This afternoon, as I was driving home from my business trip, I stopped for gas in a pack-of-stray-dogs town. Stepping onto the crowded floor of the convenience store, I heard a tall, burly man complaining to the attendant, "Number 2 doesn't take debit cards."

     "Yah," replied the cashier with a tone of empathetic exasperation. "That one's broken."

     Clearly intent on righting this grievous wrong, the man observed, "You ought to go put a sign out there so people know that."

     Here, the clerk pointed out the obvious, "Yah, but I'm the only person here."

     "I don't care if you're the only one here; you need to go out there and put some kind of sign up."

     "Whaddya' think...that I can just close up the store and go put up a sign?"

Up to then, it all sounded fine. A battle of wills between two people with different wants. Suddenly, though, the big galoot (backed in a corner by the unwavering logic of the clerk's last reply) exploded in fury.

These are the only words I remember from the litany of threats and expletives that followed. "Don't you fucking give me your lip!! Do you wanna' fuck with me, cos I'll fuck you up right back!!"

The clerk cowered behind the counter, emitting only the placative grunt. I, too, was in a state of shock and awe. I hadn't heard words like that since I was child, and even those memories are suspect. More surprising was that the cashier was a woman! Now I'm a progressive sort of fellow who thinks there's a lot to be said for equality between the sexes, but I was taught there are some ways you don't act in front of women. Much less women you don't know.

Muted hollering and cursing persisted well into the parking lot. I shook myself free of the moment and reflected impassively. Did the man get what he wanted? Did his will win? Did he feel satisfied with himself? Would he punish himself later or would he defend his actions to the end? I don't have the answers, but then again, I'm not the sort of person who'd have caused such questions to be asked.

Among the myriad subspecies of homo sapien, there is probably none more curious than civigarrulus inconcinnus. To the untrained eye, this type looks deceptively like civifidentia confido. Given the precious rarity of the latter sub-species, it's an understandable mistake. Both have an air of self-assuredness that is at once awesome and attractive. But look more closely. See how the civigarrulus inconcinnus tells potential mates how beautiful they are before they've been properly introduced? Notice how their bombast is not mitigated by the looks of discomfort on the faces of those haplessly in their company. Listen, and you will hear countless tales of exhibitionistic vulgarity. Simply put, the civigarrulus inconcinni are distinguished from civifidentia confidae by their lack of self-monitoring and by their inability to shut up.

If you've overheard strangers talking loudly about how they spent hours squeezing back zits, chances are good you were in the company of a civigarrulus. If your day's been adorned with tales of indiscriminate sexual conquest or victorious pugilism, you can likely thank the civigarrulus. Now that you know how to spot one, grab a field guide, sunglasses, liter of Pepto, and find one of your own. It's an experience you will not forget....no matter how hard you try.

I love that I'm free;
I hate that I'm worried about losing my freedom.

I love you for caring about me;
I hate you for wasting your care on me.

I love to eat what I want when I want.
I hate to feel like a pig.

I love taking care of my friends and family.
I hate having people rely on me.

I love to make noise.
I hate to hear noises that aren't my own.

I love when you agree with me because it makes me feel like we are similar.
I hate when you agree with me because my thoughts make me unique.

I love when you're gentle because it shows me you care.
I hate when you're gentle because I just want to be taken.

Ms. Brigitte Marshall was the closest thing I ever had to a British nanny, Mary Poppins style. From her house along the water she taught me Spanish, of all things. She had a firm, aristocratic air and carried herself with aplomb but was not above getting on the floor to conduct playtime.

Having been her pupil for only a couple years, it's hard to figure the impact she had on my life. If nothing else, it's another thing for which to thank my parents. Also, because none of my sibs ever learned under a private tutor, I need to get the back story on how Ms. Marshall came to be in their employ.

Buenas noches, Seņora Marshall.

I was riding Raptrans home today, and I spotted a photogenic teenage gal sitting at the front of the car. Long silky auburn hair. Nice figure. Next to her was a guy about her age. They were sitting on a raised section that ever so slightly isolated their two seats. He didn't board the car with her, but within moments they were conversing.

I studied them--trying to determine their dynamics. He was definitely good looking enough to hold his own with her. Vibrant, happy eyes. Slender but masculine nose. Good height. Nice smile.

The guy laughed a lot: a pleasing, infectious laugh. He didn't play it too cool or aloof. He was very liberated in his enjoyment of their interaction, and he wasn't holding on too tightly to the moment. Vulnerable, yet impervious. Through his mind, I could see a faint stock ticker reading, "I think she likes me." It stayed in the background.

The girl demured and laughed and rocked her body towards his. Occassionally, she gave a nod of her head to catch his eyes with hers. Her ticker read, "I wonder if he likes me?" He did.

Taking my leave of them, I heard Belle and Sebastian singing, "the best looking boys are taken; the best looking girls are staying inside."

Not today, they weren't.

Like everyone else, I got to listen to the sound of leaking faucets. I like the line,

"It's so easy for us
To sit together
But it's so hard
For our hearts to combine."

I found a cool new CD today. One co-created by at least one of the guys responsible for The Decemberists. It's a double CD by the band, Tarkio, named for a small Northwestern town. With its plucky Western sound and Colin's unmistakeable vocals, it sounds at times like The Decemberists meets Calexico. There's even a Morrisseyesque titled song called Never Will Marry; though, it's not a fave. That would be its predecessor, the partly plaintive/partly jaunty "Tristan & Iseult."

"Would you like to go out tonight?"
said Tristan to Iseult.
"It's a lovely night to go to the Odeon, sit in the back row.
I'm sick of staying in, oh."

So they threw on some clothes, walked slowly down the street.
Lit by lantern light, through the market square.
Studied the marquee. Bought two tickets and some popcorn.

And on the screen the hero stands.
The female lead, hand in hand.
And says, "God I love you, but you trouble me."
She pushes him away.
And as the credits rolled, Tristan turned to Iseult,
Said, "What did you think?"
"It was OK I guess. But that story's pretty old.
It's a bit cliched and hackneyed I thought, I thought."

And back out on the street, they stopped for some ice cream,
Talking quietly. There was nobody in the room in which they sat.
As he reached across the table, and just as their fingers crossed,
Timidly he whispered softly and says, "God I love you but you trouble me."
Said Tristan to Iseult.
Said Tristan to Iseult."