2005 Notebook: Weak XXXI
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30 July 2005
No. 9,270 (cartoon)
Your love is infectious.

Are the sores that obvious?

31 July 2005
Happy Birthday
Ten years ago today I obtained the domain name. In another irrelevant number, this is my thirty-five hundredth notebook entry. And for a number that’s not at all round, I’m eighteen thousand, one hundred and three days old today.

I never met a number I didn’t like, even those associated with birthdays, even mine.

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1 August 2005
Dada and Bacchus
I went to Cabaret Voltaire this weekend. Of course, the real Cabaret Voltaire was in 1916; this one seemed like one of those earnest battlefield reënactments that are largely unconvincing in spite of all the attention to historical detail. I could also make an analogy to necrophilia, but won’t.

I made a snarky remark to Andrei Codrescu when I saw him there; he correctly predicted that the evening would turn out well since there was plenty of wine. I left with my zinfandel to blood ratio favorably adjusted, and with a stolen bottle of wine in my jacket for dessert back at my laboratory.

Dada is dead, but Bacchus will live forever.

2 August 2005
Beatnik Alert!
Selena asked about dinner plans, so I suggested we go to North Beach and get a pizza.

“That’s crazy talk!” she exclaimed. “It’s wall to wall beatniks there because of some jazz festival.”

“I fear berets and goatees just as much as you do,” I confided. “That’s why I confirmed that the alleged festival was over before I suggested we go there.”

We enjoyed the the clams and garlic, and only saw three relatively innocuous beatniks. As for the hippy problem, that’s another story. No one ever said life in San Francisco was easy.

3 August 2005
Ridiculous Aesthetic Extremism
When I told Gina I was excited about my new art project, she asked me for specifics. I told her I couldn’t provide any more information. Not only have I yet to create the new work, I haven’t even imagined what it will be.

I was pleased when Gina told me I was taking conceptual art to a ridiculous extreme; that’s the only place it barely works.

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4 August 2005
Medicine and Fashion
When I went for a physical today, I was somewhat unnerved by the tacky undergarments pinned to the wall surrounding an illustrated chart of the vascular system and viscera.

“What was you inspiration for the new decor?” I asked.

“The usual, money,” my doctor replied. “The city’s paying me really good money to see sex workers at night.”

“Do your services include fashion tips?” I inquired.

“Fortunately for you, I limit my professional advice to medical concerns,” my doctor replied. “Off the record, though, I think you don’t exhibit the basic fashion sense of a crack whore on speed.”

Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crack cocaine prostitute abusing methamphetamine, I thought it prudent not to debate the point.

5 August 2005
Straight Croissants?
Max, a fine baker who left the commercial ovens to pursue more lucrative pursuits in my laboratory, informs me that in France straight croissants are made with butter and curved ones aren’t. I forgot to ask him how a croissant can’t be shaped like a crescent; dang!

I have no plans to return to France in the near future, and I have no position on butter. Nevertheless, Max’s dubious croissant assertion is a lovely example of the kind of useless information that makes life worth living.

6 August 2005
A Troubling Beautiful Perspective
Carmen and I argue all the time. We quite like each other; our squabbles are mostly recreational. For example, when I said that beauty is unrelated to age, Carmen predictably disagreed.

“You wouldn’t know it by looking at me now,” she said, “but when I was younger I was pretty enough to be a doctor’s wife or a high-priced prostitute.”

I was about to laugh at her ridiculous statement when I saw genuine sadness in her eyes. And for once, I changed the subject to avoid another silly debate.

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©2005 David Glenn Rinehart