the century gets slower
Sad cat, health insurance, New York literary establishment, hypothetical Tucson girls, dying spathophyllum: I don't know what you want. Last night we made peanut pineapple pizza. It was good, but why?
Lilo & Stitch: also good. The smartest and least cloying film Disney's made in quite some time.
On Thursday, while I was at the doctor's office, the building caught fire. They evacuated everyone down the stairs and out the door in a perfectly choreographed fire-drill manner; then the nurses concentrated all the elderly people with wheelchairs and drip stands into one corner of the parking lot and proceeded to attend to them. The fire trucks showed up and sent serious men wearing yellow flame-retardant suits into the building. Smoke was found on the third floor. The group of nurses standing next to me were worried about all of the compressed oxygen cylinders on the third floor, and were also worried about some nurse named José, who had boldly announced his plan to sign a waiver and stay inside the building until the flames were twenty feet from him. Apparently they had little confidence in José's ability to handle a hazardous situation. After a half hour or so, the doctor found me in the parking lot and said that I might as well go home—this was going to take all day.
