Servitude
I can think of three domestic tasks that needed to be completed around the house today: cooking dinner, cleaning the dishes, and taking out the trash. Let's see, I cooked dinner, cleaned the dishes, and took out the trash. All by myself, neither parent lifting a finger. Bog above, they've gotten lazy; I seriously have no idea how this household funtioned before I moved back in. Was there garbage strewn about? Did the dishes ever get cleaned? Being old, did they ever bother to climb down the stairs to the basement and tackle Sammy's litter box? "Workers of the world, unite!"

Moshi Moshi?
This evening, I had a lovely, if brief, conversation with The Watergirl. I believed she called to thank me for finally returning her beloved copy of Jimmy Buffett's surprisingly delightful novel Where Is Joe Merchant?. She was on her cell phine trying to catch the T. We had just finished comparing Michigan to Russia when she was cut off midsentence. I waited. "Watergirl?" I ventured. (Obviously, I said her name, not "Watergirl," but she has made it quite clear she wants her anonymity preserved.) "Watergirl?" Hearing nothing from the other end, I hung up, fully expecting to answer her return call in a matter of moments. When no call was received, I shrugged and went about my business. A few minutes alter, it suddenly seemed odd to me that she had not called back. Yes, she was calling from Boston, but as I understand it most cell phines have little or no charge for long-distance service. Oh, dear, had something happened to her? Maybe she had not called back because she wasn't able. Thoughts raced through my head. Should I call her? Had something untoward befallen her? Whatever should I do? Yet, despite my concern for her safety, it is not as if I actually picked up the telephone. At one point, it occured to me that even if she had met with foul play of one sort or another, what could I do from quiet, suburban Michigan to influence the course of events in wild, cosmopolitan Massachusetts?

I can call the Boston police! Yes, that's it!
And tell them what?, you don't even know which T station she was at. And how would you even get in touch with them?
I'm sure information could connect me with an operator in New England who could steer me in the right direction.
Okay, and tell them what?
That we were talking and suddenly I lost her and couldn't get her back.
"And couldn't get her back"? You haven't even touched the phone! Hard to argue you can't reach her without making the attempt, no?
Well, obviously I'll try her cell phine first.
And then what? Tell the police you can't reach your friend's cell phine?
Well, we got cut off midconversation!
Yes, because that's unheard of in the annals of cell phine usage.
Shut up, you. I could tell them we were talking, but now I can't raise her, and could they please keep an eye out for her. I could give them her address and ask them to check to see if she makes it home.
Yes, I'm sure her roommates would love that. Dispatch the local constabulary to their door, that's the ticket.
Fine, but if she's dead it's on your conscience.

Needless to say, that was about two hours ago and I have yet to make any effort to get in touch with her. In the absense of any evidence either way, I am going to operate under the assumption she's okay. But for all I know, The Watergirl is lying dead somewhere in Southie, her lifeless body a consequence of murder most foul. Note, of course, that despite such potentially dire consequences, I'm blogging about it rather than indulging my imagination and actually making inquiries into whether or not she is okay. I hope she's okay.

Banzai Beard Bonanza: Day 69
Somewhere, Beavis and Butt-head are snickering. Eww, I keep getting mustache hairs up my nose. Ewe? No. Also, my beard hair is so curly and gnarly (the actual meaning of gnarly, not the vintage '80s exclamation) I can hardly believe it. The real problem with that is it makes the hair tend to bunch up, making the coverage undesirably thin in places. As I've commented before, the only upside of this debacle is that under the accursed Sun my shadow bears a not-so-slight resemblence to Jet Black, which is as absolutely close to cosplay as I ever hope to come.

The Classics
Until recently, I had never read anything by J.D. Salinger. The way people go on and on about Catcher in the Rye, and the sort of people who go on and on about Catcher in the Rye, has always made me very wary of the book. From what I've been told about the sotry of Holden Caulfield, I am still wary, but given the pure delight I took in reading Franny and Zooey, I am now entirely open to the experience. Also, I am now reading my very first Bradbury, which may sound odd given my love for science fiction and my experience with such contemporaries of his as Alfred Bester, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and Frederick Pohl. I am beginning Fahrenheit 451, since in a way very reminiscient of Catcher in the Rye, something about the sound of The Martian Chronicles gives me pause. I have not yet begun the book proper, but based on the two introductions - one from 1993, as the copy I have is a 40th anniverary edition, and one from 1966, written to correspond with the release of the movie - I do not have a good feeling about that it coming. I fear there in something in Bradbury's use of language that makes me wish I had a brick handy.

"Have you ever thought it's you who's boring?
Who the hell are you?!"
--Liz Phair, "Extraordinary" from Liz Phair

Hello, Kitty
Someone explain to me why Sam insists on standing between my legs when I am doing the dishes. Dude, my hands are covered with water; so, you don't want me to pet you. And where you are standing, when I turn to load the dishwasher, you're going to get kicked. *raaarr!* Well, it serves you right. I miss the fierce, evil bastard Sam used to be. That son of a gun didn't have time for anybody unless they could do something for him. He only ever meowed when he wanted to be let out. Now, he seems confused by the door and unsure of where he is.

It's a terrible thing to grow old.