The amount of time I have to read seems inversely correlated to the number of books I buy. Last week I scored a copy of Varieties of Religious Experience, and had planned to read it and The Confusion over the weekend, but ended up diverted by, among other things, freelance manual labor, a drinking jag with my cousin, and a wedding.

Thursday night I went to Cricketers. It's the best night to go, because it's always completely empty, and I am free to occupy a corner seat at the bar and play the music of my choice on the jukebox [ed: always the same: "Yer Blues," "Happiness is a Warm Gun," "The Ballad of Bo Diddley," "Street Fighting Man," "Daniel," "Solsbury Hill," and "Life On Mars." These usually get me through a beer or two.] I actually got bartender M.'s number. She was going out on Friday night and wanted me to call her.

I'd had three beers, a rusty nail, a few shots of Jaegermeister, so when I woke up the next morning I was a little bit out of sorts and locked my keys in my house. Ever since living in Brooklyn locking the door as I leave- even if I'm only taking out the trash- has become a habit. I walked half a mile to the nearest gas station and called my landlady (she's a nondenominational minister who leads Bible studies in the area) and she said she didn't have another key, but that I could get in through a window. After that I had to drive down to Tarpon Springs to get my paycheck from one of my other jobs, which I have since misplaced. I got to the law office at noon and worked until five. By the time I got home I wasn't in much of a mood to go out, so after a very short period of deliberation I decided not to call M. I don't have a phone at home, which is a good enough excuse.

I'm having a little student loan trouble- the state of New York is garnishing my wages and Citibank never stops harassing assorted family members, whether they're people I've spoken to in ten years or not- so Sean's been keeping an eye out for extra work for me. Friday he'd called to tell me that he had a job for me on Saturday morning, so I woke up at 6 and drove out to Spring Hill to pressure wash Rick the Other Pianist In Pasco County's porch. As far as awful manual labor goes, pressure washing is pretty pleasant. For the uninitiated, you hook up a garden hose to a small, gas-powered pressurizing motor, which in turn you hook up to a gunlike thing that shoots a jet of water at fast enough speeds to take off skin if you're not careful. Rick the Other Pianist in Pasco County needed me to take the mildew and grime off his porch so that I can stain it with some kind of sealant later on this week.

Rick the Other Pianist in Pasco County lives on a huge lot in one of the more rural parts of Pasco, not too far from the tin can I call home. Rick the Other Pianist in Pasco County has long, curly hair that would've been much-prized in the 80s for saving him the cost of a perm; he has the obligatory rusting Volvo stationwagons sitting under a stand of palm trees with a few inches' grass grown under them; he has four kids that I noticed; he has the standard middle-class exurban four acres and a pool.

When I was around halfway done with the porch Rick left, explaining that I should wait for him if I finished before he got back.

I went home and my landlady and her husband pulled into the lawn a few minutes later. He wanted me to load his truck with fallen palm leaves and mow my lawn, which I did. They ran around the house for a few minutes looking for things to fix. Sean stopped by after that, and we went to Cricketers for a few beers, which turned into a few beers, a few shots of Jaegermeister, Jack Daniels, etc...

[ed.: have to go to second job. A piu tardi...]