In an attempt to get some work done at lunch, I thought I’d hunker down at the corner table at Brazil and do some tinkering with Plan B (a play is NEVER finished) (Albee is still editing Virginia Woolf) (not that I’m comparing myself to Albee) (mostly). No dice. Two young queens sat at the table next to me. They were both still in high school, and judging by how skinny they were, I’m guessing they’re on the caffeine-only diet. Well, caffeine and pot. One of them told a story about being in the backyard smoking a joint with friends the other night when his mother came outside and almost busted him. Evidently his mother is not only stupid but is also lacking any olfactory senses because she didn’t notice the thick haze surrounding his head. Then again, he could have been making the whole thing up trying to impress his table companion.
While telling the story, his companion repeatedly said, “That’s hot.” I can’t put into words quite how irritating I found that little catchphrase, but I must have been giving off some super strong bad vibes because they weren’t sitting there more than five minutes when one suggested they go sit outside. The other one said, “that’s hot” and I wasn’t sure if he was using his catchphrase or referring to the 85+ degree weather. I’m not sure he knew, either.
Jackasses. Or maybe I’m just crabby. Six of one.
Some day, once my plays are bringing in enough money, I want to have a dog farm, a place where dogs that don’t have a place to live can come and be happy. They will be free-range, with the ability to go inside their special kennels whenever they want. I will let veterinary students live on the property for free in exchange for taking care of the dogs. Mornings, I will pull my thick robe around me and go out on the deck of the house with a cup of coffee to watch packs of dogs running and playing in the field. There will be one dog that gets to live in the house, and that dog will be disliked by the other dogs though they will never say anything.
Only thing I haven’t figured out yet is how to deal with all the dog shit.
My gynecologist will be featured on 48 Hours this weekend. Seems my gyno’s brother-in-law was murdered by her sister (his wife), and she may have helped. This all went down shortly after my last visit to her office. Glad it was after my visit, because the last thing you want is a distracted gyno waving that scrapey thing around. Maybe I’ll bring the trial up next time I see her so I won’t be the only one in the room who is really uncomfortable. Then again, truly the last thing you want is a distracted AND pissed off gyno.
I brought an apple to work today to have as a snack this afternoon. I’m not sure I’m going to eat it now because there is a cocoon of some sort covering the bottom stem area. I’m afraid to find out what is living in there, plus I don’t know how far up the apple the creature has traveled. Bugs really suck. I was so looking forward to my apple. It’s a Golden Delicious or, in this case, a Golden Deathlicious.
UPDATE ON THE APPLE – I cut the bottom off and sliced right through a freaking WORM. That’s disgusting. The worm is dead. I did not eat the apple.
Ever have that moment where you know, if you were an observer of yourself, you’d make fun of you? I had one of those moments this morning. I was pulling into the parking garage. Had the windows down and was listening to Born to Run. There was a guy with a briefcase walking down the sidewalk. Appeared to be about my age. We made eye contact as I turned in. He didn’t laugh at me or anything, but it got me thinking. Am I really born to run? Is he?
I had the misfortune of being stuck in two traffic jams on 290 Sunday – one on my way out of town and one on my way in. I won’t call it bad luck – bad luck would have been being involved in either incident. A guy died in the morning accident that completely shut the freeway down (his car was hit by an asshole going over 100 – an asshole who kept going, by the way). Sitting there listening to a John Lennon special on XM and drinking a cup of coffee, I felt pretty lucky. Slight inconvenience, but no more.
As I sat in stopped traffic on my way back to Houston (and if you do much traveling on the interstate, you know how disconcerting it is to be totally stopped basically in the middle of nowhere) I had lots of time to ponder why there were such bad accidents. Obviously, the 3.5 inches of rain that fell during the day had something to do with it. But I think it goes beyond that. It’s people yakking on cell phones. It’s having a freaking entertainment system in your vehicle. It’s ramming your SUV up my ass when I’m already going 78. Are we all in that much of a freaking hurry? Really?
I especially like it when someone passes me in a piece of shit hoopdee. I’ve been in (and owned) plenty of cars that shake over 70 mph, and I know these craptastic junk mobiles are doing the hustle when they’re being pushed over 80. Some day, a jerkwad in a junker is going to be hot-footing it down the highway when the car will just rattle itself to pieces, leaving the jackass sitting there strapped to his car seat holding a steering wheel connected to nothing.
The show at Diverse Works last night was amazing. So glad I went, even though I’m super lame and hate going out on a Monday night. And I managed to find my way there without too much trouble. Note to self: mapquest sucks. Gave me explicitly incorrect directions. I think I have a handle on where it is now, though. And it’s so close to Last Concert – I will have to stop by there and grab a frozen sangria next time I’m in the hood. The only time I make it to Last Concert (since I’m not a fan of jam bands) is to see Us and Them, the Pink Floyd cover band that is really amazing. If you like that sort of thing, and I do. There’s a large concentration of “hippies” who hang out there. By hippie, I mean people who don’t bathe regularly and act like smoking pot is a mystical experience.
My parents, who probably would have fit the definition of hippie back in the day, say that the term back then was derogatory. It was something meant to be an insult by people who just didn’t get it. And now, the people who like to call themselves hippie or think of themselves as such, they’re the ones who don’t get it. Smoking pot and wearing tee shirts from Urban Outfitters with campy 70s slogans on them does not make you a hippie. If anything, it suggests you fall into one of the many demographics being targeted by various white and uptight marketing firms at this exact moment to figure out what kind of cellphone you’re going to buy or what color Xbox will appeal to your groovy sensibilities. Puff puff pass.