I am day 3 into a curious experiment I am conducting with myself: a 30 day break from booze.

I’m not exactly sure what prompted this, I mean, there was no DUI, no waking-up in a gutter covered in my own sick, no terrific hang-over for the umpteenth time in a row, no blackouts, no….nothing really. I just woke up Sunday morning and decided.

And of course, everyone thinks I’m off my rocker. I’m so completely known as the Mick-whiskey-swigging-girl that when I mentioned this endeavor to a few friends, they seemed slightly taken aback. As if “why would you ever do such a thing?”

I remember reading an article a few years back about a journalist who did the same. She challenged herself to 30 days of utter sobriety. She chronicled every day and wow, did she make it seem hard. She actually didn’t make it.

For me, mostly, it’s the social aspect that will make this challenging. I like to entertain, people come over, I offer a beverage of their choosing. Sailor and I tend to keep a lot of booze in the house. Good booze too. I still plan to offer a drink, it’s how I roll, but I shall decline partaking myself because I am going to do this….although I have no idea why.

The funny part is that I am going to a Champagne Tuesday gathering this evening. I’ll be the one sipping the soda water. I figure this will be a good first test (while I’m still strong…ask me to try this later around day 25). And really, there’s a little anxiety floating around in my noggin. Not sure why. Kind of like a feeling that I am missing out on a limited offer.

Maybe I should deconstruct that one and figure it out…while I’m sitting around utterly sober in a gaggle of girls sipping the bubbly…27 days and counting…

Political strategist James Carville once described Pennsylvania as Pittsburgh on one side, Philadelphia on the other, and Alabama in the middle. And boy, was he not kidding.

Sailor and I did something we haven’t done all summer: we took the weekend off and went exploring. Money and time are limited so we kept ourselves limited to the western side of Pennsylvania and, damn y’all, has anyone ever realized how effin crazy that part of the state is?

I would normally save this for last but let’s begin with the coup de grace: The Pennsic War. Yup, for the last two weeks there’s been a war  raging down around Slippery Rock where nearly 6,000 people take over a camp ground and play Extreme Renaissance Fair.

And by “Extreme Renaissance Fair”, I mean full-contact Ren-Fair. There’s a land grab, there are battles (and oddly, they are scheduled), there are merchants, and tents and all performed in character and costume, sometimes even with accent, for about two weeks.

Um, who are these people??

Sailor and I were smuggled in by the crafty means of someone securing a magical amulet that allows one to enter the campground. No amulet, no entry. I suppose this weeds out the looky-loos and nay-sayers, but at $145 for an entry fee, we gladly partook of the subterfuge since we only stayed a few hours…which was about one hour too many.

It’s certainly not my cup of tea, but then, neither are Civil War re-enactments, Second Life, or Furries. Life is plenty interesting and whacked-out on its own without me having to pretend to be someone or something else. And 6,000 people?? For real? While I am disturbed to know that there are so many people into this type of stuff, I am simultaneously comforted in knowing exactly where they are so that I may drive around them.

Traveling north-bound, Sailor and I dropped on my father’s relatives up around the Conneaut Lake area. I used spend summers on my grandfather’s farm in Linesville and it has been nearly 20 years since I have been to these parts. I am surprised by the changes, by they are small by comparison. Life truly moves at a different pace and rarely changes in these parts of Pennsylvania. Small farm towns with local bars and truly unique local attractions that I loved as a kid, remain in force.

We stopped at Pymatuning State Park (and could this place be any more beautiful?) where we happened upon a nightmarish attraction I hadn’t seen since I was 10. The Spillway.

If you are not from these parts, The Spillway is where people go to feed freakishly huge carp, or as the vendors also pronounce, “where ducks walk on fish”. The slimy fish with inordinately large mouths look you dead in the eye (or at least you think they do because they have a fake set of eyes and then the real ones, both equally creepy) and open and close their mouths begging for days old bread.

And let’s face it: this kind of stuff is just bad for the environment, I know, but it’s still crazy fun to provoke a fish-fight by blitzkrieging bread in one spot and encouraging the ducks and fish to smack each other around.

The truly bizarre part of this is just how big a draw this place is. Easily, on Saturday night, at 8pm, with clouds threatening rain, there were hundreds of people piled on top of each other trying to get their fill of throwing bread. Where the people end and the fish began, one could only guess.

About a mile or two away, my paternal grandmother lives in Linesville proper. My grandmother isn’t doing too well, so my cousins have been flying in and out from parts all over the last few weeks. Two of my younger cousins that I have recently become reacquainted with were staying at the Hotel Conneaut, the hotel on the grounds at Conneaut Lake Park.

If you haven’t been to Conneaut Lake Park in recent years, it’s still delightfully shabby and full of lots of locals who enjoy a good brew. I personally really dig this place. I don’t need high-tech, super fast, super safe rides. I want nostalgia, I want the fear of riding one of the country’s oldest and slowest roller coaster where said fear is based on antiquity alone. The park is an easy ride from Erie, the prices are reasonable, and most importantly, it’s not overflowing with hordes of annoying people.

I know it’s supposed to be “better” for sheer number of rides and razzle dazzle, but Cedar Point is a serious commitment of time and money and frankly, you won’t find me doing it anymore. It’s a pain in the ass to get there, it’s a bigger pain in the ass to navigate the damn place, and honestly, it’s just more hassle than it’s worth anymore.

But dammit it, CLP is a good time and no one will convince me otherwise. Part of it memories, for sure. I have rather fond recollections of spewing vomit on my brothers in the Devil’s Den, riding a helicopter over the lake (back when they still did that), and running amok in the ballroom (which you unfortunately, some asshats burned down a few years back). There’s something easy and charming about the park and despite it’s lack of uber-crazy rides, the dozens of kids I witnessed screaming and laughing their heads seemed to be having a fine time of it.

We wrapped the day by lounging about the Beach Club on the park grounds. It’s a wonderfully old building with colorful mismatched wooden chairs and booths and tables from about every era of furniture I can think of. The drinks were cheap and large, the band was too loud (but then, they’re too loud anywhere), and hey, the crowd was having a good time, so what else do you need? You wrap up the evening by eating Mama Bear’s next door and the experience is complete.

So there it was. My crazy-ass Pennsylvania weekend. And as much as I do not enjoy living in Erie or Pennsylvania in general, I have to admit that was one of the most pleasant weekends I have spent in this state for quite some time.

I was really pretty shocked to have read that Henry Louis Gates Jr., professor extraordinaire of long standing at the venerable institution Hahr-Vahrd, was arrested two days ago.

But I wasn’t shocked to have read the context and circumstances of his arrest. Sure, there’s the easy explanation of racism in America (you really will never convince me a white professor would have been treated the same way), but then there’s the even easier explanation that no one seems to be talking about and it is this: the arresting “officer” in the affair is yet another example of a douchebag cop with a Napoleon Complex.

Sure, I have no doubt the cop behaved in a racist manner, but that is an action coupled with a personality trait and that trait being that the he is yet another douchebag cop with a Napoleon Complex.

A professor here at school is a retired cop and relayed to me the different types of people who become police officers:

1. The Fitness Nut: the guy or gal who somehow relives their high school athletic glory days by being a cop. They are all about how they look in the uniform. Being a good or bad cop is strictly a matter of happenstance.

2. The Gun Nut: I think this speaks for itself. The Gun Nut, who is almost always male, is also closely related to the Penis Insecurity Nut.

3. The Righteous Nut: this person has an overwhelming sense of self-importance and truly thinks that the worse they behave towards the general public, the better cop they are.

4. The Drunk Cop: who is actually a pretty okay person who took the job as a way of redemption but at the same time, does not know how to handle the stress better.

Now according to Professor Cop, a police officer can actually be a combination of these varying traits but one is always more dominant than the other. Like the thing about Elvis and the Beatles: you can like both, but you always like one more than the other.

With regards to incident involving Professor Gates, my money is on Cop #3. Then again, I’m not at all familiar with the inner workings of cop-hood and the public perception I have garnered of them over the years is really just boils down to the simplicity of the douchebag cop with the Napoleon Complex scenario.

I hate Crocs. Always have. They were a dumb, over-bloated fad I liken to the Great Jelly Shoe Terror of 1982.

Personally, I like a well-structure shoe and am always of the opinion that feet should look like feet and not like pods.

Hence, to my utter joy, Crocs has gone bankrupt, has too much inventory it can not sell, and has now laid off one-third of its work force. Now maybe those damn ugly shoes will go away and people will get back to wearing real footwear…like flip-flops…oh hell…we all know some schmoe will buy a million of these things, bury them in his backyard only to re-surface twenty years from now when they will become “retro”.

I really hate American culture sometimes.

And while I am sorry for all those good people out there who have lost their jobs, I think back to what my dad told his brother in the late 1970’s when my uncle quit his job to become an “artist” and paint landscapes on the sides of conversion vans: “Don, you can’t make a career out of a fad.”

Wow, long time with no posts. I have no explanation really except to say that after a particularly brutal school term, I needed to a serious mental reboot. While I am working on school project this summer, I am also getting in my fair share of trashy novels and summer sun.

So Sailor actually has most of the summer off, but since he needs to update his Coast Guard license, he is still not in town as he needs to attend classes all over Hell’s Half Acre and take various exams as far away as Virginia.

What this means to me is that not only is Sailor gone, again, but I now have the added benefit of being car-less. As a one car family, Sailor needs it to travel so I am walking or biking my way around Erie…which fairly sucks by the way…

Mostly this is because Erie has, possibly, the worst population of drivers outside of Boston. Pedestrian signals are merely an annoyance and my mere existence in a crosswalk is apparently cause for vehicular manslaughter. A woman actually jumped the curb in her car on 38th street yesterday and nearly took me out in the process. This is because she was texting while driving. After the car came to a stop, she didn’t even bother to look to see if she had struck anyone or anything, she merely resumed texting until I started banging on the hood of her car demanding for her to step out.

There’s also a ass-hat that works at the Veterans Hospital that somehow has the idea that my bike is required to stop and let him turn into the hospital when I have the mother-effin right of way. So everyday has become a game of chicken where I am rushing ahead to avoid getting hit by this jerk-off.

My favorite people are the car load of reprobate teens who thought it amusing to lean out the window and try to push me off my bike. I guess it didn’t occur to them that such an act could quite conceivably kill me, so I didn’t feel too badly about grabbing the kid by the hair and half pulling him out the car window…little bastard…he screamed like a little boy.

But the strangest reaction I receive is from my co-workers. If I bike to work, this is somehow all right, but if I walk, then this is cause for concern. Why didn’t you just call me??

But whether I bike or walk, I encounter the same issues: hostile motorists who do not respect the law or my right of way. Barring that, when I just don’t feel like possibly getting killed and decide on traversing the sidewalk, there’s also the people who leave their kid’s toys everywhere, or who have spectacularly decrepit cement, or terrifically overgrown bushes and trees, or cars who block the sidewalk thus forcing one back into traffic.

So this interesting little experiment continues for the foreseeable future. Sailor return this week, but I am going to continue to walk and ride to work. I like the exercise, I like the time to myself, and maybe I just like the thrill of the evident danger that is cruising the streets of Erie.

Tally to date: Cars – 0, Inmate – 6.

My sister’s 3 year old Corgie passed away two days ago. Her name was Lucy, She had a cocked-ear, bright blue eyes, and a peppered coat. She was one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met.

The dog was usually in her crate when my sister left, but recently began experimenting, letting Lucy out to roam the house for periods of time. All was going well, so the trend continued.

Two days ago, knowing that she would be gone for an extended period of time, she left the crate open for Lucy. Somehow, and this is quite a feat for a small dog with nearly non-existent legs, she got into a closed garbage can, and fished out a small snack bag where she proceeded to get it caught on her face.

She suffocated underneath the living room table where my sister’s 11, 8, and 4 year old found her.

The family jumped bag into the van, rushed to vet, my older niece holding the dog all the way begging her not to die. The vet took the dog from them, consulted with my sister, and they decided to tell the kids that Lucy was “very ill” and that a she should be given a shot to put her to sleep.

I didn’t get it at first, but then it occurred to me: they were trying to give the kids some control back over a situation. The kids agreed, and Lucy, already a few hours passed, was “put to sleep”.

The kicker of it was that the bag Lucy caught on her face was random garbage someone left on my sister’s lawn. I’ve encountered this personally, where someone leaves a half-eaten chocolate bar on my grass where Puppy Dog gets at it requiring an emergency vet situation. The point being, this isn’t a random event. I am pressed to know any friends with pets who haven’t experienced a similar situation where one person’s garbage becomes another person’s pet killer.

And in the larger context, this happens every damn day. Someone can’t be bothered to carry their trash until such time it can be properly disposed of. It ends up in our streets, storm sewers, the ravine down alongside my house-holy crap there’s a lot down there, where it poisons fish, chokes birds, and pollutes our water.

And maybe we care less about the fish and birds because they don’t cuddle with us on the couch, but I am damned if I understand what possesses people to behave this way. Because at the end of the day, it comes back to us all, instant Karma style.

I’m pained for my sister. She feels terrifically guilty. She needs a hug but she’s on the side of the country. And as I listened to her on the phone, crying over her family’s loss, I can tell she is outside, keeping the conversation away from the kids…and probably still picking up more of someone else’s garbage.

In looking for a graphic for the last entry, I came across rather interesting quiz. Yes, I’m sucker for online quizzes, so I took it and was rewarded with the information that I could reasonably expect to live in the 5th Circle of Hell.

That’s the place where the Wrathful and Sullen reside. Thinking back to the quiz, I’m sure my answering “yes” to the question of whether or not punching someone in the face who has it coming is a correct thing to do is what landed me there.

So, I passed the quiz around the lab at school and I was shocked that the little cretins with whom I work were only being sentenced: Circle One where supposedly the Unbaptized and the Virtuous Pagans party down.

This quiz maker clearly does not understand the hoi-polloi with whom I study. If Circle One is truly their fate, that is, assuming that the Christian-Judeo idea of Heaven or Hell even exists, and I’m damn sure they don’t, then the Circle One ought really be renamed for the Hooligans and the Unwashed.

Now, maybe this is an age thing. I’ve been around the block more times than these babes, hence, increasing my opportunities for hell-going experiences. Then again, maybe the little bastards lied on the quiz.

Either way, the quiz is junk. I took it twice and somehow managed to graduate a level. At present, should I believe in this ridiculous hoo-haa, I can now expect an upgrade to the 6th Level of Hell reserved especially for the Heretics.

Which now that I think about it, is probably more my crowd anyway.

I’m coming up on final exams, going out of my mind trying to keep up with the workload and all the while saying to myself: Just two more weeks. Just two more weeks.

And as crazy as it sounds, even though being around a bunch 20 years olds all day is not my idea of a good time, I am going to be applying to PhD programs in the fall.

The logic for this is simple: I enjoy my field of study, there’s few of us out here who do it at a collegiate level, and probably most important: at my age, if I don’t do it now, while I’m in “school mode” I won’t do it. Ever.

This is a pretty recent decision on my part, and recently, I have begun sharing my decision with others.  My father responded with the question “What do you not like about real work that you have to hide in school?”

A close friend responded: “Dude, when are you going to get back out in the real world?”

Another friend: “Who needs that much education in their head? You’re obnoxious enough as it is.”

I’m a little thrown by the reactions I have been receiving. Since when did becoming highly-educated become the mental equivalent of being a slacker? How does trying to become an expert in a field automatically equate to one being a boor? Okay, I’ll grant the obnoxious part, but only out of my friend’s jealously of not being able to beat me at Trivial Pursuit.

More importantly: What the hell is it that Americans have against education anyway? We elected a President 8 years ago on the qualification of his beer-buddiness and looked how that turned out. Said same president appointed a director of FEMA whose greatest qualification was being president of an Arabian Horse association, and on that note, may I remind you of a little event called Hurricane Katrina?

And what about college does not reflect the real world? I have conflicting personalities I have to navigate at all times. I work my ass off 60 hours a week reading, writing, and producing projects that are used outside academia. And I still have to prove I’m as capable as a man, if not more. I’m not some 24 year old who decided they didn’t like getting up and going to work at 8 am. I put in 15 years of professional experience and decided I better make change in my life before I died of an ulcer because I hated my job that much. I don’t study in some Ivory Tower. I work in a grubby, dirty, sticky lab with bad flourescent lighting and inconsiderate labmates. I rarely see my husband, I see less of my dog, and I have no life. Sounds like effin work to me.

And to father I respond: Are you freakin kidding me? I do believe you have a 30 year old sibbling of mine living in your basement, who has been down there since his teens by the way, and who is one step away from joining a Star Trek convention.

And to my friend I respond: read a newspaper once in a while, or better yet, a book. That, or stop challenging me at trivia. Some people know cars, other people know geography, I know tons of random and ridiculous facts of useless information. Sue me. My winning the game does not make me obnoxious. Obnoxious would be me calling you a drooling idiot because you didn’t know who wrote The Carpetbaggers. Which was Harold Robbins, but that’s not the point.

So enough bitching. I have to get back to work here. I have a paper due.

Lessons Learned from a 24 hour trip to Maine and back:

1. US Airways sucks ass, per usual, but this abusive relationship is done. I am breaking up with them once and for all. They can find someone else to torture with their ineptitude.

2. The Philadelphia Airport sucks it even more, seriously, how much can a person hate one place on the planet?

3. #1 + #2 = 9 (as in Dante’s ninth circle of Hell)

4. Getting anywhere is usually more than half the battle anymore

5. Dark & Stormy’s are ass kickers

6. Given #5 I expect Turkish Prawn left a mighty big boot print somewhere on my booty

7. Holy Hell, does this chick have the most rockin’ voice ever! No kidding, I heard her at a party and she rocked Motown like a world class diva. Hear for yourself and if you don’t absolutely love her, you’re a tone-deaf Philistine who shall be dead to me.

8. #5 + #6 + #7 = a fabu going away party

9. Miss Portland, miss Maine, miss friends

10. Damn, I hated coming back here.

“Hello, this is Sailor Man. You might remember me from such productions as ‘Our Wedding’ or its mad-cap sequel: ‘Our Honeymoon’. If you are receiving this message, you might be my wife, although it has been a long time and I may require a photo identification to verify the veracity of this claim. Should you even remotely recall our relationship, no matter how vague, please do call me at…..”

I bit the bullet and turned off the land line months ago, during the elections, when I was being plagued by political robo-calls and collect calls from prison searching for some whackjob named Jason. And as much as I loathe cell phones, I appreciate their utility, not enough to remember to turn them on after having turned them off during class, mind you, but I appreciate them nonetheless.

I must have had the phone off since last Friday as when I turned it on this morning there were a dozen messages. Not all from Sailor, but the last one, printed for you above, was the most recent and biting.

Bad dog! Bad dog!

It’s what goes through my head when I know I’ve fucked up. Puppy dog, big as she is, cringes and shrinks magically before my eyes whenever I rebuke her. So that’s the image I have of myself when I screw up. Time is precious, any time with Sailor, even if it is on the phone, is precious too and I missed it. He’s at sea, must take advantage of any and all cell phone range.  Missed him. Again. Damn.