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Regular One - The Journal of ...

Note: This raw document is now the pathetic substitute for what was once a glamorous journal. This is all that's left. This journal is not edited to the usual LoserNet standards. It has been restored to "public" status after a brief hiatus. This journal should not be confused with the Journal of the Mind.

Monday September 13, 1999

Well, I think I've met my match. My virtual homey Hermit (not to be confused with The Master) has put up a diary on the My Dear Diary interactive site. And, I have to admit, it's going to be good reading even though it's still in its infancy. Aside from that, I'm a little shocked and appalled at what I've noticed lately. There are ample resources on the Net about relationships and romance. The punchline ... they're all "babes' sites." There are few so-called "guys' sites." And, our interests are apparently confined to sports, cars, and booze. We've noticed this trend for years in traditional publications. However, there is little wonder why guys are in the dark about certain subjects. Relationships and romance have become a science for babes. Just take a look at the magazines, e-zines, and so forth that cater to babes. If babes really want guys to understand them, then they need to take their forum out of their little niche and share that wealth of information. Don't blame us if all we read about is computers or look at BMW Z3 literature all day. That's all that is available to us.

The path to monastic enlightenment is becoming clear to me once again. I was waffling because of temptation (mostly imaginary) but I'm beginning to see the light. I once commented that all Web journals bemoaned the mating situation. Then, look what happened. I'm now the biggest perpetrator! I was falling to the wayside. And, for what? Do you see any babes hanging off of my arms? Hell no! I'm done with babes. Finished. Kaput. I'm happy with my hand. Both hands, for that matter. Now, I've got to get a teaching position in an all boys school.

Tuesday September 14

I saved myself from defaulting on my loans. Caroll left a message that she found a BMW Z3 for me. My mind is ready to snap. I am called the "Professor" by Hermit in his on-line diary. A very appropriate name since I can easily equate myself with the nameless "Professor" in the classic sitcom Gilligan's Island. However, if I was the "Professor," I would have been all over Ginger and Maryanne like a cheap suit. Instead, the "Professor" was nerding out and making modern day appliances out of coconuts. Ginger and Maryanne. I would have wished to never be rescued.

I oftentimes wonder what it is like to be a babe. Babes. The most voluptuous and ravishing creatures on this planet. Always waiting for their Knights in Shining Armor and having to tolerate degenerates, perverts and losers like myself who are so "selfish, uncaring and cold." Big bank, big house, and big car. The Knights have vast kingdoms. The serfs grovel in dung. I am a serf. A peasant. I do not need to worry about the Ice Princesses. I am the Professor. Where's Ginger? Where's Maryanne? Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaa!

I have been thinking about switching to the mathematics department. I need fresh air as I am getting tired of facilitating computer classes. Of course, all of my classes have babes in them. Math won't be any different. There might even be more babes. The whole situation is like a cruel joke.

Wednesday September 15

An uneventful day. What else is new? I have been facilitating my classes with my shades on. I'm sure that everyone thinks I'm losin' it. I had another dream that involved the handmaiden again last night. I cannot remember much except that I was fatigued when I woke up. I hope that it's my premonition telling me that the handmaiden has moved out of the neighborhood.

Of course, today was another scorcher. And, all the babes were wearing the skimpiest outfits they could find. I have at least two babes in my classes who can't seem to help but exhibit their abundant wares. Little wonder why I have to wear my shades in my classes. I don't think I'm cut out for this line of work anymore. Can you imagine the sheer irony of me being a monk and all of those babes running amuck in skimpy outfits? Something must be done and soon. Otherwise, I am going end up a babbling and salivating fool. I should be thankful that I'm a wimpy loser. The babes only talk to me because they have to. However, I'm becoming more like some of my colleagues. Waiting for the moment that one of those babes gives us play. Then, all hell will break loose. I've become a dirty ol' man ... errr, I mean a dirty ol' monk.

Is there no reprieve from this Tom foolery? Am I always to remain a slave to my hormones? Why do babes drive guys nuts? I don't know anymore. I'm a regular guy in a loser's body. That's my problem. If I looked like a hunk, I'd probably be skinnin' right and left. It is my wimpiness that keeps me in check. I should be real thankful. Now I understand why I went through the whole monk ritual. The eunuch-like behavior. The Data-like personality. I have lost touch with reality mainly because of my involvement with the handmaiden. It's time to come home. Welcome home, monk.

Thursday September 16

My situation with moms is degenerating by the day. I cannot seem to get her to understand that I am not helpless and I do not need to be served like my bro and his family apparently did. Moms cooks a full meal every night even though she complains that there is no money for these kinds of luxuries. I have told her time and again that I can get by with some rice and canned tuna, every single day if I have to. She believes that I am just ungrateful. This is presenting a significant strain on me as it further reminds me of the "momma's boy" status that the handmaiden often ridiculed me about. Pops had his second chemotherapy treatment postponed until this week. So far, no word on whether the treatment has had any positive effect.

I talked briefly with Caroll this evening. Apparently she had a near-violent falling out with Jeff, her roommate. He was hammered at the time. Caroll had to call the cops. So, she's in the apartment by herself again. So, she's planning to move yet again. She also doesn't think she'll be in the car business much longer. I have no idea how Caroll is surviving. It worries me to think that much of what is happening is her own doing.

I've been following the two Web diaries that I mentioned in previous entries. Strange that I have now become a reader as well. Both diaries have focused on long distance relationships that somehow involved the Net. There is a kind of camaraderie that I share with the authors based on that common thread. I find it strange to read about other people's romances, however. Perhaps reading about my old days with the handmaiden was seemingly strange for you. Alas, there won't be any romantic babble in these pages anymore. And, for good reason. I see in the other writers a kind of hopeless yet powerful infatuation. A dependency that transcends the definition of love into the arena of power and control. I can feel the raw forces of passion and surrender in the words of the authors. I can relate to those words as well from the standpoint of my own experience. I have taken a step back to observe and think.

Our flagship bank in Hawai'i is downsizing with 1,000 people soon to be out of work. One of the local newspapers is closing down. It's the same paper that I grew up reading. The economy of Hawai'i looks even grimmer. Word has it that the university isn't doing that well either. This is probably a good time to own a liquor store.

Welcome to the Life of a Chimp

A most unlikely ally to men, Susan Faludi has vocalized men's issue in recent times. Being a babe herself, she has escaped the ostracism that a guy would have experienced by stating the same opinions. In a recent MSNBC feature titled, "Stiff: How culture conspires to make men miserable," she wrote:

More and more, a society that needs men's craft and commitment has been eclipsed by a retail culture that honors men only for having the biggest biceps, the fastest cars, the greatest “killing” on the stock market, his face on the most magazines.

The force of this new culture's dictates has altered profoundly what it means to be a man. It isn't that real work has disappeared or that men aren't still doing it, and it isn't that men are no longer needed in their communities. But now even the most traditional of craftsmen and community builders lives in a world where personal worth is judged in ornamental terms. Men are judged by a commercial set of questions: Are they sexy? Are they known? Have they won? To feel successful as a man under the terms of a consumer and celebrity culture is to be a performer who draws the most eyes, scores the most points, commands the highest recognition factor. What you do for society takes a backseat to how many people are watching you do it.

Men everywhere have felt the change, and felt judged by it. The average man knows that useful work or civic involvement no longer gets much recognition. He sees men get celebrated as men now merely for being famous for their ornamental masculinity — whether as action-hero poster boys or gun-toting schoolboys. Which is why suburban bad boys videotape their exploits, gang kids “maintain visibility” by getting their bloodiest acts on primetime news, and the Spur Posse, the California boys who gained notoriety in the early ’90s for their sex-points contest, raced to hit the talk-show circuit. As Billy Shehan, the Spur with the most points, told me, the guys who count are the ones with a “brand name.” You’re only a man if you play one on television.

The man who draws the most eyes, scores the most points, commands the highest recognition factor is the one who’s valued most.

I know why I'm a loser now for sure. Does it make me feel better? Heck no.

Friday September 17

So, I asked the students in my classes (like I usually do) if anyone had any questions or comments. In one class, one of the babes asked, "Are you married?" The sinister kahuna is toying once again with the oversized cranium. [Note: Her name was Joyce, and she'll come up again later in the journal.] There was also a big campus event going on right outside on Fort Street Mall. There were booths with food and entertainment. One of the babes ran out and brought me an ice cream treat. And, of course, since it was a scorcher, my favorite babes were displaying their wares again. It's a strange life.

Do these babes know what they are doing? Of course they do. If I had not been such a good monk and astute observer, I would have probably come up with some lame explanation for it all. As Hermit has put it so bluntly, we are merely "toys" for the babes. I could laugh and cry at the same time about how helpless we guys are when it comes to babes. I cannot even describe how weak I was when my favorite babes put their wares on display. They are young but they are already very wily.

The Waikiki Ho'olaule'a was raging tonight. Actually, it wasn't as big as last year. This particular event is not a memorable one for me. I went by myself last year as you may recall. There were a lot babes walking around tonight. Babes were everywhere. Thank goodness the brewskis were cooling in the fridge.

Saturday September 18

I unboxed my Bose Acoustic Wave and played a few Smooth Jazz CDs. The last time I unboxed it was over three weeks ago. I have come to realize two things. My taste for Smooth Jazz has waned, for one thing. And, my need for superfluous material possessions like the Bose Acoustic Wave is no longer. I had consumed a large quantity of fire water prior to this appraisal but I doubt that my judgment was clouded. Each and every day I do as much as I can to divest myself of anything even if it is just a few sheets of paper that I put into the recycler. I don't need this crap. I still wonder why I have a digital cell phone.

Somehow, I always attempt to return to the materialistic world. That's why I bought the Bose Acoustic Wave. That's why I bought my six-four. That's also why I want a BMW Z3. It make absolutely no sense. Casual onlookers may surmise that I have attempted to substitute material objects for babes. Wrong! There is nothing that can substitute for babes and I know this. I am significantly in debt but I continue to be enticed by the desire to own big ticket crap which I don't need.  Mind you, I own nothing else. I have long gotten rid of most things that people consider necessities. I actually threw out my old pair of shoes even though I assessed that I could get another year out of them by gluing them together every week. So pathetic. I will surely default on my loans next month as I have run out of credit. My fire water acquisitions were far higher than I thought. Does it matter? Not really.

When will I break down and buy a new computer? I don't know. I have to put up with the crappy piece of [dung] when it skips characters. It's so bad now that every other word I type is unrecognizable. No one knows why. I dare not call Fujitsu technical support again. Remember what happened last time?

What is it that I want from life other than a Z3? I have no idea. Whatever "it" is, I can't buy "it." One thing is certain. I don't need a babe. I don't need the heartache and pain of the games that are involved. In reading the two diaries that I mentioned previously, I have become more adamant about my position. Yet, I'll be honest. Some of the babes in my classes are getting to me. Who wouldn't, especially when they blatantly display their wares? They are the epitome of temptation. Masters of the game.

Perhaps my desire to divest my worldly possessions is still part of my inherent desire to obtain total freedom, whatever that means. The Z3 (or my six-four), for that matter, is a much more desirable possession because I can use it as a means to escape. That seems irrelevant on this rock, I know. Yet, it offers me somewhat more "freedom" than the Bose Acoustic Wave. What am I really foolishly grasping at? The reigns of mortality or the attention of babes?

I despise living in the city. It is too crowded. There are too many people and each and every one of them is oblivious to the fact that there are other people who must co-exist along with them. Their behavior suggests an extremely low order along the food chain but it is obvious that they are much more affluent and secure than I am. Wrong is right. It is I who is the derelict. I was also reminded of the time I was at the Post Office for the express purpose of mailing a gift package of Kona coffee to friends on the mainland.

"What's in the package?" the semi-illiterate clerk asked.

"Coffee," I responded.

"Can't they just buy coffee on the mainland?" the clerk asked facetiously.

I was cordial but, in retrospect, I should have either erupted in a burst of senseless violence or I should have told the jackass, "What the [copulate] do you care? Are you ready to 'go postal' or what? Just put the postage on the package, asswipe, and save me your [dung]. And, who the [copulate] died and made you Postmaster General?"

Would a babe tame the beast within? Would one of those extremely sexy babes in my classes ease the pain of living in a morose world of stupidity? Would she justify my cell phone service? What about the Z3? I must always own a convertible. I am too claustrophobic to drive a sedan. Boring cars, to say the least. Like a Mercedes. Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaa! Everyday is a beautiful day in troubled Hawai'i. When I drive around (which is rare), I like to feel the flow of air around the oversized cranium. The eddy currents seem to stimulate synaptic activity. Only my six-four (or the Z3) can evoke these feelings which border on euphoria. What I really want is a "life," as people call it. Maybe a babe is part of the definition. I don't know. Does it matter? I no longer qualify as a male anyway because I cannot meet Faludi's minimum specifications of "ornamental masculinity." I have known that I was destined to be an eunuch. Now, I know the reason why. It's really not the end. It's just another beginning.

Sunday September 19

I spent most of the day in a drunken stupor. When I wasn't in a comatose state, I managed to do some yardboy chores and also clean my beloved six-four. I also took my six-four out for a drive to Sandy Beach. Am I livin' large or what? I have decided to donate my printer to moms' church. That leaves me with even fewer possessions. Soon I'll be down to just my six-four. Why do I despise my six-four? It's a loser's car, there's no doubt about that. Babes are not impressed by a piece of junk like that. Babes want real cars driven by real men with real money. My six-four is a kid's car driven by an old punk with no dough.

I am finally comfortable sitting at home doing absolutely nothing. For the longest time I felt as though I should be out doing something. This was most likely because of the anxiety I felt knowing that the handmaiden was out having a great time. I almost unboxed my Bose Acoustic Wave again. Yes, I boxed it back up yesterday like a psycho. Stupid, isn't it? I didn't want to listen to Smooth Jazz. I'm sick of Smooth Jazz. Music is a powerful medium. I notice that people always refer to lyrics in their favorite songs to express their feelings, usually of a melancholy state. That's probably when we really rely on music. Smooth Jazz was enjoyable at one time. Now, it brings me down. Fortunately, there are no lyrics for the most part. So, I listen to House music on NetRadio or on Spinner. Since my modem never connects at a fast speed, I must put up with mediocre performance. Well, hey! I'm a loser!

I have been following Hermit's adventures. Although I know he's having a tough time, I have to admit that he's used humor liberally to downplay a depressing situation. The situation, of course, has to do with a babe. Isn't that always the case? Babes always complain that they are the only ones who hurt. I beg to differ. All I ever see are guys who are hurting and ready to lose it. Babes may shed a couple of tears for a few seconds before they are off with a new guy. That's why I'm being very careful. Not that there are any babes coming on to me. I just don't want to end up being chewed up and spit out like the last time. I'm dreading tomorrow. I'm sure that my favorite babes will have their ample wares on display again. My hands are starting to shake as we speak. I need to find a job as a night janitor so I won't have to see any babes. In the meantime, shouldn't I be getting hazard pay?

Monday September 20

The days are getting shorter as is my sanity. Perhaps it was lack of sleep, but I came to the realization today about how I remained a good monk for all these years. There were always so many babes in Convalescent City as I recollect. Too many. Yet, the abundance of babes is what made me realize it would be easy to ignore them. Only in famine do we get hungry. That is also the case here. It just took a little while for me to realize this. My life is already at the fringe of dereliction. Survival is my concern as it has been for most of my life. Babes are a luxury.

For most people, the desire to be fulfilled in a relationship is all-encompassing. Without the love of another, they lament, they cannot find meaning in their lives or the will to live. Amassing material wealth serves the same futile purpose. As I sought meaning in spirituality, I discovered that the constructs were not tangible. The fact that we do not see a Creator does not mean its existence is questionable. Human fallibility and impatience inevitably brought about the dungy idols we could see. We want to seek spirituality in our own way. We connect by fiber optic networks. This is our model and conceptualization of the human connection. Have we lost something? The communications infrastructure is far more complex than the days of old but the message is weak. The purpose of the infrastructure is now only to serve itself. We find ways to emulate the human experience (when we did have spirituality) but all is in vain. Our spirituality has been replaced by the insatiable need for instantaneous pleasure. That objective spells certain doom.

What is the bottom line? There can be no relationship without spirituality. The common bond goes beyond shared experiences or mutual interests. It transcends mutually agreed upon objectives. I have felt that I need a babe because everyone else needs a babe. I have no reason to "need" a babe. My life could be fulfilling without someone else. It's just that I am reminded by everything around me that I am missing something. All I'm missing is spirituality.

Tuesday September 21

Bad news. The handmaiden was spotted on the late express bus this morning. My worst fears may come to fruition. I am extremely fatigued as it is. I just don't need the sinister kahuna to help push me over the edge. I am settling in to the routine of life, however. Each day is the same as the last. Even my libido has settled into dormancy. I'm glad that it did because one of my favorite babes showed up to class yesterday with pretty much all of her ample wares on display. This was her most brazen attempt so far to push the envelope of what some might call "decency." All I have to say is that she is a real babe. Sheesh! And, frankly speaking, I don't really notice babes anymore. Babes, what babes? Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaa! Babes? I have my hand! Baha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaa!

I'm slipping further into the financial hole. I have three weeks before I go into default with my loans. I may have to activate yet another credit card. That will also be the only way I can make another trip to the mainland before the year is over. Who cares? It's only money and I can eventually file bankruptcy. I can also sell my Bose Acoustic Wave and my six-four for quick cash. Everything's covered!

Wednesday September 22

The same babe showed up to class again wearing yet another incredibly sexy outfit that exhibited her wares extremely well. The sinister kahuna is working overtime to make my mind snap just as I suspected. I have no idea why these babes dress this way to go to class. I know that some of the old codgers are probably on the verge of having massive coronaries. Each day that I have to see this, I become weaker and weaker. Actually I take that back. I know why the babes are wearing those skimpy outfits. It's fairly obvious. They know how weak guys are. The weaker we become, the more likely we can be enslaved to entertain their every whim. I assume that baby is going to be on the Dean's List this semester. Sheesh!

An old buddy of mine, "Bud," who was a professor at my alma mater ran into big trouble a number of years ago over some babe like baby. She was a young babe but she was expert in the wily ways of the female. She had "Bud" hooked. The problem was that "Bud" was married. He eventually told his wife that he was carrying on a sordid affair with a young coed. He couldn't avoid the confession as baby was becoming more brazen about breaking the secret. "Bud" went into the dumps. He was drinking like there was tomorrow. There almost wasn't one for him. It took him a while to clean up that mess because baby was determined. All I could do was listen and console him. He always told me, "Stay away from women. They are dangerous." That was his advice to me. He always mentioned that to me whenever I saw him.

I believe that I saw the handmaiden crossing the street to catch the express bus this afternoon. She saw me boarding the bus and walked on. This weekend ... the real story about Barbie Doll Heather. Yowza!

Thursday September 23

One of my teeth is cracked. It also looks as though part of the tooth is missing. I have no medical or dental benefits so I must now anticipate more expenses this year. All of it will end up on one of my many credit cards. I have completely run out of money. I no longer even have access to cash. So, I have increased my fire water consumption accordingly. Thank goodness for plastic dough! I should be able to get welfare and social services at this point but there is a waiting list. And, the small change that I earn may disqualify me. If it wasn't for moms, I would be homeless and destitute right now. I can no longer stress out about this nonsense. The sinister kahuna has dealt me a bad hand again. I must accept it. Nothing a little fire water won't cure.

Sometimes I have to ask myself how I get into these predicaments. Am I really that stupid? Well, someone has to be the loser, and this is LoserNet! Speaking of stupidity, I cannot seem to get that one babe out of my mind. She has consistently worn very tight and revealing tops to class. She has very beautiful wares to display. And, display them she does. What do the other professors think about this kind of nonsense?

Friday September 24

The magazine stood out from all the rest as I waited for a table at Barnes & Noble. Emblazoned on the cover of Psychology Today was the catchy title, "Spirituality: Why we need it." When I finally got my cup of joe, I sat down with the magazine. Author David Elkins described what is most missing in our empty lives today, something he himself discovered some 20 years ago:

One of my graduate students told me she had gone for a walk on the beach in the late afternoon. As the sun was setting, she climbed onto a boulder at the water's edge. Gazing out to sea, she felt herself slowly becoming one with nature — with the sun descending toward the horizon, the waves crashing at her feet, the pastel colors that streaked the western sky. She said, "In that moment I felt eternity. I knew these things had gone on for millions of years before I came and that they would go on for millions of years after I'm gone. It felt good to be alive, to be a part of all this. I was deeply moved and began to cry."

Contemplation, meditation, prayer, rituals and other spiritual practices have the power to release the "life force" in the deepest levels of the human psyche, levels that the secular interventions cannot reach.

... spirituality is not just about healing. It's about the look of wonder on a child's face, the love we feel for a family member, the woods and fields after freshly fallen snow, the joy of soul-stirring music. It's about seeing the sacred in our lives — and opening the door to a life of passion and depth. These are the moments that feed our soul and make our lives worth living.

I was deeply moved by this description. I have not been so eloquent as to define spirituality in such a manner. I have, however, been struck by my aloneness. I wondered, albeit fleetingly, about what I would do once my parents are gone. Where would I go?

I have made much progress in learning how to speak in front of an audience of strangers and in talking one-on-one with people I do not know. Yet, I can't seem to put myself on the line and take the biggest risk of all. Becoming a friend to others. It is difficult for me. I still feel inadequate and unworthy. I am still shy, quiet and unassuming. I am a monk. My students are surprised when I tell them that. Most of them laugh as if I am making some kind of joke. Within my own limitations, I have become an eloquent and persuasive speaker. I have learned to look and appear confident. Yet, I am still a nervous eunuch inside.

I am invisible to babes. To them, I am uninteresting and aloof. To me, the babes are uninterested and disgusted by my presence. I seem to develop quite a rapport with the guys. And, I am well liked by my gender. Babes are much more reserved and cautious around me, choosing to avoid any interaction if possible. There are a small handful who are curious and attempt to taunt me into revealing who I am. It is now at this late stage that I am beginning to understand the subtle nature of the "game." I am probably only a stone's throw from the truth about why certain guys are "babe magnets" and why the rest are so detestable. I've known about the "power" for a long time. It was revealed to me in the film, Shock to the System. Remember when Caine discovered that he was the "Sorcerer"? Remember when he shook his clenched fist at his boss and shouted, "I have more power in this hand than you'll ever know!" He also had power over babes. I know this power now. I have seen the power. I have felt the power in my own hand. However, I have diluted it with a confusing mix of self-deprecation, uncertainty, and feigned megalomania.

It is somewhat curious how I have mixed in an eclectic form of slapstick humor into my routine, as it were. It is one that goes back a long way. I'm sure that both Ibo and Skip remember it well. So does Big John as he always mentions how he came to know me at the pool back in Convalescent City because of my pre-monk dissertations about being an eunuch. We called it "hamming it up" back then. The Bull, the Bishop, and the Cardinal probably remember as well. Perhaps, those were the same observations that my former student Roland alluded to when he observed that I "do not conform to the status quo." My life is one big comedy. For instance, my PowerPoint demonstration to my classes was called, "I Was a Materialistic Fool." In four slides, I described how I wanted to replace my six-four with the BMW Z3 but I couldn't because I have no dough. It was a hit. Although I'm not a polished comic, I probably share similar personality traits with comedians. We try to make light of our troubled lives.

I deviated somewhat from my original topic of loneliness. I feel the pangs of distress once again. I have my cans of cheap brewskis to keep me company. I am a lost soul. The comfort of a babe is not what I need. It's just what I think I want. It's the result of the media circus. We seek instantaneous and tangible gratification with no meaning behind the actions. It is all consummated like cheap sex and devoured like fast food. Satisfying for the moment but leaving one even more insatiated.

Saturday September 25

The weekends are still a tough time for me. I spent most of the day in a drunken stupor for no other reason than it's easier to cope with the crap. I discovered that moms has decided that she will no longer take some of the medication that was prescribed to her because she "doesn't like it." I asked her why she even bothered to go to the doctor. I also ruminated about Joyce, the babe in my class who made sure that I remembered her name. She's the one who also asked me if I was married when I asked the class if anyone had any questions. I have come to the conclusion that "Bud" was right. Babes are extremely dangerous. Aside from that, I installed CleanSweep for the umpteenth time so that I could effectively remove some applications. When it comes to wasting time, I wrote the book. Sheesh!

I have also decided to let my financial demise just happen. There is no need to Band-Aid the inevitable. I am really only prolonging the agony. As I expect to be in a drunken stupor tomorrow as well, I should tell the woeful tale of Barbie Doll Heather. When I returned to school for graduate studies almost ten years ago, I began to lose my monk perspective. How could I help it? There were babes everywhere and I somehow forgot my place. I am and will always be a loser. I first noticed Barbie Doll Heather at the gym. Baby was a real babe. A tall blonde with blue eyes and a Playmate's body, baby was a walking wet dream. She was never with any guy which I found to be astonishing. One day, I saw baby sitting outside on the balcony at the library. I was sitting at a table with my homey Briscoe. I mentioned how I thought baby was incredible. It turned out that Briscoe had been in the dorms with baby. So, he gave me the lowdown on baby. Apparently, for being the incredible babe that she was, Barbie Doll Heather was somewhat shy and quiet. She joined a sorority to increase her social life but she never seemed to have any guys around. She went to the gym religiously just as I did, so I saw her there everyday. She took the same aerobics, step, and cardio funk classes that I did.

I mentioned in the journals that the cardio funk (street dance) class was instrumental in making some changes in my own life. Bart and I were usually the only guys in there. Clare and Barbie Doll Heather were two of the many babes in there. It wasn't until I started taking these classes that I had those strange encounters with Clare which eventually led to our carpool situation. It was also about the same time that other strange things were happening.

Both Clare (left) and Barbie Doll Heather (right) took the same aerobics classes that I did. If I took more than one class in a day, so did they. Now, they both did not know each other at the time but later Barbie Doll Heather went out of her way to meet Clare. Let me preface the whole situation by saying this. Usually, we all follow a set routine and observe some kind of territoriality. So, even in an aerobics class, we all have our "usual spot." My section was way in the back by the door. Barbie Doll Heather's section was to the extreme right in the front row. I've already gone into painful detail about how I met Clare. I never really got to know Barbie Doll Heather. She was so beautiful and that was truly intimidating.

It really all did start in the cardio funk class. Vyvianne, the instructor, went out of her way to make it fun. She gave Bart and I some rap nicknames. We were the only two guys who had the courage to take the class. Within a few weeks of taking this class, I was approached by Clare. Also, Barbie Doll Heather began to do some strange things. During the class, baby would somehow end up either in front of me or next me although she started out in her usual section. I never strayed far beyond my section. This also started to occur in the aerobics classes as well. Some days, baby just stationed herself right in front of me from the beginning of the class. That was an extremely painful situation. We had to do a lot of stretches. I remember many occasions where we stood and bent over to touch the floor. Every time I looked up to see what the instructor was doing, I saw baby staring straight at me from between her legs. By the way, both Clare and Barbie Doll Heather wore the skimpiest gym attire out of all the babes. We are talking about those tight thong outfits. It was almost enough to make a grown man cry.

I told Skip about this situation. He had just joined the gym at the time so I asked him to observe and see whether my mind was playing tricks on me. Which reminds me. Baby used to do the StairMaster before class. I remember many times when I came in to the gym. The StairMasters were lined up in a row and faced the front door. I usually walked to the water fountain which was to the side of all the StairMaster machines. One day, I felt as though someone was staring at me so I looked up as I was drinking the water and I saw baby staring at me. I looked around to see if anyone else was there. Nobody. It got stranger. I used to go to the library every night. So did baby. I sat near the second floor balcony by the glass windows overlooking the center courtyard. Baby would come come up the stairs and walk all the way around by where I was sitting before she went up the stairs again to the third floor. I could see her descending the stairs across the courtyard through the glass windows. As she descended the steps she looked straight down to where I was sitting. She would continue looking until she disappeared on the third floor. There were many more "strange coincidences," as I called them, which began to occur on a daily basis.

As you know, the end of the story was pathetic. Baby called the cops on me claiming that I was stalking her, although I was not following her around. I spent a whole Summer being homeless as a result. Coincidentally, Bart also ended up homeless for unrelated reasons. What is interesting is that all of the claims that baby made to the cops could easily describe her own actions. I am not trying to rationalize my way out of this. I am telling the absolute truth. When Clare and I began carpooling, people thought that we were "an item." That is about the time that Barbie Doll Heather became friendly to her. Aside from Clare, she would usually only talk to her sorority sisters. I made the mistake one day of asking Clare what she knew of Barbie Doll Heather. She reacted jealously. "You like her, don't you?" she quizzed me.

My handling of the situation was flawed and juvenile as was the situation with Clare. The Secret Admirer project was a complete fiasco. These are the kinds of things losers and geeks do. If I had any backbone at all, I would have faced real rejection like a man. This, I believe, is what caused the demise of my friendship with Clare and also never allowed me to befriend Barbie Doll Heather. I was so taken aback by how beautiful these babes were that I couldn't possibly believe that they would even want to talk to me. Well, hey! I'm a loser! After all of that, I met Donna, the extremely gorgeous bodybuilder from Seattle. She was a wild babe. We hung out a lot. Coincidentally, Clare disassociated from me after that. After things got crazy, Donna moved on as well. I decided then that I was going to seriously live the monk lifestyle. I do not understand babes and I never will.

Some guys never get to meet or even have the cops called on 'em by gorgeous babes like Clare and Barbie Doll Heather. I have no idea what could have happened if I had actually gone ahead and made a fool of myself by asking Barbie Doll Heather out on a date or what would have happened if I had catered to Clare's whims. I always hear guys lamenting to each other saying, "How did that loser end up with that gorgeous babe?" Deep down inside, I believe that it's possible. You thought you'd never hear me admit that, eh? Sometimes we are our own worst enemy.

Sunday September 26

Another day in a drunken stupor. I repeatedly passed out and came to in the detestable resin chair. I also spent a considerable amount of time trying to reduce my belongings. It takes me hours to find even a few sheets of paper that I can divest to the recycler. In a way, I sense that I have lost my mind. I have no focus except to make feeble attempts at becoming more insignificant than I am. The Bose Acoustic Wave is the next in line to go.

Paul (from Chaminade) met me at Barnes & Noble last night. He also came by today. We chatted about the usual nonsense. Of course, today we had to drop back a few cheap brewskis. I am approaching the limit of sanity. I've been discussing babes in Regular One profusely. On the outside, I am still the same aloof and boring monk. On the inside, the fires of lust rage. I cannot seem to squelch my desire for babes. I crave babes. A babe is like a juicy Whopper (my way, of course!) when I am extremely famished. I want to devour it but I will eat it slowly and savor the flavor. Bite by delicious bite. Oh man! I'm losin' it! All that fire water and I am still ready to erupt like a volcano out of control.

Well, there one thing that could tame the savage beast. I discovered an alternative to the BMW Z3. It's the new Honda S2000 roadster. What a car! Of course, rich snobs will turn their noses up. From what I can tell, it actually looks better than both the BMW and the Mercedes roadsters. It's all moot anyway. I have no dough. I have no babes. All I have is my damned hand. Take your hand and move it up and down! Move it up and down! (sing-along) Take your hand and move it up and down! Move it up and down!

To be continued ... Go to R.10

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