2003-08-03 - 8:54 p.m.
I'm feeling contrary this evening. All of a sudden I want a bunch of things that I just cannot have.
1. Deep fried catfish with a lemon squeeze. Breaded with cayenne and paprika-spiced cornmeal, please. Could somebody arrange to have a metric ton delivered c.o.d. in the next ten minutes? That'd be great.
2. I want to watch Joe Morgan on ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball. Yes, the game is already over. No, I don't have cable. But as soon as the catfish delivery person rings my doorbell, I want the TV to suddenly show me Joe, the former Reds' second baseman and Hall of Famer, my favorite commentator and one of the few guys left in baseball with a conscience. It can even be a useless game - show me the Tigers v. the Brewers if necessary.
3. I want to wake up and be on vacation. It can be Tahiti or the Gulf Coast; I can be on a train, in a boat, aboard a plane or in a bed. But it needs to be outside California nd it needs to be NOW. Oh, and you'll need to arrange it so that I actually have vacation time to pay for the trip, thanks.
4. I want all the jewelry back that the *@!~ing thieves stole from my house in December. I went to put on a bracelet this morning, only to realize that the damn thing doesn't belong to me any more. Raging mofo. You can keep the TV, the PS II, the DVD player and old Presario's original CPU. But I want back ALL of the jewelry. Make sure you include the oversized, livid green ring. I was a Green Lantern with that ring, you shitheads!
5. And while we're at it, I want to find my digital camera cord immediately. Without it I can't show you lovely readers the sweet buttons I bought, today's picnic (complete with golden retriever and kidlets) or Art Teacher's "Baptism" (which, now that I think of it, would probably fix my grumpiness). Just find the effing cord, ok?
6. And last online but first in my heart, I want someone to go with me to the Chagall show at SFMOMA. I want it to be someone who won't mock me when I start crying because the pieces are so beautiful, and who will tolerate my endless wonder at how a man who lived through Kristallnacht could love the world so much. It can't be Art Teacher; he'll want me to talk about god. It can't be Cec or Miss Beek, much as I love them. It should also be someone that I can buy a fantastic fucking dinner for at Chez Panisse and who will genuinely appreciate the kitchen's work - which leaves out both Mom and Dad. If anybody would like to sign up, I'll pay your airfare, give you an extra-comfy couch spot, and dry-clean your shirt after I've cried on the collar.
Ok, rant over. It's time for my Nyquil. I guess all I really want is to be healthy so that my usual affection for life comes back. Kisses.
Comments: Speak your piece!
former / latter