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doing my own thing
Thursday, September 24 1998
Last night, one of Kim's classes was canceled and she went instead to Java Joe's in Ocean Beach (the place with the funky brown carpet) to do a little curriculum-relevant reading. She soon discovered that Java Joe's has a "chill room" in the back where attractive young women such as herself who admit their interest in marijuana are taken to be entertained by various male members of the staff. To avoid complications, Kim immediately confessed that she has a wonderful boyfriend who is both an artist and a writer. But it's California, and everyone was chill.
In the middle of the night, Suzette the pregnant Schnauzer gave birth to two little black ratlike puppies, both of them boys. This morning Kim and I were greeted by a handmade sign Rita had made, proudly proclaiming the births. The main impact of these births was upon Ziggy, the black boy Schnauzer who is dropped off by Rita's friend every day. Fenced off from Suzette and Rita, Ziggy became a sad, jealous, emotionally needy dog, demanding constant attention as I worked on my latest painting.
Kim was away for hours at her first full day of classes today. We always seem to get into terrible fights just before "long" separations, but that's another story. I spent part of the afternoon mailing and faxing resumés in an effort to become something other than just another unemployed dude in California. Then I biked around the neighborhoods to the west, University Heights in particular, seeking to become better acquainted with my home turf. I ended up buying a serial mouse at Uptown Computers, the place where I bought my keyboard a few days ago. The place is run by several tall, skinny awkward young gentlemen, and they're not hiring either.
The Goodyear Blimp is overhead tonight, in some kind of holding pattern above the big stadium down in Mission Valley. I've never walked a dog underneath a blimp before tonight, and I hadn't really thought about the sound they make. It's a dull vaguely-ominous hum, like an airplane not making much progress. "#1 in Tires" is the message the blimp has for the world. It's depressing to think that the average human brain is so poorly wired that Goodyear's readily-apparent expense in promoting this dunderheaded slogan is economically justified.
Sophie is all broken out in hives again, perhaps from a case of nerves in the aftermath of the birth of Suzette's puppies, or perhaps from fleas. San Diego is reportedly overrun with them. To guard against this latter possibility, I rubbed garlic powder into Sophie's shoulders. Fleas and other blood suckers reportedly hate garlic.
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