Not A Very Diligent Worker
12 November 1999
9:01 PM: We went out to lunch today at the Delancey Street restaurant - which is actually on the Embarcadero, Delancy Street being the name of the rehab program that runs it, as part of this gorgeous Italianate complex they've built down here - to celebrate, finally, the launch of the new publishing system that's been making life various flavors of Hell lately. (Oh man. First I wrote that as "flabers", then as "flavours". Who the hell is haunting my brain now?)
So, since I met everyone there, I didn't really get in to work until almost 2 PM today. So I should be right in the groove now, right? Biowhateveryado? No no no no. Eyelids are magnets. Seeing is like lifting weights. Maybe this font really is too small. And trying to read this particular magazine, well, the strain is world famous.
Of course I did wake up at 8 AM for no particular reason. And work 14 hours yesterday, because I forgot to go home. This pattern of degeneration is disturbing me. I am Just So Fucking Tired All The Time. I blame mornings. And Canada of course.
Some blonde drunk chick plopped herself down in a seat near me at the bar last night. At first she was peering at me without saying anything, and I thought damn, I am having that face-memory problem again. So I asked her if I knew her, and she said No, so that was OK. But then I stuck out my hand to say, Hello I'm So-and-so, and she sort of just ignored it and started to ask me something or say something, mostly about how I was here by myself and did I mind and she was out of work and enjoying her beer. So that made it pretty clear, and the ending, when in mid-phrase she simply said, Oh I have to go over here for a minute, and went back to her tall jocko white boy tucked-in-shirt friends, to harangue them about work shit, and never came back, that ending was precisely to be expected. And I didn't particularly care one way or another. I am getting to care less and less about many things and I can't help but feel it's probably a good thing. Less thinking. Like poor Willow, I just think and think and think.
Speaking of Buffy, my God, that was the saddest episode, especially after all this CosmoGirl Willowage. Sentimental fool.
That and listening to University, the Throwing Muses CD that I got in the jillion-CD-box the other day. Reminds me of something that Greta said to me when we met outside the first Elvis Costello show. He was singing one of his many emotionally intense songs, one that she had been half-singing to herself every morning for years, and as she listened to it, she thought to herself, "Gosh, this is really a pretty maudlin song."
Her next thought was, "I bet Tater's here."
And it's true, that's me all over, Mr. Maudlin Head. It's the sensation in the music that I crave, I guess, and nothing beats angst, loss, and bitterness when it comes to that unmistakable whole-body thrill. Pain sells.
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.