancake makeup, seeing how much of silent movies were acted with eyebrows and head wiggles, seeing a "garden of paradise" that looks like a matte painting Dr. Seuss did on an off day. But the things that went right... The sets were amazingly conceived, the robot was coonvincingly evil (although I never quite got WHY she was evil...I guess she just was), the end of the underground city was gripping... I dunno. I've got to let it sink in.

I was surpised at how racy bits of the movie were -- pre-Hayes code, and German for that matter, I guess they could get away with it. What the hell, it was the '20's, free love was the name of the game. But Mary and I both had a "poing!" moment when all of a sudden the evil robot is dancing around in pasties. (I'm not entirely sure how that served the story. Just showing the difference between the evil robot and who she is taking over for, I guess. Or maybe even at the dawn of cinema, they knew that nekkid chicks sold tickets. Sigh.)

Have to get up early to do some CCA stuff. I'm going to bed.

Went to see Devotchka, the Latin/Slavic/Polka/Punk band, and they kicked ass. (Sorry, Rob, I was too damn tired to stay for Slim Cessna's Auto Club. I am officially old.) You get a chance to see them, do. very cool. At one point or another, the band (five people, mind you) played guitar, banjo, accordion, fiddle, trumpet, tuba, clarinet, harmonica, saxophone, bass and drums. They all played at least two instruments. And who knew a tuba could rock out like that? And who knew you could make suicide sound so perky? (Yes, I JUST figured out what Danglin' Feet was about. Whaddaya want, I'm slow.)

The band reminded me a little of The Waterboys or the Pogues sometimes -- I don't know whether it's because the singer sounded a little like Mike Scott, or the fiddles just reminded me of those bands. And then they'd go off on a Slavic/gypsy rant, and it was something else altogether. Really fun. I wish they'd palyed longer, but I'm pretty damn tired so it's probably a good thing they didn't.

I used to do this, you know -- go out after work, stay up late, drink and carouse, and get up early the next morning without any problem. Tonight I had half a beer, a couple of club sodas, and was so tired I couldn't stay for the second band. Sigh. I'm a pretty sad case.

Just finished e by Matt Beaumont, the story of a London ad agency pitching for a campaign told entirely through e-mail messages. Hysterical. Plus, there's the added extra-special bonus of getting to match the people you work with against characters in the book. We all agree that Andy is very much Pinki, but I think Mary's got her own character wrong. She's picked herself out as Ken, which kinda fits, but I see her as more Lorraine, for the attitude. No, I don't think you'd be dropping your knickers in the elevator bay, but I can see you telling people exactly what you think. And the nail file isn't entirely out of the question, either.

As for me? I thought I was Harriet from the beginning, but nope. No way in hell, toward the end. I hope for Melinda. I fear Daniel.

Now trying to decide whther to hie my ass over to The Hideout, a bar I've never been to, to see some bands Rob recommends. They sound very tempting -- a Slavic/Latin/Polka/Punk band, and a Country/Gospel/Satanish band. The only problems are (1) it's a school night, as Tim Hill used to say, (2) it's an out-of-the-way place (hence the name), and (3) my friends are tending to hear the first two "buts" and decline my invitation. Do I want to hie my butt over there alone? Dunno yet. We shall see.

"Huzzah" is in the spell check. That makes me happy.

Wendy's company -- part of my former employer -- laid off a bunch of folks today. It's scary as hell. I'm getting paranoid at work, too. Oh, for a lottery win. Of course, I'd have to play the lottery for that to kick in, and that's just not going to happen, as I never win anything (Hmmm. I think I'm beginning to see the problem...)

Went and worked out with my trainer tonight (and yes, that's on my mental list of Things To Go Immediately if something horrific happens work-wise), for one of the last times. She just got certified as a physical therapist, and is doing contracting gigs for a couple of different hospitals, so she's giving up her training clients. Alas. She's great, because she makes me work my ass off and makes me laugh at the same time. I don't know if I'll stick with a trainer when she goes -- I might try to motivate myself to go into the gym, but historically, I haven't been that successful. That, and she says the guy who'll probably take over my training is a fireman. Yowza. I think there's some city ordinance that you must be at least highly attractive to work for the fire department. I'm fine with that.

Why a trainer? Because I'm going to Australia (huzzah!) and I want to (1) climb the Sydney bridge, (2) take a three-day sea-kayaking trip, and (3) seduce Russell Crowe or some reasonable facsimile thereof. Actually, I'm kind of over Russell Crowe (I mean, Meg Ryan? What the hell?), but I'll take Hugh Jackman and/or Guy Pearce. I know, I don't ask for much.

Still having template problems, as you can probably tell. I'll try to straighten it out over the weekend, but I make no promises.

Fooled around with my potential new template again tonight. We'll see how it goes.

I admitted defeat and returned a book I was reading to the library, which I hate doing. I tend to want to keep renewing it until I'm done, but I just don't have the time or brainpower to devote to it right now. I was reading From Dawn to Decadence : 500 Years of Western Cultural Life, by Jacques Barzun, and I was enjoying it, but it's 800-plus pages, and it takes energy and thought to digest it. I just don't have that now. Things are starting to heat up at work as we prepare to launch a new product, and I only have energy for brain candy as recreational reading. I will pick up Dawn to Decadence again, I think, I just need more time and more sleep before I can tackle it.

One thing I did notice in the 100 pages I did get through -- this book is a prime candidate for e-book or some other electronic format. He tried to do it in print, identifying themes in all caps and putting references to pages where these themes are visited again, or from a different perspective. It would have been a fascinating book to meander through. As the book is basically about Western cultural life and development, the whole linear format did not serve it well. I would love to see what a good information architect couold do to a work of such scope.

I tired to sneak out of the library without checking anything else out -- I got books for my birthday that I really want to read -- but failed. Picked up a couple of mysteries -- Slayer of Gods and The PMS Outlaws. Slayer of Gods is the latest in the Lord Meren series, a group of mysteries set in ancient Egypt in the reign of Tutankhamun. I've been waiting for this one to come out for a while, because the last one, Drinker of Blood, ended with a cliffhanger -- three years ago. Argh. As for the second book, I like the author, Sharyn McCrumb, a lot, although I prefer her mysteries set in Appalachia to her Elizabeth McPherson mysteries. It feels like she's trying too hard to be whimsical with these. They tend to be good for a diversion, but they're not something I'd want to keep.

Tried another fix that Rob sent. Still not working. I'm pissed off, because it's crashing Netscape, and I'm one of the three people left inthe world that are sticking to Netscape on general principal. Sigh. Anyway, still trying to fix things. Any suggestions welcome.

Interesting. I can find the code Sam says is screwing me up when I view source on my page, but I can't find it when I look in the template via Blogger. How odd. Perhaps this is something I consult with Wendy on. Or, Sam, Andy, Mary, Rich, Rob, anyone else -- simple ideas of how to fix code blogger won't let me see?

Bummer. Rob's fix didn't work. (I'm glad I decided the Fiendish Plot budget was not up for supplying him with a flunky to give him Hugh Jackman treatment.) Alas. Now to try Sam's....

Wow, I have lots of friends that want to save me from script error hell. I just pasted some code Rob sent into the template, and that seems to have fixed the problem. Huzzah, Rob! I have no idea what I just did, of course, and I'm sort of relying on Rob to be doing this out of the goodness of his heart, and not as part of an evil plan to destroy the web and through that civilization as we know it with me just an unknowing pawn bwah hah hah hah. Knowing Rob as I do, that's probably a very foolish assumption. Bummer. Oh well. As Kiki the ferret in Sluggy Freelancer says, "Stay good, Rob!" (poing, poing, poing!)

I also got advice on how to fix this from Sam, who graciously sent me a fix even though I recently removed a link to one of his blogs from my site. Thanks Sam. You're back in my links list, as a sign of gratitude.

Right. So here's the deal. Wendy came upstairs, got me to more or less explain what I want to do, cried in horror at the table structure and CSS in the template I chose to tweak (yes, I know there's a script error, and that's one of the things I'm trying to get fixed), and suggested I start from scratch. She'll help me futz with the code as necessary. This is going to take a little while, but should be fun. A brand new blog is on its way...

Oh, and Jeremy, here are the archives you asked for. Lucky you.

So I'm fooling around with my template, and things are going somewhat awry. Sigh. I called Wendy, and tried to bribe her to come up and help me. "Are you fooling around with code?" "yes." "I'll be up soon."

This will start looking better soon. Thank god for tech geeks.

Ah, the joy of perspective. Upon reflection, I realize the problem was all about expectations. I expected the usual passel of people, and when I didn't get the usual passel of people, I was disappointed. Had I not been expecting said passel, I would have just kicked back and relaxed and had fun with the four folks who were there. (I also wouldn't have made so much sangria -- and Mary, you could have just told me you didn't like it, and I would have gotten over making two pitchers' worth, which, by the way, is only about two gallons -- and bought less food.) It's like going to see a movie you've heard so much about (or believed the David manning blurbs about), or, worse, buying into the whole "it's New Year's Eve [Valentine's Day, my birthday, etc.], and therefore I must have a fabulous time on this day of all days, because it's the law, and if I don't, I'm impossibly sad and lame." Well, that's bullshit. Why believe that you must have fun and/or transcendent moments on the same schedule as the rest of the world? That's tremendously limiting, and makes it all the more likely that you'll miss moments when you're not expecting them.

I need to follow Jude's lead and become more Buddhist in my outlook toward these things.

So again, I apologize to Mary, Andy, Wendy and Tripp for letting my expectations blind me to the fun of the situation in and of itself. You all are tremendously cool for not telling me that my head was so far up my ass I was, in fact, looking at the world through my belly button.

Note to self: Maybe RSVP isn't such a bad idea after all. Who knew.

A thought -- when I said I had no friends, I in no way meant to deingrate Andy, Mary, Tripp and Wendy. They all kick ass, and I had a good time with them. It's just ... well, normally, I get at least 10, and up to 20, 30, even 60 people at my place for these things. So, yeah. I was just evidently a little wigged, and regressing to junior high, which is just not anywhere that I want to go. Sigh.

At least the cats still love me. See, they're rubbing up against me and meowing and... oh wait, they just want to be fed. Crap.

Note to Newton, who is coming to visit in September: Normally my parties are (1) better, and (2) better attended. The one I throw when you're in town will be. I promise. No, I wouldn't have more of a life if I was living in Northern Ireland. Really.

You know when you're giving a party, and it's, like, five minutes past when you told people to show up, and no one is there, and you (meaning I) immediately assume that no one is coming because everyone hates you and they only pretend to be your friends and they all laugh about you behind your back in Ms. Pryzbylinski's English class? Pretty stupid, right? I mean, you wouldn't let your entire self-worth rest on who did or didn't show up to a shindig, right? Right?

Paging Dr. Therapist.... Desperate patient on line one....

Parties are really kind of a joke with me and Wendy -- she makes me have at least one a month, because that's the only time she's sure I clean. Pathetic, yes, but there you go. And they're fun -- I just tend to send out invites to everyone I know on god's green earth, and whoever shows, shows. Usually, it all works out. I have a wacky theme (yes, I throw wacky theme parties -- more on Jersild Day later), people show up, there is much to eat and drink, we hang out, it's all good. And then sometimes....

So I made a couple of pitchers of Sangria (yum), bought a bunch of cheese and chips and dips and such, cleaned the apartment, and waited for people to show. And waited. And waited. At about 8:30, I called Wendy and said "I'm lonely, come upstairs." She did. She ate some of the massive amounts of food I bought (It's this weird Jersild thing, I think -- we're very food-oriented. God forbid anyone should leave our home hungry.) We drink, we chat, I joke that everyone hates me and no one's going to show up, I keep checking the window... I'm half joking, but damn, it's been a hour, surely someone will show up at some point. Andy and Mary said they'd come, although I'm half afraid they're still circling the block waiting for a parking space to open up directly in front of my house so they can just dash for the door. Tripp said he was coming, and bringing friends. There's a bunch of other people who sounded like they were going to come.... I'm not going to worry about it. This is me not worrying about it. Yup. Still not worrying. Just drifiting over to the window, for no apparently reason. Isn't it amazing how little stressing about this I'm doing? Boy, am I calm and collected about this. Yeah, just joking that no one is going to show up. Heh heh. Heh. He...aw crap. I've got like 60 pounds of cheese, and I am NOT eating it all myself. Someone better show.

Sure, Wendy's here, but she lives here -- she couldn't escape if she tried. So we're sitting, we're talking, we're eating, I sorta give up and realize that, no, no one is coming, and yes, everyone hates me. But in a good way. Really. Whimper.

About 9:30 or 10 or so, when I was throughoughly demoralized, I hear the bell ring. Huzzah! It's Mary and Andy, quivering with fear and asking if there are always so many people out on the street at night, and are those guys always playing poker there? (Answers: It's really hot, and most folks in this neighborhood don't have air con. Therefore, it's cooler to stay outside. And those guys aren't playing poker, they're playing dominos, and they're really very sweet. For god's sake, they're grandparents, not gangbangers.) But joy, someone showed. (Rich, I was instructed to tell you that Mary and Andy did show up. Let it be so noted.) So we hang out for a little while, talking and considering whether we should play the Buffy game, and the bell rings again, and it's Tripp. Huzzah again. But wasn't he supposed to bring folks? Ah, alas, they begged off. Fine. Dawnmarie and Joy and Kevin don't really love me. I'll get over it. Sniffle.

So we hang, and we try to play the Buffy game, but I've had a bit too much Sangria (of the five of us there, only three drink, and Andy's a serious lightweight who's sticking to hard lemonade), and it's really, really complicated. Perhaps it's something we should tackle sober. We give up. We gossip about friends of ours, play celebrities (for the record, Mary and I kicked Andy and Wendy's ass, and that's even taking into account that Andy was playing a little fast and loose with the rules. Bastard.), eat more. Newton calls, pissed (in the British sense). It's 6 a.m. there, and he's just getting home. He terrorizes Mary for a little while, then chats with me, obviously expecting some sort of wild behavior to be going on. Sigh. Alas. It was not to be.

So that's about it. Mary and Andy and Tripp and Wendy showed, we hung out, they left. Everyone else I know has obviously abandonned me (because, you know, it's all a direct reflection on me -- nobody could have anything else going on in their lives or anything. I mean, really. The idea.) I have enough Sangria to float a boat -- I'm thinking I'm going to start making the cats drink it. I have a very clean apartment. I have no friends. I have obviously regressed to 13 years old.

Anyone want some sangria and cheese?