Music:a lame Norah Jones song on the speakers overhead
Yesterday evening we negotiated our way on surface streets all the way from the San Diego Zoo to the North County coast where we stay. I love seeing new neighborhoods that way. San Diego has some nice ones, even if they lack the film noir gravity of Los Angeles. Then, while the family was enjoying a leisurely meal at the Seaside Markett in Cardiff, I managed to watch all of the NCAA final at a reasonably pleasant sports bar a few storefronts away -- sorry, siyeh, but Florida was just better -- thereby extending my streak of having caught at least some of the Big Game live -- I woke up in the middle of the night in Germany to hear the end of the Syracuse-Indiana tragedy on Armed Forces Radio -- since Magic Johnson battled with Larry Bird. That's an impressive streak and not one I'd be happy about breaking. After a delicious helping of Sugar Cone ice cream, the invention of a place in that same plaza, which I was forced to share generously with my companions, we returned to the campground. I went out to get gas and run my daily internet errand at the B&N/Starbucks in Encinitas. Finally, after arriving back at our site, I sat down at the picnic table and had a wonderful time reading Michel Foucault by the light of the propane lamp. Call me what you will, but few things make me happier than reading cultural theory in that context, the sound of the sea insulating me from the stress that constrains my thinking at home. Since I was reading the second volume in The History of Sexuality, I mused on whether the pleasures I was deriving from the experience were localized enough in a portion of my body to render them potentially self-indulgent. You see, I might as well have been eating ice cream, the rush was so intense. Now I'm sitting at another Starbucks, taking advantage of our twenty-four hour T-Mobile window, enjoying the slight chill brought on by the sea breeze coursing over my bare legs and pondering whether it would be fruitful to revisit Walter Benjamin's The Origin of German Tragic Drama in light of Foucault's preface to The Order of Things. I'm blissed out, in other words, a condition I welcome especially in these times of trial. It's nice to remember what makes me happy, particularly since what makes me happy is doing the work that I need to be doing!