Hey, billiam gets "sausage," why not me?

( Bare Breasts Ahead! Turn Back Now! )

That's what I call dedication.

Recent comments by blookum in lepetitemort's journal made me think... if Huck Finn could pray for fish hooks, why shouldn't I pray for boobies?

Ah'm ready, lawd! Ah'm ready! Show me da boobies!

I ended up driving matterntm and great_cthulhu home last night from the game, which was fine... I'd volunteered, after all, and didn't mind. It was kind of an interesting lesson in how big Tucson's gotten, though, 'cause great_cthulhu lives down on the far south side, and matterntm on the east side. I of course, live north-central-ish... in fact, if I were feeling ambitious, I'd say I live within walking distance of hamner, who was hosting the game last night.

Anyway, poor matterntm got "treated" to me singing along with the radio for about half an hour. Sorry... it was helping me stay awake. I really do turn into a pumpkin at about ten, ten-thirty.

Anyway... I had an odd dream when I finally got home. I was in math class, only instead of my math teacher, my old friend Julie (who I hadn't thought of in years, before the other night) was teaching. And it was mardi gras, and all through class, we kept promising Julie beads, if she'd just show us her boobs.

Hey, I said it was a wierd dream, okay?

(As an amusing side note, I never went to bed with Julie, but she did actually show me her boobs at one point).

Julie was one of the gang at Bad Software, Inc, where I did too much time as a telephone support tech. She was, in fact, the person who introduced me to Trish.

She was tall, and slender, and had long, blonde hair. Sound like anyone you've met recently, brennabe? Probably why I was thinking about her....

Anyway....

Scattered thoughts this morning. I'm at work, but I don't really want to be. The sky is blue, there's a nice breeze, and it's not yet topped 90F. I want to take my Mighty Destrier out on the highway, and burn some gas.

I can't afford the time off... or the gas.

So I guess I'm just stuck here, dreaming of escape and Sheryl Crow songs.

It's Sunday, and I'm at work. Oh, joy.

Of course, there's very little that I've actually accomplished. I started to dismantle one of the computers I need to ghost, and update the hard drive on, only to discover that I don't have the right screwdrivers to do that. Bugger all for a lark.

So I downloaded new virus definitions, and made sure they propogated to all the PCs in the building.

And, yes, I admit it... I pulled up J-Girls and admired scantily clad little Asian women for an hour or so.

That's my day.

How's yours?

Well, it's Monday morning. Monday, from the Old English Moan Day; that being the day on which most people moan and gripe about the new week.

The classroom for Biology was cold this morning, until two hundred or so bodies got packed into it, at which time it warmed to a comfortable level.

Still, it's amusing to sit in the cold classroom, and watch the young women, dressed for Arizona's heat, come into a cold classroom. Many of them start nippling out, which I can't help but admire.

Went to the sundaygames game on Sunday evening... brought chips and soda.

I had kind of mixed feelings about it. People started showing up at about 4 (including me), but we didn't actually start playing until about 7. At nine, I needed to go... today, after all, is Moanday, and I had to be up early, to go to class.

I'd be a lot happier playing earlier in the day, or on Saturday, so I don't have to get up the next day.

Besides, as I told brennabe, I'm old. If I don't stick to my bedtime, I'm cranky the next day.

So, I'm 34 this morning... and the 'i' key on my keyboard is sticking. Usually, the sticky key is the 'a'.

I went out to brennabe's house last night, and had excellent chicken parmasian, with angel hair pasta and crunchy breadsticks.

If I were ten years younger, this would probably be an entry about how I'd slept with Bren's roommate, and oh gosh, what does it all mean?

As it is, I didn't even flirt with Bren's roommate.

This morning, I played hooky from biology class, and cleaned my front bedroom. It really needed to be done before the day started to heat up, and I couldn't find the gumption to actually get up and go to biology, anyway.

I'm thinking about droping the class, actually, and retaking it next year, when I can afford the books. At least I was able to buy my trig book with birthday money from Gramma.

Ugh.

I need to go clean the bathroom, before it gets hot.

Oh, and thanks to everyone for birthday wishes, yesterday... I wasn't trolling, honest!

I find it mildly amusing that my biology class is between 85 and 90 percent female. I keep having these lines floating through my head, "Hey, baby, wanna go practice some Biology?" and so on.

Not that I'll do anything about them, because that would be wrong, but I can't help noticing that I'm in a classroom with five hundred or so breasts.

I went and checked, and yes, I am well and truly out of GI Bill Benifits. Dang.

I also discovered this morning that my bus pass had expired a couple of days ago. I went and got another, which, fortunatly, didn't cost me anything up front... it's paid by payroll deduction, pre-tax, so I'll most likely never even notice the cost... I didn't, last year.

Tomorrow, Math.

We played D&D tonight, as we do every Tuesday night.

Jason brought his roommate. He'd warned us. Last week, he'd said, "My roommate wants to come next week."

We anticipated a geek girl with coke-bottle glasses and an overbite. Tom was preparing carot jokes.

She wasn't like that at all. She was ugly, with nice breasts that she displayed prominantly... no doubt to keep people from looking at her face. She was loud... louder than I am, and I have the excuse of being partially deaf.

She had a potty mouth.

She was chain smoking, and kept blowing smoke at me.

Worst of all, she had gamer-girl prima-donna syndrome... wanting to always be the center of attention.

About the only positive aspect of the night occured after we'd scared off a bunch of thugs trying to mug her character. Oobeedoob shut down his lightsaber, and in his cultured Coruscanti (read: English) accent, said, "We should go. Lankhmar street thugs are easily scared, but they'll soon be back... and in greater numbers."

Remarkably, everyone caught the reference, and laughed.

So we had our second day with a nude model today. This time, it was a cute little blonde girl who was six months pregnant. She was a skinny little thing, and barely showing... she had less belly than I do.

Still, it was fascinating to look at her. I got to observe something that I'd read about in various medical texts, but had never seen before... her nipples were really dark. See, all but one of the women I've ever slept with have never had children, so I'm used to seeing nipples about the same shade as lips.

In a woman who's pregnant and / or lactating, though, nipples darken.

So that was interesting.

I let her have both of the long-pose pictures we did. She admired them, and if I kept them, they'd just be locked away in a sketch book, in a portfolio, probably in a closet.

Of course, she'll probably put them in a closet somewhere, too, but who knows? (The Shadow Knows...).

Gah. I'm tired, and I probably have at least another hour's worth of work to do at work. Bleargh.

I was just talking to Jana online about the development of my sexuality, and my fascination with large, strong blonde women. ( It gets graphic from here. )

I think that, as a society, we don't know how to deal with compliments. They fluster us, confuse us, make us suspect the motives of the person complimenting us.

Yesterday, for instance, I was hauling the last load of stuff out of the Shoebox. I was hot, I was sweaty, I was tired. I was very ready to be done with the whole thing.

As I approached my car, there was a woman walking towards me. She was tall, and blonde, with her hair in the sort of braids that emulate dreadlocks, without looking as silly as dreads on white people usually do. She was wearing a white cami-top, with a white bra under it, and hip-hugger jeans. The sun was behind her, and when she smiled, she riveled the sun for briliance.

There was something about her, about the way she looked, backlit, about the moment, that left me slack-jawed with amazement. "Wow," I said aloud, "You're beautiful!"

She laughed, as if to dismiss the comment, as if to tell me that I was kind, but something of a looney.

Well, I am something of a looney, let's not overlook that. But all the same, my compliment to her was both heart-felt and honest, and I doubt that she accepted it that way. I kind of doubt she even thought of it, just dismissed it reflexively.

nekojin has written entries, lately, about her photo shoots, which has made me think even more about the whole issue of nude photography, and wanting to do it. I find myself looking at women as I meet them on the street, now, thinking about how they'd look without their clothes, about how to express visually the things that I see about them that are beautiful.

I find that I don't want to photograph the ones that everyone would agree are beautiful. The women I find myself looking at, thinking about how to arrange a shoot around, are the ones that are maybe just a little bit plain, maybe just a little bit unsure about their looks.

(of course, not being a telepath, I can't be sure they feel that way, I've just spoken to enough women that I believe I can make reasonable extrapolations).

One day, in the mid nineties, Trish was trying to study for a class, and I was taking pictures of her. She got sidetracked, and we ended up taking a roll of pictures, some of them including nudity. I was very excited about it, very pleased to have had the chance to photograph her, and capture her beauty.

When they came back, she looked at them, and cried, because she couldn't see anything in the photographs except her nose. (Trish had a large nose. It bothered her; it didn't bother me).

I'd've liked to have had the chance to figure out how to take pictures of her in such a way that she saw what I saw.

Hey, auophir, wanna get nekkid in front of my camera?

I always thought I was a nice guy, but Mary tells me I'm really a jerk in disguise. On the other hand, PJammer says that it's not me; it's her.

(Note: both of these comments bear only tangental relationship to what the person actually wrote).

Meanwhile, nekojin tells me that I'm only useful for my penis.

It's so nice to be a guy.

After the aborted booty call this weekend, I find my hormones raging throughout my body. This morning, Carrie asked me how to answer one of the questions from the last test, for the test corrections we turned in this morning, so I showed her my notebook. As she bent over to look, I had a view right down her blouse.

I think I'll go sit in the corner and drool for a week or so.

This is the price of letting go of my guard, of thinking that maybe things were about to change for me. Now I have to find my way back to the place where being alone is okay; where I can go to the movies by myself, and not feel pathetic.

Where I'm not feeling like a loser because I'm alone.

Welcome to this special edition of Love Letters from Deep Space, with your host, everybody's favorite Letch and Perv, Cowboy R!

Thank you, thank you. Please relax, look around, and make sure you take the time to fill out the poll.

We here in Deep Space have recently received some letters from readers which have us a little concerned, and we want to take a few moments to address the issues they've raised.

childofsnow writes, "I had coffee with Cowboy R! What a sweetie!"

Well, yes, thank you, I blush, but it's true. Of course, that's not really a concern, it's just a comment, but I bring it up at the begining for to illustrate a point.

perlandia and conifur have both expressed concern over the garments they wear, because of things that Cowboy R has written in the last week or so.

nekojin helpfully points out that Cowboy R is a letch and a pervert! Thank you, Prudence! I'll remember that, the next time you wear a translucent shirt with a leopard print bra!

Ladies, the truth is, Cowboy R is a letch and a pervert... in a very gentlemanly way. Cowboy R would be appalled if he found out that OAT knew he was obsessed about her body, and her underwear.

Cowboy R does think that it's often, maybe even usually, the case that he can tell if a woman is wearing a brassiere. There are visible lines created in the overgarment by such underwear, and Cowboy R notices these pretty much as a matter of course.

Sometimes, a woman will wear something which lets her bra straps show. When this happens (as was the case with OAT this morning), Cowboy R generally presumes that the rest of the garment is the same color, and draws the conclusion that OAT is wearing a black bra today. This pleases Cowboy R, because he feels as if he has seen something forbiden, something secret and maybe a little taboo, and he goes away feeling delightfully pervy.

Only once has Cowboy R actually seen OAT's breast, and that left him virtually speechless for the rest of the week. We stumbled upon him curled up in the corner, muttering "Booooooooooobs!" and drooling.

So please, do not be concerned that Cowboy R, or any other man for that matter, is equiped with X-ray eyes. It is simply that Cowboy R actually looks at people, and sees things that give him clues to other things.

Last but not least, we come to a letter from ticcia, who writes, "Cowboy R rocks my world, and I want to lick his..."

Oh.

Oh, my.

That wasn't the letter we intended to read, at all.

Er... the letter we actually intended to read is from irnbruise, who lives in New York City. (Why didn't I know all these beautiful women in New York City when I lived in New York City?)

irnbruise asks, "What are the differences in standardization [of Medical education] in North America and Europe?"

In the United States, a prospective doctor goes to college, and earns a batchelor's degree in a subject which may or may not be directly related to medicine. (Cowboy R, for instance, is reading English). They take a number of classes which are required by medical school admissions boards, including basic chemestry, physics, and genetics, as well as some fairly difficult math.

They then apply to medical school, and spend an average of three years completing medical training and earning the coveted M.D. They then serve an internship (another three to five yers, depending on specialty), and possibly a residency.

In the United Kingdom, (at least, as I understand it from my reading), a prospective physician gets accepted to a medical college straight out of high school, and does the equivelent of a combined B.S. / M.D. program, earning a BS, and the right to practice medicine as a general practitioner.

They then persue further degrees, according to their specialties.

Aparently, the differences are such that medical graduates from the UK have trouble finding internship / residency in the US, and it's very difficult for an M.D. candidate from the USA to get into UK medical programs.

Also aparently, once you've finished all this, making the transition from practicing medicine in either area to the other is fairly simple... you just can't piecemeal take a part of it here, and a part of it there... and I'm not ready to live in London for the next ten years.

I had some errands to do this morning, so I drove. This is a rarity for me... normally I take the bus, because that way, I don't have to deal with the parking nightmare near the U.

As I was motoring my happy way along, I found myself listening to Bob and Tom in the Morning. Idiots a-go-go! I felt my intellegence slowly draining out my ears. Must... change... channel...

Too late. I'm now an idjet.

Got to class, talked with one of the girls (not The Girl) about her trip to San Diego with her best friend, to see best friend's boyfriend. I was teasing her about how best friend got a booty call, and she got... a long walk in the park?

She laughed, in a wicked sort of way. Now I'm having thoughts about her and her friend, and friend's boyfriend. It's a fantasy a lot of guys have... I'm just wondering....

The bell rang. No teacher. Talk began about the fifteen minute rule. (If the teacher doesn't show up within fifteen minutes, class is canceled). I said that this was, after all, Our Amazing Teacher (OAT), and that not only would she be there, she'd have a good reason for being late. We bet on it.

One of the other guys in class said there'd be a reason, but that it wouldn't be a good one. We bet a buck. OAT arrived, breathless. When asked for her reason for being late, she admitted that she'd overslept. Damn!

I paid the buck.

OAT was wearing a thin, grey tshirt. When she showed up for class, her nipples were plainly visible. I stared. I'm thinking this is somewhat unhealthy, this fascination I have with OAT's body, and her underwear, but on the other hand... she's smart, she's funny, she's generous.

I'd do her.

---

The other day, I refered to wednesdayschild as Grace, because I misremembered the poem. It turns out that Wednesday's child is full of woe, not grace. Oops. Sorry.

As an amusing side note, I was born on a Thursday, and Thursday's child has far to go.

Amusing that I've been around the world (literally), isn't it?

One of my favorite movies is Real Genius. In the movie, Chris Knight, played by Val Kilmer, goes to a job interview at a high-tech research company, wearing a headband with a pair of silver balls on springs... sort of antenae.

One of the researchers asks him why he's wearing that absurd thing on his head, and Knight answers, "Because, if I wore it anyplace else, it would chafe."

He later goes on to explain that he didn't want to seem to stuffy; didn't want the people at the company to think he was the typical techno geek, all brain and no penis.

---

I was talking to my friend Gen today, on ICQ. This is pretty much the way I talk to most people, these days. She mentioned that she was glad to see me here.

Gen's been a reader of my diary for a couple of years, now. For reasons I'm not quite sure of, she keeps reading.

Today, she was giving me a hard time about the word 'boobs'. She likes it. It amuses her. It's a fun word.

My answer was that I wanted to prove that I could be a member of the Thinkin' Fellers' Local 201 and the American Society for the Appreciation of Boobs.

Which is true.

But I also don't want you to think I'm a typical technogeek, all brains and no penis.

---

I talked to Gen from work. I'd stayed late this evening because I was working on a project (which I didn't finish, but I did hit a gumption trap. I'll go back to it tomorrow).

She signed off because her hubby was on his way home, and I was thinking about leaving anyway, so I did that thing. It was a beautiful evening. There was humidity in the air, dark, heavy clouds, and there were cool breezes blowing.

I didn't want to come home. I wasn't ready to come home. I tried getting hold of Mr. Smith, but he's not answering his phone much these days. So, instead, I drove out to Austin's, where I sat and read and ate dinner.

There was a family sitting at the table next to me, and I watched them, surreptitiously. A man, a woman, their daughter. The daughter was somewhere between seven and ten.

The man and the woman were relaxed, they joked with each other, and included their daughter in their conversation, explaining jokes to her, making her a part of things.

The girl reached for the check; her mother instructed her that "proper restaurant etiquette" was not to touch the check unless she were going to pay. She actually used the word etiquette.

I was impressed. People treating each other, treating their family, like human beings. Maybe there's hope for the race, after all.

---

I love kids. I shouldn't have kids of my own.

I think I may adopt, even if I don't ever find Ms. Right. In fact, I think that, if I haven't found Ms. Right by the time I finish medical school, I'll adopt.

---

Sometimes, when I'm walking, or driving, or riding the bus, or whatever, I'll think about things. One of my favorite games is, "Okay, given that...." from which I'll extrapolate all sorts of wild ideas.

Lately, my favorite flights of fancy involve money. Probably because it's an issue in my life right now. I've been thinking about things that I would do if I had "Fuck you" money; the kind of money that lets you be as rude and eccentric as you like, because, after all, you've got the money.

Dave Thomas did a lot for orphans. I'd like to, as well. If I had Fuck You money, I'd set up a program of education, finding the most intellegent orphans and training them in the hard sciences and engineering.

Not that the most intellegent would be the only ones to benifit. There'd be some sort of deal whereby, if an orphanage gave me their brightest kids, I'd pay for the keep of three others who weren't quite as bright.

I don't have all the details worked out. It doesn't really matter; I'll probably never really have that kind of money.

Not in this life, anyway.

---

Gen and I talked a little bit about Kate. As I drove around this evening, watching the lightning flash in the clouds, I thought about her.

I'm not really all that surprised that Kate got wierded out. She's young; very young. We did have a very intimate conversation in the library on Thursday night, and she told me things she probably now regrets; things she probably isn't sure she wants anyone knowing.

I think if, when I was nineteen, I'd had a conversation like that with an older woman, I'd have been somewhat wierded as well.

On the other hand, Joan, my ex-wife, was thirteen years older than I was.

On the other, other hand, Joan and I met when I was twenty-four, not nineteen.

So I don't know.

I didn't really think Kate might be Ms. Right; I did think there was a chance she'd make a damn fine Ms. Right-Now.

I finally had enough of OpenDiary. I wanted to write an entry the last couple of days, and couldn't get on... servers overloaded.

So I followed my friends Sheryl, Chrystle, and Gen (Obviously not in alphabetical order) over here. One hopes that it'll work out better. I spent an hour and a half transfering journal entries from the old service to the new one.

It was an embarassing excercise, in some ways. At OD, I was fairly certain that nobody who knew me knew that I was Mr. Jones; here, I'm fairly certain that people I consider friends will be aware that I'm Cowboy R.

(That's a reference, by the bye, to an old Sesame Street routine).

As I read the old entries in the process of transcribing them, I realized that several of them are rather prurient. I come off, occasionally, as having few thoughts other than "Boobs! Ooooooooh!"

I thought about censoring what I'd written; about taking those entries out, so that my friends wouldn't see them.

The thing is, I am occasionally somewhat prurient. There are times when the only thought in my head is "Boobs! Boobs! Woo!"

So I guess I'll leave them in. Hopefully, my friends know me well enough to know that those aren't my only thoughts all, or even most, of the time.

---

I was wrong, I think. Kate isn't really attracted to me, or if she is, she's making certain that nothing comes of it. I've invited her to do a couple of things the last couple of days, and gotten a zero acceptance rate.

Normally, we go over to the library after class on Tuesday and Thursday, and shoot the bull for fifteen minutes or so, before I have to go and catch a bus to come to work.

Today, she said that she had to study, and did I mind not coming to the library with her?

The thing is... earlier, before class, I overheard her saying to Lauren that she'd finished all of her homework for the week; that this was going to be an easy week for her.

So. Either she's grossed out that I'd even be interested, or she's grossed out that she's even interested.

Either way, it translates to no Kate for Cowboy R.

Damn.