Twice on the way back from DC, we paid the toll for the car behind us. Neither driver caught up with us to say thanks, though we think one of them might have passed and sort of looked sideways at us, it was hard to tell because Liz wouldn't make eye contact with them. I thought she might have looked, if it was a woman, but I can't say for sure. It was hard to tell; it was 2:30 in the morning, we were drunk and we were in love.
At least I was in love. I'm sure she was too, but I don't wan't to be presumptuous. The truth of it is, it's so hot I want to lay in a bathtub full of ice cubes and forget the whole thing. It's so steamy in here, I think I can actually see the steam. It's fogging up my glasses. I had to check to make sure the oven hadn't been left on. My temples are throbbing, the beer isn't cold, only one nostril is working.
In a few minutes I'll go back to the living room. I rutned on the AC in there and closed all the doors. It's the only semi-sealable area in this place, but the little air conditioner isn't powerful enough to really cool the whole place. After a few hours, it's a few degrees cooler in there. In here, it's suffocating.
Maybe a fresh beer....
Hey, not bad. It's sort of cold. I don't think our refrigerator works very well. Maybe I should move North, where the beer is always cold and the women always listen to their mothers. Or don't listen to them. Or something.
I've been reading The Botany of Desire; it's good. I just started the chapter on marijuana, though, and it threatened to put me into a rage. Did you realize that in Oklahoma, growing any amount of marijuana, any amount, qualifies you for a life sentence? Is that the most unbelievable thing you've ever heard? Well, no, there are thousands of equally unbelievable things and acts, but this is the one I'm talking about now. We have mandatory minimum sentences for marijuana users, where a judge and jury have no descretion in sentencing, but no such thing for murderers or rapists. Murderers and rapists get their parole early so we can make room for the potheads. This for a drug that in universally regarded as less physically harmful, and certainly less addictive, than alcohol. Ooooh, it burns me up. I guess I should probably seek to do something about it, rather than whine to nobody, and so should you. We all should. The war of drugs could be one of the nastiest things ever perpetrated on a society, or by a society. Other disasters of humankind - nuclear weapons, nazis, Barry Manilow - are more obvious, sure, but this one is more insidious. It's srength is in its subtlty.
So, you know, write your Congressperson. Join NORML, do something.
One of the most terrifying things I know of, really, is that there is a certain element of fear, more than there used to be, I'm sure, involved in even writing about this stuff online. Now THAT'S something to write to Congress about. Even better, become Congress about.
--later that night--
One of the spontaneous comments of a contestant on American Idol, a truly extraordinary show, about his experience thus far in "the process", while driving his Ford Focus (link withheld), in a segment called, ahem, "Focus on the competitors": "I'm just loving driving this car. My brother has one of these, and he won't let me drive it. Eat your heart out, bro."
I had to share that.
