Wash, dry, blog

I don’t know what I’m doing. Here it is a wild Tuesday night in the medium-sized metropolis, and I’m sitting here with a fresh load going, actually two loads, and what the fuh. I can’t write anything funny anymore, because Mel Gibson has cornered the market on glum cunning stuntage, and I can’t even think of anything to write about. I have turned into such a crashing bore of a human being.

Woke up. Went to work. That was cool. Transcribed, worked on more text about our six-legged arthropod pals, and then looked up some things about varmints as vectors. Listened to several of my co-workers’ observations on how time on this Tuesday seemed to be crawling like a 1972 Michoacan buzz mated to a Kenny Rogers & the First Edition album. You know, the elaborate Nashville rock opera about Yggdrasil and the space squirrels that followed “I Just Dropped In to See What Condition My Condition Was In.” Rolled out after five, drove up the 99, listened to some Elliott Smith, laughed at drivers who were jostling to get by some disgruntled hack in a beater cabover Isuzu van, got to the space I call home, meditated — it’ll be three years of sitting in meditation every day on, if I remember correctly, Friday — and then gathered up my dirty laundry and made it over to the laundromat.

Aren’t I perfectly boring?

Actually, I’m pretty religious, or maybe the word I’m searching for is ritualistic, about doing laundry on Saturday mornings. Get up, meditate, go to one of them Double-A meetings where I can hear my fellow crazies remind me that I’m not alone in this world with my sideways-wired brain, then down here for laundry, and then maybe other stuff. That’s either the tragedy or comedy of growing older; in my younger years, why, my gosh darned erect penis would take over my brain and drag me into all sorts of crazy places, and I would not get my laundry done.

Now, the nice, or at least lucky, thing is that I’m still not Rush Limbaugh; I don’t need little blue diamond-shaped pills and a crane to get ready for business should that spark of mutual attraction strike — which it doesn’t much anymore, or at least my half of said mutual doesn’t seem to get reciprocated, boo 2 tha hoo. Anyway, the secret is — at the risk of being one of those too much information oversharers — this, in two words for you fellows whose noodle is habitually overcooked: vegetarian diet. There, I’ve said it, and I’ll STFU now.

I almost told my niece Leann from Florida that last weekend, when she was telling me that she and her sister Amy were vegetarians, but she didn’t know too many men who were, as the men were all groaning with ecstasy about the big-ass steak dinner that John the cool cop from Washington State had q’d up the night before. Can’t be telling my brother Jimmy and his grown daughters/my nieces and their hubbies Frank and Clay and Amy and Leann’s cousin Sam and her hubby John that the wood is easier to attain if you’re one of them salad-eating bitches like yours truly.

Ah, but I know Jim’s gonna read this. So dude: Salads. It’s what’s for dinner. —Jackson Griffith