Pleasures of the Day

It's cold in Townsend, and beautiful.

I'm just getting used to the neighborhood, having moved here just three weeks ago. I am alone -- J brought her son out to visit his Dad for the weekend. I was going to call the son I, but I figured that would confuse I with I, so I'll call him Dufflebag.




Dufflebag's primary occupations are horror movie trailers and energy drinks. The former advertise films he is not allowed to see and the latter are treats he cannot have. He is a good kid. I had never dated anyone with a child for any period of time, and I didn't know how we'd get along. I figured that if I was a kid, I wouldn't have liked some dude my Mom dated who moved in weeks later. Fortunately for us, Dufflebag has a brighter soul than mine and we get along more than fine.



The other day someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said he wanted to be a jiu-jitsu teacher. Run away, Dufflebag! Run away from the mafiosa politics and would-be cultish authority figures! Run away from that odd confusion between character and hobby. Geez. Does any other hobby take so much time and dedication to achieve such meager goals? Consider and beware.



I find the notion of someone finding me a rolemodel strange, since I tend to think of myself as a failure in multiple enterprises. I am, however, good with animals and they like to sit on my belly. I suppose that counts for someone.



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Pleasures being an odd word, since the day was ostensible bleak and cold. Weatherwise, newswise.



Linen n things went bankrupt. Circuit City might. The layoffs are finally hitting the HVAC industry and two people came into the warehouse today asking the Boss for hints about where to apply. I saw about five accidents on the road today, an unusually high number. Enough to give the near winter a barren, Mad Maxish atmosphere. Since I drive a big, beat-up truck, I feel safe, if not invulnerable. If something went terribly wrong, I have the feeling that I'd be one to survive. Maybe that's something else I'm good at: generating the necessary optimism.

For the first time, the owners cancelled the annual Christmas Party. We arranged to have our own private party at a local strip club. I'll go to the Chinese restaurant for cocktails before, but I won't go to a strip club, and not for any other reason than that I really would rather spend a cold night in December alone with J and Dufflebag.



There was no sausage incident today. It was payday, and I indulged in a sub called a Northender. In NYC, it would have been good. It did have prosciutto, but also something that seemed like bologna. The lettuce was white, although not wilted. I could tell from the long lines that the place was a local favorite, thus favored and digestible. Favored status on the road comes from any place not run just for merest profit. These days, the profit driven places -- the ones that serve bland but passing food, are generally staffed by Brazilians. This is a stereotype that I came to through over a year of observation, so I'm sticking to it.



The great moment of the day came when I passed a one-day truck sale in Burlington. I bought a few hiking headlamps and a laser leveller for twenty bucks. More than fair.



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J asked me if I wanted anything while she was out. I told her I wanted pomegranite juice and jalapeno jelly to mix with vodka. She looked at me for a second, wondering if I was joking, but she knows me enough now. "Where the hell am I going to buy jalapeno jelly?!" she asked, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes.



I haven't had a drink all week. As I mentioned below, I only had seven bucks in my pocket. So a bottle of vodka comes with payday.



I told Billy and we talked at length about how being drunk makes music sound good. We began to drool, showing the sort of greed for bombed tunage like some old codger shivering as a nubile passed him by, smiling.



I'm not drunk yet. Still, the music sounds good.