The night following the insult to my honor, I did hip things and went to a few bars with Mr. J. S. Katz. He’s going through some hard times, and I’m bored a lot, so it was a mutually beneficial evening. Though I spent much more money than I had intended, I had a good time, and by the end of the night we had joined a bachelorette party. The women were tasteful and because they were mostly in their 30s and married, they lacked the wild hormonal craze I’d have normally expected and dreamed of joining. I did get ridiculed my by a waitress at Fado’s for not wanting to take a shot with the rest of the group. She asked me (rhetorically of course) if I had sand in my vagina, but I couldn’t hear her over U2 music and made her repeat herself until she dismissed me with an irritated wave, and one of the ladies in our party kindly told me the emasculating jest.
Because there isn’t really a god, my internal alarm clock woke me up, for the second morning in a row, after only four hours of sleep. I experienced a hang over of the likes I haven’t known since the projectile vomiting years of my mid teens, and I alternately read The Last Picture Show and napped until dark. After writing a wee bit at Starbucks, for their famous Christmas Blend is in style, I went to Craig’s. On our walk to the Snappy Mart, he told me that raw honey is bad for my health presumably because there’re bees in it. I told him I still prefer it to pasteurized honey, and since I put it in my oatmeal every morning, I eat danger for breakfast. For some reason, that seemed like a relevant conversation for this blog. We rented the pilot episode of Heroes and the movie White Dog even though we watched Barton Fink instead. Heroes was terrible, and I’m embarrassed to admit that we watched the whole thing. The fact that a serious chunk of American society is deeply involved with what I can only describe as shit is cynically telling. Granted, I’ve never written a hit TV show, but I would be awfully dissatisfied with myself if that cheap business was my bread and butter. Content wise, I think I belong in Europe. Not this blog, of course. This is raw American derision, and I do it for vanity’s sake alone.
Gilda flew in mid afternoon Sunday, and I spent my last few hours of freedom, writing as much as possible because she becomes both verbally and physically abusive if I don’t offer her all of my attention. Her resiliency to sleep also leaves me vulnerable to embarrassing photographs and probing fingers into my ears, nose, and mouth. No amount of my angry barking will stop her either.
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