Delivery.

Got a call from the guy selling the piano this morning around 9am. Picked up and agreed to meet him at the antique mall at noon. Timed everything perfectly: Indian Pueblo Cultural Center at eleven to buy a Red Bull to help me move the damn piano.Then to Gertrude Zachary to buy the proper wax at 11h15, with only a precious few extra minutes to spend walking around looking properly reverential in the presence of so many superb antiques I could never hope to afford, with just a few minutes to spare, lest they only have Howard's "Feed-N-Wax" and lack Howard's "Restore-A-Finish" to dash to the nearest place I know they have that before having to meet this esteemed stranger at the antique mall. Thence to Home Depot -- forgive me, lord, they (local businessowners) know not what they do (by carrying only part of the whole Howard's line) -- to buy a can of Restore-A-Finish (Walnut -- what else?) when on the way West on Central I get a message from the gentleman selling the piano that he's already at 1501 Central and can't figure out where I am, much less where my apartment is, and isn't so sure that it even exists. Oh the joys of living in a city where even the mother road herself is chopped up into so many concomitant pieces as to have a "NW" versus a "SE", and addresses thereupon to have the dreaded fractionals, even before unit numbers. I call him back posthaste and assure him I'm just the other side of downtown; yes, pull into the Dairy Queen, and you'll be there, I'll be there three minutes after you.

The piano's delivered. The hired "strong man" he's hired to help is indeed little more than strong. He seems not quite to comprehend such words as "stop" and "whoa". A few little odd chunklets of wood fall off, as is to be expected of any piano 130+ years old, and I get it in place. I spend the rest of the day restoring the finish with superfine steel wool and polishing with a soft cotton cloth.

Lacking the proper candleholders I do what anyone other New Mexican pink boy would do and figure out how many votive candles the shelves for candlesticks will accomodate. As a result of which are now burning in my bedroom: candles to St. Jude, St. John the Conqueror, St. Martin of the Poor, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, His Holiness Ioannes Paulus II, St. Jude, and St. Michael slaying the dragon. I'm quite sure the people at the grocery store have become accustomed to two-bit faggots using such candles for "low-cost, last-minute lighting decisions" (assuming any lousy rotten breeder could ever prove capable of making such fine distinctions to begin with). But there you have it. So like it or not, I have no choice but to invoke the presence of no fewer than five high-powered saints and one recently deceased homophobic (but otherwise generally likeable) pontiff, just for good measure in order to cast light upon the room in which my treasured 1870 Brinsmead piano now sits.

By the way: it's *never* playing again. I see that now, 100% realistically. And while I'm none too thrilled with that -- I do believe I can recoup my losses on it (should I ever choose to do so) so that if worst comes to worst, I shall die with a superb piano, historic in its uniquity demonstrative of several of the turning points in the history of the technical development of the instrument we now call "the piano" on my hands. Should worst come to second worst -- dare I hope so? -- I shall be able to make a little bit of money off having bought the damn thing, if not quite double it.

Went to buy fabric today, too, for the first time in my life, on my own. Frightening. It's so expensive. And I don't know how fabric stores work. But I had to replace that dreadful nylon salmon chiffon with something more becoming the period in which the piano was made. Had several "period" looking options. Finally settled on the piece of remaindered upholstery fabric, last season's design to be sure (but what matter when destined for a 135 year old piano?), a gold brocade with a floral pattern which conveniently mirrorred the cloverleaf-like filligreed pattern in the wood, while roughly matching (in colour) the original fabric still attached to the back of the instrument. Cost me all of two dollars, thirty cents; but I swear it's at least a fifty dollar difference should I ever sell the thing. Not 100% perfectly centered, but then it's all handicraft, right? Right. Does make a huge difference. The piano's gone in the half-hour it took me to thumbtack the new cloth into place from being "conversation piece at a cheesy dinner theatre" to being "conversation piece at any upscale antique store or music shop". Not to mention that I've got it polished to the point where you can see your reflectiion in it.

Running short on money now so I may be offline for a few days, which is good, since I'll be forced to eat something other that restaurant food. If so I guess I'll finally do laundry and polish the piano a few more times, so that I can actually use it instead of my bathroom mirror for my personal grooming, which might not be a bad thing. Eleven o'clock. Not going to drink tonight. Would like the company, but not that company, if you know what I mean. If you don't, skip it.

Three more days.

Plus fourteen.

Finally some randomness.

I should probably get over to the Manor today to check and make sure all the plants aren't drying out. I'm very sure they won't be, save maybe that one red petunia. Unfortunately Jim, my polite and easygoing landlord, came by with someone to bring the waterheater up to code -- the plumbers last year did a hack job -- and now I'm waiting for him to return. If I can't get over there by about four I'm better off waiting 'til tomorrow, as I don't want to be on the grounds when her Ladyship might be home. Not that I dislike her, indeed, she's quite pleasant, but my job is to keep the garden as perfect as possible as invisibly as possible as efficiently as possible. The plants'll be OK for 24 hours. Especially if this thunderstorm develops, in which case I'll definitely need to check it out tomorrow morning.

The grinding of windowframes out back is driving me batty. They have the area covered in plastic and the workers are moving around in moonsuits and booties. They shout to eachother through the cavernous spaces of that building and it echos. They seem to be stripping the three inch thick tar roof off that's stoopidly been placed over the concrete shelter. Goodness knows what nastiness I'm breathing in. Trucks still turn here. Birds still feed. I sure hope we don't have a nuclear war break out before they take the plywood off the shelter door. Otherwise I'd have to break in, and I'd really much rather not have to. The inconsiderateness of some people....

Scott McClellan differentiates between himself and "terrorists" as the difference between those who do, and those who do not, "need an excuse to incite violence". I do not stoop to say Mr. McClellan is inhuman. I will not even say he is a terrorist. But he is scarecely humane to be capable of inciting violence at all. That he boasts of his ability to do so indicates utter unrecalcitrance. This illustrates the difference between those for whom violence in any form is ever considered appropriate or acceptable behaviour. For some of us, it's not an option. Ever.

For what's hateful to you, do not do to another. No man is a brother who does not want for his brother what he wants for yourself. Yeah, you know, all that happy stuff.

Time for plan B. Time to let women do what men do. Time not to let men dictate women's behaviour. They're people too. Really. Definitely not a good idea to allow a rapist to dictate women's sexuality from a federal government small enough to fit into your small clothes.

Record sudden spring runoffs. UC regents vote 11-1 to keep running LANL. LM announced intent, UT seems just still in the running. PETA versus ClearChannel in front of Frontier, noon today. Griego strikes me as a plausibly good Mayor. Is he a serious candidate? I've seen him around town, behaving in a seemly manner. Sure, why not? Not like the person painted on the side of the cursed old building down in Nob Hill where the Kerry busses gathered. What was it built as, anyway -- a carpet shop? A car dealership? As a rule I don't solicit representation from lawyers on billboards, buy houses from realtors on bus benches, nor vote for politicians painted on the side of buildings. In fact I very rarely vote for candidates I don't at least see in person, usually once or twice. Griego's very serious. More serious about getting out there than I am about attending council meetings. He wants this office and he's going after it in person. It's not the kind of work a Mayor has to do to look good on a billboard, safe from questions from his electorate. (Though incidentally I think he's very cute and would do better at it than that other person, whatever his name is. Glad he grew his hair back.)

Can you tell when I've been listening to KUNM?

Just asked Ricardo, who from the conversation strikes me as Cuban, what he had the moon suit on for. He was delightfully nice. Only seemed to understand the words "Lead", "Asbestos", and "Cement". Only seemed to use the word "OK". He was brushing off the bunker. How terribly convenient. At any rate I offered him water if he wanted it. Glad to get that ugliness out from my kitchen window's view. I can feel the property values rising beneath me. Or maybe it's a deadly tumor.

Got to look in through some windows I hadn't been able to see through ever before today. Amazing old building. Amazing. More amazing every time I look at it. Did I mention it was amazing? It's amazing. I still can not figure out what it was built for. There's a name and date scrawled in a rectangle of what must have once been wet cement about the size and proportions of a human grave: "Bill 68". Hm! In other places the concrete maintains the imprint of the grain of the wood with which it was framed.

May go out tonight on my own for a drink or two. Literally. I can't afford any more. Would have to go to Foxes I'm so unkempt. Probably will skip it. Would rather enjoy my apartment for the hours that it's peaceful than spend its peaceful hours someplace else all hustle bustle, only to come home and have to try to sleep when all's actiivity. Yes my key repeat rate's tooo high. If I lower it the typing feels sluggish. Yes it took me a year working graveyard to figure that out. Referring to what I had said two sentences prior, that is. There are some things I prefer about this machine to my 1923 Princeton Royal. Think I'll skip it. Ten bucks I don't spend on two beers tonight is ten bucks I can eat with for two days if I need to later.

The invaluable internet.

How I've missed it. Funny how the first thing I do with it is research theatre organs, back in '96 or whenever, and now that I'm back after more than a year offline I start out again researching pianos and find some of the exact names coming up on my screen as back then, e.g., John A. Tuttle writing on the Mechanical Musical Digest, for instance.

The piano apparently dates to the 1870s. That's the decade I feel safest guesstimating that it hails from. That's the latest medal listed on the makers' plate (which is actually not a plate, but an elaborate handlettered, goldleafed panel). A british website with a javascript dates the serial number 10366 to "1860 or before", which strikes me as unlikely, if not entirely impossible. I think. Perhaps the soundboard and action is older than the case? Actually that might make sense, since Brinsmead offered a selection of cases and finishes &c., and it's possible that the piano's action was manufactured and stored prior to the cabinet being made to order. But why would anyone store a new piano for ten years before shipping? Just time for it to deteriorate, cost money to store and maintain, during which time it might even become obsolete; indeed the piano changed dramatically during that era. I'm shooting in the dark here, trying to make sense of a combination of factors including the serial number, the awards, the street address, and the sometimes contradictory things people say online. Where the street address is concerned, well, there were a bunch of addresses, and even though there's a picture of 18 Wigmore St. online, it's not entirely clear to me that that building, a showroom dating from 1890, was not built on the site of a previous showroom, warehouse, or factory.

I do believe it's older than any other Brinsmead piano I have seen discussed or pictured online. And yes I know the brits' attitude toward things that old is roughly "burn it". Thank god my piano's not in that dreadful place anymore, hell, it was probably that notorious English weather that cracked the soundboard. Same attitude I saw in France when buildings dating from the 1850s were described derisively as "modern". Thank goodness we're still young enough that we preserve things from that time. No one will ever make pianos like that again, and they're frail enough as it is.

Skipped going to the grocery store to get the cat rescue people's numbers by going to the pet store instead. Day otherwise uneventful, watered plants for an hour at the Manor, and had to keep out of the house as much as possible because the construction in the old building (lab? factory? who knows!?) behind my house is in a particularly obnoxious phase involving the shattering of hundreds of perfectly good old glass windowpanes and then grinding the windowframes down to the bare metal. For hours on end.

Three more days 'til delivery.

Another musical acquisition.

Holy god. I am a fool. But a fool with an excellent eye, it would seem.

Charles came by to pay me this morning, first time he'd been in my ratty little apartment, though it is filled with some reasonably nice things. I suppose I was feeling inadequate or something after that because I went out to the thrift stores, and then, heaven help me, worked my way up to the antique malls. Thought I saw him looking around with something of the same eye I know I get when I look around such places. A hunter's eye that says "dreadful, not bad, not bad, whatever could they have been thinking, that's really interesting but insanely overpriced, not bad, ahha! I've found it!" and swoops in for a swift and graceful kill before the find is snatched up by some worthless parasitic breeder faggot-watcher hanger-on. (You didn't think we noticed you, did you?) Perhaps I should explain that Charles' living quarters are literally filled to overflowing with treasures.

The longstanding joke about my doing this thrift store thing, since I bought the 1929 Kurtzmann player piano on Lankershim Blvd. in North Hollywood with my first paycheck (which definitely should have gone to rent), is that I'm going out to fall in love with a piano.

Today for the first time since 1999 I did exactly that. Not only did I fall in love with it, I bought it. Yep. I withdrew four hundred bucks from savings to buy a piano.

I'll be damned if it's not one of the most amazing pianos I've ever seen, incidentally -- and not just in the extremely narrow "not entirely out of my price range" category of pianos, either. It's a John Brinsmead & Sons -- not to be confused with John Brinsmead & Sons, Ltd. -- from 18 Wigmore St. in London, which according to the research I've done on the web probably dates it to the 1890s. Thomas and Edgar were the sons, incidentally.

Brinsmead pianos are quite rightly highly regarded. The most important English manufacturer of pianos by far, not more than a notch or two down the "prestige scale" from Bosendorfers since they seem to have been made more for home than concert hall use, at least so far as the uprights go. Didn't stop Gounod, Kubelick, and Saint-Saens from saying nice things about them; and what's good enough for them is good enough for me, I'm sure. Maybe on about a par with Pleyel. I didn't really know how old it was before I got online -- well after having paid for it (and really still don't know its exact vintage, since I forgot to write down the serial number), because the filligree work on the front is exquisite but of a style I generally associate loosely with the 1870s, whereas the scrollwork on the legs and such just barely screams out Art Nouveau. Burr walnut -- yes, the expensive wood, even back in the 1890s. Wooden pedals. Straightstrung. Original porcelain casters. Quite possibly one-of-a-kind, custom designed. (Not that I'd be a biit disappointed to find it illlustrated in a catalogue.) Incredible woodwork. Symmetrical veneer work over the front keyboard cover that would make Mr. Stradivari of Cremona stop and take a second look. A cracked soundboard and a good sized bunch of keys that don't work, but for four hundred bucks, man, you get what you pay for. I got what I paid for and then some. (What am I gonna do, say "nah man I can get a Casio electronic keyboard for less down at walmart"? I don't think so.)

Original ivory keys, of course, clearly worn not by abuse but by use. Not modern by a long shot, the handmade keys -- all 85 of them -- are even of sufficiently different shape and proportion from those of a modern piano that I doubt I could just sit down and play it, even if everything did work flawlessly. These things are extremely collectible. I knew when I bought it exactly what its problems were and I still know it's an exquisite instrutment and probably not a bad investment. I'm not replacing anything on it, ever. If any of the delicate trim falls off I'm keepng it secure inside the piano itself. The keyboard cover flips up, then the music stand folds out from underneath it, then there are two little filligreed shelves there to hold candlesticks. Exquisite, exquisite, exquisite.

The irony, of course, is that for about as much money -- no, wait, actually about half again as much -- I could have gotten a pretty good brand new digital camera to take pictures of such interesting things. But then new stuff is generally junk thanks to built-in obsolescense. Though to be fair, this piano, even assuming it could be properly restored to playing order using period materials and methods, could likely never withstand having Rachmaninoff played on it. It's so diminutive, so frail, yet so paradoxically solid, as things from that era so often are. Every single detail, every screw, is handmade to the highest standards of an era before linework assembly made the very fact of piecework craftsmanship manufacture itself "special", regardless of the quality of materials, skill, or attention to detail embodied therein. Much as I'd love to take pictures of some of the stuff I find around Albuquerque, nothing made of plastic that rolls off a contemporary assembly line in China or Hong Kong is worth four hundred dollars to me -- more than a month's rent -- at this moment. How these treasures wind up in the desert Southwest I can't begin to imagine. But somehow it does, and sometimes my timing is impeccable and my eye is sharp and my instincts are good and -- I buy a piano. In this case not even a playable one. That's a huge leap of faith right there (heaven help me if I ever have to move), but this thing is worth far more than I paid for it just as furniture. I'd really love to get it in the hands of someone who could get it back into playing shape, though only if without sacrificing one iota of its historicity, and keep it like it should be kept: protected, protected, protected.

Since "errors were encountered" while trying to post this from Flying Star I brought it home.

Since returning home I have also acquired two additional kittens.

I won't go into details on that. Suffice it to say one kitten's OK, I can sort of hide him from the landlord and scrape by until I can deliver him to my mother as a sort of present. Two is a stretch, since I have to find a home for the second cat, too. Three is quite simply too many. Four is utterly absurd. And where kittens are concerned, I'm now firmly entrenched in the realm of the absurd.

Kitten 3 -- I've changed my system; now I'm numbering kittens and lettering cats since if this trend keeps up I'll soon have more kittens than the alphabet has letters -- is an orange and white tabby in good enough, if not quite perfect, health. Kitten 4 is the ugliest cat I've ever seen. He's malnourished and has major eye troubles. First thing tomorrow I'm going to buck up and head into the grocery store where I used to work in order to talk to the lady at the information desk who long ago gave me the numbers of every cat rescue organisation in town, before I lost it, in the days before I started feeding the ferals. I still wouldn't spay or neuter any cat of my own, but at this point I sure wouldn't begrudge anyone else doing it to their cats, even though it still strikes me as grossly unethical for me to do it myself.

I'm going to bed now. It's been a very long day and I'm tired.

An utterly exhausting day.

Got a late start, neither Charles nor myself had our heads on correctly this morning and so we kept running back and forth to get things we normally leave the house with. A wrong turn on the way to Plant World set Charles even more on edge than he had been before. Then to Sissy's, and there are two cop cars parked about half a block away; we never did find out what that was all about. Finally in to Sissy's -- Charles goes in to fax a bill to the owners of the McMansion and it doesn't go through, making it necessary for him to go out there across town in person later in the day. Sissy comes in and she and Charles talk while I check the plants in the pots to make sure they've been properly watered. This time they have been so there's not much more for me to do there besides sit outside like a pageboy waiting on Charles. Fine with me, I love that garden, so does he, so does Sissy, and it really, really shows. Winds up the owner of McMansion, so goes the gossip, was disbarred for shoplifting. This very prominent lawyer in the state, who's married to another far more prominent lawyer. Good thing I'm not telling you anything that might make it possible for you to figure out who she is because then I'd be gossipping. Not to mention I might get slightly sued. Charles loves gossip. Too bad she still owes Charles and me money. Oh well. Good thing I'm not the one to have to go traipsing across town and try to get it out of her. Then again, maybe it'll be a bargaining chip for Charles to know this. Assuming it's actually true, of course.

Then to the Manor where I spoke briefly with the Lady of the house about the house, it was indeed modeled on a Trost original two blocks from where I now live, which is now a sleazy old run down motel I'd wondered about, since the old wall at the edge of the property remains, making it clear that once stood here a magnificent home. Exhausting day, of sorts. Still beats making tortillas, but working in the sun does take it out of you pretty quick. The good thing is you feel like a human being when the day is done and are free to sleep when Albuquerque sleeps. Luckily it clouded over and cooled down, and even though we got a late start, thought to start with the stuff that wouldn't be in the shade and work toward what would. I pulled out the pansies and violas, many hundreds more, so that finally after a good solid week's work there's not a single viola or pansy on the terrace. Charles did the stagings and I went behind him and planted. The balustrade pots having been done last week, today we concentrated on the big planters flanking each portico. Last year it was all pinks and silver, this year it's all light yellow and pink and -- because Plant World was out of burgundy petunias, plain old red and purple. Oh well. It's still stunning. The architect who based this structure on the Trost plans even complimented him through the Lord of the Manor, who came out specifically to give his good word.

So I'm sitting here type type typing away at my favourite table in the place, the one in the out of the way corner overlooking the big dining room from final curve of the streamline moderne mezeannine into the wall and who's sitting in front of me drawing but Christoph Knerr. He gets up sees me and it is indeed him, as I'd suspected when I saw him hunched over concentrating on his work. Thank goodness for me he's freindly, not secretive like me sitting perched in this little observer's corner where no one will peer over my shoulder like I peer over theirs only to see glowing luminescence, suspecting they're writing about me. We talk a bit about work, about what's happened at the grocery store where he still works and in my life since I stopped working there myself. I've always respected him as a human being, and admired his work. He gives me a copy of his latest free comic. He does amazing work. Really captures Albuquerque, what some of its most special places look and feel like, how people behave. He is a very keen observer.

Wow. I just spent an hour reading the comic. Had to enter my password and everything to get out of sleep mode. Wish I could write half as well as he draws. Well until I can I'll just keep practicing here. OK? OK.

What else? Oh yeah, I titled this piece an utterly exhausting day because it was. But after that I swear I feel refreshed. Came here initially because Harold's home next door, and drunk, and there's family drama there that I don't want to get sucked into via the "if I give him a ride clear across town maybe the neighbours won't call the police again, whereas if I don't then they certainly will, and he'll definitely get detained and maybe hauled off to jail and then I'll have to provide the best advice I can under the circumstances resulting in more trouble, trouble, trouble" route. Besides which Leroy has a car now, and good for him, he's earned it, and if anyone should give Harold a ride, why not let them figure it out on their own? Best way sometimes to not interfere is simply not to be there.

Man I wish I had the internet at home. I do love coming here but it runs into serious money. Not that I don't have to eat, but I really would like to cook for myself. Do the fruits and vegetables thing, besides. Still need to drive less and do laundry. What can I say we all scrape along about as well as we can and those of us lucky enough to enjoy life regardless. Albuquerque is my playground, to this very day. The way I play the game has changed a bit but still I play. I love this town. It's all there. So diiverse. Economically, racially, culturally, you name it. I come here and pretend to be a pretentious Studio City type yuppie with my little glowing laptop just as easily as I stumble exhausted into Stufy's to get the cheapest stuffed sopaipilla on the menu pretending to be an honest working person.

Just lost another bunch of writing. Several paragraphs. Good ones. Really good. As in, inspired as you can only be after having noodled around a long time without having said anything of consequence whatever. Man, I tell you, I'm gonna go back to using the typewriter. That I'm sure will last just as long as I can go without communicating with my Associate Employee Contemporaries. Or until I want to write something out in Chinese without scrawling the brushstrokes ineptly.

I'm going home now to read "Technics and Civilization".

Sunday night.

I've been cheating, writing out my entries in plain text and posting them when I have the chance to come here. One of the coooks just hurt himself rather badly. Glad I'm not doing that dangerous work anymore.

Never made it to Foxes, we stopped at the Ranch and true to form not wanting to fit in anywhere what do I order but martinis. They were actuallly rather good, and by the time the evening was over I'd had a good three or four -- you can't nurse a martini, you have to drink it fast, but always want something close at hand to fidget with, and don't want to mix gin with anything nursable -- so Charles insisted not that I not drive, but that he'd take Saferide home, the City's program that pays for taxis for drunks on nights like last night, full moon night, all of that. Of course I go with him rather than drive. I owe him.

Riding the bus all the way out to the Ranch this morning to get my car was extremely unpleasant. Very crowded. Diseased little children coughing. The sorts of people who eat in restaurants like the one I used to work in. No, I think it's better by far to avoid having to take Saferide. Next time I'll go later.

What other excitement in my life today? The cats of course. Cleaned the refrigerator -- finally! Watered to keep cool. Then came in here to keep cool. It's gonna get much hotter.

21 May MMV

So I didn't go to Flying Star this morning. Went straight to work at the Manor after drinking a couple of Red Bulls. Rode with Charles in his '72 Mercedes. It's quite impossible to ride in that thing without feeliing like a king. I could get very used to it. It's an incredible car.

Not a bad day but a tiring one. Got up around 95ish and was working in the sun a good portion of it, tearing out the pansies and violas around the fountain, which stands in the middle of the circular driveway, in front of the house's front door, at the end of the long gravel driveway. The fountain guy was there to get it running while I was working and it's now absolutely stunning. Did much the same to the limestone planters on the south and north terraces. Then to Sonic to eat -- I swear, it was dog food -- and Charles' car wouldn't start. Figuring out the air conditioning in that vehicle is insane, it's sort of like the drawbars on a Hammond. Finally to a house in the gated kuh-mewn-it-tee on Tanoan Country Club, up in the Northeast heights, near the Sandias. Coming around the bend I make a snide remark about one particularly grotesque house that looked like an office park transplant; winds up that's where we're working. The lady of the house is a delight. The garden's about as nice as it can be, given the extant inept architecture. That's all I care about. Charles was heatstroked and exhausted and I'm a bit tired myself, but we're likely going out for a couple of drinks later on this evening. I'll be driving since I'm the one who seems most capable of drinking not too much. Where we'll go I don't know but we'll probably wind up at Foxes. That place is an institution.

20 May MMV

1h58am and I have a new cat.

Mother or someone left him right outside my bedroom window maybe an hour ago. Whined and whined. Was screaming. Hissing at the hand that held him but wouldn't let go with what for a kitten that small must only be described as a life or death grip. Boy, is he gonna need socializing. Already have two in the house. The white and black kitten and the black and white cat who's recovering from the trauma of a fight earlier underneath my car, possibly with the mother of one or both of the kittens, more likely with the territorial orange tabby who may be the new kitten's father. As he was bleeding and moxibustion wasn't applicable, I peroxided his wounds, as per longstanding tradition.

When I finally went out to stop the noise someone I think had called the cops because of it. They cruised by right in front right then, at any rate. The lady from next door was out already in her dressing gown and curlers but couldn't find him. I found him, brought him in, and finally the crying's stopped. But everytime he'd hiss at my hand I had to do the firm but gentle "I'm way more unimaginibly powerful than you are" thing which I hate to ever have to do. Finally put him under the running tap in the kitchen sink and wrapped him in a cup towel. He's now in my bed, all tense I'm sure, and I now have a headache I'm tempted to call a migraine.

He's tortoiseshell -- white, black, and orange. Why do orange cats hiss? Damned if I know, but I hope it's not genetics and can be trained out of him enough that he will get along. We'll see soon enough, because I've got to sleep.

===

Today after work I head down Coal to get a couple of beers at Jubilation. Yep. I'm down to drinking one or two a night, one night a week. Not bad. Drinking better, not more seems to be the policy for me to follow. I'm sure the Kudzu helped. Lots of good beers underpriced and all. Unlike oh say the housing market. If current trends hold by the time I need to buy a house I should be able to pick up the Manor itself for a few grand. After the glorious revolution, perhaps. ;)

Driving East on Coal tonight, into the sun, what do I see but two -- pardon me, I honestly don't know how else to tell my other readers (and yes, I dare presume to have them) that there's anything notably different about you from the normative population -- midgets on a custom Harley-Davidson built to size. Mind you, as a rule I despise those machines. But man, what a beautiful sight: just imagine that, all their lives they must have been told riding a motorcycle was something they just couldn't do, a fact they just had to accept, yet there they are, with the only motorcycle I've seen to date that actually gave me some real feeling (besides a rentier's repulsion) for that bizarre passion which seems to grip otherwise intelligent human beings. Must be like riding a bicycle, but with gas, speed, and noise, or something.

So the new kitten's clearly a problem cat, right? Maybe not. Went to work today, same as always and left him. Left lots of food out -- wet, dry, and plenty of water. The white and black kitten (Kitten A) becomes fat while I'm gone. The tortoiseshell tricolor kitten (Kitten B) is gaunt. Not really walking very well, for how old he must be. Not enjoying life to anything even remotely approaching its full potential. Not pleased with being held. Grasping yet preferring to be left alone to being handled. Slightly crazed. Hissy, hissy, hissy. Good thing for me he's small. He slept on my chest last night, which seems to be the first night rite of passage for new kittens in my life. Right underneath my face, where he could feel my breath and all of that.

Yes, dopey blog red flag number one: "this guy's talking about his cats". I also have ten gazillion garden gnomes in the yard around my trailer, chatting it up with the pink flamingos if you choose to believe it.

Anyway -- winds up I have to feed this new kitten by hand. Long ago threw away the plastic baby bottle I got for the last cat knowing I'd never get the damn thing sterilized, since I sterilize by heat and not with chlorine, which kills everything, including the lichens from which new soils evolve. Instead this time around I'm using an eyedropper. Yes. I am feeding this kitten KMR formula from a glass eyedropper to keep it alive. No, not as we speak. As I type, damn it, you know what I mean. Pardon the beer, but it makes me curse, damn it.

Good thing I got the biig container of KMR.

Yes, biig.

This is the plausible hypothesis I propose to explain last night's strange feline occurrences. Fact 1: I rescued Kitten A twice, first from a drainpipe over the fallout shelter out back, then from a freakishly fiendish spring hailstorm. Fact 2: black and white cat (I'll call him Cat A, for clarity), who was always the most freindly of the ferals, sort of took Kitten A under his wing, as it were, teaching him the finer points of being a cat which I, despite my very best intentions, can nowhere near approximate. (Use your imagination, please.) Fact 3: of late, Kitten A's mother (who shall hereinunder be referred to for expediency's sake as Cat B) has visited me every night to look around my apartment, partaking of the readily available cat food. Hypothesis: Cat B, mother of both Kittens A & B in the same littler has recently run out of milk and decided to put up Kitten B, a very late weaner, for adoption by me, as it were, on having seen Kitten A thriving under the combination of my constant care and the admirably feline tutelage of Cat A.

I can only imagine what they think of all this.

I would love to go out now to supper so I can post this but heh heh that's unlikely as (A) due to extremely poor financial planning on my part the transition from "steady paycheck" to "paid when it happens" leaves me slightly strapped of cash momentarily and (B) Kitten B will likely need feeding again any minute now, entirely regardless of fiduciary irresponsibility on my part.

I am hungry as I write this, but as I have a banana and peanut butter in the house I shall not starve, unlike kitten B who likely will if I don't fill him up shortly with KMR. Likelier than not I shall post this tomorrow morning at breakfast than now. It's now eleven; if I left this very instant, by the time I got to the internet cafe place it'd be eleven-ten; by the time I got my food, it should be eleven-seventeen, leaving me a grand total thirteen minutes to enjoy my nearly perfect food and navigate the postmodernistic complexities of internet communications. No, thank you, pardon me, I think I shall send this tomorrow. A morning post, unthinkable though that may be to those who know me.

Today's the 61st anniversary of the theatrical release of Mr. Clampett's brilliant "Russian Rhapsody". How odd. I never thought I'd live to see the luxury of celebrating its 60th anniversary a day late. Thus do I date myself: I'm getting old.

Morning.

Morning. Almost ten. Waiting on phone call. Came to eat breakfast. What a concept: eating breakfast at 9 in the morning rather than 9 at night. Feels downright civilized, almost.

Long day ahead. Going back out to McMansion to water in plants so they'll live through the big party. Going to the place I guess I'll simply call "the Manor" to plant a bunch of flats. The Manor gardens get maintained quite well, unlike the McMansion's. Of course the banker's family living in the Manor actually live there, in a manner of speaking; the McMansion owners (lawyers) practically don't, using their big property with the gorgeous views of the Sandias as what I'd call a trophy house. The place is mostly cement and grass. Of course Bill's done some great work making nice private garden spaces out of the old fields, and Charles goes in and makes it just about as beautiful as anybody can on such short notice. But really there's not much that you can do when the owners don't water, or at least have people to do the watering, and there's no chance of it developing over years into the showcase garden that it could and should be.

The Manor is the total opposite. A stunning house on a stunning property with old growth cottonwoods providing shade from the high desert sun. Replica actually -- and a damn good one, I might add -- of the family's old house in town, a real Gatsby deal, which was torn down in the fifties to put in a parking lot, or something like that. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the original were a Trost. White limestone, of the "be sure to wash your footprints off the South Portico" variety. Formal and informal gardens both. I put on my white gloves, my straw hat, and feel like the lord of the Manor pulling weeds, cutting bulbs back, walking the Santa Fe brown gravel driveway from the front gate to the big house and back.

Got to go.

No time to write.

Got out of house late and stuck on voter action website so no time to write today. Was an OK day but tiring -- very hot and dry and windy. Am coming in to Flying Star late to encourage their staying open later. Sitting upstairs in the "magazine rack of the Starship Enterprise" section today. Hard to take this kind of decor terribly seriously but still pleasant enough. Worked on a McMansion whose owner's having a big pool party in three days so jammed in a bunch of things into pots about ready to bloom knowing they won't get watered after we leave and will die within a couple of weeks. 18 minutes to close, great. So either I stop writing now or else go on to spend the next eighteen minutes bemoaning the passage of time. Seventeen minutes now. What can I say in seventeen minutes? Uh, how about "I'm sleepy and a little heatlooped". Sixteen minutes now. A full minute for a really dopey sentence? That does it. I'm getting out now while I still have some semblance of dignity. What else? House is hot. Must water out front twice or three times a day but still prefer to a swamp cooler.

Ready to go back to work.

It's been a good three days but I'm ready to go back to work. Need to spend a few hours in the dirt and get my pay. Cash reserves running low. Heh heh! First time doing this kind of work and part of me still expects to see a paycheck in the bank two weeks from now, but that ain't gonna happen. May not be going online as often next week since I've got to conserve my money until I know how much I can expect to have come in on any given week. Though since I don't work in a restaurant anymore, I need to make a point of eating.

Flew the kite again today, got it a good 40+ plus feet out and up. Still want to get it up over the rooftops. It's a sight. Haven't had really any strong sustained winds, even.

Enough for now.

Today, something different.

No gardening today. Though Charles and Sissy are out on the town tonight and I'm sort of invited; but I'd be a drag and I know it. Besides which I couldn't be here if I were out with them getting thoroughly soused, ruining my stomach and kidneys and smoking cigarettes until brown in the face. I'd rather sit and bathe in the warm coloured lights of this wonderful, wonderful place.

Today I spent a couple of goood hours with CARD at the Unitarian Universalist place on Carlisle and Comanche, learning what's going on with the NRC permitting of a proposed new ultracentrifuge Uranium enrichment facility in Eunice. Apparently LES/URENCO, the British/Dutch/German consortium behind the proposal, has more than once leaked critical nuclear technology, thanks to which Pakistan now has the bomb. Already emailed a Texas group about it, though they probably already know. Because Eunice is right near the state line, of course.

The whole idea's incredibly dumb. Like we couldn't downblend extant weapons grade Uranium to make the 2.7-3% concentration required for power plants, presuming their existence to be a good idea in the first place. Why target yet another poor rural community in the Southwest? Environmental Racism, anyone? The mayor's reported to have said that without the plant Eunice is doomed to extinction. Extinction sounds like a cakewalk compared to having this facility, which no one needs, polluting groundwater in both the Ogalalla and Santa Rosa Aquifers. Never mind that WIPP can not accept the wastes, thus all but ensuring that WCS in Andrews County gets yet another lucrative contract for near surface disposition of the depleted uranium wastes. But there you have it.

After that I flew the Chinese butterfly kite out in front of my house. Why not? It was sort of windy. Actually it was super-windy. Then there was thunder and lightning all around, at close range to the southeast, without a drop of rain on me. Then five minutes later all is calm and the sky the most beautiful blue. Then it clouds over and I fly my kite. All this in the space of under half an hour. I need to make some bridle adjustments, since she veers sharp to the right. Gonna get another this one flies so amazingly well -- just in case of disaster. Mr Guo has my compliments on his exquisite craftsmanship, skill, and artistry with bamboo and felt. Got her out on a good 8 or 9 foot line though at one point, though she didn't lift far, there was so little wind. Not bad for an "ugly" parking lot where used to stand the Wimpy Burger. If I had air conditioning and/or TV I'd never go out front to fly a kite. The neighbours were apparently spellbound, as though the idea had never occurred to them to fly a kite there. I wonder myself why I haven't done it every time it gets windy.

Getting ready to close up shop so I should finish this and that and whatnot and go home. May call Charles, since even if I do go out at this point there's not much damage I can do so close to last call, which is fine with me. Besides which after a year feeding drunks -- "hungry freaks", Mr. Zappa called them -- I don't want to be one of them.

Later.

Testing: One, Two, Three.

So what possesses me to start this thing today exactly I don't know. Anyhow, here I am, and no less foolhardy enough to allow comment from the likes of you, the reader.

I like the interface. I wonder what this'll wind up looking like on the webpage, but don't really have time to go into making it all perfect typographically and such. I'm at the Flying Star in the old Southern Union Gas building downtown and they close in about an hour and twenty minutes.

Ouch. I just lost the most wonderful description of my day. This is why I like old typewriters, like my Princeton Royal: built 1923, still types *perfectly*. Maybe you can't backspace, but you won't lose a couple of really good paragraphs for accidentally hitting the trackpad. Serves me right for starting this enterprise on Friday, 13 May, 2005(C.E.). Yes I'm a nightmare to spelling and grammarcheck programs. I don't use them. I make the language my own.

Anyhow: the highlight of the day was driving two five foot tall, seven-gallon Japanese Maples in the "waterfall" style back to Sissy's from Plant World. Charles naturally couldn't carry them as the Mercedes was full of flats and potting soil. The one in the front seat stuck up through the sunroof, and I couldn't see out the inside rearview mirror. I was covered in foliage, peering out as I drove. Naturally I went 25mph all the way. Wore my new white kid gloves to pot those. Yesterday was fantastic: a strange autumnal day in may, raking in leaves at Los Arboles. Two truckloads of them. Then pulling little elms from the informal Asian styled garden at the West side of the house.

Trackpads open up all sorts of new possibilities for interesting typographical errors. "Tap", and suddenly you're continuing your sentence three paragraphs up, in the midst of some completely different sentence. Not complaining, mind you. I wouldn't want to even try typing in Chinese without it. As it is I'm learning the Kangxi Radicals and can put together little phrases on the Chinese equivalent of the order of "see dick run". Actually I can pretty well describe some very real things, like who I am and what I do and what colour my tongue fur is. But since I don't know how to import Chinese ideographs into the blog (yet!), you'll just have to wait on my backstory as it unfolds over time.

And I'd be thrilled to give you the backstory but I wouldn't know how far back to go. I'm not a samurai and don't read off ancestral names when riding into battle. Besides, whose names would I use? I change my heritages on a whim. Life stories, too, to some degree. At any rate, this thing's about the present day, not years ago experiences.

I'm too full of water and must use the bathroom, but here's a new problem: what to do with the computer? This is strange. What a dilemma. Tell me this isn't the wealthiest place on earth. How many people would *love* to have just this crisis to deal with?

Tomorrow may work or may go to a meeting about the proposed new Uranium enrichment facility near Eunice. Probably will do the latter. I worked three hours today, seven the day before that, and man I sure could use a break from cutting tulips, daffodils, and potting agapanthus in gardens destined for the pages of Architectural Digest. Yeah, life's hard.

I found the bathroom. It's just past the outdoor upstairs patio, in magazines, behind the mezannine. I love this place and don't frankly care if it's free advertising or not. Depending whether tomorrow's interesting or not I may return. I will, in time, at any rate.

It's getting near close. ("close" + "mezannine" = "mezoseannine", btw) Wonder if I have the courage to open up that dreadful free web-based email program which shall go without naming. We'll see. Until later -- be well