"He wasn't playing Dixie on the harmonica. The damn fool was serious."
I pulled an all-nighter two nights ago and produced a piece of "work" that actually got turned in. Theatre Casebook. Supposed to have been making an entry every week of the semester, with supporting evidence from the media. Blasé blah. So yesterday I slept from 1 pm till 7 pm, taking the record to three times Marie has roused me with a dinner call. And she always knows what she's done.
The insomnia claimed me again last night, it's contagious too. Diane made a comment the other day along the lines of "I swear, someone must have superglued my eyes open. I could not shut them for the life of me."
Sheer. Genius. In other news, "blasé" comes from the French dialect to be chronically hung over. I lay there until there was enough morning light to read by, and went through a chapter or so in Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels and then Frank Herbert's Dune, finally settled in with Bukowski's novel Post Office, good decision.
Excerpt, from somewhere around page 60:
I found that the only time to study was before sleeping. I was always too
tired to make and eat breakfast, so I would go out and buy a tall 6 pack, put
it on the chair beside the bed, rip open a can, take a good pull and then open
the scheme sheet. About the time I got to the 3rd can of beer, I had to drop
the sheet. You could only inject so much. Then I'd drink the rest of the beer,
sitting up in bed, staring at the walls. With the last can I'd be asleep. And
when I awakened, there was just time to toilet, bathe, eat, and drive back on in.
And you didn't adjust, you simply got more and more tired. I always picked up
my 6 pack on the way in, and one morning I was really done. I climbed the stairway
(there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had
changed all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture was new too.
There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young. Good legs. A blonde.
"Hello," I said, "care for a beer?"
"Hi!" she said. "All right, I'll have one."
"I like the way this place is fixed up," I told her.
"I did it myself."
"But why?"
"I just felt like it," she said.
We each drank at the beer.
"You're all right," I said. I put my beercan down and gave her a kiss. I put my
hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee.
Then I had another swallow of beer.
"Yes," I said, "I really like the way this place looks. It's really going to
lift my spirits."
"That's nice. My husband likes it too."
"Now why would your husband ...What? Your husband? Look, what's this
apartment number?"
"309."
"309? Great Christ! I'm on the wrong floor! I live in 409. My key opened
your door."
"Sit down, sweety," she said.
"No, no..."
I picked up the 4 remaining beers.
"Why rush right off?" she asked.
"Some men are crazy," I said, moving toward the door.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, some men are in love with their wives."
She laughed. "Don't forget where I'm at."
I closed the door and walked up one more flight. Then I opened my door.
There was nobody in there. The furniture was old and ripped, the rug almost
colorless. Empty beercans on the floor. I was in the right place.
I took off my clothes, climbed into bed alone and cracked another beer.
Yeh, that's it
The insomnia claimed me again last night, it's contagious too. Diane made a comment the other day along the lines of "I swear, someone must have superglued my eyes open. I could not shut them for the life of me."
Sheer. Genius. In other news, "blasé" comes from the French dialect to be chronically hung over. I lay there until there was enough morning light to read by, and went through a chapter or so in Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels and then Frank Herbert's Dune, finally settled in with Bukowski's novel Post Office, good decision.
Excerpt, from somewhere around page 60:
I found that the only time to study was before sleeping. I was always too
tired to make and eat breakfast, so I would go out and buy a tall 6 pack, put
it on the chair beside the bed, rip open a can, take a good pull and then open
the scheme sheet. About the time I got to the 3rd can of beer, I had to drop
the sheet. You could only inject so much. Then I'd drink the rest of the beer,
sitting up in bed, staring at the walls. With the last can I'd be asleep. And
when I awakened, there was just time to toilet, bathe, eat, and drive back on in.
And you didn't adjust, you simply got more and more tired. I always picked up
my 6 pack on the way in, and one morning I was really done. I climbed the stairway
(there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had
changed all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture was new too.
There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young. Good legs. A blonde.
"Hello," I said, "care for a beer?"
"Hi!" she said. "All right, I'll have one."
"I like the way this place is fixed up," I told her.
"I did it myself."
"But why?"
"I just felt like it," she said.
We each drank at the beer.
"You're all right," I said. I put my beercan down and gave her a kiss. I put my
hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee.
Then I had another swallow of beer.
"Yes," I said, "I really like the way this place looks. It's really going to
lift my spirits."
"That's nice. My husband likes it too."
"Now why would your husband ...What? Your husband? Look, what's this
apartment number?"
"309."
"309? Great Christ! I'm on the wrong floor! I live in 409. My key opened
your door."
"Sit down, sweety," she said.
"No, no..."
I picked up the 4 remaining beers.
"Why rush right off?" she asked.
"Some men are crazy," I said, moving toward the door.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, some men are in love with their wives."
She laughed. "Don't forget where I'm at."
I closed the door and walked up one more flight. Then I opened my door.
There was nobody in there. The furniture was old and ripped, the rug almost
colorless. Empty beercans on the floor. I was in the right place.
I took off my clothes, climbed into bed alone and cracked another beer.
Yeh, that's it