April 18, 1999.

Someone unsubscribed from my notify list last night. I'm kind of upset. But I suppose I'll have to stop being such a big baby if I want to play in the grungy stiletto fantasyland of film noir...not to mention that of web-based email lists.

"been down so long it looks like up to me..."

Yesterday was Paris' 23rd birthday. Yep. 23.

Hold on a sec, I've got writer's block.

Okay. Let's rock. Again, one more time for good luck: yesterday was Paris' 23rd birthday. He is man composed of equal parts melancholy, whiskey and nicotine, so the night was a celebration of those three elements.

I had intended on wearing a dame outfit to the blues club, but then I realized that my black dame pumps are in another city, and it just doesn't go over well with scaggy docs. So instead I wore my brand-new hip teen outfit of ridiculously exaggerated bell bottoms and slutty black cotton camisole top. I looked like I should've been overpaying for e.

I include the previous passage only because I feel that my superficial clothes aspect has been missing from these pages lately.

So anyway, we went out to drink & smoke & gossip about past acquaintances knocked up or marryin' or both (there's that word again!) & listen to blues standards in the city's most famous blues bar...or, as it declares itself, "home of the blues." This prompted me to append that epigram after ever locator noun for a little while: Mississauga, home of the blues. Queen and Bathurst, home of the blues. The men's room, home of the blues. I am easily amused.

And easily tired...despite my week of sloth, the Boy and I folded just after 2. And although he needed to get the car home before morning, a nap seemed appropriate. I can't even remember the last time I was that tired after a Saturday night. I was tired enough to claim that I would stay awake and watch the time; he was tired enough to believe me. Fortunately, apprehension is its own alarm clock, and he left just as rosy fingered dawn started practicing her arpeggios on the horizon.

Still under the influence of harmonica and beer brewed south of the Mason-Dixon line, seeing him to the door carried overtones of the cuckolding wife, seeing her backdoor man gone before her husband gets home from the swamp...all the clichés made into a tired paste. Yes, yes. I live in a romantic fantasy, and it's not always literary in nature.

Rosy fingered dawn - home of the blues.