The cable guy was over putting in my cable modem. Actually it was a cable lady. She was immense and dark and had a shaved head. She was sweet and friendly, ponderous and slow about her work. I liked her.

It was an effort for her to kneel down to the cable plug and screw in the cord. She puffed and wheezed. I know what that is like, having spent years being immensely out of shape and smoking and eating and despairing.

“Now you know,” she cautioned, “you’re not getting TV. Just internet”

I said I knew, and it was on purpose.

She shook her head.

How do I say to this lady, my new friend, who I find likable and personable in a way that most Comcast cable employees don’t seem to be able to manage, “Lady, I don’t watch TV and I don’t vote and I feel really, really great. You should try it.”

Instead I write songs about love and monkeys and the meaning of life, because that’s what I’m about really, you know, the meaning of life. I think I’ve pretty much got it figured out, I’m happy to say, but that’s the easy part. The hard part is doing it.

About half way through my run, I am waiting to cross across the street from the mission. Bums are thick with the mission on one side of ponce and the park on the other side.

I ran up, kicked the button to cross the street even though I know that most of them are disabled in the big city, and a bum floated up and gave me an open-mouthed stare. He swelled up, drawing breath. I was ready to deck him if he got squirrely.

“Boy!” he bark wheezed, “You look just like George Bush, n–” and he called me a racist perjorative. The light changed, so I could run some more.

“Gotcha!” I said over my shoulder, and jogged across the street into the park.

Barely any more is it fun to be floating mad in a cup, hissing and giggling and overtipping for cabs. Eating rich foods and smoking are also out, although each happens from time to time. Like sloppy makeouts in dive bars, they’re fun at the time, though.

Running, really. Running and cycling up big hills and burning the lungs up, panting almost to death, and getting there for half a sandwich and some chili. Dazed, drinking a glass of tea, hands shaking. It’s better than I remember real drugs being, and this is what there is.

Pounding down Virginia and getting tattoos and writing on my hand and waiting for my next gig. This is what there is.

I thought “Hurrrrgh!”.

Then, I thought “Hey, I should go to the bank and change my address. Also, I should eat a bagel.”

Then I realized that there is a bank next to the bagel place, and I knew that Atlanta loves me. So, I drove over to the bagel place, it being a little far to bike, and got myself some breakfast. The place was full of dudes bouncing around, holding coffee and saying “excuse me” to one another and chewing bagels. It’s the day after thanksgiving and the ladies of Atlanta want nothing to do with bagels. Just the guys.

I came outside with my bagel and little cup of yogurt to find an old man’s car parked awkwardly behind mine, but not blocking me. On the day after thanksgiving, old men are allowed to park awkwardly.

Then I got in my little car and drove and ate my bagel and listened to my audio book until I got back to my apartment and realized I had completely forgotten to go to the bank and change my address.

Shit.

On the day after thanksgiving, I am going back to the bank.