HECK DIDN'T FREAK OVER

Yesterday was the twenty-third San Francisco Aidswalk. Like all previous years, I spent the morning sleeping, lazing about, smoking, noshing, and taking a glorious long hot bath.
While other people sweated, and strained their muscles, and slogged painfully for a very good cause, I luxuriated and self-indulged. Snored.

You see, Savage Kitten and I have this wonderful tradition that started when I still worked at the restaurant. Since I would have gone to bed late the night before, I would pay her to do the walk. I haven't worked at the restaurant in years, but we never altered this routine.
Heck will freak over before I get up that early on a Sunday.

[Actually, Heck sort of freaked over six weeks ago, when I got up at an unHashemish hour in preparation for Israel in the Gardens, and kinda freaked a second time three weeks ago when I participated in the Pride Parade as part of the great big Jewish contingent that included too diverse a spectrum. But never mind. Tradition is tradition. I do not wake up for the Aidswalk. ]


So, having done my good deed for the day (by writing a biggish cheque the night before), I rested the rest of the just.
Simply lay there twitching most of the time.

Several different pipe tobaccos. Cigars. A noodly dish for breakfast. Coffee. Tea. Fruitjuices. Azumanga Daioh. Books. Dictionaries.
Scratched. Toe-twiddled. Stretched. Yawned.



THE HEARTFELT SORROW OF THE CHICKENS

I was making a spicy lamb curry (ground coriander seeds, turmeric, cumin, galangal, nutmeg, pepper, onion, garlic, ginger, chilies, coconut milk, lime juice, fish paste, fish sauce, tomato, lemon grass, etcetera) when she returned in late afternoon, carrying a bucket of fried chicken. A humongous family-size bucket - evidence of mass murder and lamentation in the hen house.
Very very sad - if you're a chicken.

As it turns out, women who do the Aidswalk are precisely like women going into their menstrual period. They are drained, tired, sweaty, limp, and they need enough fried chicken to feed a small city. The only difference is that they do not require the large tub of ranch dressing after walking. That they will need later, during that special time of month (it's a blessing). Fried chicken (and ranch dressing) are somekind of karmic equivalent. Of essential importance.


Lamb curry is mere icing on a cake.


She ate. And ate. And fell asleep.


I stayed up reading poetry, mostly Tu Fu. Whose oevre is nearly impossible to translate well, so I will not even try. Besides, right now I cannot think as clearly and cogently as that task would require - I'm slightly hung-over from emulating Li Po last night while reading Tu Fu till three in the morning...... drank a bit too much Bourbon.

Both of us had the Sunday we wanted.

I should've had more of that lamb curry, though.

I did not need so much fried chicken - I am the least likely person to either have a period, or actually do anything that drains me as much - heck will indeed have freaked over first.