|Kathy (right), much like her pet tortoise, Kip, enjoys the desert.|
3:24 a.m nope
3:47 a.m. must stay in bed until 4
3:59 a.m. oh all right…
4:03 a.m. What have I gotten myself into? A deadline at 9 a.m. for a script on the power grid of the future what do I know about the grid? For once I haven’t procrastinated but I have to edit and format and come up with ideas for infographics and treatments for interactives and ah shit well I’ve done the best I can tried to make the electric grid fascinating and smart appliances intriguing and
8:58 a.m. SEND
If it’s not any good, at least it’s on time.
9:00 a.m. No sign of John. Has he died? Without the normal morning cues he’s slept in, “I have 11 minutes to get to work,” he says. An hour later he’s still rearranging scraps of paper on his desk or whatever it is he does to stall.
10:00 a.m. I feed Che, scraping hay dust off the bottom of her bucket—poor bunny, I’ve neglected her trying to crank out this script for Edison (people who really know what they’re doing) oh crap my script sucks it sucks they’re going to see I’m an idiot I should stick to dinosaurs.
|Not many truly neglected rabbits have a yoga ball.|
11:00 After a run, I feel bereft taking my shower, missing working at the museum, missing structure, missing a workplace, missing my friends. An expedition! That’ll make me feel better. I promised my friend John H. that I’d go see the Ringo exhibit at the Grammy Museum. I could do something productive like write my own stuff but the fucking chihuahua next door is barking barking barking one day I’m going to snap….and yeah, any excuse.
12:00 Lunch is squalid leftovers. Sweet potato and tempeh hash mixed with what had been an ok lentil curry a few days ago. Fuel.
1:00 pm Cheryl’s email comes about posting writers’ days. So I walk to the Metro station narrating my journey:
• I hear a PCC student singing in the station stairwell: Popeye Fried Chicken it’s all I want is it too much to ask for fried chicken friend chicken I want fried chicken.
• Bright October sun on my arms
• The guy sitting in front of me with the dead fly in his hair. Not a regular housefly Musca domestica but some kind of drain fly Clogmia albipunctata maybe.
• A family settling in near me smells strongly of fabric softener. They smell like domestic love.
|My hair follicles just shuddered.|
4:00 pm I am surprised at how tiny Ringo’s Sgt Pepper uniform is. I hunt through the gift shop for just the right souvenir for John H. I think he’ll like the Blue Meany iron-on decal. And I check my email. My client likes the power grid script! Yahoo! Let Friday begin!
6:00 pm It’s a busier stroll to the Last Bookstore than I had expected—Friday evening plans, places to go, people to meet. When I get to the bookstore, I pull out a David Mitchell novel I haven’t read and settle into a big chair tucked behind some bookcases. Then I buy the book because I don’t have enough books at home.
7:00 pm I walk up a few blocks to Pitfire Pizza and meet Beth and John R. and John. We sit at a side table where the air conditioner freezes us. John glances at a TV. “Holy crap,” he says. The Dodgers have lost, 0-9. Spectacular. If you’re going to lose, lose big, John R. says.
9:00 pm We walk to the Redwood, where the two Johns will be playing with another guy named John and two guys with far more original names: Kjehl and Vitus. It’s a benefit for the PA, which has been ill. Fortunately, Trotsky Icepick is going on early.
|Redwood Bar & Grill. Pirate themed with a mean veggie burger.|
11:00 pm I enjoy Trotsky’s set and an Angel City IPA. And another Angel City IPA and Inger Lorre’s set and Watt’s set and finally I drag John out of the Redwood close to midnight.
|Kathy's John is the one on the right.|