Apparently my neighborhood is a hot spot for deranged lunatics on the loose, or else the LAPD really enjoys shining their helicopter searchlight on my street once a week.

I think we need to talk.

Now, now. Relax. We're not breaking up.

I just want to say, though, that I know things have been a little different for you and me lately. I haven't been around as much, that's true. It really isn't because I don't love you. In fact, I spend a lot of time thinking about you.

Now, that being said...

I've been writing somewhere else.

Wait. Oh, Jesus. Don't do this. Please stop crying. Please? I swear to you, I'm not writing on any other website right now. I wouldn't do that. Not to you, not to me.

It's just that I met someone who takes up a lot of my time. Her name is Screenplay. It's kind of like a summer thing. I'd say that I'm about 25% of the way through with this, and then it's all you and me.

I know you don't want to share me. I'd go insane if I had to share you. But, please. Give me this one. Try to understand. This is something I have to do. For me.

Thank you. You're a stand up babe, Diaryland. You really are.

Wouldn't it be really cool if I were really suffering from advanced syphillitic delusions right now and believed I was actually adressing the Diaryland website itself?

That would probably be more entertaining for you than for me, but still. If anyone out there is considering a slow descent into madness, I'd really like to watch that happen on your page. Each entry becoming less and less coherent until you could barely sign in, and then when you do you just write something like "kr3r9[un] -w. feeeeeeeeeeeee!"

That would rock.

Anyway. Hello. I'm writing at 10-ish PM pacific time. Unless you're in Hawaii, or some wacko, no-rules Asian country, it's late for you right now.

For some reason, being in this time zone makes me feel like I have something over the rest of America. I hold this view even though it makes no sense whatsoever. I'd make a joke about Republicans here, but that's preaching to the choir.

Anyway, when it's eight o'clock here, I think to myself "Ha! For the suckers back in Chicago, it's ten! I've got so much more time in my day! Everyone is foolish but me!"

It doesn't even make me think twice when I remember that I woke up two hours later than them. In fact, I become even more of an idiot when I realize that. That's because I think to myself "Ha! And I slept later, too!"

Genius, thy name is FadeIn.

Ah. Here's something cool. Ron Howard's dad came to speak at my program today. He was really cool, and an interesting speaker. He looked exactly like an old version of, well, Ron Howard. I was outside when he left the building, and we shared a moment as he walked by.

A smile from the man whose loins begat Opie.

My rise to fame will be meteoric.

Meanwhile, though, there's a way you can help me.

It is a mistake to move anywhere and not bring toenail clippers. I remember exactly where I used to keep them, and I apparently did not think enough of them to bring them along. Did I somehow think that my toenails would cease to grow once I left Chicago behind?

It's an interesting theory, but let me assure those of you who might try such an experiment: Toenails grow everywhere.

That has nothing to do with helping me, though.

It is also a mistake to move and not bring your music. Even if your plans change at the last minute, and you find yourself flying rather than driving to your new home, really: It is advisable to toss more than one CD into your bag.

Therefore, I beg of you: Please make me mix CD's and send them to me.

This is a very lovely CD I have, chock full of Le Tigre, White Stripes, Stereolab, and Pavement-y goodness, but Lord...a man can only take so much.

Also, my roommate listens to Elvis and blues almost exclusively. That, while fine, and novel at first, is no longer doing it for me.

Take pity on a poor packer. Find it in your hearts. You are beautiful people.

In other news, does anyone have Elle's number or something? We didn't get around to exchanging info before she got to town.

Also, Jamie I'm almost glad I didn't get to meet you when you were here. I never could have kept up.

Lastly, Jonny is a cool guy who thinks of calling me when he's at Ikea to see if I want anything, and takes me to tasty Mexican restaurants.

It's like I was telling him after an especially sweaty lovemaking session last night: "If only we were gay, man...if only we were gay."

When I settle into something resembling a routine, I will write more often.

My feet are sunburnt.