Stare.
 
2001 Notebook: Weak XVII
 
   
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24 April 2001
A Close Market Street Shave
I’m still deeply infatuated with biking, even after last night. Especially after last night. I was bombing down Mason Street at a pleasing rate of speed—catching all the lights just right—then sped onto an empty Market Street.

And that’s when it hit me.

Market Street, that is. Some scumbag had laid tram tracks in the middle of the street without telling me. (Lois claims that they’ve been there for decades, but what does she know?) The bike wheels tried to be train wheels and failed, miserably. The bike stopped instantly, but I kept going.

Oops.

The experience wasn’t too bad initially, but gravity soon united me with the grimy asphalt of Market Street. I slid on my elbow for a while, long enough to remove quite a bit of skin.

I was pleased with the results. It never would have occurred to me to sand away a few layers of skin to see texture of the various epidermal layers. Once I’d done so involuntarily, though, I was quite pleased with the results.

Lois wasn’t impressed, though. “Personally,” she advised, “I think you’re one of those guys who looks better with his skin on.”

But what does she know?

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25 April 2001
Krispy Kremes Oracle
Eddie uses doughnuts to manage his business. And not just any doughnuts either; he uses Krispy Kremes. Only Krispy Kremes. (As an aside, Krispy Kremes are unusual in that they look like doughnuts, but taste like sausages and ice cream.)

Every Wednesday, Eddie brings a dozen identical Krispy Kremes to the office, puts then on a table near his desk, then carefully watches the order in which his employees select them. Eddie then interprets pattern using “kind of my own spin on the I Ching,” then makes his business decisions accordingly.

Eddie told me he started using the real I Ching, but thought Krispy Kremes were more relevant to doing business in the United States. Eddie makes a lot of money, and you can’t argue against that. At least not in the United States of America.

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26 April 2001
Play Ball! (Slowly)
I accepted Michael’s invitation to watch a baseball game with him this afternoon, and I’m glad I did. Even before the game started, it was a pleasure knowing that we were reveling in sloth and indolence just a few hundred kilometers from office drones suffering in the fluorescent hell of their antiseptic cubicles.

Too bad for them; what a treat for us!

We sat on the edge of the large, grassy field drinking copious amounts of beer and munching on tacos and sushi. And that’s progress. Even though the game of baseball hasn’t changed all that much in the last century or two, at least the food’s a lot better than the rubber hot dogs I savored when I was a child.

The best part about the game, though, was the excruciating boredom. It was like watching a painter who’d ingested a fatal dose of barbiturates painting the last canvas. Imagine dozens of grown men trying to hit a little ball with a stick: that’s America’s pastime!

I love baseball. It’s more useless than philosophy, and even more boring than art. Go team go!

(And the score? I think the San Francisco team was thrashed by opponents from a city of little consequence, but I’m not exactly sure.)

27 April 2001
Not Dead, Not Really
I’m listening to yet another debate on the death penalty, and I’m listening to the same two arguments. One side maintains that killing is wrong, so people shouldn’t be killed. The other side maintains that killing is wrong, so people who kill people should be killed.

The discussion was going on and on and on some more with numbing predictability until some idiot came on to espouse a piece of lovely logic.

“Killing killers with a lethal injection isn’t cruel.” she maintained. “it’s just like permanent anesthesia.”

Perfect!

I’m never going to die, but at some point I’ll enter a state of permanent anesthesia. Sweet dreams indeed!

28 April 2001
“Without Author or Art”
Dory doesn’t know much about me, but she does know that I’ve wasted a large part of my life making photographs. I suspect that’s why she passed along this observation by Lewis Baltz:

    “The ideal photographic document would appear to be without author or art.”

Anyone smart enough to be Monica’s father certainly knows more than the average shutterbug, so I can’t rebut his proposition.

I can say, however, that I’m certainly glad I abandoned photography before the medium abandoned me.

29 April 2001
Charity, Sleeping
Charity is one of my favorite friends, even though I rarely see her. Charity sleeps like a cat. Charity sleeps whenever she can. Charity sleeps all the time.

Charity tells me consciousness is overrated; she said that dreaming is by far the most rewarding state of human evolution.

Who am I to contradict her?

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©2001 David Glenn Rinehart