An Auntie Dynamite Volume II
Early January:
The Sydney flu is a masterwork of subtle power. Auntie has never experienced a disease that made her glad to only be coughing until she ran to the bathroom to disgorge her insides. That seemed a holiday after not having freedom of choice over where she vomited.
January 17:
Spent part of the afternoon with the lovely and talented Greg Rucka talking about his new book Smoker. Greg was entranced by my pack of cigarettes and spent several minutes playing with it. Much howling ensued. It was great. I'd be happy to buy him a beer any time.
Finally watched the Beavis and Butthead movie. It was a three vomit film, although Auntie was only responsible for one of those. We laughed until we ended up hunched over the toilet. It was two in the morning, which is when these acts should happen.
Let that be a warning to all innocent subscribers to premium movie channels.
January 18:
Moved house recently enough to not have all the gewgaws yet, so spent a large chunk of the afternoon hunting down shiny metal implants. Really big hardware stores should be prescription only. They're more dazing and hypnotic than hashish. Who decided toilet seats should be so cheap? Consider how essential they are to every day of your waking normal life. Is there some international cartel that said that a low-end toilet seat is to be priced less than a high-end hamburger?
Auntie staggered around, eyeing the dangling hoses and shiny copper tubing, the tile stacked like sheaves of wheat, the apparatus designed to do God-knows-what but it looks impressive as hell -- it was a terrifying experience. Never have I felt so divorced from reality. It was deeply moving, almost spiritual.
January 21:
Auntie doesn't watch a lot of television. Her computer won't let her. However, she did park in front of the tube for the newest episode of Babylon 5. It was an act of calculated risk. An hour of Auntie's time invested against a prospect only fifty fifty at best. Sadly, I would have done better to channel hop until finding a rerun of the A-Team. Oh, JMS, what happened to you? You used to care if you had an audience.
The evening was redeemed by Bartholomew Bandy, spawn of Donald Jack. Bandy has just the right admixture of deranged and clever to offset even the nastiest piece of television.
January 22:
More corrective surgery was done on Auntie's new house. Heavy fumes spread throughout. I hallucinated that I could become a functional member of corporate America. A strange lucidity descended as I outlined my plans to become a three piece suit bearing zombie.
Many burnt offerings have gone up to the Gods of Bad Craziness that it was only a renovation induced nightmare. Protect me, you bastards, from these things I'm trying to do to myself. I couldn't survive in normal atmosphere for a bare minute. Frighten these executives away from me; I don't want to drink their pinot noir.
Some perspective returned while eating hot dogs and watching John Wayne as Genghis Khan. "It's time ta rape an' pillage, pilgrims." More clarity returned while reading Robert Sheckley's Alternative Detective books.
Much reflecting on the so-called "epidemic" of internet addiction. Auntie thinks it's not only bunk, but a dangerously stupid assessment of the situation. We have lost each other; what matters how we find each other again?