I have become very interested in the dying art of writing on paper lately, which explains my lapse here. The farther I stray from the means of transmission, the more difficult I find it to sit here and type. There are many days when I miss the old way. Human communicative inefficiency astonishes me.

I do have much to tell and will do so soon.

This has been a notable week. Three days ago I heard a woman scream five times in the street, around 10:00 p.m. At 10:36 p.m., a single police cruiser drove to the end of the street, turned around and drove back. At 11:05 p.m., I overheard through the window two men on the street discussing the situation. Man #1 said a man was "waving a gun". Man #2 asked if he was "black or Hispanic?" Someone called "the cops", and six police cruisers responded. The man with the gun was pinned face-down at the intersection at the end of our block. I could hear his muffled shouts until 11:22, though it was not easy above the noise of the police helicopter circling our block for the duration (until 11:48).

Why do humans continue to purchase guns and expose them to others when they know what will happen? It is similar to the high speed automobile chases which are frequently televised on local news programs. Humans persist in engaging in flagrantly illegal activity that has no productive outcome. One would expect a human with a gun to shoot someone or something with the goal of destroying property or terminating a life. Yet I often read or hear about humans owning guns they claim they never intended to fire. Or driving automobiles on the wrong side of the freeway for miles and miles, until their cars run out of gasoline and coast to a stop, wherein the police apprehend them and confine them to jail, at significant financial cost (bail, attorneys, loss of work income, etc.) What is the purpose? This futile behavior defies all logic.

Today I went to Rebecca's to pick up her mail. Lester appeared as I gathered up the papers, riding up the building's driveway on a red bicycle that was far too small for him. His knees knocked into his chest with each spin of the pedals. Running alongside him was the dog, Jughead. It was limping slightly and looked as if it might cough, sputter and request a glass of water.

"What up, dog?"

Assuming he was addressing Jughead, I didn't answer.

"Yo, Sander. Wassup? That means, 'what is up?' You know. 'How are you?'"

"Oh. I thought you were speaking to the dog. Fine, thank you. How are you, Lester?"

"Real good."

"Have you forgotten another dog toy?"

"Naw. I'm just taking Juggs here for a spin so he can drop some weight off his fat ass before Rebecca comes back."

Lester dismounted his bicycle and spoke to Jughead.

"Want some H20, yo?"

Jughead splayed flat on the ground, breathing heavily.

"Yeah, I thought so. Hold up. Hey, can you watch him while I get some?"

"Yes."

As Lester opened the door to Rebecca's apartment, I noticed he wore short pants that were excessively large for him. Though a length of metal chain ran through his belt loops, his pants slid down his backside, exposing about six inches of skin and the waist band of his under garments. The crotch of the pants hung between his knees. Was this some sort of adaptation for riding the low bicycle? Perhaps a particular type of athletic gear?

Inside, Lester ran the water to fill Jughead's dog bowl. I squatted to get a closer look at the animal. Jughead panted wildly, his eyes wide. Around his neck was a new collar -- not the pink and green grosgrain stripe, but black leather with silver rivets.

Lester emerged with a bowl of water, which he placed in front of the exhausted animal. Jughead lapped madly at it on trembling legs.

I do not like Jughead. Still, it seemed unfair that an unconditioned, spoiled, small creature, made neuter by his owner, should be forced to run a great distance when his human could move with the assistance of a mechanical device.

"Lester, may I ask you a personal question?"

"No sweat."

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, Sander, you may ask me a personal question. If you please, Sir."

"Is the business of washing cars earning you enough to survive? I noticed that neither your bicycle nor your pants fits you."

"Shit, man. I guess I got served." He reached forward and flicked the lapel of my polo shirt. "By Undead Ralph Lauren, no less. Dude, tuck it in. You look like a fucking slob."

I checked my clothing, but found nothing amiss. My shirt was tucked in and my belt was buckled.

"It's a joke, yo. Sarcasm."

"Sarcasm?"

"Irony, you know? You're not all bad, G. I got a cousin like you. A little slow on some things, but real good at math. You good at math?"

"Not particularly."

"Yeah, right. Hey. Some friends and I are having a party Friday night. You should show. S'at my place, about 9:00. Bring anyone you want. Ladies drink for free."

He handed me a business card that read:

Lester Boylan
Car Detailing and Body Repairs

And below it, his address and phone number in Van Nuys.

"You live in Van Nuys?"

"I do. But don't worry, it's not way up in the 'hood."

"And you rode all the way from there with Jughead just now?"

"He's all right. He's a hunting dog. He can walk for miles. Right, boy?"

Jughead was lying down again and breathing heavily. I felt pity for the beastly little thing.

"He must slow you down. Why don't you let him stay with me tonight? I can return him
at the party tomorrow."

"Right on! But you don't have to bring him back. He's going home soon anyway. Rebecca's coming back on Sunday."

Sunday! Because of the Asian spy, and then the workers next door, and lastly the Olympics, I have not been inside to finish my survey, nor to look at the contents of the white trunk in the front hall closet. My time is limited. I will try to visit tomorrow or Saturday.

Jughead is asleep in the kitchen. I have the door closed; he is a flatulent animal. Rebecca's passion for the pathetic is limitless, perhaps even toxic. As the humans say: "Blech!"

I am quite far behind in transmissions, but I have paper notebooks full of observations, too many to type at the moment. Please cross reference Paper Journals 2/17/10 - 2/23/10.

I have made some progress in the garden excavation. I've been finding potsherds, mainly, about 5cm in length and with a barely discernible pattern. I have also a series of soil samples, some miscellaneous historical era cultural debris (seed packets, broken bits of plastic, one penny coin from 1981) and samples of the root bulb of the invasive though attractive plant species, Bermuda Buttercup. There is enough preliminary data at this point to forward findings to a Field Technician for analysis. I am still only at 20cm, however. Progress is slow as occasional visits by friendly neighbors causes me to interrupt my work, covering it with a dark burlap screen meant to be mulch.

More soon.

Attempts to enter Rebecca's house and further investigate the white trunk have been hindered. Workers have been re-paving the driveway and painting the outdoor of the building. I have intercepted her mail, but do not dare dwell inside her unit lest I incite suspicion.

I have been busy regardless. The Winter Olympics are on television almost constantly, and I confess to enjoying them and discussing them at length with fellow Zerbedas via an internet forum Zerbeda 11279 established for the purpose of real-time information exchange. All of us agree, the extent to which humans can push their bodies and psychologies toward achievement is astonishing. Human physicality far exceeds anything we experience, and seems to me a gift, one that most humans do not appreciate nor employ. To have a body capable of so much strength, speed and flexibility must be a great joy. It is unfortunate that in the short life spans humans possess, most choose to use their bodies for fat storage instead of sport. What is the purpose of storing so much fat when one might soar instead?

Speaking of fat... I have been watching repeated broadcast airings of the television program "V" on SyFy, a science fiction network. The program makes laughable attempts at foreseeing a "distant future" in which aliens imperil the survival of humans by threatening to eat them. Ridiculous! We prefer far leaner meat. (Just kidding -- see also "joking", "joshing", or "pulling your leg" in the idiomatic database).

Notes on the Zerbeda conference:

Banff is a beautiful city with notable topography - large mountains, frozen lakes, deep snow, and biting winds. The resort itself is designed to look like a castle, both inside and out, and is dark and gothic without feeling cold. It is a perfect example of the progress humans have made in insulation, while at the same time representing one of the essential paradoxes of humanity -- that humans simultaneously dwell in the future and in the past. It is a wonder they can ever get anything done.

We got a great deal accomplished at the conference. 250 researchers made presentations over a period of three days. I am relieved to note that I was not the only researcher to present a Single Human Study, that in fact there were a dozen such presentations, most of which covered the lives of relatively unimportant individuals like Rebecca. I received positive feedback on my data on her personality and lifestyle, and a number of questions. Many were curious about Rebecca's relationship with Jughead, and some shared similar findings about human-pet relations in their regions. It appears that although the desire to pamper or "spoil" domesticated canines is common everywhere in North America, it is particularly extreme in Los Angeles, where animals seem to experience more specialized services (spa treatments, psychological analysis, bakeries, dedicated resort vacations) than in any other known city.

Rebecca's altruism also seems to be part of a larger trend. Humans in many communities "want to help", "contribute" or "be greener" in an effort to "save the planet", polar bears or the poor. Most, however, have no idea how; and, confined to their offices for 40 to 60 hours per week, lack the time in which to make a significant impact beyond the many small steps encouraged by their governments (e.g., recycling cans, carrying reusable shopping bags, and resisting the urge to assault the homeless).

As Zerbedas 17456 (Seattle, WA) and 10999 (Reno, NV) noted, humans have no visible outlet for coping with this frustration; instead of using their emotions to fuel change, they seek to distract or soothe themselves through watching television (a dangerous balm I've seen in action!) or making purchases of clothing, digital devices, or other items. When their finances allow, they purchase expensive "investments" like houses, automobiles and kayaks, and go on costly travels. Almost every method by which humans seek to "take action" results in the burning of fossil fuels or other finite resources, and most contribute to a growing obesity epidemic.

Though these are unsurprising and sobering harbingers, they are exciting to share because they give us researchers the sense that we are slowly piecing together a puzzle.

There was little time to do anything at the conference but present data and respond with questions. I do believe we befuddled the hoteliers, who served us three meals per day in the conference hall, then were met with total silence when the doors shut behind them. At times I wonder why we don't build our own private retreat center for these gatherings, but our supervisors insist that constructing or purchasing an estate of that size would be breaking the cardinal rule of Earth Research: never build, destroy or alter.

Nevertheless, one has to wonder whether we are building suspicion. I had overheard a woman at the reception desk comment that all the mathematicians she checked in had a "he/she quality, right down to their names". Name changes, something I petitioned for in Year Three, are considered acceptable by the supervisors only in the event that a researcher is relocated to a different city, breaking all former informant ties. One would like to see this rule overruled for the sake of smoother integration. For some time I have known that names like "Sander Ionescu", "Firestone McClusky", and "Beekman Jones", while technically reasonable and statistically probable, are in reality somehow unnatural to human ears. Given a chance to reassign, I would like to reside in Canada -- the Canadians are friendly and very pleasing to look at -- and go by a simpler name like "John Sander".

Perhaps on my next research tour.

Settled back in Los Angeles, I have been spending my week communicating with Zerbedas I befriended in Canada, and making occasional, brief trips to my garden. This week the residents have been chattier and more curious. A Russian woman in her 70s came by to criticize my fence (she says animals can burrow under it) and to complain about the neighbors' compost buckets drawing rats. An elderly Mexican man, his face twisted by the aftereffects of a stroke, traded me several good pieces of scrap wood in exchange for the temporary use of my saw. My brussels sprouts are growing but have yet to produce fruit.

At home there is no news. I have not seen the Asian man on the roof, which heartens me, as I have a good deal of work to do. Zerbedas 20012 (Navajo Reservation, NM) and 19012 (Mountain View, CA) are very eager to know the contents of Rebecca's white trunk. I plan to go over tomorrow and take another look. But first -- groceries and Project Runway.

Apparently the transition has started:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/07/fashion/07campus.html?pagewanted=1&em

Not news to me, nor to any other field researchers, and apparently little recognized on an anecdotal level, but that will change soon enough.

The Zerbeda conference was invigorating. There is so much fascinating data being collected, it almost makes me feel hopeful about our work on this planet.

I will write more as soon as I am able. In my absence, it rained a good deal, causing the weeds in my garden to multiply. I have spent most of the last 36 hours weeding and, to my surprise, interacting a good deal with neighboring gardeners, who have become friendlier and more curious of late.

Tomorrow morning I fly to Canada for the Zerbeda conference, to be held in the city of Banff, just west of Calgary, Alberta. We're taking over the Banff Fairmont Springs Hotel for this purpose. It is my understanding that the Hotel believes we are the International Society of Applied Mathematicians. This, apparently, is to be our excuse for not partaking in the skiing, skating and other rigorous outdoor activities which are the chief attractions of this Canadian Rocky Mountains resort. I expect it is also our excuse for near silence, as perhaps the Hoteliers will assume us to be doing mathematics.

I have prepared myself to present my in-progress close study of Rebecca. Single Human Studies are not as popular as they once were, but in my absence of comparative data I'm left very little choice. My findings on dog-human relations are insufficient at the moment. I have been researching local area dog parks (recreational spaces wherein dogs are allowed to run "off-leash" and communicate with other dogs, as well as urinate and defecate without punishment). I have yet to visit one, as I have been too distracted by revisiting past field notes and avoiding being seen by the Asian man on the roof, whom I have taken to calling Secret Asian Man (SAM, for short), named after a popular song from the 1960s.

I expect to transmit field notes during the conference, and of course upon my return. In the meantime, tonight I pack for very cold temperatures and deep snow.

Humans use the words "thank you" often. For example, when leaving a parking garage, a human may hand his parking ticket to the attendant in the booth and say "Thank you", meaning, "Thank you for accepting this ticket."

The parking attendant calculates the amount owed -- oftentimes, nothing -- then punches a button which raises the gate. The parking attendant says "Thank you" to the driver of the automobile, meaning, "Thank you for patronizing our parking structure." (Even in situations where no money is taken from the customer, the Thank You is offered.)

The driver, seeing the gate open, says "Thank you" to the attendant, meaning "Thank you for opening the gate and securing my release, which you are contractually obligated to do", then creeps forward in his car, back out into the world.

Humans say "Thank you" from morning until they retire in the evening, oftentimes one "Thank you" following another following another instead of the customary and expected response of "You are welcome." Based on my experience, I would not be surprised if the average human said "Thank you" approximately one-hundred times per day.

Most humans work very hard to appear agreeable; and yet I wonder how many are truly thankful. In their actions, they do not behave like a race that is thankful for anything. Every day I see drivers in automobiles cut off other drivers, sometimes getting out of the car to shout and intimidate. I see graffiti on the sides of office buildings and on the street. Half the humans I have met do not believe in a creator or an afterlife, therefore they are by default not thankful in their inclinations, as there is no figure to credit for the creation of their universe or themselves.

Today I received a postcard from Rebecca. It was sent to my address; I found it in my mailbox. On the front was a photograph of a beach in Haiti, and on the back, a brief note saying the following:

Dear Sander:


Thank you so much for gathering my mail. Haiti is upsetting, but it feels right to be here helping. I'm sorry for snapping at you at my birthday party. Thanks again for helping me out. Give Jughead a hug for me. See you soon.

Rebecca

I was surprised that Rebecca knew my mailing address until I remembered how she helped me when I was ill. Naturally she would need this information in order to visit me. (In the nine years I have lived in this apartment, she is the only human to have visited me.)

I experienced a strange occurrence when reading Rebecca's note. Liquid leaked from the inner corners of my eyes, and my nose became congested. In the moments it took for me to locate a tissue the symptoms vanished. A delayed reaction, perhaps, to the inoculation I recently received? I will ask Field Physician Oribda 9675 if there are any known reactions to these antibodies.

The Asian man with the camera continues to mount the nearby building. He is there between 11 a.m. and noon daily, always photographing the apartment below mine. Oftentimes he returns at unpredictable times in the evening. It is more difficult to see him in the dark, though he is foolish enough at times to wear light socks or no socks at all.

I do not know his purpose, but I find his presence unsettling. I have not gone outside this building in several days. This has been bad for participant observation, but quite conducive to my preparations for the Zerbeda conference, which begins on Friday.

The past few days I have been working my way through re-readings of classic human ethnographies, wherein one human culture studies another for a finite period of time, then draws some conclusion. I reflect, not for the first time, that our work here on Earth has severe limitations, in that unlike human anthropologists, we field researchers are not allowed to reveal our true missions to the people around us. We are simply assigned a region and told to observe and make notes. And yet what we are taking notes on is so enormous and complex, so interconnected and and important, yet impossible to see, that it often seems pointless. Why try and answer the question of "why?" when we already know the "what"?

And what part could these people around me, ordinary, small people with small lives, dented cars, low-level jobs and seasonal allergies possibly play in the big event?

In the human ethnographies I have read, researchers enter the field with some notion of what they wish to study, some trifling, tiny aspect of the host culture on which they hope to become expert: the way the locals forge their pottery; how they make their marriages; the origins and meanings of their folklore.

How much easier my work would be had I the ability to record with a purpose, to conduct interviews, to make measurements and predictions. Instead, I snoop about like a common spy.

Today I went back to Rebecca's to collect her mail. The locked white trunk in the back of her coat closet tempted me, but I didn't stay to examine it. In fact, I didn't even go inside. A man of Asian descent stood atop the neighboring apartment building, shooting downward with a long-lens camera. He was not photographing me, but rather my building -- one of the lower apartments, just beneath mine. This left me unsettled. I have never seen this man before, nor have I ever seen anyone on the roof of that building. He was not in uniform, and he took no special effort to remain concealed. He simply stood there, taking photos, then shifting position to shoot in the other direction.

This was my only foray outdoors today. Otherwise I divide my time between reading, researching, and watching news of Haiti, where I presume Rebecca continues to labor as part of a relief organization.

Her mail today: more utility bills; an envelope from the California Department of Labor (unemployment check?); a slightly fattened envelope from Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine; and a curling stack of glossy papers commonly referred to as "junk mail". As always, humans are distressingly fond of wasting paper and ink on the promotion of discounted consumer goods.

I did look up "chasing tail" in our idiomatic English database, and found that it means to "pursue women for casual sexual relations". "Tail" in this case being a derogatory word for "female", specifically the lower half or "tail end" of a woman, meaning her genitals. So it appears that Lester is willing to watch Jughead because he hopes to garner favor with Rebecca upon her return, in the hopes of establishing sexual relations with her. I doubt very much whether Lester's intentions are casual, though, as the investment of time -- 6 weeks with an ornery, unattractive animal -- seems hardly worth the reward.

With the rains, things have been quiet. Even the man who stands outside on his balcony in only his boxer shorts has taken to staying indoors. The streets are wet, flowing and more than a little forlorn. Newscasters remain very animated and energetic, though, particularly the weather reporters, who finally have something to report. Otherwise, most humans are hidden from sight. Even the interior hallways of my building are quieter than usual. Where normally I'd see 1-2 humans per day in the elevator or by the mailboxes, this week everything remains hushed.

This afternoon I went to Rebecca's to pick up her mail (2:47 p.m.). I have decided to present a paper on our acquaintanceship at the Zerbeda conference. As I have only known her for six months, one week and three days, I lack data. A visit to her home would help me to clarify my research via an ethnoarchaeological survey of her consumption habits.

I began by sketching the perimeter of her apartment, then dividing the space into quadrants. I began in the northwest corner and planned to progress clockwise, recording major durable purchases (clothing, furnishings) as well as disposable items likely to land in the dumpster within the next 2-3 months.

Halfway through recording the contents of her coat closet (see partial list below) a key turned in the lock. I shut the closet door and stepped out into the room, picking up her mail off the coffee table. The door swung open and in stepped Lester, with Jughead yapping at his heels.

"Oh! Sander. I didn't expect you."

"Hello, Lester. Greetings, Jughead."

Jughead hurled himself toward me, but Lester snapped the leash back hard and the dog fell back to the floor.

"What're you doing here, man?"

"Rebecca asked me to pick up her mail once a week." I held the mail out to show him.

"Oh, right. But the mailboxes are outside, right?"

"True. But I'm also watering her plants."

(Rebecca's only plant is a desert succulent in her living room window.)

"Right. Well, I'm watching Jughead, obviously."

"Yes. You are quite masterful with him."

"I grew up with a lot of dogs."

"How many is a lot?"

"Two or three at a time. Big ones, mostly. But my mom and sisters liked little ones like this. Mean, useless little bastards. Ugly, too. But a certain kind of ugly, women think is cute, you know? Us guys, we can learn something from that. Right, Jugs?"

Jughead lay his head on the floor and looked up at us, silent.

"You have really got him under control."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"What brings you here today, Lester?"

"I forgot his chew toy. The uh, squirrel?"

"Oh, yes. It's in the coat closet, next to the purple rain boots."

That is what the humans call a "blunder", of course. I should not have admitted my knowledge of the toy's whereabouts.

Lester laughed and shook his head. "Of course it is. Dios mio." ("My god.") He opened the closet and removed the squirrel. Jughead whined at the sight of the toy. Lester stared the dog into submission, then shoved the squirrel into his jacket pocket. It squeaked.

"You headed back outside now?"

"I have what I came for, Rebecca's mail, so yes, I guess I am."

Lester went outside, and I followed him, locking the door behind me.

"Lester, I must ask: why would you volunteer to watch a dog that urinated on your leg?"

Lester laughed again. "I ask myself that every time I look at this rat bag. Nah, you know. Jughead and I have a lot in common. We both like chasing tail."

Chasing tail? I must have looked confused. Lester snapped the leash and pulled Jughead back toward the sidewalk.

"Sander, man, that mail's getting all wet. You better get inside."

"I guess I'd better."

"See ya around."

"Hasta luego."

As I headed back to my apartment, I thought about what Lester had said. Could he mean he genuinely enjoys chasing Jughead's tail? Is this some sort of odd human/canine pastime? Or could it be an idiomatic expression?

I will look into this. In the meantime:

Contents of Rebecca Harris's Coat Closet - Partial List

* Thirteen pairs of shoes, boots, and sandals (including purple rain boots) - mainly brown, beige, black or white
* One chewable squirrel-shaped dog toy
* One blue plastic ball with a star symbol on it (presumably also a dog toy; smells like dog breath)
* One small red coat with four arm holes - presumably for Jughead to wear
* Seven human-sized coats in varying lengths and fabrics - black, blue, pink, green
* Three scarves, all polyester blend
* One tennis racket with a broken string
* Two baseball caps - New York Mets, Lenny and Joe's Fish Tail
* One winter hat, light green cotton knit with a pom-pom
* One pair of ski boots, one pair of skis - Rossignol brand; quite scratched
* One small wooden trunk, white with brass brackets (far to the back of the surprisingly deep closet)
* One bicycle lock
* One bicycle helmet
* One loose pile of reusable shopping bags (seventeen in total)
* A pair of used automobile brake pads
* Many dust balls
* Five spiders

As I said, this is a partial list. There were other items I did not record, plus the contents of the white trunk. I may return, but I should wait a few days as I do not neighbors to report any unusual behavior to Rebecca.

The contents of Rebecca's closet seem wholly unexceptional to me, though I do wonder why any human would require thirteen pairs of shoes when they possess only one pair of feet. However, it is my understanding that human women collect shoes and purses, and that in reference to these items there exists no concept of "too many".

Possible status items? Total number of shoes + bags denotes social power and influence?

Much to consider. But for now - dessert, television, and sleep.

The Los Angeles River on Monday:



I am behind on my transmissions while considering options for my paper. More to come soon.

Los Angeles has been experiencing heavy rains the last few days, which has kept me indoors much of the time, reviewing past field notes in preparation for the Zerbeda conference in three weeks. Today, however, there was a break in the storm at about 2:30 p.m. A short while ago I went outside to take a walk.

I must admit, rainstorms do make me "homesick". I am never more comfortable here than when the weather is, by local standards, "bad", when the air is filled with moisture and the tree branches whip about, lashing the sides of buildings. There is a crackle and energy in the atmosphere that is almost wholly lacking when the weather is "good" (humans do love to place value judgments on things that have no sentience).

It is unlike me to write this poetically. This must be the effect of the human emotion of nostalgia. When humans are experiencing nostalgia, they become florid and biased when recording data. Thus today's field notes serve a dual purpose:

1. To reflect this phenomenon of nostalgia, which I've been witnessing in informants over the past nine years;

2. To mark the day in which I begin to "go native"; that is, to feel like a human insomuch as I begin to exhibit traits endemic to humans. This experience is not to be feared; rather, it is a milestone in fieldwork that I must embrace, as it means I am at last beginning to understand humans on a level beyond the physical and behavioral.

Whether I am nostalgic or not, this weather helps me to feel more like myself than I have in a long while, which makes me feel kinder to humans and less likely to see them as specimens.

I suspect rain has the same effect on humans as well. On my walk, I passed over a footbridge spanning the Los Angeles River (for a history of this river, see also: Year One, Month Two, Days 6-9). The river, normally a trickle of slowly moving water about ten inches deep, stormed through the channel at quite a high level - about halfway up the concrete barrier. Several humans stood on the normally empty bridge, peering down in admiration as the brown water and debris rushed past. I ventured to speak to the humans as a group:

"Wow. It's like whitewater."

A man accompanying his young son said, "It's crazy. It was halfway up the wall this morning. They say it'll rise by another twelve feet by tomorrow. Which'll put it within four feet of here." He indicated the pavement beneath our feet. "Could go higher, even, by the end of the week. This could be the first time in years that this bridge could flood over."

I and the other humans murmured our surprise. Another man took out his telephone and captured photos. I took video myself, which I will post here later. The water is quite dirty and non-potable. Debris is significant.

After this contact I continued my walk for about one mile. I was greeted by smiles, nods and salutations by five additional humans, ranging in age from late 30s to mid-80s. Ordinarily, humans in Los Angeles do not greet each other on the sidewalk. They avert their eyes and set their jaws in a hostile expression designed to evoke avoidance and respect. But as I have noted in several other entries (e.g., Year One, Month Ten, Day 13; Year Three, Month Two, Days 24 and 25), the more punishing and irregular the weather, the greater the number of pedestrians on the streets, and the friendlier these pedestrians seem to be.

I do not know what to conclude from this, except that the electro-magnetic energy of a storm front may alter the biochemistry of humans, making them happier. This is a question for a Field Meteorologist and Field Biologist. Note to self: make contact, ask.

Other updates:

* Field Physician Oribda 9675 visited me at my home and inoculated me against a variety of parasites that commonly afflict humans through food. I should experience no further bouts of food poisoning. FPO 9675 assures me that my constitution is now "iron clad", an expression meaning I can eat or drink anything and have no negative response. This should aid me a great deal when visiting ethnic areas, particularly Indian restaurants, which I have been warned against by several humans of caucasian descent.

* I have been making a study of canines and their masters in my neighborhood in an attempt to gauge the degree to which dogs influence the behavior of their owners. The rains make this difficult. However, from my window I can see that dogs are walked by their owners several times a day, even when the winds exceed 60 miles per hour. Humans regularly put their lives in danger in order to serve their domestic animals' urinary and defecation needs; this is shocking to me, but entirely commonplace to humans, who conduct their duties with the expressionless, slow manner of oft-beaten slaves. Is it possible that canines are browbeating their humans into submission?

* I have intercepted Rebecca's mail twice. She receives mainly bills, but also a magazine called "Entertainment Weekly", which is full of drivel, and catalogs for clothing and furnishings. She has received no personal or private correspondence as of yet.

* I may write about my acquaintance with Rebecca for the Zerbeda conference. During the rains I will continue to revisit past field notes in search of a topic related to her which may be worthy of presentation.

* Dim Sum. I did meet with human acquaintance Derek Lim and friends on Saturday. Derek ordered a great many types of fried vegetables, shrimps, noodles, vegetables and pastries, all of which were delicious. I observed only one human in eleven who could not use chopsticks. He often pulled items, including wet noodles, from shared plates onto his plate with his fingers. He was equally non-proficient in conversation about his work in accounting, causing several humans to turn from him in favor of talking to a neighbor. Note to self: contact a Field Scientist in Genomics. Does mastery of chopsticks signify superior social abilities?

That is all for today. Tonight, I continue to review notes and complete watching another film provided by SAG, the unfortunately spelled "Inglourious Basterds", a tale of bloodthirsty Jewish assassins during the Third Reich.

I watched the film "Precious", a cautionary tale about what can happen to a female human who watches too much television. According to the film, excessive television viewing in a darkened room in the presence of cats may lead to: hallucinations, obesity, sexual abuse, incest, disease, illiteracy, over-dependence on public aid, and theft of poultry.

The film is not a documentary as I initially thought, but a fictionalized story based on a book by an inner-city human from northern Manhattan. It belongs to a genre of entertainment normally described as "gritty", "urban" and "important".

I believe it is important; I begin to believe television may have played an active role in Earth's systemic failure. I will have ample opportunity to discuss this notion with colleagues, as I have just received word of a Field Researcher Zerbeda conference in three weeks, in Canada. I am expected to present a paper on the topic of my choice, reflecting observations on the last six months of my research.

I welcome the distraction, as it will give my days a focus. At the moment I am almost wholly without contact with humans. Though I dutifully report to the community garden daily, there is rarely anyone laboring in a nearby plot. Those gardeners I have attempted to engage in conversation prove to be either skittish, hearing impaired or unable to converse in any of the sixteen languages in which I am fluent.

With Rebecca gone, I suffer an absence of data. I may petition my Field Supervisor for approval to seek employment. Without daily contact, research is fruitless, if not impossible. I might as well be sitting zxyxobvst on Hhvn.

Today I worked off frustrations in the community garden. I am surprised at how much time it took me to admit the truth to myself -- that I need to apologize to the dog Jughead for insulting him in his own home. I weeded the arugula, mesclun and sunflower patches before finally conceding that there was no way around this fact.

I visited Rebecca's this afternoon, at 2:30 p.m., and knocked on her door bearing gifts of a dog bone and a chewy toy -- a small, fabric simulacrum of a squirrel which squeaks when bitten. (Please see attached Expense Report and Reimbursement Request.)

Rebecca answered the door in a harried condition, still dressed in her pajamas, and with her hair sticking out in various directions. Her eyes were red. Behind her I saw her apartment was in great disarray. She thanked me for the gifts and announced that she was leaving the next day to work on a humanitarian mission in Haiti, an island nation in the Atlantic that was just struck by a 7.0-scale earthquake. She informed me that she will be gone for at least six weeks.

Again, I am surprised at the eagerness of humans, Rebecca in particular, to lend support and aid to others at the slightest provocation, regardless of their lack of qualifications. I would expect that in a serious rescue effort, she would be in the way. However, as I am "skating on thin ice" with my sole informant, I decided not to question her actions.

"Who will watch Jughead while you are gone?"

"Oh. Oh, that's very nice of you, Sander, but Lester has already volunteered to take him."

Lester. The man who washes cars, who was subject to the foulest humiliation an animal can inflict, is going to care for said animal. For six weeks. I confess, I do not understand this in the least.

There was no time to request a hold on her mail, so Rebecca has asked me if I would mind retrieving it for her on a weekly basis. I said I had no problem doing this, and could do so daily. She said daily would not be necessary. Then she thanked me again for the dog gifts and returned to her travel preparations.

I have no plans for the remainder of my evening. The previous owner of my home was a member of an organization called the Screen Actors Guild. This Guild -- I do not yet know what they build -- occasionally sends entertainment items to the house. Perhaps as a bonus to members?

Today I received a copy of a film called "Precious". This film declares, "Life is hard. Life is short. Life is painful. Life is rich. Life is....Precious."

I believe it is what they call a "documentary". I will watch it now in the hopes of learning something about the inner lives of human beings who live in the United States and are of African descent.

The source of my argument with neighbor Rebecca was her canine companion, Jughead.

As I mentioned earlier, Rebecca recently celebrated her birthday. She did not divulge her age, but based on appearance and smell, I believe her to be about 36.

I have covered typical human birth anniversary customs in prior field notes (see also: Year One, Month 11, Day 2 for an average representation; and Year Five, Month 2, Day 17). Rebecca's party was similar in its customs to other birthday celebrations I have experienced. She invited her friends to visit her apartment in the evening, at 7:00 p.m. I arrived promptly at 6:59 with a gift of "cookies", small, round, sweetened treats which can be prepared at home by slicing pieces of pre-made dough into rounds, and then baking them in the oven for 11 to 13 minutes. Using this method, I created 24 cookies, which Rebecca praised as "beautiful" and "thoughtful". Jughead jumped against the screen door repeatedly, barking and biting at her heels. I thought this behavior to be most ungracious for a domesticated canine, but said nothing.

Rebecca noted that I was the first to arrive and gave me a tour of her home. She lives in a ground-floor level, one-bedroom apartment, quite typical of the style found everywhere in Los Angeles. The building is about forty years old, with a molding gray facade and large cracks running up the side. There are seven units on the ground level, and seven units just above, accessible via an outdoor staircase and a walkway.

Rebecca's door opens onto the asphalt driveway. Her apartment windows and door face north, leaving her unit dark. Inside, there is not much to note. She lives alone with Jughead and owns very little furniture: a bed, a desk, a table, a "futon" (a kind of stiff, uncomfortable sitting area), and a few folding chairs.

Nevertheless, her home appears cluttered. There are books and magazines stacked in every corner, even in the bedroom. Most of these are fiction novels, though there are also magazines about popular entertainment and fashion, and "how-to" books about assorted factual topics -- screenwriting, gardening, cooking, finding love, organizing one's home, and training dogs.

Her bathroom sink is crowded with bottles, ointments, and grooming products, particularly electronic objects designed to manipulate the texture and shape of female hair. None of these items are recyclable. The small kitchen was overwhelmed by platters of food and an assortment of beverages in plastic bottles, and red plastic cups -- additional potential contributors to the landfill problem mentioned in last month's report.

Medium tempo music played from a small device called an iPod, but it was difficult to hear over the incessant barking of Jughead. Rebecca urged the canine to quiet down, then engaged me in pleasantries about my health and recovery. I thanked her again for her kindness to me. All the while, Jughead continued to bark. At regular intervals, Rebecca directed her attention to him and asked him to "please quiet down". This continued for about fifty minutes, until additional guests began to arrive.

I would like to write about impressions of these additional guests, but I was unable to talk intelligently to them due to the constant, ill-mannered yapping Jughead displayed, which grew louder and more aggressive as the evening progressed. By 8:17 p.m., nine guests were in attendance. At 8:20 p.m., I attempted to engage a man named Lester in conversation about his job as a car washer at a movie studio. Lester was explaining the nature of his clientele to me when Jughead walked to the center of the room, lifted one leg, and marked the coffee table (8:23 p.m.).

Out of instinct, I immediately lifted the canine by the scruff of its neck and put it outside, where it barked and scratched at the screen door. I shut the wooden interior door, dulling the sound, and resumed my conversation with Lester.

Rebecca did not approve of this. She rose from where she had been cleaning the puddle with a wet rag.

"Why did you put Jughead outside?" she asked.

"Your dog was being disrespectful. An animal like that, even a domesticated one, has no place sharing a social venue with humans."

"'An animal like that'?"

She pushed past me and retrieved the dog, bringing it back inside.

"Your dog has been refractory and should be punished with exile."

"Exile? You're kidding, right?"

"I am not."

"Jughead is a small dog. There are coyotes out there."

"Coyotes are dogs also."

"No, coyotes eat dogs."

This confused me. Perhaps I have been neglectful in my research.

"I am sorry. I was unware."

"It's all right. Just... mingle, have fun, and don't worry about Jughead. He's fine in here with us."

She put the animal back down on the floor. Within moments, however, the dog repeated its earlier performance, this time marking one leg of the futon, where Lester was sitting, and soiling the cuff of his pants. (8:32 p.m.)

I could not broach this insult. I picked up Jughead, placed the animal in the coat closet, and shut the door.

"Sander!"

"Your canine has relieved itself on Lester. It requires punishment."

"Maybe, but you can't just go around locking up other peoples' dogs!"

"You would rather Jughead continue to urinate on your belongings and acquaintances?"

She released the animal and turned to me, her face bright red. "Would you step outside please?"

We went outside to the driveway.

"Sander, I don't know what your problem is, but this is my birthday. It means a lot to me for my dog to be there. I would like you to be there too, but I just can't deal with your... weirdness right now."

"My weirdness?"

"I'm sorry. But you're being a little weird. And presumptuous."

"I see. I think I should go to my own home now."

"You don't have to."

"I think I would like to."

"Okay. Perhaps that's best."

Canines are given great power and deference by their humans, moreso than I had previously recognized. Evidently the comfort and freedom of a house dog is prized above that of a human guest. When paired with the belief that dogs can heal illness, this suggests an entrenched belief system, perhaps even a cosmology, centering on the primacy of the canine.

I must look into this further. But first I need to apply to Rebecca for forgiveness for the disrespect I have shown to her ratbag.

Though it is my assignment on Earth to be as unobtrusive an observer as possible, unfortunately there come times when I am as caught up in events as any human, and find little time to reflect. This week is exceptionally busy. I have been embroiled in too many human events, all of which yield useful insights, at the expense of draining my energy.

Rebecca and I have had an altercation. I would explain more, but, as the humans say, "I've had a bad day". In response, I have attempted to do as humans do when they feel "stressed" or overwhelmed. I walked to the corner market and purchased a bottle of liquid called Kahlua. For the last three hours I have been taking it the way tribal humans do, from a glass half-filled with ice (frozen water). It is my understanding that this compound should put me in direct contact with the ancestors, who will conduct loud rituals in my home, and, I presume, impart to me their wisdom. Thus far, however, it only makes me feel warm and gives me a craving for bananas.

If I have become neglectful of my reporting duties of late, it is primarily because of illness, and secondarily, because of adherence to social convention. Neighbor Rebecca, who has been very kind to me in the event of my "food poisoning" (local humans are quite fond of believing their food to be at odds with themselves, to the point of it having a malicious purpose), informed me that yesterday was her birthday. She invited me to her birthday party, which I did attend. As there was much to observe, there is much to report, and I will do so as soon as I am able. Today, however, I have been busy laboring in my community garden plot in the morning, and filling out paperwork in the afternoon. Neither offers any particular insights into humanity. More to come soon.

Today I am somewhat improved, though I remain fatigued. Neighbor Rebecca visited this morning with gifts of tea, honey, bananas, french bread and apple sauce -- the last of which was new to me, and wholly delightful, having a mealy, chunky consistency similar to oyzl, only without the grease.

According to the label on its container, apple sauce has no nutritional value. When I asked Rebecca why she eats it, she informed me that it is a "comfort food" she consumes when ill, because it "takes me back to memories of childhood", when she was cared for by her parents. Other foods on this list are chicken soup, "strawberry milk shakes" (a form of sweetened, icy, agitated cow milk, with artificial flavoring of the red fruit I have earlier described) and ginger ale (spicy carbonated beverage, tan in color).

As demonstrated in the report I submitted to the Department last November, humans experience nostalgic thoughts and impulses an average of sixty times per day. It is the habit of most humans I have encountered to greet these occurrences openly, and to court their appearance through formal engagement in activities designed to provoke sense or muscle memory, such as listening to music, viewing sports games, and reading. Oftentimes a single memory will be teased out and labored over to the point of distraction, leading to workplace inefficiency, automobile accidents, and in the most dire cases, loss of life.

Eating is no exception to this trend. Humans are often willing to consume vast quantities of nutritionally useless food -- much of it chemically engineered to have low or no caloric value -- in order to induce visions of the past. The reflex to do so is greatly magnified when they are emotionally or physically compromised by social problems, injury or illness.

Why do the humans do this? What functional benefit can be derived by these ceaseless and often dangerous visitations to the past? We do not yet know.

Unfortunately, Rebecca did not dwell long on the function of nostalgia today. Instead, she explained to me that applesauce is part of a medically recommended cure for extreme evacuation, what the humans term "diarrhea" or, colloquially, "the runs". She called this cure the "BRAT diet", wherein an afflicted human will consume nothing but clear liquids, bananas, rice, apple sauce, and toast until the bowels are bound and become solid. This prevents dehydration from excess loss of fluid.

Yet again, I find that human beings are remarkably unashamed to discuss the size, shape, and consistency of their bowels with other humans, even near strangers. However, a specific yet difficult to ascertain set of rules dictates the situations in which such public ruminations and disclosures are deemed appropriate. It is inappropriate, for example, to discuss bowels at a dinner table with formal place settings. However, such discussions are permissible when drinking coffee in a "living room" or "den" where only coasters, spoons, and saucers are provided by the host. (See also: Year One, Month Six, Date 3.)

The BRAT diet appearing scientifically sound, I allowed Rebecca to prepare me a meal. She expressed dismay at my lack of a "toaster" with which to brown the bread, but she was able to warm the loaf in the oven, an arrangement I found to my liking.

Rebecca counseled a full day of rest and inactivity, and promised to return later in the evening, after work, with a bowl of rice.

It is curious that she would administer such advice and care to another human, particularly when she is not of a caregiving clan. But I find this is another odd quirk with humans -- that they freely enter into the sharing of wisdom and advice without training or credentials.

Odder yet is the fact that I took her advice. I have spent the remainder of my day watching American television, sleeping, and eating this applesauce, which is the best and most precious thing I have yet discovered on Earth. How could we let such a thing slip away?

With this entry I begin my ninth year in my time among the humans. Per the rules of our Department I elected to take my seven-day holiday to coincide with what the humans call "Christmas" and "New Year's", a period of time starting with the birth of the Western world's predominant religious figure, Jesus of Nazareth, and ending with the first day of the new calendar year.

In my nine years of fieldwork this is the first time I have opted to "celebrate" in time with the humans, doing much as they do: sleeping, watching the television, eating all variety of sugar-laden treats, and making nearly daily expeditions to the local shopping plaza to purchase gifts for important sources in whose good graces I wish to remain. (For more on the gift-giving economy of the western humans, and subsequent social fallout upon non-participation, see Year Three, Month Twelve, Dates 25, 26, 27.)

Had I been in optimal health I would have entries for the days that followed this holiday, but as the locals say, something I ingested "didn't agree with me", and I have been recuperating in a state of extreme weakness ever since. I have sent word to Field Physician Oribda 9675 for an inoculation against future incidents. Today I am still "under the weather" and as such must delay further field notes until I am fully healed.

In the interim, wellness in the form of pharmaceuticals, fruit juices and frequent visitations is being precipitated by human neighbor Rebecca and her small canine, Jughead. Rebecca assures me that "contact with others is the fastest way to heal" and that "animals can sniff out disease" and "work magic". Exhausted as I am, I encourage additional visits from her in an effort to determine the extent to which these statements are commonly held beliefs.