Why does everybody hate the name "Baby?"

Colonel Rhombus just said, "I have a blog with your real names in it and pictures and I talk about how much I hate you, and the president reads it."

This is the first time I've ever "blogged" from a coffee shop. I had a request from my brother to tell everybody out there in internetland about the gentleman with whom I dropped off some stuff that I trucked across the country, whom I'll call Martin. Because that's his first name. The plan was to meet Martin at his trailer park in Riverside, which is about 45 minutes from Pasadena. I had talked to Martin on the phone many times, and I had a mental image of him as a strapping 20-something man who was slightly taller than me. I imagined that he was pretty clean-cut and played tennis or possibly ran for fun.

Long story short, I got to the trailer park (which was in the middle of the city, by the way) long before Martin and loaded the stuff into his trailer. I was waiting in Col. Rhombus's Jetta when a slight, bald woman pulled up behind me in a Geo Metro. She was accompanied by two large 30-year-old men. I got out of the Jetta, thinking that Martin must be one of the men, but then the woman gets out and I realize that she's TOPLESS, but it's kind of OK because she doesn't really have breasts. She reaches out her hand and says, in Martin's voice, "Hi, I'm Martin."

Martin is probably five feet tall, and weighs about 85 pounds. He's covered in tatoos, and has many body piercings. The hard part about telling this story is explaining why I thought he was a woman, and may actually have been a woman. He had a feminine face and wide hips, but the most obious womanly characteristic was his huge nipples. Now, I know there are some men out there with big nips, but disembodied, nobody would ever mistake them for a woman's. Martin's were definitely a woman's.

After I met Martin, the whole exchange got a lot more sketchy. He took about five minutes to count the $150 he was giving me (seven 20's and two fives), and he kept alternating between staring at me and avoiding eye contact. Anyway, I don't think I've done the awkwardness of the situation justice, so suffice it to say that it was a little bit weird.

This combined with the agressive solicitation from a 50-year-old prostitute that I received at about 9:00 this morning and numerous encounters I've had with street folk and juvenile delinquents today, and it's amazing that I'm enjoying L.A. as much as I am.

P.S.: Watch "Napoleon Dynamite" as soon as you can. It's flippin' sweet.

Well, I finally made it. Actually, Chet and I made it to Pasadena a few days ago, but this is the first time I've had real internet access (i.e.: not dial-up or dodgy wireless) since.

Loading the truck sucked, because I had to do it mostly by myself, and I was late getting the stuff from our friends. Fortunately, they let me take a break while about a dozen of their closest friends (in North Carolina) packed their belongings into the truck. Not all of their stuff fit, however, so we had to leave some.

Pulling a car behind your moving truck makes things less fun and a lot slower, in case anybody was wondering. There were no major incidents, but I didn't pass a single car on my way from NC to Austin. Think about that. Not even one. I did, however get over 11 mpg on that leg of the trip, which is about 4 mpg more than I expected.

The first leg was BORING, and my second day of driving lasted 16 hours. I got to eat some excellent country-fried steak at my grandmother's house in Laurel, MS, though, and BABY was waiting for me at the end of the day, so it was worth pushing on.

The second leg of the trip was significantly more interesting, due to CHET's presence. I let him drive for about ten minutes the second day. Actually, on our second day we drove for about 18 hours. It sucked. West Texas is beautiful. Arizona is a barren wasteland. Well, the I-10 corridor is, at least.

Enough boring stuff. The great part of this story is that Pasadena is amazing, and the weather could hardly be better. It feels like it's about 72 degrees all the time, and there's usually a slight breeze coming in off the ocean. The other great part is that Chet and I just finished loading up my storage unit, and -- oh, yeah -- I GOT A JOB. I'm going to be working for Fuller in the computer lab. It'll be similar to the job I had at UT five years ago as an undergrad, but I'll be making slightly less money.

I'll be spending the next few days working, looking for a house, and -- until July 4th -- waiting for Baby to get here. And I won't be driving a 15' truck, if I can avoid it.

For those of you who don't already know, Baby's mom broke a kneecap a few days ago, so Baby left for Beaumont Wednesday to go take care of her. That means that I get to pack my moving truck and drive to Austin ALL BY MYSELF, as the song says. Yeah! Melio came down this week, though, and helped me pack.

School's out, and I'm missing graduation right now, because Baby has the car. Oh well. I didn't really want to go anyway. I said goodbye to all of my fellow teachers yesterday at the La Hacienda bar in Chapel Hill yesterday. It was strangely not sad. I nearly wept when Baby had to say goodbye to all the kids she takes care of, yet when I saw all the people I've worked with for the last ten months for the very last time (probably), I wasn't sad at all. It felt nice.

Well, I have to go return my cable modem now. Woo-hoo. Twenty hours with no car, no TV, and no internet. At least I have some DVDs to entertain me. I'll be on the road for the next week. Hopefully I'll be able to keep up my strenuous blogging schedule. If you live off Interstate 12, 10, 85, or 59 and you see a 15' Penske truck drive by in the next few days, wave. That'll be me.

Lazlo and I just got our new cell phones, and while reviewing the terms, we noticed that our phones are not insured against damage by "cancelbots." I'm tempted to stock up on propane and water, board up my windows with plywood and wait out the coming cancelbot invasion. Now might not be the time to travel cross-country.

In twenty years of treking through the backwoods of East Texas, swimming creeks, wading swamps, fishing and hiking in abandoned logging cuts, I never once got a tick. It's a testament to the true suckiness of north carolina that the state is so infested with ticks. My doctor told me to mark my calendar and watch for Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Is this a joke? In addition to cancelbots I have to worry about Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. I could ask Dick and the rest of the hillbillies, it sounds like something they'd definitely know about, but I like to forestall a moonshine induced gropefest whenever possible.

Every mom I work for is pretty frantic. Cole's mom insists on strip tick searches (which is pretty confusing to Cole) and calls me at home to talk about a woman in her neighborhood with lyme disease. I'm officially banned from taking 6 mo Eric under any trees because I've found 4 (FOUR) ticks during diaper changes. Ramona is the only safe one, thanks to the vet-sanctioned tube of gunk I put on her back last night. Since then it's been a constant battle to keep her off the furniture. A battle I finally lost after I woke up to find her rubbing the pesticides all over Lazlo's pillow. I'm going to turn it inside out and hope he doesn't notice the smell. At least he won't get fleas and ticks.

Holy moses, I'm ready for school to be over. And guess what? It's ALMOST OVER. I'm writing my Spanish I and II finals right now. After fourth period tomorrow, I won't have to teach another real class at my school, ever again. All that will be left then will be some movies, a graduation, an awards ceremony, a couple of failing students, and me setting up a bunch of computers. And then we move!

And then I get to attend a JUUNE PARTY in LOS ANGELES. That's right, COLONEL RHOMBUS's band JUUNE, which is DESTINED TO ROCK (possible album name?) will be playing a SWANK PARTY on June 26, 2004, somewhere in LA COUNTY -- and you're all invited!

(I've just come to find out that JUUNE isn't a new band after all. The Colonel has just recently joined them. Who knew?)

Anyway, I've got to write these damned finals.

I simply can't get to sleep.

First, it was the restless legs and flipping over, switching pillows, et c., but then I progressed to reading a magazine in the kitchen and staring at my face in the bathroom mirror. Then I laid on my back for about twenty minutes and stared at the ceiling.

At this point, either there was a crashing noise in my living room, or I started having auditory hallucinations. I dug the Maglite out of my moving bag and went to go check out the noise (at most 20 feet away). I found nothing. The dog didn't wake up, so I may have imagined it. Baby didn't wake up, of course, but that's because she sleeps like a sandbag. I turned on my bedside lamp when I first "heard" the "noise," but Baby didn't even twitch. I dropped the flashlight on our wooden floors and got no reaction from her whatsoever.

At that point, I should have known that there was no chance of me sleeping anytime soon. I laid in bed and listened to my heart pounding in my ears from the waning adrenaline. And here I am now, blogging.

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We took the pictures off the walls tonight, and most of the shelves were already down. My house is starting to look pretty bare. We painted after we put up shelves, so there's a white pi shape on our red living room wall where a shelf sat above the computer.

Also, my armpit itches horribly. The stick says to discontinue use in case of irritation, but seriously, how practical is that? I'm supposed to go without indefinitely?

Well, I guess I'll go give sleeping another shot. I feel sorry for all the real insomniacs out there. This sucks.

That's what Wimpkiller is. I see other websites like gas stations or hotels on the metaphorical Internet highway. Wimpkiller is like a cul de sac in a hip, pre-gentry neighborhood.

Anyway, Baby and I spent our MEMORIAL DAY packing the house up. It's a good feeling to have as much done as we do, and to get rid of stuff we don't need. Speaking of which, if anybody needs a truck-sized band-type OIL FILTER WRENCH (Rupato should remember buying this on accident), an extremely ugly cloth PURSE, a Sony digital ANSWERING MACHINE, an unopened TABOO game, or a FOLDING LUGGAGE CART, send me an e-mail.

I also got my FINANCIAL AID AWARD LETTER this weekend. Woo-hoo! Maybe I'll be able to get that job soon.

Oh, and Krista: we live in Durham, NC (home of the world's butchest lesbians), and we're moving to Pasadena, CA -- Home of Beck Hansen, Trader Joe's, and Fuller Theological Seminary.

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Baby was hit on relentlessly yesterday by our hillbilly neighbor Dick at the laundromat. Dick's probably about 60 years old. He grabbed the newpaper out of her hands and started reading it out loud. "See? I can read! I bet you thought I couldn't," he boasted. Baby found her way away from Dick only to be hit on by Cruz. If you want to hear more, Baby's going to have to write about it herself.

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The best Hank Hill quote ever -- by far -- is:

"Peggy, I'm trying to control this outbreak and you're driving the monkey to the airport."