Saturday, September 03, 2005 Kick in the shins
At work today, as I fielded the calls of those who were outraged that they would not be receiving haircut appointments due to reduced holiday hours, I flouted the ban on reading at the reception desk. I'd gotten a Post at the paper box up the street. I'd read some of it online this morning with Tracy, before we left the house to start our days and before I missed the one crucial Saturday morning bus, without the aid of which I am doomed to lateness. We were reading an op-ed about the difference between those good and noble looters who nobly acquire the bare minimum it takes them to survive, and those egregious (remember that word? What a blast from the past!) looters who take things that they won't die in the next day or two if they pass up. Liquor and guns, the article mentioned, which was interesting, because that is probably what I would want, too, but that's the rabble in me talking. Sometimes I'm all full of rabble, up past my neck.
Then I got home, and it might've been my imagination, but the bus seemed a little crowded on the way. I will make a Baltimore public transit tutorial soon, for newcomers to the bus who are going to get forced on by rising gas prices and are about to get outraged themselves at how hard it is to get from one place to another in a fixed timeframe in this town.
I got home, and I started trying to doctor my foot, because I did a stupid thing the other day, and I wore some uncomfortable old shoes to work, and a blister started, and then I made it worse walking around town last night. This morning, it hurt too much to put on a regular shoe, and I was thankful that mine is a workplace where one can rock a pair of flip-flops. Before I took up my forbidden reading, I passed the time noticing how a red streak from my wounded toe seemed to be travelling up my foot as far as the ankle. "Fuck," I thought. Maybe I should ask my physician. Sike! I don't have a doctor. Who do you think I am?
Now my foot is on a spa vacation in a tub of hot water and peroxide. How's your vacation, foot? Painful? Well, shit, other people have worse problems than you. All I ask is that you please don't give me blood poisoning. That's basically all I ask of any of you, unless your actual job is to manage emergencies. Then I ask you to manage fucking emergencies.
I just finished listening to the radio interview with Mayor Nagin. Jesus fuck. You're doing a hell of a job, Brownie. posted by Frenz | 9/03/2005 06:23:00 PM
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