I have sworn to keep my current machine until it’s seen four years of service. I had been thinking that would put my reup in Spring of ’09.
I just looked at the serial number of the trusty old axe and the manufacture date is September 2004. Hm. I think I must have bought it within a month or so of that date.
Looks like I can shift some hardware acquisition up in the year. Good!
Man, the solstice up here sometimes means four hours of dark, and it like to mess a body up. If a body is me.
I originally constructed this post with no content but the Words proper. Then I thought of the 69 year old I am corresponding with concerning genealogy who complimented me on my website. So I’ll wait a while.
On the other hand, Mr. Carlin was 71 when he died.
The New Yorker’s fiction issue includes a longish, elegantly written tale of the baby-trade which interweaves themes of new life, death and loss, sex, and the things we Americans do in service of our desires. It seems unlikely that the piece, written in the form of a companion’s memoir of the expedition to Addis to save some tot or other, oh that one will do, from darkest Afric, is intended to prompt identification in the reader with, respectively, the child or the Alzheimer’s afflicted and now-passed hubby. It’s aggravating to learn I can’t share it with you.
I have spent my life between worlds, and imagine that will continue interminably until terminated. Friends, you have no idea of the distance I keep.
On the way in to work this morning, I was bemused to be passed by what is clearly the last of a dying breed, the dinosauroid SUV.
What bemused me was the model name of the bloated behemoth: the Buick Enclave surely signals a shift in spirit from the Armadas and Escalades of yore.
Everything that passes through my mind makes me feel a wave a physical nausea. I am filled with loathing so profound that it is literally bringing bile to my mouth.
Did you ever wake up and realize that something you’d done was so, so sad?
VU: Sunday Morning (Banana; I have easy access to the Quine Tapes version, but I’m really thinking of the Max’s Kansas City Version).
Goodbye, Chloe.
Your passing fills me with venom and hatred and rage.
I’d say I’ll see you soon, except that would be a motherfucking lie, a mealy-mouth obeisance to Thanatos. Fuck him, and the life-giver too. Pain junkies.
To the man in Radio Shack having a loud conversation regarding your child custody case: by holding this conversation in a loud voice in a public space, you certainly convinced all of your fellow shoppers that you do, indeed make poor choices and led us to most assuredly hope you lose your custody case.