A Day Of Failure

So I woke up.

The end.

I decided after talking with my friend Marc that it'd be a good idea to play in a local poker tournament -- even though I don't like poker -- and I almost finished in the money, which means I didn't finish in the money, which means I wasted three hours of my life with grumpy old men (and younger, out of work contractors), and then I wasted even more hours afterwards as I debated my plays and thought about how awful and unlucky I am.

I didn't spit on the ground, but I should have.

Afterwards, I was supposed to meet Ginger at the 5th Avenue theater, but she was running late and working late and decided that maybe she wanted to cancel, which was fine, fine, because I had other plans I'd previously forgotten about. And then I tried to mechanize another situation but that failed and then I had a ticket to a movie about a drug-addled prostitute (or a sister with a drug-addled prostitute who may or may not also be (or become) drug-addled and/or a whore) but decided I didn't want to go (because why would anyone want to see this) and then I tried to get rid of the ticket but no one wanted it so I left it on the counter at Molly Moon's, in front of the lone person was willing to go -- but couldn't, because she was working. Bless her heart.

I did, fortunately, get rid of a ticket to Rain, which is another movie I no longer want to see, and it found a good home, so all is well, and I can rest easy thinking that not another movie ticket will go to waste in this town.

And then Brandon and Keridwyn and I ate ice cream and watched dodgeball, which had all the same players and was exactly the same game as remembered. 

And then I couldn't talk/communicate/get/words/out, probably because I'd spent the evening reading The Centaur, by John Updike, which, as far as I can tell, is prosaic centaur/god porn, which may sound fine in theory, but it's really hard to visualize a centaur and a god getting it on, so much so that I wonder if a) I'm just limited and everyone else has the ability to imagine fictional beings (probably without apparatus) getting it on, or if b) this just isn't a sexy concept, no matter how well-written it is. I mean, think about it. (You can't really think about it. That's my point.)

I also spent a fair amount of time in the B&N, reading a very bad book about Cat Power and her truths and lies (what's the difference?), written by an author who seemed to think knowing everything about a relatively unimportant (but still enjoyable) artist was the most important thing in the world. I would rather have read a book about gum manufacturing, and I would've rather the author written this, rather than the Cat Power book. I will write her a letter.