Today the band is playing all of their songs, medley-style. They're particularly raucous, while at the same time being tight as a Level 42 electronic drum solo.
A guy with a tuba just walked past my sliding glass door. He could barely fit between the door and the fence.
Did they just do the Rolling Stones' Bitch? Yes they did.
The band is a marching band. For a university. The one I work for.
Meanwhile, the streets of Hollywood are full of famous guys named Andy. And though the tree at the bottom of my hill is gone, affording me a delicious view, I feel for the tree itself - dead for no reason, at the hands of the men in the ugly house. It's bad enough they put signs on their trash cans, proclaiming ownership.
Now it's the theme to the Monkees. And Time Warp. What happened to Tusk? That's what I want to hear.
I woke up in my bedroom this morning to my orchestral cellphone alarm, snoozed for the fifth time. I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. Seymour concurred and didn't even ask for food, demurely waiting for me to fill his half-fill bowl.
This has been a slice of my life, on an uneventful day. I'll supplement it with words that add detail: falafel, crossword puzzle, bookcase, 12th place, Caribou.
1 comment:
There's no abandoned bicycle.
To-NIGHT!
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