Time to Move On

I woke up early this morning, left my wife slumbering, and went to this place for a solo breakfast. I love Pete's Cafe. It's my kind of diner. The food is just OK, but the waitresses are all in their fifties or better and they're all crusty but friendly.

After breakfast, and after spending some time wading through boxes upon boxes of crap, I rented this pickup truck so I could take things over to our office's storage facility nearby. The truck is huge. Four doors. Actually very roomy and comfortable. If it weren't for the fact that it probably drinks enormous amounts of fuel, I'd consider it an option to replace The Bastard when the time comes. But no, it's too big and gas-thirsty.

This is just a piece of what's left to give to the shredding company when they visit on Wednesday. They'll shred all of our documents that need shredding (we've already taken a huge volume of paper to the recycling center...used the big black truck for that duty today). When it's all done, it will be like we just opened up our company and have very little paper to weigh us down.

Friday Convergence

I was in my car, witnessing an actual rain event. This has become exceedingly rare. People have been known to pay for this sort of experience. The photo captures the confusion I experienced as I contemplated the convergence of car, rain, roads, traffic, and reflections.




Soon after my experience with rain, I met a former employee for lunch at this place. I was 15 minutes early. He was 15 minutes late. This combination caused a tear in the fabric of the serene movements of waitstaff. I was labeled a victim of being stood up. It wasn't the case, but the waitstaff wanted to believe it, deep in their bones. They wanted to know I was a poor, lonely man in a restaurant filled with Friday-lunch gatherings of 6-8-10-12 people each. I think it made them feel like they could take a little of the burden off of me; they offered me tea and a phone in case I wanted to call somebody.

See

I got a nice surprise email today from a blogger friend who sent me a link to one of her playlists with some wonderful music. We share good taste in music, despite what the rest of you might think.

The remainder of the day was basically uneventful, save for a luncheon meeting with an old acquaintance with whom I can comfortably spend an hour annually. At least he bought the lunch.

Then, tonight, I made a very nice, relatively light sauce for spaghetti (again): olive oil, butter, lots of garlic, dried basil, dried oregano, dried red pepper flakes, and a can of chopped clams (there's no buying fresh clams in Dallas, especially not now). When combined with a nice butter and garlic sauce with bread, the meal was fabulous (and much more caloric than would have been ideal). Tasty stuff!

Tonight, another unexpected interest in watching a bit of the Olympics, followed by a yearning to type drivel into this blog, which is underway, but soon to end. See, I told you so.

Mellow

I had almost finished writing a vitriolic diatribe about a driver I encountered this morning when Blogger decided I should just abandon it. Shit!

I had explained why I would like to find the bastard and beat him to death, slowly, with an axe handle. I had explained what I would say to the bastard about why I was killing him and why his death would be greeted by humanity as a step forward in evolution.

But Blogger decided against me posting it. Now, I feel like taking an axe handle deep into the bowels of the Internet, swinging it wildly and killing people who "need killing."

No, I don't believe there are people who would be viewed by society, collectively, as "needing killing." But there are people who could be described that way by me, if they match my mood. I'm not a monster. I just think I should be given the duty, on behalf of mankind, of deciding who should die for the greater good. There would be fewer executions in our prisons if that were to happen, I assure you. But there might be surges of axe-handle murders where I spend time.

I try not to get so damn mad. But it's never worked before, and its not working now.

Phrenologist...it's what's for dinner

You didn't have to say it. You didn't have to write it. I knew what you were thinking when you read my last post.

"He's lost his fucking mind. He's either on drugs, alcohol, or has experienced a massive medical meltdown that has affected his brain."

No, it ws just me trying to let my mind get a workout.

I'm not crazy. I promise.

Oh, I had a voicemail waiting when I got home today. It was the phrenologist's office. "This is Cindy at Dr. Cannotpossiblypronouncehisname's office. I finally got the doctor to tell me when he wants you to come back for a follow-up. He said three months. That will be in November. Please call me to set up an appointment."

Three months? WTF? I dropped off a huge orange bottle of piss yesterday, and they took my blood, and they want to talk again in three months? Not fucking likely. I want the results of the jug'apissathon. I want to know what the blood said. I want to know what week before last's renal sonogram revealed. Come back in three months? Are they fucking crazy?

I'll report back, one of these days, on the phrenologist's reactions to my response to his office's voicemail. "A promising young phrenologist was killed today by a blast of wind from an angry patient's lungs and throat...."

Linguicide and Pescacide: Two Sides of the Same Coin

Linguicide. It sounds sinister, and it is. I suppose. Who would purposely engage in the attempted murder of a language? The very same people who would engage in infanticide or pescacide.

If a person's character permits him (or her) to intentionally murder a living language, then his (or her) character will most certainly permit him to intentionally take the life of an innocent fish, a speckled trout commonly found in the salt waters off the coast of Texas. It's that sort of duality that frightens me and makes me cringe when forced to engage in chit-chat with people I believe to be, or who I believe have the capacity to be, serial killers.

It takes a certain kind of psychologist to understand and attempt to treat linguicidites and pescacidites. And that special kind of psychologist is known as either a linguipsychologist or a pescapsychologist. Look it up in any dictionary of my choice!

I learned these things, and many more numbingly fascinating facts, by having a lengthy internal conversation in Latin with a paracatholic nun named Deliciosa Drinkwater. Deliciosa is James Kneeblood's most recent double delicious illicit paramour. You may remember James, with whom I conversed here on this blog long, long ago.

Let me go give that some thought.

Unwind

Today was a long one. A client's annual highight event is tomorrow and, so, several of us were involved in preparations today. That was after handling a multitude of other errands. We finally left the office after 8:00 pm and had a bite to eat at a Mexican restaurant near the office. Finally, we're home and can unwind.