Letters to Holly

Monday, June 12

Holy Crap, I'm Tired

Friday was a low-key night. We grabbed Chinese food and watched Batman Begins, still the best story of that character I've ever seen.

Saturday, we worked on the yard in what became an insanely hot day. She attended the high-school graduation while I recovered indoors. I took away the trash and recycling and hoped to treat myself to a crackaccino. Wait, no, I actually needed change from a $20 in case the landfill folks charged me more than a buck for the trash, and my chosen change-making opurchase was the crackaccino. I stopped off at the nearest gas station to find a customer befuddled by her franchise gift card. The clerk couldn't communicate to her how much money she had, and the customer was anxious over ... something, I dunno. The woman was a moron. A guy stood behind her trying to buy beer, and I stood behind him with my sweeeeet coffee drug. Five minutes later, he puts back the beer and walks out. I move up to his spot and listen in. It sounds like they're wrapping up the conversation. I decide to wait. But they never finish. Both women take turns second-guessing themselves. They check and recheck the numbers and enter long pauses of indecision. After another five minutes, I give up. I put the bottle back in the freezer and walk out the door. The clerk finally acknowledges me and apologizes loudly. The customer begins to bundle up her receipts and follows me out the door. She's apologizing and shouting "I'm done. I'm sorry. I'm done. I'm sorry." And I could have turned around, gone back in, and gotten my coffee. But I was mad. And it's a mad I latched onto. Neither woman seemed to realize I wasn't the only person to leave unhappy. That other guy didn't get an apology, and I wonder if that's because he was a black guy trying to buy beer. I don't look for reasons to be mad, but retail incompetence on either side of the counter hits my hair trigger.

In the afternoon, I watched World Cup. The feared adjustment period never materialized, as I was instantly hooked. While ABC and ESPN broadcasted, the Spanish channel coverage was a few seconds ahead and featured better contrast. We ultimately watched about six games this weekend, and we're hoping to have a party this week with games playing in the background.

That night, we attended the teacher party. Your Sister stayed sober while I threw back Smirnoff Ice.

On Sunday, we graded essays. All damn day. Twenty-four thrilling papers on genocides. I proofed and she assigned grades, but we both read them, and we're not better for it. Starting at about 2 p.m., we finished up around 1 a.m. In between, we watched more World Cup, listened to some of Who Framed Roger Rabbit [still a technical marvel], glanced at some VH1 '80s videos, at a quick supper with Ktahy and Travis and their Ohio friends, watched the Tonys, and ate some frozen wedding cake. The cake held up wel,l and had no taste of freon whatsoever. The Tonys, however, didn't seem to have thawed enough. It was an awkward ceremony and oddly subdued for a 60th anniversary of the awards. Between the sun, the drinking, the interminable essays, and the late night, I am beat. How tired am I? I dreamed that I stayed up all night and was dead tired. THEN I woke up.

Picture of the Day
Quake in fear, geek boys. The Emperor and Voldemort are in the same play on Broadway. Ian McDiarmid won for featured actor in a play (read: best supporting actor). And, if you really want to be really geeky, the actor who plays Harry Potter's cruel uncle won a best actor Tony. Who else was there last night? James Earl Jones. Evil's afoot, y'all.

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