This is an empty country; I am the king
And I should not be allowed to touch anything
I'm sad like summer tonight (perhaps it's just the sweater) -- you know, the lonely-lazy feeling of an August night when you can't be bothered to go out and do anything. There's a simple explanation for this: I'm listening to Full Force Galesburg and I polished off the rest of the wine from last night's party. It--the party--was less fun for me than it should have been. There were too many people, and too many of them were people I didn't want to see. After a few minutes and a martini the size of St. Paul's, I crawled upstairs and took a nap. After he got off work, MG burst into my room in a dress like a mirrorball, blue fishnets, and a blonde wig. He laughed at me for falling asleep with the Frankfurt School reader and getting drool on it. If it weren't for the embarrassing moments, what stories would my friends have to tell about me?
I had called SLB when the party was going its bleakest. She told me all about going to the Lusty Lady in SF with her old friend and former best gal and splurged on a private dance so that they could swap stripping stories and make out. Wish I'd been there, but only in that anywhere-but-here way.
I went downstairs with MG, had a beer and a few smokes on the porch with CC, who was stoned and happy since he finally started dating the wonderful girl he has loved forever. Happy people on happy substances are my favorite people ever. The party brightened. I hogged the cd player (well, it is mine, and I have by far the best claims at bon go�t of anybody there.
I'd spent the day making a mix cd for EN, since that's always the way back into things. Mixes are physical contact without fluids. Mixes are incredibly personal statements snatched miraculously from the jaws of anonymous commercial products. Mixes shouldn't work, if G-d were just, but they always do, since He is merciful. Mixes are unfair, like the game Mao, like adultery, like inherited good looks. Mixes with love-notes in German on them, pathogenic mixes which introduce me to new and wonderful bands, which spread the jones for those perfect two bars of melody, mixes should be illegal.
DS called. Whose time is being wasted by whom? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop (tm)?
Last night, in my orange polyester shirt and leopard print mules, I composed an encomium to friendship in the Classical mode; stronger and more energetic than family or romance (that upstart wanton), friendship which has been sadly downtrodden for the last few centuries. Housman(?): If I should ever have to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.
When the pigeons take over Central Square, they shall make me their king.
My father writes, 'I have also managed to attack one of the apple trees, and whittle it down to a mere 15 feet (from the 40 feet it had grown to). Our landscaping instructor (Adult School) said I should be drastic about the pruning - "You should be able to throw a cow up the middle of the tree" - so I am now looking for a cow.'
listening to now: the Aluminum Group, Pedals
reading now: Holy Titclamps backissues
today's Proustian bargain: Late summer, the smell of grass, ripe apples, the wonderful date you have just before you break up.