윤

It’s even closer than before. I’m pretty sure the text-to-speech voice isn’t Peter Jones’, the WiFi doesn’t extend past Sprint’s US borders, and there’s no cover with the words “DON’T PANIC” printed in large friendly letters.

(That last one alone would’ve had me sold.)

House has felt lacking this season, maybe because of the haste with which they’ve been dispensing with character developments—his breakup with Wilson lasted only a few weeks, and he shows as much remorse for his dead ex as George did for Susan; the romance with Cuddy, Cameron taking over, all wrapped up in under one—and an unmemorable episode sought to entertain during the usual life-or-death storyline with only a demonstration of his petulance when the plumbing went out at home. Anyway, turned out he caused the damage himself, and in a moment as close as I’d like to enter his world (wish for it, and I’m sure to be diagnosed with lupus), I racked up a $250 bill myself today for a house call of my own. Run the shower and the novelty head, installed as my first act of home ownership, leaks calcium onto the shiny new tub faucet …just like it did the old one.

I thought Kirby’s Captain America collection might be my first-ever trade paperback, but it’s never returned to its low on Amazon after I wishlisted it—surely a subject of future discussion, once I’ve worked out the mechanics—so I impulse-bought the Eternals instead. The King was frighteningly prolific, and without his readers having to accuse him of being on acid. These days, of course, over-achievement mandates drug tests. Chris and I had between us at least issues #1 and #8, the latter featuring the character of the “reject” (the original artist’s depiction here), whose self-loathing super-deviant origin was, it now occurs to me, totally ripped off by Joss Whedon for his Groosalugg in Angel.

Only me. My hoodie’s pockets aren’t very deep, and can’t be relied upon for the securest support of their contents, but as it’s become my trademark garment lately (much as my surplus store pea coat was in my senior year of high school), I’ve taken to removing it only in the two places you’d expect a cartoon character to divest—the shower and the marriage bed, as the zipper might disfigure 老婆—and the tight office bathroom stalls are certainly no exception. The likely result of the combination of these factors is, of course, an aquatic disaster the kind which struck me this afternoon and may have been worse if not for the intervention of two more coincidences: that I had just finished reading up on the latest in Apps on the iPhone and returned it, instinctively with firmer placement, into the opposite side, loosening the BlackBerry’s position; and my meal-and-a-half at Chipotle had produced such a stink that I re-flushed to respect the afternoon traffic and the water was fresh. Not that it even crossed my mind as I plunged my hand in for the rescue and rested the wet case on my lap as I swabbed off every accessible surface with all the paper off the roll. There wasn’t any power loss, at least until I pulled the battery, and although the red X’s on its moisture-indicating sticker do seem to have bled slightly, thank goodness for the excuse that rainy season makes. And an abundant supply of extras from downsizing.

Sure don’t like its price, but this camera-on-a-headband takes me back to when I went for silly POV shots with my first cameraphone, the Ericsson T610. BoingBoing’s suggestion to wear it as an eyepatch is even better.

I guess it’s like getting old itself: I don’t remember when exactly it happened, but it’s been some time now since I began feeling I’ve outgrown them. Then came telecommuting and the House charity shirts. And however disappointed I may be that those schizophrenic Republicans are allowed to stymie economic recovery (much less live), how can I resist this blast from with the past, although I would’ve preferred one of those Wu-Tang name ones with
Mark&
Jerry&
Bob 1&
Bob 2&
Alan.
on it instead.

Update: Or better yet,
Golden Arm&
Silver Spear&
Iron Robe&
Brass Head.

…Well, it’s not so much of one as it is a recurring theme. Then again, I may often get lost and frustrated in them but once in a while I’ll be friends with Jennifer Anniston and run downtown with her where fellow celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow were masquerading along a bridge. Or could be just a case of over-occurring dreams. This morning was more of the former, with my buddies and I traveling in Canada and not being able to find our way back to the nearest airport. Much less remember what it was called. Must be in anticipation of our own upcoming trip. After a break, the story referenced itself in a note of plans some girls were making to go themselves, and all I could think was, good luck. I offered to escort them to their car, which was parked in a garage adjacent to our school building and required climbing down repeating rollercoaster-like stairwells, which finally deposited us in a gated chamber surrounded by a fence. Outside were our vehicles, or at least access to them appeared unencumbered. A young lady was peddling a carnival basketball game and told us we wouldn’t be let out until later. I didn’t feel like waiting, and when I approached one of the exits, I noticed that the padlock on the chain had been unshackled, so I turned to get the others. Bad mistake in my Sisyphean scenarios, as a hand fumbled from behind and attempted to re-secure the gate. Regardless, their side had opened up as well, and they strolled to freedom. (I had encountered a similar obstacle while running yesterday and discovering the waterway path closed shut on my side of the street.)

I was at a family picnic in a school park, standing between several groups playing games. One hit a softball in our direction and I stopped it with my palm. A football then tumbled nearby and I pitched it back. And at some point I joined a frisbee troupe. When I returned I became disoriented because everyone had gone or the buildings didn’t look right anymore. I approached one of them and inquired with a balding person there (who resembled the fellow seated across from us the night before at Musha) if he’d seen the people I was with. He couldn’t help. The skies turned gray and the crowds dispersed, and as they did, I caught up with my friends and their organizer: Bernie Mac. My “wife”, a short round Asian woman hurried past me with a disapproving look. The description of tonight’s episode read that I, “Jay Lum” caused a disaster, apparently by making a “whoosh” sound while throwing and catching that frisbee. The clouds were indeed churning ominously in the distance.

If the economy’s shit, then Rhode Island must be one of the last stops in the plumbing. My inquisitive substitute hygienist mentioned her visit there, and I couldn’t help but interrupt her scraping with my dismal outlook for the Ocean State. (Well, it worked. For me.) Seems I might’ve used this once-proud freeway ziggurat as evidence, too. Was a time when their aisles were full of desirable merchandise, and in the back was a Newport Creamery where I was introduced to the delicacies of vinegar on hot french fries and chocolate jimmies on vanilla ice cream, respectively. None of which, by the way, is available at Wal-Mart.

A long time ago, in a library far, far away, I came across this sonnet and was moved to tears (and not only because my French was much better back then):

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
« Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle. »

Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et, fantôme sans os,
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos.
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

I bow to better translations, but here’s how I read it now for my 老婆:When you are much older, sitting in front of the fire at night with a candle, singing my lines and marvelling in them, say aloud: “[He] celebrated me when I was beautiful.” Not one of your servants there, about to fall sleep after all their work, won’t be awoken by the sound of my name blessing yours with immortal praise. I’ll be buried underground, a ghost without bones, taking my rest in the shade. And you will be an old woman, regretting my love for you and your fierce pride. Live, believe me, don’t wait on tomorrow—pick the roses in life today.