Various and sundry friends, casual acquaintances, 2 guys I screwed, and occasional strangers tend to comment how nice it must be to sleep in, to have time to do whatever I wish, how very nice it must be to read all day ... and, frankly, though boredom, tedium, malaise, and ennui are my words of the day(s), it is. I do enjoy reading. I am becoming extremely well-acquainted with the prison rape story-line on "General Hospital" and developed more than a reasonable interest in the half-hour soap, "The Bold and the Beautiful."
My trips to the local library swelled from once or twice per week to daily meandering to the unfortunate branch on the East side, the very media-friendly Central Library - where I actually managed to find 5 copies of Gogol's The Overcoat, or my favorite (home) branch, Landa - another local institution, like the McNay, built within, and from, a long-dead socialite's palatial home. I seldom speak to anyone, tend to have books on hold and usually know exactly where to find whatever else I'm seeking (mysteries, mostly - lots of mysteries). My computer's old and thus not wireless, so I don't even spend the lingering hours pretentiously tending to my great American novel. Essentially, the libraries provide me a place to go - not my own bedroom - without TV but with air conditioning.
And then there's the sex.
I was reading the dust-jacket of a book on Michelle Obama, in the political biographies new books section at Central, when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. The homeless-looking man, with a laptop case, and scraggly hair, who I'd seen earlier in the stacks, stood at the end of the aisle - his fly down and his erect penis hanging out ... and waving at me. He seemed quite proud of himself, as men with hard-ons tend to be; I would imagine he was less than thrilled that I finished reading the dust-jacket and wandered off to validate my parking ticket. Perhaps as a hormonal teenager, I would have enjoyed - or rather he would have enjoyed - my appropriately porn star reaction ... but, at 30, and minus a drink first, I was non-plussed.
Meanwhile, the Frenemy is presently stalking 'truck full of Mexicans' - a designation given to at least three separate listings in his BlackBerry. Tori has been on a roll of late, if one considers 6 tree trimmers a roll, but that was last weekend. In anticipation of this weekend's newfound freedom (unemployment - and the unemployment checks that accompany it), the transexsite I've come to think of as Fat Mattress went to get her nails done and acquire a new wrap - something along the lines of a pashmina, only cheaper and for the express purpose of hiding her hairy back. This being summer, there were no wraps at Wal-Mart, only scarves - all deemed too small for Fat Mattress' purposes; in jest, I suggested a chenille throw. She was nicely sold on the idea, but there were none of those around either - this is, after all, summer in South Texas. Eventually, a trip to a fabric store yielded the necessary item - 5 feet of polyester, vaguely floral and two shades shy of Blanche Devereaux; I looked on in some horror as Fat Mattress nee the Frenemy preened and tried to fold, drape, swaddle and wrap his new wrap as it blew in the wind in the Brooks City-Base parking lot.
He never needs a drink first. I am (so) often non-plussed... but the stories just keep coming.