It was a chore day today. If I spent half the rest of my weekends doing chores I might get to the bottom of the list Sonja keeps adding to in time for when Vancouver hosts a World Cup football match. (I dream the same dreams as Gordon Campbell. Must be the booze.)
First I made my bets on the horses. I chose a few longshots. I walked the dog. Then I got to work. I chose to clean up my office, the biggest job of all.
I only clean up my office about once every five years. That is no exaggeration. Yesterday Sonja gagged when she poked her head in. I found papers buried in the majestic clutter older than your kid in kindergarten. Two calendars from 2005. Cords to fuck knows what. A walkman. My half-finished 800 page volume of love poems to Anne Murray. My missing Hanson Brothers' "Sudden Death" cd. Handicapping books.
There was dust. There was disease. Spider webs. My unopened lost copy of Patterson Hood's "Murdering Oscar." Dog fur. Dog toys. Beer bottle caps. Coolers. Viking horns. Don't ask.
I did a lot of sneezing but I got to the bottom of it all. Then I turned to my computer, wrote this and checked the race results. Horse by the name of Flashy Green, racing for the first time, took the 7th at Golden Gate Fields, paid $19.40 to win. I thought he would lead gate to wire but he won from behind.
Not a bad weekend, all in all.
5 comments:
So....
Does that mean that there are already something like, say, 400 finished love poems to the fair Ms. Murray?
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Oh, and by the way, we used to live about 12 blocks from Golden Gate Fields and 6 blocks from this.
Ha!
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As a young man I wrote much more poetry than I do now. I drank more then too. In 1979 I wrote a love poem for Anne Murray every day. My favourite one was called, "The Night Elvis Fucked Anne Murray in the Backseat of a Pink Cadillac." I hope my country does not take away Anne's Order of Canada now she has admitted to being a tad bit sleazier than a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.
I have met a lot of people over the years who have lived very close to a racetrack. None of them wrote poems for Anne Murray. A few of them had a thing for Joy MacPhail.
How the heckfire did you know?
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(about my unconscious feelings toward Ms. M, not Anne, I mean)
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