Field notes:

Today, a group of homo sapiens are observed near a watering hole. It seems to be guarded by a single male specimen who doles out some sort of intoxicating liquid in exchange for varying numbers of small rectangles of paper.

Special attention is paid to a set of specimens – one male and one female – who seem to be engaged in a sort of game. It is difficult to determine whether it is endeavored for pleasure or status. The game involves stone balls on a raised slab of wood with holes in the corners and long wooden sticks they use to hit the balls into the holes. There seem to be rules about which balls should be pushed into the holes.

The female is wrapped very tightly in pieces of cloth. The male is wrapped similarly, but much more loosely. Before they begin to play the game, they seem to be engaged in a ritual wherein the female arranges the balls incorrectly, and then allows the male to use forelimb gestures and vocalizations to show her how to arrange them correctly.

This appears to be a mating ritual.

Except I do have some words. Here they are.

I go up to cover the receptionist’s afternoon break and she has a news page up with a picture of Michael Jackson. I shudder at the frighteningly disfigured “face” on the screen. She tells me had had a heart attack.

My reaction: indifference

I do what a good little socially acceptable person does and crack the requisite jokes at his expense. You know the routine. Black to white. Fake nose. Child molestation. Right down the line.

Another coworker flies out of his office and announces, “Michael Jackson just died!”

My reaction: get totally fucking wigged out

I mean, that’s kind of intense, no? When a person who is that famous (read: well connected and wealthy) can’t survive passed 50, it just reminds you exactly how mortal we are. And besides that, there’s just something a little weird when an icon dies. It’s TOTALLY intense. There are debates already on the radio between this person calling him a pop icon whose influences have reached far and wide and that person claiming he’s a psycho. This really rubs me the wrong way, because of all the pointless arguments in the world…. Seriously. It’s like having an argument about whether someone was tall or has blue eyes. Like you can’t be both.

::shrug::

But all in all it’s just a little surreal. It’s like announcing Mickey Mouse has died.

I was going to marry Michael Jackson when I was six. Go ahead and crack all the jokes you want about how he would have been willing (but note that I was never a young boy), but the dude made some good music and he is a household name.

A little surreal for sure.

I waited way too long to update my expense spreadsheet. And on top of that, this month happened to be when a lot of moneys went out…doctors, allergy testing, long overdue upgrade to pet habitat, vacation weekend, new printer (probably the only thing that should have waited, but it was my promised reward for following through on last months projects). The receipts piled up.

Let’s start over:

What a purdy, relaxing picture, don’t you think?

I’ve been putting off sharing these pictures in the hope that I could drag out my vacation and pretend it hadn’t ended. I’ve done that for long enough now, so I present to you the drive to the Getty in Malibu.

It’s one of those lovely places where I was far less interested in most of the art than I was in sitting meditatively by the breezy pools. This is not meant as an insult to the art, but rather an indication of how stupendous the actual facility is.

I’m so resigned to it now that I caught myself absent mindedly tapping my fingers to the ivory tickles.

I’ve crossed to the other side. Save yourselves.