On A Lot Of Things

I had a fabulous 4th of July, despite the cancellation of the Decatur fireworks. I found myself, by the end of the night, firmly intoxicated and wrapped in fitted bedsheets. While cruising down Clairemont, I performed my annual reconsideration of my love of the 4th (this is something which is increasingly necessary as time goes by, though the extent to which I am enraptured by the mere promise of airborne explosions has yet to be overshadowed by my distaste for America's present political regime). I decided that I exercise the unique freedoms awarded to me, as a citizen of the United States, by completely disregarding our nation's wrongdoing; it is the peculiar right of Americans to ignore any and all international problems (even if we caused them, even if we're actively involved in them) without any serious risk of paying for their ignorance. Of course, I believe that the heyday of American ignorance is quickly coming to an end--September 11th may well have been the first time America got shot in its blind eye, but it won't be the last unless foreign policy stops looking like Sam Walton's ultimate cream-dream.

But it's July 5th already. I should move on, shouldn't I?

I left my heart in St. Louis.... and my tennis shoes. It's okay, certain parts were starting to smell, other parts were beginning to wear down and fall off, so I told Pistachio that the garbage would be a suitable destination. Had to ask her to hold onto the shoes, though.

So I worked half of a 9-to-5 today. I dragged myself out of the Britt household at a little after 11, drove home, collected a boxful of slides and albumized photographs from my bedroom, and migrated to the Cube Farm where Mrs. Lucy Britt (AKA Carl's Mom) is second-in-command. Before I was allowed to leave my house, though, my mother forced me to dress semi-respectably; this came down to a pair of gray cords, a dark gray shirt, and my hair all wrangled into a ponytail.

Fast-forward to 'bout 5:45 PM, I walk in the front door of my house and begin complaining about my tedious day (I spent roughly 4 hours scanning, and have scanned 2/7ths of the slides). My father, ever-aware of blemishes, skin-ailments and non-uniformly demarkated discolorations of all shapes and sizes, tells me that it looks like I've been bitten by someone. I ask him if he's sure I wasn't bitten by something while checking myself in the mirror to find WHOOPS! I guess I've had my hair down since the weekend, because he was the first person to notice.

I walked back into their view, blushing from the effort of trying not to, saying "Some big fuckin' mosquitoes in St. Louis".....

I've arranged to go back to the cube farm tomorrow, though Carl's Mom won't be there to defend me from the bloodythirsty advertising big-wigs. I'll just keep my head low and hope that I don't run into her boss, P. Fincher. I did some freelance work for him two years ago, and I resisted his best attempts to haggle down the price of my work, which may explain why it's been two years since I did any work there. They say that the only decorations in his office are his placard, a picture of his family, and a penny in a vicegrip.

-Alan