The title is taken from a Chumbawumba song, in case anyone's wondering. Take that for deep Latin context. The title of the song was Charlton Heston, if anyone cares. Haha Chumbawumba is my dark, dark secret when it comes to music. Their first album was the soundtrack to some of the best times I had in high school. Extreme pingpong with Tom, complete with astroturf elbow and knee burns, late night driving to Timber Road, one of those many dead-end roads that terminate in the middle of a cornfield, and of course HoLT & Chocolate nights, when we'd buy a bag of Hint of Lime Tostitos and two jugs of chocolate milk and just... fucking... talk.
I could recite every song on the Tubthumping album by heart.
(A little Stigmata soundtrack for you)I've spent the day running errands to register the car, back and forth and back and forth, but the end is in sight. Everything's going places. I'm nearly finished.
I took four days' vacation and haven't had a day to myself yet. Although it's been leisurely, the handyman spent three days building up the kitchen cabinets and today we've had "walkthrough" times with inspectors, new owners, agents, and of course the handyman doing last minute touchups.
I wrote nearly a chapter on Red Wing Black, which has kind of mutated into a "breakup book" for Bethany and I. While it started fun and lighthearted nearly three years ago, with the intent to be a dramatization of Bethany and my two-person war on American culture and accepted social amores, it's now become dark and sullen. I don't mind. The satire's still here. The violence is still here. Everything just hits home a little more, and I'm not complaining. My gun-toting cowgirl isn't fun anymore. My first-person artist isn't so goofy anymore.
Which is fine. Things are getting painfully real, both here and there, and it's a genuine outpouring of emotions. I love it. And, it hurts me. So I love it more. If that makes sense.
I return to work tomorrow. But, I'm expecting maybe some dinner out on Saturday with a fresh friend and dynamic woman. It's not on a happy note, given the circumstances on why she's in town, but it's happy on the inside.
I'm also reading Pratchett/Baxter's combination scifi story about parallel Earths. So far it's been really good (up to chapter four). I see Pratchett's alzheimers influence, though, and I almost shed a tear when I read his wife had to help Pratchett get the information down. He's a legend in the writing world, let alone the fantasy world. One of the few great satirists of this age.
Favorite scifi novel? Ender's Game by Scott Card. Favorite Modern Fantasy novel? Good Omens by Pratchett and Gaiman. Favorite literary fiction novel? Drood by Dan Simmons. Boom Boom Boom.
If I could meet any of them I'd most likely shit myself silly. That is all. I have more work to do, and those bastards on Call of Duty won't kill themselves.
Well, some of the noobs will. But I can't help them.
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