The eye of the storm

The word processing programme appears to be requiring a breather from the sheer fucking genius I'm lathering it down with, so I'll let y'all know I'm not dead yet. I was supposed to go to the Lula Lounge tonight to help celebrate the anniversary of Mr. N's auspicious birth. By three o'clock, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. By four o'clock, it was clear I wasn't even going to pass by to drop off his present. I called to let him know.

"Man, that thesis is going to be the death of you."

"Yeah, I can't get it together, I'm panicking. I'm getting out of town until this is finished."

So here I am, out of town. In Davisville. And the retarded thing is that I really meant it, and I really feel like I'm out of town now. When I first spent the summer in Toronto back in the last millenium, some smart-ass told me Northern Ontario started at St. Clair. I probably said something rude in response, and now I'm out of town in fucking Davisville.

The place, which I'm nominally sitting while the owner's in Ireland, is giving me a taste of the 80-k plus life. Hot men live in this building. Hot straight men. They move uptown, it seems, like spawning salmon moving upriver. Beautiful view of the skyline, clean both in basic sanitary terms (neither Little G or I have got the dish-soap we so desperately need for five days - 'nuff said - we're both Sag and can live in filth indefinitely) and design terms. Big flat-screen, fake fireplace, tasteful colours, Coldplay CDs, a swimming pool downstairs that isn't open at any of the hours I'd dream of using it. Five things that definitely do not exist in my apartment. It turns out Coldplay is good revising music. Who'd a thunk? I don't have a particular problem with Coldplay, I'd always just thought it was the sort of thing sensitive-type men put on when they light some candles and touch themselves. Which is fine. Me, I like the Magnum P.I. theme.

Hunkered down as in a barrack here, with my evil friend-in-need Benson H, $15 worth of Korean junk food (which, for those of you unversed in Korean junk food, is a whole fucking fuckload of Korean junk food), two computers and you, gentle reader. When I emerge, I'll be $15 of Korean junk food fatter and this fucker will be ready for presentation. I found a huge factual error running through it that made me suspect I'd been slipping myself crack, but I think the damage is controlled now and everything will eventually be hunky-dory. Now go. Get out. It's Saturday night. GO!