Typing practice

I can't believe Christian won Project Runway last night.  Nobody would wear his clothes, except Victoria Beckham.  I wasn't sure he even knew how to drive when Tim gave him the car.

Everything is suspended for me all week anyway, waiting for Sunday's series finale of The Wire.

I am still in a daze over last week's penultimate episode. 

I ordered Richard Price's new book, Lush Life, yesterday after reading a review and hearing him on Fresh Air.  His book, Clockers, was -- in part -- inspiration for The Wire and he wrote several episodes of The Wire.

There are something like fifty story lines in The Wire. 

I wonder how much sense any one episode would make to someone just watching for the first time.

I haven't heard anything about Colombia this morning.

They called me to teach, but I didn't answer the phone.  I'm going to help Lee redecorate her office.  I'm supposed to get a massage in the bargain.

I keep thinking about what Norman Mailer said about sex, that it wasn't any good unless it was sinful.  That without guilt, something was missing. 

There seems to be something unspoken in this, especially as relates to same sex relations, that I have never been able to fashion into a declarative sentence.

In college, when we were tripping in John Nelson's basement apartment, he showed me an orange upon which he had written something.  He was an artist, married, really into Captain Beefhart and other chaotica.  I tried to read the writing.  It said, I thought, "In the end, you find out you love men."  He grabbed the orange out of my hand, laughed his bizarre cackle, and read aloud, "You know, Las Vegas is where it is at, baby."

Then he ate the orange.  And we never discussed it.

Don't mind me.  This is morning typing practice.