Another Friday has arrived. The weekend is anticipated over water cooler jawing and disobedient intercubicle chatter. Hurray for le weekend, for it is the carrot at the end of the work week's stick. It is time for revelry and intoxication, football and cribbage. And it still means nothing to me. Everyday is my weekend, baby.

The day began on a wonderful note. I emerged from the guest house to greet a 100+^o day here in the "hot ass valley," as the young man walking by and talking on his cell phone so lyrically puts it.
Ahhh, it's ten a.m., I think, and these are the last three days of unemployment for me, better enjoy them, R.C., better enjoy them. And I fully intend to. Then, I get the news. The dumb ass temp. agency's bitch ass representative called to say my tech. support ass job had been indefinitely ass put on hold.
What a pain in the neck.
After being offered a $6/hr. incoming call job or a $7/hr outgoing call job, and turning them both down, I realize that my last days of unemployment are further down the drink than hither to thought. The bright and sunny day becomes hot and oppresive. The uninterrupted azure expanse of the Valley sky, majestically extending from the Santa Suzannas to the San Gabriels, constricts and suffocates. I beat a hasty retreat back to the windowless guest house where the sun and sky are kept out. Oh, boy, in there I begin distilling 100 proof rage & rolling unfiltered loathing. When my temples stop throbbing from restrained emotion, I reemerge into the heat, and spit at the sky. The spit falls to the dust that is the lawn, hisses and is gone. I run for the shade.

Why, the guest house? Kirsten's parents are staying in the bedroom. The first meeting seems to have gone well. More than that, I won't write now. Why? It's always better to write about people when they're over 3,000 miles away than when they're in the same house as you. It's not that I have anything bad to say, and even if I did the WWW isn't the kind of forum that seems appropriate, it's just a matter of what Wordsworth refered to as poetic distancing in his introduction to lyrical ballads. Poems, he wrote, and I'm paraphrasing, should not be written in the heat of the moment or while in emotional enroilment, but much later, as the daylight wanes and time of leisure allows for rumination and explication. So I say, live for the moment and save commentary for the future. If I had written about the Temp. agency calling me right after the fact instead of squirreling myself away in the guest house, then it would have read something like this:
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckgoddamnsonsofbitches whore'scuntsuckingsaladtossingfelchers havenofacefuckingrighttorotorootmyasshole aftercloggingitwiththeirfuckups!!!"
And that's not exactly appropriate for this family oriented website now, is it?

The day has gotten better. Kirsten's mother helped put the situation in a better perspective. The job hunt'll continue on Monday. Until then, it's still the weekend. Tonight, Tokyo Delve's sushi Bar. Tomorrow, I've been volunteered to make pizza. Sunday, Greenbay Packers.
Right now, enough of this.

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