Another day, another dog of a photograph (or) photograph of a dog.
And another day here on the farm in Oakland, The City of There, as in "there's no there, there", my dear. Actually there is a there here, although this morning something happened to BART and everybody got here two hours late. I, who walked to work, stopped for eggs and bacon on toast and a plastic bottle of orange juice and read about hack attacks against ebay and stocks and bonds dot com in the Tribune while my fellow workers sat helplessly under the bay with about ten billion tons of water sloshing above them. Is this important to document? Will I refer to this narrative in the future? No. But it gets the fingers moving. And I need to get something moving.
I received an email from Rien today at work mentioning the numbers. The swine. I haven't forgotten the fucking numbers (only fair he reminded me, of course, since we talked about it back when I cajoled him into sending me his Reality Asylum CD on a promise of numbers for his collection. It's a good collection. Some of the other journalers have sent him some really nice stuff and I haven't had the imagination or the gumption to do anything half so good. So I'm procrastinating like crazy. He knew I wasn't going to make the deadline we set for the end of last month. He knew that I knew he knew I wasn't going to make the deadline we set for the end of last month. Shit. I've become a god damned joke. It's OK to be a god damned joke, but it's not OK to know it.)
Now I know Rien would have sent me the CD without promising the numbers and he knew I knew he'd send the CD just for the asking, but I also knew deep down in my heart of hearts that I was probably not going to deliver (on time). This is a repeating theme. Promise, not. Promise, not. Promise, not. I don't like people who do that very much and here I am looking into my own mirror and who is that looking back? The old Oakland slime bucket! Shit. That it should end like this. When it started so well.