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Always annoyed on Monday. And this is Tuesday. "Migrant Worker to Ground Zero." My title... long enough for someone to grow from zygote to graduate. A withering thought, perhaps... but this diary wouldn't get entry one without the extra time I've had here lately. If you don't count last weeks entry, swallowed by the Diaryland beast. Wall-to-wall bitching, anyway... perhaps best lost in cyberLimbo. This will learn you young'uns to put off marriage and career... get thee to Tibet whilst you can. We had the post-Marathon party for the Folk dept. on Sunday, west of Charlottesville, right close to the mountains. I was expecting a nerdy affair, and wasn't disappointed, completely. Thankfully there were a few mellowed hardheads, placated with beer (or sweets), skirting the puffed-up types... the audacity, asking me where the chemicals were. I can scarcely imagine the Hell that must be the Classical Marathon party. How the Hell do people justify calling Turkey Burgers and Tofu Dogs cookout food? I can hang with salads out the wazoo, bread and other nondescript meatless things, and I cautiously avoid vienna sausages, souse (imagine clear Jello with indescribable meat chunks of varying texture and pinkness)... and entrails. Must admit, as soon as I heard someone call out, "tofu dogs!" it was all I could do not to bust out in a belly laugh. Something pathetic about not being able to accept one's bean curd without disguising it in exactly the form that causes you to give up meat in the first place. Naturally, the first thing I think of is Hal (from Malcom in the MIddle) and his attack on the barbecue... offer not a meat-eatin' man a tofu dog, lest ye suffer the dire consequences. Perhaps someday I'll reminisce about working upstairs from a reformed hippie, whose system was so ravaged that he had converted to "textured protein." One day, there rose a humor so foul from his hindquarters, that my eyes watered one story up, and forty feet away. Why, I believe I just reminisced. Got around to seeing the movie "Scandal," finally, before the weekend came in. England, circa 1962. Kinda "My Fair Lady," except in this case, dancehall girl Christine Keeler (and Mandy Rice-Davies) became call girl under the guidance of a "kindly" older gentleman. So, she slept with the British head of Defense. And a Russian spy. Near collapse of government, and ska music was the soundtrack... Keeler and her pals frequented the immigrant Jamaican spots in Notting Hill for the music and the "spices." The governmental "old boy system" closed ranks and got away with all sorts of dodgy goings on. Who would ever believe the word of 'hos? And this is all a true story. Rich old bastards get away with murder. Oldest story in the book. See this one. Only two weeks late. |
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