A Warm, Sultry Evening Swirling with Shouts and American Idol Songs

(listening to Portishead)

It was hot today. Lindsey and I walked over to the pool as the sun was going down, and the air was just right. Warm and just humid enough to embrace you. Only two people were there when we arrived, a couple of quiet readers. We swam and tossed around a tennis ball we found floating in the pool. Two chubby, noisy kids arrived and started playing contrived, splashy games. We got out and did some reading in chaise lounges. Two girls arrived. They were not beautiful people. Things grew noisier, splashier, and darker. The pleasant moment was lost. "I won't miss this," I muttered over Homer's Odyssey.
"Me neither," replied my wife.
Some distorted, saccharine music began to blare from a nearby balcony. We wrapped ourselves in our towels, and the gate clanged behind us.
(listening to Mogwai)
I'm sipping a glass of what may turn out to be a real problem. I discovered a boxed wine which is very good. Other countries put good wine in boxes because it makes sense (Australia, Japan, various European nations). Here in the States, shitty Kool-Aid wines like white zinfandel or "grape wine with natural flavors" found their way into these packages first. Thus, this medium got a trailer trash reputation. The wine which I presently sip is Black Box Wines 2001 Sonoma County Merlot. I haven't tried their other offerings, but I paid 22 bucks for three liters of smooth, well-rounded wine. It is dry enough to go very well with a Greek salad, but juicy enough to be instantly gratifying on its own. No, it is not a mysterious, complex wine. Just nice plumminess with a dusting of tannin.
("Blow Out" by Radiohead)
Three liters is equal to four bottles. It's open (but not so vulnerable to oxidation as a bottle) and on my countertop. With effort, I am just managing to slow my consumption. The title of this blog was not erroneously chosen; I wear orange socks, cook with orange silicone spatulas, and drink wine or beer daily. If they were black socks, I would be a German tourist.
("Cure for Pain," Morphine)
I hate my job. I can't walk out on it; it's the only one I currently have. It's demeaning, unrewarding, and absolutely corporate. My boss is a micro-managing, condescending, company-brainwashed, Napoleonic bitch. She's not getting any dick from her husband. That isn't surprising; she's an emasculating twat with cottage-cheese thighs. I have some cool customers, but Napoleon is always on patrol, making sure she gets her money's worth. She is forever reminding us all of the numerous tasks on the checklists. Life at Starbucks is governed by checklists these days. I almost asphyxiated myself the other day; breathing wasn't assigned to me. She also has to make sure no one's self esteem creeps dangerously high. No one likes it there.
("Eleven" by Primus)
So I write, read, and drink wine. I could say that I job hunt, but I also await the time when I can shoot lasers out of my eyes.