Broadway Pancakes

This spring I'm looking forward to working in a garden, on some land provided by my girlfriend Linda. There will be tomatoes, and some herbs, perhaps. I'm not sure what else, but I do know that the idea of this garden has provided no small measure of comfort to me. I'm a fragile little man with an romantic dispostion who is unafraid of crying when the mood strikes. Yesterday, in the freezing cold, I was listening to Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade while walking back from the local spa. It got to me and made me crazy, I love it so. I get the same way, sort of, when I think of keeping a garden. It makes it harder for that self-loathing part of me to make a convincing argument that I don't exist, and do nothing of worth. When I think of how much my cats need me I get the same feeling. I used to have school and work, now I have cats. The people in my life who care about me tell me that I'm a decent person, even a good person, who acts out of compassion and at least aspires towards reason. But they are trying to life my mood, and change how I see myself, out of affection. So basically, I don't necessarily believe them. It's all so fucked up.

I seem to have the flu, but it's of no consequence. It should pass within a few days. I've been doing a lot of reading, and being sick gives one an excuse for peeling back page after page. Yesterday I was almost killed by a short-stack of pancakes at the newly-opened Broadway Diner, a mere 5 minute walk from my house. I knew I was sick and I shouldn't have eaten it, but the punishment didn't fit the crime. I was violently ill. As most of you know, I've had gastric bypass surgery. That means I don't have a stomach so much as a little pouch that is segregated from the rest of my stomach via a redundant staple line. I was vomiting so much yesterday that I thought I would start coughing up thick metal stapes. And "vomiting" with a pouch is odd. Ech.

Aren't you glad you read this blog? On the political front, I'm still behind the formation of a new political party, the Socialist Party of America. If you'd like to know more about it, or why the Fist & Rose Tendency of the SPUSA is leading the break, just write me. I understand that the secretary of the SPUSA, Greg Pason, knows what we're doing and predicts failure. Shocking.

One of Dvorak's slavonic danses is playing on my MP3 player. What a wonderful Czech bastard. Clare, if you're out there, write me, OK?