Pause for a short rant: dinner was supposed to be dressy according to the invitation but some people still showed up in jeans, either because they disregard anything that doesn't suit them, were raised in a barn, or had no interest in honoring Michael's request. I truly don't understand this behavior, and yes, I'm extremely critical of anyone who chooses convenience over good manners. I know this seems stuffy and old-fashioned. Too bad. I didn't make the rules of polite society.

Anyway, there were several online diarists present accompanied by significant others (my own was at the Stanford women's volleyball game), and two of Michael's friends from the apartment complex he lives in. We were warned not to say anything about Michael's diary to them so we all introduced ourselves as having met through the Internet, a fairly safe explanation these days. But naturally our own diaries (or "websites" as I was careful to say) got talked over, and JournalCon came up once or twice. We managed to avoid outing Michael as a writer. Lunesse did say she was still finding glitter in unlikely places, a real thigh slapper to anyone who was at JournalCon but not terribly funny to the two non-diarists.

Since I was sitting next to them I did my best to include them by occasionally lightheartedly interpreting what the others were talking about. It's no fun to feel left out, and easy to forget someone might feel that way when you've got so many of your own crew with you, so I paid special attention to them. They were pleasant, smart and likeable, but they seemed awfully quiet. I couldn't quite tell if they weren't having fun, or if we were overwhelming them with our shouting and laughter and in-jokes, or what made them seem different from the rest of us. They acted like they were comfortable with the group, but they didn't participate much.

It wasn't until this morning that I figured it out. They weren't storytellers. Diarists are storytellers, online and in person. Diarists always have a hilarious experience to recount, respond to stories with stories of their own experiences, quip like crazy, and generally chatter away like a flock of budgies to strangers and friends alike at parties. No, not every diarist, but a lot of us. We're in love with words. We like to play with them.

Michael (or Walshdawg, as his birthday card said) asked how my bibiography was going and I groaned, covered my ears, and refused to talk about it. I did tell the story later on in the evening about how annoyed I was the first time I attempted "History of the Ethnic Peoples of California", specifically by the teacher's insistence on a Mission project. I had told my teacher I wanted to do an interpretive dance of the Franciscans' oppression of the Costanoan tribelets and he didn't think it was funny (naturally) but that Trish had been in stitches when I did part of it for her. Michael Rawdon (aka Rawdon as there are too many Michaels in this story) wondered why I wasn't doing that with my history of Chinese prostitutes in nineteenth century San Francisco. I considered it for a moment, then said I didn't think I could manage the conflict of the tongs and the Chinese Six Companies, being only one person.

"Finger puppets!" he said, waggishly waving his fingers in illustration. Everyone cracked up, picturing the class presentation with an apoplectic teacher standing by. I thought Trish was going to burst an internal organ from laughing so hard. It was really brilliant, I wish I'd thought of it. Of course, I've already written the paper and I only tried to get the okay for interpretive dance because I was so mad at the other teacher for being such a jerk. But man, that was funny.

I advised Rawdon he needed to change his diary title to something that gave more of a sense of his writing style and interests. You don't really gaze into the abyss, I said, there's hardly ever any navel gazing or examination of your innermost being. You're very external and now-oriented. He said he'd been thinking along those lines but hadn't come up with anything. Naturally, the whole table gave him ideas. "Non-stop Geekery!" "I Am Really Into Boy Things Like Comics And Baseball Statistics!" "Stuff!" "Nope Unintended!" If you have an idea for a new diary title for him send it to him.

Michael had a really good time, I believe. I know I did. The food was excellent, the company likewise, and no one wanted to leave until it actually got too cold to keep sitting out on the patio. For October it was uncommonly cold last night. I wore my coat all through dinner. The best part of the evening, though, was yet to come.

See, Michael's got one week to find a job or move (temporarily, we hope) to his grandparents' place back east. He said he'd applied for a state job and passed the test, but he was supposed to hear within 72 hours if they wanted him to actually interview. It'd been five days and he was kind of bummed about it. I was talking to Trish, who was giving me a ride home, as she was moving a large pumpkin from the front seat to the back. Suddenly, a male voice said, "Hey you guys!" and a dark figure moved towards us in the dimly light garage. Both Trish and I tensed up, ready to jump in the car and lock the doors.

But it was Michael listening to the messages on his cellphone. "Guess what?" he said excitedly. "They called me back!" We shrieked, and Michael grinned like a death row convict with a last minute reprieve from the governer. "On the other hand, how weird is that? What the hell were they doing calling at 7:44pm on a Saturday?" A mystery, indeed. But what a great birthday present.

Happy birthday, MC Walshdawg. I told you, money calls to money. Now put that chain on.

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