There is a story in the latest issue of The Sun in which the author wonders about the oxymoronic name "The Lone Ranger and Tonto." How can someone be considered lone, wrote the author, when he's accompanied by a sidekick? The author wonders if this is because Tonto is non-European, and therefore not a true person.

That's a nice thought, but I think the author needs to brush up on his American folklore. The point is not that The Lone Ranger is alone, it's that he's a lone Ranger. The story is that a group of Texas Rangers, including John Reid and his brother, were ambushed by a gang of outlaws. The outlaws killed all of the Texas Rangers - or so they thought. John Reid didn't die in the ambush. He was the lone survivor - the lone surviving Ranger - the lone Ranger. John Reid made a mask from his dead brother's vest, and called himself the Lone Ranger, in order to hide his true identity, since everyone thought he'd been killed by outlaws. Somehow, he figured it was easier for him to fight injustice that way. John Reid was The Lone Ranger long before he met Tonto.

I have never driven to work in the three and a half years I have been employed at The University.

That statement is made with qualifications.

There was one night that I stayed late on campus for an anti-war rally, and I drove a Flexcar home, and then drove it back to work the next morning. I don't think that counts, though, since a shared car program is a half-step away from public transit - sort of like a self-serve taxi.

Phillip sometimes drives into work, and I ride with him. Then I walk the two miles from his office to mine. There have been a few times that I've driven him to his office, and then walked to mine. But I don't think those times count, since I was driving someone else to work.

What brings this up is: Today was Phillip's day to drive to work, but he called in sick. He suggested that I drive into work, and use his pass to park at his office. I took the bus. I didn't want to break a three and a half year record, for one thing.

Last night was chicken night for the sugar gliders. Every Wednesday is chicken night for the sugar gliders. Baked, skinless, free range, organic chicken thighs. Last night, I gave them a new treat. I took a tortilla, cut it into strips, and made little chicken wraps. The sugar gliders liked them, of course. They pulled the chicken out and ate it last night. This morning, they were eating the tortillas.

Man, I am so psyched to start the next session of Spanish classes - just two weeks from tonight! What put me in this mood was watching La Bamba last night on Bravo. Then I spent some time last night and this morning researching on the internet what the song "La Bamba" is all about. I learned about the double meanings of the lyrics of this old Mexican folk song that can't accurately be translated into English.

It's hard for me to decide which is better, English or Spanish. Spanish is certainly easier to learn. With English, however, you don't need to figure out if a radio, for instance, is masculine or feminine. But with Spanish there are all those cool verbs that conveniently tell you who is taking the action. What I mean is, you can say Yo soy capitan, which means "I am a captain." But, since "soy" means "I am," you can get away with saying Soy capitan, and it's understood. I like that.

Since last Wednesday, I have quit Blogstop - emotionally, but not officially. I checked the site this morning, and found a notice that Blogstop will end at its 3000th post, and that there are currently 2772 posts.

I have successfully posted 65 acronyms.

When Victor died in 1992, I didn't go to his memorial, even though I considered him a friend, even though almost everyone from work went. Even a few people that Victor didn't like went to his memorial - that's the type of person he was. I have never been to a funeral. For me, grieving is a personal thing. It makes me uncomfortable to turn grieving into a ceremony. Reinhardt gave me a bad time for my "selfishness." He had a point. On the other hand, Reinhardt & Kris and I made it our mission to look after Victor's widow, Waldi. We made sure she was holding up all right, and that she didn't feel alone. The first time I went to Oceanside, to visit Waldi, I apologized to her for not going to Victor's memorial. She told me I had absolutely nothing to apologize for - I did what I had to do, she said. It wasn't at all like I'd ignored his memory or her, she said. This morning was All Saints' Day Sunday. Our pastor asked us all to write down the name of someone who had touched our lives, but has passed away, so she could read the names aloud. I wrote down Victor's name.

This afternoon, Phillip and I went to Queen Sheba Ethiopian restaurant. It was Beth's birthday. Karen & Beth, Mindy & Bill, and Suzanne & Bob were there. The same waiter served us that was there the first time I went there. This waiter looks exactly like a guy (whose name I can't remember) I used to work with at Barnes & Noble. Not only is the waiter's face the same, but his smile and his whole "ah shucks" way of moving is the same as my former coworker. But I know they're not the same person, because my former coworker is Caucasian, and the waiter is not. It's a very odd experience.