Head Rattle

I.
A local theater group has asked me to do a public reading of a short story (not one of mine, story to be determined) at an event in September called "Guys Night Out -- celebrating all that it means to be a man!" Like I know? Sure, I'll do it. Maybe I'll find out what it means.

II.
Between "regular" work and freelance megaprojects, I've had hardly a waking moment "free" since the day I got back from London. Tonight I'm "off" though, having completed the two back-to-back freelance jobs. Why do I feel indolent, like I should still be laboring? I'm still in rev mode. I need a drink... except it would just put me to sleep.

III.
Today's surreality: Walking along Kennedy Boulevard while listening to a David Foster Wallace novel through headphones, seeing a shorts-and-tee-shirt clad young Asian (?) man with stick-like legs and arms and a patchy bald head drinking from a hose spouting a small geyser of water outside a gas station that is, for some unfathomable reason, watering, not grass or flowers, but a macadam driveway.

IV.
Which reminds me... the results of the latest Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are in! It's an annual literary contest to compose "the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels". (No, I've never entered.) Here's this year's winner:

"Cheryl's mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories."
--Sue Fondrie