In case it hasn't been noticed, posts have been scarce as good taste at a drag queen convention. Nothing against drag queens or good taste.
Well, that's the way things are going to be for the rest of the summer. When I'm not catching up on lost sleep, I'm either organizing something beyond trivial, vegging (this includes temping, which is one way to get paid for losing braincells) or hanging out with friends I don't normally get to see during fall and winter.
And none of that makes me feel like keeping up with this, unless it falls in one of three categories: disgusting, strange or so funny that I'm still thinking about it two days later. Actually, let's add a fourth category: miscellanea, i.e., things that are none of the above but catch my attention enough for me to end up here.
That being said, things will pick up after August 22. Magic date, that. I get to have a normal life again.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Pratfalls on a Summer Night
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?
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?
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."
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Pope Mail #19
To: benedictxvi@vatican.va
Dear Pope,
How about signing up with Rent-A-German?
Think of all the people whose lives you would brighten.
Sincerely,
Z
PS: 19/1000
Dear Pope,
How about signing up with Rent-A-German?
Think of all the people whose lives you would brighten.
Sincerely,
Z
PS: 19/1000
Public Service Announcement
Until I'm finished with all the damn papers I have to write, there will be no further posts. Activity will resume as usual on May 11, or thereabouts.
Barring, of course, acts of god, such as a light descending out of the sky and bathing my desk with a warm glow while an awesome voice declaims, "Arise, Z, my child, and post on thine blog for thine papers are being composed by a hundred angels with a hundred typewriters, and thou needst not write them."
And that's a lot better than a hundred chimps pounding out Shakespeare, so I reserve the right to change my mind.
Barring, of course, acts of god, such as a light descending out of the sky and bathing my desk with a warm glow while an awesome voice declaims, "Arise, Z, my child, and post on thine blog for thine papers are being composed by a hundred angels with a hundred typewriters, and thou needst not write them."
And that's a lot better than a hundred chimps pounding out Shakespeare, so I reserve the right to change my mind.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Chimera Watch
Unfortunately I don't mean the TVR variety (hello there, you sexy thing... rrrr).
No, I mean the irony of killing them if they become too much like us. JD or not, Mr. Greely seems a little on the fuzzy side.
This concludes the (semi) serious portion of the blog.
No, I mean the irony of killing them if they become too much like us. JD or not, Mr. Greely seems a little on the fuzzy side.
This concludes the (semi) serious portion of the blog.
Pope Mail # 9
Dear Pope:
This feels a lot like I've stolen your lawn gnome and am now photographing it in front of various international landmarks, then sending you the pictures, except you don't have a chatty, overweight wife to gasp at the one where the lawn gnome looks like it's mooning you and then tell all the neighbors that some person stole your lawn gnome and is posing it rudely in front of the Pyramids.
Just me?
Sincerely,
Z
P.S. 9/1000
This feels a lot like I've stolen your lawn gnome and am now photographing it in front of various international landmarks, then sending you the pictures, except you don't have a chatty, overweight wife to gasp at the one where the lawn gnome looks like it's mooning you and then tell all the neighbors that some person stole your lawn gnome and is posing it rudely in front of the Pyramids.
Just me?
Sincerely,
Z
P.S. 9/1000
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Fun Fact
Evidently, the brain activity of a baby being circumcised is equivalent to that of a man being shot.
Hmm... I dunno. Could be.
I do know that out of a class of fourteen people only three actually stayed to watch the entire circumcision being performed. And that baby was purple from screaming.
Someone remind me why I'm doing a paper on this.
Hmm... I dunno. Could be.
I do know that out of a class of fourteen people only three actually stayed to watch the entire circumcision being performed. And that baby was purple from screaming.
Someone remind me why I'm doing a paper on this.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Perspective
Is Dr. Bob any worse than the ancient history professor who would periodically declaim things in Spanish?
The religious studies professor would would mumble and drone about 3/5 of every sentence, then yell (no, I mean YELL) out the remaining 2/5? Who'd do THIS even outside of LECTURE?
The math professor who had seniors write out the lesson content on the board (for extra credit), then she'd sit there and read Cosmo or chat with whoever her pet students were?
The English Lit professor who had no idea who wrote The Goblin Market? Or even what it was? And who pretended that wasn't the case later in the semester?
All those sorry damn professors who delight in using stupid phrases like "we religious historians", or "we in anthropology", or "we writers"?
Oh, wait. Bob does say "we writers" sometimes. Meaning himself. Whose publishing credits are suggestively absent from a comprehensive search. Yet who claims to have been "a mainstay in the cultivation of young [...] writers for some 20 years." Is this guy worse than all the others?
Yes. He's still present tense.
The religious studies professor would would mumble and drone about 3/5 of every sentence, then yell (no, I mean YELL) out the remaining 2/5? Who'd do THIS even outside of LECTURE?
The math professor who had seniors write out the lesson content on the board (for extra credit), then she'd sit there and read Cosmo or chat with whoever her pet students were?
The English Lit professor who had no idea who wrote The Goblin Market? Or even what it was? And who pretended that wasn't the case later in the semester?
All those sorry damn professors who delight in using stupid phrases like "we religious historians", or "we in anthropology", or "we writers"?
Oh, wait. Bob does say "we writers" sometimes. Meaning himself. Whose publishing credits are suggestively absent from a comprehensive search. Yet who claims to have been "a mainstay in the cultivation of young [...] writers for some 20 years." Is this guy worse than all the others?
Yes. He's still present tense.
Monday, April 25, 2005
I'm Going To Kill You
Yes, you, Dr. Bob.
I'm going to shoot vodka up your veins. Then I'm going to skewer you and roast you over a slow fire. And while that's going on, I'm going to pay Ben Stein to read The Stand out loud, making sure that Ben stops every three sentences to ask you if you see where things are going.
And I'll laugh. Maniacally.
Take that, Dr. Bob, you ridiculous fraud. Oh, and by the way, you pathetic windbag. Remember that paper you lauded as the very soul of diligence? The very spirit of excellence? A few hours of work, unrevised.
I laugh and point. That is all.
I'm going to shoot vodka up your veins. Then I'm going to skewer you and roast you over a slow fire. And while that's going on, I'm going to pay Ben Stein to read The Stand out loud, making sure that Ben stops every three sentences to ask you if you see where things are going.
And I'll laugh. Maniacally.
Take that, Dr. Bob, you ridiculous fraud. Oh, and by the way, you pathetic windbag. Remember that paper you lauded as the very soul of diligence? The very spirit of excellence? A few hours of work, unrevised.
I laugh and point. That is all.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Pope Mail #2
Pope Mail #1
Dear Pope:
I didn't know whether I should surf for internet porn or mail you, but being that I don't surf for internet porn, I decided to drop you a line.
Congratulations on being chosen, even though you scare me.
Sincerely,
Z
P.S.: 1/1000
Thus concludes my first epistle to the Pontiff. The road toward improving my karma shall be a long one indeed.
I didn't know whether I should surf for internet porn or mail you, but being that I don't surf for internet porn, I decided to drop you a line.
Congratulations on being chosen, even though you scare me.
Sincerely,
Z
P.S.: 1/1000
Thus concludes my first epistle to the Pontiff. The road toward improving my karma shall be a long one indeed.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Pope Mail?
Now that's exciting. The former Cardinal Ratzinger is proving just how open minded he is by introducing Pope Mail.
benedictxvi@vatican.va
I wonder if sending him 1000 e-mails is anything like folding 1000 paper cranes.
benedictxvi@vatican.va
I wonder if sending him 1000 e-mails is anything like folding 1000 paper cranes.
On The Street
I ran into my old homeless boyfriend today.
He's still homeless. Still looks like a filthy Hallmark Jesus. Still thinks I should have black hair.
He doesn't have anyone to drive him around but didn't want to me give him a ride either.
"Come back when you're thirty," he said.
Hah. That number will always go up. Eight years ago, he said twenty five. When I'm thirty, he'll say forty.
He's the sanest bloke I ever met.
He's still homeless. Still looks like a filthy Hallmark Jesus. Still thinks I should have black hair.
He doesn't have anyone to drive him around but didn't want to me give him a ride either.
"Come back when you're thirty," he said.
Hah. That number will always go up. Eight years ago, he said twenty five. When I'm thirty, he'll say forty.
He's the sanest bloke I ever met.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Interpret This
There's this radio show where, in addition to music, there's also a dream interpreter, and boy do I use the term loosely, who interprets the dreams of various callers. It might have started as a gimmick, it might not. That's not the point. The point is that no matter what kind of touchy-feely junk the interpreter spouts, people buy it.
This could say that yes, the interpreter knows how to actually interpret dreams. Or it could say that because the interpreter speaks in such crass generalities, like "where in your life do you feel overwhelmed?", "where in your life are you stretching too thin?" and "it might be that you're not spending enough time on yourself," there's going to be a match no matter what. It seems that a lot of people are hell bent on dicarding self examination in favor of gimmicky platitudes fed to them by some hack on the radio.
This interpreter means well. I should say that. But I'll also say the interpreter has made it as far as the interpreter has using the time honored skill of bullshiting. I should know. I used to be a psychic phone friend not once, but twice. A damn good one, before my stupid conscience kicked in.
And now the interpreter, with nothing but spare credentials and a lot of nebuspeak (what candidates do in election years), has managed to teach a course, albeit at a community college (yeah, I'm a snob), on lucid dreaming.
It looks like I'm wasting resources on higher education after all.
This could say that yes, the interpreter knows how to actually interpret dreams. Or it could say that because the interpreter speaks in such crass generalities, like "where in your life do you feel overwhelmed?", "where in your life are you stretching too thin?" and "it might be that you're not spending enough time on yourself," there's going to be a match no matter what. It seems that a lot of people are hell bent on dicarding self examination in favor of gimmicky platitudes fed to them by some hack on the radio.
This interpreter means well. I should say that. But I'll also say the interpreter has made it as far as the interpreter has using the time honored skill of bullshiting. I should know. I used to be a psychic phone friend not once, but twice. A damn good one, before my stupid conscience kicked in.
And now the interpreter, with nothing but spare credentials and a lot of nebuspeak (what candidates do in election years), has managed to teach a course, albeit at a community college (yeah, I'm a snob), on lucid dreaming.
It looks like I'm wasting resources on higher education after all.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Send In The Clown
The worst part about it is that he's hugging some sort of goat. (invalid link)
Grumble. Stupid eBay. The item # is 5574643706. eBay Search: Find Items
Grumble. Stupid eBay. The item # is 5574643706. eBay Search: Find Items
Monday, April 18, 2005
More Numbers
15: Minutes Dr. Bob talked about advertising.
07: Times during those 15 minutes he said, "you see where this is going?"
06: Minutes he spent on story from his bartending days.
04: Times he's told that story since start of semester.
20: Minutes he spent reading out loud from book.
02: Games of tic tac toe I lost to myself during all this.
07: Times during those 15 minutes he said, "you see where this is going?"
06: Minutes he spent on story from his bartending days.
04: Times he's told that story since start of semester.
20: Minutes he spent reading out loud from book.
02: Games of tic tac toe I lost to myself during all this.
I'm not sure I want to figure out how much of my tuition goes to tonight's babbling.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Love Connection?
So I'm at the university library looking up some extra material for one of the papers I have due, when a shadow falls across the mound of mostly medical journals in front of me. Medical journals being such riveting reads, I'm happy to have a legitimate reason for a break, so a shadow across the table is good enough.
I look up. Standing in front of my table is a guy, a not bad looking blond guy. The split second I have to take him in before he speaks tells me the following things: he's likely younger than me, he probably goes on a lot of dates and whatever he's about to say is utter bullshit. Okay, I'm game. This is going to be more entertaining than looking at circumcision diagrams and bar graphs of infant mortality data.
"Hi," goes Blondie, "aren't you in Dr. M's class?"
I've never heard of Dr. M. "Yeah." One of those smiles. "How did you know?"
"I saw you coming out of there."
That's interesting. "No kidding."
One of those pauses. I let go of the journal, making sure that the nasty circumcision diagram shows. Of course he sees it.
"You pre-med?"
Once upon a time, before chemistry vanquished me in a not so gallant fight. "Nah, it's a hobby."
Blondie stares, I stare back. A moment is shared. What makes it special is that my hair isn't clean. This makes sense, if you're female.
"Good one," says he. "Am I bothering you?"
"Not so far. Did you want to bother me?"
"Maybe. Do you want to do something sometime?"
Oooh, straight and to the point. No wonder he gets dates. But then, the creepy guy who accosted me in the candy aisle of Walgreens around Valentine's Day was direct too when he leered at me and said, and what a classic that was, "Hey, how you doin." I doubt he had many dates. But I digress. Back to Blondie and his question.
"That would require knowing you."
He grins like a fool. His teeth are super white. I'm not sure how I feel about that. "No problem. I'm Dylan."
This is my cue to tell him my name, exchange information and so forth, and I did tell myself I would play along. Which I do. Sort of. "Ohmigod, you're, like, the fourth Dylan I met this week." He's the first Dylan I met in a couple of years. "Must be a sign, or something, all leading up to you. What's your e-mail?"
He doesn't look at all confused as he tells me what it is. Point for Dylan.
"So okay then, Dylan number 4. I'll e-mail you, k?"
He grins again. His teeth are rather disturbing, they're that white. "And you'll tell me your name?" He must get more dates than I thought.
"Sure thing, Number Four."
He walks off without losing a beat and I go back to my journals. I'm not sure who was toying with whom, which means I have to mail him and find out.
I think I'll call myself Daphne.
I look up. Standing in front of my table is a guy, a not bad looking blond guy. The split second I have to take him in before he speaks tells me the following things: he's likely younger than me, he probably goes on a lot of dates and whatever he's about to say is utter bullshit. Okay, I'm game. This is going to be more entertaining than looking at circumcision diagrams and bar graphs of infant mortality data.
"Hi," goes Blondie, "aren't you in Dr. M's class?"
I've never heard of Dr. M. "Yeah." One of those smiles. "How did you know?"
"I saw you coming out of there."
That's interesting. "No kidding."
One of those pauses. I let go of the journal, making sure that the nasty circumcision diagram shows. Of course he sees it.
"You pre-med?"
Once upon a time, before chemistry vanquished me in a not so gallant fight. "Nah, it's a hobby."
Blondie stares, I stare back. A moment is shared. What makes it special is that my hair isn't clean. This makes sense, if you're female.
"Good one," says he. "Am I bothering you?"
"Not so far. Did you want to bother me?"
"Maybe. Do you want to do something sometime?"
Oooh, straight and to the point. No wonder he gets dates. But then, the creepy guy who accosted me in the candy aisle of Walgreens around Valentine's Day was direct too when he leered at me and said, and what a classic that was, "Hey, how you doin." I doubt he had many dates. But I digress. Back to Blondie and his question.
"That would require knowing you."
He grins like a fool. His teeth are super white. I'm not sure how I feel about that. "No problem. I'm Dylan."
This is my cue to tell him my name, exchange information and so forth, and I did tell myself I would play along. Which I do. Sort of. "Ohmigod, you're, like, the fourth Dylan I met this week." He's the first Dylan I met in a couple of years. "Must be a sign, or something, all leading up to you. What's your e-mail?"
He doesn't look at all confused as he tells me what it is. Point for Dylan.
"So okay then, Dylan number 4. I'll e-mail you, k?"
He grins again. His teeth are rather disturbing, they're that white. "And you'll tell me your name?" He must get more dates than I thought.
"Sure thing, Number Four."
He walks off without losing a beat and I go back to my journals. I'm not sure who was toying with whom, which means I have to mail him and find out.
I think I'll call myself Daphne.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Not My Poison
Today was the most boring Saturday in recent memory. My day consisted of the following three activities: lounging, yawning and dozing. All mostly outside.
I tried reading, but it required focus I didn't have. I suppose I could have tried watching TV, except I really don't watch TV. I could have also gone to the park, or someplace similar, but by the time those thoughts lumbered into my consciuseness I was already brain damaged from watching the first flies of the season buzz.
Some people might consider all this relaxing, but the only thing I can say for today is I lost more brain cells staring at the sky than I ever did during my Smirnoff-in-the-freezer phase.
I tried reading, but it required focus I didn't have. I suppose I could have tried watching TV, except I really don't watch TV. I could have also gone to the park, or someplace similar, but by the time those thoughts lumbered into my consciuseness I was already brain damaged from watching the first flies of the season buzz.
Some people might consider all this relaxing, but the only thing I can say for today is I lost more brain cells staring at the sky than I ever did during my Smirnoff-in-the-freezer phase.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Priorities
I should be napping, not doing this. I stayed up re-reading The Sorrows of Young Werther last night. This may sound boring, but it's a special book for me. It allowed me to discover the joy of saying "fuck off" without saying "fuck off."
Trip down nostalgia lane: this was the book I tormented my French teacher with in high school. Nothing like burying your face in a book by a German writer to give the finger to a middle aged, faded woman who couldn't stop talking about the lovely pastries she ate when she lived in Paris for a year. It worked well enough to let me change from French to Latin late in the semester, but it gained me no friends.
Luckily for me, I've since reformed my attitude on education and refined my tactics. These days, if I feel like flipping professors off, I'll either demolish one argument or correct one statement. All in the most cordial possible way. It's the pc equivalent of hunting big, dangerous game in the Serengeti.
Ah, the joys of living on the edge.
Trip down nostalgia lane: this was the book I tormented my French teacher with in high school. Nothing like burying your face in a book by a German writer to give the finger to a middle aged, faded woman who couldn't stop talking about the lovely pastries she ate when she lived in Paris for a year. It worked well enough to let me change from French to Latin late in the semester, but it gained me no friends.
Luckily for me, I've since reformed my attitude on education and refined my tactics. These days, if I feel like flipping professors off, I'll either demolish one argument or correct one statement. All in the most cordial possible way. It's the pc equivalent of hunting big, dangerous game in the Serengeti.
Ah, the joys of living on the edge.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Daily Wisdom
The second line divided shows its subject, in the condition indicated by Ming I, wounded in the left thigh. He saves himself by the strength of a swift horse and is fortunate.
No, really, that's what my I Ching reading said today. Better keep my eyes peeled just in case something truly out of the ordinary happens.
No, really, that's what my I Ching reading said today. Better keep my eyes peeled just in case something truly out of the ordinary happens.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Overheard & Rearranged
Guy with mullet: "I don't know who slept in my car last night, but it smells like cherries."
This is what he'd have said with an English-Japanese-English babel fish filter:
Guy with mullet, take 2: "I last night slept, but like the cherry someone does not know by my car whether smell does."
Now that's the kind of poetry men with mullets simply lack...
This is what he'd have said with an English-Japanese-English babel fish filter:
Guy with mullet, take 2: "I last night slept, but like the cherry someone does not know by my car whether smell does."
Now that's the kind of poetry men with mullets simply lack...
Venom
I had venom in my veins today.
Clerk: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No. But obviously you do."
Woman cutting in front of me at checkout counter: "Excuse me."
Me: "On what grounds? Social impairment or bad taste?"
Guy on phone: "We're collecting for the policeman's ball."
Me: "Don't you want to call the doughnut shop?"
Pear shaped girl w/ mini in dressing room: "Do you think this looks bad?"
Me: "Only if you wear it."
I should go crawl under a rock.
Clerk: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No. But obviously you do."
Woman cutting in front of me at checkout counter: "Excuse me."
Me: "On what grounds? Social impairment or bad taste?"
Guy on phone: "We're collecting for the policeman's ball."
Me: "Don't you want to call the doughnut shop?"
Pear shaped girl w/ mini in dressing room: "Do you think this looks bad?"
Me: "Only if you wear it."
I should go crawl under a rock.
Monday, April 11, 2005
By The Numbers
06: Times Dr. Bob said "Where was I going with that?"
34: Minutes he spent talking about his old philosophy professor.
27: Times he said "yin-yang."
12: Minutes spent recounting personal anecdote.
03: Times he's told that same story since semester started.
01: Times he tapped the board with his cane.
Estimated percentage of tuition (for his class) spent on Dr. B's useless information: 54.6%
34: Minutes he spent talking about his old philosophy professor.
27: Times he said "yin-yang."
12: Minutes spent recounting personal anecdote.
03: Times he's told that same story since semester started.
01: Times he tapped the board with his cane.
Estimated percentage of tuition (for his class) spent on Dr. B's useless information: 54.6%
Pop Quiz
What do the following phrases have in common?
1. You're drooling on me.
2. Go out or come in already.
3. I'm reading that.
4. You destroyed my special X-Files Rolling Stone, dammit!
5. That's my foot.
Answer: Things I should have never bothered to say to my cat.
1. You're drooling on me.
2. Go out or come in already.
3. I'm reading that.
4. You destroyed my special X-Files Rolling Stone, dammit!
5. That's my foot.
Answer: Things I should have never bothered to say to my cat.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Say What?
Why does a piece of spam labeled Penis Enlargement contain a link for anti-aging products? Were the idiots responsible hoping to cross pollinate the market?
Like what, those poor desperate slobs yearning lor x-tra large cocks will open the mail and go, "Well shucks, there goes my chance for a 15 in. prick so I might as well buy some wrinkle cream."
Like what, those poor desperate slobs yearning lor x-tra large cocks will open the mail and go, "Well shucks, there goes my chance for a 15 in. prick so I might as well buy some wrinkle cream."
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Rant Break
Whoever designed Best Buy's in-store customer service script is either a moron or an evil mastermind. In the span of ten minutes, I was ambushed by five different perky young men giving me the same two line spiel.
"Hi, how are you this evening?" and "Do you have any questions?"
Don't they realize that if people had questions, they'd actually ask them? Not like clerks are hard to find--the entire store is crawling with merrily pushy presonnel. Shudder. Especially the ones manning the video game racks. These guys are probably not hired, but bred in a secret underground lair. Which would explain why they can't read basic facial expressions, such as scowls, glares and snarls.
But they're nothing compared to the drone that lurks in the TV section. His programming is more complex. He waits until you're transfixed by the pretty pictures, then he springs on you from the shadows. And he doesn't let go. If it wouldn't hinder his performance, he would probably have theme music, like Jaws.
I kid not. There I am, in the dark and desolate depths of the home theatre section (yeah, that was my first mistake), when--poof!--a blue'n'khaki outfit containing what passes for a person materializes from behind a shelf. It wields a smile and a clipboard, and I begin to be afraid.
"Hi!" goes the outfit. "How are you this evening?"
"Fine." This is a dark mutter. Real people would know.
Not the outfit. "Do you have any questions?"
"No." Forget dark mutter. We're talking evil curse.
Except this is a machine. "Well, my name is Tim, and I'll be around."
Forget evil curses. Just back away slowly.
"I'll be happy to answer your questions."
Didn't I say I had no questions? Forget that. Make no eye contact and run. Which I do. I practically bolt when, at the exit to the TV section--poof!--there's Tim with his clipboard, beaming at me.
"Have a good evening."
I bare my teeth and glower.
"And come back soon!"
Is he kidding? The Uranium PU-36 Space Modulator wouldn't be strong enough to deal with his kind, and I'm not going to pat any of them down to find the off-switch. Besides, that would leave me open to asault from corporate lawyers, which are deadlier than any drone.
I just ran. Far enough to end up at the movie theatre, watching Sahara. And I detest Dirk Pitt.
But anything Clive Cussler is another rant.
"Hi, how are you this evening?" and "Do you have any questions?"
Don't they realize that if people had questions, they'd actually ask them? Not like clerks are hard to find--the entire store is crawling with merrily pushy presonnel. Shudder. Especially the ones manning the video game racks. These guys are probably not hired, but bred in a secret underground lair. Which would explain why they can't read basic facial expressions, such as scowls, glares and snarls.
But they're nothing compared to the drone that lurks in the TV section. His programming is more complex. He waits until you're transfixed by the pretty pictures, then he springs on you from the shadows. And he doesn't let go. If it wouldn't hinder his performance, he would probably have theme music, like Jaws.
I kid not. There I am, in the dark and desolate depths of the home theatre section (yeah, that was my first mistake), when--poof!--a blue'n'khaki outfit containing what passes for a person materializes from behind a shelf. It wields a smile and a clipboard, and I begin to be afraid.
"Hi!" goes the outfit. "How are you this evening?"
"Fine." This is a dark mutter. Real people would know.
Not the outfit. "Do you have any questions?"
"No." Forget dark mutter. We're talking evil curse.
Except this is a machine. "Well, my name is Tim, and I'll be around."
Forget evil curses. Just back away slowly.
"I'll be happy to answer your questions."
Didn't I say I had no questions? Forget that. Make no eye contact and run. Which I do. I practically bolt when, at the exit to the TV section--poof!--there's Tim with his clipboard, beaming at me.
"Have a good evening."
I bare my teeth and glower.
"And come back soon!"
Is he kidding? The Uranium PU-36 Space Modulator wouldn't be strong enough to deal with his kind, and I'm not going to pat any of them down to find the off-switch. Besides, that would leave me open to asault from corporate lawyers, which are deadlier than any drone.
I just ran. Far enough to end up at the movie theatre, watching Sahara. And I detest Dirk Pitt.
But anything Clive Cussler is another rant.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Young Love
A friend told me her boyfriend called her collect from Europe to tell her he was in the process of getting his penis tattooed with a crown of thorns because he was thinking of her.
I'll remember that the next time the man I love asks me what he can do for me. It's not cruelty, just high maintenance.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Make Friends, Influence People
So I go to the library to pick up the books waiting for me since Friday. They're not on my card because I don't have a card. I used to, but then I racked over $150 in fines. It wasn't the first time, but it was going to be the last. Why spend the money on being allowed to borrow books, when I could blow the money on something truly special, like disaster mauve open-toe heels and a Paradise Pedicure (TM) from Mrs. Wang. The pedicure I can understand, the heels fall under the heading "I Was Younger Then."
Anyway, I didn't regret that decision until recently, when I absolutely needed books I would never buy, books which were only carried by the library. Paying the fines was not an option. I wasn't about to give in to the system, not after seven years of defiance. The solution? Ask a good friend, "Bob" in this instance, for the use of his library card. After much convincing--for someone who doesn't read, "Bob" was annoyingly possessive of his hasn't-been-renewed-in-ten-years library card--I acquired the rights to "Bob's" library account.
Which brings me to where I started. Picking up the books. Time must pass at a different rate in libraries because the only thing different than seven years ago was the row of internet capable PCs where the antique dos-based search machines used to be. Otherwise, same ol' paper smell, same ol' local crafters display case (my friend "Dave's" dad once displayed his folk-art Yoda there), same ol' surly Indian clerks. I even recognize Kali Rose, a severe, sari clad Indian matron prone to pink garments and murderous scowls.
Fortunately for me, a drab blonde with a bad perm and a chintzy floral jumper steps in to assist me before Kali Rose has a chance. I don't know this one very well because back in the day she was a patron, not an employee. She prowled the paperback romance section, and carried one of those atrocious Mary Engelbreit bags inscribed, "Sandy's Garden." Presumably, her name was Sandy.
I tell Sandy I want to pick up some books, give her the last name, which isn't mine but "Bob's". It's like I spurted blood in a shark tank. Kali Rose stops what she's doing and turns this boiling point glare on me. I smile at her, a nice inoffensive smile learned during my nice days. She doesn't smile back.
Meanwhile, Sandy returns with my books. I hand her the card, wait for her to scan them in. She starts to hand the card back but stops in mid action.
"Um," she says, "It says here 'Bob'?"
I keep on smiling. "Why yes, it does. Obviously I'm not 'Bob'. Just picking up the books."
Sandy starts to hand me back the card, but that's when Kali Rose clears her throat. Secret librarian code, no doubt, because Sandy stiffens up.
"Um," she says, "are you a relation?"
What is this? The Inquisition?
"Mmm, yes. He's my lover."
"Bob" is nothing of the kind.
"Um... Uh... Um..."
Yeah, that's what I thought she'd say. I look at Kali Rose. She's stopped glaring and is just staring at me. When she realizes I'm staring back and smiling pleasantly, she gives me a weak smile. Sandy has a smile too, but it's of the embarassed variety. She's also blushing a lot. She finishes my transaction without saying anything else, without even looking at me, and pushes the books and card at me when she's done.
"You know how it is," I tell Sandy in my best happy voice as I grab the books.
I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a clue, but if I keep assaulting her with niceness she'll be forced to look at me. Which she does, briefly. "Um..."
Right, that again. I could let her continue, but then she might apologize, in which case my victory would be debatable. "Thanks so much," I say. Then I wink at Kali Rose, who has recovered enough to look mortified, and walk out.
I will definitely be back.
Anyway, I didn't regret that decision until recently, when I absolutely needed books I would never buy, books which were only carried by the library. Paying the fines was not an option. I wasn't about to give in to the system, not after seven years of defiance. The solution? Ask a good friend, "Bob" in this instance, for the use of his library card. After much convincing--for someone who doesn't read, "Bob" was annoyingly possessive of his hasn't-been-renewed-in-ten-years library card--I acquired the rights to "Bob's" library account.
Which brings me to where I started. Picking up the books. Time must pass at a different rate in libraries because the only thing different than seven years ago was the row of internet capable PCs where the antique dos-based search machines used to be. Otherwise, same ol' paper smell, same ol' local crafters display case (my friend "Dave's" dad once displayed his folk-art Yoda there), same ol' surly Indian clerks. I even recognize Kali Rose, a severe, sari clad Indian matron prone to pink garments and murderous scowls.
Fortunately for me, a drab blonde with a bad perm and a chintzy floral jumper steps in to assist me before Kali Rose has a chance. I don't know this one very well because back in the day she was a patron, not an employee. She prowled the paperback romance section, and carried one of those atrocious Mary Engelbreit bags inscribed, "Sandy's Garden." Presumably, her name was Sandy.
I tell Sandy I want to pick up some books, give her the last name, which isn't mine but "Bob's". It's like I spurted blood in a shark tank. Kali Rose stops what she's doing and turns this boiling point glare on me. I smile at her, a nice inoffensive smile learned during my nice days. She doesn't smile back.
Meanwhile, Sandy returns with my books. I hand her the card, wait for her to scan them in. She starts to hand the card back but stops in mid action.
"Um," she says, "It says here 'Bob'?"
I keep on smiling. "Why yes, it does. Obviously I'm not 'Bob'. Just picking up the books."
Sandy starts to hand me back the card, but that's when Kali Rose clears her throat. Secret librarian code, no doubt, because Sandy stiffens up.
"Um," she says, "are you a relation?"
What is this? The Inquisition?
"Mmm, yes. He's my lover."
"Bob" is nothing of the kind.
"Um... Uh... Um..."
Yeah, that's what I thought she'd say. I look at Kali Rose. She's stopped glaring and is just staring at me. When she realizes I'm staring back and smiling pleasantly, she gives me a weak smile. Sandy has a smile too, but it's of the embarassed variety. She's also blushing a lot. She finishes my transaction without saying anything else, without even looking at me, and pushes the books and card at me when she's done.
"You know how it is," I tell Sandy in my best happy voice as I grab the books.
I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a clue, but if I keep assaulting her with niceness she'll be forced to look at me. Which she does, briefly. "Um..."
Right, that again. I could let her continue, but then she might apologize, in which case my victory would be debatable. "Thanks so much," I say. Then I wink at Kali Rose, who has recovered enough to look mortified, and walk out.
I will definitely be back.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Lie to Me
Today could be a good day, because today is Tell-A-Lie Day. Now that's a run with scissors sort of holiday, and exactly what my life needs--controlled danger.
I tried spiffing up my life with niceness once. You know, smile like the village idiot, do good deeds, say please and thank you--that lot. I was pretty determined, even when this homeless woman began assaulting me with the wonderful salami and three cheese sub I had given her. I didn't stop being nice until the day my mother asked if I was feeling sick because, and this is classic, my smile looked like a grimace to her.
Yeah, I took a step back. If I looked in pain when I smiled, then smiling was not my natural state. Simple.
After that, I tried average, indifferent and mean. Some people say mean wasn't so much a phase as a blossoming of my inner Napoleon, but those people also thought that Catherine the Great was a tabloid handle for Catherine Zeta-Jones, so when they say Napoleon they probably mean Al Pacino.
And that's just silly. I've never had an inner Al Pacino. Maybe an inner Russel Crowe, before he did Master and Comander, which probably explains my need for excitement.
Let the lies begin.
I tried spiffing up my life with niceness once. You know, smile like the village idiot, do good deeds, say please and thank you--that lot. I was pretty determined, even when this homeless woman began assaulting me with the wonderful salami and three cheese sub I had given her. I didn't stop being nice until the day my mother asked if I was feeling sick because, and this is classic, my smile looked like a grimace to her.
Yeah, I took a step back. If I looked in pain when I smiled, then smiling was not my natural state. Simple.
After that, I tried average, indifferent and mean. Some people say mean wasn't so much a phase as a blossoming of my inner Napoleon, but those people also thought that Catherine the Great was a tabloid handle for Catherine Zeta-Jones, so when they say Napoleon they probably mean Al Pacino.
And that's just silly. I've never had an inner Al Pacino. Maybe an inner Russel Crowe, before he did Master and Comander, which probably explains my need for excitement.
Let the lies begin.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Why, oh why?
So my friend, let's call him "Bob", let me talk myself into this. I could say he talked me into it, but that wouldn't do justice to "Bob" and his powers of persuasion. "Bob" is insidious like that. You talk to him, let him chat you up, and then--wham!--you come up with a super spiffy new idea you only later realize was bestowed on you by "Bob".
I'm making this up. "Bob" is actually is a harmless guy who's currently perfecting the art of McGuyverism. His 13+ yr. old glasses broke, snapped right between the lenses, and he fixed them up with a bit of hollow model wire and some glue. They broke again, so he improved his repairs with some sodering iron magic and a nail file. I wouldn't put it past "Bob" to eventually craft himself a new pair of glasses out of twisty ties and Dr. Pepper (yum-yum) bottles.
Why doesn't "Bob" get himself new glasses? Who knows? I don't. Maybe he really wants to be known as McGuyver "Bob". Once he made a lamp with a lightbulb-heat propelled spinning shade out of watercolor paper, copper wire, some nails and a 2x4. It didn't last--and was rather a fire hazard--but that shade spun for about 2 minutes or so. "Bob" likes lamps.
My other friend, let's call him Ripp, doesn't. Ripp likes African music, Guiness (eh, nuthin' special) and museums. Ripp also likes me. I'm "Ripp's hobby. Sort of like some people like chess, except Ripp doesn't get to play me, much as he'd like to. And why not? Because Ripp is generic and scrawny.
That was mean. Mean but true. I just talked to Ripp about half an hour ago. He had just gotten home from hanging with the guys in the band--Ripp is in a band; he's the drummer--and was happily sloshed on Guiness, which is giving him a sorry little beer gut, btw. So in his wankered state, he gets online, finds me minding my own business and interrupts to ask me if I want to go have coffee.
I go, "what? now?" "No," sez Ripp, "whenever." Which pretty much amounts to now, which isn't an option because right now I'm doing this and I doubt Ripp could drive himself anywhere just now. After I refuse, he asks me lots of pointless questions--pointles to me, obviously--and ends up using the words "nudge" and "wink" a lot, along with that tacky horned smiley, like so ---> };), at least six times. I'm actually impressed he found all the right symbols for it, unless whatever IM prog he's using has a drop down menu, in which case I downgrade from impressed to amused.
Ripp never asks me for drinks because he thinks I don't drink, which is incorrect. I drink but don't get drunk. I hate being drunk, except on sake, which is about the happiest drunk there is. Used to be vodka (Grey Goose from the ice box, though there is that gallon of Smirnoff I'm not s'posed to mention), lotsa ice, twist o' lime, then a short-lived martini craze. Gin martini, splash vermouth, olive juice, olive x 2 (so dirty and so good). Not vodka, never vodka. That's for cast parties and funerals.
Which brings me back to Ripp. He always asks me for coffee. We smoke and talk until the shop closes. He flirts with me sometimes, in a stilted adolescent way. But it always ends there. Supposedly he's hung like a rhino, which is what a mutual friend, let's call her Olga, told me once when she was pissed on Mudslides (ewww). She knew because back when they were both in their teens, Ripp had a habit of streaking at parties. No, this wasn't in the 70s. The only streaking Ripp was doing in the 70s was in his diapers.
These days Ripp streaks no more. He sits on the sidelines and watches most of his male friends have wives, careers and babies, sometimes in that order. His female friends, myself not included, he hugs a lot. Me, he doesn't hug, except to say good-bye once in a while. I like it that way. It's the lack of physical contact that defines our relationship.
I'm making this up. "Bob" is actually is a harmless guy who's currently perfecting the art of McGuyverism. His 13+ yr. old glasses broke, snapped right between the lenses, and he fixed them up with a bit of hollow model wire and some glue. They broke again, so he improved his repairs with some sodering iron magic and a nail file. I wouldn't put it past "Bob" to eventually craft himself a new pair of glasses out of twisty ties and Dr. Pepper (yum-yum) bottles.
Why doesn't "Bob" get himself new glasses? Who knows? I don't. Maybe he really wants to be known as McGuyver "Bob". Once he made a lamp with a lightbulb-heat propelled spinning shade out of watercolor paper, copper wire, some nails and a 2x4. It didn't last--and was rather a fire hazard--but that shade spun for about 2 minutes or so. "Bob" likes lamps.
My other friend, let's call him Ripp, doesn't. Ripp likes African music, Guiness (eh, nuthin' special) and museums. Ripp also likes me. I'm "Ripp's hobby. Sort of like some people like chess, except Ripp doesn't get to play me, much as he'd like to. And why not? Because Ripp is generic and scrawny.
That was mean. Mean but true. I just talked to Ripp about half an hour ago. He had just gotten home from hanging with the guys in the band--Ripp is in a band; he's the drummer--and was happily sloshed on Guiness, which is giving him a sorry little beer gut, btw. So in his wankered state, he gets online, finds me minding my own business and interrupts to ask me if I want to go have coffee.
I go, "what? now?" "No," sez Ripp, "whenever." Which pretty much amounts to now, which isn't an option because right now I'm doing this and I doubt Ripp could drive himself anywhere just now. After I refuse, he asks me lots of pointless questions--pointles to me, obviously--and ends up using the words "nudge" and "wink" a lot, along with that tacky horned smiley, like so ---> };), at least six times. I'm actually impressed he found all the right symbols for it, unless whatever IM prog he's using has a drop down menu, in which case I downgrade from impressed to amused.
Ripp never asks me for drinks because he thinks I don't drink, which is incorrect. I drink but don't get drunk. I hate being drunk, except on sake, which is about the happiest drunk there is. Used to be vodka (Grey Goose from the ice box, though there is that gallon of Smirnoff I'm not s'posed to mention), lotsa ice, twist o' lime, then a short-lived martini craze. Gin martini, splash vermouth, olive juice, olive x 2 (so dirty and so good). Not vodka, never vodka. That's for cast parties and funerals.
Which brings me back to Ripp. He always asks me for coffee. We smoke and talk until the shop closes. He flirts with me sometimes, in a stilted adolescent way. But it always ends there. Supposedly he's hung like a rhino, which is what a mutual friend, let's call her Olga, told me once when she was pissed on Mudslides (ewww). She knew because back when they were both in their teens, Ripp had a habit of streaking at parties. No, this wasn't in the 70s. The only streaking Ripp was doing in the 70s was in his diapers.
These days Ripp streaks no more. He sits on the sidelines and watches most of his male friends have wives, careers and babies, sometimes in that order. His female friends, myself not included, he hugs a lot. Me, he doesn't hug, except to say good-bye once in a while. I like it that way. It's the lack of physical contact that defines our relationship.
Hey, not bad. In less than an hour I've gone from having private thoughts on "Bob" and Ripp, to sharing said thoughts. How special. I should file this under Time Productively Wasted.
Unlike all those hours I spent getting Mortimer to maximize his Body skill...
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