First thing this morning, the newsy conundrum that preceeds the Today Show offered one of my favorite things: speechless presenters. I was sitting on my couch, counting how many fingers I was holding up and trying to remember my name – as I do every morning – when Rob and Darlene stuttered and I looked up.
Unlike the last time I was suddenly unsure whether or not I hallucinated livestock on the news, this time I can produce evidence. I can’t prove it, but I’m starting to wonder if my problems are really Chopper Dan’s, and maybe both of us need vacations. Coincidentally, Merriam-Webster’s word of the day is cowcatcher.
Section 4. The times, places and manner of holding elections for Senators and Representatives, shall be prescribed in each state by the legislature thereof; but the Congress may at any time by law make or alter such regulations, except as to the places of choosing Senators.
The Congress shall assemble at least once in every year, and such meeting shall be on the first Monday in December, unless they shall by law appoint a different day.
That wasn’t actually the first thing that happened this morning. First-first thing, I was dreaming I’d missed my alarm and was late for work and the alarm wasn’t going off and I was too tired to get up and began to worry and I picked up my head to look at the clock and it was 5:15 and that’s way too early and I still thought I was late and then I was awake enough to scratch Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul and to know that my bedroom was fucking cold. The cat was clever enough to observe me turning on the heating pad for him. I hope he doesn’t burn down the house before I get home – unless he has to for, you know, Science!
Section 5. Each House shall be the judge of the elections, returns and qualifications of its own members, and a majority of each shall constitute a quorum to do business; but a smaller number may adjourn from day to day, and may be authorized to compel the attendance of absent members, in such manner, and under such penalties as each House may provide.
Each House may determine the rules of its proceedings, punish its members for disorderly behavior, and, with the concurrence of two thirds, expel a member.
Each House shall keep a journal of its proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, excepting such parts as may in their judgment require secrecy; and the yeas and nays of the members of either House on any question shall, at the desire of one fifth of those present, be entered on the journal.
Neither House, during the session of Congress, shall, without the consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any other place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.
I meant my house, not the House. In life, we have to accept that reality offers us few absolutes short of Death and bad hair days, and even the best whole wheat bread recipe will be subject to the rise or fall of humidity levels in uncaring temperate zones. After our parents’ breakup, Daria, Todd and I were for a couple of years commune kids. We spent a lot of time with the other commune kids, and when the commune broke up over issues of direction, responsibility and who forgot to pay the damn heating bill in the mammoth house, we kids were kind of lost for a while. In the bargain, Mom found Tom. Daria, Todd and I got his daughters Anya and Corinne as sisters. We have been thus since, which I suppose might have been 1974 or 1975. I don’t know. Who cares, right? But what do we call those other kids? Who are they to us, and where did they go? Do they miss us? At least some of them do. Etienne, a small stone skipping across the surface of my life, asks for a current picture, sparking a little crisis.
Maybe yesterday’s blog entry wasn’t especially clear on this topic: I’d rather re-grout my tub than have a camera pointed at me. With Silly Putty. What do I look like? How would I know? I look like stuff. I look like the person who rides by on a Segway and in your head you hear the Reverend Horton Heat play “Stop the Pigeon.” I look like what changes on the next go-round. I look like I beat Carol Burnett to the curtains. I mean, for all practical purposes I’m your invisible friend – right up until someone else makes eye contact. Let’s hope it’s a bartender.
I don’t know what Etienne expects. Daria insists she took this picture between stops on Corinne’s 1997 bachelorette pub crawl outside the bar I refer to as “the bar” and atop the vehicle referred to as “your truck, ma’am?” by the Turnpike Authority. It’s as close to what I look like in my mind as can be seen from the outside, but I don’t think it’d help Etienne pick me out of a lineup.
I mean, should he have to.