Sept? Sun

 

 

Sept? Sun

 You know...I’m just going to transcribe this shit at some point...That’s an eventuality, due to my arrogance and extreme need for attention. I’ll quietly publish it on my blog for the bots to scrape, or for my one or two occasional human readers to yawn over. Nothing good in there, but at least I try to make it easy to read: paragraph breaks, good grammar and punctuation – because God knows, even though no one uses it, everyone can appreciate a tidy, neat sentence and well-spaced, frequent paragraph breaks.

 I won’t be doling those out here. Space is precious, so unless I’m in a rush to get to the end of three pages, so I can, I don’ know, eat breakfast or something, you’ll not be getting any respite from my scribbling.

 OK, maybe half a line’s worth.

 First let me say how pleased I am with my self-control yesterday (and this morning) with regard to screen avoidance. It wasn’t a total blackout, but I did keep it relegated to a purposed period during and immediately after dinner—AND—the intent of the “necessary” exception was to write in my blog about a meditation idea that came to me while, um, meditating, of all things.

 I won’t go into that now, but you’ll have to know that it was brilliant. Of course, it only really worked the first time. The next time I tried it, I was so busy self-congratulating that it basically rendered it ineffective. Ah, well.

 So last night, I was dragged off the street by none other than Sheryl Crow. We were outside of a restaurant in Hollywood, and were—or at least I was—minding my own business, as much as it is possible for anyone to do on the streets of Hollywood amid famous people and random weirdos.

 Out of nowhere, the still-got-it-goin’-on aging pop-star grabs me by the shirt collar and drags me into a restaurant.

 “Was that entirely necessary?” I asked, straightening my collar.

 I rarely wear collared shirts, and the one time I do, Sheryl Crow has to come and fuck it up by tugging me around by it.

 “Yes. I believe you’ll find it was well worth it,“ she said, and she deposited me smack in front of a table where Bob Orrick was enjoying a rather delicious looking caramel sundae. Hannelore was seated next to him, and she may have had a dessert of her own, strawberry shortcake, I’m thinking, but I could be wrong.

 “Mmm. That’s good,” Bob slurped the thick, syrupy goo from his spoon.

Sheryl beamed at me from behind the pair in photobomb fashion, clearly pleased with herself. I had to admit, it was worth the wrinkled collar.

 At some point, I left the scene and was transported to a bike path, where I guess I happened to be jogging in my underwear.

 A fully naked man streaked past me in the opposite direction. He was pretty focused on his military-style cadence and did not acknowledge me when I passed, which was fine by me, since my stupid underwear were falling down and required constant hitching.

 I overheard some kids talking about how gross their dad was, always making messes in the bedroom with some gelatinous goo. They referred to it as "his hair product,” and not knowing the situation, I guess that’s what I chose to believe.

 I soon found myself jogging into the aforementioned bedroom and right past a large pile of greenish slime, if slime can indeed by piled. It was more of a puddulous heap, really. I avoided stepping in it, and I went into the bathroom, apparently to search for hair products—still trying to exonerate this slime-producing parent.

Before I could come to a definitive conclusion, the man walked in, wearing a bathrobe. He looked up at me, startled, but before he could protest, I blurted out:

“No need to worry—I’m just jogging here.” And with that, I jogged past him and out of the house, still underwear clad, but not nearly as embarrassed as I had been with the naked jogger earlier.