/ DEAR DAIRY: JUST STOP IT

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608291.post-91463366225346131282008-05-06T22:54:00.000-07:002008-05-06T23:00:18.769-07:00/ DEAR DAIRY: JUST STOP IT<a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/evehorizon/2463717058/" title="white crowned sparrow by evehorizon, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3198/2463717058_dfab1ac48c.jpg" alt="white crowned sparrow" height="334" width="500" /></a> Dear Diary, please stop asking me to write things you KNOW I am not supposed to be writin’ about, that is no way to delve into my psyche. Start small, you know, ask me about my day (NOT THIS ONE THOUGH. ASK ME ABOUT TOMORROW AT THE END OF THAT DAY. FOR NOW JUST BUGGER OFF.) Tomorrow I will write about random interactions with people who could not be more different. Or is it could be more different? I can’t remember the rule of I couldn’t care less/I could care less… One. We had some booths. With swag. And we asked an assistant to man the booth, and as the President would be by, TO PLEASE NOT WEAR THE TRUCKER CAP. He pulled off the hat, and, oh, god, don’t you hate turning into a monster when the sun is otherwise shining? Because there is a reason he wears a hat, and that reason is a sad tale of illness and injury, and, fuck, really, we do not like to be unkind. And we say, ‘God, you know, just don’t mind us. We are insensitive, except when it comes to our own feelings, and then we more than make up for the apathy shown to others. Please wear the hat.’ But being as how he is so polite (I HATE HIM) he buys a brand new hat with money the government surely had to lend him, and when the President walked by, he bit that last bit of vainful pride hard, and set the hat on the table, turned to shake the President’s hand, and GODDAMNIT SOME PUNK MISTOOK HIS HAT FOR SWAG. Later, I said, "Look, don’t worry. This will be a funny story. He will look back on this day and laugh." She said, and I really wish I were joking, “HE JUST FOUND OUT HIS WIFE HAS CANCER.” * * * I hung out with a math whiz today and we talked about the books we’ve published and pre-presentation rituals and all the babies we’ve made (HIS WERE MADE WITH A DIFFERENT INDIVIDUAL, WE JUST MET) and then he impressed me with some pretty good understanding about financial aid, and so I thought I would impress him with <a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://moneycantbuyhipness.blogspot.com/">Don’s </a>sum-of-consecutive-integers puzzle, but before I even said PERIOD, he was all like, 1024. As I tweeted earlier, I saved face by teaching him to set the radio clock in the van, which was an hour behind, but 12 minutes ahead, and I did so condescendingly. And then I told him about a great idea for an invention I have which involves an alarm clock that is randomly off every single morning, to cater to those of us who set our clocks ahead by 10 minutes or so (45 minutes) but eventually catch on to the fact that we just set our clocks ahead 10 minutes or so. “So you would have a clock that is randomly some minutes ahead…?” “OR BEHIND,” I interjected. “Every now and then the clock has got to be behind, so that you remember why you are doing this in the first place.” I am all about rememberin your roots. Later on he squared a 5 digit number randomly offered by the audience IN HIS HEAD and that is putting a severe strain on our friendship, because he is obviously bringing more to the table. * * * <a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/evehorizon/2473026110/" title="morcella by evehorizon, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2191/2473026110_b9e1747991.jpg" alt="morcella" height="334" width="500" /></a> “Whatcha lookin for?” There is a trail around our lake that is surprisingly barren of people, save a few older gentlepersons, and while the women will politely nod, the men will not so lightly prod. They have been around this trail, have seen the California transplants wither like crook in a Chinook, and they know a thing or two about what you think you know, too. “Morels.” “Little late in the year.” “Had a bit of a cold spell. No harm in seein’.” “No harm in wastin’ time, I reckon.” I think about the morel in my pocket, one I just found up the trail a bit, but it was only one. It is like half an argument when you can’t remember why you’re fightin’ in the first place. “My grandfather always said I was like a blister, never showed up til all the work was done.” “That sounds about right!” he laughed and walked on. My grandfather never said that, as far as I know.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5608291-9146336622534613128?l=www.brandonoana.com'/></div>/brandon\http://www.blogger.com/profile/10450625039521910963evehorizon@gmail.com15