One. I am not yet a homeowner. Our settlement was postponed for murky and inexplicable reasons. Although I appreciate everyone’s good wishes, it is clear that those wishes were not good enough. Please try again . . . and see if you can make it happen by Wednesday. I don’t have all the time in the world, people.

Two. Instead of sleeping in our own house, Rob and I have extended our stay at my parents’. As I have mentioned a few times, they are in the process of a major renovation, the latest project of which has been to install a skylight directly over the toilet in the once-dank upstairs bathroom. Now, during the day, a squatter is bathed in a celestial glow; at night, one may contemplate the infinity of the cosmos. Either way, a transcendent experience.

Three. It having occurred to me that it would be nearly impossible for me to exist in Baltimore without a car, I went out and bought one. I am now officially in debt for a billion dollars, a fact I might once have felt squeamish about before I was shown the light by a Republican administration that does not feel “deficit spending” is such a big deal.* The car salesman’s name was “Big” Andy. Those words are written on his card (penciled in, actually). “Big” Andy had a book on his desk, half hidden behind the telephone: How to Win Friends and Influence People. Clearly, this tome does not cover all of the bases in an automobile transaction, or perhaps he didn’t read far enough yet. “Big” Andy didn’t bat an eye when Viki said I was a male prostitute, or when I offered to trade in Viki for an upgrade on wheel rims. It also did not phase him when I told him I don’t have a job, was between addresses, and forgot my driver’s license at home. But his jaw hit the table when I revealed I had not already purchased insurance for a car I had until that point been only considering buying.

Anyway, he must have been too flustered to put two and two together: being a male prostitute is a job.

Four. The other night, I attended a grand opening party for the store in Georgetown I designed. It was filled to the brim with skinny young women trying on clothes, and one hateful woman who looked like a young Linda Tripp. Nobody paid any attention to me, but I was proud of my work.

Five. Recently, in Starbucks, a disheveled older man in a half-tucked tee-shirt advertising bail bonds entered, put his cooler jug on a table, sat down, looked around, then stood up and began meticulously adjusting all of the empty chairs in the room until their backs were perfectly parallel with the tables.

Thank god he did it. They had been wearing on my patience the whole time.

Six. An enormous thanks to Matthew for his delightful guest post a couple of days ago. Don’t let him mislead you, though: he does put out. Heh heh.


* They, of course, are doing it in order to fund their bloody agenda, heap further wealth upon their rich supporters, and bankrupt the public safety net; my own motives are more self-involved.