1340

The Sleeptalker arrived on campus, mid-afternoon on his thirtieth birthday, and we spent the rest of the day together, there and later at the mall. He got his hair cut, a short Brad Pitt style, although mercifully, unlike the silly Mister Pitt, he didn't get it bleached blonde. (Pitt looks absurd with those dark eyebrows and obviously bleached hair. After thirty, a man should not mess around with hair coloring.)

The story has changed. The Sleeptalker is now supposedly sleeping at his uncle's house where he is only allowed to go at night, not stay during the day. I didn't really believe the yarn about the room in an old Filipino lady's house, so it didn't come as any surprise. Not sure I believe this version, either.

I told him yet again that he should start a blog, write these fantasies.

It's that dreaded time again, the annual charade to qualify for foodstamps. They've changed the rules and instead of just arriving for the interview with papers in hand, the application has to be sent in a couple of weeks in advance. Naturally, I left it to the last minute so will this afternoon have to make a trip down to Chinatown and drop off the application. It's such an incredibly stupid form which requires you to print your name over and over again. How much simpler it would be if at the top of the form there was a box to check which said "no change from last year".

As always, I was tempted to just say "to hell with it", but then I'd miss the fun of taking the Sleeptalker into the supermarket and say "you can have anything you want if it's on foodstamps". I love the baffled expression he gets on his face, and enjoyed it on his birthday. Despite the open invitation, he managed to pocket some things while we were in the store. I told him I just don't understand why he takes the risk when there is no need to do so.

He was, of course, delighted with the piece of green paper I gave him when he was about to depart, gave me two hugs and said, "you're my best friend".

1341

We all live in a yellow submarine ...

Stupid little boat it is, too, sometimes. I woke up with a sensation of itching around my waist and upper legs, wondered how on earth a mosquito had gotten there. Instead of an insect attack, it was a bumpy red rash (hives??). I looked at the supermarket, considered buying some hydrocortisone cream, decided to wait until later when I could probably get it cheaper at the drugstore. But three hours later the rash had totally disappeared! Peculiar.

I've spent quite some time researching on the Web about the internal plumbing problems and the closest match I could find was a rather gross thing called IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). Speaking of gross, the list of search terms I used was especially so. Anyway, I am at least spared one of the symptoms, abdominal pain. It's a "syndrome", not a "disease", one site stressed. And of course, there's no cure. Wheat, dairy products and (sigh) alcohol are known aggravations.

I think it's time this yellow submarine was put in permanent drydock.

I've been spending weekends this summer off-line since the university libraries don't open until noon. Good practice for the approaching holiday weekend when both university and public libraries will be closed July 2-3-4. What a good time I'll have on the morning of the fifth deleting all the accumulated Viagra emails.

(The last thing this sub needs is Viagra.)

On Sunday I broke even further with routine, for the first time this year didn't go to campus at all since I was meeting Helen R for a late morning showing of Mr & Mrs Smith, discussed on hawaiithreads.com.

Radio was rather dreary on Saturday. I only survived about fifteen minutes of the new opera based on Orwell's 1984 and Prairie Home Companion was a lacklustre production which definitely didn't merit re-hearing on Sunday. Back to books. I've become not just an avid reader but a voracious one, often going through two in one day. Of course, I'm not exactly reading literary masterpieces and there haven't been any worth mentioning except, perhaps, William Gibson's Idoru. All of his novels are strange, but this one might be the most strange.

The Summer Solstice and the Full Moon. Time to drop acid and groove with the cosmos. Alas, I had none to drop.

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the tales