I’m violating my personal moral code even as we speak. “CSI” is on. Why? Too lazy to reach for the remote. Also, they just made a boner joke. I need to know what my baby daughter is going to be exposed to soon enough. Marg Helgenberger in perfect lip gloss and tousled hair on the job, check. Boner jokes, check.
Just switched to “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” They make boner jokes too, but the difference is: They’re funny.
The wind howled last night. I mean: Old Mariah was calling its name all night long.
(Did you get that reference? I didn’t think so. Let me tell you, when the world lost the Merv Griffin show, where lonely latchkey children like me could watch John Davidson sing showtunes and thus broaden our cultural reference points — well, we lost something important. I never saw “Paint Your Wagon,” but in the right mood, after about two thousand beers, I might stand up and sing Way out west they got a name for wind and rain and fire. The rain is Tess, the fire’s Joe and they call the wind Mariah… And for the record, I have never, EVER heard any westerner, or any American for that matter, call any of those natural phenomenon by those names. Or by any name. During the Yellowstone fires, did anyone say, “Joe is threatening the back country near Mammoth Hot Springs?” Didn’t think so.)
Anyway, the wind was out of control last night. It sent so many acorns, branches and other random crap raining onto the roof it sounded as though we were under attack. I cannot sleep well in a high wind, unless the nearest tree is no closer than half a mile away. So I wandered around the house, finally landing in the guest room, where I had a very vivid dream that Kate wouldn’t let me sleep, kept coming into my room to bug me, so I took her hand, put it in my mouth, and bit as hard as I could. Seconds later, there she was, waking me up. “What are you DOING here?” I hissed, thinking I had just bitten her hand off. “Go back to bed.”
“It’s 6:50,” she said. Nearly time to get up anyway. She had both of her hands, and neither had teeth marks. But that wasn’t what you’d call a good night’s sleep. The wind brought a tree down at the end of the block, and the tree took down a major wire. At 4 p.m., the Detroit Edison workers were just getting started on fixing it.
“What the hell took them so long?” I called to a neighbor, which got me a bunch of glares from the linemen. I keep forgetting that Detroit is a city where blue-collar workers do not feel like second-class citizens. In fact they think, quite correctly, that if it weren’t for their willingness to clamber around on poles and in bucket trucks, we could all sit in the dark for all they care. (Our side of the street didn’t lose power, fortunately.)
Must have been the rocky night that made me so rude. I still can’t believe my subconscious suggested I bite my own child’s hand.
So it was one of those didn’t-sleep days — rattle-y, bump-into-walls-y, get-outraged-by-the-newspapers-y, although obviously some other people got even more outraged. I remember when I went through a nightclub period the same time I had to work at 7-3 shift, and I routinely took my sleep in two chunks — from closing time to 6 a.m. and then from quitting time to dinner or so. I kept this up for weeks with no ill effects. How did I do it? Oh yes, being 23 years old, plus half a pack of Winstons a day. Nicotine, in addition to being a poison, is also a stimulant.
If you’ll excuse me, then, I’m off to read “The Human Stain” and drift off to dreamland. No biting tonight, I hope.