but wait, there's pie

i am getting very vexed by the fucking spam commentary. no one ever responds to my inane twaddle, proving that this is a futile excercise in narcissistic self-indulgence, so when i do see a comment i light up like a motherfucking menorah. in vain. for naught. silly trollop.
i walked down western ave. i never do; so close, yet so off the beaten path, it reminds me of another city entirely. ultra-foofoo furniture stores, rug shops heralded by scowling turbaned men, walls of ivy-clad brick, unreasonably high curbs.
my very first day back in seattle after anchorage, europe et al, 10 june 2002: firstly, this was the flight i missed due to lack of cat/bike-transport-planning and a goofy miasma of E. flew the red-eye, lingered at sea-tac for three hours until my landlord would be awake to let me into my new, as-yet-unseen lair, shuttled to said lair to wait outside for another hour (accompanied by howling cats all the while), went to the store to buy immediate neccessities like toilet paper, proceeded to break grocery bag and send toilet paper rolling down first hill, felt grotesque pangs of horror, homesickness, and rudderlessness. after taking a fitful midafternoon nap on the carpet, i woke feeling even more discombobulated. walked down spring street in a haze; ended up calling my best girl friend in alaska and wailing to her about what the fuck i'd just done to my life. the pay phone was at the corner of spring and western, under the viaduct, adjacent to a pay lot. but no more. another relic of another time, vanished. that actually makes me somewhat cheerful now.
pay phones are a relic unto themselves. phone booths are even more so. there are a few still scattered willy-nilly about this fair berg, always tagged and bepissed and dysfunctional. i love the iconic quality of a phone booth... like the hiss of a needle hitting a record, or a rotary-dial dialing sound, or the smell of a really old book. explain those things in 20 years.
apparently my grandmother (on my father's side) had a minor stroke about a month ago. this was discovered when she went in for a physical whilst complaining about her shoulder. it has apparently affected her vision somewhat. "what is it with this family?" my mother asked. fucking mortality. i am possibly the most spry of the lot and currently feel as if my right forearm is enclosed in an ace bandage. thanks, brain. it is minor, allowing me to type and paw and gesticulate and whatnot, but just enough of a constant fucking nudge to remind me that lest i forget, lest i get too COMPLACENT, i have a lifelong fucking issue.
'cherish' just started playing, proving that the world is a luscious, good place after all. for every lament there is a perfect musical accompaniment. to find such harmony amid the murk really does make everything of the look-at-this-sexy-sorrow, let's-drink-langorously-and-make-love-sssslowly variety, and less of the my-house-smells-like-cat-ass-and-i-have-a-hungover-mouth ilk.
hypothetically.
obviously.
did i already extol the bombastic brilliance of chocolate pop-rocks? holy shit! they are fucking amazing! seriously, they are the best candy i've had in years. ignore those who decry the carbonated choctastic glory. they know not of what they speak.