Procrastination Hodgepodge Blues (5-20-10)
(Or: How I’m going to get back at everyone who has blown past me by living forever.)

Sheesh! Sorry I took a month to write this installment of the weekly log entry, but every time I got half way through, something would happen that made me thoroughly disgusted with the topic I had chosen, or something else would come along that I felt was infinitely more fascinating and I would scuttle what I was working on and start over. That would be OK if there was ever an end to the interesting new things, but I work at the Yacht Club and there’s a demanding new topic every friggin’ day, sometimes every hour!

First I wanted to write about the advent of baseball season, and that entry started like this: Yay! It’s baseball season!

I started writing very late at night on Tuesday, April 20th when I got home from the first Braves-Phillies game. I wanted to share with everyone my joy at how my dear, dear friend Randal took me to that game and how we sat in the seventh row right behind the Brave’s dugout. And I wanted to share my excitement while it was still fresh in my mind about how the Braves were down by three runs in the ninth inning with two outs (almost everyone but us went home) and how Troy Glaus (who had been struggling and who was being mocked by disloyal fans) hit a two-run homer and how then, Jason Heyward, the wonder-rookie, hit another home run which sent the game into extra innings. And how then, in the tenth inning, Nate McLouth (who was doing even more poorly than Troy Glaus) hit a walk off homer to win the game!

I should have just taken what I had written that night and given it to Tommy (plenty more on him at a later date) to post on the website (since I can’t do it myself as I am on a five-year technological hiatus). But instead, over the next few days I tried to get fancy and slip in some other stuff and create some sort of masterpiece, and in the meantime the Braves went on a nine-game losing streak and I became disinclined to submit the work.

Then I was going to write about the tour of Fairy homes but I got bogged down in the brilliant idea of using a cursive font so that the log entries would look more spontaneous and, well, log-like. But a much better word for cursive font would be illegible, which turned out to be a moot point anyway as they won’t load onto the web page (thank God). Anyway, the tour of fairy homes came and went.

Then I was going to write about my sweet little kitten, Owen Meanie, who was struck down with a lightning fast illness called panleukoapnia which killed her in about 15 hours and I was going to emplore everyone to get their pets immunized against it and make everyone aware that their was a really cool place in Avondale called Animal Project (404-292-8800) where you can borrow traps to trap feral cats in your yard and get them fixed and immunized for next to nothing and then let them go again. But that was too depressing.

Then I was going to write about the evil new parking company called Park Atlanta which is a private company hired by Shirley Franklin to ticket cars in Little Five Points without the Neighborhood Association’s or the Business Association’s input. And I was going to enlighten you about the thirty day moratorium on the meters which you do not have to pay right now until they can reach some sort of fair agreement, and when I say fair, I mean as in there are no parking meters in Virginia Highlands or East Atlanta so people shopping there don’t feel compelled to go into the depths of the neighborhood to park, thus wreaking havoc on the parking situation of the local residents.

Then I was going to write about the movie Big Mama’s House III, and the 48 hours of shooting they did in Little Five Points recently, which, if you extrapolate from the time spent filming the McDonalds Spicy Chicken Sandwich commercial in L5P last year means there could be as much as six seconds of Little Five Points in Big Mama’s House III. It’s probably already out on DVD by now.

So now, because life at The Yacht Club is coming at us so fast and furiously I am going to stop procrastinating and come right out and tell you that, starting in June, the Yacht Club is going to have ALL YOU CAN EAT CRAB LEGS EVERY TUESDAY NIGHT!

Or I could tell you that the Octo-mom has become a regular customer because she can bring her kids in and smoke. (But that would be a lie, and I never lie.)

Or, I could tell you that Ross and Roy finally read the short story The Day The Yacht Club Was Gone in which they are featured as main characters. (But that would also be a lie.)

Or, I could tell you about my favorite customer’s and co-worker’s mind-boggling family histories, but A) I would never commit such a gross breach of faith, and B) the histories are so jaw-droppingly surreal that you would just think I was lying.

Or, I could tell you about Comcast’s latest weasel schemes to squeeze money out of the Yacht Club, but I wouldn’t want to give you a negative impression of huge, evil, money-grubbing monopolies.

Or, I could tell you about Glen Lopez’ line of gift cards made from photos he’s taken while zipping around in his turbo-charged wheelchair with his faithful canine companion, Ranger. The cards are available at Van Gogh’s gift shop located at McLendon & Clifden and feature photos of Little Five Points. If you’ve ever dressed as a gnome, chances are you’re in one. Some of the cards have famous witticisms or quotes from philosophers on the inside.

Or, I could tell you about the Japanese couple who were married by a robot.

Or, I could tell you about the link that scientists have found between Attention Deficit Disorder and a common pesticide. (Did you know pesticides, including Off and Raid were neurotoxins?)

Or, I could tell you about how Rich has quit smoking so that he won’t be contributing tax dollars to Obama’s healthcare plan (who’s zooming who?).

Or, I could tell you about the late-night conversation I was stuck in the middle of between Hippy and Troy about the nature of God’s will and how I was poo-pooed when I suggested there might be life on a planet around one of the hundreds of billions of other suns in our galaxy, not to mention life in one of the hundred billion other galaxies visible from Earth. (For those of you who get off on zeros, that’s 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 other suns visible from Earth that might have planets with life.)

Or, I could tell you about how Ross and Roy called me in the middle of a Braves game and coaxed me into going outside to watch the International Space Station fly overhead and how it was blazing with reflected light from the sun and how, with my binoculars, I could clearly see the wings (solar panels).

Or, I could tell you about how Caleb and I started a mini-farm in my yard and how everything we planted is growing because we let the seeds listen to the They Might Be Giants song, Photosynthesis, off their album Here Comes Science. And then I could tell you that physical exercise is an excellent antidote for depression and I could add that the best I have felt in eight years, ten months and twenty-two days was today, after tilling the soil, tending seedlings, and dealing with a nest of venomous snakes, when I jumped into bed with a white Russian, made with heavy whipping cream (the height of decadence, don’t try it) after taking a long, hot shower and realized I wouldn’t need to smoke cigarettes in order to fall asleep.

Or, I could tell you about the significant look Hippy gave me when he told me that the author who was doing a book signing at the Yacht Club had, for years, written a silly blog and then written a “real book”, and how I agonized for days wondering if there was any connection between this and Tommy’s thinly veiled threat to turn my blog into a “real blog”.

Or, I could just Babylon and on without ever imposing any sort of structure to my writing and, in a way, recreate an extremely realistic facsimile of the Bar Log, which, inexplicably, people are always wanting to read.

But if I did that, I would never become one of those hyper-motivated people who are immune to mood swings, not to mention the common slings and arrows of fortune which precipitate them (the slings and arrows) and then I would never get to sit back in a vast leather armchair aboard my customized Boing 747 and look out the window at the billions of human ants being herded around by coarse police officers and I would never get to wear a tailored Armani suit and pour out three fingers of two-hundred-year-old brandi as uniformed serving people clear away my barely touched plate of lobster and filet mignon.

Yay! It’s baseball season! Last night the Braves were losing 9 to 1 but still won in the ninth inning with a rally that culminated in a walk-off grand slam home run! Thanks for the second chance, God!

Zurich, 1929