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Thursday, April 21, 2005 This morning: me trying to wake up, standing at the counter of a local morning joint working on a cup of espresso and a croissant. Half-conscious, vision still a bit blurry, attempting to wade through the morning paper's bad news to the happier sports and arts sections. A couple pulls up to my left, they insert themselves into the open space at the bar and order cups of espresso, registering on my still-not-fully-functioning sensory array as vague noises and movements. Minutes later, their caffeine arrives, the male of the couple extends an arm to pull his closer. His hand thrusts itself into my range of vision, looking -- and I am NOT exaggerating -- like the hand of an individual deep into the painful process of transforming from a normal human being into a full-fledged wolfman. Hairy like I can't describe, black fur spilling out from his cuff and down his hand all the way to the fingernail joint. A display of hairiness like I have rarely seen in this short existence of mine outside of high-budget special effects. Unnervingly impressive. For the life of me, I can't figure out how a woman (or another male, for that matter) could make intimate physical contact with a walking shag-carpet like that. (Not that it matters whether I get it or not, I hasten to add. I'm just saying.) One morning a while back, during the course of an extended visit by a friend, I stumbled into the bathroom, managed to seat myself without falling over and passed a few minutes slowly returning to consciousness. Somewhere during that short, peaceful span of time, I became aware that the bathroom floor had accumulated strangely substantial piles of dark body hair, as if my guest had been shedding feverishly during his few days in my living space. As if a bear had taken up residence in my flat. Completely changed the way I viewed that individual. Subsequent time spent with that same person -- outside the flat, minus body hair falling like, er, little, curly autumn leaves -- changed my view of him even further. Ah, well. That, sometimes, is life. But you don't want to hear me blathering about life. This morning, as I dragged my near-comatose self out from under the covers, I heard the keening sound of swifts outside for the first time this year, their return to the area as sure a sign of spring settling securely in as the flood of tourists currently heaving about the city center. The weather has been wildly user-friendly these last few days, and people festooned with camera cases, daypacks and guidebooks are everywhere, the sounds of German and English chatter wafting through sunlit air. The kind of conditions that get me smiling, the kind of conditions that make it easy to wax pretentiously poetic in the most tiresome way. So I'll spare you. On to the day. ************* From the London Review of Books: personals ads worth the price of admission. (Example: "I like you because you read magazines with big words. And you’ve got great booblies. I can live without the first. But the second is non-negotiable. Shallow man, 34. When I say 'shallow', I mean, damn. Box no. 08/08") Focussing sound. They are Zogg. Madrid, te quiero. rws 8:07 AM [+]
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