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I'd like to have been a sign maker.

Even little signage jobs, I can really get into.

I picked up a guy in the library.

Or maybe it doesn't count as picking him up, since we're not leaving here together, but are gonna meet up later.

It's really hot.  I may do very little today, or even nothing, toward my stuff-at-home-needing-doing.  Next to nothing.  Standing in the sun to sing sapped me.

Being in the a/c here makes me wanna take a nap, but we're not allowed to sleep here.  Maybe if I prop myself just right in a chair, with a book and my cap brim, I could get away with it for a little while.
For instance, I didn't suppose I'd be disposing of all the expired foodstuffs in the fridge and the cabinets yesterday.  That was so not a priority.

a temperate day

It's not that hot today. Saturday. Nonetheless a certain hairy creature and I have been taking it easy this late afternoon, early evening, after romping around. I also got to the grocery store today, and have some food I want to cook tonight, along with doing a few other things around the house. I turned down an invitation to go to the movies tonight, in fact. So I hope I do more this evening than keep watching old episodes of Orange is That Lesbian Show With The Theme Song You Get Sick of Quickly. And I think I will. But not crazy lots more. Cuz it's pleasant. With the windows open. And the snoozing' pooch.

I have some social plans for tomorrow that involve some people I like meeting me here before we go out. They've never been to my place before. At most they'll pop in.  But I may very well be re-entering a stage of having people over to my house.  Having them see where I live, finally, feels like it might be part of such a thing.

After a kind of crazy day Thursday, all stirred up, I seem to be doing a little steadier these past coupla days. In a certain sense it's already tomorrow, it's already Monday, it's already a certain sad future that's been coming for so long it feels like it's just switching from the dread here and ahead of me to the dread of now and forever. I know the dread so well. It folds into me. I need to turn it into fertilizer and grow something in it. From it.

I'm in my old chair, which sits next to my new chair, which came Wednesday, and which Manny's curled up in, happily. Right now I can only reach the charging cords from here. But that'll change. That'll change as soon as I want it to.

Found The Indelible Alison Bechdel: Confessions, Comix, and Miscellaneous Dykes to Watch Out For, which I finally have to take back to the library, after renewing it 55 times.  Guess I'd better finish reading it tonight.

When your heart is a-flutter, do laundry.

Go to Mister Stadium and do lots of laundry.  Stand there for two hours, 98,000+ at Galaga while everything's going around in one machine or another, then folding twenty T-shirts and smooshing the wrinkles out of ten pairs of shorts, plus the jeans and the underwear and your MUD HENS hoodie.  When you notice the thunderstorm outside, go get wet with its big fat drops, and come back in to the giant fans, like you just ran through a sprinkler, polka-dotted and fresh.

Back home, leave one basket in the Jeep cuz you've carried in enough for now.  Imagine you'll sleep hard, but sit up with the dog a while anyway, bottom-of-the-bag tortilla chips and peach salsa and leftover last week's dipping sauces, all of 'em free cuz maybe the guy liked you, or more likely one of you, before she was crying, anyway, and they probably had to wonder if they were going to have to throw you out so they could go home.  Then put your feet up and let kitty-cats walk all over you, silly TV and the too-sharp edges of this angle on your laptop case, while you type something into LiveJournal about it.

Decide it will come to you later whether you'll cave and upgrade three months before the next iPhone comes out so you can play the new crazy-popular game built on Ingress portals, like you keep seeing people standing around at now like you never did before, cuz what the hell you already know where they all are around here, and you need a new drug.  Consider taking a painkiller before horizontalizing in front of the fan with the nose pillows strapped to your head and your eyes shut, cuz it'd be good to get a good night's sleep tonight, and not just cuz that woman with the go-getter name is interviewing at 9:30 in the morning, before you come home to meet the furniture delivery people with the right chair this time, you hope.

Don't worry about Dave coming, just yet.  Don't worry about that right now.  Think about Dave coming later.

Wish it were still raining, cuz you'd like some of those fat cool drops all over you just about now.

fif-teen minutes

I have The Music Man on.  Again.  Surely I have seen this movie more times than any other movie, possibly by a margin of more times that the most times I've seen any other.  My folks, perhaps especially my father, were fans of it, to some extent, at least.  Sometimes I think about them when I see it, and why and how they might've liked it.  Sometimes I think about what a masternugget of Americana the musical is, and is comprised of, to the extent that any masternugget can be great without all the peoples it leaves out, and how it marginalizes some of its characters.  Sometimes I think about its values, and what kinds of human tendencies it has contempt for.  Sometimes I just enjoy the words; sometimes I just enjoy the actors; sometimes I just enjoy the music.  Sometimes I analyze its special ways of getting laughs.  Sometimes I think about its addressing of sexuality.  Sometimes I think about its message of redemption.  This time I find myself thinking about its suggestions about relationships, and how much I might've taken it all in, to heart, sinking down deep, from when I was a pup, and anyway how there might be evidence for that notion, if one were playing that game, which I am.  You can apply recovery to a work of art with its theoretical and philosophical lenses not unlike how you can look at literature through Marxism, or w/e other game.  This game tonight is about knowing me better.  Me knowing me better.  Me liking knowing me better.

Meanwhile it also has me liking Buddy Hackett, the little boy Ronnie Howard, the way we can now see the whole wide screen on our TVs (so all 4 Buffalo Bills, vs. 2 + 2/2), Pert Kelton, Lida Rose, Mary Wickes, that insane Hermione Gingold, the Wells Fargo wagon, the suggestion that there can be no sin in sincere, sthyncopation, the voice of Shirley Jones, and the blessed way the pursestring holders didn't get their way with recasting Robert Preston's virtuoso con man with Frank Sinatra in the part, and how sometimes the pursestring people don't get their pursestringholder way, ruining everything.

My weekend has so gotten away from me.

It's ended up including some unexpected social opportunities, but a bit of turbulent emotion and an upset stomach as well.  I've gotten routine home and world/task stuff attended to, largely, but none of the stuff I had on deck mentally for digging the place out to be houseguest ready in a mere coupla weeks.  And I just don't feel up to it now.  I'll manage to get the trash out, I reckon, and give the pooch a strollabout.  I think I'm gonna end up needing to take some time off work to get some of this stuff done.  Ai yai yai.

(How do you spell aye yigh yigh?)

Portugal beat France, 1-0.
I'm going to be getting a new computer at work, and it won't have a CD drive.  My vehicle has no CD drive, and my newer computer at home, same thing.  If you count when you have to have an add-on adapter thingie to read or use something as the point of its primary obsolescene, I'm now about there for CDs.  They sure had their run, tho.

Oddly the local used music store is more interested in lps right now.  I sold 'em maybe a dozen records and 4 or 5 CDs for $60, including The Big Chill soundtrack, which used to be a dime a dozen, in cut-out bins everywhere.  Dude was like it's double nostalgia--- kids nostalgic for the record their nostalgic parents had.

Played some bones yesterday evening.  I liked it.  Saw peteralwayAlway's at the library. Discovered Fruffles (which Whitney Falloon argues should be called "Frownies") amidst a lot of other stuff, like the weirdly sweet agony of love.  It's all kind of soft-rattling around in me today.

I feel pretty good.  It's not gonna be that hot tomorrow (high 80°F).  The world, and our country, is a violent, scary place, and we a violent and scary people.  Yet I am going to eat lunch, and put a good chunk of items into publication, and take my doggie outside for a spell, and that's all the further-ahead thinking from this moment I want or need right now.  One beet red Keen Newport 2 in front of the other, to the noodles in the microwave and the UV-radiated water dispensary, then back to this chair and some stapled-together sheets of paper and the magic PUBL button.  That's now.  That's next.
that the people talking weren't talking about the killing of Alton Sterling, so maybe this was an interview with relatives of a previous victim of police violence, but, wait, could it be that another story has broken overnight?  It could be that, but --- could it be that?

And it was that.

It's utterly sick that the Baton Rouge story, horrifying as it is, didn't shock all the shock in me to the surface.  It was shockingly extreme, and shocking to look at (on video), but also not shocking at all, because that's what happens.  That's what happens all the time.  Yet, even having just, yesterday, in my mind and spirit, touched again on how not uncommon it is, when another video broke another such story through to the masses, again, so soon, and so now for these coupla days we're hearing about it and seeing it every day, this everyday horror of everyday injustice, I do sit at my desk in a stupifying shock.  It's not the shock that this great wrong happens every day.  It's the shock that this is how it is.  We have to accept that this is how it is.  This is how it is.

I lead the league in ties.

It tickles me.  With only two days left in the season, the best someone can do is tie me, in number of ties.  And that'd just be another tie!  My current Learned League record:  7-6-10.  7 wins, 6 losses, 10 ties.  :)

Finding A/C, in 3D

Yesterday I went to see the Disney Dory movie.  During the closing credits I was watching the fishies and all the names & jobs, and thinking about how much that kind of animation has evolved (had been thinking earlier of the uncanny valley), and somehow that got me to thinking about my dead parents and what I've lived to see that they didn't.  Sure, that "somehow" is quite probably connected to the fact that I'd just watched 100 minutes of Dory looking for her lost parents.  Anyway I got to imagining catching them up, if they were suddenly here.  Telling them about what's happened.  Showing them my phone.  Which I should probably get a new one of in case they do show up.

My mother was still around for email, and the early days of the internet.  My father died in 1984, though, and my word but a lot has happened that way since then.  It's interesting to ponder what he'd think of stuff.

So as I was driving home from the movie I was thinking about this idea of their suddenly showing up, and how the dynamic of me having information they didn't have and the conversation being about me telling them how things are would be different, and refreshing.  And how maybe it'd be nice if they were here but couldn't talk.  Like, I do all the talking.  And I could tell them all sorts of stuff about me and my experience, from the sort of assumption that they'd be interested and respectful and sympathetic and, like, care.

I guess I'd have to tell 'em about 9/11, and ongoing war, and drones, and the increasing economic gap, and the weirdly rich university town, and big-picture bad stuff like that.  There's big-picture good stuff too, I know.  But mostly I think I'd want to show them my phone, tell them about my life as if they cared, and take them to a 3-D animated movie.

yo-yo book poem

I took back The Collected Greed no one wanted, weeks
down with the corner freebies, its Black Sparrow tactility
and there goes Diane again with George Washington
not enough, maybe, against the all-caps deadly sin
plus that focused hissing serpent on the cover, striped & curl-poised
to pounce on whoever's just past the reader's left shoulder,
which is probably why I gave it away to begin with,
vs. the Son of a Bitch grave dancing I'll keep 'til someone else
has to deal with what remains, and why I'll give it away again,
if no one is grabbed by it and grabs it, here at the office, then
via the university town second-hand leftover mishmash
shelf-piles where I can imagine it finding its new lover,
willing to pick one thing over another, so not greedy but
quite okay with Greed, knowing how to breathe past that snake,
hold the volume in hands, and find out everything there is in there.


Oh, Elna.

I came in to work late today, and spent the last 10 minutes of my way in sitting in the parking lot with the rest of the second segment of this week's This American Life, "Tell Me I'm Fat." I'd heard the beginning of it--- some great stuff with Lindy West, who famously (to me and no doubt a number of fatties) got into it with Dan Savage a few years ago--- on the radio this weekend, but I had to wait for the podcast to hear more.  And I tell ya what:  that Elna part is some amazing first-person oh my god sharing.

I kinda both can't wait and am so gonna wait to hear the rest of that show, until I can listen well, doing nothing else at the same time except maybe driving.

P.S. Speaking of fat,

thanks, wednes, for this:


I, anyway, laughed aloud, which we used to do more of before we did so much laughing out loud.

One part reminded me of the woman I was going out with for a while who told me, trying to be nice, that I'm not fat.  Speaking of LOL.  Hadn't thought about that one in a while.