my fingers still smell from the smoked salmon stef fed me (when vegans fall, they fall hard). she ran into me this morning as i tried to juggle hot chai and lengthy seminar papers. we did the only sensible thing, splayed on the grass in the beautiful stunshine until we decided to move on to her apt for lunch. fish, crackers, tomato soup, red wine. we are classy mofos.
rehearsal went well last night. increasingly however we’re approaching the point past which there’s nothing i can do about the show. it makes me very nervous. i have been existing in a state of vague nausea. it only registers a 5 on the ester scale of gastratory dysfunction, like out of 100. so not terrible, not as bad as the patch, but occasionally distracting. as in, damn, i can’t finish this aluminum cup of cheesecake. i need more sleep than i’m getting. luckily i think i have enough perspective to get me through.
can’t tell how ironic this article is supposed to be:
Imad Mohammed, who saw in the storm divine intervention, seemed marveled by its force. “The only time I saw a storm like this was in the American movie ‘Twister’ and in the words of the holy Koran,” he said.
wouldn’t a sandstorm affect both sides? is god’s point that the violence should simply stop? i’d approve of that. i do wish god would be a little less vague though. smacking a region with a natural-enough event, even at a signficant time, frankly isn’t specific enough to send an effective message. neither is putting hebrew words into the mouth of a fish in brooklyn. if the sandstorm carved out STOP FIGHTING, YOU MANIACS in rockface in both english and arabic, or a carp stood up during a white house dinner, bitchslapped george w., grabbed rumsfeld by the jowls and screamed DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND GOD WANTS YOU TO STOP, that’d be worth writing articles about. people are so starved for miracles these days.