A Free CF

I texted Billy last night, telling him there was a free UFC on Spike last night. I've been trying to get him to start watching the fights, and he shows no interest.

He texted back: "A free cf."

CF is warehouse slang for a clusterfuck, but it also seems to indicate something broader. We started calling things cf's when we noticed how easily some guys threw the term around. Traffic? A clusterfuck. A box in the way? A clusterfuck. So we referred to the slightest complication as a cf.

But then we began to see the situation of our lives in general as a cf. Both in the ironic sense and the other: that, on same level, we really are screwed.

But Billy hit the nail on the head.

I lay on the couch like a sponge, not wanting to do much other than curl up with my girl.

*

I've spent the last two days with the dog by my side almost the whole time. Slappy was bonded to Jess before I met her, so no matter how much time we spend together, I no longer exist when Jess comes in the room. But it still felt odd to drive off this morning without her, my little travelling companion through the complications of the last few days.

*

I need to get to Townsend and check on the cats and the pipes. I just need to make sure. And I need to do the dishes. After that, I need to answer a few questions about how the week might unfold: where I'll stay, how I'll get through work.

My brother picked up my mother yesterday and brought her to the warehouse and tried to keep her entertained with movies on a portable dvd player. She doesn't have the patience for most movies.

Quickly, she decided she wanted to go home, even though the house was dropping in temperature and was already in the low forties.

"I couldn't talk her out of it," my brother told me.

And we both came to the conclusion that at this point in her life, after facing a few major disappointments and an endless list of minor ones, on some deep level all she wants is not to leave the house.

*

I'm back in the North Andover Starbucks where I posted from yesterday.

It's early -- not yet nine -- but they are playing slick reggae. It's a noxious music to write to. At least for me. Talk about cultural context! A cold day in one of the whitest towns in the state, and they're cranking world music with that crazy beat! Let's dance! Let's read the paper!

I wanted to take the same parking space I did yesterday, for the sake of continuity, but someone had parked in two spaces. I thought about breaking their sideview mirror. Briefly, mind you.

I did that one. Someone had parked flush against my car on the driver side, even though they had plenty of space on the other. It was simple laziness. So I hip checked their side view mirror as I tried to squeeze past and surprised myself when it came off like cooked chicken from the bone.

*

I've got the itunes running to counter the reggae. Once again, it saves me. "Tarpit" by Dinosaur Jr., followed by Muddy Waters, Benny Goodman, and the Motorhead cover of "God Saves the Queen."

God save your mad parade. No more!