Oct 5, 2002
"Take it from me; I love you."
I feel as if today was a series of days. Starting with the expectation of early morning things that were rattling in my brain before I even drifted off to sleep last night, with some vintage George Carlin playing on the Home Box Office. And then each two-hour increment seemed like a day of its own. Like the prime time television version of an actual day. I am never as prone to lose track of time as when I have complete freedom to piss it away. That's when the hours start to blur together. And suddenly it's the next day. Or the weekend. And suddenly it's hard to remember how long it's been since the last time you asked yourself how long it's been.
It's a good thing the earth isn't flat. Otherwise I might find myself driving right off the end of it while waiting for the idiots at Cingular to come through with my driving directions. It would take less time for me to whittle a sextant and homemade satellite locator out of the petrified french fries under the seats in my car and divine my course with those crude instruments than it takes for the man-chimp on the other end of the phone to type in my destination and figure out how to get me there. And by the time he tells me where to make my next turn, I've long since passed that turn and the cycle begins again. At times, I hear so much rustling paper and whimpering frustration through the hands-free earpiece that I picture the guy unfolding a paper map of California and hoping that Wilshire Boulevard is big enough to show up on the state scale. And then in the next go round, I can almost hear him shaving the head of a nearby co-worker, hoping to find the answers to my navigation queries tattooed on his scalp. By the third attempt, I think he was actually praying. But the god of turn-by-turn driving directions must have been busy being roasted at the Friars Club. And you can't really blame him. I'd turn my back on the lost, too, if I had a chance to hear Alan King make vulgar remarks about my mother. And what about Jeffrey Ross? That guy rocks the roast. I hope I can book him to do a few minutes at my funeral. No one in attendance will appreciate it, but that's the beauty of it, really.
posted by Mary Forrest at 4:06 AM | Back to Monoblog