Since I'm now working two full-time jobs, there's little time for the fun things in life. Like Diversity Weekends in Eureka Springs. (Poor Yip. Poor, poor Yip.)

Oh, I still have fun in my own way. I just don't get to travel for fun. I'm either at my printing company, or doing shift work at my other job, which sucks. Big time. But I try to have a little fun with it. If I couldn't turn it into some kind of game, I'd end up glassy-eyed and drooling for the entire shift. I daydream a lot too.

For example, my kind of fun at the job involves re-naming all the equipment I work with. I'm responsible for running seven different machines. These machines are referred to by the manufacturer-assigned serial numbers. One machine is number 2936. Another is 2479.

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The cookbook publishing business hasn't been real lucrative lately, so I decided to get a real job. While I could sit around the office and play on the Internet all day, my creditors have this pesky attitude that I should actually PAY my bills. Not only that, but I have a jones to deal with. It's called food. I admit it. I eat every day. Sometimes several times a day.

I need cash.

I tried whoring myself on the street corner. Didn't work. My only prospect was a Moms Mabley look-alike who said something like, «Oooooo baby! I be lovin' some o' that young stuff!» I gave HER money just for calling me 'young'.

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Sometimes on my way home from work I see a young man walking. I would guess him to be somewhere around 19 or 20 years old.

He always walks very fast, like he's exercising. He's painfully skinny and quite feminine acting. He has a definite swish in his hips, his hands are always bent up at the wrist. If one didn't look closely, he would appear to be an ordinary teenage girl. A girly girl at that.

He always has headphones on, singing to whatever song he's listening to. Singing loudly, swishing his way down the sidewalk. I call him Boy George, because he kind of reminds me of the washed-up singer. But this kid has a lot more class – and courage – than George.

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There's a tavern a few blocks from my office that has a live band every Wednesday night. The girl singer is really, REALLY good. On those rare occasions when I have a few extra bucks in my pocket, I like to go listen to her. A couple of weeks ago I was in the mood for some good, live blues, so I went.

I was walking from the parking lot to the bar. There was an older couple in front of me, the woman apparently quite lame, limping badly, steadying herself with a cane. Her husband (I assumed it was her husband) was helping her along. As I got a little closer to them, «husband» turns around and says to me, «Go around us, young man, we're holding you up!»

«Oh, no you're not. That's ok.» I said. I looked directly at the «husband». It wasn't a man after all, but a woman dressed in a sport coat and slacks, and a drastically short haircut. I did a double-take, then held the door open for them to enter the bar. Wow. It's not often you see open lesbians in this area. Cool!

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I've seen a lot of talk on local bulletin boards about the new bridge just outside of town on highway 62. I don't live in Eureka (yet), don't pay taxes there (except for the rare times I'm able to visit), and know absolutely nothing about the Arkansas highway department (but if it's anything like the Missouri highway dept., they need a good swift kick in their collective butts).

But as a somewhat frequent visitor, as someone who doesn't want to see Eureka Springs change too much, I feel the need to express my unwanted and uninvited opinion.

It goes something like this – no, it goes exactly like this: (Sing this to the tune of Blues in the Night, if you wish. I did while writing it.)

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It's right after Thanksgiving, a few weeks to Christmas and Hanukkah. This is the typical time of year when people gain weight. I know, people gain weight at all times of the year, but the end-of-year holiday season is when those few extra pounds show up – all by themselves – totally unannounced and uninvited – more so than other times of the year.

I've always considered myself kind of lucky, because I can pretty much eat whatever I want without packing on pounds. In my 20's, I actually TRIED to gain weight. I thought I was too skinny. Now that the dreaded 'middle age' is here (how the hell did that happen?), I don't need to try so much. But it's still not food that gets me. It's beer. I love beer. Even bad beer is pretty doggone good. Wine ain't bad either. But beer? Oh yeah.

I've toyed with the idea of going to a gym to work out. Toying is about all I've done about it. It's way too easy to rationalize why I shouldn't go:

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Pat Robertson, along with some other folks, has declared that Interstate Highway 35 is to be the salvation of America from the dreaded homa seckshuls. It's Biblical, they say, citing Isaiah 35:8 recently on The 700 Club:

«And a highway will be there, it will be called the way of holiness.»

They're serious about this. They think this 'way of holiness' is an interstate highway. I-35 is the Highway to Heaven. It's part of 'Gods awesome plan.'

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It's a late summer evening in the Valentine section of Kansas City. I'm walking to the apartment I lived in back then, admiring the old, large homes in this part of town. Some of them were turned into apartments in the 60's, and now a lot of younger people are moving in, gentrifying the neighborhood; turning these large beautiful homes back into single family dwellings. One in particular I've always admired is just a block from my apartment. It sits on a corner, with a wrought iron fence about 5 feet tall surrounding the yard. A large, 2 story home that looks like it's been well cared for over the years and probably not divided into apartments. I have no idea what the architecture is, but it's a great looking house.

As I get a little closer, I see a woman in the front yard, next to the house. She's at one of the windows. There's another woman in the house, leaning out the window. At first I think they're just talking. Then I realize, the woman in the house is crawling out of the window, the woman outside is helping her. What the hell? Looking around, I see no signs of a fire, so why is she crawling out the window? Wouldn't it be easier to use the door as an exit? I'm about even with them now, from the sidewalk I yell at them, «Is everything ok? Do you need some help?»

«Yes. I think so.» says the woman in the yard. I walk through the gate, up to the window. The woman in the yard appears to be in her early to mid thirties, the woman in the window is elderly, and quite frail.

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I've been touring some astrology websites. Here are some fascinating facts about me, a Sagittarius:

Sometimes Sagittarians can get caught up in form, rather than substance.

True. I enjoy the form of a man in Levi's 501s. I couldn't care less if there's a brain there or not. I've always been as intrigued by the packaging as the product.

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THE EXTREME MAKEOVER

Extreme Home Makeover is in Kansas City again. They did a house north of the river last year, one in south Kansas City about 5 years ago (both on the Missouri side), now they're doing one in Kansas City, Kansas. This is part of their «one in every state» campaign. Fred, my partner, absolutely hates the show. «Well hell! If I had unlimited resources I could build a house in a week too!» He has a point.

I'm a lot like Ty Pennington. Or, I would be if I were much better looking, screamed a lot through a bullhorn, and knew anything about home remodeling.

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