So, here's Sausage Mahoney.

I just pitched Jarnsaxa Rising ("pitch"="you should listen") to Kathy O'Connell.

You know you want it. 

This morning my co-worker, Joe, and I were talking about people with odd names. I told him how I went to kindergarten with a kid named Clark Kent (first, middle), whose younger brother was named Bruce Wayne (also first, middle). 

Clark has embraced his name fully. He's now a top-flight landscaper, and all the branding for his business uses the colors red, blue, and gold. He's a super landscaper. 

"What about Bruce?" Joe asked. 

"I don't know," I said, "but now I want to write a play about that (hypothetical, imaginary) younger brother Bruce, living in a basement, listening to Morrisey, wrapped in a black comforter and tying tools to his belt." 

Another unsolicited dick pic! 

and, speaking of shooters, whoops, I mean outdoorsy sportsman types...

Our office building at work is a converted school. It's four corridors built around a large-ish courtyard, with a lawn, a few trees, and a concrete terrace. It's a nice place to get some fresh air during the workday. 

Around 1 or so, someone (unknown) walked out to a tree in the middle of the courtyard and stuck a soda can in between its branches, then walked away. Stranger things have happened, so nobody commented. 

A few minutes later, someone said, "Did you hear that? It sounds like wood breaking." 

Someone else said, "I was going to say it sounds like a pellet gun." 

The soda can trembled, and fell out of the tree, riddled with holes and finally torn open on one side. 

I wasn't there when this happened, but I saw the soda can. I had finished eating lunch and was going outside to look for Precious (the local cat).  A crowd was gathered by the courtyard door. "Don't go outside," they said. The holes in the can were larger than the ones I'd see in the paper targets at the rifle range at summer camp, where I tried to teach myself to not be afraid of guns. I'm no Annie Oakley, but I ended up being a pretty good shot with a .22 rifle.  Still, I don't enjoy guns. 

Everyone was very calm and watchful. The police conducted a search through the offices. It's a multi-purpose building, and none of the offices are open to the public with unlocked doors. You have to be let in or use a code.  

Basically, someone who had access to one of the offices facing the courtyard decided that lunch time at work was an appropriate time for target practice. 

So, yeah. What did you have for lunch? 

At work, there's a cat who lives in the courtyard. Her name is Precious. She's stripey and round. People feed her and look out for her, bring her treats and boxes for shelter. She does her own thing, hanging around. Nobody can catch her. 

Today she walked up to me and let me pet her and scratch her head for about ten seconds. 

Today I was thinking about how we are what goes into our brains and we produce what we consume. Last night I was knitting to wind down before bed, and I had a horrible cheerleading routine chant stuck in my head. It was so lame that we took the time to learn it, and though the pattern of stomp and clap was invigorating, the words were so stupid that we dropped it from our repertoire. 

Yes, I was a cheerleader in high school. The popular girls lettered in sports and won trophies, the freaky girls stomped and shouted in the basement of the gym. The popular girls called us lazy and hated us, until we were their battle drums and pipes at game time, boosting them to victory. 

still, 28 years later, I get the cheers stuck in my head. 

I was thinking that I need a new dreamscape. I need to read some poetry, go to a museum or ten. Today I seriously thought to myself, "self, you've been good about your savings account. Nobody's holding out a permanent position at this job for you. See if you can get a weekday off and go to the Penn Museum. Soak up the Sphinx." 

But I can't take a day off without a doctor's note. Maybe there's a kind archaeologist or historian on staff who would write a note for me. "Lindsay is under my care for dysphoria and ennui, and needs a strong dose of beauty. Please excuse her from work for the day." 

Then I paid the monthly utilities, and OH HI, REALITY. Maybe my $70/day after taxes is more important than I thought. 

So, maybe I'll just see if I can dig up some good recordings of poetry to listen to and chase the stomp and shout out of my head. 

First armwarmer done (needs blocking). Second started. Watching Extant, which is Good. 

EDITED TO ADD: Season 2 of Extant is lame and stupid and boring. Fuck That Shit Right In Its Neon Blue CBS Ear. 

I didn't go to improv class last week because I was sick. Today I went back. I was crabby as a barrel of Dungeness crabs during Crabfest.  I wanted to punch my most negative co-worker, Duane, for claiming that Olive Garden is a terrific Italian restaurant. 

Then I went to class, where it's just offer, receive, give; build and expand, listen with a different part of your brain, and everything feels better now. 

Magic. 

Here's a thing about improv and listening. 

A new thing for me is that very cold weather makes the blood vessels in my eyes burst. I've had red, sore eyes all day, and there's nothing I can do but put eye drops in them and close them. 

Ow. 

I stayed up too late watching the SOTU. 

I love my president. Not because everything he does is right, but because he does more of what's right than any president of my life has.