There's this concept in my mental toolbox called Dunbar's number (wikipedia), which comes from the research of an anthropologist named Robin Dunbar. Basically his idea is that there's a limit to the number of social connections that can be meaningfully maintained. The rough estimate is about 150.

I generally feel like I'm pushing the envelope there, and I'm starting to drop packets. Lots of social grooming is going undone; emails not returned, events missed, plans left in limbo, etc. If you're one of the unfortunately many folks who I haven't been in touch with, I'm sorry.

The past couple months have been intense. I've logged 534 hours, which is 60 a week. Considering all the hours that get worked that aren't in the log, the lost sleep, etc, that's a pretty heavy load.

I was doing pretty good on the extra-effort front for most of may and the beginning of June, but the past couple weeks I've started wearing down. It's most difficult when I start losing sight of what it's all about. There have been times when it felt overwhelming, like I couldn't do it. Those moments are few and generally pass. It's the "what the hell is this all about" parts that are hard. Tonight I feel like I'm seeing the light again. There's still a hard row to hoe ahead, but I feel confident about it, and I know what it's for.

I've often played with the idea of charting these kinds of feelings, like some kind of spiritual stock-ticker. Maybe there's some correlation with a behavior I can tune. Gotta have data for that.

So tonight among other things I half-watched two sequels: Rambo II and Lethal Weapon Dos. Both feature plot turns where the primary (male) character's (re-awakening) love interest is killed by the bad guys. I guess that's how Hollywood rolled in those days.

It's an interesting romantic trope: ultimate possibility (slain interest) coupled with revenge fantasy. "I could have been happy if only..."

Here in the real world, for my part I got in a solid days labor, and am hoping for the same tomorrow. It's not glamorous or the most fun, but it's what needs doing for the moment, and I can live with that.

It was a lovely day though, and being around drinking my coffee as the sun slanted in from the east made me think of Jodie's and Eggs Royston (which no one seems to review, suckas). Overall I might like more excitement and zazz in my average weekend, but I also recognize the sometime necessity of occasionally buckling down and doing Teh Work.

Got beat with the drunk stick. Weddings; they'll do that to ya. It was a great one. Champaigne and scotch and dancing with maids. It all gets out of hand so quickly, and then you have to make a questionable bike run to catch the last BART. The real downside was that I didn't go right home, and -- in addition to making the executive decision to stop in at the Albatross and stare mutely at the attractive bartender (weddings; they'll do that to ya) while imbibing even more demon liquor, loosing track of my bike helmet and black suit jacket and some of my dignity in the process -- somewhere along the way I crashed into something and broke my laptop screen.

That scene is missing from my memory-reel, but the forensic evidence is conclusive. Stay classy, KoneZone.

On the upside, a bike ride to Emeryville for an on-demand replacement at the Apple store is a good hangover cure. The weather cooperated with brilliance, there was a cool Sikh parade on the way, and I'll have a new headless computer to muck about with for however long it stays alive.

Still, the whole thing feels childish. Especially the bartender part. That's just un-called-for behavior.

Now is probably as good a time as any to get healthy(er) again. I mean, maybe in advance of the next wedding (a western-themed hodown in Portland, guaranteed bacchanalia) I can abandon my five or six pounds of latent beer-weight. On the other hand, who knows what kind of awful trouble I'd get into if I showed up all lithe and sexy. Still, it's always a good idea to revive Operation Get Real Hot. Decisions, decisions.

I have a delightful memory from last summer, of Friday night at Burning Man, being out and about with two beautiful girls from Portland we met; real underground babes with dynamite style, impeccable festival pedigrees, and at least a decade's worth of world traveling and other bohemia under their belts, all without ever showing taxable income. "Gone chicks," an older generation of beat writer might say. I wrote about this obliquely before, but never told the story itself.

We'd met earlier in the week when they sheltered with us through a dust storm, and bonded over knuckle tats and their delicious lavender vodka cocktails, just a good honest click with the whole group, and so naturally it seemed we should all rendezvous and ramble the night together. Though the whole pack started out as one, the girls and I got separated from Mark and Zya fairly early -- no worries, just the way things flow -- and the three of us ended up making a great convivial loop of the grounds on foot over the course of the night, dance party to dance party to dance party and yon.