Freakshow

I never thought the day would come, at least not on the Gregorian calendar, when I'd learn a life lesson from Britney Spears, but that day is today.

Fortunately for me, I'm able to do it without actually having to listen to her music. I needed only to search for lyrics relevant to tell you the following story, and I found a reference to her latest album, Blackout, and a song titled Freakshow.

It would seem, Gentle Reader, that last night I became something of a Britneyesque Freakshow. I'm so embarrassed by what I vaguely remember doing, and even more by what I'm afraid I might have done, that I turned off my phone and may not turn it back on until ever.

I'm certain I drunk-dialled crazy Nadine. I think I even sat outside her door for a while. I think I may have done the same to Monica. See, she's the building manager, so she would be able to open my apartment, which I kinda needed her to do because I locked myself out. That's right, it was Hotel California all over again.

I probably called The Librarian, since it was he with whom I had been drinking. I don't remember where he went, or how I got home, but when I woke up this morning — and, by this morning, I mean 3:00 a.m. — he wasn't here. So that's something.

Oh god, I hope I didn't dial Jack's number. Please, Lord, if you're up there.

Last night's much too drunk drunk and this morning's resulting hangover is all The Librarian's fault, really it is. He's the one who suggested drinking bourbon after our third pint at O'Flaherty's. He's the one who always wants to go there, so now we're regulars and the bartender likes us and so, when we order a shot, he makes it a triple. So you can see, can't you, why The Librarian is to blame?

What did I learn from Brit Brit? That when you get drunk and behave like an idiot, you're, well, you're an idiot. As penance, and owing to the fact that I could do little else, I spent the afternoon watching the charming 1980 BBC production of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, grateful for the reminder that there is subtlety in literature, if no longer in society.

Next, Postmodern Sass explains her two month blog sabbatical.

Crisis? What Crisis?

I don't usually watch The View but I turned on the TV in the background this morning while I was making coffee, and was too lazy to change the channel.

Whoopi Goldberg reported on a study that asked the question, is the male midlife crisis a real phenomenon, or is it just an excuse for men to say, I'm a narcissistic jerk having a meltdown?

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Pretty Vacant

"What's the matter with you?" asked Sparky, "You look... vacant."

"Gee, thanks," I replied.

In retrospect, I think the look on my face he was attempting to describe was the one that said, dear god, please don't make me go back to America... I don't think I can bear it.

I've been home for three weeks, exactly the right length of time for things to begin to seem normal to me. This is home. This is where my heart is, and where, at the moment, my cat is. I've been away for enough time for memories of living in that armpit of California they call San Jose to begin to fade. Enough time for Jack to seem like someone I once knew in a fairy tale.

What was I thinking?

Oh, right. The job. That's why I moved there. It's the only reason, and a pretty powerful one at that.