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contours provocations
journal - 2003-1209 - 2100 Chips; Jumble; Clerks; B-day; Santa Inc. A wet drizzly evening. I'm sitting on the couch eating chocolate chip cookies and trying to keep the cats from taking a nibble. They're such cheeky little darlings, if given a chance, they'll grab something out of my hand. I think it's because the cookies are in a white bowl that looks like their food bowls. Speaking of bowls. I put out food on my back steps for the kitty who may, or may not, live under my house. But the bowls keep disappearing. Which makes no sense. Is there a feline klepto bowl snatcher around? In the mornings on the way to work, I stop at a fast-food place for two biscuits and a large coke. (That was coke not toke.) I'm such a creature of habit that they start working on the order when I pull into the parking lot. To the south of the restaurant, there is a slight hill-like rise in the elevation. It's just enough to give you a view of the roofs of buildings on either side of the Interstate. The view is a wonderful jumble of colors and shapes, almost like an abstract painting. The roofs are red, black, green, brown and grey. And each appears to be at a different angle. And they merge together so that you can't tell which is near and which is far. One day I'm going to give plasma or something, so I can afford a digital camera. Last night I was reading through some blogs. One of which was ChaosInAustin. Bryan made a comment about reading blogs and mentioned True Porn Clerk Stories. I read and read. After a few minutes, I'd passed the chortling stage and was into open-mouthed laughing which quickly led to hysterical guffawing. Yesterday was my birthday. "Gosh, Mr, Cleever, in another couple of years, I'll be able to get my learner's permit." I'm not at all sure what birthdays are supposed to mean. I certainly don't view them as a demarcation. However, I'll not turn down cards, gifts and flowers. By the way, I understand that the Jaguar dealer has just gotten in a new model. The holidays are approaching, and I'm thinking of writing a letter to Santa asking for a snuggle bunny. You'd think a guy supposedly known for giving would let bygones be bygones. But, the last couple of times I've written, I've gotten back snitty letters from his attorneys. It all started when I made that fact-finding trip to the North Pole back in 1999. I stepped into one of the WCs in the workers' dorm and stumbled onto an elf who was exiting the shower. He invited me to his room to view his collection of Victorian bronzes. And one thing led to another. No reason to go into details. Suddenly the door swung open, and there was Mr. S looking a tad pissed. He ranted and raved about the elf being underage. Jesus, how was I to know that an elf is not considered of age until he's 300. Pissy! Pissy! Pissy! Ever since then, my relationship with Santa Inc. has been less than stellar. Some people have no sense of humor. Oh, I did hear from the elf. He got a gig as an escort for some weird travel group. PAX! journal | archives | home | e-mail |