(no subject)

At a blues club, the night before last, there was a thing. Perhaps an incident, maybe even a fracas, but nothing more serious than some hurt feelings and drama. Now, if I hadn't made this clear, the blues scene in Chicago is one huge everyone-knows-everyone incestuous clusterfuck. People who I don't know, know me, because R and the Ratpacker and O and K know me. People I don't know recognise me. It's a small small world.

Anyway, R was there at the club and he saw the thing, which was sort of a domestic dispute plus friends. Word got around yesterday about what had happened and that R was there. So when I got home and he was asleep on the couch I kept wondering why his phone was ringing constantly. Then once he woke up he started answering, and spent ALL EVENING on the phone dissecting the event and everyone associated with it, like some junior-high gossip who was at the party when Jimmy threw Melanie into the pool, oh my god, why would he do that?

Bluesmen: the original drama queens.

Meanwhile, I'm the cool grownup teacher in the teen movie, which is slightly disconcerting.

(no subject)

Dear everyone ever visiting this office:

Don't try to be funny with the admins. Be polite, be friendly, speak clearly, that's all we want from you; your jokes are not as amusing as you think they are and nobody gets them, but we have to smile vaguely anyway and inside we are trying to lobotomise you telepathically. Today might be the day I succeed.

Seriously, who walks up to someone's desk and instead of introducing themselves orders a toasted bagel and cappucino? Why would you do that?

Also, saying of my boss "This is pretty fancy. He doesn't really work here, does he?" to me? Not the way to ensure that I stop trying to give you telepathic brain damage anytime soon.

(no subject)

I just read a whole eight-point post about the benefits of blogging. Somebody kill me.

Although...

(Seriously, kill me, I can't believe I'm about to make an entire post about posting.)

It's interesting that not once was mention made of the fact that when you keep a journal, and you update it regularly, you're not just social networking but building a record for yourself of your life. I tried to keep journals in high school and at university but my success was pretty limited, and I chalk it up to 1. Feeling stupid talking to nobody, 2. the fact that I don't like writing by hand, and 3. I would rather paste shiny pictures into my notebooks than discuss my day to day life.

LJ's a bit different because, well, I'm not talking to a wall. HI GUYS. It's easier to post about tragedies and triumphs (well, triumphs anyway) when I know that there's a reason, that I'm not wanking into a notebook but rather sharing news. And because I am sharing news often it is the most important stuff that gets recorded here. Despite the fact that -- *checks* -- in my last three posts I discussed telepathically killing our clients, gossippy bluesmen, and our errand boy's potential flammability.

But the point is that I can look up May or June of 2005 and know that I'll be able to find out, because hell if I can remember, what I was feeling the day I turned in my Master's thesis. I have a real record of where I was and where I am now. And when I write my autobiography all I'll have to do is cull out the references to porn. Or at least make them into their own chapter, so they hit you all at once in the face.

Well, I've managed to get from internet metacommentary to literary money-shots in less than three hundred words, so my work here is done.

(no subject)

I was going to write, this afternoon, but around noon a sneak headache attacked me and by quitting time I had to take a cab home. Too many stairs, too much standing on a swaying vehicle for public transit. I swear, I'm trying to get time off to see a doctor, there's like three I need to see, but I always forget how urgent it is until I'm subject to a three-hour-long ice-cream headache.

I got home and found that Sugar, in a fit of pique, had strewn his dog food liberally over the kitchen. From now on, no more free-access to the dog food. So I took a pill and swept it up, but enough drugs to kill the pain are also enough drugs to dope me pretty thoroughly, and before I knew it I was hazily washing the dishes and putting in a load of laundry. I also put some stuff in the bread machine; hopefully I got the measurements right...

And now I'm going to put my head down and curl up in a ball for a bit. The pain's manageable, but man, even my HAIR aches.

On the plus side, I was cleaning out the memories in my LJ in anticipation of moving them over to my del.icio.us account, and I found a handful of fics that never got archived. Those of you who enjoy Nero Wolfe (or are curious) may fancy reading The End, a wolfe fic I wrote years ago. It's PG-13 for violence and it's definitely dark, with major character death, so fair warning.