Ground Rules

Not so much the rain, as the wind on the water. Pegi hired TR in the paid intern position that K had held, but made it clear that he was her hire, and therefor not just another stubborn male asshole. I can't begin to sort things out, but evidently if I need him to help with something, he has to ask Pegi first. Office politics. I read in this that I'm an important member of the team, but otherwise a pain in the ass. If I ask TR to do something, he has to ask Pegi first. I'm cool with that, chain of command. He has to take a drug test, which is ironic, as both he and D are so drug-free, so far to the right in that regard, that their urine is probably drinkable. I, on the other hand, still carry alkaloids from the sixties. They're just mushrooms, I could argue, I found them growing in my yard; when I eat them, though, I become a criminal. Go figure. I do my job, and I'm good at it, I don't need anyone prying into my private time. If they did they'd find an ugly mess, shit strewn everywhere. Doesn't mean I'm a bad person, just that if you call me after a certain time, I will probably be drinking and fail whatever test. I should be fired, really, if you take this shit as actually important. I'm always high, it's my nature, I'll eat anything and drink as a matter of course. I resent the fact that anyone would question my motive. High horse, excuse me, the nature of the beast. It's either late or early, depending on how you factor time. I make a piece of toast, no political motive, butter and jam, it's not a statement, just a snack. I'd love to quibble, but I'm busy right now. Fitful sleep, then propped, reading in bed for a while. I need coffee and booze, and that means an extra trip to town, but the museum is warm and the house is cold, it seems a fair trade. I read about Caravaggio for a couple of hours, dude lived a life, then drive slowly home, the back way, watching fall change the valley up the creek. I take the first ford, stutter back and forth, cleaning the undercarriage, stop to throw seven dead squirrels off the road. They are stupid, and frantic with the harvest. Picked up a pork tenderloin, in the remaindered meat section, for four bucks. When I get it home I cut into one inch pieces and pound them flat, marinate in a mixture of blackberry juice and balsamic vinegar. I've one serving of grits left, looking a lot like polenta. The medallions cook in probably a minute (I blotted them dry and lightly rubbed them with a dry pepper mixture), served on nuked grits with an avocado on the side. A good meal. Oh, I cooked them in butter and poured the precious pan drippings over the top. Old grits are a great medium, their ability to absorb what's going on around them. I have to finish the high school show tomorrow, check to make sure everything is running smoothly, call Ronnie to meet for a beer on Wednesday so he can meet John Hogan and set a date to play the pub, pick up a book they're holding for me at the library, and mop the floor in the kitchen, because it's really sticky. Somebody spilled something. I get most of that done and I'm good. I built a day of slop, into the schedule, because I thought I might need it. I don't, as it happens, this time, but I will continue to factor it in.