Okay, I love the cats.
But!
Stepping in extra fresh rabbit guts at 3:30 in the morning is disgusting. Even with shoes on. Even if I managed to catch myself before I re-enacted a late night version of the old banana peel routine.
Not like there's any revenge to had. What, like I'm going to trick Percy into walking on spaghetti sauce?
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
Schedule
9:40 AM -- Woke up to the sounds of a catfight. Classic caterwauling right under my window. This after four and a half hours of sleep.
9:42 AM -- Stumbled outside and broke up the fight with Uncertain Doom, the lanky, curious tabby who lives across the street and is dumb enough to keep accosting Percy, a Quebecoise trapped in a cat's body.
10:00 AM -- Made coffee. Guzzled coffee. Nearly choked when I stepped in semi-fresh hairball. Told myself how much I love living with cats.
10:23 AM -- Third cup of coffee. Bad idea, that. Especially when in traffic. Drove with my middle finger out the window. If I'm not careful, it'll get shot off one of these days.
11:30 AM -- Remembered dream I was having right before the catfight intruded. Something that might have been sexual involving Leonardo diCaprio and fairies. Felt dirty, sought shower, which of course wasn't to be found in an office building. Had an extra long cigarette break instead, and a fourth cup of coffee.
12:45 PM -- Lunch. The waiter looked like young Donald Sutherland and sounded like Al Pacino with a Russian accent. Had more coffee and a discussion about Batman's ethics. The waiter's volunteered input: "Batman is dubious hero. Is why I like him. You see new movie?"
2:12 PM -- Overheard the office manager tell Todd, the new guy, that "two wrongs don't make a right." Was glad I'm a temp and I don't have to hear this woman think outside the box, like she did last week when she told Debra, the accountant, to "start the count at the start and end it at the end." Right. Moving on.
3:18 PM -- Phonecall from married friend about get-together this weekend. Did I get his e-mail? Are we getting together at 4 or 4:30? Is "Bob" coming? Didn't correct his assumption that "Bob" and I are involved.
3:52 - 6: 04 PM -- Napped.
6:15 PM -- "Bob" showed up. It's the only way anyone gets a hold of him.
"You look good," he said as he picked up Grizelda, the other cat.
My reply? "I haven't showered in two days."
Which isn't true. It only felt like I hadn't done so.
6:20 - 7:13 PM -- Caught up with neglected blog reads. Was intrigued by the amount of serious things people talk about and contemplated why I avoid doing so. Decided the conclusion is too simple to warrant further thought.
7:37 PM -- Started writing this. Remembered dream I had while napping: vampires invaded the city and I ended up assasinating their leader, Erik Estrada, who was only named that but looked nothing like the real Erik Estrada.
8:10 PM and beyond -- Who knows? "Bob" will probably want to go see Batman Begins again, which is fine because I don't have anything more pressing going on. Or maybe not. Maybe we'll go have that Indian food we kept talking about.
And that concludes that. Should the miraculous occur, and I end up finding a briefcase full of ten million pounds sterling, I'll write my next post from Tibet, where I will have gone to study martial arts with a secretive order of monk-like ninjas.
9:42 AM -- Stumbled outside and broke up the fight with Uncertain Doom, the lanky, curious tabby who lives across the street and is dumb enough to keep accosting Percy, a Quebecoise trapped in a cat's body.
10:00 AM -- Made coffee. Guzzled coffee. Nearly choked when I stepped in semi-fresh hairball. Told myself how much I love living with cats.
10:23 AM -- Third cup of coffee. Bad idea, that. Especially when in traffic. Drove with my middle finger out the window. If I'm not careful, it'll get shot off one of these days.
11:30 AM -- Remembered dream I was having right before the catfight intruded. Something that might have been sexual involving Leonardo diCaprio and fairies. Felt dirty, sought shower, which of course wasn't to be found in an office building. Had an extra long cigarette break instead, and a fourth cup of coffee.
12:45 PM -- Lunch. The waiter looked like young Donald Sutherland and sounded like Al Pacino with a Russian accent. Had more coffee and a discussion about Batman's ethics. The waiter's volunteered input: "Batman is dubious hero. Is why I like him. You see new movie?"
2:12 PM -- Overheard the office manager tell Todd, the new guy, that "two wrongs don't make a right." Was glad I'm a temp and I don't have to hear this woman think outside the box, like she did last week when she told Debra, the accountant, to "start the count at the start and end it at the end." Right. Moving on.
3:18 PM -- Phonecall from married friend about get-together this weekend. Did I get his e-mail? Are we getting together at 4 or 4:30? Is "Bob" coming? Didn't correct his assumption that "Bob" and I are involved.
3:52 - 6: 04 PM -- Napped.
6:15 PM -- "Bob" showed up. It's the only way anyone gets a hold of him.
"You look good," he said as he picked up Grizelda, the other cat.
My reply? "I haven't showered in two days."
Which isn't true. It only felt like I hadn't done so.
6:20 - 7:13 PM -- Caught up with neglected blog reads. Was intrigued by the amount of serious things people talk about and contemplated why I avoid doing so. Decided the conclusion is too simple to warrant further thought.
7:37 PM -- Started writing this. Remembered dream I had while napping: vampires invaded the city and I ended up assasinating their leader, Erik Estrada, who was only named that but looked nothing like the real Erik Estrada.
8:10 PM and beyond -- Who knows? "Bob" will probably want to go see Batman Begins again, which is fine because I don't have anything more pressing going on. Or maybe not. Maybe we'll go have that Indian food we kept talking about.
And that concludes that. Should the miraculous occur, and I end up finding a briefcase full of ten million pounds sterling, I'll write my next post from Tibet, where I will have gone to study martial arts with a secretive order of monk-like ninjas.
Sleepless
It would be insomnia, except it only happens when warm weather rolls around. It's past three bloody AM. I have run out of things to organize, wine to drink, books to read, asanas to breathe through. Summer is that wonderful time of year when my body rebels against normal sleep patterns. Every bloody, stinking June, it starts: nights spent awake, at least three of them a week.
The good part is that I read a lot more. The bad part is that I end up reading ambitious rubbish. Such as The Scar, by China Mieville, the plot of which doesn't pick up until page 276 only to conclude some 276 pages later in a stupefying, unsatisfactory manner.
Another good part is that I attempt to be more organized. The downside is that everything ends up being color coded, labeled, indexed or rearranged. Let me say this: wandering into Walgreens at 4AM in search of an orange binder (to go with the orange paper clips and post-its, which will be used to mark and store all my insomnia induced concoctations, such as apple-garlic sandwiches) is an underrated experience. Especially since I detest color coding.
But I do it anyway. Maybe it's a curse. That would be the romantic perspective. The truth is that I feel useless without papers to write, so I stay awake and try to pretend I do useful things. And no matter how useful those things may be, when they're performed in the dead of night as a form of escapism, they're just baggage. And I can't stop it from accumulating. All I do is catalogue it.
Ah, June, you always make a librarian of me.
The good part is that I read a lot more. The bad part is that I end up reading ambitious rubbish. Such as The Scar, by China Mieville, the plot of which doesn't pick up until page 276 only to conclude some 276 pages later in a stupefying, unsatisfactory manner.
Another good part is that I attempt to be more organized. The downside is that everything ends up being color coded, labeled, indexed or rearranged. Let me say this: wandering into Walgreens at 4AM in search of an orange binder (to go with the orange paper clips and post-its, which will be used to mark and store all my insomnia induced concoctations, such as apple-garlic sandwiches) is an underrated experience. Especially since I detest color coding.
But I do it anyway. Maybe it's a curse. That would be the romantic perspective. The truth is that I feel useless without papers to write, so I stay awake and try to pretend I do useful things. And no matter how useful those things may be, when they're performed in the dead of night as a form of escapism, they're just baggage. And I can't stop it from accumulating. All I do is catalogue it.
Ah, June, you always make a librarian of me.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Time Warp
How long has it been? Over a month, or somesuch, and thinking about posting doesn't count.
Unless you're in that Timothy Hutton movie and your thoughts become scary books that only Stephen King would write, which means they're not very scary after all, just moderately entertaining, and that only if you've got four hours until your connecting flight and the Schipol cafe and bar is totally free of Japanese businessmen who want to buy you drinks at nine o'clock in the stinking morning.
Yes, Mr. Nakamura, I still have your card after all this time. If I ever make it to Osaka, I'll be sure to look you up, which will probably be a breach of all kinds of etiquette. I suppose I could e-mail you, but that would be a pitiful attempt to recycle a moment only capable of surviving in its original context. Beyond your Cosmopolitan, my coffee and the jet lag all around us like haze in LA traffic, there isn't anything left to say.
Except, "Huh, I've kinda missed this."
Unless you're in that Timothy Hutton movie and your thoughts become scary books that only Stephen King would write, which means they're not very scary after all, just moderately entertaining, and that only if you've got four hours until your connecting flight and the Schipol cafe and bar is totally free of Japanese businessmen who want to buy you drinks at nine o'clock in the stinking morning.
Yes, Mr. Nakamura, I still have your card after all this time. If I ever make it to Osaka, I'll be sure to look you up, which will probably be a breach of all kinds of etiquette. I suppose I could e-mail you, but that would be a pitiful attempt to recycle a moment only capable of surviving in its original context. Beyond your Cosmopolitan, my coffee and the jet lag all around us like haze in LA traffic, there isn't anything left to say.
Except, "Huh, I've kinda missed this."
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