A nice cup of Twining’s with a little sugar. Scan the op-eds: Krugman on Bubble Redux Sequel (Twyla cowers, visions of cheap cat food dance in her wee little head), Kristof on deception and Jessica, Kinsley on Peter Pan polls. Another cup of Twining’s.
Work consumed my weekend and will do it again. It’s morning when it’s time to go to work. A natty problem that defies analysis and eats time like Twyla eats Sheba. Daily conference calls. Plodding through details with a checklist after Mr. Brain has passed the point of simple comprehension, mechanically keeping records to avoid stupid time-wasting mistakes. It is a problem that must be solved by next Monday. Sleep happens when it’s the only option. Then the chicken dream.
Awaking in a surrealistic haze, surrounded by bright amber light. It is hot and humid. You try to speak but only a plaintive high-pitched peep comes out, immediately answered by thousands more around you. The smell of feces. The light is blinding. Around you are amorphous fuzzy yellow masses with bright orange beaks. You are trapped in a brooder. You try to move your wings. Muscles respond but all you can manage is a desperate spasm. When you try to walk, nothing happens. There is a sign on the wall. With great effort, you adjust your head to read it. Difficult. Your eyes are on the sides of your head. There is a “B”. You move closer, finding traction in a rolling twitching motion by adjusting your center of gravity. There is the rest of the sign, you can read it now…it says “Boneless Young Chickens.”
Ah, of course – I saw that in the freezer section of the grocery store yesterday. Awake again before dawn. A cup of Twining’s. Read the papers. In the NYT, Business section, McDonald’s is asking the Meat Industry to cut Use of Antibiotics. Responding to consumer demands. A little more sugar in the tea, it’s time to get ready for work.
I do not think I will have "chicken fingers" for lunch. What if that chicken were a pianist?
4:48:27 AM 
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