Discard

"You got to know when to hold 'em,
Know when to fold 'em."

-- Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler"

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If you can tell the values of a nation by its billboards, can you tell a man by the cards in his wallet? I've got a certain scene from American Psycho in mind, the scene of the clone business cards. (The mimetic theory class was especially enraptured by the example: young men in suits and ties, showing off their cards, which were more or less the same, but oh so different...)

I ask the wallet question because I have bulged my billfold with a lot of cards lately. I've joined a lot of things, and they give you cards to prove your membership. As for recent additions, I have two library cards, one for Cinci and one for northern Kentucky, a CTA card from Chicago, an Enjoy the Arts passport to get me in to local shows for free or cheap, and a Target card I accidentally signed up for because I thought it was just a membership to the store--imagine my surprise when a cute little red card arrived in the mail. Along with that stack is the usual smattering: gift cards for Wal-Mart and Chili's, a military dependent ID and a Nebraska driver's license, my International Thespian Society card, Kroger and Blockbuster cards, an American Red Cross certification card in CPR, an insurance card, cards with phone numbers to a few profs and bosses, and my mom's travel agency card.

I honestly use these cards on a regular basis (well, some of them--though the CPR card is probably expired by now, so good luck if I save you from drowning). It makes my wallet hard to fold.

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Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is wonderful. I'm trying to take it in little doses, plodding through it like a Saharan treasure hunter sifting sand, careful to dig often. The author asks the reader not to blow through the narrative, actually, because anything worth doing is worth taking time to do. Hence, taking care of one's motorcycle.

I've never ridden a motorcycle, incidentally. Not even a moped. The book makes me want to.

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We're playing the local libraries for most of this week. Then we pull an overnight in east Ohio, playing an old opera house in a podunk town. I wonder what the curtains will smell like: moths, paint, or perfume?

I'm brazen enough to walk from my house to the meeting point, about a half a mile into the business district. Beyond that, it's another quarter-mile to the University, with its many swanky cafes and restaurants and bookstores, surrounding the campus like parentheses. The hills are San Franciscan in parts, with long streets disappearing upwards into townhouses and trees, and the breeze at the summits cool the sweat on your face.

Discovered a great Chinese joint about a mile away, aptly named China Food. It's $4.95 for a huge lunch, folks. Thrift and Asian food rarely connect, and a place that makes good egg-drop soup is just as rare.

I'm going there in just a sec.

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Yesterday, during the Q&A portion of our show, I called on a small child in the back who had very short blond hair and a normal, high-pitched, little-boyish voice. Here's how it went down:

"Uh...is this true?"

"He wants to know if this is based on a true story--"

"She."

"Sorry?"

"I'm a she."

"Oh. Sorry about that. She. Uh...gosh, sorry. She wants to know if this is based on a true story..."

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Who da man now, eh?