Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Peter Boyle died yesterday of an ailment whose name I don't remember. But it was a serious ailment. Deadly even.

Let's all have a moment of silence while we remember him singing "Puttin' On The Ritz" in Young Frankenstein.

Friday, December 8, 2006
Another Day
Life is life, which is to say today was another day. I'm tired (I worked), I got paid (a pittance) and did too much running around.

Each morning I shuttle various family members around the city in a borrowed car (I sold mine, remember?), then speed to work. Arriving, usually, with scant minutes to spare. Then I do it all again in reverse order in the afternoon.

I work at a prominent Capitol Hill thrift store (you know the one). I work too hard for the money I make, but I'm not complaining. I asked to work there, after all. I get good deals on spiffy clothing and work with an assortment of colorful characters.

For instance, there's the little Filipino woman who brought me hot lunch from home today. She moved here to go to school. I think she's lonely. She likes to tell me intimate details of her personal life. If you want to know how her last pap smear went, just ask. I can tell you. She's a sweetheart, though. And she resembles a garden gnome (in stature and countanence) but in a cute way that tempts me to pinch her cheeks. She's also a very good cook.

xxx This paragraph has been deleted because I no longer wanted it here. (ds 11.12.07) xxx

All in all, I like my job. I never dread going to work. I don't like the early mornings, though. I miss that first sweet month here that I spent unemployed. I wish there were some way I could be unemployed, yet still make money. And before you suggest it: selling drugs or robbing banks are not viable options. They are both still jobs and probably a lot more work than what I'm doing now.

If you wish to donate some cash so I can sleep late in the mornings, please contact me via email.

A Last Thought:
This afternoon I was attempting to read a book (American Gods, again) but was suffering through constant interuptions from my darling daughter. I reminded her that I was babysitting for her cousins tonight (two loud boys, who love to touch all of my things with hands that are alternately sticky and greasy) and said she should make the most of this quiet time as it would be the last peace she had until bedtime tonight. She replied that "Sleep isn't peaceful. It's just boring and practice for death."
Ah, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.