duermemucho's diary

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mandarin hefeweizen

My parting with Owl at the end of my failed vacation consisted of a nice but somewhat misguided card giving me instructions on how to avoid speaking to her until she decides it's time to speak to me. I left her apartment on Friday afternoon and haven't spoken with her since. That's a week ago, tomorrow. A week ago right now, if you're anywhere east of the United States. She seemed sad and remorseful but resolute. I'm not to contact her unless it's a life or death situation. I don't like that idea, but like I said in my last entry, I think I've learned some lessons. I can deal with this sacrifice if it will keep someone from carrying a grudge.

I managed to sneak out the following day and spent a night on the fabled "road", looking at things we don't have here in the desert, mythical things like clouds and trees. The dingleberry of Steubenville on the asshole of Ohio has never looked so pleasant and appealing as when you've been living on the fucking moon for four months. I took my rickety-ass rental car as far south as Wayne National Forest and went for a day-hike through a little gorge that was absolutely overgrown with fungus. I'll post the photos if the motivation ever strikes me. I found a patch of deep purple mushrooms, the Latin name of which escapes me at the moment; I've never seen anything, mineral or vegetable, with such a deep and pristine color, and the fact that it was a mushroom made it all the more cool. I also found a fuckload of destroying angels, the tall, snowy-white mushrooms that look like they belong on a wedding cake, and that would give you a horrible, slow death if you actually put them there. Fungi are awesome.

I'm slightly tipsy, trying to use alcohol to knock this cold virus out of my system. I've had a sore throat and a runny nose ever since I made it back, and the cooler weather has been making that difficult to deal with. I don't know whether the alcohol is helping, but it sure isn't hurting. I'll have to restock the supplies tomorrow, since Lark is coming over and has already indicated that she wants an opportunity to let loose, now that her ex-husband is out of rehab and her work has been cut back to part-time. Make friends with a government scientist and you, too, can get drunk on the sofa and watch South Park.

Earlier this week I got this so-called "mandarin hefeweizen" (whose label bears a striking resemblance to the cover of one of my favorite albums, Nick Drake's "Pink Moon"), at one of the four (4) supermarkets in town, the big warehouse-y one (excluding Wally World, which doesn't count) in which products are stacked from concrete floor to corrugated ceiling, in case anyone needs a 48-bottle case of dill pickle slices. This warehouse is the only place that sells local beers, it seems. All the other supermarkets limit their liver-fattening repertoire to Coors, Budweiser, and (if you're lucky, or in a rural convenience store) Modelo Especial. It's the same way with wine around here. I live in a surprisingly vibrant wine-producing region, probably the nation's biggest wine belt outside California...and finding any wine that isn't pineapple flavored is nearly impossible if you don't go to the wineries themselves.

While at the warehouse supermarket, I crossed paths with a many-chinned woman with a mustache, who was pushing around a baby in her cart. I may be filling my cart, but in my mind, I'm thinking, who would fuck YOU? Man, fuck the b-b-bank!

I'm drunk, I guess. I should get off the net and write a meaningful entry as soon as I get the chance and am motivated. This blog is a shallow wisp compared to my previous one.

8:29 p.m. - 2006-09-21


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