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It would be easy to scan back through the previous entries for the last weepy installment... regardless, it still seems like a month has passed. Whirlwind of activity, these past few days... Thursday kicked my ass royally. Everything had to move from the outside walls for the new windows to be installed... instant minimalism for the livingroom. Which I like. That's why the room where this is being composed is like a frigging warehouse of chaos. Now, I could attribute this to laziness, and am sure that Miss Jane sees it that way... but it's refreshing to no longer creaate an avalance of crap if a table is jostled. Sure, ti'll look like a hurricane struck it, soon enough. Now, blessed space. For the first time since moving in, this house is warm... with the nights freezing. Luxury. Walking around in sock feet when it's cold as balls is worth all of the bullshit. Like wasting a vacation day... and experiencing contractor time (where 8AM startup time really means 2:30PM). And bailing out of the show on Friday... I'd be up shit creek if I had to locate a CD quickly. Friday, what happened to Friday? Vaporized. Unremembered. Unremarkable, obviously. Saturday, though... my first race day in a few years. Rather than sucking up to the horsey set, it's my blowout day. White people on the tweedy rampage. Drunkenness by the thousands, myself included. I bashed down a few G&T's in a plastic cup, lashed by the wind, crustifying the nose... self-inflicted wounds. Better to watch the festivities with gin-altered vision... flashes of horses accompanied by the pound of hooves, waves of yuppies clad in khaki and wraparound shades, every woman a blond. I swear, the Contessa was the only female without a gold-colored rinse. Stepford Soccer Moms accompanied by stock market fat daddies. For better or worse, my alcohol bath resulted in no worse than a case of the wobblies, today. I've been giddier on just a couple of beers. that may or may not be a good thing. No headaches or retching... I call that a plus. A sobering morning after puts things into a different perspective, anyway. Which helped me through yet another surgery on the Volvo. God, I hate automatics. A black art, working on those monstrosities. Hopefully, a change in fluids will restoreth my overdrive... and, I am getting so tired of having for-shit cars. Old Swedes seem to resist the march of time, but ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for your electrical system. Tomorrow's ride to work shoud be... thrilling. Getting there is half of the fun, no? To much to do... and I'm off to the Gulag. Big project to squeeze into the week, the logo for the rockabilly/retro-country band. Gimme strength. No sugar, again this weekend. Drought increases to... four months?! The poor fleshy little bastard is going to wither and decay like this last batch of frost-tainted peppers. what an analogy... and a pity. Monogamy... sucks. Not literally. |
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