Bloomsday

It's been a busy week. I can hardly catch my breath.
On Monday morning I went down for the Garden Club and caught Paul as he was leaving to get some coffee. It was 8:45, and I walked with him south on Alameda to the McDonalds on Seventh Street. On the way I asked him how his weekend went.
"Great," he said, "I proposed to my girlfriend."
"Did she say yes?"
"Yeah."
"Oh you poor bastard, now you've done it."
He described the elaborate procedure in which the proposition took place, which required stealth and precision timing on his part. I won't go in to it. He did tell me that the proposal was more or less a formality, as his prospective mother-in-law has already planned an engagement party, so it was Paul's duty to propose before said party. Which he did.
Again, a hearty congratulations to Paul and Farida. May the wind always be at your back and the
sun upon your face. And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.
"Where's Erin?" I asked him.
"She called in sick."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear she's not feeling well."
"Yeah."
Paul bought some tasty brew, then we returned to our garden. Today we put up chicken wire completely surrounding the garden area, Paul, Hardy, and myself. It wasn't easy, but we accomplished the task. Now our garden is protected. In the past unthinking individuals have parked their bicycles right in the middle of the garden. Little chance of that now. And now the garden is not only protected from errant bicycles, but from ourselves as well, as we've had a tendency to step on the little flowers that Erin had planted at the garden's periphery, which have just sprouted. So grow little flowers, grow. We won't step on you any more.
Afterwards I returned to my box and ate some tuna I've had in my refrigerator since February so I could get sick in sympathy with Erin.
Excuse my while I throw up. Again.
Okay, better now. No... oooppps!
Alright, stable now. I the wrote Erin an Email, telling her how sorry I was that she wasn't feeling very well, and wishing her a speedy and thorough recovery.
The next morning I checked my Email, and found this: (a note to Erin's bosses, please don't read this)
"And Rick, thank you for eating bad foul disgusting tuna in order to be sick with me!!! However, I have to let you in on a little secret. (You’re not going to like this) I wasn’t actually sick yesterday! I had been planning to call in “sick” since last week, because we weren’t going to be coming back from Santa Cruz until last night. Hmmm I hope this hasn’t caused you any sort of unnecessary troubles, Rick. Eeeeek!"
Great!
Excuse me while I throw up. Again.
Okay, better now. No... oooppps!
Enough of this nonsense.
On the way to the Hippie Kitchen yesterday I reminded Erin that it was Bloomsday.
"Doomsday?"
"No, Bloomsday."
"What's that?"
"It refers to the novel Ulysses, by James Joyce, which took place entirely on June 16th, 1904. The main character was a Leopold Bloom (Pictured above), hence the name Bloomsday."
"Do people celebrate it?" she asked.
"Yes, they do, especially in Dublin, where the novel takes place.
I've recently finished reading Ulysses, which was quite a chore. It is not an easy book to get through. Many scholars differ in their interpretations of the novel. I won't even try to figure Joyce's intentions, although he did state that he was attempting to recreate the soul of Dublin into it. I think it is more important to just experience the novel, how it makes you feel while reading it, how it affects the readers state of mind.
Can't wait to get started on Finnegan's Wake!
Later at yoga, Beth was merciless. So many people showed up that we ran out of mats, and poor Erin had to go matless. Until Gena couldn't take it anymore, and ran off, that is.
I love doing yoga with Beth, but I must say she has a tendency to get us into a very "challenging" position, which is especially hard to maintain, and then go to an individual and coach them, leaving the rest of us in these impossible positions for like hours. "God damn it
Beth," I feel like shouting, "Let's move on!"
At least I now know how prisoners in Gitmo feel like while enduring "stress positions."
Then today Paul brought us more nice horseshit. A whole truck full. And Erin was here, so we made her shovel it out of Paul's truck and haul it out to the garden, where we now have, yes, you guessed it, a greater, bigger, pile of horseshit! How wonderful.
"That's certainly a big pile of horseshit!" we all agreed.
And it certainly is.
Earlier I had caught some sparrows molesting the shamrocks we have in our garden. I invoked my sparrow name given to me by the prince of the sparrows (see, Friend Of The Sparrows), and told them to beat it. They did.
I am happy to report that the uneasy truce between Paul and the earwigs has resulted in a marked decrease of munched plants. Thank you earwigs! May the wind always be at your back and the
sun upon your face. And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.