2003-10-29 - 4:00 p.m.
Whoa. While reading some of Sassy McSmartpants' old archives, the most powerful deja vu ever hit. I'm reading along, happy happy laugh snort, when all of a sudden my brain does this perwhizzle snap thing. And I know I've been here before, ass print on assy office chair, reading this same non-assy Sassy entry. Schwa. Trippy.
While we were driving to San Francisco on Sunday, Scratcher asked me what his voice sounds like. Apparently this is the reason his answering machine still has the Terminator-esque original message on it - he thinks he sounds freaky on machines. A little bit later, we were listening to Soul Coughing (Ruby Vroom, if you must know), and it hit me. He sounds a lot like Mark Ribot talking about Chicago not being Chicago. But instead of encouraging me to shoot heroin, the way Ribot does, Scratcher's voice makes me want to unzip him while we're at a standstill in I-80 traffic. God. There must be a separate level of hell for the oversexed. Or maybe just a really good dance club. Join me, one and all. I think we access it near the battery section in Costco.
Tonight I'm hanging with the ladies, watching the Kings open their season by crushing itty-bitty media wonder Levon James. At least that's the way it happens in my mind. The evening as pictured also includes a six-pack of Sudwerk Helles, my knitting, and some Chinese takeout from the yumm-tastic New Station. Life is hard.
Thanks for the support after last time's money grumbles. I'd rub you all for luck if it weren't 1) physically improbable - even my libido can't reach to another state, much less country; and 2) kinda gross. All that rubbing. Without latex. I like you, but can't we just be friends?
Yeah, yeah, I'm down with my spicy bitchmongering self today; two cups of coffee and an entire pack of L's cinnamon grahams will do that. Sorry, L. Never trust me with grahams. In fact, never trust me with anything that's sweet, crunchy and spicy all at the same time. The oatmeal topping on apple crisp comes to mind. Oh evil baked goods, how you torment me.
Re-reading the above...an entire entry that talks about nothing. Empty wasteland Britney-pop kinda nothing. Maybe vapidity is the way to go. Or maybe I'll read some more Nicholson Baker tonight and try to salvage what's left of my brain.
Night, y'all. Time to go pick up the Ritalin. [exeunt]
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