Behind the counter at the Choking Rooster food vendor.

Catey.  Robert Catey.

He was watching me as I worked at the desk, making my calendar.  I was digging through Google Docs and help pages, trying to find something, an advisory on how to actually sell a Google Calendar file, if there could be such a thing, to sell access to a super calendar.  I was working at it, pulling at it with both hands, and at the end, a little flotsam of my shame.

That little smile of Robert made it almost worthwhile.

He was talking about Chic-Fil-A, and I was calling him a c*m-guzzler in a soccer mom SUV.

We had our differences, but what made it all worthwhile, set a hue to the prism, was our similarities, and that little smile almost put lead back into my pencil, where all the lead had squirted out just moments prior.  Hell, it was sweet icing for his little Waffle Fries.

"You like my itinerary?"

"It has a certain caveman dignity--a monolithic kind of sense about it."

I got under my caveman blanket in the other room and ruminated, I put it through a kind of interpretive matrix of things about OBGYN concerns and schedule maintenance, and tannery and all sorts of other, even the Zodiac somewhere.

Would he try to kill me?

I was just, as it were, making a calendar, a list of dates and references about various things, even the Zodiac, and he was, Robert Catey, Parnassus, the wall at the corner of the town, a fringe kind of barrier between thee and me, and I had to push right through him, stick it through his middle.

"On this date in history..."

The debut of the Edsel.

The shuttering of hundreds of Blockbuster stores.

Reggie Jackson broke the home-run barrier.

But to make a Google Calendar, sell access to that, access URL given via email, and the thing encompassing various subjects and philiars of daily life, across minutia and other things, birthdays, deathdays, monumental reason du'tre of society, various national days and days from other nations, so that the things is relevant across the spectrum, across the world, wherever the little Google fingers reach down from the sky to touch a person.

She is scared sh*tless of me.  And I was laying there, one knee pulled up: it had my ass cheeks kind of opened up, where when I broke wind, it sounded like that whisper of butterfly language, and so many people could be offended by the surly speech of a butterfly, even think I hated Mariah Carey, which I don't, but that I had a problem with somebody, and I was projecting my own contradiction and fallacies onto the innocent person of Robert Catey, that no one ever died from ill-intent or anything, but I was the little impetus mixing in the water like powdered electrolytes, and if I brought it off, the entire remainder of the empire would slide off a cliff.

Robert Catey, ladies and gentleman.  I salute him.

But what I had run up the pole, run it right up there, was an impossible idea to share a calendar amongst some hundreds or thousands of strangers, kind of viral thing amonst the populace, a death code matriculating in various communities, percolating and evolving, baking like bread, making, and thats what it was, making, like the yeast rising the dough, and then Robert Catey's eyebrow went up one millimeter, and I was left alone in the room, no calendar file made, and only a fart smell to prove the moments had elapsed.

They are really nibbling away at the population totals, aren't they?  3 here, 12 there, 6 over yonder.

That sh*t adds up.

Who's gonna watch Avatar 2 if yall keep shooting everybody?