Monday, January 13, 2003

Just sent a boatload of e-mails out. I'm trying to arrange my upcoming 4-day weekend. Friday night's already cool as Susie and a mysterious stranger man friend of hers wants to get together with us. The details need to be worked out. I'd also like to get together with Tony and Arbo this weekend. Saturday. I know on Monday MLK Jr. day I'm going on a hike with Andy somewhere. Funny hermit Andy. He said he's sworn off booze until he goes to Texas in April to record his latest record. Andy's one of these weekend warrior types who gets drunk on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. A couple 24-packs a weekend. Overtime on the liver. I noticed he looked all puffy around the eyes when I saw him in December. I'm glad he's taking a hiatus from this particular lifestyle choice. Andy told me his drinking buddy Shawn peed all over Andy's rug. Andy's lucky. His rat metabolism keeps him skinny. If I drank as much as he I'd be freaking huge.

I too drink three nights a week on average. Friday nights I may drink a six pack, spread out over the whole evening. Other nights I have one, two, three drinks, or the rare wild double digit ralphathon. A weak stomach and propensity for godawful hangovers keeps me from a life of vice. Or at least too much vice. Hee hee

Esther noticed how a cat out her parent’s back door Saturday hopped from foot to foot as it mewed for food. We've finally got some true winter temps lately with highs in the 20s and lows in single digits. The past two days were bright blue sky sunny, but so cold and windy I could not stay outside long to enjoy it. Today was a little warmer, maybe by a couple degrees, but cloudy gloom. The kitties huddle together in the cathouse and wait for scraps. All this winter needs is some snow. My New England friends are buried in it.

The grade schoolers groused at basketball drills. They’re used to free time. I give them plenty free time -- the last 10 minutes of class -- but not before I put them through their paces. One girl said, “Aww, c’mon. We know basketball.” I said I’d let them skip the next drill if they told me the three player positions on a basketball team. No one could. I counted to 10. Back to the free throw line for them.

Esther and I woke early for aerobics. Even earlier, computer chirping noises disturbed our slumber. I downloaded music overnight, and when it runs out of songs and goes inactive the Internet shuts down after half an hour. The chirps are a reminder. I’ve got remember to turn the volume down.

Esther held up an Aldi circular and noted how “Yuppie” the people in the ad look. “They don’t look like they need to go to Aldi.” Aldi sells generic food, including a mindless array of junk food when you walk in the door. Don’t buy your meat there. I can barely tolerate their turkey burger. It’s protein. It can be spiced. But their milk, eggs and canned goods are equable to major brands, and much cheaper. “Do you think they would really like to put an average Aldi customer in their ad?" I said. Wrinkled old-timers on the Social Security dole, welfare mom in sweat pants and a tank top with three whiny, snot-nosed kids in tow. Yeah, a trip to Aldi is a cultural snapshot of the have-nots of American society. And I shop there. Funny thing, I saw a guy wearing a three-piece suit, hanky out the breast pocket and everything, in the freezer aisle. Hunger and value are classless. We're all in this together, hopping from foot to foot, fighting off the cold until our next meal.


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