MD

Today, that does not refer to my choice in degrees


nor to my taste in wines



but to honor the fact, in Roman numerals, that this blog's been Roamin' all over my face the Internet for 1,500 entries.

I'd tried to pick up my pace in April, to coincide this event with the journal's third anniversary, much as my 1,000th entry hit on its second birthday, but alas, I don't have nearly as much to say these days, so I missed the chance. I did, though, manage through pure coincidence to time this piece of sesquimillinary with another anniversary of note.

For it was a year ago, on 6/6/6, that I formally filed the papers to begin my solo practice. (What other day would a lawyer start a business but one approved by Satan himself?)  A year has come and gone since then, with a bit more money and a lot less stress coming into this home. There are times when I still find myself with a lack of the first and an abundance of the second, but just by shedding myself of bosses and coworkers and all their bullshit, what is there of each, for better or worse, is all mine, and that is a decidedly good thing.

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An even more decidedly good thing is the continuous release valve afforded by writing and reading in this place. Through these words, I've had thousands of chances to reflect and respond that I'd never get in any other way. I've met a few of you, but I feel like I know most of you as among the best of friends a person could have. And even though there are ::sheepish admission:: many of you who I can't remember how we got into each others' journals, the far more important thing is that you're here now, and writing now, and an important person to me always.

Plus, at least one of you has a pretty amazing real-life friend: that'd be Joss, one of the ones I can't remember where the connection began, but with whom I've shared a ton of laughs and who, last week in New York, got to meet up with one of her fellow authors at the kickoff party for the newly-named Grand Central Publishing:


Joss is the chick with the nametag. Not sure who that other guy is, cause he's not wearing one.

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I'll be back to the usual wranting and wraving in these writings soon, but I just wanted this moment to pass with nothing but thanks and hugs to all who've kept at it, and me at it, for all these M's and D's.

We now return you to our daily Stupids, which are already in progress....

My neighborhood has just been invaded by space aliens.  Standing like sentries at the end of each driveway, they watch, and wait.... for garbage pickup day.

Actually, they're the 95-gallon hermetically sealed "totes"- known in parts of Britain, with much more due regard for their silliness, as "wheelie bins"- which our Town has ordered in an effort to stem the influx of rodentia which began as soon as the neighboring City of Buffalo went to mandating these ratproof containers a few years back. For reasons apparent only to civil servants, they began distributing them in the northernmost reaches of the town where there is no such problem (rats don't like sinking homes falling on them and crushing their skulls), and they've only now reached my closer-to-borderline neighborhood. Presumably, this is intended to send the rats to Cheektowaga, where the pink flamingoes will scare them to death.

The timing on this nonsense couldn't have been worse. I spent a good part of yesterday cleaning up in the garage and the attic section above it which we've always referred to as "Teen Heaven" even if our own teen wouldn't be caught dead up there. In the process, I walked across a double-paned window frame we replaced ages ago and saved for God-knows-what reason, trying ohhh so hard not to put a foot or knee through the glass.

You can guess the rest, I'm sure. Instead, a hand slipped, causing the breakage into a billion pieces, which I duly swept and dustpanned and placed in a container (complete with a helpful "warning- broken glass" note) which, as of the arrival of the totes, is now illegal for use.

I suppose I can just dump the whole thing into the monster- it's almost big enough for the freakin empty frame- but I'm just pissed at having to risk more cuts to my shins and wrists transferring it all over.

Maybe I can find a neighborhood Goth kid to do it.

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Fortunately, even a dysfunctional Goth would have no problems with these new critters, because they come from the factory with helpful instructions, branded into the lids, on how to use them:

TO MOVE CART: 1) GRASP HANDLE. 2) TILT. 3) PUSH OR PULL.

Sheesh, all that's lacking is a set of instructions on how to make the garbage in the first place:P

This overlawyering of our lives is right up there with this discussion in metaquotes about how the iTunes End User License Agreement prohibits you from using it to operate, among other things, an air traffic control system. Some of the better responses to this were the one originally metaquoted-

Brings a whole new meaning to shuffling airplanes.

-as well as these takes-

The licence for WinAmp specifically forbids me from using it to run my nuclear reactor installation. There go my plans for the afternoon.

I stopped after the pilots kept getting confused by my calling them "Jefferson Airplane". Besides, they were a little bit annoyed at my implication that they were still "Learning to Fly". Thank goodness I didn't have any Dave Matthews on my playlist.

-and last and probably least, my own-

I checked the fine print, and apparently it is also verboten to use the software during the emergency evacuation of an exploding Death Star.  Escape iPods are sold separately.

Blame that last one on us watching Spaceballs last night.

May the Schwartz be with yas:)