Disclaimer: I'm going to try having Latin quotations as titles for a while, with any luck having the quotations somewhat coincide with the subject of the entry (this one really doesn't, but I think it's an excellent philosophy, reflecting the "Live every day like it's your last" mindset of Romanticism), just to warn you. You probably won't have the foggiest idea what they mean until you read the top line, but it's good for your edification (not the same as education, mind you).

You know, it's only ever so slightly disheartening when the only username in the little "Users that have visited you recently" drop-down list is your own. I suppose that's what I get for not showing up for two months, hmm? Oh well, c'est la vie. Onward!

Nothing much is new, really. I finally came in contact with the ever-elusive Jerry (the manager [or co-owner; I've forgotten] of the Cold Stone here in Costa Mesa, or at least the one I need to talk to about getting a job), who, apparently, is almost never actually around. I've shown up every day (and bought ice cream, unfortunately, as neither my wallet nor my physique can handle much more) looking for him, left a note for him, and, last night, I went one step further.

After dinner, my cousin (Peter, remember?) went out on our bikes. First destination: Cold Stone. Jerry wasn't there, natch. So I purchased my usual (damn that enticing creamy goodness!), then resolved that I was going to wait for Jerry to show up, because I wasn't missing him again, by God. (You see, the last couple nights before that, I had come and heard that I had "Just missed him." Luck of the Irish, I'm guessing.)

So I parked my bicycle outside the ice cream establishment and stood near the door. Then, it occurred to me that it would get awfully tedious simply whistling casually next to the door all night, so I decided to be the unofficial "doorman" for Cold Stone that night. Whenever anyone approached the door to enter or exit, I opened it for them and gave them a bit of that famous Eric Jeffus charm. People seemed to enjoy that, but some asked me why I was doing it. (I suppose it is a bit strange, come to think of it.) Jerry didn't show up, but that seems to be par for the course. In the two-hour stint during which I acted as an unpaid doorhop, however, I made some interesting observations, which I shall share below.

I found that different people react in quite varied ways. Here's the breakdown: 1) The warm "Thank you!" and smile, common among females especially; 2) The hesitant "Um...thanks..." and strange look, slightly less common among young women than #1; 3) The silent nod, wildly popular among all males, who usually opted not to audibly thank me (see Note 1 below); 4) The slight giggle and "Thanks! Why are you doing that?" response, mostly among younger females (See Note 2 below); 5) The "Oh, so are you the doorman tonight?" reaction, also very popular, but mostly among older people; 6) The wisemouthed "So, are they paying you for this?" followed by the mockingly indignant "They aren't? That's a crime!"; 7) The bustling "I-don't-have-time-to-thank-you" (not actually voiced, but implied nonetheless), very rare.

Note 1: Amusingly enough, one phenomenon I couldn't help but notice was what I have deemed the "MAsculine Tactile Compulsive Hormonal Obligation" Syndrome (MATCHO [pronounced much like the word macho, incidentally] for short), which apparently requires that any male walking through a door, even if it is held wide open for him by some gracious person, must, invariably, touch (if only a slight tap) the door handle, as if to reassure himself of his own masculinity and independence. This is especially evident (and significantly magnified) in specimens accompanying females, particularly those consorting with unusually beautiful female companions. Objective scientific data are never wrong. (And for those who would [incorrectly] assume that I made an agreement error in the above sentence with data and are, rest assured that I know exactly what I am doing: data is, forsooth, the plural form of datum, a word that no one but scientists uses anymore.)

Note 2: This is particularly the case in the event of a pack of young females entering the establishment, in which case one begins to giggle, and, like an epidemic, the laughs spread, despite the bevy's ostentatious attempts to quell the effects of having a young man open the door for them. (As a footnote on this footnote, I was affronted by a girl of whose exact age I was uncertain, but who could not have been older than 13, who asked me rather pointedly what I was doing. In spite of her friend's [or sister's; I am again unsure] efforts to subdue her friend's/sister's forward behavior, I had a rather pleasant conversation with the girl, who asked if, assuming I were to get the job at Cold Stone, I would give them extra ice cream. I responded that I could not promise anything as of yet.)

This evening, after waiting a while and opening doors, the phantasmagoric figure of Jerry appeared, much to my surprise. When I spoke to him, he said that if anything were to come up, he would give me a ring, but that I really couldn't hang around outside. I responded by thanking him and agreeing whole-heartedly, respectively, but inside I was extremely disappointed and rather discouraged besides. I had shown unwavering diligence in following up on my application, and he dismisses me seemingly without thought. I rode home saddened, my day dampened. Cold Stone had been my best chance at a job, since it sounded like Virgin Megastore wouldn't be hiring until the end of this month, which is about when I need to go back home if I haven't procured a profession of some sort.

So, that's been my day, more or less. Tomorrow, Peter has neither school nor work, so I plan on staying up late reading and meloing, sleeping in gloriously (while avoiding my Aunt Sharon, an unpleasant spinster whose hair is cut short enough for her to resemble what is known in the vernacular as a "butch," who still lives with her mother [my grandmother], and who, as far as I know, has never even gone on a date, much less been in any sort of serious relationship; she seems to loathe my mother, and thus hates me by association, I suppose, and is, in general, not the sort of person with whom one wants to associate), perhaps catching a flick (since Pete works at the local theatre, he is able to get himself and a guest into movies free [whee!]), and most definitely being sedentary at Borders and Virgin.

I just read an excellent novel entitled Timeline, by Michael Crichton, the first couple of chapters of which I heard as Audiobook before finding the physical book at a local library for free. (Score!) Despite its nearly 500-page girth, I finished it in less than two days, so I suppose those critics were serious when they called it a "page-turner." I highly recommend it to any and all readers of fine literature. (No, I'm sorry: Cosmo, Maxim, and Rolling Stone do not quite qualify.) I also bought yet another CD (grand total: 7 in less than a week): The Last Broadcast, The Doves. A fine band, to be sure. I now see why Caitlin raved about them so. (By the way, I'm now down to less than $120 of the original $350 or so I brought to Costa Mesa. And I've been here for a little more than a week. Eep.)

[Listening to: Start Static (Sugarcult);lovehatetragedy(Papa Roach). Reading: Babbitt (Sinclair Lewis).]

[Exit Orpheum.]