This is quick note about a conversation Jen and I had with our neighbors yesterday evening, which was still on my mind as I fell asleep last night. We live next to an ex-serviceman/retired public official and his wife, who are both intensely religious and outwardly Republican. (There are multiple anti-abortion bumper stickers on their vehicles, and they display various religious themed signs on their front lawn year-round.) Despite our differences of opinion, we get along with them very well. During our visit, the subject of Iraq came up, and their comments stopped me in my tracks: They called the war a terrible thing, compared it to Vietnam, and plainly stated that they thought our troops should come home. I felt as if someone was shuffling the tectonic plates underneath my feet as we spoke.

Memo to Mesrrs. Bush, Rove, and Cheney: Your key demographic smells the bullshit.

On my way home from the bookstore this evening, I decided to pull into the driveway backwards so that the Jeep would be facing outward, something I do whenever I get the chance. This evening I spied something unusual in my headlights, low to the ground and skulking, running across Frederick Road: a red fox, plain as day, watching me warily over its shoulder as it padded over to the opposite side of the street. Due to the arc of my turn, I put the Jeep in reverse and followed it easily with my headlights as it ran across lawns to the lawn of the church, then did a circuit of the pine tree there before disappearing into its foliage.

We’ve known we have a fox for a neighbor for some time now—we saw one repeatedly last year out the kitchen window and assumed it was living under our neighbor’s porch. We’ve also seen tracks that are too big for a cat and too small for a dog in fresh morning snow through the backyard, so it’s no surprise this one is around. Something told me, though, that this was something I was meant to see, so I did a little research. This site has a lot of good information on foxes, including the observation that they’re great for hunting varmints, something our yard has in abundance. This is also prime birthing season, which means I may have seen a parent out hunting for dinner (sorry, the garbage cans are empty, pal, but I’d be happy to introduce you to the chipmunks digging condos under the maple in the backyard.)

The idea of totems is relatively new to me, and something I don’t usually consider much. The last couple of weeks have me looking for some higher meanings, though—a recent influx of work has me considering my karma, and a current project is testing my patience, professionalism, and good judgement. A cursory search in Google brings up lots of crunchy new-age babblings about spirits and raibows and faeries; yeah, OK, whatever.

The general consensus seems to be that it’s a powerful totem and one that is clever and crafty. If I could get some clever and crafty to rub off on me right now, that would be great, because I’m not feeling so sharp lately. I’ve had a few things happen this week that are making me question my own intelligence, but I’ve been able to recover without bringing shame upon my dojo. So maybe this is a sign that I’ve got to tap a little more of my clever and crafty for the future. The Internets also say the fox teaches one how to slip out of unpleasant situations quietly. This talent would normally be be fine, but I’m having some problems with accountability right now, so I figure it’s telling me not to fade out, but step up to the plate more consistently. Which means I have a dreaded phone call to make tomorrow morning.

Cleverness, discretion, cunning, quick wit, camouflage: I could have used some of these things for a 1½ phone conversation this afternoon…where were you then, my little friend? Oh, that’s right, I was looking out the window, waiting for someone to make a 10-minute point, and I saw a woodpecker. Woodpecker? Sensitivity, protection, devotion…How does that help me with this stuff? Mother Earth, what the hell are you trying to tell me?

I’ve got some kind of stomach bug, something I’ve had since Superbowl Sunday, which means the only people writing anything here have been comment spammers. I have an appointment to see the doctor tomorrow, which is the only thing I like less than being sick. Hopefully the burbling in my gut can be treated with something mild and cherry-flavored.

Jen’s been away for the past three days, helping her father out (the Word is: he’s fine; everything went smoothly) so I’ve been bachelorizing it here at the Lockardugan Estates. Without her moderating influence, I’ve been staying up and getting up later, working longer, eating whatever’s easy to make and generally not taking care of myself. Today I decided to get out of here for lunch, and ventured out to the Forest Diner for a burger.

The Forest Diner sits across from what used to be the Enchanted Forest, a family owned amusement park that closed years ago. In its place somebody put a Safeway, and at some point the local Diner Conglomerate dropped one of its ugly concrete boxes next to the railcar-original Forest in an attempt to take over the turf. The plucky little diner has held on, however, and they continue to make decent food in a clean, retro atmosphere. The menu may not be as huge, the available seating not as spacious, but the Forest is my favorite place to get a quiet cup of coffee and read the paper.

This marks the second week of working 14-hour days here at Idiot Central. Actually, it could be the third, as I was working double-time up until I left for SF, but I don’t remember that far back.

I did decide, however, that my previous conclusion about a new Mac was faulty—after spending time traveling with a balky ThinkPad and an anemic iBook, I’m going to save my shekels for a MacBook (and maybe a MacBook Pro, if I can swing it) for several reasons: Being able to run a separate monitor for presentations, portability, and power. I just wish the RAM wasn’t so damned expensive.

When I went off to college in the fall of 1989, one of the many things I packed for the trip took up little space, but was one of the biggest lifesavers of all. It wasn’t the cofffee machine I never mastered, or the heavy dishes I never washed, or the metric tons of cassette tapes I lugged up and down flight after flight of stairs. No, the lifesaver was a little plastic card issued by Citibank for shlubs like me, entering into the prime target demographic the hallowed halls of higher education like an innocent lamb. Many life lessons were learned there, from banal (don’t mix lights and darks, no matter how desperate the need for clean underwear) to life-threatening (don’t climb the Howard Street Bridge after three 40’s of Crazy Horse) to common-sense (art chicks are crazy) to survival (First Thursdays=free dinner and cheap wine) to painful truth (I can draw really well, but I can’t paint worth a damn). One of the best lessons I learned was how to be smart with money, and how not to abuse a credit card. I would—and still do—scoop up change off the sidewalk to afford a beer at the Tavern, dive through dumpsters for furniture, and buy all my best leisure wear at the Goodwill.

For awhile, during the heady days of the Internet Boom, and when I was loosely affiliated with the prosperity that wheezed through Maryland, I lived pretty large. I had a nice little house in the city, a toy truck to play with, and spending cash to have fun with. Somewhere along the way, I started using my credit card for stuff, and got pretty cavalier about it. To the point where I realized one day that I was carrying a balance that was alarmingly large. And this coincided with one of those periods where I wasn’t getting paid on time. (You may already know where this is going.) After doing what I could to save money, and missing one payment along the way, I was able to pay the card off—but not before my interest rate was hiked to prime plus 20%.

I vowed never to have this happen again, and went back to my skinflint ways—only buying what I could afford with my debit card from my checking account, and retiring my credit card to the back of my wallet, behind my library and Sam’s Club cards. The last time I carried any balance at all on my card was April of ’05.

This afternoon, in preparation for booking a flight to California, I pulled it out to see if I could have the APR reduced. The nice lady on the phone cheerfully told me that my account was closed.

Closed? I asked. For what reason?

Because the account has been inactive for a year, she replied. Can I help you with any other services today?

…

So let me get this straight. If I carry a balance of $.01 on my card, Citibank charges me a “handling fee” each month, plus interest. If I don’t have any activity on my card at all, for a year, my APR still stays at Prime-plus-anal-rape, and Citibank closes the account without notifying me after I’ve been a customer of 13 years? Fuck you, Citibank.