may 1, 2001. Yargh. So much to catch up on. I am reminded of that night in the spring of 1998 when I wrote my entry at night fall. Cranly was curled up in an inflatable sofa on my res room floor and it seemed like the day was over. But then things went on. When I last wrote I was in the grip of a very strange migraine experience that was more about anticipating pain than actually experiencing it. Still, after a rather lousy attempt to write about it, I was just about ready to kiss the day good bye. (I wish we had curtains in our bedroom...when I want to suck out at seven o'clock these days, I have to deal with the psychological humiliation of seeing golden sunlight stream through the window. Every kid impulse in my brain wants to run outside & play on a bike, even though my body feels like pounded trash.) I was about to drift off to sleep, all cozy in my square of sunlight (oh man, I just had a huge insight into Ceilidh's worldview) when I heard the fateful knock on the door. The Boy wandered into the bedroom. "Jerry & Keri are here," he said. "I'm sleeping," I mumbled. "Do you think you could spend some time hanging out with us?" I thought about repeating myself. But I'm a terrible sucker for peer pressure. I may like hanging out by myself, but I have an embarrassing tendency to throw myself at the nearest group of friendly humans. So I dragged myself off the floor futon, put on some pants & went out to join the fun. Funny thing about social activity. Sometimes it's just what the doctor ordered. We watched Tie Dyed, a documentary about the Grateful Dead that amusingly enough doesn't contain a single minute of concert or interview footage with any member of the Grateful Dead. Jerry & Keri have spent a few summers following Phish and the Dead (selling grilled cheese, happily enough), and we thought it would be awesome to watch it all together. They also brought a bunch of snacks, which is terribly endearing. So we chilled, munched & giggled whenever someone with terrible teeth would reflect unironically upon their parents living in "Babylon." And there was a lot of unironic philosophy among some of the younger Dead Heads. I dunno. I'm sure that if I experienced it first hand, I wouldn't be half as cynical about the whole thing. But that chance - just like my chance to see the Ramones - is long gone. Strumpet death. (Sorry. Went all cheesy Shakespeare for a moment. We now return you to your normal programming.) Part way through the movie Miri called up to ask us over to the Brown House for drink & chat. Honest to god, I haven't felt this popular in a long frigging time, people. At the Brown House we listened to dance music, discussed sound educational practise and thought about playing a game of Candyland. Miri lovingly fed me a white russian, which I've never had before. It's just as good as it looks in The Big Lebowski. "Hey! I've got a beverage here!" It was extremely mellow and we only left when responsible thoughts about today's workday reasserted themselves. As soon as we got home the booze knocked me right out and I awoke at 7 this morning considerably happier than I was yesterday. Yay! Better living through pasteurized milk... 2:30 p.m. I don't know when I made the transition from going to fun places to looking at other people's photos of fun places. (I remember her in that costume. I thought it was kind of cheesy, actually.) Frigging Nova Scotia. I really don't mind it very much until I've got a computer, a free net connection and too much time on my hands. This morning's seminar was on copyright violation and how I've apparently been running outlaw for years on my webpage and in my classrooms. Hah. Just try & stop me from showing a bunch of bored grade 12's a video production of Marlowe's Faust. You'll never catch me alive, copper. This summer I'll be indentured to a university department that will have me design course web pages, which should mean coding whole lot of HTML, using a bit of teaching theory and maybe even learning a bit of Flash if I play my cards right. And - oddly enough - French: since they run training camps in both official languages, they're in desperate need of French instructors and hold regular French lunches to encourage the employees to brush up on the language. Wonder of wonders, I just might be able to apply for my Masters by getting close & snuggly with this here European language. But even that exciting possibility seems by the by; I'm already certain that I'll end this summer with a tonne of interesting qualifications on my resume; the Flash and French are bonuses. On my way back to the training room I ran into my Reading professor. We ended up chatting for 20 minutes, parting only when the conversation turned to death. "We have to see each other again this summer," she said over her shoulder, "You still haven't explained this whole goth thing yet." "And you haven't explained the whole Russia thing yet," I replied. I wasn't just being polite; I really would like to find out how & why she spent so much time in the Soviet Union. I'll keep you posted.