last night I threw some darts in the gay-rage with reuben and pals. I threw better than i have in months. pat and I won four games in a row, much to reubens discontent. the age gap between individuals in the garage was made appearant once again. Pat asked, "where were you in 1981?". It seems as though when i was not even a thought, a year and a half before i was to enter this world, pat had just gotten out of the military and was working the door at the intersection. good grief.
I'm currently reading the new novel by douglas coupland, Eleanor Rigby. It's strange reading a coupland novel that isn't social commentary but, in fact, just a novel. It's fairly compelling though.
I'm wasting time at kava house to escape the heat. It's only natural, then, that in my journey to my local fueling station i end up waiting for over a half hour in the heat for the bus, sweat pouring down my back. Counting change and allocating two thirds to coffee and one third to bus fair, I feel more like n. reynolds daily. How much can I do with very, very little?
Before sitting down to write i thought I had something worthwhile to write about. I was wrong. Dear readers, I'm sorry once again.
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2 comments:
i got your message yesterday (i had been in wisconsin with my family, which explains my absence from mulligan's on monday) but i was there last night, and that's why i called, in case you were wondering. i want to see this new apt. and finally get a chance to talk to you. we haven't had a real conversation since late april, and that is too long. this flower is wiltin.
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