There was a girl from Lawrence on the train today. I'd never known her that well and so I didn't say anything; that's how all my Lawrence sightings tend to go in the city. The only concrete memory I have of her was that several years ago we were both on a field trip to Milwaukee to see Angels In America, and she remarked that the ceiling of the theatre's lobby had "a sort of Hieronymus Bosch thing going on." I'm not about to rekindle any vague acquaintances on the Red Line with people who detect "Hieronymus Bosch things going on" in ceilings.

Also went to the MCA with my cousin. The Lee Bontecou exhibit is kickass. And there was some other cool stuff there, including one of the collaborations between Charles Long and Stereolab.

This morning, the woman who is temping for the secretary who usually enters my hours came over with my timesheets, asking if I wanted to review them. "They were on the credenza," she kept saying, in the loudest speaking voice I've ever heard in an indoor, non-bar setting. "THEY WERE ON THE CREDENZA." Office doors all down the hall started closing. I wondered where the hell this credenza she spoke of was located, then I wondered why I would want to review my own timesheets. "I JUST FOUND THEM ON THE CREDENZA." Okay, I said, they look fine; you can go ahead and enter them. "YOU HAVE VERY NEAT HANDWRITING," she bellowed then. I thanked her and she walked away. She is a room's width away and I can hear everything she says, even over my headphones. I must keep in mind that she means well. And now I have a new word for the day: credenza. As in, "THEY WERE ON THE CREDENZA."

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