Engrossed by my day, the morning has already become a
protest. An otherwise empty day, no plans or
responsibilities, no guilt or curiosities, and
already, there’s protest in the email, protest on the
phone. The inbox shows you your options: Joe Trippi
from DeanforAmerica.com, Eli Parser from Moveon.org,
SUBJ: FWD: Bush’s accomplishments. The phone rings
five times this morning and stops. Then, later, too
conditioned to the ringing to sleep, it’s someone
asking me what type of credit cards I have and telling
me his company is sending me a diamond watch “with a
real diamond at the twelve spot” if I pay forty-five
dollars a month for a subscription to five magazines.
“I don’t like to talk about my credit cards to
strangers over the phone,” I reply.
Flipping through the free channels, it’s: Jerry, I’m
Sleeping with my Uncle; ELIMIDATE; the news “What You
Don’t Know About Your Diet that Could Kill You, later
at eleven,” scantily clad Spanish women hosting talk
shows, something that looks like office building kung
fu with English voiceovers mandarin subtitles, and
commercials enticing – buy the Lexus or you neighbors
won’t like you, buy the toothpaste or the girls won’t
fuck you, remain in your homes scared and consume.
I go into the kitchen to fry some eggs and make
coffee. I turn the gas up very high to heat up the
pan, throw some butter down and scramble two eggs
right on the steaming yellow skillet. Kettle on,
toast dropped, dog fed, no dishes to be done. Eggs
with melted sharp over plain wheat toast, coffee
soaking in the press, little black dog chomping in his
bowl, I peek out the window. Leaves rustling, parked
cars, clouds, a mail woman making her rounds; the
world is deceptively quiet.
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