Time · 6 May 2002
Health food store owner, doing inventory: ‘Thus endeth the lecithin.’
—Me, to myself, whilst mowing the lawn; whereupon I stopped the mower, tilted my head back and laughed and laughed. After that I lay down on the fresh crisp grass for a stretch, lit a cigarette, scratched once behind my right ear, thought for a while about that Murder on the Dancefloor video with the huge pumpkin head girl from that fake indie band, what were they called anyway, theaudience or something; anyway the video, that kind of icky entertainment you’re alarmed at yourself for finding catchy, the calculated disco bump – which in and of itself is not a problem: the calculated disco bump has probably added as much to the quality of life as a nice ham sandwich (and don’t underestimate the life-enhancing qualities of a nice ham sandwich, with the butter and pickles and sharp sharp mustard) – coming off of songs angled on comfort and familiarity and comfort and hey that sounds kind of like something that made me happy once. And then I thought about how very much in love I am, but, for our purposes here that information is a bit gratuitous, so go ahead and let it go.
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