seaslug

Calgon, take me away

Nudged out of somnolence by someone concerned for my well-being or just wondering whether they can safely drop me from their flist, I stir.

Toiling long hours in a high rise office park — a wasteland devoid of life or spark or hope, like all office parks — the soul is sucked right out of me and I can't find it in me to post anything at all.

And here I am in Sacramento again. I parallel the freeway. Tan and brown school amidst tan and brown houses with yards full of tan and brown vegetation along a tan and brown road. The city center is better. This is the burbs. Housing tracts springing up like mushrooms where there was once pasture and field. More and more people sucking up more of the land and more of the water. Look yonder, another strip mall where you can buy the perfect Father's Day gift: A talking photo ball. "I love you, Dad! I love you, Dad! I love you, Dad!" and you can take it with you when I dump you in a home like Grampa Simpson.

Here tomorrow, home Saturday, here again Sunday. Holiday Inn Express knows me well. Ringing up points which I'll convert to airline miles so I don't have to pay for the privileges of surly flight attendants, bags of peanuts, and blankets made of paper when I fly to Vegas or Hawaii or Antarctica.

Could be worse. Could be in Santa Rosa taking in the Sonoma Aroma.
  • Current Mood: flat line
flight attendants, bags of peanuts, and blankets made of paper

Bags of peanuts! I thought all those amenities were gone. N
At least Sacramento can be scrambled to read A Mento Scar.

Okay, so that doesn't make any sense. I was trying to find something to cheer you up, but gawd, it sure sounds bleak out your way.

At least you don't have to listen to a talking photo ball. But if you secretly want a talking photo ball, just say the word. Can you program them to say anything, I wonder? That has some interesting possibilities.

A Mento Scar! A Mento Scar! A Mento Scar!
Head up to Big Sur, man. Or is that down? Down to Big Sur, man!