Today’s soundtrack: Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away
Today at 9:02pm: Saké at Chibi’s. Sleeeepy.


I need to clone myself because I’m overcommitted. My supposedly freelance gig at The Corporation has kicked into overdrive and I’m basically there five days a week. Leaving me little time for the stuff I really want to do, like

- Trying out for another of Wendy’s short films
- Trying to get a piece into shape for a reading next month at the AAWW
- Two college gigs lined up for November, must prepare
- Need to build kitchen cabinet
- Must bring car in for servicing
- Trying to get to Hapkido three nights a week (and failing)

And what was the other thing...oh yeah, I have to learn how to cook. If I didn’t know any better I’d think my subconscious was secretly trying to poison myself with my own cooking.

So I want clones. I’m getting pretty busy and there’s all this DNA just sitting in my body doing nothing.

If I had ten clones I would send the first three to culinary schools. (French, Italian, Pan-Asian.)

Clone #4 would go to The Corporation to earn rent and steal printer paper and secretly hate my boss. Clone #5 would go to Barnes & Noble to read all day.

Clone #6 would be dedicated to doing all the shit stuff, like picking up the dry cleaning, balancing the checkbook, scrubbing the shower and waiting on lines for me. The line-waiting clone.


CLONE #6: Here, I got you tickets to “The Producers.”

ME: Thanks, but...“The Producers” isn’t even hot anymore.

CLONE #6: Well, sorry. Guess it must have slipped my mind while I was renewing your driver’s license, picking up your packages at the post office and buying more than 10 items at the grocery store.

ME: Hey...are you sassing me?

CLONE #6: I have to go. There’s a sample sale over at Prada.

ME: Wait! We can’t afford Prada!

CLONE #6: Not my problem. Talk to Clone #4.


(Moral of the story: Nothing is worse than getting sassed by a clone.)

Clone #7 would attend multiple language schools. (Korean, Italian, and either Cantonese or Mandarin.)

Clone #8 would be sent to travel the country in a Greyhound bus, looking for a mint yet affordable 1968 Pontiac GTO in some old guy’s backyard. After he got it he would drive to California blaring the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” or “Wild Horses.” Then he would drive it up the Pacific Coast Highway and, with my luck, he’d drive it over a cliff while trying to change a CD.

Clone #9 would be sent to travel the world and the seven seas, taking photographs and copious notes. (Probably I should send him with Clone #7.) He would eat lots of weird foods and listen carefully at cocktail parties and send tons of postcards.

Clone #10 would stay at home and write all day. Write, write, write. I’d let him have absinthe and psychotropic drugs and I’d hire a muse and a masseuse for him.

So with ten clones doing all the work and play, what would I be left to do?

Simple, I’d start researching how to make more clones. Even if it’s not possible I’d still have to try. Like when the genie gives you a wish and you wish for another 10,000 wishes.