As I begin this entry, I'm listening to Bob Dylan & George Harrison duet on "All I Have To Do Is Dream"...that's right, the Everly Bros. song. It's strange hearing Dylan singing a regular pop song. Okay, here comes "Rocks & Gravel" from the Gaslight Tapes, with him holding out long nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnoooooooo ooooooooooooooooooootes...This post might take a while, but it's storytime. (1)The other night at the grocery I was picking up a few things on the way home from work. Stacey had class so I gathered up items to make chili. In the canned goods aisle, a pregnant woman kept looking at me. I wasn't sure what could be going on, but I figured I reminded her of someone or she just was admiring my nouveaux faux homeless look, hoping the kid in her womb would grow up as unattached to America's blind, delirious consumerism as I pretend to be. I got closer and she asked if I would reach up onto the top shelf and get her some juice. Apparently the sale on Juicy Juice was popular and the first few were missing, and only a gangly person such as myself could reach what left. So I did.(2)As mentioned here before, I'm planning to do a term paper on Richard Brautigan. Our first 3-5 page rough draft is due Wednesday. It's supposed to be a rough draft and bereft of any research, at least anything that's really research. If any of you want to look at it, reply to wherever you're reading this and let me know, I'd love opinions. It's rough, which befits the sort of draft it's supposed to be. In preparing for the next phase of the paper, I went to the university library and checked out a variety of Brautigan-related books. My turn at the checkout counter came. The people at the circulation desk are very friendly and the middle-aged gentleman this time wasn't an exception, greeting me and such. Once he realized everything I was taking had to do with Brautigan, his face sparked with familiarity. "Is Brautigan still around?" he asked. I told him he passed on about twenty years ago but, short on time and hating to bear bad news, neglected to inform him that Brautigan was found dead of assumed self-inflected gunshot wounds, whiskey bottle at his side. The circulation desk man then told me that he was out in the Big Sur (California) area same time as Brautigan, that it's beautiful country. I asked him what he did out there. He was out there with the Diggers, he said. A few people from Omaha got together and joined up with the Diggers and moved West. I had to get back to work (hurtful irony) and told him goodbye, but asked if it was possible I could interview him for the paper. He liked that idea. I'm not sure if I'll need him for the paper or not, really, but if the thesis goes the way I hope, then I definitely will. I really want to learn from the guy, learn more about the Diggers and that whole scene from someone who was there. Maybe I've got some weird fantasy going on but to me, sitting around and listening to Blues Magoos or the Byrds or Love or Mad River or Bob Dylan or whatever with this guy and finding out more about people (not even necessarily the big names, just in general) I want to spend my life researching and writing about...well, that sounds like something just right.(3)Sometimes scenes from Office Space or The Office (BBC) magically show up in my own workplace. I know everyone says that, probably, but here's proof on my end. My boss knows quite well I'm working on various projects right now, things that need done ASAP. One of them has to do with her pet project and another is something quite central to our office. Early Friday afternoon, however, she sent me an email telling me that my front desk area was a bit messy and dusty and that she wanted me, that very afternoon, to move everything and clean it all up. She said it looked very cluttered. "No kidding," I exclaimed in my head, "I'm getting things stacked on my desk that have to wait while I do these other priority projects." I was in a fairly dour mood already and figured even broaching the subject would be a bit inflammatory, so I avoided it and kept plugging away. A little while later (during some of the time in between, she sat on the couch maybe 10-15 yards behind me and talked loudly and just "hung out" and such) she approached the desk and asked when I was going to clean up my desk. I waited a few seconds to avoid a snap, then told her I was still thinking about that, trying to decide which projects were of lesser priority than tidying up a bit, that maybe the rest of (insert her pet project name) could wait until later and it would just get done when it got done. Or maybe, I pondered aloud, that other thing wasn't as important. Yeah, I'd do it as soon as I was done with this particular piece I was working on right that moment. She missed the sarcasm and was fairly pleased. To her credit, though, she had bought me a bagel earlier on in the day so I couldn't be too upset. Most working girls don't roll over for food that costs less than a couple bucks, I'm sure, but we office whores come cheap.(4) Earlier that morning (Friday, yesterday), Flannery (our beloved orange and white cat) got outside. Our old storefront door, heavy as it is, doesn't shut too quickly and when S. left for work, the little sneaky cat jumped just in time to get stuck in the door. I heard her meowing loudly for a couple minutes, but she does that often when we leave and I was working on my own morning routine elsewhere and didn't pay it much mind. Later I went to leave and realized I'd not seen Flannery in a while, which is strange that time of morning. Generally she's around us both quite a bit when we're getting ready for work. I looked around the house, checked all her favorite spots. No Flannery. I finally realized she must be outside, called in late to work, and got to looking. I looked up and down the blocks in our neighborhood near our place, but couldn't find her. I called Stacey right in front of our unit, out in the street, and was talking to her about it when I heard meowing. I called out for Flannery and she started meowcrying but I couldn't find her. Suddenly my mind clicked and I knew she was in the engine of a pick-up truck right across the street. I knocked on several doors but no one answered. I lay under the truck and tried to find her, coaxing her to come down. She just cried a bit but didn't move, wherever she was. The driver's side door was unlocked, though, so I popped the hood. That must have scared the poor little thing because when I opened the hood and looked into the engine, she was on the ground. I crawled under the truck again, grabbed her and took her into the house. Of course she had grease on her legs and a bit on her back and chest. I called in to give Stacey and my office the update, then traumatized poor Flannery even more by subjecting her to a bath. At least she didn't try to clean herself and get sick off the grease, anyway. She was furious and scared all at once and used her talons to slash my ankle, which started bleeding a bit. Finally I got her bathed and calmed down. She still has grease under her nails, though, but I think that's fine. S. comes from a line of mechanics and guys who work with cars so we're used to that, anyway.What's playing now? "Moon, I Already Know" by Mount Eerie.