Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Butterfly and Satan's Backwash

The thermometer cracked today at 92 degrees. Which in common parlance means that the air outside was thick, like being suffocated under a down comforter while a fire rages on the floor below [Ed. aside: in my earlier times, I would rather naively assert that the masses would assert their distaste for global warming through pursed, smiling lips, en route to sand-draped shores and ocean breezes.]

In other words, with all heat, dry or otherwise, the air becomes murky. Adjunctly, bugs like murky, but in this heat, can they survive it? While walking out to get toilet paper, I saw this at my doorstep:
Yes, that's a dead butterfly. Yes, it means some form of curse or another, meaning that yes, I have inspired the wrath of Satan or a tengu, does it mean anything else? I inquire.

* * *
I have two main problems with living on graveyard:

1) Meeting up with people. I've been playing phone tag with a friend of mine the last few days, attempting reconnect with old friends from SF. Generally, this results in my getting together before work. Generally, this also means an abbreviated meeting and/or the second problem:

2) Brunch. As somebody who takes great joy in the new, especially in forms decadent, As is well known in culinary circles, brunch is the castoff meal where all manners of largely dull, unsophisticated palates mingle together with their children, their parents, their large gaggle of friends and lord over angrily and in the throes of hangover their servings of mimosas and variations ova. In other words, it's passionless, largely as a means of survival.

And if it's one thing this largely inconsequential writer can't stand, it's the passionless.

In some ways, this summer might represent Young Orpheus's descent to the Pied-Piper of Hell. Who wants to help me edit my resume?