Coffee Log, Day 294

Hi.

Coffee: Earl Grey Tea, Bigelow; my sick stomach couldn’t handle coffee this morning. The tea was enough.

I was hacking and coughing all night long so I called out of work this morning. I’ve spent the day in a t-shirt and socks and boxers binge-watching Riverdale on Netflix. It’s a good show. Just the right amount of soap opera. Though I’m sure it’s even better through fever-goggles.

I still remember a time when you’d wait each week to watch another episode of something. I guess some people still do that, but I haven’t had cable for ten years, much like the rest of my generation. There was a nice bit of community wrapped up in the waiting. You’d talk to friends trying to guess what would happen next.

What does anyone wait for anymore? Paddling our kayaks like we’re in white waters even when it’s calm as a gentle lake. I don’t know if this is a good thing, bad thing, or just a thing. Hell, I’m too sick right now to make much sense of it.

Novel Count: (on hiatus while I recover from this cold)

Currently Reading: Cherry, Nico Walker (Finished! Mixed feelings overall; I’ll try to get to a review this weekend)

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If television’s a babysitter, the Internet is a drunk librarian who won’t shut up.

Dorothy Gambrell, Cat and Girl


Coffee Log, Day 222

Hi.

Coffee: French Roast, Trader Joe’s Brand

A dog-walk day.

I took a stroll. Sundown, 2nd of October. My mouth was still wet from dinner. I started on the second floor landing, thought about the book I wrote that started on a second floor landing. Kids on the playground; parents at the picnic tables. I crossed the creek and sidled the first floor apartment that’s got a screen door. The TV was going. A courtroom drama. Objection!

It wasn’t until I passed the pool that I started to see them: bipedallers puttering around with leashes leading every size of furball into the first comfortable day of Autumn. I think I counted five in all, about four more than most days. They fell to two categories: guys in cargo shorts looking bored as toy poodles pulled them around; women in athletic wear talking to their cell phones. That dogs yipped and bapped at each other, yipped and bapped at me, made up for every lack of interest in their owners. To them, it was Christmas. To them it was the fifteen-hundred down on a new car, new wheels, broad October, open roads, wild nights. For five to ten minutes, the dogs got to remember that their paws once clawed beds of dirt, hunted woods and fields. For the same amount of time, the people got to think about what show to watch when they got home.

Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker

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“To his dog, every man is Napoleon; hence the constant popularity of dogs.” – Aldous Huxley

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