Day 19: Pretend to be a secret agent

"No one can know. This Book was a pretext to get in touch with you. Your government needs you. Don't look up now, they are watching. Meet at 1300 today outside work. Wave at the gray car. It will pick you up and take you to the secret rendezvous. Good luck. P.S. Tear this page out and swallow it."

I performed the ultimate in reconnaissance today: Operation Suburbia. My cover? Housesitting for Grandma at Carefreee senior apartments. My mission? Spy on unsuspecting stucco communities.

Before the assignment, I finished up the paper and proceeded to play with Grandma's kitty. He has a fetish for newspapers and New Years hats (especially the ones with feathers and glitter). Apparently, chasing the cat all over the apartment doesn't cut it in a senior community. The woman downstairs must keep her hearing aids cranked up because she began pounding on the ceiling with what might have been a broom handle, but sounded more like an untapped keg. Which begs the question, "Did she have to hobble onto a chair to reach the ceiling?" Intriguing...

So, I was a good samaritan (at least that was my cover) and left the apartment to "power walk" around the 'hood. The first stretch was nearly intolerable. Imagine walking along I-5 between here and the Grapevine: straight as a ruler, not a car-less body in sight, horn honks, and surprisingly smelly. Aparently they've been lacking on the duck-poop maintenance in those man-made lakes.

I got down to business. There appeared to be at least one car in front of every beige, tan, or cream-colored house, yet not a soul in sight. Not so much as a kooky welcome mat is allowed in these communities. With names like Willow Park and Hidden Glen, you're pretty much obliged to shrink into obscurity. Although the families do keep up with the modern world: I saw one house with FOUR satellite dishes, like whiteheads on a desperate-to-wear-a-rock-on-my-finger-eager-to-procreate-and-begin-nesting face.

All right, all right. I lost myself for a moment there. Granted, most everyone was probably still at work, hence the vacancy. I did get a few encouraging smiles from women jogging behind baby strollers! Probably more like, "Don't you look like an adorable teenager, in your college sweatshirt and glasses. Would you like to come with me for a makeover and a lobotomy?"

On the way home, I deliberately threw myself down a ravine, lined with grass, paved with gravel, just so I wouldn't launch myself in front of a U-Haul on the way home. I guess the "agency" won't be contacting me again, unless it's to implant a Stepford wife chip in my brain. Beware for a boob job and devastatingly handsome arm candy--who in turn will develop a beer belly and begin an affair in 10 years.

Day 18: Kill Something Day

"So-called Western civilization suppresses our legitimate aggressive impulses. Cast off the chains of narrow morality and stamp out the sad life of a member of some inferior species today: an ant, or perhaps a gnat of some kind. Indulge your dark urges before they overwhelm you. After all, as top Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin declared: 'the passion for destruction is also a creative passion...'"

I'm a vegetarian. I don't kill things. When I rip apart a hunk of meat with my incisors and masticate its remains with my molars, I consider it a form of coldblooded murder. But sushi tastes delightful. So eh, what are you gonna do? My friend took me to Kru, one of many overpriced boutique sushi restaurants in Sacramento. I had only been once, normally shunning the $15 rolls on principle, but since I wasn't buying, I agreed wholeheartedly and began to prep my protein-deficient tummy for a feast.

What is America's solution to infuriatingly healthy sushi? Deep fry the shit out of if and then dunk it in sauce. We had the Krazi Cali (a crunchy, garlic cream take on the traditional California Roll), the Tesla (the freshest roll of the bunch, but again smothered in garlic creaminess), and my choice, the Cindy (tuna, snow crab, jalapenos, deep-fried of course). In order to make our Japanese-American meal complete, we doused our wasabi-coated tongues with Sapporos. Then we headed to a neighborhood tavern to extinguish our heartburn with margaritas.

As if this isn't enough carnivore action for one weekend, yesterday I broke out the fly swatter. Sitting at the kitchen table working on the Sunday crossword is my #2 solution to a hangover (#1 being bloody mary brunch), you can imagine my ire when a fly the size and decible of New Orleans during Mardi Gras decided to brunch on our garbage can. Thankfully, we have a fly swatter nearby for just that occasion. This one, however, is battery powered and after pressing a button, can zap prey with the wattage of a nuclear testing site. (It feels similar to a dog's shock collar if you've ever been privy to either---personally, the nerves in my left elbow have never returned after said incidents). And that's that. Fly-free, and left to only the buzz of my ringing hangover. Not a cent of guilt either.