Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis adapted by Peter Kuper.

I’m sitting here all sad.
Sitting here at the window
Watching grey clouds roll in
Thick cloud cover shading big
parched trees but not
raining.

Just kidding. I could use something though. A vacation. I just had a vacation. Psychotherapy. How do you pick a psychotherapist?

Is crack really as addictive as they say?

I saw a painting by Gustav Klimt once. “Am Attersee” I think it was called, but I can’t find anything on the Internet with a color balance approaching what I saw. Beautiful, dark but with this hidden glow to it, pure genius.

The Danube was like that last night when my wife and I took a stroll along its banks. The sun had gone down and the river was calm but for a few ripples from the occasional boat. Some rowers rowed past. The orange glow faded to purple yadda yadda yadda.

We held hands and walked and sat on a bench when we got tired of walking. The air was full of romance.

“The first thing my mom said when I finally told her because I knew you’d eventually tell my parents because you’ve been bugging me so much about it was, ‘what’s he so upset about, what about the time he wrecked two cars on his way home from the Erotic Industry Fair?'” she said, gazing into my eyes.

“I know, I know. It’s not about that. I also rearended that VW in the snow that time. I know. This is…”

“This is what? I didn’t see any dent. You allege the dent is from her hitting the car.”

[And then it got complicated. Etc etc. Post edited due to dictates of common sense.]

Also, first it’s decent rock icons dying, Joey Ramone and whatshisface, that Clash guy. Now Bob Hope and Idi Amin – guys you didn’t realize were still alive. Who’s next? What will the next cluster be?

The gender genie thinks I’m a girl.

Suddenly overwhelmed by all the brutality and cynicism of humankind, and particularly of those that lead us, bitter about vicious deeds and machinations carried out in our name, and struck by random tales of just how strange we can be. Saddened too by the lack of critical thought, by the pettiness, by how gullible and obtuse we’re willing to be (one always hopes or presumes that individuals will mature more quickly than societies).

There are times when those things you generally turn to for reassurance – books, music, gardens and laughter… – feel like cold comfort. You don’t feel suicidal, you’re just plain exhausted.

Go read Gail Armstrong.

This may be obvious, which makes it appropriate to write about here since stating the obvious is our specialty — but what is with the debate about gay marriage? Look, first of all, I’m married: other people’s sex lives are none of my business, with the possible exception of my wife. If someone wants to get married — anyone — they should have their head examined maybe, maybe not be so closely related that their offspring vote Republican or have twelve toes on each hand and so on, but if two people of the same sex want to have the same legal protection as everyone else, that doesn’t dilute the sanctity of anything.

So it was a good vacation, but I’m happy to be back at work. I’m happy to be wherever I am, and if I had a coffee or a drink it would usually be perfect. Friday and Saturday I was busy helping out at the rowing club’s annual fundraiser. They do this open-air restaurant/barbecue/wine/beer thing and I slice things in the kitchen. Meat, onions, horseradish, pickles, tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers I sliced. Not my fingers, unlike some other helpers.

The man in charge of the kitchen has a knife-sharpening fetish. I was very careful.

You’d set a knife down and he’d be all over it. “Here, let me sharpen that.”

I must have sliced my weight in blood sausage.

Sometimes I ran down to the refrigerator truck for more supplies. It had no lighting, so at night it was a problem finding stuff. Have you ever tried to distinguish one sort of ham-like coldcut meat from another lean bacon-like coldcut meat in a refrigerator truck in the dark? I think if you can do it, you are automatically awarded Austrian citizenship.

The first day there was a guy helping out in the kitchen, a total male chauvinist jock. Basically when he didn’t talk sports he talked about his recent bout of food poisoning and how he lost six pounds in a week. And he sliced the onions too thick. When he wasn’t looking, I took his slices out of the dish and sliced them thinner.

My oldest daughter waitressed. She took it very seriously. She did a good job. The last day, Sunday, I had to work somewhere else and just showed up in the evening for some dinner. My youngest daughter had found an apron somewhere and was running around waitressing as well. Six years old. Clearing empty glasses and things. I had her bring me a beer. She demanded a tip.

Did Shania Twain record a song about a coccyx or was it just a dream?
And what is it with obscenities? So many of them refer to positive things. Take the colloquial term for fellatrix/fellator, just for one example. That should be a term of praise, IMO. Those people should all get gold watches and income tax deductions. When I am appointed language czar, my first act will be to replace all current obscenities with more appropriate words:

Jimmy: Mom, Bobby called me a spleen.
Mom: Please Jimmy, I’m trying to concentrate on driving. Quiet down the both of you.
Bobby: [whispering] Spleen, spleen, spleen.
Jimmy: He’s saying it again, mom.
Dad: Jesus Jimmy, don’t be such a testicle.
Mom: Watch your language, you big bladder.