That would be the word used to describe a blog that’s idle for more than five months.

Not that there’s a soul on earth who was aware that it was idle. In that characteristic, I share a wealth of comrades across the net. One can only imagine how many blogs are out there, started in good faith, with freshly washed face and apple cheeks, only to slide into the oblivion that’s inevitable when one ruminates with the general interest value of ‘Dear Diary’ without a lock on it. Or alternatively, when one ruminates on self-referential ruminations on self-reference. There! I did it again!  …And again, right there! Wow.

Most people really don’t have much to say—or at least, much to say that others would care to hear. We’ve all got our own little theories on life, the meaning of same, and how we fit into the vast cosmos. Some can write on the matter effortlessly and with grace. Most however merely prattle on, their inner voice laid bare in text. I’m not the first to point out that blogs are merely the immediate, electronic version of Vanity Publishing. We all think we have the makings of an author. Alright—that’s not true of course. Vast numbers of people don’t give the slightest thought to being an author. Millions live their lives without ever putting fingers to keyboard and laying bear their inner torment. Possibly it means that millions don’t have inner torment. or possibly it means they haven’t got a computer yet. Who knows?

I certainly don’t. I’m a master at prattling on about nothing of any significance at all, while patting myself on the back for the crisp delivery of same. There! I did it again!

I have a lot on my mind. a lot. Matters of faith, matters of ethics and politics, matters of love, and matters of annoyance. The question remains—do I write that shit down? Whose life will be enriched by sharing my inner torment? In what way will humanity benefit? On the other hand, who says anyone has to be enriched by it? And furthermore, why do I assume that this metablathering is even being read by anyone? I’m the only one reading it right this very instant, as I have yet to post it. I might just hit the ‘draft’ button, and leave it all in the dark.  Wouldn’t that be a tasty twist. I’ve written all this crap, meta-meta-blathering, and now i can leave it locked up, as if never written. What a challenging idea.

Eeesh. This is most definitely one of my worst traits. Second-guessing, and indulgent introspection and analysis. See? I’m doing it again!!!

G**gle is mocking me. It likely won’t stay consistent, but the G**gle ads showing right now—next to my tale of highwire devil-may-care window cleaning—are about Window Cleaning. "There’s No Window We Can’t Reach! Call Now For A Free Estimate!"

O cold-hearted G**gle.

I really enjoy this guy’s site. I realize that by directing people away from this site, I’m not doing the whole ‘monetizing your site’ gig correctly. But since ‘people’ really is barely more than one person, I’ll forgive myself.

Acts Of Gord

This goes to a specific subpage, ‘annoyances’. once you start reading you can’t stop, though maybe you need a masochistic streak. Reading about other people’s stupidity amuses me.

I lived in the dorms at SJSU for most of my time there. I had a blast—it was rather a party atmosphere, and I got in a ton of pent-up socializing. In fact, I think the socialization aspect of my time in the dorms was more important to my personal growth than the courses I took. I’d been a reject/long hair/introverted/pimply little geek in high school, and here I had a chance to remake myself….somewhat.

So, I lived in Joe West dormitory. The only high-rise dorm on campus, it was twelve stories high, and I was at the top. Here’s a picture I found on the net:

 
That’s the general idea. I’m not certain due to the angle of the photo, but i’m pretty sure my room would have been out there off to the left—beyond the photo’s edge—at the top corner.

So we had pretty sweeping views of …the hazy San Jose area. Not much to appreciate, but on a clear day, you could see the Santa Cruz mountains, and it could be pretty.

One of my obsessive-compulsive issues is clean glass. I hate having a dirty windshield on my car, and dislike dirty windows where I live. So naturally, the windows had to be cleaned.

If you look at those concrete boxes that jut out around the windows, if you look closely—say that very bottom one left of center—you may be able to see that the center divider didn’t butt up to the window, it actually left a gap of about a foot and a half between it and the window.

So, one balmy spring evening, I decided to wiggle my way out onto that thing so I could clean the outside of the glass. Yep, there was no restriction—the windows slid left to right fully, and if someone were inclined to jump, nothing would stop them.

But I only went out there to clean the glass, you see. So I’m out there, back pressed up against that middle column, so I’m very safely tucked in there. I’m whistling as I work, spritz-spritz with the ammonia, wipe wipe with the paper towels.

Sliding windows means that if you don’t close the one you first opened, you can’t clean that narrow strip of the other window that’s blocked by it.

So, I closed it.

‘Click’.

Oh. Uh. Right. The window had a latch. Of course. Of course! I had locked myself out on the concrete waffle.

My roommate was off at class. I was out on a precipice. I was kind of  scared. I get a bit of vertigo, but I was wedged in well, with the actual edge two feet away, and this big concrete column at my hip, so I wasn’t going anywhere.

But everyone in the buildings had always wondered just how firmly those waffles were attached. Rumor had it they were engineered efficiently, with only enough support to hold them on. So what would my then 180 or so pounds do? That worried me a bit. I’d been out there for some minutes cleaning the window, and the thing hadn’t dropped off, so I couldn’t imagine it doing so later. But still. The mind wanders in such a situation.

Eventually—I think after about 45 minutes—my roommate Ted got back from class. He walked in, looked over, and doubled over laughing at the sight of me reclining out there.

I was less amused.

So what prompted the story about 1979? Well, i was about to write an humorous little story about an incident from back in my misspent youth. That story is actually an outgrowth of the events of 1979 detailed previous.

while my mother was in the hospital, in intensive care, given those ominous odds of ’50/50′ chance of living, i sat with her weeping. this was about a year after i had graduated from high school, and i was quite directionless. i’d had no plans to go to college, even though mom always wanted me (all three of her sons for that matter) to go to college.

sitting there, i decided that the right thing to do was to promise her i would indeed go to college. to do that for her.

so i did. i hurriedly applied to san jose state university, and started classes barely a couple of months after her accident.

of course, i pretty well frittered away my college years. i was still directionless. i had no real conception of the responsibilities that lay ahead as an adult (and since my emotional development had come to a screeching halt at age eleven, perhaps that makes sense).

i took history of art, graphic art, fine art, electronics, metalworking, philosophy. pretty much whatever interested me at the moment. never declared a major. dropped out in my third year.

but….i digress. that humorous little story, yes, i remember now.