Good and Bad
MRH and his sidekick are up for moving me into my new abode. We talked about doing it on Sunday, but settled on the Sunday following. Time for me to do necessary things this weekend that I will undoubtedly find some way to put off, but still, time to accomplish much if I am in the mood. Like getting boxes out of storage, junking things that really should not make it into the new apartment, and other stuff that we all know needs to be done in a rational and well run world. That other world. Send out change of address forms. I have a bunch I never used from the last move. I don't even want to think about it. Come Monday I'll feel guilty. I what? I didn't do what? Come Monday is a long time from now.
I have this apartment through the 16th, more than enough time to have a commercial rug cleaner come in and see what can be done about the "spots". Although there are many, they seem to come out with a little effort and I'm hoping a commercial operation will make the rugs look like new. And if they don't I'm going to have to rethink how I'm going to handle Wuss at the new (wall to wall) carpeted apartment. The litter box outside on the balcony accessible through a cat door in the sliding glass, but what about the rugs inside? I won't have the storage boxes and the other stuff that will make cleaning the apartment difficult, but still, if he starts throwing up again, what do I do? (One thing I will not do is rationalize myself out of Mr. Wuss. That is not where this introspection is leading. Just wondering, you understand. Examining life and its little complications.)
Friday evening, somewhat later than usual. I had a Guinness at PCB after work out on the patio. As I ducked inside looking to exit through the interior rather than out through the side door with the "do not exit" sign onto the street, I discovered MRE and the usual suspects inside addressing art, life and company politics. Perhaps they noticed I was sitting outside when they entered, perhaps they did not, perhaps they were there when I arrived, but it seemed sensible in whatever case to join them and drink more Guinness. Company denizens from the floor below mine entered later and took a table next to us. We changed our subject. Such is the nature of company techie talk and politics in this Third Millenium of our Lord in Oakland on a Friday after work. Three beers into the evening.
It says on the back cover of Revolt of the Cockroach People that Oscar Zeta Acosta disappeared in Mexico in 1971, although there are letters from Acosta in Thompson's Gonzo Letters, Volume II that are dated in '73, and a letter from Grover Lewis to Thompson suggesting Acosta was killed in early '74 by drug traffickers. Appropriate to a legend, perhaps, a legend who has been repeatedly sighted in likely and less likely places over the intervening years.
No big deal. Oscar was clearly following his fate, although returning to this (literary) territory isn't altogether wonderful. Maybe this is something you need to read and experience as it happens and then stomp it back into subconscious oblivion. Cockroach People starts well. A tighter, somewhat tastier, more evolved narrative than his first book, The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo (on my 100 books list). It brings back the times, and there are times (like today) I don't want to bring back those times at all. One minute they happened thirty years ago, another minute they're right there in front of your nose, colors intact, smelling of the day, waiting. For what?
The reason I mention this is a note in this morning's Chronicle, how some of the old underground newspaper editors of the late sixties got together after September 11th and decided to publish one last paper one last time that will be available at an anti-war demonstration to be held in Dolores Park tomorrow. I knew some of those people, some of whom will be there. I thought I might go over with a camera and then I thought no, too much hassle. Too many vibrations, good and bad.