Two down.

Two weeks. Fourteen more to go. [slash!]

It's nearly midnight. In my living-room, my roommate's mother reposes in a profound state of unconsciousness, and, if I may be frank, she's snoring like a harelipped interstate trucker following his bleary-eyed all-nighter, a gorge-producing bender and a visit with one of the truck-stop enchantresses. I mean, in no way, to imply that she is or does any of those things: she collects angels and prays before meals and brings us things we need, like dishtowels and cutting boards. I have noticed, though, that she steers clear of my room and my bathroom. Could it be fear of the hundreds of writhing arms from my Hindu statuary contingent? Might it be that the dozens of Buddhae do not turn the corners of her mouth with depictions of their merriment/ bliss? Or maybe it's the five-foot long red flag with a crescent and a star on it that hangs on my wall above my desk?

I can't turn the anthro off any more that Alex Trebec can stop overpronouncing every French word on Jeopardy!. I've bought objects hewn from animal parts from people with visible body parasites. I'll eschew any large U.S. city's major attractions to spend days and days poking around Chinatown. I did fieldwork with people who carry daggers on their persons all day, every day. Yes, even in the shower. This leads to awkwardness whenever I am in a social situation where strangers I have no desire/need to meet are present. In my [warped?] mind I am building their life story from birth onward, and, let me say, none of my people lead happy lives.

Last night whilst supping at the local Dublin-esque pub-- the Irish Lion--with Keith, I couldn't help but notice the two men sitting next to us. What struck me was their age disparity. They seemed to be holding an animated conversation, in a free, easy way, and yet one of the men was a twentysomething and the other was nearing eight-hundredsomething. As I gently spooned my coddle stew (in a breadbowl!) into my mouth, I listened when I could to snippets of their conversation. {stalker!} In the end, they stood up and began to say goodbye. The old man then said to the twentysomething, "Won't your friends be surprised when you tell them you had dinner with a priest?"

(CHILDHOOD FLASHBACKS!)

Well, of course, insert "nun" for "priest." I used to be friends with the nuns from the convent across the street. I'd walk with them around town, go to the store with them, go to lunch with them...

*my GOD! it's my root!*

How is it that I haven't imploded with the weight of my weirdness yet?

The other night at Olive Garden (where I met delightful Life in the Corn readers Julie and Anna) I did it too. No, not with Julie and Anna; there was a strange, ghetto family sitting behind us who just didn't seem to know what to do, or how to act, in a place such as Olive Garden. Two forks? A menu that isn't up on a ceiling? Foreign words? Wine? They didn't seem into it. They pushed their salad and breadsticks around; when the entrees came (spaghetti for all), they looked at it as I might examine freshly slaughtered roadkill. Chunks in the sauce? Cooked noodles? SPICES? It was too much. They had all three boxed up and they left, weary from the effort and bewildered. I was, of course, at the time eating something called "chocolate lasagna." Damn. What must it be like to have never eaten candy-coated insects? To have never gotten a bagel and lox in a Hassidic deli in New York City? To have not been awakened at 6 AM by turbaned people wearing swords who bade you eat curry and fried donuts? To have never marked an octopus in a dank little tank for death in an Aegean Sea restaurant and listened as the cook beat the creature to death on a flat stone? (Olive oil, garlic, rosemary... that eight-legged freak was effing tasty). To have never eaten tiramisu while the sun sets over the Pantheon in Rome? To have never smelled braizing lamb while gazing upon the Parthenon-crowned Acropolis?

Hunger. That's what I've done to myself. I deserve it!

Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow night. Looks like a long, relaxing weekend ahead, but one bereft of the snuggly AND the roommate. One of those things makes me weepy. The other... well, uh... apartment! to myself! all weekend! SCORE!

> :-)

Have a good night, Bloomington.

Dom