Blorf

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 Replies

  • 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?

  • 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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