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What has become of this weekend? Not much. Miss Jane decided to spend the last two days with the Fly G1rl, and I spent them... alone. Mostly. Itchy accelerator foot, yesterday... I was coerced by it to see F'bg, stopping by my usual haunts: middle eastern grocery, cigarette store, the Mother Of All Donut Shops II, beer-making supply store. I was going to search out some sashimi, when this invisible band around my head began to squeeze so tight that the sun was shooting daggers in my eyes. Good excuse to bag it... besides, it was my turn to babysit the kerosene heater on the closed-in porch (where the water lines to the washer area. Single-digit overnights are bad news to uninsulated plumbing... and personal overnighters. So, I Stayed My Ass At Home. Man U. shocks Chelsea. Liverpool again blunder to victory. The Gunners regroup to pummel poor West Ham, thanks to Thierry Henry's hat trick. Hope nobody was hoping to avoid those scores. As If. Strange, the chill of any empty bed, where warmth usually lies. I proved all of my old school teachers wrong today, by striving for good marks on "Using Time Wisely." Washing clothes. Washing car. Fixing scanner software. Cleaning tool room. Learning to clean fuel injection systems on Miata. Before I flopped in front of telly. Fight Club. Now, that was a peculiar film. Probably a bit too prophetic on the pyrotechnics, right on time for my corporate warfare feelings. I used to pass off Brad P1tt as a prettyboy... but these are some off-the-wall movies I've been seeing him in. And Ed Norton... J0e Strumm*r's lost American cousin. At the end, could't help that odd sensation in the guts after the final Pixies cut. Alter Egos. Evil Twins. Blood and single-minded intent. Violence, personal and pervasive. And, a smoky B0hnam-Carter... mmmmmmmmmmm. So, that's it. Really. Still got a pile on the to-do list. And, on my own again, tomrrow. |
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