If he keeps that goddamn $22 book , God help me, I will bring wirecutters down to that church and gut his precious piano one cord at a time for every hourI don't have the book - starting with middle C.

You want to know why girls don't like "nice" guys? Not that the quotes haven't given it away, but news: You're not actually nice.

The art festival took up a whole street. I was late because G needed me to fix sausage for her lunch; she's on oxygen now and we have a gas stove. (I know. The kaleidoscope of horrors. We aren't in a fire district either - meaning, no service. And I've already come home once to find she knocked the gas on while she was cleaning the stove.) I took too long of a shower and missed my ride, but it was nice to go by myself. Everything is autumn now. The weather's blue-orange and all the local places are keeping their doors open so the band music leaks out.

Last night, I went to see HS playing fiddle with two friends. The bar was a long open room, well lit, with a bartender with fluffy strawberry blond braid, young enough to think this was a cool job and worth her time. I love when people enjoy what they're doing. They had a wall of beer bottles from six countries; you point to what you want, but I had only six bucks so I went for the tap special. The music was decent, in that way that country twang needs no key, nearly. I spent most of my time watching their lead singers neck. He had that perfect country boy build and grin, blond and looking tan because of the lurid stage light gels. He left his shirt unbuttoned and mastered that perfect gratitude you need onstage.

Out back, they'd invented some game like horseshoes with dog toys, a ring and spiky ball and a stick. This is a dog friendly bar; I ended up holding a chihuahua for two songs. Poor thing was chilled. Open doors meant I was wearing a fleece the whole night. I gave HS the extra while we played out back, spilling beer and stumbling. I just have to touch the cold glass and I'm off balance. Barefoot in white sand, lit like a Miami prison yard, I felt like I'd snuck into a miniature golf course for a kegger.

I've invited him to three different things and he hasn't even declined, just been silent. I used facebook when I got too shy to call, and I know he sees those messages, see that he's talking to others, and not even posting, "I can't make it, sry" on my wall. I guess that's over.

I'm trying to balance two ideas. When you can't keep a roommate, you acknowledge that sometimes people just don't fit. It's no one's fault; it just didn't work. But after awhile, you look again, thinking: The one common factor here is me. I'm never good enough. I'm good enough to talk to, but after a few weeks, silence.

A guy at his photography stand this morning was talking to me from behind his sunglasses. I can barely talk to people on the phone without having massive misunderstandings - I need to see eyes, have them see mine. He was so much older. I'm not used to being 'on the market' - I look very young - To Catch a Predator young. People ask now. I kind of want to say, just because I'm legal doesn't negate the age gap. Or maybe I'm rationalizing, because I don't trust sunglasses.

Went out to the lake today with a notebook and umbrella.  It was partially drained last fall to kill some invasive fish, which left these muddy islands all along the north side . It's taken no time at all to fill to the brink with a hundred kinds of reeds and delicate vivid green plants. Nothing heavy can go out on the marshy ground to hunt, so all the light things - birds and beetles and these wetland flowers - are safe.

I walked through an old drained lake on my grandfather's tobacco farm when those plants were my head, and I was light enough not to sink in the mud. Giant dry cracks held tiny streams, banks stacked with frog holes. There was an old rope swing and because I grew up with that, I always get confused when people with ropes over full lakes let go and fall in. Isn't that a dangerous habit - what if the water's not there next time?

My good dog fell the lake today. I'd been letting her slop around to cool off. She stepped off this concrete shelf by the bridge, obviously expecting two or three inches of shallow water. Instead, a perfect kerplunk sound, in at least three feet deep. The  I can't yell  panic face and thrashing, then trying to pull herself up. She's getting old though, so she got her front up of the water and I skidded down the hill without canine all-terrain drive, grabbed a handful of fur and hauled her rump out.

Fluffy animals look so sad with wet fur. Then the shaking and chasing me, and suddenly the leash is keeping the human from escaping into the street.

I could see his house from there if I could've remembered the street. It was so long ago. I looked up a few, but the one that seemed most familiar was blocked off by a group of moms and their kids on bikes and scooters and shaggy hounds.

Finished up the day with a New Orleans expat house party, CJ teaching me to drum so I can go north to Pennsic, etc.  Checked out the Pickens Plan at home, which shows how you just can't reach a certain demographic, the media, unless it's grandpa texas talking.  Everyone telling kids that it's our generation that will fix the situation - and after half a decade of screaming and Powershift and campus initiatives, we're burned out. And some oil company millionaire has decided to invest in windpower and make it big.

Monday morning will be the time to send W the resume and alum letter! Hopefully, he'll appreciate the challenge.

blown off at Altamont Envr Inc. I desperately want a job to just fall in my lap. I've made a list of things I meant to do before this need for a job happened, but here' s time. Home situ needth cash. Lilsis is off traipsing around getting a good education in a non lucrative profession, as her otherSis before her. No one wants a damn BA - everyone wants engineers and people with four years of progressive responsibility in a related capacity. Which is nothing like the years of random chiclets I've picked up - working sailboats, arranging backpacking meals, and some good spanish I'm to shy to use.

So instead of writing a fabulous scifi econovel adventure, with centipede steeds and those Theo beach crawlers, I am writing an alumna contact letter and drowning my creativity in chinese subbed seasons of Gilmore Girls because I have this vague notion a guy I care(d?) about used to watch it. I wish I were computer handy enough to stalk, or had enough guts to friend him on facebook.