Finding appropriate soundtrack is always a coin-toss. Anyway, motherfuckers: David Bowie.
It is time, I think, to shave; someone asked me earlier if I was growing a beard, and now, I'm not. I just can't be bothered to scrape at my face with a edgy razor like some hardcore punk. Well.
Johnny Rotten has become a middle-aged man, and the Sex Pistol may have gone flaccid and run out of ammo. He watches Access Hollywood. Possibly, this is our ultimate fate, all of us: aging punk rock stars doing interviews with Sook-Yin Lee.
I found a present for Michael's birthday. Number one, anyway.
After rolling forth from the Bay of Oaks after work, I made haste to the downtown quarter and stared at books at the bookstore, awash in the possibly inappropriate zen I feel in such times (at one, perhaps, with the ISBN - I am a string of numbers, yes, scan me, scan me) until I found some items to spend my Monolithic Corporate Monster Gift Card on - Jeanette Winterson's Weight (the retelling of the Atlas myth) and this science fiction number by Justina Robson with a cyberpunk butterfly and a pull-quote from Zadie Smith ("Idiosyncratic and unpredictable. A novelist with real vision.") on the cover, called Living Next Door to the God of Love, with far-flung futurists living in borrowed superhero construct bodies and weird metasexuality. You know: the world inside my head. Why other people have to keep writing books stolen from my imagination I don't know but I wish they'd stop doing it or at least pay me royalties for cocksucking my brain.
Punks.
Met up with Dan and had dinner at the Siam after walking several blocks in several directions to find every other Thai restaurant in town has shut its doors for the day. No red snapper. No red snapper. The service was barely adequate. We talked about quantum computers and the sensory experience of dreams. After that we walked up the Dolce Vita because all the other cafes were also closed and drank our drinks while old ladies complained about new-fangled music that was irritating them (So why did she stay for over an hour?) and an obnoxious woman prattled on and on and on.
I got several pages written and a couple pages further scribbled full of character development and backstory questions. The start of something that will one day - probably - end up as backstory or prologue. So many questions! Lines filled up with character names. Questions asked in capital letters.