Monday’s revised late night post:

Pensive Pandas ponder peccadilloes while I, a dull and muddy mettle rascal peak like john-a-dreams, un-pregnant of my cause, and can say nothing – not for king upon whose dear life this damned defeat was made. Hamlet’s fatal flaw is inaction, despite the action of the mousetrap, which serves only to confirm what he already knows.

Moments of quasi-historical significance continue to glide by me like the glanced at countryside from a fast moving vehicle. My dad called to ask if I’d watched “the funeral” – no interest. The other day the Olympic torch went by the front of my house – not close by, but literally right in front. I live on the St. Louis Marathon course so the police are used to runners on Delmar, it happens all the time, so it’s only natural the torch should go by. No interest on my part, bitching about the traffic from my compatriots. That’s it.

Tonight after bowling the big Wilco CD release party was held at the Saratoga. Again, no interest. Sad fandom lining up to get a chance at signed memorabilia and interfering with my game of pool– I’ve just never gotten that. I did like and still do like Uncle Tupelo – the preceding band – whose demise lead to Wilco, but Wilco did not get the talent end of that split. It reminds me of the Dead Heads who followed Fish after Jerry Garcia died – what’s the point? I paid to see Wilco once, in an attempt to relive my own Uncle Tupelo fandom, but I wouldn’t do it again – every song sounds the same to me – am I just getting old? Morose Morrisey shit had its day and now its time for it to go away. I’ve suppose I’ve long lost interest in the next cool thing and the next.

I saw women I used to know tonight – their names and when I knew them would take a
clearer mind than mine to recall – suffice it to say they were kville women who had longed for and were now in the St. Louis trendy life, such as it is, and I was sad to see them thus, so in the clutches of the nothing – wishing it were something. Somewhere the princes is yelling, “Sebastian , say my name.” And the wolf draws closer to Atreyu. It would take Falcore to get me out of this mood. That’s what I need, that’s what we all need, a luck dragon.

On the upside the folks from Vintage Vinyl brought in several crave cases (30 packs of White Castle) so at least I got some heart disease out of the Wilco affair.

Wednesday am.

Change is only exhausting when you resist it and I am exhausted, but am resolved to be less so. I moved out of my old office yesterday and am now in the new office construct that we built last Friday. Office construct… it’s as though one corner of the store has been walled off by a square of mahogany dyed office furniture – my “P” desk (a desk in the shape of the letter P, but water sports jokes may be appropriate) abuts against the wall and then there is a gap to enter the space followed by all the old, but matching, office furniture completing a mid-store corner and then heading back to the wall. We keep
getting compliments on how nice it looks and it’s true – it does look nicer then what was there. Of course my ego is still wrapped up in the principle of the thing and the mold from the “new” furniture has caused me two asthma attacks – but if we keep scrubbing it then eventually it will all be ok. The purple chair is now really the source of my lung trauma and I have taken to the back room – I can’t be around it.

My boss is skeptical of my reaction to the chair and asked why the warehouse didn’t affect me – all the dust and mold has settled in the warehouse – it isn’t until you start moving things – or squeezing the cushions by sitting in them – that the allergens are released. Humor is the only way to survive assaults on your ego, take yourself less seriously and the world will as well. The fictive possibilities of endured bullshit are manifold. It’s not enough that I lose my office and the desk I built, and then I have to build a new desk and filing cabinets etc. but then it turns out that I am allergic to said enterprise and suffer the ravages of phlegm clogged lungs and am up last night into the wee hours hacking up horrendous homunculi. I feel like I’m the Jack Tripper of some New Age sitcom waiting for this episode’s conclusion. It comes out ok in the end because I get a raise and healthcare and the critics applaud the use of irony in that I can now afford to go see an allergist based on my acquiescence to that which I am allergic to – ha – and everything returns to sitcom stasis until the next episode, where…

Questions of a Feng Shui nature: One assumption of the new age paradigm is that everything is connected to everything else – thus it is logical that one’s life could be messy “because” one’s room is messy and so forth and so on. I have been waiting on a stove repair from my landlord for some time – the oven stopped working – shit last July. After we got back from Wisconsin it began to be temper mental and eventually stopped working altogether. Anything that I used to make in the oven I’ve been making in my slow roaster or my toaster oven – sad. Post garage sale, where I moved out “energetic blocks”– pow – Robert comes Monday to repair the broken valve – deduces that a new stove is in order and yesterday I took a two hour lunch to supervise its installation. I celebrated last night with a Tombstone Pizza, but I think I will up the ante tonight with Sheppard’s Pie.