“Let’s just sit and meditate for a few minutes until everyone arrives,” said my yoga teacher yesterday. A few more people straggled in; I tried not to wish I had a wall to slouch against.

“Okay,” said Lawrence-call-me-Lar, “let’s begin. First of all, I always teach with all the lights off” (turns off the lights in the windowless little yogabasement) “because yoga is not a competitive sport. Although sometimes it is. Second, I’d like you all to get hold of a copy of Yoga: The Spirit of Union. Now, this is a book I wrote, blah blah justification of pointless purchase, blah blah I want all you young things to see pictures of me wearing spandex and an uncomfortable position when I was in my thirties, blah blah celestial universe blah. Yoga is very healthy for you. Please disregard the fanatic gleam in my eye – I’m just eager for the moment when I can come up behind you to correct your position. In the dark. When your eyes are closed.

“Now let’s all close our eyes again…”

We all know smoking kills you deader than a bask of crocodiles, right? Folks who smoke are one hundred percent victims of good marketing. There is nothing that says “dumb as a bag of hammers” to me like seeing someone light up, so I’m a little disturbed by how many of my people are doing it all over campus. I mean they are everywhere. And it’s not just the dotty frosh either – my friends do it, the Pentavirate does it, hell, even I’ve done it, and as you know I am real real smart.

It’s not like drugs, dig? Drugs have a clear benefit, in that they make you briefly and excitingly stupid. Cigarettes just make you smelly, and p.s., don’t tell me they relax you because, son, they are uppers. And if you really need an excuse to hover around that cute girl for fifteen minutes while you work up the nerve to talk to her, why not try a method that doesn’t involve ruining her clothes, your teeth, and the air quality for your fifteen stammering bros?

But, um, ranting aside for a second – school is so fun. There are all kindsa people there who aren’t caucasianasian, and lots of them are smart, and my teachers care what they’re talking about, and I get to write papers and wear a backpack and be not dogmeat anymore. It’s like the air I breathe has turned to gold, except in a symbolic, pretty way rather than an actual, death-inducing way.

I got slammin’ threads at some lovely little stores called Forever 21, The Gap, and Victoria’s Secret yesterday.

Oops.

Here’s a fun thing to do: Go to Google and type in the name of your favorite store/clothing brand. Then type “sweatshop.” Sit back and let the fun begin! Suddenly your closet is filled with angry Latin Americans. (Though if you’re Michele, they were probably already hanging around.)

In a less depressing theme, KTV wants us to start a west coast guerilla poetry movement. I am somewhat interested in the performance aspect, but more intrigued by the graffiti idea. Interested? Tell our fearless organizer, or just come to baseball tonight and let us convince you.

Been talking to my uncle on and off for a few days now, as he’s here briefly from Hawaii. Talks like a pirate, some favorite expressions being “aye” and “auh?” What with my preferred affirmative of “yarr,” we are like a whole crew of suburban buccaneers. (Or, spastics.) Yesterday he was telling me about how the weirdest part about turning sixty is suddenly being invisible to the objects of his ogling, aka women in their twenties.

This made me think again about these older-younger pairings one so often finds, wherein a man in his thirties or so will hook up with a woman who is hovering around eighteen. Or in some cases younger. I was the May to a December one time – or maybe the April, or March – and I have to wonder, how young does she need to be before he’s officially a pedophile? Is it a matter of the age difference between them? Or the specific mischief they get into together?

I know a girl who dated her high school track coach. Granted they waited until just after graduation, but still…shouldn’t that give you a twinge of ick? Or do most men just shrug and turn on the latest Kirsten Dunst movie on HBO?

All the day long, I am as dogmeat.

From the grad students: “I need a key to my office, dogmeat, and a code for the copier, and a mailbox.”

From the professors: “Dogmeat, fax this for me and also I want a copy of my evaluations from the last six years.”

From some staffers: “DOGMEAT! DOGMEAT! DOGMEAT! ARRRR!” (The noise of them taking the back of my shirt between their teeths and shaking me around the room.)

Only Tracy, Erica and Jennifer are sweet and kind. For them, I take away the food trash and run errands with a smile. But all day, dogmeat. I am battered and bruised.

Next blog: unemployment makes for cheerful dogmeat.

Fucking clit-tease Irishman GSI needs to quit going around having the attractive accent all the time and stay in his bloody lounge where he can’t drive innocent receptionists into lust-crazed frenzies. Goddammit. “Ohh, I’m SHANE, I’m from DUBLIN, potato potato shamrock pub.” Teasing BASTARD. Mrmrmrnmrnm. Mngm.

No hot freaking Irishmen were harmed in the making of this blog. Now get over here, Blarney-boy.

Friday is my last day at the French department. Aw.

BUT, I cannot start at my new job on Monday or Wednesday, due to the strike. Friday’s no good as it’s the last day of the month and the department will be crazed. So it looks like I have a week off.

Whatever will I do with myself?

Gulp. Looks so clean, so shiny and clean…

I’m sitting at my desk eating potatoes in an underhanded manner. I have to hide it because a big pile of potatoes with dill doesn’t seem like the kind of snack that Boss would approve of. It’s not a tidy secretarial gnosh, it’s a full-fledged meal.

Ooh busted, Boss #2 just caught me shovelling in a forkful. “Is this a late lunch or an early dinner?” he said in a stentorian voice, making me feel like a small Irish child caught with two gerbil-cheeks full of bangers and mash.

“Bowthf,” I said meekly. He stalked on.

In other root-vegetable news, I got another e-mail from the Sicilian. Apparently his roommate has taken my cat away for good. Also, he appears to have a website; nothing’s on it yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. And no, I’m not telling where it is. Like any of you give a flying ferret anyway.

Also got a few e-mails from Allen, our sly little friend in South America, mainly of the “I’m alive, don’t panic, politics down here are dreadful” variety. So if you read this, and you know him, and you didn’t get an e-mail, and you DO have a flying ferret for this cause, well, rest assured the peacock is alive and strumming.