2002-01-07 - 4:40 p.m.

More and more time spent with myself these days, but that's okay. My lonesome is becoming less and less lonesome. Joegood told me about the jubilant excitement he feels when he experiences something diary-worthy, then the ensuing come-down once he sits facing a monitor and can't for the storied life of him remember all the good bits. Such as the idea of public stools for settin' in cities. (Already bum-proof! "Sometimes you want to sit down, but not really relax.")

Maybe my memory isn't as thoroughly riddled with gaps, but I feel it, man, I do. What starts as a revelation, a theme-driven salvo against or praising some important Thing ends as a Jackie Harvey-style ITEM: list or the shell of a weekend marked only by meals and names of bands and bars. (Mine, last: new Grecian-aimed club in Queensborough Plaza, abolutely empty! Fifteen dollar cover! The nerve of them offering us free admission for Saturday night -- as if. Tacos Nuevo Mexico: How can you go wrong? So cheap, so good, and they never gave me the food poisoning. Belmont lounge by Union Square: Pricey! Lotsa jerks! But Beth was there and that was fun and birthdays are always good and whenever you have a Crowd together, the surrounding jerks fade away into, well, each other I guess. The Stinger Club across from Luxx, in Wbrg's hipster club district: sleazy, but a good kind of sleazy! Who knew I'd ever enjoy dancing to a dancehall version of "Do You Hear What I Hear?"? Those bran muffins I baked last night: did the trick! Mashed banana was the key.)

SO, pointless? Yes, of course. Exclamatory, but pointless. Sometimes you just gotta run with it, though, and polish the chrome while the wheels spin. Like updating your resume even if your job's hokay at the moment. (Which, yes, I did ce week-end passe.)

At the risk of sounding completely girly, I'm in love with this morning's outfit selection. Daffy's, clearance rack at BR, and a hand-me-down. Thanks for taking up those pants over xmas, ma!

Zen Boners:

If you call someone, then run into them on the street fifteen minutes later, then run into them on the subway platform ten hours after that first, already improbable meeting.... who's the stalker there? Any legal experts wanna weigh in? What has a more direct line on predicting the future: suspicious coincidences, or dreams? If you see something with a four-pounds-ninety-nine-p price tag on it, would you expect to pay US$14.50 for it at Sound and Fury? Is there an effective herbal method of contraception?