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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2003-04-14 ... 3:15 p.m.

Because (I assume) of Passover coming up, and because of my neighborhood being ethnically composed the way it is, the west end of Devon is once again home to a fleet of giant RVs cruising around slowly, using loudspeakers to blast out proselytizing messages to all and sundry. More often than not these vehicles are draped with many banners, some of which (inappropriately, I feel) are political pro-Israel slogans, some that are religious in nature, and some that simply proclaim what the vehicle is for, such as TEFILLIN ON BOARD or URGENT CALL TO THE JEWISH PEOPLE (this is my favorite. The Jewish People on line 1, can you please hold?) The most common sign on these things, though, is MITZVAH TANK. Remember the guy with Tourette's who rides my bus? I saw him yesterday afternoon, and he seems quite taken with the phrase "mitzvah tank"----it has joined mumbling/praying in Hebrew and barking of obscenities as part of his routine. So yesterday he is doing his thing, mentioning "mitzvah tank" frequently, and then all of a sudden he yelled JEWMOBILE! I tell you, although I sympathize with his affliction, it was really hard not to start laughing. Jewmobile. There should be a whole line of religious transportation toys for children, like the Hindu Hot Rod and the Buddha Bus. The Zoroastrian Trolley. The Islamaboat. The PresbyteriWagon. (I refuse to make some tortured and labored Holy Rollerblades joke.) (Thank you Mimi Smartypants. We are grateful for small favors.)

Passover stickers. Out of stock? Damn it! You can still get dancing matzoh, though.

I am feeling fairly pleased to be me today. This has been a hellishly long day, but I got stuff done and managed not to knee anyone in the groin or run around shrieking and clutching at my head (this is strongly discouraged in my office, it frightens the junior staff). It is cold enough to wear a light jacket but warm enough to have sex outside if that is your kind of thing (it is not mine, but the teenage makeout kids sucking face in front of the Michigan Avenue Gap store were pretty much doing everything but, I am talking hands down the pants and everything)*, or to walk places in a leisurely window-shopping fashion, to linger on the corner after your Thai-food lunch with a hospital-administrator friend and waste an entire half-hour talking, seriously exceeding your Allotted Lunch Time. I spent Friday afternoon working in short bursts and then spending the in-between times watching the minutes on the Office Slave-O-Meter tick down. At home LT and I decided to celebrate his recent new paying contract (why do human beings uniformly celebrate receiving money by spending money?) and walked to our local for excellent sushi and giant beers. On the way there we passed the Arby's in our neighborhood and there was actually someone in there eating something, which made me just about fall over because I have never seen anyone in that place and I always assumed that it was a front for an illegal gun shop or something. (However, I hope that the Arby's sticks around because (a) you never know when you might need a light automatic, something small and stylish that fits well in the waistband of the baggy thug jeans, and (b) it has this great sign, shaped like a huge cowboy hat, and the neon words light up in sequential fashion, like so:


It makes a very satisfying little mantra.)

*What "base" is that, in these slightly-more-permissive times? Do kids even use baseball metaphors to describe their makeout sessions anymore? That seemed incredibly cheesy to me when I was even in grade school, so I would be surprised if this culturally-specific linguistic tic were still around.

On Saturday I drank a lot of beer and talked a lot. I talked a lot more than my drinking partner, I think. I must have had lots of words stored up in my mouth. I also had YET ANOTHER CONSUMER-PRODUCT-BASED DREAM that I was in a liquor store and there was this chocolate/marshmallow-flavored liqueur on display, the booze was clear but it came in a bottle that had pink and yellow and lavender all over it, like for Easter. The bottle said GUARANTEED CHOCOLATE MARSHMALLOW DRY MOUTH and the point-of-purchase display said YOU'LL LOVE OUR DRY MOUTH! Huh?

Sigh. It is hard to be back at work, back in the metaphorical saddle again, although in many ways I think it is good for me to have a "day job." If I won the lottery or if some Insane Rich Person decided to pay me to churn out words all the time I am not sure if I would quit this job, even though I occasionally bitch about it here. I have a tendency not to interact with people unless I am forced to, and I can picture myself home all day getting stoned on loneliness and my roundabout rickety thoughts, the screechy rusty playground carousel spinning ever faster in my brain, and then it is only a matter of time before I am hot-glue-gunning google eyes on a loaf of bread and investigating available domain names, with the intention of dedicating an entire website to my friend, "Loafy."

Between Wilson and Sheridan the El (Red Line) zooms past this gigantic cemetery, kind of up the back of it, and from the up-in-the-air vantage point you can see the backs of some cemetery outbuildings that are not meant for public grieving eyes. Near where they keep all the gardening equipment is a mound of old Christmas wreaths, taken from graves in the winter I guess, complete with entangled tinsel and ribbons and such. I found the Heap Of Discarded Festivity vaguely horrifying in a stomach-sick throat-constricting existential-dread way this morning, but that just could have been Monday morning not-enough-tea talking. Mondays are all about the self-medication. And the crappy diary entries. Anon.

---mimi smartypants likes to say "Patagonian toothfish" to herself.


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