Last night at Myopic was great. We were once again offered full-time employment, this time w/ insurance (and probably some free pot). We are semi-seriously considering this, despite a drastic cut in our pay. We probably won't end up doing it, but we really hate the Corpo-bullshit-money scam job we are currently desk jockying and kind of randomly grousing-off about it. Sometimes the conversations in our office are so insipid that we want to swallow a goddamned curling iron. And we know that someday, some motherfucker is going to come in here with an AK and a hard-on for blood and start pumping rounds into the salespeople who chained his ass to a huge three-year lease for some shitty credit card software so he can sell his homemade beef jerky and polaroids of his wife's hairy butter gutter. That is not a day we long to be a part of.
It might be more interesting to play with Leonard the bookstore cat and search for books on Chaos Theory for D.C., the howling-at-women wheelchair dude at the corner of North, Damen and Milwaukee who drinks the last batch of the Myopic coffee on winter nights, loaded with about 25 spoonfuls of sugar,and rolls off into the night to god-knows where. We learned last night that D.C. has 2 1/2 storage spaces full of books about sex, and that Myopic Joe is in his will to be the recipient of this stash upon his demise. We aren't really surprised. People relate to the bookstore in that way. And, apparently gay sex is very easily had by male bookstore staff (no pun intended). Don't know about you, but that is a perk we can live with.
Thanks to Hopper for the mix CD. Andy Williams kills "Summer Wind", y'all. We gots to get that shit on TAL. We need to campaign seriously for the artistic return and revalidation of the lost crooners in our cold heartless world. Andy, Neil Sedaka, Lou Rawls, Johnny Mathis, maybe even Slim Whitman.
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