Rabbit, rabbit.

What a swell day. Had I written here today, I might have shared my thoughts on rediscovering the pleasure of sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson's Barracuda and how I would gladly discover the song all over again as early as tomorrow if it were to be performed by brothers Luke and Owen Wilson on air guitars as the opening act to my morning shower.

And I might have felt awkward mentioning my feelings regarding the androgynous young man and woman who look titillatingly like two beautiful young men when they start making out on their yoga mats and how I don't recall ever experiencing a sun salutation when I was on the elliptical trainer before.

It's possible I would have also written about the exhilarating bike ride home this evening at sundown, trying to beat the darkness, and how some of it was down a hill that when I take as fast as I usually do, I can hear the fine hairs on my earlobes shouting,"We are all going to die and it will be your fault!"

But in tiny little voices that are easy to ignore.

How do you work something like that in though?

And none of that would explain why I find myself covered in beef and glitter with no insight to offer (for now) as to why.

Context is always so difficult for me.

Day 16 stomach tonic courtesy Mr. Trinity

“Culture is a thing that grows; that’s why they call it a culture.”
Mat Bevel : Math & Myth

look --

• Center for Creative Photography

listen--

• Blondie ~ Atomic (Tall Paul Remix)
• Barcelona ~ I've Got the Password to Your Shell Account
• Voice Farm ~ Free Love
• Yoko Ono ~ Ask the Dragon
• Suburban Lawns ~ Gidget Goes to Hell
• Sparks ~ Moustache
• Lady Zu ~ A Noite Vai Chegar

eat --

• Mocha Almond Cookies at Bentley's
• Melatonin

Subject: hold me
Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000 21:08:41 -0700
From: John D’Hondt
To: Richard Whitmer

OK, I am still waiting for a sign. I pray: Yeshua, fait moi un signe! Seriously, I need that little bon mot to move south, that crux de la croix, that petit chou, that spanish inlaw with yellow adobe walls in the bedroom with my name on the mail box made with a label maker.

John was a writer. He loved all things Belgian. He was an expert on Joan Baez and The Singing Nun, whose stories he told in hilarious one-man shows in cabarets around San Francisco in the nineties. He was my good friend and accomplice. Recently he was tortured by feelings nobody should have. Sometime over the weekend, he dealt with those feelings in a way that nobody should. My heart is so heavy right now and I’m left wishing I could ask, Johnny, who’s going to write your book about Dominique? Who else will call me on Sunday morning to say, “Fabio, I must have you! Peet’s and the library?” Who’s going to be our operation’s man on the inside at the monastery? Who’s going to comiserate with me about all these people turning the city into one big dog run? Who will make fun of the guppies at Harvest with me even as we cruise them over the olives and marinated tofu? And I really don’t think anyone else will regularly leave lengthy messages for me about Dusty Springfield’s career in the years before I was born. Johnny, if I believed in a next time, I’d curse at you and tell you to stick around next time. As it is, I don’t know what more to say except that I really, really wish you had stuck around.

Polo and Benson & Hedges. What is the sound of one collar popping?