Notes From The Journal

August 3, 2012

I could say it’s been one of those weeks, but it’s always one of those weeks. Random thoughts from my journal:

Fear makes cowards of us all.

Someone left one of those boxes of assorted chocolates in the office kitchen. Within half an hour everything except the grapefruit caramel log was gone.

In high school a guy tried to get me to take LSD with him by telling me about one of his bad trips. His name was Dave, and he told me after he’d dropped acid, flown the windowpane, licked the blotter, hit the goose, made a date with Lucy in the sky with diamonds, turned on, tuned in, dropped out, and eaten a sugar cube he bought from a guy on the corner that could have been laced with, for all he knew, a hundred percent real sugar, he went to the bathroom. And while he was sitting on the toilet the dark blue floor tiles grew little legs and arms and big nasty fangs. And then they got up and started walking around and talking to each other, saying, "You know Dave? I hate him. Let’s get him!" And so he spent the next six hours standing on the toilet while the tiles attempted to reenact the Battle of Shiloh with him as the Confederacy. I don’t know why he thought this would make me think taking LSD was a good idea. All it really did was make me afraid to go to the bathroom.

A post office down the street from me has a a bunch of head shots of "famous" people. I don’t recognize most of them. I think I should take my own in and sign it and give it to them. Then people will start stopping me on the street to say, "Hey, aren’t you…that guy…in…that thing?" And I’ll just smile and say, "I get that all the time."

Occasionally I’ll see a sign on a door that says, "Door must remain locked at all times." There’s a term for a door that must remain locked at all times. It’s called a "wall".

Somebody threw an empty chardonnay bottle in our front yard. Somehow I can’t picture someone drinking chardonnay in a Firebird screaming "Whoo!" while his buddy in the passenger seat hits mailboxes with a baseball bat. That sounds more like a shiraz drinker.

Boxes of assorted chocolates always have a handy diagram that’s supposed to tell you which one is the orange cream, which one is the coconut flake, and which one is the cockroach cluster. Why is it, then, that none of the shapes in the diagram look anything like any of the chocolates? And why is it, no matter how carefully I try to match what’s in the diagram I still always end up biting into the grapefruit caramel log?

Eventually I’ll get around to procrastinating.

It’s a common trope in science fiction shows and movies that the aliens from any planet all speak the same language and subscribe to the same set of beliefs. So all Klingons are warriors, all Vogons are bureaucrats, all Ewoks are really annoying, and all aliens on Doctor Who speak with British accents. This always makes me wonder whether the writers for these shows have ever met or heard anything about anyone who lives more than five miles from them. But sometimes I wonder if aliens think the same way about us. Maybe the reason they haven’t landed yet is because they keep abducting the wrong people and thinking, "Whoa, if this is what Earthlings are like we’d better stay away from that place."

I used to read a lot of biographies. The problem was I always knew how they were going to end: the main character would die. I haven’t read as many autobiographies, but even though I’m pretty sure no one has written an autobiography after they died I think all autobiographies should end the same way: "Well, that’s all for now. I’m going to go off and do some stuff now that you’d probably find interesting, but you won’t be able to read about it here. So, anyway, I’m going to stop typing now. If you see me around you can ask what I did next."

Coming up next: five reasons not to make lists.

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