19 March 1999
5:37 PM: You know what I don't understand? The connection between being a swingin-dick kind of guy and really bad music that features high-voiced guys and derivative guitar wanking. I just don't get that. "You see, if I had actually functional musical taste, that would prove that I am less than a man."
In other words, Manly Man and the boy crew are having another beer fest here...
8:34: Aghj. That's a typo but it feels right, y'know?
Parties, clubs, places, see, do, be, hi, no no nope, nope. Fight to sleep til 3:30. Show up at 4:30. 5 of 5 days, good show. More visits to another, better life in sleep, too. This is what we call in engineering, "testing to destruction."
12:22 AM: So. I leave work. I get off the train. I go to the liquor store to buy cigarettes. I nearly drop dead.
Because standing there, buying soda with a friend, is Mary. Not really Mary, not Mary as she would be now - she'd be older, she was already starting to go gray nine years ago. No, this was Mary as she was, say, when she left her husband to come live with me, in 1986. A ghost.
I don't mean the hair was the same in that light, or from the side it's weird how much she looked like, or for a second I thought. It was her. She sounded like her, the Northern California accent. Same eyebrows, same nose, same height. All I could do was stand there. Some other guy in the store asked her if she was PJ Harvey. "No, you dummy, that's a ghost, and besides, PJ Harvey is the band." But I didn't say it.
Hey, God - put a fork in me, I'm done here, OK? I couldn't even go recover in stunned silence with a beer because The Bar is having a private party. Fuck me. I demand a better screenplay.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
All names are fake, most places are real, the author is definitely unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
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The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne.