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3:49 pm | 02 November 2004 | the bum robber baron

Okay fuck it, I can't do anything actual today. There's just such crapassed tension in the air and O I wish I were going to the Kerry Girls's party in Venice tonight but I gotta go home and ch-check the dog, so I'll either end up trying to find a television playing The Daily Show (laundromat? Sports bar?) somewhere in Long Beach, or (like last 'lection) pacing around while listening to radio coverage and freaking out. But, I say, that will have its own time, and for now:


Furtive and/or
Here are some things I have done recently that were furtive and/or weird and were definitely based on my being alone:
-Spent the entire elevator ride (my office is on the top floor) touching my butt because it felt like it was shaped weirdly, just for that moment, or maybe it was the pants;
-Experienced moment of chagrin/regret mid-hangover Monday morning and, upon sitting up in bed, actually hit my forehead with my hand, signifying both "good grief" and "i am a choad"; -The grand finale (that I almost didn't tell you): Saturday I ate some trail mix, as is my wont, and having picked out the cashews, raisins, fake M&Ms, and almonds, resealed the bag (now containing only peanuts) and then tossed it into the trash. Come Sunday early afternoon, when I was making pad thai and didn't have any peanuts on hand--yes, you got it. Fished the Rejected Trail Bits from the trash and put 'em in my next meal (after pulverizing with a fifth of Jameson, natch). I am revolting and unloveable.

Filthy, awful
Last night I was coming down the alley with the dog, post-crap, and upon espying an inordinate pile of good-looking junk overflowing the dumpster behind my apartment, I sashayed over to take a look (REMINDER: i am a filthy, awful trash-picking dumpster-diver. Deal). I had just stepped onto a really cool-looking 1950s bathroom scale (verdict: 138) when something shifted, and I realized that (it was very dark out) there was a full couch sitting there and the other stuff had gotten kind of forted-up around it, and there was a man and a woman just sitting on the couch for all the world like they lived there, and I jumped about three feet and then bolted back to the house, half-scared and half-embarrassed, which gave a weird light to the whole thing: was I embarrassed because a bum (or two) saw me rummaging in the dumpster? Or was I embarrassed because I might have nearly mistakenly stolen trash that either belonged to, or was simply in close proximity to, a bum (or two)? This is why we need discrete houses, people. So I can know what crap is yours.

Reminder: I am very tall and muscley. Thank you.

The scale again
This morning when I came out, the people were gone, but the scale was still sitting there. I eyed it with lust, but the dustmen were already dumping the trash from the leeward side of the dumpster into their truck, and though I could have darted forth and snatched it, I couldn't overcome my fear of being seen as Dirty, and I didn't, and now I am mad. Thank you.

But then again
It's probably good I don't have a scale in the house.

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