1:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. I've tried everything - sleep visor over the eyes, watching old movies on Turner Classic Movies, chamomile sleep-inducing tea. Nothing. I even went trolling around the bookshelf to find myself a boring book sure to put me to sleep. Everybody should own one or two just to get you through the restless nights. Classics work best. James Joyce or Henry James are my recommendations. Both normally put me right out.

Not tonight, however. Finnegan's Wake is not doing the trick - I'm ten pages deep and I don't feel any heaviness in my eyelids. I'm stuck in insomnia-ville, population: Me. And I'm not switching over to Turn of the Screw. I like the supernatural too much and in this state I may make my way through cover to cover before morning. This is not good.

I get up to turn off the TV, which has since been flipped to CNN Late Nite, essentially a repackaging of the days top stories. Basically George Bush blah blah blah, reelection blah blah blah, Fallujah blah blah blah, Scott Peterson blah blah blah, Peyton Manning blah blah blah, Michael Phelps DUI blah blah blah, and so on. Blah. Just swap out the name with the flavor of the moment and you've got instant cable news. I go into the bathroom to spread some of that Origins crap on the bags bulging under my eyes. $19 for this little tube. Geez. The price of beauty. That's when I notice the dog is nowhere to be found.

"Ugly Dog!" I yell out, and I instantly hear the jingle-jangle of Sophia's collar coming from somewhere down the hall, maybe the kitchen. I start down in her direction, smirking as I think back to the origins of her 'ugly dog' moniker. It started the day I got her; a trip to the Sharpei breeder recommended by a friend of my parents one rainy day in February. I remember walking around the grounds, being shown the parents by this proud owner, all the while being told about the potential for this litter to go on and become show dogs. "Really?" I asked. "Doesn't that take a lot of training and work with a handler?"

"Yes, but if you have the passion and commitment, there isn't any reason your Sharpei couldn't become a champion."

I wanted to ask "This is the breed that hates everybody and everything, right? How is a Sharpei supposed to co-exist with 30 other dogs at a show? Sounds like a bunch of hooey." But what really came out was "what about that disposition of theirs?"

"It is a hard thing to overcome, and the breed can be stubborn when it comes to obedience, but if handled the right way at an early age, you can have great results. I'll show you." The owner took one of the parents and led it through the regular drills: Sit, down, shake, heel, and so on. Okay, so these wrinkled motherfuckers can act like normal dogs. Good.

"Let's go see the litter, shall we?" the owner says, gesturing towards the garage. The litter consisted of six or seven chocolate black puppies all huddled together for warmth with a three foot high cage encircling them. I looked them over. Short, crunched walrus-like muzzles, wrinkles that made them look like they'd have a lifetime of skin to grow into, some yipping, some stretching and re-positioning themselves before dropping back into sleep, and others just laying about.

The one in the middle of this canine huddle caught my eye. "What about this one?" I asked, pointing.

"Oh, her. We don't know what happened to her. She hardly has the wrinkled coat that marks the breed. She'll be no show dog."

"So having that little amount of wrinkling in the coat makes her less desirable?"

"Yes, people who want a Sharpei want all the signifying traits; the marbled nose, the curly-queue tail, the wrinkled coat. That's what makes these dogs so beautiful."

"So you're saying this one isn't beautiful?" I ask.

"Well.." the owner trails off.

I step into the caged area and shoo away the pups surrounding the dog in question. I look at her. She's sleeping so peacefully, completely unaware of the "undesirable" label she's been tagged with. Leaning in, I pick her up by the scruff of her neck, and lift her to eye level. The dog instantly wakes up, and upon seeing me, starts shivering.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," I say in a soothing voice. "So they tell me you're the ugly one. How about that?" Her eyes are cracked open and she's looking around, suddenly aware that she's not on the ground. More shivering. "You don't look like an ugly dog to me, little one. I see big things for you. Fun. Adventure. Lots of walks. Good times. Whaddya say - you and me, two ugly dogs together in a world of petty show dogs." That's when the dog becomes so frightened she pees on my hand that was holding up her backside. "I hope that was fear, that the dog wasn't marking territory," I say.

"No, no," the owner says, fishing around for some paper towels. "Puppies can't control their bladders, so when they go, they go. Fear probably had a little something to do with it however."

I took the dog - even got a discount on the price due to the ugly factor - and whisked her to my parents house to show her off.

"Sucha a beautiful dog," my Mom cooed as the little thing moved ever-so-slowly across their tiled floor, not quite sure of the new surroundings. "What's her name? His name?"

"Her. Female." I respond. "The breeder said this was an ugly dog, but I don't see it. I think she's quite beautiful, so I was going for a name that says beauty. 'Venus' or 'Aphrodite,' but 'Aprhodite' is kinda clunky and I'd end up calling her 'Afro' for short, which is no good. So I'm still thinking."

"She is beautiful," my Mom agrees. She walks over to where the dog is and picks her up. "She's the most beautiful dog there is."

"Uh, mom, you may not want to do that, she may whizz all over you." My mother puts the dog back down and luckily for her, the dog didn't let loose.

My dad comes into the room and peers down at the dog. "So this type of dog doesn't get on well with people? Why would you choose a breed like that?"

"No, you've got it wrong. They have a very close-knit circle of trust. Just four or five people. Everybody else she'll want to kill. But lucky for you, you'll be in the clear."

"Haha," my father mocks. He takes another look at the dog, stooping down low to make eye contact with her while she continues to slowly navigate the tiled floor. "Well, if you think the dog is so beautiful and goddess names won't work, then name her for something more current that symbolizes beauty."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Not what, who," he responds. We are all silent for a moment. "Sophia Loren," he starts. "Sophia Loren is always referred to as the most beautiful woman alive, and if this dog -" he pauses and points down at the floor "- is the 'most beautiful dog there is,'" he says in a tone mocking my mother's declaration moments ago, "then a name like Sophia would be fitting."

That's how Sophia got her name. But I still call her Ugly Dog every so often, and she responds to it, a lasting joke between two uglies together in this world.

I find Sophia in the kitchen, ass in the air, head and front legs down close to the ground. She's in the play position. She's found something. Wedged into the corner of the kitchen between the lower outcrop of the cabinet and the floor is a small cricket. How did that get in here? Sophia looks back at me every do often, tail wagging frantically, waiting for me to give the "get it!" command. But I don't. "No, Sophia get away." I shoo her away and quickly squash the cricket under my foot. "Don't you know these things are good luck in Chinese culture?" I say, wagging a finger at Sophia. "You're Chinese, you should know these things." After the dog is satisfied there is no lingering threat from the cricket, she marches down the hall, jumps onto the bed, and curls up in her regular spot. The Sharpei sleeps more than the average dog - up to 19 hours a day - and I'm very jealous.

At some point I fall asleep, because the next thing I know it's morning and the alarm clock is going off:

Now you can't tell me what's going on
And that I am weak while you are strong
What is it you need, that makes your heart bleed
Do you really know? 'Cause it doesn't show

Ugh. It's too early for New Order, I think, as I switch off the clock. I better get going, I have to meet a buddy for breakfast.

Fast forward to 7:30; I'm standing in front of John O'Groats restaurant on Pico Blvd., the local greasy spoon where I meet Aaron once a month for breakfast. Aaron is a close childhood friend who I wouldn't call my best friend, but he has been present during some of the more notorious moments in my life: The time I broke a neighbor's window playing baseball, the first high school party with booze, the first time throwing up after a night with said booze, the group that went in on the limo and hotel room at prom. Things like that. We went our separate ways in college, but after graduating re-connected once we found out we both were working in L.A. We move in different circles, Aaron and me, but the one thing we always do is get together for breakfast once a month at O'Groats so we can shoot the shit and keep up on stuff. And occasionally one of us drops some heavy-handed news during these breakfasts. Two months ago Aaron revealed that he had moved in with his Vanessa, his girlfriend of 18 months. Who knows what is in store today.

I refuse to go in the place until Aaron arrives. I normally do this. He's always a couple of minutes late, and I always feel a little uneasy walking in alone, as we'll be the only ones under 50 there. Truth be told, I don't even like the place - it just falls into a midway point for the two of us so it's convenient. I stand on Pico, watching the traffic heading off in the direction of Beverly Hills and Miracle Mile, when I hear, "there he is, dressed to the nines!"

I turn, and holding out my arms, strike a pose in my best runway impression. "Very nice," continues Aaron, "what is that, DKNY?"

"Please, this is a Canali sportscoat," I say, "Donna Karan's got nothing on these guys." We go inside and grab a seat, signaling for coffee. We shoot the shit for mere moment before the waitress shows up for our orders. "The usual?" she asks me, to which I nod. The usual being Beglian waffles. "Be right up, hon," she replies as she saunters off.

"She likes you," says Aaron, "remembers your order and everything."

"I've been ordering the same thing every single month we've come here. It's easy to remember. And I'm pretty sure she calls everybody under 30 'hon,' hon."

I start stirring my coffee, probably for a good 30 seconds, after which Aaron says, "got something on yer mind, there?"

I notice that I haven't stopped stirring, and bring the spoon to a halt. "Have you noticed that this hell-in-a-handbasket state we're headed towards has begun to accelerate?"

"Is this a you and me state, or a general state of society?" he asks.

"The latter," I respond. "It seems like with the election and the campaigning period, and the miseral state of domestic and international affairs, our appointment with endtime is being moved up." I pause. "Thanks a lot, Bush," I add. That stung. Aaron's a Bush supporter. Not entirely, but on many more issues than I ever would support the guy on.

"Bush is not the be-all, end-all result of the way the world is," Aaron says. "Some of it is the result of shit that happened with Clinton, some with Bush's father, and some because of Reganomics. Bush isn't the sole cause. It's easy to single him out because he's in power."

"Whatever. Let's just say he's not helping any. He's diverting funds from where they're needed most - here - so we can't fight a war that's being completely mismanaged, social security is going down the drain, so much so that you and I will be lucky to see a penny when our time comes, because Bush is in bed with Vicente Fox of Mexico, our President refuses to do anything about the state's immigration problem, and it is a problem. I just read that the city of San Juan Capistrano is paying their city employees to learn Spanish because 37% of the city's population is Mexican. Hey, how about telling them to come back to city services once they learn English? Good to see my taxes at work that way. Why are we the only country that caters to foreigners that way but every other country makes the immigrants learn the language? Why is it okay for them but not for us? Christ!"

I feel a little bad laying into Aaron like this, because he and I are on the same side on many issues. Taxes? Lower those fuckers. Death penalty? You can't kill criminals fast enough for our liking. Gun control? I have no problem with people owning a gun. A GUN. It's these assault weapon-yielding, no limit fanatics that piss me off. I'm pretty sure Aaron's with me on this one too. But because I know he's voting for Bush, I see him as the symbolic spokesperson & scapegoat for the Republicans.

"Hey, I'm with you on the immigration problem. I would love to see fewer people here, and my tax dollars going to support better social services. I think if the Republicans would have had any chance of winning the state in the election they would have shown more concern. But since the last Republican to win California was Reagan in '88, the elephants show no genuine concern in how things are here." Aaron pauses. "But he's making progress in other areas." By 'he' I gather he means Bush.

"Where, the war?" I incredulously ask. "The War on Terror? Please. You think we're doing that one up right?"

"Aren't we? We haven't been attacked on our soil."

"That's no attribute to Bush. They will attack when they want. They don't even have to do the research any more. They can just flip on the evening news and hear about the big effing holes in security at the nearby airport, port, or gas refinery. Besides, why spend the money to come over here and start a sleeper cell when it costs far less money to take out our soldiers over there in Iraq, shooting gallery style. War on Terror. Please - we should be offended by the connotation."

"And Kerry can do it better?"

"I don't know. You got me, I don't know," I say as I pound the stem of my spoon into the table. "And maybe that's why Bush will win, nobody has a clear-cut idea of what Kerry would do aside from recruiting more nations to our cause. I think he may find a more cost-effective way to run the war. I know that sounds fishy, a Democrat being cost-effective with money, but he definitely won't have go all Hanoi Jane on us and pull out the forces like some people think."

"Well there you go," he says, sitting back with a smile as if he's proved his point. Fuck, what was his point?

"Sounds like a heated discussion," breaks in the old grandma waitress as she pulls up with our food.

"Nah, he and I are contemplating whether or not we should defy the ban on gay marriages and just go through with it like we always say we will," jokes Aaron. The grandma looks us over with a suspicious eye, not really sure if Aaron is telling the truth or not, then leaves without saying a word.

"Asshole," I say.

"What, afraid I've messed up your chances of getting a date with her, Casanova?" He shoots back. I shake my head in disbelief.

We go through most of the meal with little banter, but then Aaron pauses before changing the tone. "I've got some big news to tell you, but I don't want you to get how you get when you hear my news."

"What?" I say. "How I get how?"

"You know, questioning everything. Like there's some ulterior motive at work that will destroy everything," he replies. Then, following another pause, "I am going to ask Vanessa to marry me. I have wanted to do this for the past six or so weeks. I feel like it's time."

I remain silent, looking at him, stare fixed squarely upon his gaze. "What, what are you doing?" he asks.

"You told me not to get however the fuck it is I get." I say.

"Whatever. Screw it, just tell me what you think," he answers.

"Well, you've definitely been with her long enough, and you've lived with her so you've had the road test of day-in day-out life. Any pet peeves stand out as very annoying?" I ask.

"Nope, she's a very even-keeled woman. I consider myself lucky. You know, you've met her."

"Yeah, but I don't know her that well. Do you share the same wants, dreams, desires, goals - all that stuff?"

"Yep, and then some," Aaron responds.

"How do you feel when she's not around, like when she goes out of town or out for a night with the girls?"

"Well, if she's gone for days on end I miss her, sure, but I don't feel like it's the end of the world or anything." he says.

"That, my friend, is the right answer," I proclaim. "I hear and read about people who say they've built up their life around their significant other, my life is you, and all that bullshit. You complete me. That stuff. That's dangerous. That's co-dependent. Relationships are a partnership. You aren't defined by somebody else, you define yourself. You and Vanessa, what you've got sounds healthy. So do it. What are you waiting for? She'll say yes."

Aaron pauses again, and starts playing with his unused knife. "I'm glad you think so, because I want you to be the best man."

"Oh, fuck me," I blurt out. I could have come up with something classier, but it was spur of the moment. I try to correct myself. "Sorry man, it's just I'm not that good with weddings. And then I'll have to give the speech and everything. I'm not a speaker -"

"Save the excuses," Aaron breaks in. "Just think about it, that's all you have to do for now. There is still much to be decided before I get to groom's men, speeches and the like. Relax. You're not the one getting married."

We pay for the meal, say our goodbyes until next month and go our ways. But this time it feels different. This time the bond won't break down and deteriorate as much between now and next month now that Aaron has dropped his bombshell. The ties that bind have been strengthened, though I'm not sure how.
____________________________________________________________________

It's the middle of the night and again I can't sleep. I click on the answering machine and listen once more to the 2 messages left earier in the day: A lawyer from the district attorney's office from some county in Delaware wants to talk to me about some internet activities, maybe come out and swear a deposition from me. Does that mean I'll have to go to Delaware and testify at some point? What's in Delaware? I always hear about people coming from there, never going. The other message is from Monica, my woman in transition, wanting to get together this week. When I told my parents the other night that I was done with her, that wasn't entirely true. I didn't feel like getting into it. But that's another topic for another time.

Sophia is crashed out in her customary spot on the bed, sleeping without a care in the world. Maybe ugly dogs sleep better. I, however, am not in similar straits. I've made a good dent in Finnegan's Wake, and despite the scholarly bickering over the merits of this book I can see some of the brilliance they see. The way the book begins with an incomplete sentence and ends in the same manner, so that when you read them together it enforces the cyclical nature of things, how the ending is really just the beginning of something else. I think about Aaron. I hope he and Vanessa do well. They are going about this all right. They've played by the rules and should reap the rewards. I look at the sleeping pill I've dissolved into my glass of water by the bed, waiting for them to fully disappear before downing the glass. Yeah, I wanted to avoid the pills, but every other natural method has failed, and I can't keep going every night in a vicious cycle of not being able to sleep. Every night is becoming a repetitive battle with the Sandman, and I really need to sleep, but Joyce isn't working, though as boring as I've declared him to be, I'm impressed with how easy he makes the words flow and how I wish it could be that way for me, but I'm stuck in my own cycle, Finnegan, and I glance at the clock which reads