18:31 - July 29, 2002
snooping in the donor files, butt checks, being a beamer...
.... and copying mrbochenkels� title style.

In the Garden�s records of gifts that are made to us in honor of people, there are four columns: donor, recipient, date, and occasion. Usually it�s pretty white-bread: John Smith, Jane Doe, 12/15/94, and Merry Christmas, or some such. Not that it�s their job to entertain me, but it�s the sort of thing that can put me to sleep in record time, and has. My eyes were lidded almost all the way down at 3:30 today, and my hands were on auto-pilot� copy � enter � copy � enter etc. etc., when I saw the following column, with name changed, of course: Donor: Ed Wichita; Recipient: Ed Wichita; Date: 4/13/87; Occasion: �imminent death�. This man had given a gift to himself in honor of himself having been, it seemed, diagnosed with a fatal illness, or planning a suicide, or something that made him know the exact date of his own death. I didn�t really know whether to laugh or� or what.

And earlier I was peacefully listening to Eric Matthews on my discman when over the music came this terrifying question (not posed to me, thank God): �Do we need to wear gloves for the butt check?�

�No,� came a voice over the side of the cubicle. �You can just wash them afterwards.�

I pushed my earphones very solidly back over my ears and turned the volume all the way up.

On the way home, there was a brand spanking new red BMW in front of me, pissed off as hell, honking and swearing and swerving, because there was a slow car up ahead that was slowing the entire lane of traffic down to around (gasp!) only ten miles per hour over the speed limit. He revved his engine and shook a few choice fingers, but this was to no avail, as the offender was several cars ahead of him. This driver, temper-wise, was the stage double of my father, driving his own Beamer. I�ve always wondered what it�s like to be the walking definition of road rage, so I decided that I would copy the driver ahead of me in whatever he did. (Possibly channeling my father in the process; scary scary thought�) so.. when he revved his powerful engine, I revved my pathetic one. When he yelled out the window, I sang along with Mr. Bungle extra loudly. When he honked, I swerved (because I despise horns). Eventually, enough cars passed the slow one that it was within Mr. Beamer�s reach, and, shouting exultations of pure joy out his window, he revved up and whizzed past, waving out the window madly./ I followed, turning up the music just at the part where Patton starts screaming about white shark attacks, and sailed by with a bit more difficulty, my poor four-cylinder straining under the stress.

Now that Mr. Beamer had surpassed difficulty number one and had nothing else to take out his road rage on, he started grumbling at the fact that I was following him. I wasn�t very close, but he�d seen that I�d passed Mr. Slow Guy at the same time, and the fact that a Geo Tracker had kept up with his awesome powers of machinery did not strike him harmoniously. The more I mocked his movements, lane switching and all, the angrier he became, until finally he started going twenty miles an hour just to piss me off. He crept along and I crept along behind him for about five blocks, when suddenly there was an angry bellow of a horn and Mr. Slow Guy came putt-putting past and cut Beamer Boy off; still slow, but faster than either of us.

Needless to say, Beamer Boy decided he didn�t want to take Sheridan Road anymore.

'You know, I don't smoke cigarettes...
I don't see the point.
If you're gonna put that smoke in your lungs
you might as well smoke a joint.

-Edwin McCain, pre-church-boy days.

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