I'm sitting here and it's 11:27pm, and I'm excited because I'm full of ideas. I'm unemployed and poor, but I have so many ideas for freelance stories and projects and things that I think can help Kathleen and I. It's a nice feeling because some of the time it's so easy to feel defeated by what's going on out there. You search the job listings or talk to people about their experiences looking for work, and it feels so bleak. And it can feel like there's no light at the end of the tunnel. But then I start to brainstorm and I realize that there is sooooo much opportunity.

I am lucky because I have some connections, especially in journalism, because I went to Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, a place that can really hook you up just about anywhere in the world of media. Just for an example, and I won't say that this has helped me any (yet), but one of my advisor's best friends is editor of the New Yorker.

But what really was making me feel good just now was my enthusiasm for some ideas that I've been mulling over the last couple days. First of all, after I'd pitched an editor at Business 2.0 about a story I want to write about the Business Plan Archive, he had politely turned me down but actually called me to invite me to pitch more stories. And so I've been mulling a few over, and I figure at least one of them's gotta hit, no?

And then I've got a couple I plan to pitch to Salon, where I wrote a story last year about privacy rights. And then I was thinking about this plan that Kathleen and I have been talking about where we start to market ourselves (mostly her, really, since she's the great designer) as hyper-creative wedding invitation desginers. And recession or no, there's always going to be weddings, right?

So...you know, times are tough. But I see promise. I don't see riches, but maybe I start to smell creative output and professional satisfaction. And, well, if both of us have to hoof our way through some fairly demeaning temp work at rates almost below the poverty line in order to fulfill that promise, it will be worth it when it pays off.

And that's just what we and anyone else out there who is creative and full of ideas, but who is unemployed or underemployed right now has to believe.

We're in it together.

I would like to lodge an official protest. Okay, I'm maybe 10 years late with this, but better late than never, as they say.

Here's my beef:

Just suppose for a second that you are, shall we say, proficient at Tetris for Windows. And just suppose you have the kind of ego that seeks the reward for your, shall we say, proficient, Tetris play of making the high score list. And then let's just suppose for a second that your score was about to hit 33,000. Well, then, what you of course experience is at almost precisely that moment, your score would become -32 thousand something (I know, I know, it's a power of 2 thing) and then count upwards to zero. Well, not only does that prevent your ability to build your score, but it also corrupts the high score table permanently if you save it.

Now here's my question: Are we to suppose that the geniuses at Microsoft never got a score that high when they were working on the damn program?

At the moment, I have but one thing to say: curly fries, baby!

Who knew?

There Kathleen and I were, walking home, lamenting that we can't really afford to buy books right now, when we happened upon the Mission District branch of the San Francisco Library.

Next thing you know, the two of us were inside, scouring the shelves, and finding all kinds of gems that we could check out for free. I mean, how can you beat that? Kathleen in particular would probably have spent $100 on the books she got today. And as for me, I got some good things, but even more important, I reserved a couple of books, "How to be Good," by Nick Hornby, and "Summerland," by Michael Chabon, that I've been wanting to read for awhile but haven't felt like buying.

Meanwhile, the world out there seems like a really scary place, and so I want to make sure that I begin the process of explaining Flap Flap Wiggle.

It's a hard process, and since it's mostly about being relaxed and playing and taking life lightly, it might take me some time to get through the explanation. In fact, I'm not sure I'm up to it today. Heh.

Seriously, though, with all that's going on in the strange world of diplomacy (where, say, the leader of a big, aggressive country says he wants the United Nations to sign off on his plans to invade another, smaller, country that may or may not pose a threat, but then when the UN basically laughs in the leader's face, he says, well screw you, I'll do what I want) and international relations, it's really tempting to bury your head in the sand. I pick up the paper and see the awful headlines and my instinct is to turn straight to the sports page. Sure, sure, recite those Crowded House lyrics if you want, but it's true.

But actually, Crowded House (and maybe a few others, like my mother?) is right. It is a scary world, but it's our responsibility not to turn away from what's hard to stomach. I can't even begin to remember how many times I've been in conversations in the last few months where the topic turns to Iraq before someone says, well, hey, let's not talk about that because it's depressing.

But that's exactly what the Bushies want. They want us to not think critically about what they're doing because it's better for them if we don't. And of course, I'm not exactly one to get up on my high horse here. I've missed both of the big recent anti-war demonstrations, and haven't been getting involved. Yet I am purely disgusted by what the White House is up to. In an era where cynicism rules, these people are the most cynical I've ever come across, and that's saying something for someone who came to political consciousness during the Reagan years.

And yet, out here in San Francisco, I feel so marginalized. I feel like no matter how loud we yell, either no one's listening, or alternatively, they hear us, and then easily dismiss us as left-wing "Northern Californians." That's what Bush did the other day when he said, well, yeah, I hear that some folks out in Northern California don't agree that Saddam is the greatest threat since the dinosaurs were wiped out, and I respect their right to think that way, but hey, I disagree and I'm gonna do whatever I please.

And this bit of self-righteousness and entitlement coming from a man who's claim to the presidency is based on the fact that a bunch of Jews in one county in Florida somehow voted for Pat Buchanan. Peh!

Well, anyway, I'm getting away from the main topic at hand, which is explaining flap, flap and wiggle. So close your eyes and try real hard to picture this:

A soft, fuzzy, peaceful, happy, humorous purple platypus. No, not the poinsonous kind. A purple one. With no tail. Now imagine that purple platypus flying across the room, from you to your friend. Or even better, from your friend to you, since it will land on your shoulder and almost certainly make you smile. Now listen reeeeeeal carefully as it bridges that gap between you and your friend, and hear the sound it makes and watch what it does.

That's right. It flaps, flaps and wiggles. You've got it.

And that notion, that simple notion, keeps me at peace so often when I'm sad or down or angry. I just put one of my many purple platypuses (yes, I know...it's a point of contention. But I insist that they are purple platypuses, not purple platypi) on my shoulder, or on my head, or on my lap - heck, I'll put 20 of them on me, and I feel better. Right away. No questions asked, 100% guaranteed or your money back.

I suggest you try it sometime, especially in these troubled times.

OK. That's it. I've said my piece, and now I'm going to saunter off in search of some yummy snacks. And I'll let you in on something special I've learned over the years: the secret to good snacking? It's equal parts sweet and salty. No matter what the damn doctors say.

Ahem!

I hear an echo. Could that be you listening to me?
Hmmm...perhaps it's me listening to you.

Perhaps I'm dreaming, and tomorrow when I wake up, I'll think, what was that weird dream I had last night where I was trying to create my very first ever Blogger entry for Flap Flap Wiggle, but I...couldn't...type...fast...enough...and...they...were...gaining...on...me.

Maybe not.

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find that Flap Flap Wiggle is at the top of the Blog popularity charts, and I'm being bombarded with requests to sell the film rights to my life. That would be useful, because I'm broke right now, and I could use the money.

So...er...any film producers out there want to buy the film rights to my life? If so, I'd really like James Spader to play me. And if not him, then maybe John Cusak.

Meanwhile, I should go to bed. I have to go interview at temp agencies tomorrow. Yes, me, the professional, the journalist who sometimes reports for Time Magazine, and who has traveled the world, and who is 33 years old, well, I'm going to go see if someone might pay me $12 an hour to type their letters. Mind you, when I last did that, back in 1996, I got paid $15 an hour. But who's counting.

Anyway, I'd like to welcome you, me and everyone else who might have accidentally wandered into these (so far) empty halls. I think when you understand that flap flap wiggle is a mantra that could save the world, you'll come back.

Nighty night.