Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Saturday, March 08, 2003

Things We Lost In The Fire

Last Tuesday night the roomie asked me to blow out two candles before I went to bed. They were big square red things on tall ornate wooden posts.

I forgot.

Our smoke detector had no battery in it. It always went off when we cooked.

One of the candles went out after burning down and splashing red wax all over the carpet. The other burned down and it's wooden post caught fire. The wooden coffee table underneath it caught and smoldered orange and filled the apartment with thick white smoke.

There were 30 or 40 bottle rockets in the top drawer as well as some Neal Stephenson paperbacks. When the rockets went off at 8 am, we both woke and charged into the smoky living room. Since there was just a huge orange smoldering and not any open flame, I picked it up, carried it outside, and chucked it into the pure white snow. As it flew from my hands the air movement kindled an exploding flame that last only a moment before the table landed upside down in the snow. The roomie didn't try to help the situation. Instead he stood there and berated me as I took action to prevent the situation from becoming worse.

The fire department was mad about the smoke detector. The roomie was mad about the carpet and the furniture. They were his candles. He burned something like 10 a day, on wooden posts, on wine bottles, in little glass dishes. So I decided not move into a new place with him, as I'd agreed. He was mad, but he's over it. It was my fault, but I feel he should share in the responsibilty due to his candle fetish and compulsive wax burning tendencies. He'd lit those fucking hazards.

So we were lucky. Saved by bottle rockets.
2:30 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Sunday, March 02, 2003

I'm Hooked On A Feeling

When I grow up, I want to buy one of those vibrating massaging foot baths. It's just a little plastic tub with foot contours in it and a cord running out from underneath. So when I graduate to adulthood, as I was saying, I intend to fill one with rubbing alcohol, take off my clothes, turn it on, and sit in it reading a book until my ass goes completely numb. That's all I've got so far. It's good to set goals.

Meanwhile, back here in the present day, I've had a few ideas that I'm dumb enough to contemplate but smart enough to refrain from attempting. For instance, there has to be a way to padlock a drive-thru window from the outside. I could be something of a vigilante health nut, depriving drunk barflies of big bacon classics and bean burritos. Very noble. I would use combination locks. If I used keyed padlocks, nobody stupid would waste time trying to guess the combo.

Then there's the game I call Poop in a Old Shoe. It's a solitare game that doesn't need any cards, just some old sneakers and one dedicated bowel mover. You can demostrate the old water in the bucket scientific principle by twirling a full shoe by the laces. Be careful.

That's what goes through my head when I spend too long sober. On that note, I'm off to drink enough to satisfy a mid-sized Arkansas family. Good night.
11:41 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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