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You're reading an old entry from Michelle "Lexi Kahn" DiPoala's online diary, formerly called Jungle Sweet Jungle. Blog name changed to Low Budget Superhero in October 2005. Now I mostly go by SuperLowBudge. You can call me Lexi, Michelle or SuperLowBudge, or if you're my mom, then Shelly. Enjoy these old posts (except if you're my mom.) Please follow on Blogger at superlowbudge.blogspot.com. From there you can follow me on Twitter and some other platforms. Thanks!
Headless Torsos Brighten My Day
(July 21, 2001)
It's like I don't know what to do with myself if I wake up at 9:00 on a Saturday. I mean, I have a million things to do. But usually I wake up at, like, 2:00 on a Saturday. Then I moan and wail about my stupidity for what I did last night, whatever made me sleep so late, seeing as how I have so much to do and should've planned to get started early.
It's 11:00 now and I've been playing with the "link of the week" background color for two hours.
I have to get out of the house. Kenne Highland's ex-wife is having a tag sale. I think I'll walk over. The ArtBeat festival is going on over in Davis, too. I could go to that. But THEN I HAVE to come back and get working...three live reviews left, FOUR CDs (oh lord), a crossword puzzle, and something historic for the twentieth anniversary of The Noise. Oh yeah...and a 2000 word story.
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Ten Minutes Later
When I walked out the door, Hub was making coffee. Mmmm, coffee. On the doorstep I found a package for Hub, so I went back in and gave it to him.
At the Highland's tag sale, there's a guy right out of On The Road. He won't stop talking to Linda, though she's busy trying to talk to other people who want to buy up her crap. Impossible to tell his age because of the grime and mania on his face. His eyes-- which I accidentally look into-- are loosey-goosey, darting and blinking. He's third-world thin, a pair of too-big work pants hanging around his hips. Oblivious to today's 70 degrees & sunny, a thick, raggy wool sweater swallows the rest of him. A beat-up leather bag and the world's oldest moccasins round out the ensemble. He smells like feet and ass.
Growling on a waft of rancid breath, "So could I come back in a couple of days for your cat?" Good lord, I think he's talking to ME. I don't look up to check, pretending instead to be real interested in a chipped Niagra Falls commemorative plate. Everything smells like smoke and has a layer of time on it. (The time was all over my hands, but it washed right off). I got a Better Homes and Gardens Cajun cookbook, an African poetry book, and this:
Back home, crazy music is coming out of my doorway. The package? Turns out it had contained Hub's half.com find, Jean Michel Jarre's "Zoolook" CD.
"This song is sampling all different languages," Hub tells me when I get inside with my treasures. "It's freaking Casey out--" He snarfs coffee just then, catching sight of the dusty thing I brought into our home.
"What the hell is THAT."
What indeed. I think I'll name it Poe.
. . . . .