It’s cold again, and that means a slow, painful layering process before leaving the house, hot showers every chance I get, and a nagging germ-cloud that is following me around like the devil. For a week I’ve avoided meetings or shows because I’ll instantly be tagged: The Cougher.
I finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and wanted something new to fill the soul, so I headed to my local Big Box Bookstore during the First Real Snow and picked out Stranger Than Fiction, by Chuck Palahniuk. One: I can never remember how to spell his last name. Two: He writes for the ear, which is good for me right now, at a time when I’m hugging the spoken performance close to my chest but am also unwilling to give up on writing texty things, things that live in print.
On the way home, I walked up Broadway Ave. , through the little China/Vietnam/Thaitown and up outside a nail salon was a little Asian kid (maybe 6 or 7?), doing what looked like a mad version of Dance Dance Revolution in the middle of the sidewalk alone. But really he was catching snowflakes, grabbing them furiously out of the air, spinning and grabbing and licking his palm with a huge smile on his face like the sky was raining M&Ms or something.