a social network dropout

I received a disturbing email today, from the long-silent Dismissed Date*. Besides the potentially bad news it contained, he was very dry, but he was writing to my business email and copying his business partner.

Basically, his email said he would be ending his business partnership at the end of the year, and did I want to take on the occasional contract job with the remaining partner. He didn't say why, or where he was headed.

I responded with a perfunctory yes, although I doubt I'll hear from his partner. He can't delegate and has trouble understanding why his writing needs editing.

I then went over to the address I use for personal email. I wrote DD a short note, saying that it would be a good idea to discuss the matter in person. I suggested we meet up at our favorite bookstore sometime in the next two weeks.

He didn't answer me today. I don't think he wants to meet me, as it takes control away. And it's hard to keep your mask on in person; it slips.

Lately I've come to realize that I want to have more face time with the people I know. The Internet has its qualities - I like to think of it is a large, 24-hour library, albeit an often-unreliable one. But chatting and tweeting seems to be turning a large portion of us into unhappy, isolated people, inventing relationships that don't go further than their imaginations and keyboards.

When I got home, I found my copy of Philip Slater's book The Pursuit of Loneliness and looked through the preface. Even though the book was written in the 1970s, the author had correctly guessed what a high-tech society would do to our relationships.

I'm not going to say I'm done with email. I still think it has its value. But I want a real life, not one played out on a laptop.

more reality, fewer dreams

Sometimes it seems that I live too much in the future and not enough in the present. I spend too much time daydreaming about a time when I've managed to solve my problems, be a little thinner, have progressed to blue or green shaolin belt, finish painting the house, and have at least one male admirer who will show up unannounced now and again.

I need a break.

Dexter-related lament (and spoiler)

Damn. I was right. They killed off Lundy.

life in the fast lane

Not wanting to think about the Poison Dwarf's latest scheme (more about that later) all weekend, I accepted a last-minute invitation from the motorcyclist I met near Hillsboro a while back. He was headed to an antique motorcycle show south of Waco and suggested we meet near Hillsboro and take his bike the last 60 miles. He said he had a new motorcycle - a BMW - that was more suited to passengers than the Triumph.

We meet up and have coffee. He's very sweet. After a few minutes, I realize that this is one of the few times in my life where I've played hard to get and had it work.

He loans me a helmet and starts up his new motorcycle, a BMW K1200S. It didn't sound like a motorcycle; it sounded like a cross between a sports car and a jet engine. He then mentioned that this was the same model that won some world-famous time trial.

What was the top speed during the time trial? I asked.

176 miles an hour, he replied.

We took the scenic route to the show. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, the show, his company. He never went over 50 mph. One strange thing I noticed about riding as a passenger is that one isn't embarrassed to snuggle up to a relative stranger, even when your busty substances are pressed against his back. I guess you're too concerned about staying on to think about it much.

On the way back, I thanked him for going slow on the way to the show, and said that he could go faster if he wanted - do some "barn burners", as the moto-babblers say. He took me up on it.

By then, I'd figured out how to sit up straight enough to see the speedo without throwing the bike off balance. It was odd; sometimes he didn't seem to be going that fast, but the speedo would read 70 or 80 mph. Eventually we got to a perfectly straight, deserted road. We were going faster than usual. I was glad I'd taken up his suggestion to wear earplugs. I realized the wind was moving my helmet around, since it was a size too big.

I managed to peek over his shoulder again. He was going 104 miles an hour.

For a terrifying ten seconds I thought about falling off, or crashing, and how I might die. How I might end up. How it had been stupid of me to not make out a will, or arrange for Rachel to delete everything on my computer in case of my death. I thought I should apologize to a couple of people pretty sharpish.

But after those ten seconds, I didn't care any more. All I could think about was the exhilaration, the adrenaline, how the K1200 sounded, the warmth between our jackets. I watched the road go by under us in a silver blur.

By the time we said our goodbyes, which included a single yet satisfying kiss, I wanted my own motorcycle.

should I sleep with my bank manager?

Even though the last few months haven't been my most lucrative, I had been keeping track of my wealth (NOT) every week to avoid the dreaded Overdraft Charges. This all blew up over the last few days.

A few days ago, I'd written out a check for $300, payable to my mechanic, and left it on my kitchen table so I wouldn't forget to deliver it to him October 30. This was an arrangement I'd made a couple of weeks ago when he worked on my car - he was cool to take some of the money up-front, and some two weeks later. I had also told him I would pay off Rachel's outstanding debts if she didn't come up with it soon, since he is planning to retire in the next couple of months.

To make a long story short, Rachel came in my house one day to pick up something she'd forgotten. She saw the check and, in a rare show of efficiency, mailed it to the mechanic (she used to work for him, and initially referred me to him - otherwise she'd have been clueless.) It's payback for my leaving stamps in clear view of visitors, I guess; I buy commemoratives and keep them on a bulletin board in the kitchen.

Since the check cleared, I've run up so many overdraft charges that I'm already short for next month's mortgage payment, even after I get paid on the 30th. (Getalife pays twice a month.) When I first saw the neat little row of $38.00 debits on my computer screen, I almost burst into tears. It was a fitting end to a day with a quarterly performance review that sucked as badly as the previous ones, except that PD* had no help from TD* this time.

Chase kicks back one OD charge each year as a show of goodwill, but I am absolutely buggered as to how I'm going to convince them to negotiate on the outstanding charges. Which, at $38 a pop, have already made Jamie Dimon's board a little happier. All I can think of is to go to the branch tomorrow and throw myself at the manager's feet. Too bad I've never laid eyes on the manager before. With my luck, I'll probably end up kowtowing to the new trainee.

* See key to characters at right.