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6:46 p.m. - August 28, 2005
Sweet homecoming; not bittersweet, not depressing, not disappointing. Just: Good
Home. Took a taxi from the BART station and effused with a bewildered driver. I was chatty, asking him whether it was he or the taxi company that removed the rear seat manual locking/unlocking device, effectively trapping customers into staying put and paying the fare. I asked him how long he had been in California and whether his being Sikh invites overt discrimination, even in this cosmosuburbanopolis that prides itself on its protoleftwingliberal skin-tone blindness as long as one's wallet contents shine green or gold and you are either white or Asian. I mentioned the weather, to which he replied dismissively, I'm finding it rather warm but when I responded that I've spent the past six weeks in Washington, D.C. he demurred and remarked This must surely be a pleasant day then in that delightful educated sub-contintental Indian English of which I am fond.

Exploration of race relations, American ignorance, and the ins and outs of taxi driving in 10 minutes: My next book should be a study of such efficiency.

Speaking of: My book goes to press the last week of September. As one with few friends, I will toast myself while flipping the bird to passerby.

Manic. I am raving. Surely caused by the mildew spores I inhaled when I opened the refrigerator. [Aside: Do other people do this, too? I refer to opening the refrigerator to scan contents not 2 minutes after returning home after a long absence. I was not hungry or thirsty, so why did I head there? It's like dogs and crotches: Fat people just can't help it any more than dogs can.] Gruesome sight: Mildew all over the interior. I have no idea of the mildew source since I left only my Brita jug and an unopened can of mandarin oranges (favorite late-night snack during the summer), along with the odd assortment of (1) jar of raspberry jam, (1) bottle of A-1 sauce, and (1) stick of margarine. I cleaned out the fridge but am mystified what could have caused this nastiness.

Nothing like coming home to immerse myself in chemicals. I smell delightfully like Formula 409 and Tide detergent, my most comforting scents after the one I've named Jason's-sterile-thoroughly-disinfected-fresh-clean-bathroom-smell. If I could package it responsibly and render myself immune against lawsuits alleging chemical overexposure, I would bottle my cleanser and retire wealthy. Who says chemicals ought not be combined? What one chemical misses another targets and the third chemical removes the residue left by the previous two. It's a holy pairing in my book.

Each time I move my hands towards my face I get another whiff and feel high. Who needs to inject drugs when one has cleanser?


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