Houston

Like the pullback at the end of your post, Steve. The pullback is what makes it work so well. The camera beginning to slide backwards on its cables, retreating from the restaurant, pausing long enough to register the shock on the face of the thirteen year-old kid. Shock and excitement. And yes, that thirteen year-old kid was you. In this mythic Olive Garden you were multiplying like a Russian doll, old versions of yourself busing tables, carrying trays, washing dishes, eating, singing, and most of all watching, fervently hoping, that the confrontation at the table would explode into violence.

One thing I was considering when reading your account. Ever see a fight like that? Between two black girls? What I remember most is the speed. The blinding speed. It was like watching two dogs (not trying to be demeaning here, just what I've observed) in that I could not really follow the action. They both snatched at each other's heads and then, after three or four lightning-fast twitches, they were on the ground. It was like this. BitchSnatchTwichRoll.

Now white girls, on the other hand...those fights are somewhat more picturesque. They usually don't know what they are doing and their very ineptitude is kind of arousing. They stand there, whining, each with a huge fistful of the other's hair, red-faced, determined, sometimes crying..oh, yeah.

A final caveat. I know I just made a race-based generalization above, but that's just what I've observed.

Funny stuff.

I'm in Houston. Got up at 3:30 AM to catch my plane out. The weather is not good. I have a cold. I spent most of yesterday in a conference room diagramming a domain model for this application we're building. Only the red pen worked. All the other colors left dry ghostly smears on the board. One guy on my team came to me afterward and wanted to tell my about his daughter's chess tournament. As I was listening I slipped into tiny quiet dreams where I was still on the plane to Houston. Afterward I went and had Chinese food by myself, then went back up to the room.

I think I've discovered, at long last, the secret to business travel. Don't turn on the TV. Had a peaceful night doing some work, taking a call from the wife. At 8:30 I got in bed to read a bit and woke up at 1:30 with all the light still ablaze. Nice feeling when you realize there are still four hours of sleep remaining.

Miss Thang at the Olive Garden

Walked about three miles this morning... then walked nine holes this afternoon... great exercise, feeling good about how healthy I've been, so then decided to go to the fucking Olive Garden.

Dear God... breadsticks dipped in greasy wonderful alfredo sauce... chicken parmesan... nothing like a little chicken dredged in high-fat parmesan and then deep fried and topped with cheese, next to a big glop of fettucini alfredo...

I am a fat pig. I just need to come to grips with that. Oh well.

Watched a patron and a waitress bonk heads at another table. The waitress was black... she had a little Miss Thang going... looking like she was at least trying to pretend she had some customer service skills... but everyone could tell what she thought of the bitchy lady sitting in front of her.

I wasn't sure what happened, because they were already going at it when we were walked to our table. Something about the waitress rushing them to order... they wanted to take their time and browse the menu, and they didn't want advice from Miss Thang... In her defense, I think Miss Thang was genuinely trying to be helpful, along with pushing what she's obligated to push from the menu, etc... But the bitchy lady got all in a huff and told Miss Thang she needed some time to look at the menu.

So Miss Thang came back in a few minutes, but now the stick was definitely up her butt. It was interesting watching her. She looked liked she came from downtown somewhere... probably would have cussed out Miss Bitch in any other environment. She looked like she was trying to look like she was being patient... but she wasn't trying too hard.

Miss Bitch ordered, and Miss Thang asked her something about her entree, and of course Miss Bitch snapped back at her... I couldn't really hear what they were saying, but I picked up most of the context from the menu, the waitress's notepad, etc... Miss Thang gave the table a tight, fake smile and spun on her heel. I could see the smile drop from her face before she took her second step away from their table. Miss Thang was not happy.

I stopped watching them once the alfredo sauce came to our table. Three breadsticks in a row dragged through that sauce, rolling the bread around, jamming the sauce into the corner of the little dish, trying to cover every square millimeter with high-fat cheese sauce... So good, salty, creamy...

Then Miss Thang swished back into the room... she had brought Miss Bitch's table the check, and Miss Bitch got upset because they hadn't been given the chance to order dessert.

And then Miss Thang crossed the dipshit line... she said, "Well, I'm sorry, but I was afraid to ask you anything, girlfriend..." Yes, she said "girlfriend..." I waited, a spoonful of pasta e fagioli halfway to my mouth... I expected to see some chicken marsala or some pasta florentine start flying.

Miss Thang had that fake smile on her face... it was interesting... it was clear to me that she had no interest in being nice, and that quite frankly she didn't really give a shit anymore, she'd written off her tip a long time ago... in fact, I was quite surprised that she'd come back to the table period... it looked like a smile that was on her face just in case the manager decided to walk by...

I didn't hear Miss Bitch's response... but she snapped her menu closed and handed it back to Miss Thang...

That was the end of the exchange... I have to say I was a bit disappointed... I had visions of Miss Bitch's face stuffed down hard into a half-eaten platter of angel hair pasta... Miss Thang reaching back behind her own head and pulling out the bobby pins to let her hair down and go total ghetto on this white bitch... the husband trying to interfere but falling back with an Olive Garden fork stuck in his neck, blood spurting across the table, splattering the specials menu with the lovely pictures of pork medallions... Miss Bitch coming up for hair, sliding away from the table, knocking over the bus pan on the table nearby... Miss Thang grabbing Miss Bitch by the hair, swinging her around, grabbing her by the ears and slamming her head against the wall, bottles of chianti tottering off the shelves above... in the distance, a small group of waiters and waitresses look up from singing their dipshit birthday song to some fat thirteen year-old sitting behind a giant bowl of chocolate gelato...

Concupiscent Prestidigitation

Concupiscent Prestidigitation: a term that could be used to describe Roger Moore's uncanny ability in his Bond movies to trick a girl into bed. One second she's picking up a pencil, the next she finds herself locked in a passionate kiss w/the seductive and wily Bond. How did it happen? She may never know.

One moment she's shooting at the villains and the very next, a briskly executed judo toss deposits her naked on a bearskin rug while Roger Moore pumps and thrusts with cool detached precision, all the while keeping up a stream of desultory chit-chat about the weather, the skiing this time of year in Lucerne, and so on.

This is the thing about Roger Moore as Bond that goes unappreciated. While the rest of the Bonds had to soldier through the usual preliminaries, Moore just cut straight to the chase through a kind of romantic sleight-of-hand. If you could ask one of his conquests what the experience was like, she probably wouldn't remember. She'd have a vague memory of doing her taxes and an incongruent but related (although she couldn't say just how) soreness between her legs.

Wave Description

It was one of those tricky waves that stands upright and staggers for awhile, this whole massive lip just balanced up there, and you have no idea when it's going to shut down but you know it's going to shut down hard. A drunken colossus come to crash on the rocks.

Drooling in Bed

Got this little window...up at five. Got until six. Got to write, right now.

Last night wife wanted to cuddle. I acquiesced and moved closer to her to assume the spoon position, which of course only happens in the wintertime around here. That is, if the heat has been turned on, I can count on some form of cuddling in the evening; which means my wife is an exceptionally practical woman, literally using my body for warmth.

Anyway, I got into the spoon position, nestled my halfway-interested penis in the cleft of her buttocks, thought about making some kind of move, couldn't decide between the long hand-stroke of her arm (not advisable as she was swathed in covers and nothing is less romantic than a long session of making room under covers before a caress), a quick gentle kiss on the neck, or a grind of my pelvis into her bottom. The grind was the easiest and most direct approach but probably the one with the highest potential for total mood ruination (if there was, indeed, a mood going at all).

As I was mentally weighing these alternatives, I fell asleep. Woke up a few minutes later to my wife's complaint of "something wet" on her neck. Turns out I'd been drooling on her. No sex ensued.

So fuck it, I'll write.

Nabokov and Design Patterns

I love them both. Last night I was reading Larman's book on software design patterns and thinking about a domain model I really needed to create. I've been reading this book on and off for almost a year. It's really one of the best books I know for taking business ideas to code. I mean, it's not comprehensive, but I would venture to guess that, with this book you could at least get by if you suddenly had to design an enterprise system.

Then when I got into bed I read some Nabokov. Haze was making this brilliant speech to Humbert Humbert which Nabokov ended in a small personal aside by Humbert. Just brilliant.

God help me, I love them both. If I didn't have to sleep, I'd be all right.

Mein Got

I just wanted to thank you for putting into words what it's like to procrastinate, to put off, to delay, to do all the things that don't matter to avoid doing what you must.

Here's how my life goes: My wife generally tries to give me an hour window in which to write each Saturday and Sunday. If I don't take that fucking window and do something with it, that's it. That's the ballgame.

Today, as soon as she left, I pulled out my cock and gave it a few half-hearted cuffs. It kind of looked back at me. It reminded me of one of those short crystal formations, my balls as the base and my shaft as the one central crystal.

There were also some decidedly non-crystalline, obscenely long, pubes that looked as if they'd like to make a break for it and attach themselves to the sofa. My pubes like to give me away. My wife knows the pubes by sight and always busts me when she finds one. She's clever enough to understand that a found pube is overwhelming circumstantial evidence off a grip having taken place.

So I was sitting there contemplating my ugly and unresponsive penis when I remembered that I'd already gotten laid today. So, no grip required. That freed up a good deal of time.

I knocked out 1,200 words, so I feel pretty good, but I did make it close. After the abortive grip, I turned on the television and watched football highlights with my zipper down. I guess a part of me wanted to see if my penis would suddenly decide he was in the mood after all. But no, even the penis wanted me to write.

Just wanted to say one other thing: I went surfing today and dropped into this overhead wave that walled up just right for me. A left, nice big green ramp to go up and down, oh, it was lovely. I fucking love to surf. One day I'll write about a surfer.

One last thing in this horribly unfocused grab-bag of nonsense. Remind me to tell you about villainy and my writing. I think I'm onto something but want to run it by you.