Mondays with Maury

My life is a cliche and here's a day. But first I'll say yesterday (fuck, I'm rhyming) was a strange one.

You have these days: they're all the same. Combine instances from several and put it all into one and you've got a pretty interesting dinner-table conversation, albeit fiction. But, if there was one interesting day of many you might want to write it down for yourself or for others to figure out that all the bland-full, typical days among your many, make it seem kind of unusual and sad. It puts your others in perspective and helps you realize what's important and what you should really be thankful for (ice-cream), or what you should really get pissed about (not the dirty dishes).

I continue to type by starting off asking the question: What day does your week start? (Since I am the only one here to answer that question.) I say Monday. While many continue to state that Sunday is the start of the week, I say Monday is the start of the work week.

Monday is where I begin.

I recently began a shaving schedule that puts the blade to my face exactly two times a week. I learned this from a profile of an online friend I have. Monday is a great day to shave-- Thursday's another. It really does mean it's time for business.

But I didn't shave this particular (Mon)day because Thursday I was sick and didn't work, nor did I shave.

I've been going on walks upon awakening. For my dog and to stretch my often aching body. What's helped has been the ipod I recently got in the mail. It's like my leash.

I take piss, put on shoes, put on ipod, plastic bag, leash, ChuckIt, and go--these are my weekdays!

Monday (yesterday, I guess, depending when you read this, depending also on how long this has been up) I woke up earlier than I wanted to to open the garage for M, who was riding her bike to work. My job (one of my jobs) is to close the door after she leaves (I'd like to think it makes her feel less bitter for having to wake up earlier than me and go to work).

I returned to bed, though (because like I said I wasn't ready to get up, so I didn't). I read a bit from this novel I checked out and fell back asleep for another hour. When I woke up I put on my shoes and set forth like I do and said I do.

Returning, I usually take the headphones out of my ears, wash my hands, and start boiling water for the power breakfast.

I made breakfast.

The following recipe was given to me by my brother: One cup oatmeal mixed in boiling water with one egg. In bowl mix oatmeal/egg concoction with walnuts, crasins, honey, and soy milk. Eat. When I had it this Monday, I put a dollop of peanut butter, which goes well with anything but especially oatmeal. I like to eat my breakfast in the company of Heidi, who I will feed after I am done, with a newspaper if I have one, or with Maury, who I like to watch and laugh at.

With my laughter I'm trying to wake up Barry, whose room borders the television room and who hates it when I watch Maury in the morning. And, it is the natural reaction to viewing paternal results coming in on national television--in most cases.

But Barry had left the house while I had left for my walk. So I sat alone, ate, fed Heidi and got ready for work(s).

On Mondays I ride my bike downtown, usually before 11 a.m. This begins my 12-hour workday, consisting of the two jobs I currently have.

My back, however, has been hurting recently so I've been riding the bus, which has helped (my back still hurts but I think it's getting better (others aren't so sure)). I realized I didn't have any money but managed to "find" some change.

Not eager to work but willing to find Barry, I walked by the coffee shop we often go together. This day he was there with another (if you can believe it) and I didn't like the looks of what was going on when I saw him there with his ex-girlfriend in the window, so I walked on by.

First, I go into the magazine, which is a monthly. The title of this magazine is two words the first word is the state I currently live in and the second rhymes with isness. I don't care for the content all the much but the "benefits" have been better than I expected and I seem to be learning how to type faster, clearer and more concise. I'm trying to finish work there (still am, I should be working right now). My last day is Thursday (I'm wondering right now if I'll shave that day, but probably won't and will start my schedule over on Monday next.)

I have to leave work at the magazine during the 5 o`clock hour to be at my other job by 6. The next five hours of my life will be spent in front of a computer, connected to a register, which has a scanner plugged into it for scanning barcodes of books for purchase.

I like to eat something (anything before this begins because I usually have had little more than coffee since my power breakfast. So, this afternoon/evening I go to Whole Foods, where I've almost died, and ate some soup, which I've almost choked on before, and listened to some Hip-Hop, which I've heard before but which keeps me company).

It's usually my routine to call M before this shift begins. But this evening I do not. I think about it but eat and listen and walk into work without making the call.

I've often zoned out doing this job. My mind, it's turning robotic like my body and mind are an extension of the computer itself. As if I am new hardware detected. I'll get a break at the nine `o clock hour and this is when I call M.

Her brother answers and says his sister (M) is in the hospital. And I think he's joking. He puts M on the line and I say, Why does your brother do that? as if he always has, you know, joked like this. She confirms in an almost-whimper that she wrecked her bike, that she's at OHSU, that she's a little out of it. Her shoulder has been dislocated, her face scraped, her teeth chipped/knocked out, I can't tell.

And gone is the thought that I should apologize for taking her quarters for the bus.

But here is the thought: I'm glad she's alright otherwise. I mean, we're talking--she can talk. She doesn't go further in the explanation of how this happened. She says her brother is there. I have two more hours to work.

When I call after my shift M is still at the hospital. She says she's getting out soon. I ride the bus for forty five minutes and get home and call her brother directly. He says sort of the same thing, that they'll be home soon, not to come.

They do arrive. About an hour later. And M is in a sling and her face has a scrape. And her leg is scraped. But she can walk on those legs and is coherent. And nothing seems wrong with her beautiful mind.

Good thing you were wearing that helmet we went shopping for yesterday, I say.

About that...

We continue to lose legends

Death by old age is the latest news craze--aside from Iraq bombings: TV star, War journalist, Jazz musician, Film director, Game Show curator dies age 82.

Do I care? You better believe I fucking care (I debated the placement of the word fucking here for emphasis). Reading celeb obits (or C-bits as I'm calling em) is one of my new favorite things. Not because I love the dead (that's gross) but because most times I have no idea who in the hell these people are (sorry, were).

I watched "Price is Right," who in their right mind didn't? But the face I associate with that show remains Bob Barker. (Not dead yet!) I read on, oh Merv Griffith also had something to do with it.

Guess what? Now, he's dead.
Also this week (and maybe last, it's been awhile since I've blogged):

Journalist Bill Deedes;
Jazz percussionist Max Roach;
Baseball Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto;
Society doyenne-philanthropist Brooke Astor;
World's oldest person Yone Minagawa;
Director Ingmar Bergman;
Singer-songwriter Lee Hazlewood.

Do I wish more people died? No, not really. But it sure is fun following the tracks of the people we love(d) to read about. All the way to the grave.

"These boots were made for walking."

photo

A Carsonation Exclusive

If you were Carson, today

or, If you lived in Carsonation

or, For best results download schedule

or, Everything I do is stolen from what others do

or, My life is a cliche and here's a day

Try as I might to write first-person stories of my life, I never get the feeling you readers fully understand what an average Monday in my summer life might be like. So, in type, I break down my schedule.

And I start off by asking the question: What day does your week start? And since I am the only one here to answer that question, I will. Monday. While many continue to state that Sunday is the start of the week, I say Monday is the start of the work week. Better, I say Monday is the start of the school week. And since I'm one of the oldest schoolboys, Monday is where I begin.

Monday: I recently began a shaving schedule that puts the blade to my face exactly twice a week. I learned this from a profile of an online friend I have. Monday is a great day to shave. It really does mean it's time for school, or business. But shaving isn't typically how my Mondays begin. First I wake up with the sun. I don't always get up with the sun, but I do wake due to the fact that my window has no blinds, that the window faces east, and that my body had been programed to wake up at 4:30 for three straight years (I no longer do this). I've been going on walks upon awakening. For my dog and to stretch my often aching body. What's helped has been the ipod I recently got in the mail. Take piss, put on shoes, turn on pod, plastic bag, leash, ChuckIt, and go. Returning, I usually take the headphones out of my ears, wash my hands, and start boiling water for the power breakfast. The following meal was given to me by my brother: One cup oatmeal mixed in boiling water with one egg. In bowl mix oatmeal/egg concoction with walnuts, crasins, honey, and soy milk. Eat. When I had it, I put a dollop of peanut butter, which goes well with anything but especially oatmeal. I like to eat my breakfast in the company of Heidi, who I will feed after I am done, with a newspaper if I have one, or with Maury, who I like to watch and laugh at. With my laughter I'm trying to wake up Barry, whose room borders the television room and who hates it when I watch Maury in the morning. And, it is the natural reaction to viewing paternal results coming in on national television--in most cases. On Mondays I ride my bike downtown, usually before 11 a.m. This begins my 12-hour workday, consisting of the two jobs I currenly have. First, I go into the magazine, which is a monthly. The title of this magazine is two words the first word the state I currently live and the second rhymes with isness. I don't care for the content all the much but the "benefits" have been better than I expected and I seem to be learning how to type faster, clearer and more consise. By 6 p.m. I need to be at my other job, a bookstore which name rhymes with owls. The next five hours of my life are spent in front of a computer, connected to a register, which has a scanner plugged into it for scanning barcodes of books for purchase. I've often zoned out doing this, turning robotic like my body and mind are an extension of the computer itself. As if I am new hardware detected. I'll help close shop. Unlock my bike and ride back across the Willamette River to my house, arriving right before or right after 11:30 p.m.