Stare.
 
2005 Notebook: Weak X
 
   
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5 March 2005
No. 2,795 (cartoon)
Get lost.

I am.

6 March 2005
One Less Bike
I was eating a burrito tonight when I watched someone steal my bicycle. He was efficient; it only took him a few seconds to cut the lock. By the time I ran out of the taqueria, he was already on my bike, which, by now, was his bike. A witness reported where the thief took the bike, and I went on an unproductive raid with the San Francisco police.

That’s certainly annoying, but, since no one got hurt, it’s only a matter of metal and money. And even though the bike was rather expensive, I had it for so long that I figure it only cost me less that half a dollar a day for wonderful transportation.

And, being relentlessly positive, I’ll soon have an even better bike. With even better locks.

7 March 2005
Another Day at the Races
Yesterday’s eleventh annual San Francisco Iditarod wasn’t as good as last year’s race. That’s not really a criticism, though. Everyone in San Francisco agrees that nothing is ever as good as it used to be.

8 March 2005
A Fortunate Marination
I ended yesterday saturated in red wine. That’s happened many times before, of course, but last night’s incident was unique. I opened a bottle of of wine just as I’ve done thousands of times, then whoosh! As soon as I pulled out the cork, I was holding onto a Merlot geyser!

The wine soaked my shirt and pants, and amazingly not a single drop splattered anywhere else.

“That’s great!” Skizandra exclaimed.

“Great that I got beat up by a bottle of wine, or great that nothing got soaked except me?” I asked.

“That’s good luck where I come from,” my learned Italian friend replied. “But you need to put some wine on your forehead.”

I followed her direction, as always. I was dubious that being marinated in cheap wine was a fortuitous development, but I didn’t argue. Skizandra radiates good fortune; that’s all I needed to know.

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9 March 2005
Southern Tsunami Soy Sauce
Maia and I enjoyed an epic walk today that ended at the ocean shore. Along the way, we dropped in So Dead Sushi to get a snack to eat in Golden Gate Park.

We found a shady spot in a glen, and spread out a little Japanese buffet. That’s when I saw the label on the soy sauce.

I don’t pay close attention to my diet, and that includes ignoring the list of carcinogenic additives to processed food. And so it was that the only thing I noticed about the packets of soy sauce was the brand name: Southern Tsunami.

I know the world of commerce is a cold, brutal place, but I still have a hard time understanding how any business could sell a product with the same name of a recent natural disaster that killed some three-hundred thousand people.

10 March 2005
My Fictitious Musiness Plan
Rod called today to cancel our lunch today because he was behind on his business plan.

“That’s fine,” I lied, “I was ahead of my musiness plan, so I couldn’t have made it anyway.”

“What in the hell is a musiness plan?” Rod asked.

“It’s exactly like the same as a business plan, only completely different,” I explained.

11 March 2005
A True Publishing Story, Mostly
Amy sent a manuscript to a publisher.

The publisher sent Amy a rejection letter

Amy sent the publisher a rejection of rejection letter, then the publisher printed her book.

That’s a nice story. And, unlike most of my stories, it’s even true. Mostly.

12 March 2005
Insular Publications
I was amazed when I walked into Samantha’s house: most of the walls were covered in books. Apparently, Samantha stacked the volumes by size, with Lake Baikal Tugboats and Real Cheerleader Hustle next to each other in a row of small publications. I spotted Andalusian Chains beside Matisse and Monet’s Mistresses among the oversized tomes.

“You certainly have some eclectic reading tastes,” I remarked.

“What do you mean?” Samantha asked.

“I never met anyone who read The Dialectic of Technological Determinism as well as Hot Sex Tips for Frigid Women,” I replied.

Samantha gave me a blank stare for a few seconds until she understood the misunderstanding. She went on to explain that she’d read almost none of the books; she bought them to provide cheap insulation.

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©2005 David Glenn Rinehart