On Saturday, while I was lying facedown on the couch, sweating not only because it was 90 degrees outside but also because I actually had a fever, I had this super idea for a blog post.
It went something like this.
"Bilbo Baggins' Non-Poetical Assessment of My Home"At the time it felt funny and genius-like. Obviously it isn't, though I'm sure I've left something out. The funny and genius bits, clearly.
No round windows and doors. Home is not built under a tree, or into the side of a hill. No fireplace, only a mean little grate in the floor of the "living room." No bricks to make home snug. Kitchen appears to be rarely used; obviously they don't make time for elevenses, let alone second breakfast. The so-called garden consists of a closely cropped lawn of slightly brown grass, and a couple of anemic bushes. One bush does have a bird's nest, so points for that. On a daily basis, inhabitants rush out of the house at a ridiculously early hour, making a ruckus that can be heard for miles, only to sit on cement roads in their "vehicles" with other people in "vehicles," cursing each other for being in the way. This activity is repeated in the early evening - the prettiest time of day. Inhabitants spend a lot of time staring into the face of a shiny mirror-like device which speaks to them. Easy prey for the Dark Lord. These people are clearly minions of the East.
The other thing I was curiously pre-occupied with while dizzy/feverish was the song "Faithfully," by Journey. I'm on a bit of an anti-Glee campaign right now so I'm talking about the real Journey song, performed by Steve Perry. I'm sorry Lea Michelle, but that dude could sing his ass off. I had the song going round and round in my head on an endless loop, and then I started trying to figure out who I danced with at Leadership Camp to it. I have a very solid memory of this song, and of me dancing to it with some slightly older person. It took me all night to come up with the answer: it must have been James Park, our former marching band drum major. It was the year we got snowed in; I think that was when I was in the 8th grade and he was a senior. In my memory he was wearing his red hooded sweatshirt because that's the only thing I remember him ever wearing (well. Levis and a t-shirt, I'm sure). I had no idea why he wanted to dance with me but it's possible because as a 15 year old, I was still shorter than he was. Or maybe because I was standing there like an idiot, partnerless. He was a cool guy, very funny, easy to talk to. I wonder what happened to him? I'm picturing him as a tour guide, leading folks on fun kayaking trips or something.
Now I'm at work, with my stuffed up head, slightly dizzy, a little hungry, glad the weather is cooler, and seriously contemplating lunch. I'll leave the writing for later, as this entry is a big fat mess.