04.22.02 - 12:28 a.m.

I played racquetball with Cos today. Golden Gate Park is heartbreakingly beautiful at this time of year, but unfortunately this means that the great unwashed masses of San Francisco find it necessary to come to the park and occupy the two free racquetball courts. These guys in the left court were taking forever, so we started throwing twigs at the door and berating them. Eventually the situation escalated to the point where we were singing Roxette and Ace of Base songs at the top of our lungs. This finally caused them to leave, but it was a pyrrhic victory at best. (Pyrrhic is greek for "tainted by the singing of Ace of Base tunes")

I am staggeringly inept at racquetball, and most of our games hovered in the 3-15 range. But I love playing. I like the sound the ball makes when you really smack it. There is also something very intense about the squeaking of rubber shoes on the court, and the way certain shots whiz by your head (or occasionally directly into your head). Most of all, if you play for a while it makes you temporarily forget whatever is currently stressing you out.

Could the violent situation in the Middle East be cured by racquetball?

The short answer is no. The long answer is "no, you retard."

I know it is wrong to use retarded as an insult, but I secretly think it's funny. I long for the days when you could call someone a retard without feeling guilty. Those were innocent times. When men were men, and women were women, and nouns were nouns and tautologies were tautologies... those were the days. (chews on corncob pipe)

I don't really know where I am going with this. You may have noticed I haven't been updating with the mundane details of my life, as is normally the routine. "Today I picked lint out of my belly button." (five page description of precise texture & hue of belly button lint ensues) This is not to say that events haven't occurred, incidents and parties, Laura visited, things with N., etc. etc.... but all of it is occurring in a peculiar disconnected space in which I pretend that I don't not have a job and act as though everything is normal. At times I feel this illusion is under high tension.

I wish I had a camera in my head. With my eyes tonight, I would have captured a certain image-- a maintenance worker, female, operating a large and noisy cleaning machine at the base of the BART escalator. She was wearing a surgical mask that obscured most of her face. Our eyes met, and I tried to read an emotion in hers but it was like looking at a wall. I felt inexplicably afraid.

I will be a camera for you if you let me.