Lots of Monkeys

There seems to have been some confusion about my last post, and before everything gets out of hand I’m going to clear a few things up.

First off–I am not a Republican. God no. Nor am I a Sith Lord, although that would be way cool. Nor am I an Anarchist–whether or not that would be cool, the government has no right to tell me.

Some of you may not accept what I am about to tell you, but it’s true. This is a decision that I’ve been agonizing over for weeks.

I’m an Apple user. I bought a PowerBook G4. The 12″. I ordered her May 1st and she got here yesterday. SuperDrive and everything. I’ve been going to the Apple store in Clarendon for weeks now, just chatting with other Apple users, asking questions, overall just having a really positive experience. My housemate is an Apple zealo–er, supporter as well, and has been evangel–er, educating me about the benefits of OSX.

I’m a geek at heart, and somewhere I somehow ignored the whole Apple phenomenon. Playing with OSX at the store totally made up my mind. So, I’ve got a new object of my affection now. She even sorts out the spam well without me even telling her what’s what. It’s fantastic. I’m very happy. She’s stable, and we haven’t had any problems yet. Unlike some other laptops I’ve had. So yeah. I’m an Apple user.

Oh geez, you didn’t think that I was. . .

Whoa now.

It’s May.

Where the hell is my Animatrix episode? Do I have to wait until the 15th? Don’t make me wait until the 15th.

Interesting dreams lately.

1. I was moving into my college dormitory (sorry, residence hall) and everyone I knew was helping me move in. This includes my kung fu classmates, Atomic folks, coworkers, and pretty much everyone I know.

2. I was moving somebody else into their apartment, and I noticed that they had cut their hair and colored it. It made me sad. Like an unhappy clown.

Both have to do with moving. Maybe my subconscious is telling me something.

I hate tourists in my city?

     “See? It’s Bruce Lee.”
     I stop just before exiting the door and do a cursory check of the train. No other slant eyes here. Even though my eyes are round, probably due to all the spanish influence. Four hundred years can’t help but have an effect, after all.
     My eyes catch an older gentleman wearing a cap with an american flag embroidered on it. His finger is starting to come down from pointing. There’s a child there, maybe four years of age, and he’s staring directly at me.
     I know what I should have said. I should have said, “No, actually, I can’t be Bruce Lee, because he’s dead. God bless America.”
     But I didn’t. The chimes signaled the imminent closing of the doors, and honestly, I had better things to do.