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A weekend with promise unfolded into prosaic dreariness once again. I was hoping to watch one of the hockey games among some friends, but I never received any reply until the following day, when I was told that they'd passed out during the game blah blah blah.....the next morning, under the duvet (because the weather still feels like late March despite almost being June) it got me pondering about conspiracies, and how easy it is to imagine certain people and/or institutions devoted to sabotaging one's peace of mind. Sort of like that Pynchon novel about the nefarious postal delivery service, which must be based on truth because a t-shirt I ordered online last year still hasn't arrived. The vendor probably used my credit card number to purchase Kalashnikovs or bouquets of plastic flowers - something mean, coarse, and nasty. Then I considered the alternative possibility of being a dour, humorless, and unlikeable human being - but that only added to the misery and woe, and so I eventually settled on the theory that all of my minor inconveniences were propagated by the alcohol industry. And then I muttered some cranky phrase before curling up into the warm bed to have a lie-in, since it was only ten past noon.
It was my mother's birthday on Friday, and she promptly used my phone call for a complaint session against my father, who for perfectly understandable reasons can't be bothered to attend some performance that my sister is involved in. It's pretty clear by now that I'm the King Solomon/Chief Justice/Bob Barker/arbiter of sense and manners in this family, so I let my Mom know that despite what the other dads do, they too were brainwashed by the sinister hugs & kisses industry controlled by Carvel and Hallmark. She curtly thanked me for remembering her 49th birthday - despite my original guess of 55 - and reminded me to eat healthy food. If only nutritious food - like organic cereal and fresh juice - didn't feel so disconcertingly upper-middle-class. And yes, I'm fully aware that only children of upper-middle-class backgrounds worry about how bourgeois they are. I might as well go ahead and develop that palette for extra virgin olive oil.
I explored around some previously unfamiliar streets of the city, and the sights I saw went along an iteration of: pizza place, laundromat, bar, convenience store, out-of-place posh boutique.
I was hoping to read lots, but after Jane Austen's novels it seemed most inauspiciously that my sentiments began to adopt a meandering and perhaps, tangential manner of expression, in which an otherwise pithy, succinct observation became a most laborious exercise of understanding, until one was almost dispelled of that faint desire to master our native tongue. So I spent the rest of time getting wet in the rain.
I glimpsed the sight of a pretty ugly man getting sucked off by an even uglier dwarf-woman behind a dumpster. Really, for entertainment, who needs the theater?
Apart from all that, life so far a barrel of cheap laughs. There's a despondent, angry man around my block who keeps unsuccessfully chasing after the harmless, doddering pigeons. At least I appreciate his community service.
It was my mother's birthday on Friday, and she promptly used my phone call for a complaint session against my father, who for perfectly understandable reasons can't be bothered to attend some performance that my sister is involved in. It's pretty clear by now that I'm the King Solomon/Chief Justice/Bob Barker/arbiter of sense and manners in this family, so I let my Mom know that despite what the other dads do, they too were brainwashed by the sinister hugs & kisses industry controlled by Carvel and Hallmark. She curtly thanked me for remembering her 49th birthday - despite my original guess of 55 - and reminded me to eat healthy food. If only nutritious food - like organic cereal and fresh juice - didn't feel so disconcertingly upper-middle-class. And yes, I'm fully aware that only children of upper-middle-class backgrounds worry about how bourgeois they are. I might as well go ahead and develop that palette for extra virgin olive oil.
I explored around some previously unfamiliar streets of the city, and the sights I saw went along an iteration of: pizza place, laundromat, bar, convenience store, out-of-place posh boutique.
I was hoping to read lots, but after Jane Austen's novels it seemed most inauspiciously that my sentiments began to adopt a meandering and perhaps, tangential manner of expression, in which an otherwise pithy, succinct observation became a most laborious exercise of understanding, until one was almost dispelled of that faint desire to master our native tongue. So I spent the rest of time getting wet in the rain.
I glimpsed the sight of a pretty ugly man getting sucked off by an even uglier dwarf-woman behind a dumpster. Really, for entertainment, who needs the theater?
Apart from all that, life so far a barrel of cheap laughs. There's a despondent, angry man around my block who keeps unsuccessfully chasing after the harmless, doddering pigeons. At least I appreciate his community service.