Hi, I’m back. It’s midnight and I screwed up again. I hoped to make it until at least eleven and crash for eight hours. Didn’t make it. Ate a bowl of chili and got locked into Jeopardy. The next thing The Murph was saying something to me. checked the time, ten thirty. Crap. I have stuff to do tomorrow. In keeping with the new format:

That Was Then

As I’ve documented, my apartment has been infested by bed bugs. At first it was horrible. After “green” attempts at killing them, I called the landlord. He sprayed, again and again. I spotted one or two in the bathroom. Called Bryan again. Nobody in, left voice mail. Went out, came back. Got a message Call Fred ext 1 It took a minute to figure extension one was Press One. Pressed one, got Fred. Fred is maybe partner/associate of landlord. He’ll come over Saturday at eleven. Saturday comes. Up at seven, shower, breakfast, Stop & Shop. Put groceries away and wait. Noon, no Fred. Phone rings. It’s Bryan. Emergencies can’t make it, is Sunday at eleven okay? Sure. I’ve got a free afternoon. There’s baseball on, a story to finish and a new book, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” by Jenny Lawson. Everybody is praising it so I ordered it from QPBC. It came Friday and was sitting unopened next to the couch. Got on-line and worked the story. I finished and was pretty happy with it. Bad sign. The book is hilarious. Along the way I check the channel guide for cable to see what’s up that night. HBO looks good. Move on past dinner, chili dogs and recycle chili into beans and crackers chili. Settle in an watch “Larry Crowne”. Tom Hanks hit it big playing in drag on “Bosom Buddies” and we all know Julia Roberts from nearly everything. towards the end of the flick Nature calls. I answer. Take meds, make note to call doc about cutting back on one. Okay back to the movie with a cool beverage. I’m not paying attention to the movie, feel it’s ending. Watch everybody is happy. Now I wait for comedy on HBO. The TV screen goes batshit. I lose the picture but have audio. Call the provider, let’s call them Bombast. Get message, they’re swamped with calls. In the past I’d have cursed and waited thinking of delicious ways to torture the people who are keeping me from getting served. I hang up, shut of the TV. Into the bedroom, bring out radio and portable DVD player. Got an unrated Angelina Jolie movie in the queue. At eleven I call Bombast. Get through. Talk to tech. His opinion the TV has crapped out. I’m not happy. Play solitaire on-line, futz with the story and generally wait for the meds to kick in. Listen to the radio, eighties, nineties music and NRA ads. It’s Clear Channel. Fall asleep. Sunday am, shower breakfast and anticipation of the Pioneer Woman, I love cooking shows. Alas, forgot there’s no TV. Listen to the radio. I’ve switched to a portable CD/Cassette/Radio combo because it plugs in. Read, switch stations between the River and NPR. Get a brain flash. Bad news. Pull bedroom TV out and hook it up to cable. No picture. Hooray it’s not the TV. Call Bombast schedule an appointment for Monday. Vindicated! Move through the day. At least I know when the growing agony will end. I have an addictive personality, hence no booze, tobacco or recreational drugs. TV has filled the void. On and off the computer during the day. Wind up playing solitaire compulsively until four am. Check e-mail. On Susie Landeau’s Wild Ride I read a comment from Anonymous relating a tale of bullies, high school and teen angst. Reply thoughtfully try to offer advise and some comfort. Post and to bed. I should say my computer has kicked on iHeart Radio. They’re playing Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor and all the music I grew up with, The station(?) is 94.5. Back to Sunday. I’m in bed, can’t sleep. Put on More Mayhem by Imelda May (go to YouTube). I’m thinking about Anonymous. The music starts to push from left to right. Inside my brain I see an empty night cub somewhere outside San Diego. There’s tables along the walls and a dance floor. Center is a band stand. The club is an entity, not horror story entity but a place disparate people are drawn to and coexist. It’s wood paneled. The walls and ceiling are cigarette smoke stained. The people file in and take their places. In one corner you’ve got pre-Hell’s Angels bikers, Okies,some leftover zootsuiters, beats, Navy personnel who discharged in San Diego and never went home, sprinkled in are some Blacks naval personnel again discharged and working in the Navy yards. They’re drinking beer, wine, hard liquor. Someone lights up a joint and passes it around. The weed is kind of a binder. They’re waiting. The band appears from the back. They set up. They’ve got a female lead, in fact the band is Imelda May and her band. They go through the More Mayhem song list. In the story she has the same set list but varies it and plays the crowd. In my vision of it, it’s the CD playlist. Here’s the thing she’s the soul of the club, the music is the spine. That’s the concept. When it formed five dreaded words formed in my brain; “I’ve got a great idea.” It was simple, put the story out with the CD as a soundtrack. Great, Nook, Kindle don’t do audio. Second idea the story and the CD as a package. After all this it’s five and no sign of sleep. Bombast shows up at nine. Bad news, it’s the TV. I hooked up the wrong wire. I’ve been wired I reread the story and fixed it so my guy had a coming of age in forties Hollywood. Wrote a letter to my instructor and explained the story because I submitted him as a character study and she hated him. wrote an e-mail an sent it. Forgot to attach story and letter. Finally decided to write the weekend. If you’ve got this far thanks.