go spurs go
I got here on Sunday, slept for the last three hours from some derelict little gas station into the city limits of say-town. When I woke up, my ipod was still playing, on some song from Boyz II Men I think, and I was in the back seat ensconced in sleeping bags with the cold air rushing on me, B and Yo were in the front, and I had the most pleasant sense of regression to childhood ... When I finally sat up in my seat, I saw that the entire sky was dark purple and there were all these dark silhouettes from unfamiliarly lush and large trees and we were passing over a bridge ... it made me feel all luxurious to have been huddled happily in my coccoon for so long not knowing it was night already ... I don't know why I even try explaining these things sometimes; I think I only end up sounding childish ... or challenged ...
On Monday we went to the shops at La Cantera, went to dinner, watched the Spurs game. The only basketball game I've -ever- got more hyper about was the America vs. Lithuania (or Latvia?) game in the Summer Olympics when I was a kid. Although I said at one point that some Spurs fan should've snuck in a poison dart blower and paralyzed Nowitzki and actually meant it and Beth screamed that Nowitzki deserved every bone in his body broken and I seconded it and actually meant it and this made me have pesky little philosophical misgivings about my willingness to -at least theoretically- sacrifice anything for sensation. Although later in the week, we were on the Riverwalk after dinner and got sucked into the last five minutes of the Suns/Mavericks game outside a Chili's and everybody here wanted the Suns to spank the Mavericks and B and I were already rooting for the Suns so all of us were screaming in sync and when they actually won, we were exchanging high-fives with the waiters and customers, and, yeah maybe we did form a granfalloon, but I don't care.
On Tuesday we tried going clubbin for my birthday, but say-town's essentially shut down on Tuesdays apparently.
On Wednesday, we went to the SA Zoo. I saw otters. If I had to be an animal in the zoo, I would totally be an otter. I would never want to be one of those African grazing animals. Then we went to the Riverwalk for dinner and later we went to a club called Graham Central Station. Last night, we went to a club called Antro. Tonight it's a club called Joe's Volcano. Except for the predatory guys and the fact that Texans underappreciate techno, I love clubbin.
Every day Beth and I go to the gym on Fort Sam Houston for a couple hours while Yo is at work. Dinner is always an elaborate affair. Later there is about an hour of dressing pre-clubbin. This whole focus on the superficial and the sensational makes me feel like I'm in the Victorian age, at least in the upper-middle class. I'm reading The Forsyte Saga right now and the other day I was in the hammock in the back yard, the late afternoon sun sliding down the tree trunks and filtering through the long grass and gold-tinged clouds swinging through the sky, reading about Old Jolyon's dying under the old oak tree at his house on Robin Hill in the late afternoon. It was odd. I think I would've liked to live in the Victorian upper-middle-class. Although the thing that most pleases me about it is the possibility of defying convention, and that's probably cheating. I like the idea of grabbing my long, lacy dress at the hem and ripping it up to the knees and kicking off my high-laced shoes and climbing a tree. I like the idea of moving all the stuffy baroque furniture and china out of a high-ceilinged room and falling asleep on the bare wooden floor. I like the idea of driving my gig -alone- at reckless speeds over country roads. I -love- the idea of not receiving anyone I don't wish to talk to and only making calls if I care to. Although come to think about it, the upper middle class's wealthy was probably somewhat dependent on their conformity to convention, so maybe I should have lived in the Victorian aristocracy, no the wealthy, landed Victorian aristocracy.
On Monday we went to the shops at La Cantera, went to dinner, watched the Spurs game. The only basketball game I've -ever- got more hyper about was the America vs. Lithuania (or Latvia?) game in the Summer Olympics when I was a kid. Although I said at one point that some Spurs fan should've snuck in a poison dart blower and paralyzed Nowitzki and actually meant it and Beth screamed that Nowitzki deserved every bone in his body broken and I seconded it and actually meant it and this made me have pesky little philosophical misgivings about my willingness to -at least theoretically- sacrifice anything for sensation. Although later in the week, we were on the Riverwalk after dinner and got sucked into the last five minutes of the Suns/Mavericks game outside a Chili's and everybody here wanted the Suns to spank the Mavericks and B and I were already rooting for the Suns so all of us were screaming in sync and when they actually won, we were exchanging high-fives with the waiters and customers, and, yeah maybe we did form a granfalloon, but I don't care.
On Tuesday we tried going clubbin for my birthday, but say-town's essentially shut down on Tuesdays apparently.
On Wednesday, we went to the SA Zoo. I saw otters. If I had to be an animal in the zoo, I would totally be an otter. I would never want to be one of those African grazing animals. Then we went to the Riverwalk for dinner and later we went to a club called Graham Central Station. Last night, we went to a club called Antro. Tonight it's a club called Joe's Volcano. Except for the predatory guys and the fact that Texans underappreciate techno, I love clubbin.
Every day Beth and I go to the gym on Fort Sam Houston for a couple hours while Yo is at work. Dinner is always an elaborate affair. Later there is about an hour of dressing pre-clubbin. This whole focus on the superficial and the sensational makes me feel like I'm in the Victorian age, at least in the upper-middle class. I'm reading The Forsyte Saga right now and the other day I was in the hammock in the back yard, the late afternoon sun sliding down the tree trunks and filtering through the long grass and gold-tinged clouds swinging through the sky, reading about Old Jolyon's dying under the old oak tree at his house on Robin Hill in the late afternoon. It was odd. I think I would've liked to live in the Victorian upper-middle-class. Although the thing that most pleases me about it is the possibility of defying convention, and that's probably cheating. I like the idea of grabbing my long, lacy dress at the hem and ripping it up to the knees and kicking off my high-laced shoes and climbing a tree. I like the idea of moving all the stuffy baroque furniture and china out of a high-ceilinged room and falling asleep on the bare wooden floor. I like the idea of driving my gig -alone- at reckless speeds over country roads. I -love- the idea of not receiving anyone I don't wish to talk to and only making calls if I care to. Although come to think about it, the upper middle class's wealthy was probably somewhat dependent on their conformity to convention, so maybe I should have lived in the Victorian aristocracy, no the wealthy, landed Victorian aristocracy.