January has been quite the month, I must say. Hardly a day's gone by without some interesting event, mild personal revelation, or weird dream. Add to this the constant irritation of my psycho Russian housemate having his creepy, controlling mother stay in his room for three fucking weeks (which I'm pretty sure is against house rules, as there's only supposed to be one person per room) and it becomes quite entertainingly surreal (all the more so as he was defending his physics dissertation--that must have been something to see), to the point where I can indulge my inner asshole by blasting the above song next door at one in the morning (the song is a masterpiece; the volume less).

I asked someone out on a date for the first time in almost four years (nearly a decade if we're talking "flying blind"). Events are strangely unfolding, so maybe more on that later.

Due to my landlords' son's probable laziness (my landlords are in Florida), I shoveled our sidewalk snow and ice the other day, which should, of course, be the landlord's responsibility, but some Zorro type has taken to scattering leaflets about the ghetto end of Geddes Avenue decrying the tendency of absentee landlords letting their properties go to pot, especially in largely studen-rented areas, and I became irritated to think that my house might have been a public safety menace (the ice hasn't been that bad this year, but you never know). Was that a long sentence? The people responsible for the leaflets are absolutely right, but I can't help thinking that they did this directly after taking some class on political movements, and had some garish paisley light bulb ignite over their heads as a result. I'll be very annoyed if my endeavors make some heroically anonymous character feel worthy of comparison to Emma Goldman, but something really had to be done. It was actually quite pleasant--the sun was out, I got some non-walking, non-work exercise, the passersby were attractive, I had the feeling of taking things into my own hands (I'd call it "ownership" if it weren't hackneyed and legally inaccurate), and I got to watch the rest of Children of the Stones (more on that later) afterward. I'm a little abashed to admit that part of my determination was inspired by President Obama's inaugural speech, but that's inspiration for you.

I've grown into my mustache by leaps and bounds (I have one, by the way). It resembles Wyatt Earp's, although a friend of mine also suggested that I looked like I belonged in some German prog-rock band of the early 1970s, something with which I can also deal. It was partly inspired by a number of co-workers with mustaches, and it feels a hell of a lot more me than the beard ever did. The only drawbacks, really, are eating and drinking fluids with fruit pulp in them (if you can imagine).