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Thursday, August 26, 2004


This morning started in a hurry, but when I got to work I checked my email and my dad told me about how close we are to flying cars. I've been talking about flying cars for weeks now, to friends and others. I'm eager. I'm waiting. It's good to know that Science is on it. Though Science has a lot on its plate.

Yesterday was surreal to the point of strange. A full day of work, followed by a quest to a Valley comic book store I'd never visited. The punk there who sold me Astonishing X-Men #4 annoyed me, and thus instead of standing around and reading the issue of Identity Crisis I haven't yet consumed, I went to my car and read X-Men and the carry-around book in my purse, which this week is about a diabetic woman riding her bike to Alaska. The sun set as I did so, low and soft against the rolling hills and strip malls of Studio City. I didn't want to get out of my car because it was parked behind a pub that threatened towing, so I endured the stale air for the sake of fiction. I was a sprawl, a stain on the back seat. The white-bright street light flickered on eventually.

I was in my car reading because at 8:17, I went from Studio City to Los Feliz for Ostrich Ink publicity-related antics, which over the course of the evening lead me into the bathrooms of The Snake Pit and the Rainbow, the Hustler store, and the Tower Records on Sunset. It also lead me into the waiting arms of two drinks. "Liz, you are unsmiling today," someone has remarked. I tried my best to grin.

I thought tonight would be quiet -- refilled plastic bottles of water, microwave popcorn, laundry. Instead, I have been convinced that Mozart and the Hollywood Bowl are worth the price I will be paying, which is nothing. Free tickets are lovely, as is the Hollywood Bowl, and anyways I'm out of laundry detergent.

I'm also out of shampoo and light bulbs. All week, I've been switching my one remaining bulb between the lamp at my door and the lamp at my bedside. It's a hassle, but necessary. The lamp at my door is turned on upon my arrival at home or the arrival of dusk -- whichever happens last -- and remains on while I putter around and write and read and knit long scarves while watching Star Trek. I turn on the lamp at my bedside at bedtime -- the light is low, and I've fallen asleep under its warmth more times than I can count, the book du soir falling from limp fingers onto the pillow beside me.

Maybe I'll try and go home now, buy detergent and light bulbs and shampoo before the concert. Maybe I'll even have time to take a shower, drying off and moisturizing in the bright light, before preparing the load of laundry I'll start washing after I return home, Mozart still ringing in my ears.

Or maybe not.

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