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Long ago, the curse was set upon me... Its invocation, commencing with the incantation: "You Think Too Much." One of those self-fulfilling propechies... someone sticks that one on you, you cry "Do Not!"... and then you think about it. BANG! Curse In Progress! Until a drug is designed to counteract the effects, or I find a Swami that can unravel the spell, I'm screwed. Just can't seem to turn this brain off. Of course, complete lack of sex hasn't helped. If anything, that was my last resort for total brain-disengagement... to my peril, on occasion. But, I'm tired of beating that dead horse. Pardon the pun. So... thinking too much. The gene pool of imagination... and paranoia... and hyperventilation. I blame watching Fight Club and the mind-twisting before bedtime. Second-guessing my twiddling under the bonnet in below-freezing conditions. The TV screen a blank, non-functioning black hole when I came indoors to check out scores. The sudden appearance of the Neighbor From Hell before I packed up to leave for work. I've probably mentioned him in the past... the type who loves to hear himself talk. Whose favorite (and best self-descriptive) comment is, "to make a short story long." At which he excels. Quick to criticise the shortcomings of others, yet his house is half-vinyl sided, half-wrapped in Tyvec, and has been for the entire ten years I've lived here. And he seems to carry misfortune around him like the fog of a fart. Going on, at great length, about his most recent fender-bender, pumping me for information about the Miata. Ostensibly, to borrow a funnel. Why? Because he allowed his home heating oil to run out... on the coldest week of the year. Oh, ignorance... how blissful thou art. Consequently, this left me with about a half-hour to shower, pack my bags, and learn to efficiently pack a two-seater convertible for its first trip to Ground Zero (which I'll call Ground Zed, henceforward). That'll get you jumpy. Plus, on my pit stop before leaving... there he was again, filling up plastic containers to dump into his home tanks. The Miata responded with an unpleasantly high idle, with a stumble. Exit, stage left. Without looking back. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, when and if I made it to work. Yet, here I am. All that thinking will get you... jiggly. ................................................................................................................................................ One thing I managed to forget to pack was my bike trip journal... I suppose this will be no great loss. But will be continued, anon. PS: Granted, I don't watch a lot of US football, though I do peek during the playoffs. The halftime festivities during playoffs... the absolute worst in taste and execution: Whoever organizes these things goes for whatever demographics spell the highest ratings, unless I underestimate the treachery of ad executives. Case in point: LL C00l J. Who I like, actually, in an old school way. Something seems so wrong about the whole concept, though: rap/hip hop (at least to me) has this dark, menacing, bass-overwhelmed beat and threat, best experienced in a crowded, sweaty, confined space. Midfield in a huge, well-lit stadium, swirled about by color co-ordinated "dancers" and fireworks just seems to kill the spirit, DEAD. STONE. Made digestible for the home-bound masses barricaded on the couch with beer and snack food. I suppose they could have gotten Hammer to do it... or maybe ReRun. Now THAT would have been worth watching. Sponsored by the Smiley Face. And a brokerage firm. |
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