At the ol’ neighborhood coffee joint, drinking black ginger tea and trying to get some work done before the VP debates. But of course, I’m not getting work done. I’m writing in my infernal blog.

Hate Cowboy (who I really should come up with a new nickname for–he long ago traded his cowboy hat for a leather porkpie one) is at his perch in the corner, muttering not-quite-under-his-breath as usual about The Blacks And The Jews And The Rotten World. A snippet, transcribed as I’m hearing it: “What else is wrong with you? Why don’t you ask your fucking friend what’s wrong with you? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. Bein’ a stinkin’ asshole is what’s wrong with you. Don’t ask what’s wrong with you. Just fix it.”

I’m pretty sure he was the one who started bleating chaos underneath my window this afternoon when I was trying to conduct a phone interview all professional-like. Thanks, Hate Cowboy. Thanks a stinkin’ lot.

Anyway, who’s as stoked as I am to watch Biden rip Palin a new one tonight? He’d better not screw it up. Judging from stuff like this, he’s more than capable of unleashing all the fury of the Heathen Liberal Gods. (Love those gods.)

It seems like it’s gotten to be autumn in earnest. My favorite time of year, hands down. The light, the temperature, the events, the rewinding of things, the fashion, the apple picking, the beerfests, the blowy, blowy leaves… and of course, Halloween. It’s also when I’m most prolific. In a twisted way, I’m sort of glad I’m sans day job right now–more chances to get outside and breath it all in. (of course, that would involve me going outside much more than I have been… details.) I might try to head out to the White Mountains one more time before it gets too cold. Maybe tackle one of the ol’ Presidentials.

I started working on “World’s End” again–a project I’d put aside for too long. I’m trying to make Alex deal with his imminent zombieism a little bit more; it’s no small thing, after all. And I still want to integrate the bit about the CCTV operator who hasn’t left her post since before the big collapse. Watching the whole world die on 20 TV screens while she subsists on instant coffee and Weetabix…

I finished West With the Night and started reading Death in Venice. So far, Mann’s as pretentious as hell, but it’s a good read nonetheless. I’m interested in his philosophy that “a story must tell itself.” So far as I can tell, his authorial voice is no small peppers.

Well whaddya know… T minus 10 minutes till the debate, and I haven’t done a speck of work. Time to grab some beer and head over to the boys’.

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Car broken into, GPS stolen, floor ripped up, and a mouse scuttering away under the sink.

Don’t make me smack you, Allston. Cause I will fuck you up. With… my… impotent… rage.

Listening to: “Death Car” – Wheat

Item 1: In which I am (sloshedly) walking my dog circa 2:30am, and I overhear band of (fucking wasted) BU kids behind me:

Chick: Is that a raccoon?
Dude: What, that dog?
Chick: No the… isn’t that a raccoon?
Dude: No, that’s a dog.
Chick: Oh. [beat] It looks like a raccoon.*

Item 2: In which my dog takes an inordinately long time to scope out a shittin’ spot, and I watch no less than three cockroaches rush between my feet in the direction of my apartment building.

Item 3: In which I light up a cigarette and think on the bright side–more material for my hypothetical comic strip about Allston.

Item 4: In which sleep eludes me, as always. Happy June!

* Tucker does not look remotely like a raccoon.

I ask you sirs, I stand before you and ask you today, who leaves a bag of sheep feet lying on the sidewalk? Who. The fuck. Does that.

I mean, sheep feet are all fun and games until your dog gets a death grip on one and you find yourself locked in a battle of wills right there on Linden Street, outside the kegger house. And then, when you’re finally able to wrench it out, and have attracted the attention of half the neighborhood with your yelling, your confused (but tenacious) dog still has a death grip on your index finger, which he thinks is the sheep’s foot.

I’m speaking abstractly, of course.