I’m back in the sad­dle but not rid­ing far yet. My throat has gone from red gi­ant to white dwarf and I’m sort of al­ways tired, but I think that is be­cause I lost a few pounds in my deletri­ous dele­ri­ous week­end.

Some blog­ger bud­dies have start­ed up No Cleveland Wal-Mart and I’m con­tribut­ing in a hope­ful­ly co­op­er­a­tive con­struc­tive hon­ey-like man­ner to bal­ance their big bad stick. I’m an idea­man, I don’t have the knowl­edge or ex­pe­ri­ence to re­al­ly ef­fec­tive­ly do more, and I can’t in good con­science just re­peat a par­ty line with­out think­ing about it, but some­times kids say the darn­d­est things.

Politics is fuck­ing bor­ing. At the City Council meet­ing last night I thought I was go­ing to croak, par­tial­ly be­cause I am still a bit punchy, but most­ly be­cause the first hour or so was noth­ing but hot air as a cou­ple of new coun­cil­crit­ters were in­stat­ed. I’d helped pass out Wal-Not pins as peo­ple came in and at one point, af­ter all the back­pat­ters had sprained their wrists and qui­et­ed down, a bunch of peo­ple stood up and start­ed chant­i­ng No More Wal-Mart, which, while cer­tain­ly rude, in ret­ro­spect seems to have been the on­ly way to get a voice heard. Unlike my small home­town coun­cil meet­ings, reg­u­lar cit­i­zens don’t seem to have a chance to speak their peace/​piece [an in­ter­est­ing con­flu­ence]. So I guess if we can on­ly speak by be­ing row­dy, then row­dy we will be.

It was strange, af­ter­ward, to meet a bunch of rich old white guys, be in­tro­duced and then slow­ly squeezed out of the cir­cle of con­ver­sa­tion, on­ly to have one re­form min­utes lat­er, that at least let me not have to lis­ten over a shoul­der. Group dy­nam­ics like that are in­ter­est­ing, and since no one, not even re­al­ly Bill, George or Tim, know me from Adam I can’t say I blame ‘em or even want to have a more cen­tral role. I guess I’m sort of an ex­tra jack in the deck. As I’ve said be­fore, I’m a flanker, a tac­ti­cal and pre­cise kind of per­son. Head-on ain’t my thing, so ther pe­riph­ery is where I’m most com­fort­able.

I fi­nal­ly con­sumed sol­id food thanks to my ex­cel­lent friend Lauren, who bought me meat-laden soup and has been sub­se­quent­ly wracked with guilt pangs. The guilt pangs have made me feel just as warm in­side as the soup did.

Story idea:

A painter kills him­self or kills some­one else and their blood is splat­tered on the paint­ing, or a painter paints with people’s blood. Art-crime, prob­a­bly been done be­fore.

I read The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander whilst not dele­ri­ous this past week­end. It was nice to re­vis­it the books I read in 7th grade. Currently I’m about 100 pages in­to Sophie’s World which is an easy-to-read whim­si­cal nov­el­ized his­to­ry of Western phi­los­o­phy.

2 thoughts on “Blorf

  1. Hey Adam, glad you’re feel­ing bet­ter. But your post begs the ques­tion Mae West would ask if she were still alive… Hey there cow­boy, where do you like to strap that sad­dle of yours?

  2. Hehehe, Mae West nev­er fails to im­press. I don’t think I par­tic­u­lar­ly en­joy rid­ing this bronc, but it’s…educational…

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