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coordinating at Rough Draft
Wednesday, October 24 2018
Ramona came with me to work today, but even before I got in the door of the office, I heard another dog on the other side of it barking at me and Ramona. It was Moxie, the head honcho's dog (it's some kind of curly-haired terrier). I didn't expect this meeting to go well; Ramona doesn't usually like new female dogs who come into her life. The head honcho and I decided to take both dogs outside to neutral turf to see if they could reach an understanding. Ramona did her best to repress whatever had her wanting to kick Moxie's ass, but I could see from the hair standing on her back that she was close to launching an attack. I kept reprimanding her when she'd curl her lip and growl. She never actually managed to attack, but it was decided it best if the dogs were not left to run around together. Fortunately, the head honcho has an office upstairs.
Punctuated by occasional walks for Ramona, I spent the day fucking with the stupid receipt printer. Occasionally I had other little things to do, but that damn printer poisoned my day. Eventually I abandoned it and went back to mastering ExtJS. [REDACTED]
Back at the house, I immediately brought home a backpack load of firewood from just west of the Farm Road. This involved felling a small dead oak tree that wasn't quite as dry as I'd hoped.
Later Gretchen and I attended another Pat Strong post card writing party at Rough Draft similar to the one last week. Again, Gretchen was doing the hosting. This time, even more people showed up; these included three or four older people as well as an additional young woman. There were so many of us that we had to fit in sort of snug around the big table where we sat. This time I was even more industrious than last week, writing and addressing postcards to two full sheets' worth of names. I looked up after finishing the first sheet and saw that Sarah the Vegan had only written three postcards. She's very slow at everything. When I jokingly commented about the fact that she was doing more jibber jabbering than postcard writing, she said she'd been "coordinating." When I finished my second sheet, I put all my effort into beer drinking. I went and got a second beer, a powerful little 9 percent DIPA. "We only offer that in eight ounces," the bartender said as I ordered an eight ounce glass. "Of course," I agreed, adding, "otherwise it would be putting the rough in Rough Draft." Later I chatted with one of Gretchen's co-workers from the bookstore. Her name was Rachel, she has purple-pink hair, and she's only twenty years old. She told me about how badly she wants to get into The Anchor and Snapper McGees (Kingston's diviest bar) so she can see live punk shows, but the bouncers strictly enforce the age limits, making it impossible.
The postcard party tonight, photo by Gretchen. I'm second from the right.
Back at the house, I drank some scotch and ate an ambien I'd found in a mint tin. This made it so that I didn't remember getting into bed. I never took off my pants or even my glasses, and Gretchen would later report how out of it I had seemed.
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