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September 06, 2005


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We just rented a large flat to three female college roommates, 19-20 yoa. (Parent financed. First time we've done this; we usually have families.) I admit, I am a strange creature, but these girls are doing art on me like nobody's business: holding up that mirror to my face.

(Debbie emailed and said this wasn't clear.)I think I remind them of their mortality. I wear all the trendiest shit, but I still look like I'm dying. They reflect it back to me, but in that teenage face.Oy. Oy. Oy.

Funny. I look really great until I look in the mirror. When I do certain things, I imagine I still have a young face and a young body. Strange to me that I am 2 1/2 years shy of 50. What's reflected to me is my future old age. Not my previous youthful appearance. I look in the mirror and see my old dad and my old mom. I see how I'll look in about thirty years.

I was trying on dresses recently. Because of my size, I am forced to look in the women's section. Matronly comes to mind. Nothing the least bit sexy about being a matron, let me tell ya. Suddenly, I am my mom. No, I cannot try on that dress. That looks like something my now 86 year old mom would wear and has been wearing since...well, forever. My mom never had much of a flair for fashion. As for me, I've got to still have a bit of pizazz in my style. I am not ready to become assimilated into the Borgian equivalent of old age where everyone dresses and looks alike. Even as my hair gets more and more salty.

So move over, Quasimodo. Let me hunch next to you.

What you both need is a WB Salon Make Over. Missy can charge it to your credit card or take a second mortgage on your house. Do not spend a single day with low self-esteem when the WB technicians can bring your true and loveliest self to the surface.

You all should have taken jobs at the tanks! We never grow old there. It's a blood and souls thang. Not for the meek or faint of heart, but there's no denying the efficacy!

Hmmmmm, Tutor. Been watching Addams Family reruns lately. Momma stays in the stocks as part of her beauty treatment. And they are always offering the rack and a bed of nails to reduce stress. Just what sort of equipment do they have at this Salon?

Jobs at the tanks, Tigg? Does this have to do with being a vampire? Or is it like taking on a symbiot like on Stargate?

Think Tank, Tigg works at a Think Tank. At WB our equipment is mostly eclesiastical - confessionals, kneelers, scourges, dunce caps, stakes for burning heretics - all that backs up our interest in Absolute Truth.

Tigg will be buried at a crossroads one day, Debbie, with a stake through his heart and his head cut off. That's part of the contract he entered freely, and not something he cares to think about often. The tanks are always looking for fresh, hungry talent. Satiation, after all, is the enemy of productivity. It makes a grim kind of sense. A cull has its own inexorable logic and takes on its own momentum.

Oh, the things I'd be thinkin'. I could be another Lincoln. If I only had a brain.

Sorry, fellas. Like Shakespeare's clowns, I am more likely to supply the low humor around here than deeper thoughts. I don't think I am a good candidate for a think tank. When I was in grad school, so much that was being lauded seemed like such utter nonsense to me that I really never much got into theory. I am embarrassed to say that half the time I find the conversation too intimidating to do more than just read, if I even do that. I like to think of myself as more of a contemplative individual than a doer, but, honestly, sometimes conversations about theory seem like a waste of time. They puzzle me. Hmmmm. Maybe my life has gotten too reality based. Reading and thinking about deeper things has gotten to be a luxury. My life is much too much about survival. Perhaps that's why I am so drawn here. To get away from the stress of a day-to-day existence. Or maybe being so heart centered gets in the way of my brain. It's ridiculous of me, but I feel empathy for Tigg who I know is a persona. (And, yes, I do get who Tigg really is.) I feel the sorrow and the resignation. Perhaps that's because I am resigned to so much.

I'm thinking a tryst with Smoky Joe might clear your head. If you find yourself capable of empathy there, Mel Gibson could do the trick.(Harry says you should not self-reference; herewith I reference Smoke the Joe.)

I think the only thing right now that would clear my head is brain bleach. The very thought... Sounds like you want to go after Smoky Joe yourself.

Speaking of the bordello attorney, I wonder where he's been keeping himself during all this controversy. Maybe, like Cheney he's waiting for all of this to blow over. BTW, the expletive that the passerby shouted at him is one he's said on the Senate floor.

Joe is busy getting Halliburton to pick up the tab for Cheney's trip.

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