This scribble is for all the Darias and Janes out there, because it finally happened: I actually spoke with a girl who is more sarcastic than I. She happened to be a literary journalism major, so perhaps waxing sarcastic is a requirement for them -- although I find such a possibility to be both convenient and stereotypical, at the same time. Literary or not, though, her deadpan delivery employed itself with charmingly flat sentences like, "I didn't study, but I got an 83. That's probably because I'm so cute."

Yet despite the gradual sloughing-off of my own biting wit -- usually internal, mind you, as most INFP-types who are mellowing with age and amusement and sporadic fits of outgoing hurrahs tend to be -- I actually managed to amuse her, albeit later on in the conversation.

"If I'm wrong," I remarked blandly, about something pointless which I have since forgotten, "you can all come after me with pointed sticks."

A thoughtful pause ensued, and then, "Did you just say pointed sticks?"

"Yes," I replied. "Yes I did."

"Heh heh," came her honest chuckle. And thus a new scribble was born.

The song "Yachts," by A Man Called Adam, has been running on a loop around here for the greater part of a half-hour. I haven't touched it, turned it off, or messed with it. I've just let it run. There is no reason for this strange looping behavior, either. It's not a particularly great song. It is not particularly inspirational, expressive, sultry, snappy, self-involved, or any other horribly generic adjective for why people listen to music. It's just sort of there. Like me.

We can't sleep, "Yachts" and I. What thumping bores.

After rooting through several oldskool voice workshop tapes from my sassy belt-education period, I came upon this risqué little gem. (Consider yourself warned, kiddies.) The piece is from City of Angels -- or as I like to think of it, Film Noir: The Musical! -- and gets only more risqué when you know the story behind it in the show. Cy Coleman, the late composer and jazzy musician, once gave a students-only talk hereabouts, and his talents made my skin hurt.

Please keep in mind that all I had for this obviously dated practice recording was a dinky microphone and an even dinkier accompaniment tape. Modern tape-to-MP3 technology notwithstanding, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to re-title it, "Practicing in a Tunnel."

But hey, let it never be said that I can't at least attempt to work a jazzy tunnel. I don't know who would say that, but you never know. Somebody might. Probably some kind of lousy rotten film noir detective, with his feet up on the desk and his vertical-blind lighting and his ceiling fan going round and round. He probably doesn't even know how to whistle. Pssh.

Love is:
    Conan O'Brien singing the theme to Charles in Charge.

Surely the world can learn a lesson from that -- a lesson that goes something like, why bother with silly love songs when you can make reference to pop culture? After all, love, schmuhve. By now it is perfectly clear to me that I'm not lucky enough to find the sort of love which goes beyond pop culture, beautiful lies, or random make-outs with creeps in nice-sheep's clothing.

And now back to our usual fair-weather scribbles. Because nobody, ardent fans or not, really wants to read about a very blue, very down, very uglyfied girlwoman's dirty laundry.

Bad mood, bad! Now go to your room, and no more Conan for you!

Life without hot discussions? Sweetie or no sweetie, that's NO WAY TO LIVE!

Pretty forecast-accurate, actually, what with the waves-opposites-home stuff. I even know an Aquarius who's all about the basics. Pity I don't really believe in all this stars mumbo-jumbo, though. I'll have to throw away my "HONK IF YOU LOVE BOUNDARIES" bumper sticker.

Truly, this has to be the funniest and most strangely endearing thing I've seen all summer.

Tell me, ardent fans. Is this perhaps some great boy-secret? Do all men turn into dancing fools when left to their own devices? If that's true, why, the world must be around 10% better than I previously thought. This short fellow may have even raised my general faith in males a bit -- because if boys truly do this, this lummox-dancing on the sly, well, they can't be all bad. So pay no attention to your skilless roommate, shorty. You go ahead and let that rhythm move you.

And that's when summer stuck a fork into Christa.

(She was medium rare, and full of nectarines.)

But enough about the busy. You're not interested in the busy. You're interested in scribbles and change and life, as am I. So bring on the youthful, Diet Coke-drinking repairmen already.

Ever-loyal ardent fans will notice today's extremely new design. Inspired awhile back by an extremely late-night viewing of La Dolce Vita, methinks it's all very different from the usual boxy modernism around here. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Change is a tricksy thing.