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spinach soup
Saturday, December 4 1999
I discovered today where all that grit in my Psion palmtop computer is coming from. Soon after I bought it, you see, I began carrying the Psion in my Panasonic digital camera pouch, which is the perfect size. I'd completely forgotten that I used to carry the digital camera in that same pouch and that the camera has been shedding grains of sand ever since the expedition to Sleeping Bear Dunes near Traverse City, Michigan. Today I undertook a massive (and seemingly successful) de-sanding project, stringing streamers of toilet paper through the voids in the mechanism and pulling it through. I was moved to act when I felt a grain of sand on the tip of my stylus actually scratch the screen. This horrible sensation caught me completely by surprise. Then I remembered: the Panasonic pouch must still contain Michigan sand!
There comes a day in everyone's life when he or she is completely sick of Ozzy Osbourne's voice. For me, that day came about a year ago. I wonder if I'll ever get sick of the sound of a crunchy electric guitar? Or the taste of chips and salsa? Or that Simpson's episode I saw the end of yesterday, the one where Bart is hanging out with Ralf Wiggums and they go to the abandoned penitentiary and electrocute the plastic bride and groom in that old electric chair? Or that one elusive smell that always carries me back to a memory of the rubberized divider separating the coat closet end of my 2nd grade homeroom from coat closet end of the room where I learned spelling.
In the evening after Kim came home from work (she works the Saturday day shift now) we watched the rest of Vincent and Theo and got all fucked up on red wine and pot. Kim's mother called during the movie and Kim regaled her with tales of my company's successes, including the recent BMW purchase by my web development colleague, Eric. Such tales are impressive to a übermaterialist like Kim's mother, though even she thought a new BMW sportscar was an impractical purchase.
Then I grabbed my guitar and started playing really loud, recording one riff digitally so I wouldn't forget it. The hour felt really late, but it wasn't. There was still time for dinner on the town in the manner to which Kim is accustomed.
Galoka in La Jolla, the fledgling vegetarian Indian restaurant, was were we went. We didn't even order our own food; we left it all up to one of the owners. There were other diners in the dining area, but not many for a Saturday night.
One of the things we had was a spinach soup, a creamy rich green fluid with a single sprig of cauliflower. I remarked to Kim that it was the greenest thing I'd ever eaten.
Next we did drinks in the bar area with our buddy Ten Crows. Kim told him we'd had a rough week and had almost broken up, so he didn't even charge us for our drinks, wishing that we stay together.
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