The Litter Box
Saturday. Up a little later this morning, a walk to breakfast - most of the people at the outside tables, only the hard core sitting inside, reading their papers in the dark - and now back to the apartment. A bit warm, although it's not supposed to be more than sixty-eight degrees today, perhaps I should have worn something lighter, cooler, the sliding glass door to the balcony open at the moment, life beginning to turn over now that it's after noon.
Whenever I get on a soap box the way I did yesterday with the anthrax-Bentonite- invade a country piece I wonder if I shouldn't create a political blog and have done with it. Then I remember why I didn't get a degree in journalism - something I thought about, something in some ways people might say I pursued - and then I recall I didn't have the heart for it, didn't have the stamina, didn't have what it takes to call ten people a day, an outsider looking for a story who might not have their best interests at heart.
Sure, I could do a political blog and then post an entry at a breath taking once or twice a quarter. Follow something like this anthrax story, see how it evolves, see what comes to light, if it shows your original intuition of high crimes and misdemeanors made any sense. Carry the torch of righteousness into the night only to find your youthful self tripping in the mud, holding forth your burnt candle of truth, justice and the American woof.
Better to make a fortune in real estate and retire at forty-two on an island with a good DSL connection, drink Pina Coladas and court the ladies.
Well, you sound both naïve and bitter enough to have followed a newspaper career. What happened?
Sloth and lack of talent. Some other stuff too, but I'm too lackadaisical to find them out. So I settled for real estate and Pina Coladas.
Now, you may ask, what have we on our plates for the day? A get together with friends in San Jose tomorrow afternoon, I need to pick up something as my contribution this afternoon, more than enough to keep me busy, I would think. Ms. Emmy's litter box needs cleaning. Believe me, it needs cleaning, may have to do that before too long. Same with the laundry. Down to my last three or four clean t-shirts, down to but the brown socks, down to the, well, you know the score.
Later. I shall watch my Japanese soaps later this evening and go to bed. The litter box, at least, is clean. Cleaner. Here in Oakland.