It’s been a year since Hunter Thompson died.

Bollywood to re-make Fight Club.
The music at work is ingraining my embarrassing penchant for the perfect tawdry pop song even deeper, almost dangerously so. Every day I discover a new happy new content-less Eurovision Song Contest grade techno-track that I’ve never heard before and put it on repeat for half an hour. Around the world, lah lah lah lah lah. I haven’t added Nena to my playlist yet, but it’s getting close. Beware.

It’s getting too late for me to be awake again. I did this yesterday and regretted it. I should go to bed, but now instead I’m writing and vaguely worried that the cursed pigeons might start up before I’m done. I’m swimming in tiny paragraphs, sticky strings of words that don’t lead anywhere I know how to share. There was a study somewhere that showed that people could swim as well in syrup as they could in water. No word as to what kind. I’m thinking in involuntary movements, prompted in response to memories in flickering diorama on the inside of my skull, projected there from old songs. This is where I lived on someone’s couch, this is where I lived in the studio. The next track reminds me of when I had a bed made of an old apple crate. Rough with splinters, I filled it with dollar store pillows and second hand stuffed animals. It took up a third of the room, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t a place I wanted to live, the north shore a place of subtle degradation, it was just what I could afford on my under-the-table job as an unskilled carpenter.

For the few who asked after my week and what’s in it, the plan thus far is as follows: Tuesday night is a local couchsurfers meet-up at Celebrities, Wednesday will be a run of as many episodes of Ghost In The Shell: Stand Alone Complex as we can stand at Andrew‘s, (yes, you’re reading this, you are invited), then Thursday is Patti‘s Mad Hatters Tea Party and the Midnight Bike Ride that convenes at Grandview Park.