It rained. Which was good – not because it hadn’t rained since the Super Bowl, but because the A-hole Mobile was getting filthy like porn. Precipitation = God’s carwash for lazy people.
Spent most of the evening at one of my favorite bookstores, the Borders on Lake Street in Pasadena. It’s not a normal thing for me to do, since books are solely a means of combating boredom – and only when there isn’t a TV, Penthouse or shiny metal object lying around. Well in the next few weeks I’ll be spending a good deal of time on planes (Thailand, Cambodia, Vegas, Kauai), so I’ll need books.
I asked some well-read people to recommend their favorites. Of course, quite a few of them picked Murakami, who’s as popular with Asians nowadays as Armani Exchange and sadistic bunnies with enormous heads. Then there were those who figured a "dark, twisted, nihilistic bastard" like me would appreciate Ballard or Palahniuk. Me? Dark and twisted? Little did they know that as a kid I spent a summer reading every single one of my sister’s "Little House on the Prairie" books. Hmmm, dark and twisted it is then.
Recommended Reading List (So Far) For A Soul-less Man:
"The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" by Haruki Murakami
"Survivor" by Chuck Palahniuk
"A Confederacy of Dunces" by John Kennedy Toole
"The Atrocity Exhibition" by J.G. Ballard
"The Holy Bible" by God (Strongly recommended by Mom)
If you’ve got your own recommended reading list please let this literary retard know, unless your name is Oprah.
Driving down the 110 after the rainstorm was an interesting experience. That section of the freeway was actually the world’s first freeway, so it’s extremely windy and doesn’t bank much. You combine that with water, oil and morons, and it was like driving through a junkyard. After squirting past a four-car accident, I had to dodge several more miles of random car parts littering the lanes from earlier collisions. All the while I was cursing my lucky future grandkids with their teleportation pods.
While my girlfriend was getting her acupuncture treatment, I sat in the lobby reading "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" (What can I say? I have an Armani Exchange shirt). In the first few pages the main character boils spaghetti, gets a crank phone call, and looks for his cat. Damn, why didn’t the acupuncturist have any Penthouse?
Later that night, we had some drinks at the Pointe. Then someone got stabbed. Vera actually knew the guy, who apparently was in some Chinese gang. By himself, any guy is capable of some pretty dumb shit. When you put a bunch of guys together, the idiocy level jumps exponentially. When the group of guys happens to be a gang, you are talking about the pinnacle of male stupidity. And the fact that they have access to sharp objects and firearms is precisely why we’ll be avoiding the Pointe for a while.
My middle sister and her husband were in town from Seattle to celebrate her birthday. She brought over stacks of photos from their Peru trip, and I was floored.
As a human being, few visual experiences could surpass seeing Machu Picchu nestled among the peaks of the Andes. I’d always planned on visiting there but didn’t know exactly when I’d make the trip. I practically hopped on a plane right then and there, but it looks like I’m going next year.
What else? Nobody got stabbed today.
And that, boys and girls, was the weekend.