tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608291.post-90216995297325877042008-05-09T12:17:00.000-07:002008-05-09T12:19:31.966-07:00<span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/evehorizon/2463717576/" title="wire by evehorizon, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2122/2463717576_373e9718d6.jpg" alt="wire" height="334" width="500" /></a><br /><br />The sound I hate most working home on Friday, the cerebral cortex of the week if that old 10% brain myth is true, is the neighbor looking for her dog, who she has anthropomorphically named Gabriel. The first time it happened, I was convinced a curious toddler had scaled his safety gate, and was wandering the side streets trying to pick out the trench coated stranger who most closely resembled Clifford the Big Red Dog. And the increasing panic in her voice seemed far too maternally urgent for a Basenji, the African Barkless which in hindsight was such a poor choice of pet for both she and her home-bound neighbors.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">All the best science fiction stories have an android that can be deactivated by simply pressing a button somewhere above the hairline on the backside of the head. For me, that button can be activated by making me wait for a telephone call. I am absolutely worthless today and in dire need of a tune up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The post it notes on my screen bear the following important messages: “DO NOT LOSE THE PHONE” “WASH YOUR HANDS” “FLOSS BEFORE TAKING A NAP”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I made three girls cry yesterday. Not even close to my personal best.</span>/brandon\http://www.blogger.com/profile/10450625039521910963noreply@blogger.com