2:20 pm: Watching world cup soccer. A player elbows another player from the opposing team in the chest. That player clutches his face (not his chest) like it’s been eaten by fire ants and falls over. Red card. G sums it up, “Fuck soccer.”
10:48 am: I wake from what feels like the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. This is surprising. The room I’m in does not have blinds or drapes and the sun is blinding.
12:21 pm: Buy guitar strings. Then go to a thrift store. Find a copy of Pierre Berton’s The Joy of Writing. It’s so funny to see “joy” and “writing” in the same sentence. Berton wrote an average of 10,000 words a day while working for the Toronto Star.
1:25 pm: Read the Vatican backs The Blues Brothers as a Catholic film. Okay, sure Vatican.
2:51 pm: Inside Superstore. One of the ones with a gym, hair salon, bank, and a restaurant. Like a city unto its self. I try to imagine (as I walk past the live crabs and lobsters) the kind of person that would shop, work out and bank all at Superstore. I am unable to come up with a picture.
There is a grey blank where a character should be. See a clerk that looks like Henry Winkler. Jesus, where is the quinoa?
6:04 pm: After a long day at work, I fantasize in great detail about my future career as ne0-bard that synopsizes films I remember to the citizens of the ramshakle hobo camps for water and food. Then I think it is going to be a long night.
10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.
He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.
10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.
12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.
3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?
3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.
3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.
5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.
8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.
9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.
9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.
9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.
9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”
9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.
1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.