A stupid, stupid thing to do is to try to beat a yellow while on a bike with no lights. It had only just turned yellow on my way out of the Terman Library/Park complex after ultimate last night, I forgot that I was said stealthy target last night on my way home from ultimate, and went for it. Wowzers. What a smart cookie I am.

That reminds me: I need to do something about my bike light situation. I started off last year with a mounted red light in the back and a detachable white one in the front. The latter was quite a light: being a super-powerful halogen, it served not so much to warn oncoming vehicles of my presence as to stun their very retinas. I could shine it out of Tory's window and really annoy half of Toyon. The thing even had a nifty transparent casing to boot, which I milked by using Sony Walkman batteries, which are sheathed in metallic blue and green coats. Suzie made me paranoid way back in fall quarter about leaving the light on my bike; hence, it was as a matter of habit that I popped it off after I locked my bike at Blockbuster with Serra a few weeks ago. I must've left it on a shelf in our frenzied comparisons between Mulholland Drive and Songcatcher (the former won out that day, though we eventually watched both), because I realized, upon returning home, that it wasn't there... went back the next night. My headlamp sometimes makes do, if I remember to bring it, but I rarely do. Plus, since the acquisition of the road bike, I've been riding it in complete stealth mode far too often than is either legal or good for me.

Other mundanity: Perhaps out of nostalgia for last July's SCA crew, I keep including oatmeal on my backpacking shopping list. On every trip this summer, though, we've somehow managed not to eat it. Whether I blame the beautifully warm weather that has us wanting something cool in the morning instead of hot, a dysfunctional WhisperLite, or our sheer laziness to break out the stove and pots and wash dishes afterwards, this summer's backcountry breakfasts have always devolved to trail mix, granola and powdered milk, apples, or something of the sort.

As a result, I've steadily brought back many cups of dry oatmeal to the Dire Wolf GC cabinet. Baking peanut butter oatmeal cookies and oatmeal raisin cookies (and, um, mailing them away to people—oops, y'all weren't supposed to find out that you were just a repository for my poor shopping decisions... oh well!) wasn't quite cutting into the bulk enough. And so I decided to bake oatmeal craisin muffins, following a recipe I found online. I followed the simple directions, popped 'em in the oven, and came back after the prescribed twenty minutes to find them soft, moist, perfectly risen, and...

...really, really tasteless. I do remember thinking that 1/4 cup of sugar was a pretty meager amount for twelve muffins, but figured the recipe author must've known what s/he was doing. I guess what s/he was doing was making the sort of high-fiber, low-fat, low-cal muffin that really neurotic people who had sacrificed their firstborn and their taste buds on a blood-splattered altar would eat. Because I have this compulsion of not throwing away food, though, I vowed to eat 'em, and, in a moment of inspiration, decided that downing all dozen might be possible if they were all smothered in icing.

It's strange—I'd forgotten how weird my food intake, barring a few dinners out or late-night dessert runs here and there, has been. We get our groceries primarily from Whole Foods just six blocks down Emerson Street, which means lots of fresh fruits and vegetables and dairy, some simple bulk ingredients, and no preservatives whatsoever. Which means no icing anywhere in the entire store. Damn health nuts.

On my way home, though, I paused at a sketchy-looking little grocery shop that advertised itself as "SOS Grocery." No icing there, either, which was to be expected. As I walked past the last aisle and toward the door, a few lone bags of Kraft marshmallows caught my eye. Score!

A half-cup of miniature marshmallows, a few spritzes of Jessie's I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (in a pump bottle, I sure as hell can!), and fifteen seconds in the microwave turn those bland brown things into something akin to Little Debbie's. Yum. Every once in a while, I've just gotta get some processed food in me. =)

Lastly: You know you're in California when your boss has discs stashed in his corner cabinet and, once a week or so, 4:30 brings a fifteen-minute disc break on the lawn in front of the library.