My friend, Emily, is studying massage at a local school. I've waited a long time for a friend in massage school, because I am nothing if not completely dependant on regular muscular manipulation. Any of my ex-boyfriends, and most certainly my current amour, would recognize the slightly whiny, pensive-but-hopeful tone I take on when requesting a shoulder massage.

So, when Emily offered her friends the opportunity to have free massages, it didn't take long for me to make an appointment. I've had four so far, and she is making great progress. She gives one heckuva free full-body massage, and recommends helpful stretches and such as well. For that reason, I eagerly anticipated my appointment with her last Friday afternoon.

I showed up at 6pm, as usual, and we chatted a bit before I undressed and got on the table.

Emily lives directly above one of my favorite record shops, Easy Street. Her constant pre-9pm companion is whatever hipster musician du jour strikes the fancy of the employees. My massages have included a soundtrack consisting of electroclash, urban Brit-grime, and one time, Johnny Cash.

Friday, though, featured a live band. When I got on the table, someone began beating a bass drum, and another started fiddling with an electric guitar.

"Check, check, check."

"I'm sorry, they're doing an in-store [performance]," Emily said.

I assured her that it wouldn't interfere with my ability to relax, since, uh, it's a free massage. Like I'm going to fuss.

She apologized a few more times, lit some sandalwood incense, and started some nondescript relaxation music. She began.

So did the rock music directly below us.

The room pulsed with the persistent beat of the drums, the sound of guitars came up muffled through the carpet and floorboards. I tested my ability to place the music, wondering if it was the Kings of Leon in-store I'd read about in The Stranger.

No, it wasn't the Kings, and I stopped caring who it was at all once Emily started working on my exceedingly achy right shoulder.

Just as I was approaching light-snooze mode, Emily gently rested her two palms flat on my back. I knew she was stopping for a moment, so I perked up, ready to respond.

"Jana?"

"Mmmhmm...?" I mumbled back laboriously.

"I think that's Pearl Jam," she said with a subtle mix of both certainty and a twinge doubt.

I know that feeling. I've had it when a diminutive, be-speckled figure walks up the street before a Ben Folds show. It's too far away to tell, but then again, who else could it be? In Emily's apartment, she heard the tell-tale licks of the guitar, and the unmistakable voice of Eddie Vedder.

Once she pointed out what should have been obvious, I caught up. Of course it was Pearl Jam. That voice...

The first question we asked ourselves, and each other, was, what the hell is Pearl Jam doing playing an in-store at the West Seattle Easy Street? Emily was quick with the fan knowledge.

"They're about to go out on a Canadian tour!" she said, excited.

I once owned Ten, but that is the extent of my Pearl Jam knowledge.

It wasn't the extent of my Eddie Vedder knowledge, though. I know that Eddie and I live in the same neighborhood. Me, on the Admiral Way end, and he further south, within walking distance of The Junction.

It made sense that Vedder and Co. were in the neighborhood, it just made no logical sense that they'd be promoting anything in the small confines of the record shop. We determined that we'd go investigate.

I dressed, and we dashed downstairs, all the while hearing Eddie yowl, unintelligibly. To me, he always sounds fairly unintelligible, but Emily assured me that this was more than normal. It was as though he was only practicing; not giving his vocals the usual treatment.

We walked out the door and around the building to the facade, where black curtains draped from one end of the of display window to the other. The front door opened and closed, as gruff-looking, pierced and inked (we'll call 'em "pinked"!) guys purposefully walked about. No truck in sight, neither errant equipment, so it's unclear what the pressing business was. The sounds drifting into the street were definitely Pearl Jam, so any lingering doubt or confusion dissipated.

It was time to figure out what was going on, and better yet, if we could be a part of it.

Two of the guys stood guard at the door, shooting menacing looks at the passersby, most of whom, I'm betting, did not recognize the music playing. The look on their faces made clear the assumption that everyone was a potential crazed fan, ready to storm the place. Since Emily and I lingered on the sidewalk, we become de facto crazy fans.

Stepping forward, they looked at us, crossing their arms. More pinked guys came and went, and we unabashedly craned our necks to catch a glimpse. The lights were lowered, and it was difficult to see even the front counter, what with the black curtains blocking all incoming light.

"What's going on in there?" Emily asked one of the guards.

"They're testing equipment," he replied.

Well, that answered everything.

We walked away, full of questions and lacking any sort of answer.

After drifting upstairs, Emily and I listened to the muffled faux-cert below and traded stories of our celebrity encounters. This, of course, qualifies as a Not!Counter, since I never caught a glimpse of the band. As it turns out, Emily further investigated, and found out there was later a private party of some kind.

That answer, while perfectly reasonable, does nothing for the mysterious choice of Easy Street for private party revelry. Pearl Jam is one of the most popular bands on planet earth. Can't they do better? Don't get me started on shutting down the shop to the plebes like me, to party, what? Among the record shelves?

Oh well. I'll have to shop for vinyl another day.

My father called me earlier this evening to let me know that he and Rian managed to transfer title and pick up the erstwhile "Bitchmobile" from roomie, Dan. I am a bit nervous about the fate of the Bitchmobile as Rian has lost not one, but TWO cars to vandalism. Though, since finding Our Lord and Savior, his feckless, devil-may-care attitude toward transportation (read: freedom) is a distant memory.

Rian lost his license as a result of a reckless driving charge, in addition to several various and sundry moving violations. After being incarcerated for nearly a year, he returned home and spent the succeeding months alternately laying floor tile and digging pole holes. My father, 'til today, drove him on those days when he'd be called in to work his day labor.

Dad drove south to Olympia today, with Rian, en route to jump through bureaucratic claptrap required to re-obtain Rian's license. My dad, an accomodating softie, lets Rian play his CDs in the car. Rian, never one to censor, well, anything, sings loudly with the music.

Apparently, though, not with the lyrics.

(All due deference to Jamie for my use of her oft-used interspersed song lyric entry idea. Ditto to Cole Porter for his lyrics.)

When other friendships have ceased to jell, ours will still be swell!

My thoughts are preoccupied with the idea of friendship and its transiency lately. I suppose the main reason why it's on my mind is I was uncerimoniously ejected from a friend's life of late, without any effort on the part of the other to address whatever issue it was that caused such an act. It seems irrational to those who know my "side," if there even is such a thing in this case, and more than one has said I'm the better for the absence.

When other friendships have been forgot, ours will still be hot!

Still, I can think of only one occasion in my life where a friendship was killed, so to speak, instead of the usual drifting apart that happens naturally with some people. I remember Monique Godfrey as a sassy, sharply dressed, exceedingly thin girl with a fondness for the kiddie rap duo Kriss Kross. Yes, she actually did wear her clothes backward as a her tribute. A classmate and carpool-mate in junior high, she befriended Rachel Brunelle and me after several rides to Drill Team practice together.

This is where my memory fails.

Monique, one day, decided that I was the enemy. Why? I'm not sure. Like, at all. At the time, I was taken completely aback, particularly when she challenged me to a fight after school. We were in the way-very-back of the Brunelle family van, riding to practice. She leaned over the bench seat in front of me, and told me she wanted to fight me the next day, after school.

Me: You want me to meet you after school, um, what? To fight?

Monique: Yeah! I can beat you up!

Me: (cocks head to the side) Wait. A fight? Are you serious?

Monique: Yeah, bitch!

She spat out the "bitch" in a low tone, her eyes darting about, scanning for those who might jump in to defend me. My stomach was churning, part embarrassment, part nervousness, part laughter. I shrugged it off -- as much as I could -- and avoided her looks o' death at me during practice, resolving to avoid her person as much as her looks. I never did meet Monique at 3 o' clock high, but the memory of her inexplicable decision to try and beat me up stays with me as the only time I've been challenged to a fight by someone other than a sibling.

Later, I was annoyed she didn't also want to beat up Rachel. Why was I so different?

When other friendships are up the crick, ours will still be slick!

Which brings me to today. I apologized for a (perceived) breach of trust, although, I stood by my decision to do so. Lies circulated amongst my small, tight group of friends, and I felt compelled to give a friend the chance to defend him/herself against the barrage of gossip. I was torn. Do you ever feel like keeping trust with one friend only betrays trust with another? All of this is moot, ultimately. I tried to make peace, and my overtures stand ignored. Others involved are forgiven, for reasons unknown. I am not angry, and more than loss, I feel bewilderment.

I also have to admit that I'm annoyed I'm the friend-casualty of this drama, considering I wasn't directly involved.

I count among my friends several -- more than five -- whom I've known for over 10 years. I still regularly talk, hang out, and e-mail people I went to junior high and high school with, and two with whom I went to elementary school. I moved often as a child; in fact, I attended 9 elementary schools in five years. I learned to make friends, and I valued those I connected with, because I was so used to losing friends by moving. The point is, I don't take friendship lightly.

When other friendships go up in smoke, ours will still be oke!

So maybe the voices around me are right. Maybe I'm not the worse for being dropped. Maybe it's less complicated to maintain friendships that are free and easy, unfettered by expectations to be met, and games to be played. Maybe it's better for my own self-worth not to be so guarded with that which I say to a person, for fear of whose ears it might reach, or how I might be talked about in my absence.

In the end, I'm OK, and I am grateful for my friends. I'll miss Dan a great deal when he moves. I'll miss things being, well, the way they were.

I find, though, that I do this a lot. As a creature of habit, I long for things to remain constant, and I find comfort in seeing the same bands in the same venues, eating the same meals in particular restaurants, and frequenting the same bars with the same friends. Every couple of years things happen that send a jolt through me, causing me to change that which I never voluntarily would. In the end, I always end up looking back with some degree of regret and sadness. Mourning for that which is lost to the normal course of life.

What I tend to forget is that the new epochs yield similar sadness when they end, thus, the rational thing would always be to look back fondly, and maintain hope for the future.

So, I choose to hope.

Lahdle-ahdle-ahdle-dig-dig-dig.

I found out yesterday that roomie Dan's and my lease is actually up at the end of this month instead of May, when I originally thought it terminated. Since I found out this minor detail only yesterday, I've been engaged in a slapdash search for an apartment to inhabit on May 1. Kevin and I ducked into an Asian grocery on Sunday, while Dan got his hair cut at Rudy's Barbershop , and bought the last Sunday paper they had. A buck-fifty later, I had the six-page Rentals section of the Seattle Times classifieds.

Dan's stuff goes to Columbus, Ohio, his soon-to-be new home on the 18th, so in addition to the house being awash in his boxes and packing material, I'll soon add my own to the fray. I thought I'd have the month of May to pack up at a leisurely pace, and move to an apartment within a block of my current place.

Of course, nothing is working out the way I intended.

Studios are few-and-far-between in West Seattle, a neighborhood that I love, yet appears to have only a preponderance of one and two bedroom places renting for $700+. I could pay it, but it would leave little left over to save for that hallowed day when I can return to school. With gas prices inching upward, I'm entertaining taking Metro to work instead of driving, and West Seattle has no viable bus rides to the south.

Bah.

I have an appointment to see a studio on Capital Hill tonight, a neighborhood that appears to have more studio options than any other neighborhood. 'Round every corner is another stately early-1900s era building with "FOR RENT" signs prominently displayed. Few of them, natch, state the range of rents. I've made 15-20 phone calls, only two of which yielded an answer. No one for whom I've left messages has called me back, and I'm already starting to get tapped out on the process. I don't have time to follow-up on everything because work is nuts, and I'm going on a short vacation this week.

I've never been much good at finding a place to live.

The place that I'm looking at tonight is at the corner of E. Howell and E. Summit, for those of you who know the area. Conveniently located about 2 blocks from Pike/Pine, and a few blocks west of Broadway. Do the math, and you'll figure out it's close to downtown, the busline, and Jive Time Records, one of my favorite Seattle browsing locales. There are a ton of hipster bars around, and even though I tend to deplore those that inhabit them, I can't say the prospect of never worrying about the drive home is inviting. That is, except for when I visit Peter over on the west side for a little olde tyme Admiral Pub akshun.

As for the place, if it is reasonably quiet and accomodating to my furniture, I think I'll just take it. I'm wondering if this is foolish, but I have little patience for searching. I must say, though, if it's clean, $495/month can't be wrong. Then again, there's the parking issue, which is sufficiently explained by stating that parking is scarce. And by "scarce," I mean practically non-existant. I'm hoping that by taking the bus, I'll avoid that issue, at least more than I might if I didn't.

It reminds me of when my friend Renee was looking for a wedding dress, and we went from store to boutique, watching her try on a bevy of white tulle and satin creations. After investing a lot of time and shoe leather, she ended up buying the first dress she'd tried. I understand the process of looking and being sure, and all, but damn but I have no patience. I must own that I rolled my eyes when we trucked back to Madame Michelle's. Of course, I imagine if I ever end up doing the wedding dress shopping shuffle, I'll be just as choosy.

Haha, oh man. Who am I kidding? I'll probably do it Laura Ingraham style, and find it in 20 minutes.

Speaking of weddings, I leave for New Orleans on Thursday morning, with my poor mono-infected boyfriend, Kevin. We're looking forward to a weekend of southern comfort with Laura and her fiance, whom we call "PFF" for reasons too laborious to explain here. I've never been to Louisiana, save once as a child when we drove through on our way to Washington from Alabama. I recall nothing, but am looking forward to at least some warmer weather and delicious Cajun fare.

I bought a dress from Celine, which fits perfectly from the bust down. Bust-up, on the other hand, has become something of an issue. I've been working furiously to re-do the back of the dress, and make it into a lace-up, corset-like back, but it isn't as easy as I originally thought. I have to poke a hole through three layers of fabric, and shove an eyelet through, then press it shut with my eyelet tool. It took me two hours to do 8, and I'm estimating 11 per side of the zip-up portion of the back.

So help me, if it looks bad, I'll probably, uh, wear a different dress.

In closing, I paid Eric, the "sexy middle-aged hairdresser" (tm Dan), $79 to chop off my hair and turn it red.

I spoke to my father on the phone tonight, long enough for him to relate the yet another chapter in l'histoire de Rian. Last night, Rian watched television in his bedroom, supine upon his bed, door wide open. My father, sitting at his computer in the next room, listened to his own television, while working at his computer.

Rian: (yelling from his bed, to no one in particular) Man! That was good!
Dad: (calling from the next room) What was?
Rian: There were some hot girls on TV, man. YEAH! I think they were Mexican!
Dad: Shh...you're loud.
Rian: (booming) Sometimes I just feel like masturbating!

My father elected not to reply to that statement.

The latest chapter in the ever-unfolding l'histoire de Rian involves his recent embrace of Jesus as his Savior. (Previous chapters here and also here, as well. Yes, there is more.)

My entire family is composed of Mormons in varying states of religious lapse. You've got my mother at the top of the pyramid, regularly attending temple, regular Sunday service, daily scripture study, blahblahblahworshipcakes. My father also regularly attends church, but my three brothers and I all "fell away" in one way or another.

Rian, recently released from an 8-month period of incarceration for drug offenses, was determined not to return to the high life among the dregs at Yakima Valley Corrections. Thus, he gave up most, if not all, of his friends who use, and began a long journey toward...fitness.

Unable to get or keep a job, he instead threw all of his heart and soul into the welcoming arms of a Soloflex. Though he was more inclined to work his upper rather than his lower body (resulting in an oddly disproportionate muscle tone), he achieved quite a nice form. He looked at it as his job, and when asked by a friend what he did for a living, he replied, "Right now, I'm just kind of working on my body."

He said that with a perfectly guileless, straight face.

However, when Soloflex no longer provided all the diversion he required, he turned headlong into church. The physical high of weightlifting could not match the spiritual high he got from church, thus, he pursued an office of service.

I'll be attending a service on Sunday to watch him be ordained with the Melchesadek (pronounced "Mel-kes-dick") Priesthood. It's a big thing, and it makes him happy and keeps him off the streets, so more power and such.

It was still funny, though, when I was over there the other night, and he walked around the house booming, "MELCHESADEK! MELCHESADEK!" It seems that finding Jesus has not stopped him from randomly yelling things* to no one in particular and tromping around the house like a gorilla.

Some things never change.

*Note: I do mean "randomly." Rian will sit in his room, stare at the wall, and yell (sometimes intelleligible, sometimes not) things at the wall. At. the. wall.

Friday, my family and I celebrated my brother's 24th birthday. Perhaps you remember my brother, Rian, who is kind of nutsy.

As I suspected he'd be, Rian was in fine form Friday night, and as usual, I had my pen handy to record his utterances. Remember, all of this he says with perfect lack of guile -- he speaks in earnest, and has no ear for irony or facetiousness.

*************

Rian: You know that kind of grease that they put on huge tractors?
Me: Umm, well I know they put grease on them.
Rian: I rubbed that grease all over my body.
Me: ...


Rian: Can you represent yourself in court?
My father: Yes, you can. Why?
Rian: I want to sue Comcast.
My father: Why?
Rian: Because they're relaying messages to me through the TV. (beat) I'm going to sue.


Rian: Hey! I moved in with a chick the first day I met her! (beat) She kicked me out four days later. Her other boyfriend lived there, too.

*************

Then, yesterday, my father relayed to me a conversation he had with my brother after I'd left that evening.

Rian: Dad, I think Jana is on drugs.
My father: I doubt that, Rian.
Rian: No, Dad, seriously. She's lost a lot of weight and did you notice how twitchy she was?!
My father: No...
Rian: I'm going to keep an eye on her.

I got trapped in a parking garage, deep beneath the busy city streets of bustling Seattle this merry eve. That's right! Yet another shred of evidence to add to my list of follies and capers demonstrating a solid command of embarrassing myself.

Having left BioJoe's glamorous high-rise apartment, bound for my trusty steed, the Ford Focus, I descended the stairs toward one of the many exits from the building. Or, toward what are marked as exits. Joe's building is rife with the familiar glowing green signage, reading "EXIT," with a helpful arrow indicating the direction toward which a person seeking egress should go to realize that not-at-all lofty goal. The oft-curving and snaking hallways are full of them, which to me, meant I had any number of possible ways to reach my car. If I were to take the normal route, I would have ended up about a block from my car. This route involves what feels like a half-mile of hallway, followed by a slow elevator ride, and yet another block of walking through the pouring rain.

I am an adventurer, though! I also worship at the altar of efficiency. I elected, instead, to trust the authoritative green arrows, believing them to lead me to an exit closer to my vehicle. I found the nearest stairwell, and thought back to Joe's and my earlier exit from the building, where we came out right in front of my car. Relying on my memory, I went to the first floor parking garage. I didn't think much of it as the door through which I emerged slammed behind me.

The illuminated "EXIT" signs, about five of them, pointed streetward in various corners of the garage. I picked the one closest to the street, where my car sat awaiting my arrival, and started toward it. When I reached the door, I turned the handle, which didn't rotate as fully as I expected. Indeed, it was locked. A door leading OUTSIDE was locked. Thinking it to be an anomoly, I picked the next door, also clearly marked "EXIT" and tried it. Again, locked.

One can see where this is leading. One-by-one, I tried the doors, all of which were locked. Shrugging my shoulders, I retraced my steps to the stairwell, incidentally, also marked "EXIT," intending to find another door -- one that was actually a bona fide way out. The stairwell door, clearly in league with its fellow doors, rejected my attempts at rotation.

Reality set in as I realized I was locked, alone, in a parking garage.

I walked back over to the car exit gate, thinking there must be a manual switch, and there was! Alas, all the doors in this building were allied in their dark purpose, though, a truth I was to discover when I pushed the "OPEN" button and proceeded to watch absolutely nothing happen. I suppose it wasn't locked persay, just not functional. Observing the cars sitting in the garage, I wondered how they got out each day. It did not occur to me, at the time, to wonder if all these locked exit doors was some kind of fire code violation.

The only survival tips I've been privy to, of late, are those demonstrated on ABC's "Lost." The trouble was, there were no palm fronds or sticks with which I might build a shelter to pass the night, and I didn't see any coconuts lying around that I could use for sustenance. Nor was there a crashed plane that I could mine for extra clothing, weaponry, water, or even a miniature toy plane in a locked suitcase. All those prison survival techniques I learned online were of little use here, either.

NEVER involve yourself with punks. Do not have sex with punks, do not associate with those who have sex with punks, etc. Many an inmate has been killed by a jealous boyfriend. This may not seem like the shiny happy egalitarian thing to do, but believe me, neither is dying.

Yes, that helpful tip echoed in my mind, but I tucked it away for a more suitable time and place.

In the end, I had to use that invention upon which many rely for simple tasks like text messaging, checking the time, and "I don't have a lighter, but I'm holding this up for the torch song!" moments at concerts. I employed my cell phone to call BioJoe. My sheepish admission that I was trapped in his parking garage was enough to send him rushing down, key in hand, to lead me to my destination.

So here I am, at home, reflecting on my ordeal. What have I learned from this? Don't be adventurous? Don't strike out, trying to find my own way?

Whatever it is, I'm sure it isn't Prison Survival Technique #11: Never stare at another prisoner for more than a second or two. He may be a walking powder keg, set off by an intrusive stare. He may either assault you on the spot or wait until darkness. Even if he doesn't kill you outright, your face will never look the same again.

Saturday morning I awoke, fully dressed in corduroy skirt, flowered button-up, with my favorite yellow "¡UBER!" t-shirt. I was also wearing two pairs of layered tights, now alarmingly askew from a night of tossing and turning. I was, naturally, confused, since the last I could recall, I was sitting at the usual table at the Admiral Pub, enjoying the company of Dan, Peter, and Meg.

I took off the skirt and tights, relieved to have some fresh air on my naked legs. Being more mindful of my bladder than the truth behind the puzzle of sleeping fully dressed, I trudged to the bathroom to empty what was left in my body from my night of revelry.

As I sat in repose, I noticed a large bunch of toilet paper on the counter, surely the result of one of the kitties getting at the roll. I took a closer look at the toilet paper holder in the wall. We don't have a roller on which the TP "rolls," you see, it's more like a little curved platform in the wall in which the roll sits. You simply pick up the roll, rip off your pleasure, and replace it for next use. Noticing that the excess paper was hanging out from underneith the roll, it seemed impossible that a kitty had batted down a bunch of paper to the floor. I cocked my head inquisitively.

I also considered the paper was not shredded or bitten, and instead, lay completely unmolested on the counter. So, I added the toilet paper caper to the mystery of why I slept in my clothes, how I'd even gotten home from the bar -- and now that I'd had time to think about it -- who had paid the bar tab, did I drink four or five vodka crans, did Peter and Dan have to carry me to bed, and where did I get that bruise on my knee?

I emerged from the bathroom, noting with some shock, that Dan was actually up before me. Yes, it had been a night indeed.

Not used to this turn of events, I dashed back to my bedroom to don a pair of pants, while clumsily calling out apologies for conducting bathroom enterprises with the door only partway shut. You know, in addition to the free show of my skivvies. I re-emerged to have most of my questions answered by an obliging roommate. Dan elucidated that we had come back to the house, where Peter had regaled us with a few choice tunes on the piano. Dan had pictures of me "rocking out" to the songs -- kneeling, head down, arms raised, and next to the couch. I just kept saying, "Really?!"

"Who paid my bar tab?" I asked, carefully, hoping I didn't leave a $15 tab for someone else.

"You did," replied Dan, "but I had to sign for you. You left a $2 tip."

"Oh," said I.

That left one final conundrum, the question of the toilet paper. I didn't even have to bring it up.

"So," started Dan, "what happened in the bathroom last night?"

"Huh?" I asked, assuming he would know the answer himself. Of course, the cats had gotten at the roll of toilet paper!

Not so, I found out. Dan recounted a tale wherein I had rocked out to the point it was necessary to relieve myself. I disappeared into the bathroom, where I apparently took up residence for some time. After a while, Dan knocked, concerned that I might be getting sick. Quite pathetically, I'm told, I answered, "No," after which I came out of the bathroom, walked to my bed, and immediatly passed out.

The truth? It was me! I was the reason the bathroom was TP'ed, and it is a complete mystery what I was trying to achieve by gathering huge handfulls of toilet paper, when it wasn't even clear I'd actually used the bathroom.

There's nothing quite like being chided by a preschooler to mind your Ps and Qs. It's a subtle indignity, simultaneously inciting guilt and righteous indignation. I narrowed my eyes, peering through dimmed slits, Abby's face obscured through my eyelashes.

The "H" word is a swear.

"That's a bad word," squawked Abby from her car seat, after the demon utterance escaped during a feverish recounting of the week's events. Abby's mother, Renee, listened intently while I expressed hatred of some ilk, as I rode shotgun in her behemothic Chevy Tahoe. I have difficulty recalling exactly what it was that I hated so, but current sources of fierce dislike include my tribute-to-Medusa split ends, any songster or songstress toilsomely warbling "The Little Drummer Boy," olive tapanade, the Washington gubanatorial recount, and Tim DeLaughter's unctuous hair.

Anyway.

Abby, ever-vigilant in policing my behavior, honed in on the forbidden "hate," calling me out for imperious declaration of animosity. I snapped back, "I do what I want!" a sentiment Renee repeatedly warns me not to teach to the impish child. Abby, taken aback, repeated to her mother my audacious trespass, to which Renee replied, "We don't correct adults, Abby. Not all moms are the same!"

I thought about that. Renee created in Abby's consciousness the idea that I have a mother who continues to teach me right and wrong, endeavoring to ensure undefiled expression of speech. This mother, in her callous disregard for propriety, allowed me to toss off "hate" with the same glee with which I might dispatch aromatic rose petals before a ruddy-faced bride. So oddly, I experienced the aformentioned twinge of guilt, wondering if I was besmirching the hallowed Swanson name, leaving in my wake not only the echoes of risqué speech, but also the impression that I had an overly permissive mother.

I considered that for a moment, and then concluded that I might be overestimating the mental faculties of a 4-nearly-5-year-old.

And while we're on the happy subject of hate, I'd love to expound on how much I detest Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmas." Unlike many of my more cynical peers (who probably hate clowns, too, because they're scary), I'm not repulsed by all holiday songs. They're fine -- they're part of the whole post-Thanksgiving, pre-New Year/December milieu and that's fine. I avoid shopping, period, so I don't get regularly aurally assaulted by Christmas jingle-jangle but for several times throughout the month.

Don't get me wrong. I don't love 'em all. For example, "The Little Drummer Boy."

Oh my God, HATE. Seriously. Pa-rum-pah-pah-PAH your tinny percussion somewhere else, kid, because what kind of shitty "Welcome to this mortal coil, oh ye Savior of all humanity!" gift is a one-man drum circle in the middle of night? For a newborn? It's probably going to startle the poor child, resulting in a watershed of tears, and if not that, then at least it's going to freak out the donkeys and chickens and stuff that were sharing the barn with baby Jesus and Co. Drummer Boy got away lucky because where would humanity be if Jesus had been killed by, like, a stampeding goat? Donkeys are notorious for kicking, nay? What if he bucked and knocked over the manger where Jesus was laying down his sweet head? Think about that next time you pick up a snare to celebrate the birth of your best friend's baby.

"Wonderful Christmas" just makes me feel like a plebe because Paul repeats with psychotically cheerful precision, "Sim-PLY, hav-ING, a wonderful Christmas time" roughly 347,926 times in the space of 3 minutes and like, shut up, Paul. Of course you're having a wonderful Christmas. You're PAUL MCCARTNEY. It must be nice to deck your halls with diamond-encrusted garland and platinum-plated boughs of holly. Fa-la-la-la-UGH.

But! I love Bing Crosby's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

I've accomplished a great deal at work this morning.

8:09am - Arrive and log in to computer.

8:10am - Lay head on desk and listen as my inner monologue drones on about the vigorous contractions of the smooth muscle mix in my stomach-ular region. It's all "injustice!" and "infuriating!" One must "partake of the inexaustible resources of the pharmeceutical industry!" Decide my inner monologue is a blowhard.

8:12am - My branch manager walks by my desk, observing my moment of respite. Annoying, boss-like "Late night? Har har!" comment, after which Kaitrin yells from five desks away, "Jana has insomnia!" Co-worker Scott walks over to the fax machine in front of my desk, and begins telling us how he treats his insomnia. I'm not sure whom to tell first that I don't have insomnia.

8:15am - Livejournal.

8:20am - Tea.

8:35am - Livejournal.

8:52am - The Times, The Post, and The Corner.

9:15am - Process one loan, a "super-streamline," meaning it takes about 10 minutes to finish.

9:25am - Lay head on desk and listen, irritated, as my inner monologue drones on about the vigorous contractions of the smooth muscle mix in my stomach-ular region.

9:27am - Wonder what Inner Monologue looks like. No clear mental image, but I can tell he wears a turtleneck and chinos.

9:29am - Stare at ceiling tiles, absently bobbing head to The Zombies. Resolve to replace current Inner Monologue with a sweet grandmotherly type, or at least someone who doesn't wear dock shoes.

10:00am - Notice that I'm uberfidgety, as my ankle crashes up against the side of the printer. Printer door falls open, and will no longer close correctly. The display screen now reads, "Close Door or Insert Cartridge," and the printer will not function.

10:01am - Grumble as my phone rings four times, each ring I assiduously ignore. Call goes to voicemail, where I can tell caller pressed 0, sending the call back up to my line, at which point I become exceedingly annoyed. I listen to the phone ring four more times. I consider amending my voicemail to say, "If I didn't pick it up the first time, I'll be good and goddamned if I'll pick it up the second."

10:25am - Quiet hunger pangs with a cake doughnut. Or, rather, two bites of a cake doughnut. Crack a Diet Pepsi and lay head on desk.

So, yeah, tonight some Internet guy started a conversation with me, having gotten my IM name off my LJ info page. He is local, and seemed to be looking to "get to know me better," as they say. I was simultaneously chatting with, drewmg, who read some of the conversation I pasted over for his edification.

"SM614" is the guy (name changed to protect the innocent, natch). Please note, Drew and I have a propensity to talk to each other in all caps. Long story.

greyseale: SM614 (6:15:32 PM): I'm working on a three-book fantasy series, and a book combining fantasy and horror. The latter is stretching me considerably, as I'm doing everything in my power to both terrify and disgust myself with its writing. I figure, as jaded as I am about these things, if I can do that to myself, others are going to be positively aghast. :)

greyseale: MY NEW STYLE AMERICAN INTERNET SUITOR WRITES FANTASY AND WEARS CROSSES. SHOULD I RUN?

greyseale: SM614 (6:25:33 PM): Right now I'm plowing through "Star Wars: The New Jedi Order", which is of a type I wouldn't normally indulge: A series written by multiple authors. I find it's hard to maintain conceptual coherency in such situations, but so far they're doing well. It's an entertaining read, and Chewbacca's death was fascinating. :)

Goergen2K2: HSAHAHAHAHASHAHAHAH

greyseale: WOW, I DID NOT EVEN KNOW CHEWY DIED

Goergen2K2: BABY LOOK I HAVE READ STAR WARS BOOKS TOO BUT THAT IS SOMETHING I WOULD NEVER SAY TO A GIRL I WANTED TO LIKE ME

Ain't that the truth!

So, we've already established my brother is a little weird.

Last night, my dad phoned, chatting about various and sundry. He was talking about his new contract job, when my brother busted in the room, his gruff voice booming in the background.

Dad: Rian, I'm on the phone!
Rian: What did you put in my food?!
Dad: What? Rian, I'm talking to your sister.
Rian: What did you put in my food? I feel like I'm drunk!
Dad: I didn't put anything in your food, Rian. Have you been eating sugar?
Rian: I FEEL LIKE I'M DRUNK! (leaves the room)

My dad proceeded to tell me about another exchange they recently had.

Rian: What's in this spaghetti? Did you spit in my food?
Dad: Rian, of course not. Why would I spit in your food?
Rian: Are you sure?
Dad: Eat your food. No.
Rian: OK. Just checking.

Outside, after tonight's show at the El Rey, Laura, Jen, Chris, Art, and I were standing about dissecting the show. We talked to the new bassist, Jared Reynolds, as well! So, we're all standing in our wide circle, and who should come walking out the front doors, but Bob Saget with a gaggle of pre-teen girls. Bob Saget!

Jen exclaimed, "You're Bob Saget!"

Bob Saget stopped, and acknowledged that he is, indeed, Bob Saget.

I asked, "Bob Saget, are you a Ben fan?"

Bob Saget replied, "Yes! I'm a big Ben fan."

Someone asked if the girls in tow were his children, and Bob introduced them all, one-by-one.

Jen then made free to disclose to Bob Saget the number of Ben shows I've attended. Bob Saget's eyes widened in disbelief, and nodded with a, "Wow."

"You should just get a t-shirt that says, 'I am Ben's ho.'" he added.

I don't know, but that is so much better than seeing Alyssa Milano hanging all over Barry Zito last night.

I had an interesting afternoon today. A quick rundown of some of the stuff that I did, entirely on my own:

* Had my palm read by an eastern European woman, who told me a variety of things I can't decide I should take at face value. She had some spot-on insights, such as my propensity to not eat. When I do eat, she continued, I don't eat a balanced diet. She mentioned my irregular sleeping habits, and that I am furthering my education, but that which I am studying for is not what I intend to do with my life. Over and over, she mentioned I should pay attention, the opportunities could pass me by, because I concentrate too much on my present, and think too much. "Simplify! Simplify!" she repeated. She mentioned a relationship that would either begin or re-emerge (interesting) in my life, and that it would be committed, but casual. I didn't understand that, and she further explained that I would travel, "do [my] own thing" and that it would be "comfortable." We wouldn't be "self-contained." It was interesting, to say the least, but my rational mind reasons these are things that could apply to any number of people.

* Briefly considered getting a henna tattoo to get a feel for what it might be like to have a real one. Then, I I figured I could save ten bucks and draw an anchor on my forearm instead.

* I was stopped by a hippie-looking be-dreadlocked skater guy toting a guitar, who promised me if I listened to his song, I would "love it." Get this: he was playing to earn gas money to drive back to New Orleans! Though I wasn't buying his story, I figured I would listen to his song, and give him a buck or two for the privilege. He launched into "3 A.M." by Matchbox 20, and needless to say, I was delighted. It was just like watching "VH1 Storytellers"! I gave him two bucks afterward, and continued on my way.

* A Russian guy stopped me, and asked if he could draw my picture. I told him I don't have much use for a picture of myself, and prepared to continue down the boardwalk. He told me that he stopped me because he liked my shirt, my sparkly dinosaur Black Keys t-shirt. I thanked him, and he continued, saying that I reminded him of Sarah Jessica Parker. Now, I am many things, but a dead-ringer for Sarah Jessica Parker is not one. He said that it wasn't my looks, but my demeaner, and the way that I inflected as I spoke. Not a regular viewer of "Sex in the City," I have no idea, but it was interesting nonetheless. We had a long conversation, thirty minutes or more, about concepts of beauty and the benefits of being curvy over bony. His name is George, and he told me that if I went back to the beach tomorrow, he'd draw me a picture of a piano for free.

Well, that's it for now. I'm off to see Ben now. Ciao, snatchkittens.

Arrived safely in LA today, but not without incident.

I exited work with grace and aplomb right on time, and jumped into my dad's ramshackle Honda Civic, bound for Sea-Tac. I sampled Brian Wilson's "Smile" for him, gleefully playing "Heroes and Villians" and "Surf's Up," for him, pointing out the complex harmonies, and relishing his joy at hearing one of his favorite artists of yore.

The plane was on time, and I was two hours early. I can't get my ass to an airport more than one hour prior to departure at any other time, except those times when I get to leave work early on account of a flight. I have a very "nuanced" perception of punctuality.

It was not to be a smooth flight.

As we ascended, my ears began to pop and whoosh, as they slowly acclimated to the changing pressure. I knew what was coming immediately, and the terror set in. The mulish pace at which the canals regulated signaled the rocky descent to come.

I have abnormally small ear canals, which caused a series of painful and damaging ear infections when I was a child. I had tubes put in at age six, which put an end to the fever seizures and constant illness that marked much of my early childhood. It was so extreme at one point, my parents thought I might be epileptic. Still, even after I had them inserted, I couldn't swim to any depth greater than five feet, and flights were unbearable -- pain and pressure built up too quickly for my ears to react as normal ears will.

Tubes are meant to fall out within some shorter-than-15-year period, but one of them, in my left ear, was far too stubborn to relent to convention. It apparently found my ear canal so accomodating, that it never bothered to take its leave. A routine check-up at age 21 revealed that it was still in place, and plans were made to surgically remove the offending device.

After that, I experienced no more painful airline flights, as I'd endured throughout most of my life.

Gah, until today.

As the Boeing 737 made its descent, a piercing pain erupted deep in my ear canal, pulsating and throbbing as the plane descended ever-closer to the ground. I chewed gum to try to alleviate the pressure, to no avail. My next plan of action -- always "plan B" since it is a terribly unattractive and, frankly, creepy-looking -- was to open wide my jaws. I made use of my lesser-known "Stupid Human Trick" of moving my ears by shifting my scalp backward, which looks awesomely cool, in addition to creating a squeeze-effect on the ear canal. Most of the time this works swimmingly, although my wide-mouthed uber-yowl isn't going to endear me to most polite company.

It. did. not. work.

Oh my, GOD, I can't begin to describe how agonizing was the descent. I feared at some point my head would explode, and the quiescent businessman across the aisle would have an unexpected and inconvenient mess to clean off his smart chambray shirt. In my 26 years, I've become attached to my brain matter, and use it regularly to realize both mundane daily tasks and pursuits of leisure. It was my objective to keep it housed within the cozy confines of my cranial cavity.

I continued my futile efforts to alleviate the pain, as the plane mercifully touched down in Los Angeles. I dialed Laura to apprise her of my arrival, and pitifully sputtered out that I was taxiing toward the gate. Over the next 30 minutes or so, my ears regulated, and left only a numb headache in its wake. Throughout the night, I've been sneezing and coughing as a result of my tenacious sinus infection/cold. I can still feel the tiny twinge, a pin-prick of pain deep in my right ear, reminding me that I will be flying home in four short days.

May the force be with me.

Just exactly how to present the following things my brother, Rian, has said dogged me for days. I couldn't get it quite right, so I'm just going to have at it, and post the raw quotes themselves, culled during a recent trip to the Puyallup Fair.

*****************************
Rian: Aflax, aflax...AFLAX!
Me: Huh? Are you saying AFLAC? The goose on TV?
Rian: Aflax.
Dad: Rian, it's "AFLAC." With a "c." AFLAC.
Rian: AFLAC?
Dad: Yeah.
(silence, for about five minutes)
Rian: I bet that guy is really cool. A real stand-up guy.
Me: What guy?
Rian: ( Exasperated, as though we should know exactly what he's talking about.) That guy. The one that started AFLAC.
Me: Oh.

*****************************

Rian: I want to join SWAT or the Army.
Me: Oh, yeah?
Rian: Yeah, then I'd know all of it.
Me: All of what?
Rian: (agitated) See, everything is fake. Everything! I think the Army and SWAT are fake. If I join up, I would know for sure.
Me: What are you even talking about?!
Rian: Listen, sister, I'm not kidding.
Me: "Sister"?
Dad: (interjects) He stopped using first names.
Me: He did what?
Dad: He won't say your first name anymore.
Me: Oh.

*****************************

(Later that same night, I'm sitting at my father's computer, burning a couple of CDs for him. I'm unfamiliar with what burning program he uses, so I enlist Rian's help.)

Me: Hey, Rian. Get Dad, will you? I need some help.
Rian: (yelling) Hey, Dad! Sister wants you!
Me: Rian! Jesus, why are you calling me "sister"? Why not call me Jana?
Rian: Because I don't want to.
Me: Ok, I get that. WHY?
Rian: Look, I know who you are, you know who you are, why does everyone need to know too?!
Me: (beat) Oooook. Huh? I don't get it. If you call me, "sister," everyone will know I'm your sister. If you call me by my name, I'm just another person.
Rian: (thinks for a moment) It's a sense of...of...information.
Me: What is?
Rian: Saying first names is a sense of keeping information...
Me: Oh.

I heard about this on last week's "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," and decided
to research it while I ate my kid's meal from Taco Time.

I found a reference to a Washington Post article (which I couldn't locate,
FYI) on a blog, which reads as follows:

WASHINGTON POST - Paris Hilton is going to star as Daisy Buchanan in a
remake of "The Great Gatsby," which is being produced by 'N Syncer and
near-astronaut Lance Bass. . . Now some of you may wonder, as Fox News 411
columnist Roger Friedman did, whether the party-girl heiress has actually
read Fitzgerald's classic. . . If all goes well, Chris Carmack from Fox's
latest breakout series, "The O.C." (he's the third male lead), will play
Jay Gatsby. And Jamie-Lynn DiScala of "The Sopranos" fame will be in it,
too. Suggested title, according to Friedman? "Jay G."

Paris Hilton playing Daisy Buchanan.

I don't want to jump the gun, here, or scare anyone, but I'm pretty sure
that armageddon is upon us. May God, or the omniscient diety of your
choice, have mercy upon us.

Oh, Benjamin Combs, wherefore art thou?

I posted a comment in a journal tonight, and the memory thrust me 16 years into the past, when I was but 10-years-old.

I remember it reasonably well. Isolated memories that come to mind include playing the flute, writing a song about prepositions, and trying to pull off yet another heist -- this time to sate my insatiable booklust. (Soon to be detailed in "Let the Truth Sting IV," if you care to know just how dishonest I could be as a child).

All those memories are pale, wilted, and lifeless. No, nothing quite has the sepia-toned hazy glow of nostalgia quite like the angelic face of my fifth grade amour, Ben Combs. I still have a picture! I still love him, kind of!

Some girls had little flirtations with boys from a very young age, but not me. I had three brothers, had several boys with whom I scampered around. Boys were my playmates, and "liking" one, let alone LIKE-liking one was foreign and unimaginable.

Ben was new in fifth grade, and I can't remember the first time I saw him. I just know that when I did, it was electric. I didn't sort of like one boy, another, and then crush all massively (to speak in the parlance of the time) on someone. Nope, I was hit with the stinging slap, the gut-busting sucker punch of full-on, bombastic CRUSH all at once. I had it bad. Few are the times when a boy could bring on butterflies, but yes, monarchs and moths alike fluttered willy-nilly in the depths of my stomach.

This was, unfortunately, the beginning of the school year.

I was unfamiliar with the whole crush phenomenon, but I wasn't too neophyte to realize it was something to be kept tightly under my hat. Or my scrunchie, I guess, if we're talking about my actual fifth grade head adornments. I do believe I successfully hid my Benlust from nearly everyone, except for Megan, this Scottie dog-crazed, cherub-faced girl I hung out with from time-to-time. That chick had my number, and told me so one day in her playhouse. I went home, mortified.

No one "went out" yet at Marvista Elementary, at least not in fifth. No hand-holding, no stolen moments under the slide at recess. I did, however, endeavor to win Ben's heart, and like many, I employed the brilliant plan of avoidance. Clearly, my absence in his life would only endear me to him, ensuring a happy future together.

In addition, playing violently intense games of wallball with Justin Isbell and Ryan Mulcahey all recess, as opposed to say, talking to Ben, was the ideal solution to make my grand plans of getting Ben to LIKE-like me come to glorious fruition.

I thought I got very close at Christmas time, when I received a small clothespin ornament from my "secret Santa." Ben revealed himself as having drawn my name, and I was thrilled. Floored. I heard the angels weeping, undoubtedly thrilled that Cupid's arrow had made its mark, landing squarely in the B.U.M. equipped chest of Ben. Alas, in a cruel twist to my tale, it turns out Cupid, the angels, and I were mere pawns in a game ultimately determined by that harsh taskmistress called "fate."

Ben liked Ingrid Backstrom. I mean, like, LIKE-liked her. He wasn't bullshitting around, here. I got this valuable intel from Yelena Faler, my trusted confidante and fellow Young Guns II obsessive. The good news was, Ben was apparently employing the same tools in his game of childhood seduction. He never spoke a word to her, and quietly went about his pre-adolescent business. I couldn't realistically compete with petite, blonde, Bennetton-outfitted Ingrid. My mom bought my duds at the Sears OUTLET (not even the actual Sears, man) and although I had boobs in fifth grade, few boys appreciated my overdeveloped self. In fact, neither did I. The advantage a set of tatas can give a girl isn't really evident until maybe junior high.

Needless to say, as the calendar flipped ever-closer to June -- ground zero, since I was moving in the summer -- I realized that maybe, my focused and meticulous plan of avoidance and boob-hiding was not working as well as I'd hoped. We had a field trip coming up, and if I was ever going to get this boy to like me, it had to be that day.

The plan was to go to this kid Jeff's house, because he lived right on Puget Sound, where we could examine the sea life we'd be studying all year. In a mansion. I didn't realize it then, but Marvista was really economically-diverse. I lived in a shitty apartment with my mother on the edge of Normandy Park, near Burien, which is south of Seattle. Jeff lived in luxury on a cliff by the sea. The kid was filthy rich, I'm tellin' you.

I've always been good about putting aside the ugly business of boys when it comes to being friends with a perfectly nice girl. Ingrid and I had grown closer as a result of our spring seat-switch, which had sat us next to one another. Somehow, I wish I could remember -- I am almost sure I invited him to sit with us on the bus -- Ben ended up hanging out with the two of us all day, and we ate our fabulous picnic lunch together on Jeff's expansive lawn.

Guys and gals with relatively low self-esteem, weight problems, or other physical shortcomings, commonly make up for our perceived deficiences by making people laugh. Classic, right? I mean, I was a chubby, braced, and unfashionably dressed kid, so I had to get the humor thing down to help recommend myself to others. And if anyone has ever thought me funny, I was fucking brilliant that day.

I had Ben Combs spitting up his bologna sandwich, snorting Pepsi out his nose, and cackling whilst Oreo bitlets flew willy-nilly out of his cute little mouth. And Ingrid just sat there, smiling.

Man, I kicked ass. I moved away not long after, but I'd like to think that Ben and I had our moment that day.

I can no longer claim to be the perennial and lovable loser of the Hydroplane Challenge at Safeco Field.

Monday evening, roommate Dan's father and stepmother, who are visiting this week, invited me along to a Mariners game against the Anaheim Angels. We sat in seats that were better than any I'd previously experienced, whether at Safeco, Wrigley, or the old Kingdome (the three ballparks to which I've been). Row 20 almost directly behind home plate, I was jazzed up to watch an exciting game.

I settled in with garlic fries and chicken strips, and a frosty diet soda.

Normally I sit in the 300-level seats, which have a great view no matter where one sits, but nevertheless give the players an ant-like appearance, due to the elevation of the stands. Well, maybe they look more like G.I. Joes, but still! Tah-ny little players from there. I was shocked to discover that at the 100-level, the players look more like little leaguers with very round and protruding asses.

It was fantastic. It was foul-ball city that night at Safeco, when seemingly every other pitch went careening into the stands after briefly making time with the swinging bat. One even landed five or six rows behind us, which is the closest I've ever been to a landing foul.

There was a semi-drunk guy a few rows ahead of us, an "Anaheim season seat-holder" as he described himself ad nauseum, up for a respite in Seattle. He praised the freeflowing beer, and the vendors who'll bring it right to your seat. It seems everyone is overly "pristine," in sunny SoCal. The two guys sitting next to me, one with a heavy Canadian accent that kept making me smile, were Anaheim fans of the dedicated sort. Each at-bat by a player was accompanied by their frenzied analysis of the player and enthusiasic clapping and cheering at every turn.

If you've attended a Mariners game with me, you'll have already experienced my famous losing streak. Ever since I can remember, Mariners games have featured the Hydroplane Challenge, where little computer-generated hydroplanes race. Seattle has hydroplane races each year during Seafair, so it's sort of a regional thing. Anyway, I've been to probably 60-70 games over the years, I'd estimate. Every game, I choose a hydroplane, and every game, I am shut down. If I choose red, green will triumph. If I choose green, yellow will dominate. If I choose yellow, it'll get eaten by that faux Loch Ness monster.

People have asked, why not choose the same hydroplane game-after-game? This, would, of course, BE CHEATING. My honorable gut will not tolerate such a blatant play-to-win. Monday night, I narrowed my eyes at Diamondvision, and carefully weighed my options. I felt a heavy red vibe, which immediately alarmed me, since I have a long history of bad vibes mistaken for good in connection with this goddamned race. I briefly considered green, but decided, eh, I thought of red first.

So there it was.

I started off OK, hanging in second, dropping back to third, but keeping respectable pace with green and yellow. Half-way through the second lap, we were thrown a curveball, if you will. Red and yellow veered inward toward the center of the watery track, and violently crashed off the course, leaving green headed for the win. I expelled a defeated breath, thinking it was all over. Experience taught me that the hydros always come back, but one is usually severely handicapped, hanging far back as the two others go head-to-head. Red, though, made a surprising recovery, pulling ahead of the now-lagging yellow, challenging green for the lead. As the hydros approached the finish line, green still held the lead by a length, and I clentched my teeth as I anticipated another crushing loss. At the last moment, though, red surged forward, leaving green and yellow behind and crusing through the checked flag with half-a-length on green.

I had won. WON!

My 15-year losing streak was suddenly over, and I instinctively rose, raising both arms above my head. If Dan's dad and his wife hadn't have been there, I might have started doing some kind of victory dance.

15-year losing streaks don't end every day.

(p.s. Just as I've always lost Hydroplane Challenge, I've always won the Hat Trick. Hat Trick is three-card monty, but with M's hats, and I can't remember a time I've ever lost. I was worried that crushing my long-time losing streak would affect my performance in the only other M's staple Diamondvision game. My fears were utterly irrational, though, as I realized Hat Trick is skill-oriented, and Hydroplane Challenge is dumb luck. I'm happy to report that I am still dominating the field, so to speak, in Hat Trick.)