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Tuesday's gone.

There was rain. Massive storm system rolled on in easterly these past 24 hours.

It kept me awake last night.

Or I kept myself awake last night, what with wine and reading bits and pieces of books very slowly. Actually began and finished a whole book (it was too short and too much fun; you'd like it) sometime after the sun went down. I'll node about it laters.

The one thing I will tell you now that I read was a story by Etgar Keret called Cheesus Christ. It was in one of the McSweeney's from last year, translated from Hebrew and very funny: about death and a chain that only sold cheeseburgers.

The layers of corporate culture lend themselves to satire all too easily.

 


 

Last night I made dinner: quinoa and lamb logs. They were supposed to go on a stick and be broiled but the ratio got all fucked up and I didn't use tomato sauce because my mother is convinced that the tomato aggravates her joints. Instead I added in chopped olives and cherry preserves.

They ended up being a little too overdone but otherwise OK. I ate mine with ketchup.

Must eat more quinoa.

 


 

Slowly realizing that many things I never thought would happen have not and even more things that I thought would never happen have. Happened, somehow.

Still here. If I knew how to leave more meaning I would.

I woke up at 7:30 or so this morning to the most annoying sounds in the world. I roll out of the air matress my grandparents have let me crash on since I moved back in with my dad. I stood up, yawned, stretched, felt bad about myself for not being able to touch my toes, popped the joints that felt stiff, yawned again, and trudged off to the kitchen for breakfast. I poured milk from a brand-new gallon over crunchy, nut-cluster-y cereal for breakfast. 

The day was, wel...It was just looking. Breakfast. Half an hour of Brütal Legend followed by about fifteen minutes scrabbling for my wallet, phone, phone charger, pants, and glasses, then a shower, then work. Just a normal, dreary, day.

I was halfway through my bowl of cereal when I saw him.

 

Bill Murray was on my couch.

 

He blinked at me, slowly, with a look of beatific tranquility on his face. I said nothing. What could I say? We looked at each other, Bill and I, for a timeless moment. Then he grabbed the remote and turned on the T.V. We watched My Little Pony for an hour and a half before he turned to me and said the first words of the morning: "God, I love that show."

"Really?

"Oh, yes. Beautiful animation, and the whole thing's so darn...wholesome," he said, "I've been following it since the first episode."

I laughed, despite myself. "You're a Brony?"

Bill chuckled, too. "Yes, my friend, I am, in fact...a Brony," he said, "I've wrestled with this part of myself for years, and I think it's best that I come out to the world and admit how much I love My Little Pony."

"So, uh," I said, still dumbstruck by the fact that just a few minutes ago, Bill Murray had been sleeping in my living room, "Why are you on my couch?"

He shrugged, "I needed some place to sleep for the night."

"How'd you get here?"

Another shrug. "I don't know, actually. Pretty sure I got in after two in the morning, at least. Oh, I used your car."

I didn't quite know how to take that. "You used my car? For what?!"

Bill looked at me with infinite patience. "Because you were low on milk, and I figured I'd pick up some. I filled up the tank, by the way," he said. I nodded, stunned.

"...Thanks," I said. He smiled at me.

Then I started asking him questions. He's open to anything, really he is: I asked him about all of his career, his SNL days, his movies, his dramatic works, his comedies, his singing career...A few answers: Yes, he loved doing Ghostbusters, and yes, he'll jump at the chance to do Ghostbusters 3. Zombieland was a lot of fun. He misses SNL sometimes, but he really doesn't miss Chevy Chase, even after all this time has passed. He grows bonsai trees as a hobby, to center himself. He once swam with dolphins off the coast of Pago Pago. Yes, he once had tea with Mikhail Gorbachev, and yes, he also arm-wrestled John Lennon, a week before he died. No, he has not now, nor was he ever affiliated with the CIA, and no, he was not in any way behind the revolution in Egypt.

So much wisdom was imparted, in just a few words. In infinitely subtle ways, I was made a better person. Then he stood up, put on his shoes, and walked out the door.

"Wait!" I called to him. I did not want this morning of wonders to end.

He turned, and stared into my soul. "Yes, my child?"

"Will I ever see you again?" I asked.

"No, my son," he said, "Well...Unless you watch one of my movies. Or some of the old Saturday Night Live episodes online. Or you go to a convention or something, and I'm there. Or we just bump into each other on the street or something, I don't know...Probably not."

I laughed. He bowed, and walked away. I blinked a tear of laughter away, and just like that, Bill Murray was gone. I will remember this day until I take my dying breath: the day when Bill Murray woke up on my couch.

 

 

LieQuest 2013. For a few mostly-real-life Bill Murray sightings, go here.

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