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contours provocations
journal - 2001-0711 - wed 2030 Why I Dislike CDT; Why I Feel Grumpy; Why I Wanted To Punch A Lady In The Nose; Why I Sought Justice; Why I Love Chandler It's 8:30 in the evening, and there is still daylight, waning as it might be, outside. For some reason, I've never been impressed with central daylight savings time (CDT). I suppose it's great if you're going to run home from work, then plant a couple of acres of strawberries. In fact some folks, like those in the state of Arizona, refuse to participate. Their reasoning is the temperature - they see no cause to spend an extra hour in the daytime heat. And I don't blame them. It is certainly no less hot here, plus our humidity is out of sight. I've been fighting an upper respiratory infection (URI) for the last couple of days. I noticed Sunday afternoon that I felt feverish, so I scooted off to the clinic and got a prescription for antibiotics. And since then I've felt sorta dragy and grumpy and irritable. The biggest problem I always face is neuralgia. An achy, tight, fatigued sensation that keeps me awake. BUT this evening I actually feel semi-decent. Speaking of being cantankerous, on the way to lunch today, I was tempted to get out of my car and punch some idiot woman in the nose. She followed about ten feet behind me in her big fucking SUV for several miles on the VERY BUSY frontage road. I could tell by looking in the rearview mirror that she was very agitated. I finally got a chance to pull into the other lane, and once I did, I put my left arm out the window and made a series of colorful but explicit hand gestures. I go out of my way to give people the benefit of the doubt when I'm driving, so it really pisses me off when I encounter a fucking jerk - male or female. I can only guess that leaking carbonmonoxide fumes have addled their brains. To be honest, my reaction to such incidents bothers me. I always feel guilty. And keep asking myself if I could have been at fault. But today, there was no possibility of fault on my side. (If I'd thought of it, I should have yelled out, "Bitch! I hope your momma's dick falls off!") I've been dipping into the three books I ordered from Amazon.com. I got so engrossed in the Benjamin Justice story, "Simple Justice" that I stayed up and read until almost 2. (See reason above for not being able to sleep.) A gay free-lance reporter in LA. A very independent reporter who has made a major mistake. The author, John Morgan Wilson, does a wonderful job of presenting a clever, complex plot mixed with Hollywood nostalgia. (I discovered that James Dean had a heart-shaped tattoo on the inside of his thigh near the scrotum so it would not show. And in the tattoo was the letter "S." Some say it stood for Sal - Sal Mineo, his co-star in "Rebel Without A Cause.") Oh! Did I forget to mention the gay aspect? As integral a part of the plot as anything I've read. No lavender herrings here. I know you want to know about the explicit sex. And there is some. And it also is intergral to the plot. Actually, I could have settled for more of it. I'd almost rank Wilson up there with Raymond Chandler who created the modern detective. Of course, Chandler is in the stratosphere of fiction, and I've not encountered anyone who could equal him. And I'm dying to quote, so here goes: In "Farewell, My Lovely," the private eye, Philip Marlowe is trying to find a missing woman and is getting help from a reporter. "She reached into her bag and slid a photograph across the desk, a five-by-three glazed still. PAX!
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