And we come to the end of another day. Again, there was work, but it was dead, dead, dead. Apart from a bit of business during the shift change, I think we might've had three tables all evening. Worked with Snoop, and she was pulling her "I'm not speaking to you, insect" thing and Elvis knows why. As Jaybee has so wisely put it many a time, "I'm so over it," so nuts to her. I ain't got to see her again until Friday.
Otherwise, nothing at all to report. Beautiful day, and I was of course so whipped I laid around in bed until almost 45 minutes until I had to go in. This night shift shit is getting old, old, old. I did not move to New Orleans so I could do nothing but work and sleep. I did go to Cosimo's after work, caught a good buzz off four beers and started The Name Of The Rose. I've already read it, but I'm bored with The Templar Revelation yet want to read more about turn-of-the-first-millennium religious conflicts, and nothing on my to-read pile draws interest. While at the bar, I wrote some gibberish in my composition notebook I always carry around concerning the Bucky Fuller quotes I mentioned yesterday. It's sort of depressing to note, however, that the only other writing in that notebook is the directions to New Orleans from my October house-hunting visit.
Now, I'm sitting up, waiting for my hair to dry, watching "QI" on YouTube, and telling myself to not stay up all night. And that's that.
Today's new bit of information: There's something called "Graham's number". Who Graham is and why figured it out is not important right now, but what is interesting is that the observable universe is too small to contain a digital representation of Graham's number, even if each number was the size of a Planck's volume, which is the smallest size a thing can be before it turns to quantum fuzziness. And, it ends in a "7".
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