My “take-away” from the holiday weekend was basically: If you’re going to be surly, bitter, cynical, unfriendly, fat, difficult, complex, and high-maintenance, you should at least be some kind of genius artist. So I’ve added that to the “things to do” Post-It that lives in my mind and goes by the name of Frankie or Frankensteiner or The Effer or Sweet Dick Willie and who sings me to sleep with MIDI songs.

I do so hate the summer. Oh so very much, mumsy! For a while, in my early- to mid-twenties, maybe, I could trick myself into getting pro-summer, somewhere before Memorial Day. Like: Aw yeah, summertime! Hot summer nights! Top down, classic rock! The ladies stripping down to the bare essentials, if that! Big dumb movies! Beaches! Sun! But then I remembered that anything hotter than 78 degrees makes me wish you and me both were dead, and my car has no removable top and people being happy and flaunting their taut, tanned, throbbing bodies makes me uncomfortable and the summer blockbusters make my heart sad inside, and cetera. To conclude: boo summer, yay my new plastic freezer mug with special freezable liquid trapped inside that keeps my drink icy cold from beginning to end.

Everyone with the haircuts today, and being all: “Bro, it was way too hot to be sporting all that hair.” Like the male-pattern baldness was this huge, steaming burden upon your head. Hey, chum, yours truly had thick, luxurious hair — supersaturated hair — and when I got mine cut last week the barber swept it up and made three wigs and a kind of pretend dog to play with, so you know pretty much zip about the heat-increasing potential of head-hair.

Unfortunately I look like I got out of the Corps maybe six months ago. Now I’m just drifting from town to town, finding myself missing the structure and discipline which I so hated at the time. I’ve got to see some action again. I’ve got to feel that rush. I just hope my subscription to Soldier of Fortune follows me to the trailer park.

The conference room just now smelled exactly like waiting in line for one of the indoor rides at Disneyland. I’m like fucking Proust over here.