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Saturday, Aug. 21, 2004 - 7:59 p.m.

What It Takes To Get Me to Write an Entry

Usually I record events after they happen. Not this time. I am sitting on the screened porch in the backyard right now with my laptop, and I am likely to remain here for a while.

L’s other band is playing a show tonight with a very early sound check. About fifteen minutes ago he loaded up his gear, stepped out to the porch to say goodbye, and then drove off. A few minutes later, I got up to head inside to pee and shower…and the door was locked. All the doors are locked. Also, I am wearing a skimpy nightgown/chemise thing because I went swimming earlier and never got fully dressed again. I felt rather silly prancing around to the front door to check the lock.

We’ve meant for the last few weeks to hide a key somewhere out here, but have not yet gotten around to it. The cat door is very small, and the windows are all locked from the inside. So I am stuck outside with nothing but a laptop, the cat, some empty beer cans, today’s newspaper, and a shed full of tools.

L plans to come home after sound check and before the show, but sometimes sound checks can run long, and there’s certainly a chance he’ll call to say he’s just going to eat near the venue. I will hear the phone ringing and him asking me to head down to join him, but there will be nothing I can do about it. So, if you live here in Columbia and are planning to go to the show tonight, can you please mention to L that I am not dead but merely stuck on the back porch?

I just peed in a corner of the yard.

I would not perish were I to spend the night out here. There are cucumbers, eggplants, lemongrass, and basil in the garden. There is a hose from which I can get water. I could wrap myself in the rug to ward off the night chill. I even have cigarettes, five of them. There is, however, no beer.

Now you get links, because what do I have to do besides look at the internet?

My Neighbors Are Hoors. Read it all, from the beginning.

I am old. Why? Because I had to do an extensive web search yesterday to find out the meaning and connotations of the phrase “my baby’s daddy.” I heard it for the first time last week at work, and then Brent used it in a comic, so I had to look it up. It turns out to mean nothing more than what you would expect.

I found my answer in a “Teen Lingo” guide at a Christian youth ministry site (not to be confused with The Source). Now you too can Understand the Unchurched.

Essays that did not earn their writers a hamburger stand.

Auxiliary to Liz’s recent Next Blog discoveries: You can search Diaryland for journals whose authors have listed their favorite writer as "Myself".

This is about some people who want to move to where I live.

Update: I have eighteen minutes of battery time left. I've been out here for almost two hours. Fortunately there is bug spray, as the gnats have found their way through the screen.

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