Tuesday, May 29, 2007

I often feel that no matter how much I've done, I've wasted another weekend. But not today. I colored my last three days outside the lines. On Friday night, I dined on cactus and beef while making merry with Modelo after refreshing Modelo. My stomach filled to capacity; the way home a savage blur.

In the morning, after the cranial pounding subsided, I sat inside with a book and listened to the rain and let the fresh air through the window to do what it does best—its healing powers soothed my beer-addled pleasure centers. Later that day we would run into familiar people—six of them—at different times at different places throughout the city. It was strange but good.

That night I saw Frog Eyes at Schuba's. Carey Mercer brushed right past me. He sang his fucking heart out and charmed everyone's pants off. His self-conscious quirks and mannerisms brought the house down, his Canadian accent as thick as the gray layer of cigarette smoke hovering overhead. It was a sight to behold and a sound to be heard. I stomped my feet until hours wee and left wanting more.

I didn't see sun until Monday, when it broke through the morning clouds and dried the city's surfaces just in time for kickball. The air was warm and thick. We created a carnival atmosphere with help from cup after glorious cup of cold mixed beverage. We stumbled forward into late afternoon, the sun coloring our shoulders and sweat salting our wounds. I played for the losing team, but didn't feel like I'd lost anything. Indeed, we all repaired to a nearby apartment and continued to drink down drinks with vim—winners and losers both. We grilled and ate meats, fake meats, corn until we couldn't eat anymore.

And when at last my eyelids stung from the utter sleeplessness of it all, I headed home and collapsed onto the couch, gasping for water, for more, for a long night and good dreams. I had everything I wanted. And nothing was wasted.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

I ride the bus with black-haired men who read Fortune and Forbes and who hire experts to groom their fingernails and press their pants. I am a child by comparison, desperate to untuck my shirt. Perhaps the magazines are a discipline. No matter, I want no part of it.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Glenn Greenwald breaks down the right-wing's brilliant plan for Iraq.