Bitch, Bitch, Bitch

Sunday, a better weather day than Saturday.  What did I do?  Oh. . . you know.  But I DID got to my mother's in the afternoon, so there's that.  I hadn't bathed for going on three days.  I hadn't taken a walk.  I'd barely moved.  

"Maybe something is wrong with me.  I don't know.  I wasn't sad or depressed or anything.  I kept thinking I'd leave the house, but I just didn't.  When I drove over here, people were out and milling about everywhere.  The Boulevard looked packed with happy people.  The kids are back for the start of the term at Country Club.  Everyone looked like they were having fun.  Maybe it depresses me to go out around so many happy people. . . maybe I don't want to get dressed. . . I don't think, you know, that anyone is happy to see me."

Then my mother told me about my cousin's husband's brother who is a full-on alcoholic.  He was dying, living in a cheap motel in North Carolina when the family got a call from someone who had helped him cross the street and get back to his room.  Nobody knew where he was at the time.  His mother had died and he had one hundred thousand dollar inheritance due him.  So my cousin and her husband bought him a bus ticket to come stay with them.  Not them, but their ne'er do well son who was renting a cheap two bedroom apartment.  They were going to charge him a lot of money to stay there and take care of him.  They helped him at first, but now he just lies in bed for days.  

"He says he's depressed," my mother said, "and that he just wants to die."

I laughed and pointed to myself.  

"You don't want to die, do you?"

"No, no. . . not at all.  I'm not depressed, either.  I'm laughing about just hanging around the house.  No, I am fairly content."

Then she began telling me that she thought she got depressed this holiday season.  

"Nobody comes to see me.  I'm just alone."

Which kind of pisses me off seeing that I am there for an hour or more every fucking day.  And what she is saying is not true.  She gets phone calls and visits every day from neighbors and friends.  She complains about being on the phone with one woman for hours.  She says with some disdain that one or another of her neighbors came over "and stayed for an hour."  People come out from her church to see her.  

She has a friend who is a little younger who keeps falling and isn't able to get up.  She drags herself across the floor and dials 911.  This has been happening a lot.  

"She complains that she can't get anyone to come in and help her, but she doesn't want to pay anyone."

"Why would anyone want to come give her baths and clean her house and wipe her butt. . . I mean, she is not interesting or good looking or even very friendly.  What the fuck is wrong with people?  Would you want to go help her?"

"No."

She has a family that barely talks to her, two daughters and a son.  They don't help.  

And that is how I left my mother's house, stinking from a weekend sitting in front of the computer, listening to music, reading, and not watching t.v.  I wanted to watch t.v.  I wanted to see Nikki Glaser's opening monologue to the Golden Globes.  But I have cancelled cable t.v. and have yet to buy rabbit ears, so I can't get the networks and I don't subscribe to Paramount.  I spent half an hour looking online for ways to watch, but I found nothing.  No matter, I thought.  I didn't want to watch anything but the opening.  I would be able to do that Monday morning on YouTube.  

And that is what I did when I got up today.  Tame.  She wasn't going to say fuck it like Ricky Gervais.  She wasn't successful enough for that.  So she tiptoed around the room like a cocktail party host.  

I can't blame her.  

I watched the opening, then I got sucked into watching some of the award speeches.  Jesus Christ, I can't believe people like to watch that stuff.  A lot of stupid people trying to be grateful and profound.  Demi Moore's speech sent me over the edge.  And Adrienne Brody's speech was even schmaltzier.  

But there is no underestimating the taste of the masses.  Especially their taste for the new.  

"Oh my god, have you seen the new reports on drinking alcohol?  They are saying now that no alcohol is good for you, that even a little causes cancer!"

WTF?  Really?  You thought that drinking was good for your health?  Did you think all those fuckers at the bar were health food junkies?  That hangover you had, you thought that was just alcohol healing you?  Did you ever look at he label of a Peroni bottle?  That guy doesn't look like the epitome of health, does he?  

"Have you ever tried those CBD cocktails?  That's what all the kids are doing now,  They don't drink alcohol."

Yea.  CBD is good for you, sure.  So far.  It's been around for a decade now.  Lots of studies on what it does to the body. . . wait. . . no there aren't.  So sure. . . it has to be good for you.  But young people are dying of cancer at an increasing rate.  Hmm.  

Doctors know that the best medicine is exercise.  The first impactful study was done looking at bus drivers and conductors in Britain in the 50's or 60's--I can't remember.  They looked at one thing--heart attacks.  Drivers died much earlier than conductors at an incredible rate.  It was the difference between sitting and standing.  That started the bevy of studies that have increased exponentially over the years.  

"A little exercise goes a long way.  You don't need to train like an Olympian.  But, you know. . . HIT training is such better.  You do need to stretch every day, too.  And meditate.  One minute of meditation is great.  Just listen to your breath.  But twenty minutes is better.  You don't need 10,000 steps a day.  It is better if you walk at a quicker pace.  The further, the better.  You need more protein than you are probably getting, but don't try getting it from meat.  Legumes, nuts. . . but watch your calories.  It is the fiber that is important, but you need two servings of fermented food every day, too.  There are only five exercises you need to do to to live longer.  Don't try to overdo it.  Semaglutides have been shown to have many benefits, but some people. . . . "

So, hey. . . did you hear?  If you have even one drink of alcohol, your chances of getting cancer increases!

People are just batshit crazy, I think.  

Yea, I looked at the Red Carpet shit, too.  I'm as looney as anyone. 

I'll get out of the house today.  I'm going to take a walk and go to the gym and not drink and be young forever.  Then tonight, I'm going to the Little League Wrestling place to take some photos.  Look at me, living the dream.  

No matter. . . the music keeps playing.  It is good and hypnotic.  I'm certain the right music can make you healthier.  Not electronic music or rap, though.  They probably cause cancer.  

Can you imagine Peggy Lee as a young singer today?  She'd be killing it.  Let Trailer Swift try this.  

But Amy Winehouse could have, but that didn't work out quite right for her, did it?  Who knows?  She didn't have to get old and stay in the house away from the world like some aging movie star from a bygone era.  

A Beautiful Saturday

Saturday was gorgeous, a nearly perfect day.  The air was cool and dry, the sky clear and blue and a million miles high.  And so I did what I do so often now on perfectly beautiful Saturdays.  

I stayed home.  

I could see the day from my windows, and I even stepped out on the deck once, but I was homebound all the live-long day.  

What is wrong with me?  Have I become an isolate?  

I don't know, but I was at perfect peace, cozy and warm in my house on a chilly day.  Crazy, ain't it?

I was, however, semi-productive.  I did loads of laundry.  I cleaned the kitchen.  I opened mail, something I do on rare occasions.  And I decided to look for the odd little things going on in my own hometown.  You might be surprised how difficult it is to find small events in a big tourist town, or maybe you are more savvy and already linked in to some social media platform that tells you what's going on.  I have never found that channel, though, and I am always reading about something I would have gone to the next day.  I used "the Google" and tried every variety of search terms I could think of.  I searched for Lucha Libre near me.  I couldn't find any.  Selavy.  But I did get some good information on the best places to see it in Mexico City.  I found out, too, that it is OK to take a camera into the arena.  I found out where I could sit for the best photos.  There was a fellow who had already done it.  No worries. . . his photos were the standard kitchen variety, but the information was helpful.  I looked up flights to Mexico City.  Not bad.  Very do-able.  Two and a half hour flight.  I could do three days and be home for a fair price.  So there's a thought.  

During the search, though, I did come across some little league wrestling again.  I sent pictures to the fellow who let me come last time and didn't feel I had adequately heard back, so I decided to email him again.  There is an event tomorrow night and again on Saturday.  Could I come?  He wrote back right away and said that I certainly could.  

O.K. then.  Chills of anticipation.  Could I do it differently?  Better?  There is only one way to find out.  And this time, I will try to go back to the dressing room, and I will try to talk to the wrestlers.  I want stories.  

That was my thinking.  

I believe I have already told you I heard back from a bigger league women's roller derby team across the state.  I wrote back to them and said I would definitely be coming and would wait for further information.  

I really want to shoot a series in a go-go bar.  Mad to.  So I Goggled to find any in my area.  There are not very many any longer.  The religious popos have shut most of them down.  But something else popped up, though, a private BDSM club across town.  I've known about it for years.  One woman I shot with in the studio long, long ago invited me to go.  I had no interest at the time.  They have a night once a month, however, when they let "certain" photographers come to one of their dungeons to take photographs.  I wrote to them saying I'd like to come.  It is not my thing, but I am imagining the images Elmo Tide style (link).  

Getting into a strip club is going to be difficult and probably impossible, but I have a few ideas about that.  I'll need investors, though.  I think I may know a few.  Until that time. . . there is burlesque.  Like BDSM, it is not my thing, but again. . . Elmo. . . so I found a venue that appealed to me, one I'd never seen before.  I found an email address for the troupe and wrote  to see if I could make some photos with them.  I leaned in on my credentials once again, hoping.  I wait to hear back.  

Rodeos.  There is one about an hour away that takes place every Saturday night.  They don't supply an email address, just a phone number.  You may remember that a few years ago, I did a documentary on the biggest professional rodeo in the state.  It happens in February and is part of the national championship cowboy series.  I will lean on that when I talk to them, I've decided, and see what happens.  I need to try to get some credentials to shoot the big event in February, too.  I've got to get some credentials from somebody.  I need to quit being afraid and just try.  But it is like asking a girl on a date.  I simply can't take rejection, so I don't.  But man. . . on the credentials thing, I just have to try.  Any small town paper will do.  

I also found a Dude Ranch that listed cowboying and glamping.  They, too, have Saturday night rodeos.  They have a Farmer's Market and. . . ready. . . luxury teepees for rent.  I may have to go stay in one and go to everything they offer.  I'm certain it will be expensive, but sometimes the piper must be paid.  

I still need to get in touch with the stock car track management, but my semi-writer/artist friend wants to go in on that, so I will wait to talk to him and let him try to make arrangements.  That is what he does.  He is good at it.  

That took a couple of hours.  I had drifted into a beautiful afternoon.  I ate some peanut butter toast and decided to go the big computer and work on one file before I let the house.  I knew where I wanted to go.  A small museum of American Art in town is displaying the works of Sally Michel, an "abstract tonalist" painter.  I would go there, then I wold stop by the big warehouse of plants and home furnishings where I met the owner a month or so ago, the woman who Q knew from his days in the electronic music scene here in my own hometown.  

I went to my old, untouched studio files and chose a picture to work on.  It was good.  Then another.  I have developed a somewhat different approach to making the same sort of image that I did before.  It takes a long while to finish one, but the music was playing and it was good.  I had let my Apple station play all morning, and it was humming on all cylinders.  It put me in the zone.  

When I got up from the computer, I felt guilty.  It was mid-afternoon now.  If I was going to go out, I needed to go right away.  I stepped onto the deck.  Oh. . . it was lovely.  

I ate a grapefruit.  Then I worked on another image.  

At four-thirty I called my mother.  

"Would you hate me if I didn't come over today?"

I needed a pack of cheroots and some broccoli.  I was scruffy.  I hadn't even splashed water on my face.  No matter.  I threw on a sweater and headed out the door.  Who cared?  At the liquor store, I bought some non-alcoholic rum.  At the grocery store, I bought lots of things I hadn't planned on.  When I got back home, the sun was near to setting.  

I made a non-alcoholic rum and coke, lit a cheroot, and sat out on the deck.  It was getting chilly.  The rum and coke wasn't a rum and coke, but the flavors were strong and that was just OK.  

As the sun set, I went to the kitchen and prepared some parboiled cod, steamed broccoli, and rice.  When it was ready, I put it all into a large bowl and drizzled teriyaki sauce over everything.  It is the easiest meal in the world to make and is always better than I remember it to be.  

I didn't turn on the t.v. The music was still good.  I cleaned up the kitchen and was going to read, but I decided to cook up one more picture.  

It was eleven when I got a text.  The tenant had come home from her holiday travels.  She said she had knocked on my door but got no answer.  The lights were on.  The car was in the drive.  Was I OK?

I texted back.  She came down to pick up her mail.  I was sleepy now, but she wanted to chat.  

It was midnight when I brushed my teeth and went to bed.  

I had completed eight pictures.

I'll not stay home today.  Uh-uh.  I won't go near the big computer.  When I get in there with the music and the images, I get lost.  Hours go by without notice.  Nope.  Not today.  

I sent the photo at the top of the page to Q with a note--"I don't give a fuck what your friends say.  I'm pretty fucking good at this."

And I sent him the song that was playing at that very moment.  It is a damn good one, too.  Q sent back a message.  He liked the photo and he liked the song.  

Now. . . I need to get out of my chair and into the wild.  I will not be a shut in another day.  I will be an active man.  I will be an adventurer.  

The Eternal Quest

I just read a book review mere moments ago that made me say, "Ahhh" (link).  For those of you who have trouble following links, it is a review of a new book by Pico Iyer.  I have enjoyed Iyer's work for decades, I guess, though I forget about him often.  There was a time when I read any travel related book that came out.  I was hungry to see the world, and to see it in a "certain way."  And I did quite a bit.  You can't see the world in that "certain" way any longer.  That's just the nature of things.  Change is constant.  Lucky for me, travel was cheap.  Even better, it did not require the planning that it does today.  I could simply make up my mind to go someplace, book a flight for the next day, and go.  And when I got "there," it was not difficult to find a cheap place to stay.  I was looking at flights and hotels online yesterday for several places I've thought of visiting lately.  Holy shit.  Let me sound like an old man for a minute.  I used to stay in the Southern Cross Hotel on Duval Street in Key West for ten dollars a night.  Later, when I no longer wanted to slum it, I stayed in the Southernmost Motel at the Atlantic end of Duval for thirty dollars a night, which I thought was pretty outrageous.  The Southernmost is right now, this week, $250/night.  But that is what happened everywhere.  I looked up flights to Albuquerque.  Motherfucker!  Seriously.  What happened?  New Mexico a decade ago was like Key West "back then."  I guess "Breaking Bad" changed all of that.  I used to stay at the Chelsea Hotel in NYC for. . . . 

You catch my drift.  

Airports are overcrowded and people do weird things on airplanes now.  My most seasoned business traveler friends say that can't stand going on a flight any longer.  The Golden Age of airlines, they say. . . . 

The highways are congested.  In my own home state, what used to take an hour and five minute trip takes two hours--if you time it right.  

European cities are beginning to restrict travelers.  There are just too many tourists.  They've had enough.  

It's like the old Yogi Berra saying, "Nobody goes there anymore.  It's too crowded."  

When I talk to Travis, an inveterate traveler, he regrets the places he didn't get to that are impossible places now, many of them Levantine countries.  

And so, like Iyer, I've entered a quiet and contemplative moment in my life.  I'll buy the book.  

I must add that the wealthy villagers I know still like to travel.  They go first class and pay premiums to stay in the best hotels and eat at Michelin restaurants.  And when they return, they talk about their travels as I once did about traveling to places like Peru during it's most turbulent time when terrorists ruled large swaths of the country and I stayed in hotels without heat or hot water after noon, where I dined on food from street vendors or in restaurants with primitive stone ovens.  This is how we all travelled then before the magazine articles and books came out and everyone wanted to go.  I'm sure Iyer is as much responsible for the change in travel as anyone.  

I read a book titled "The Golden Hordes" a long time ago about the great impact of the international travelers who seek pleasure.  It is out of print, but I'd recommend you buy a copy if you can find one.  You will see that the reason for traveling and the means makes a good deal of difference in the impact on the world.  

"We like to travel for, you know, the sites and to try new restaurants.  We always come home with ideas about decorating the home and new recipes we want to try to make for ourselves."

And so it goes.  

I just looked up famous travel quotes thinking to blame Mark Twain for a good amount of it, but do it for yourself.  I'm not pointing fingers.  I longed to live by many of those pithy platitudes, too.  You know. . . only the small minded stay at home, etc.  

The cold air has made its way to my sunny southern state.  I have the heat cranked up high to warm my drafty old home.  Cold air comes up through the floorboards, creeps in through window cracks and door jams.  Walkers outside are all bundled.  I am thinking about taking a trip to another town's farmer's market where I can buy fresh mushrooms of many varieties.  It's a trend.  Mushrooms are the key to a healthy body and a healthy mind.  It might be true.  Mushrooms have been used to make medicines and potions for centuries.  Now everyone wants a little micro dose of the magic, even the retired judges I know.  The aging brain longs for enlightenment.  

Pico Iyer believes he found it at the Benedictine Monastery that is his longtime retreat.  But I'm sure Iyer just did something terrible.  The great hordes will be standing in virtual lines to get their time for quiet solitude in order to experience some deeper meaning.  Just wait and see.  Someone you know will go and come back with tales, and soon it will cost a lot of money to go.  

I used today's picture because the woman looks to be a bit world weary.  And it kind of illustrates the song, too.  

Pray.  

Routines

I've worked out a really good nighttime routine, right up until an hour after I go to bed.  After that, it is mayhem.  Up early once again, I am tired and sluggish, and I have no ideas for writing today.  Well, one. . . but it may not be appropriate.  This could be brief.  

"Blessedly so. . . ."

Yea, yea, yea.  

I heard on NPR yesterday that there is a celebration of The Epiphany on Jan. 6 by the Greek Orthodox Church in a town famous for sponges and sponge diving on the Gulf coast of my own home state.  Right away, I thought about going.  But I Googled it.  It doesn't look like the event I had envisioned.  It's a good long way from my house, about a two and a half hour drive.  I'd need to leave the house in the dark or go over the night before and get a room somewhere.  What else do I have to do, though?  Well. . . there is "the routine," of course.  I fear the trip would be a disappointment, and I probably won't bother going.  

But that is how you become a bore, isn't it?  I had an invitation from my semi-writer/artist friend to go to an Elks Club burger thing.  I laughed about it, but he probably went just for the experience.  He might have found material.  I probably watched t.v.  See what I'm saying?  

One needn't travel across the country to find "stuff."  But it is important to do something outside your "norm."  

I should probably go.  

I was doing fine with the little league wresting and the roller derby.  What happened?  I just received a response to an inquiry I made months ago to a larger, more professional roller derby league across the state a couple days ago.  They said they would love to have me come photograph their events.  Yea. . . I need to get back on the horse and start working at that stuff again.  I have become insanely introverted, though, and closed off.  I need to adopt a persona when I go out, one that elicits conversation and stories from others.  

Example.  Yesterday I went to the Cafe Strange for a jasmine green tea.  The Tall Girl with all the tats was working.  I never know how she will act, but I have given up fearing.  She was sitting on her side of the counter eating with a "give a fuck" look.  A couple stood before me, she thick and heavy, he meekly slim.  They were dressed like fans of David Byrne and each wore a double mask against disease.  It is why I like the cafe.  The Tall Girl kept eating while they stood off to the side a bit.  I wasn't sure if they were in line or if they had already ordered, so I just stood back a friendly way and waited.  The Tall Girl looked at me with cynically weary eyes and stared.  I grinned.  

"Hi," she mouthed.  

"Hi." 

As it turned out, the couple hadn't ordered.  When they did, she told them that it would take about half an hour to prepare.  

"That's fine," they said, "we'll be outside."  

I was surprised when The Tall Girl pulled a beer out of the cooler and handed it to the waifish fellow.  He just didn't look the type.  

When they moseyed away, The Tall Girl asked, "What can I get you?"

"A medium jasmine green tea," I said.  

"How was your New Year?" she asked.  

What?!  

"Quiet." 

"Mine, too." 

WTF?  

"I went out the night before," she said, "and got pretty drunk, so I had to stay home the next night.  I have to be careful regulating my meds."

!!!!!!!!

I knew it!  I knew she was. . . in need of meds.  Her mood changes so radically from moment to moment.  

She looked sublimely, weirdly great.  I could photograph her for days, tats and all.  And this is where I should have quit being a shy nerd, but I didn't take the conversation any further for fear of being bothersome.  I think too much about how I appear to others now to be a good reporter.  If I am going get anything, I need to drop the ego and take chances.  

And, of course, it would be easier to do out of town.  I should go to the Epiphany and give it the old college try.

I need to find some funky things going on around town no matter how dumb they seem.  I need something more than the inside of my head, my mother, and the gymroids for "material."  

Or I could just choose comfort and stay at home.  

The Better Life

It seems that the news media hast taken to inundating the public with health messages.  

"Four exercises you need to do every day."

"Can meditation improve your life?"

"How many miles do you actually need to walk each day?"

"This diet will reduce your chance of heart attack and stroke."

And, of course, there is the interest in Dry January just now, mocktails, etc.  Doing the right things can take up all your time. . . but you'll live forever.  

Or, as the saying goes. . . it will just feel like it.  

I know, I know. . . I don't have to read it.  

I'm over a week into Dry January, and I still haven't slept a whole night through.  I don't think I've lost any weight, either.  Where are all the promised benefits of eschewing alcohol the experts promised?  What?  Oh, yea. . . "may include."  I see.  Those dodgy fuckers hedge their bets.  

The question I never see addressed, however, is. . . are the ones who walk an hour a day, eat a Mediterranean diet, practice yoga and meditation after their workout in the gym, and eschew alcohol and other forms of artificial stimulation. . . are they happier when they die?  I mean, is it a more pleasant experience?  

"What?  Why?  I don't get it.  I did everything right!!!"

The old quandary--who enjoyed life more, Jack LaLanne or Frank Sinatra?

"Jack LaLanne, known as the "Godfather of Fitness", set a world record for push-ups by doing 1,033 in 23 minutes on the TV show You Asked for It in 1956."

He did outlive Sinatra by 14 years, 96 to 82, so there is that.  I can only imagine how many pushups he was able to do in those 14 years.  

But goodness is its own reward.  

I've known people who have lots and lots of money but refuse to spend it.  They get their kicks by nickel and diming.  One fellow with whom I was friends and with whom I travelled cut and colored his own hair, drove a piece of shit car, and cheated at the Wendy's salad bar when we had lunch.  He was listed in the Forbes 400 for many years.  He could afford anything, but he chose to wear his shirts well after the collars frayed.  

There are many mantras to choose from.  

Dry January is just a discipline I practice each year, just to make sure I can do it.  But it is a little like being in a rehab program.  It's like climbing mountains and running dangerous rivers.  Some people like doing it.  I think I've ever only liked having done it.  

But right now, I'm in it.  I can't go out on a Friday night, as the song goes.  I've got the A.A. blues.  

My god. . . that's a good picture.  It's a new old one.  I've got a million of 'em.  

I'll Be Nicer This Year

"Are you going out tonight?"

"No.  I never go out on New Year's Eve.  I don't do well. It's a night when amateurs put on silly little hats and blow whistles and drink and say, 'Look at us.  We're crazy,' and I say, 'No. . . just stupid.'  I don't like crowds.  I don't like people all that much, really."  

Then last night, I started getting little texted videos of people out and partying.  It looked kinda like fun.  I shouldn't be such an asshole.  

My mother said to me last night while we were drinking faux Bellinis, "I don't remember ever going out on New Year's Eve."

"I know you did once.  I have a picture of it."

"Well, that would have been the only time," she said.  

I guess she didn't remember.  

Then I said that I didn't remember ever going out on the Eve, either.  

"Wait," I said.  "I've been out on New Year's Eve in Mexico City before.  More than once.  We used to go down after Christmas to climb, then we'd be in the city for New Year's Eve."

Yea, those were some crazy times.  We wandered the city after a big dinner in the Zone Rosa to the outskirts of town where the jerry-rigged stolen power lines lit up a carnival in one of the neighborhoods.  There were little booths, games of chance, food stalls, etc.  My favorite one was the fellow with the hand cranked electrical charger and two metal handles you would pay to hold on to see how much electrical current you could stand before letting go.  If you got over a certain voltage, you won a cigarette.  I offered to buy a turn for all my buddies.  None of them were man enough to take the challenge, though.  

Then I remembered New Year's Eve(s) in Key West.  On my first trip there long before the commercialization of the island, I met a couple who would become my good friends for a long, long while.  One year, my girlfriend and I went down for the New Year and they put us up on a friend's 65 foot sailboat that was at dock for the week.  On the Eve, we partied.  They had drug consortium friends in town.  These were some monied mothers.  We drank expensive champagne and whiskeys before dinner, and long white lines were run on tables.  

Then we went to eat at one of the good restaurants on the Atlantic side of the island.  At one table was the police chief and his crew.  At another was the fire chief.  There was a police presence outside.  No matter.  Key West was a different country back then, and my friends were doing lines off the table as we ate, calling the servers over for a bump or two as well.  My friends were real pirates, and the rest of the night became a blur.  

My girl and I went back to the boat and slept.  I have plenty of photos of New Year's Day, and I just looked for them. . . to no avail.  My digital files are a frigging mess.  Those photos tell the story, though.  I'm passed out on a beach.  

My friends partied for the next two days.  

Though I was younger and more resilient, I wasn't the partier my friends were.  Here is one from that trip, but I don't think it was the very next day.  

Whatever you do today, don't make silly, small resolutions.  Go big!  Pick something very special.  

"This year I will become the Governor of my state."

Something like that.  Then just put your head down and do everything you can to fulfill the pledge.  Otherwise. . . forget about resolutions.  Most of them are too stupid to even utter.  Not that they are not noble ideas, but you will only disappoint yourself.  

"Why do you have to be like that?"

"I don't know.  I'm going to be nicer this year.  Seriously.  That's my goal."

For years now, I have made a pilgrimage to the National Shore this coming week.  It feels as if I should do it again.  The estuaries and rivers are hauntingly quiet and beautiful, a remnant of the state my parents brought me to when I was a child.  It was a spooky state then full of wild animals and wilderness, peat fields full of smoldering muck fires and iridescent swamp gas.  In the evenings at this time of year, the sky would fill with birds going home to roost as the sun went down.  

Yea, I'll take the drive this week.  

I chose today's photo with intent today.  2025 will probably not be an easy year for most people.  But. . . I don't want to be a prophet of doom and gloom.  Nope.  Not me.  I'm a high profile happy guy.  

Ho!

Anyway. . . Happy New Year.  Here is something for your hangover.  

2025

Silver Jubilee!

The Art of Loneliness

The house is being haunted by spooky noises.  I think.  There are vague thumping and bumpings and creaks and pops.  I heard them last night, uncertain.  I walked outside, not sure if there wasn't something going on out there.  I'm still not knowing.  The sound seems to come from somewhere else but from the house as well.  I cannot figure it out, and it is unnerving me.  

Now it is New Year's Eve, and all the world goes mad.  

T sent that last night from South Beach.  It is what I am missing, I guess.  It is what people do.  

There will be no champagne cocktails for me tonight unless I make a sparkling non-alcoholic Bellini.  

I won't.  It will be another, simple night alone at home.  

There was a nice article on Schubert and the Art of Loneliness today in the Times (link).  I don't know much about classical music.  I listen to it, sometimes, but I am not a student.  The titles alone confuse me.  

"Symphony 8, pt. 2, D minor"

They make nice movie scores, of course, but after listening to Schubert for fifteen minutes--yes, it is lovely--I am ready for some jazz from the '50s (the golden years) or something from that musical genius, Duke Ellington.  Ellington certainly knew what to do with classical music, didn't he?  

But Schubert is alright.  His music would make a good score for the loneliness of those two windows at the top of the page.  I am haunted by such things, sad windows to unknown rooms housing broken, lonely people.  

"Four walls."  That's what Bukowski said a man needs.  With four walls, he can make a stand.  Bukowski loved classical music.  Some have tried to illustrate this by creating Bukowski playlists. . . if you are interested (link).  I think the link will work,  If not, it is Spotify's "Classical Bukowski."  It might give you some insight into the works--but I doubt it.  

I don't know much about loneliness, either, though it is possible I am beginning to learn.  I've always been much a loner, but not so very lonely.  I often have chosen solitude over the spectacle as I will tonight.  But somehow missing Christmas this year has put a little hole in me.  Maybe I shouldn't have quit drinking until tomorrow.  

I heard a bit of an NPR piece while driving yesterday.  It was on psychological emergency workers.  I think that is what they said.  I thought about putting a voice memo in my phone so I could remember the term, but I was going through some curves and thought it best not to drive one-handed.  I thought at the time I might remember but was also pretty sure I wouldn't.  

I didn't.  

I don't.  

But man, I thought, there is some real bullshit in the world.  

"Dr. Amygdala was the first emergency responder to the scene.  Immediately, they observed the potential traumas that might arise and quickly got to work."

I'm actually a bit traumatized using the word "they" as a singular pronoun, but it is what the times call for.  Language evolves, I know, but this is a throwback to my hillbilly roots.  I guess "those people" had it right all along.  

I might give Schubert a try tonight as the hoi-polloi light fireworks to traumatized people's pet dogs.  I have never noticed cats being affected so much by fireworks, but my dog Wiley was inconsolable when they went off.  Never could figure that out.  

I guess I am not really suited to be a psychological emergency worker after all if that is any indication. . 

You know what the amygdala is, don't you?  Just checking.  I think a lot of the subtle things I do here get lost on the speed readers.  Trust me.  I've studied Joyce.  I use a lot of what I know about his writing here.  

Sure, you can scoff if you like.  Not always, sure. . . but I do.  I should probably use more Chekhov, though.  Joyce began by imitating Chekhov in "The Dubliners."  There is a lot of loneliness in that collection.  

Oh those windows.  Such windows.  

I guess I'll leave you with Schubert in case, like me, you will be alone tonight.  I think I'll celebrate early, though, with a good Greek dinner.  

After a drink with mother.  I guess I'll make those non-alcoholic Bellini's after all.  

Jesus--I just remembered that I had an entire series of photographs called "Lonesomeville."  I should have led with that.  

And. . . UPDATE!  Just after I posted this, I went to IG and had a message from Q that would have fit nicely with today's post.  Funny how things work.  

What's New? FAFO.

This is the last photo I took of the cat, somewhere around Thanksgiving.  In spite of myself, I keep thinking she will be waiting when I drive home from my mother's or will be at the kitchen door in the morning.  

This is not a good portrait, but neither is Ansel Adam's photograph of the Carter's in the White House, the "only portrait of a first couple taken during their time in the White House," according to The Washington Post.  

They are merely historical documents.  

I can't make up my mind if this is a good picture or not. 

It's weird enough.  I loved her in a friendly way.  She was a sweet person who was sad because her boyfriend had been dissing her for getting "fat."  He was a jerk, I said.  In truth, she could have been a good plus sized model, but she liked to do burlesque.  She showed up to the studio one day in this outfit.  She wanted to have photos taken in the costume.  It was o.k.  We shot together two or three times, so. . . . She was a student at the big university in town and told me that she dressed like when she went to class.  

"What?!?  Really???"

It was true, she said.  

Nothing to see there, I guess.  

She was a handy girl, liked to sew and offered to make me sets.  She could do carpentry, too, she said.  She was a jack of all trades.  

People will surprise you if you let them.  The important thing is to listen.  

Here's a woman who listened.  That's what she did for a living.  

"It sounds like Maeve Brennan had the easiest job in the world.

From 1954 to 1981, the Irish journalist and short-story writer sat in Manhattan’s cheaper bars and restaurants, martini in hand, and wrote down what she saw for The New Yorker.

In fact, Brennan was a genius at the art of intense observation."

 Her story turns out to be a sad one, but I will let you discover that for yourself if you are interested.  When I sent this and the rest of the tragic story to a ne'er do well writer-ish friend, he wrote back, "That’s sad. I want that job."  He'd be good at it, I'm certain.  

I sent it to Q, and he sent back a picture of a hand (his?) holding a copy of her collected essays (link).  

She worked with Truman Capote at The New Yorker and was, reportedly, the woman upon whom Capote based his character Holly Golightly in "Breakfast at Tiffany's."  The movie is one of the favorites of almost all the women of interesting character I have known.  There is something to be learned from that, I think. . . about my taste in women, probably.  

The title of the book and probably more so of the film has caused people to call the store "Tiffany's" rather than by its actual name.  I find that an interesting observation on my part.  

I need to be careful what I say about people here on the blog.  It is semi-biographical fiction, but people don't necessarily read it that way.  I know some people who come to the site once in a while and skim the posts the way some people pick up biographies and only look at the index to see if they are in the book.  I hurt a friend's feelings the other day with a post about Christmas gifts.  I didn't even know she came to the site.  But seriously, this is written for effect, not as a news report.  There are reactions I want to evoke in the reader.  You can't take this shit literally.  C.C. says, "You're not heartless enough to be a writer."  WTF!?!?  He's the one who told me to start this thing in the first place!!!!

But yea. . . I could use all the friends I can get.  

All I can say is YOU try posting your brain drippings every day for decades and see how many people YOU piss off.  ESPECIALLY if you are doing it for free!  When I was in college, everything was free.  Yoga, meditation. . . and people scoffed.  People laughed at the goofy hippies.  Then someone started charging for sessions and the shit took off.  People are serious about it now that they pay ten dollars a Carnegie Hour for it.  Now they see it as profound.  

I'm just saying.  

But shit should be free.  I'm with Bernie Saunders on the dire economic position of the USA.  

!00%.  

But wait. . . what was the plan?  I can't remember what he said we gotta do.  What's the plan?  Old Bern is good with ideas, but that kid who shot the Healthcare CEO. . . .  I am with Michael Moore on this one.  I condemn murder both by individuals and by corporations.  We are rapidly reaching a tipping point.  

My former boss, a Black Woman who has a social agenda, wrote to me, "Have you heard of FAFO?"

Like my friend, Sky, she uses social shorthand shit that I have to look up.  So when I Googled it, the first thing to come up was a music video (link).  Holy crap. . . these are the fellows I grew up with, turd eating rednecks.  I wanted to get as far away as I could, so I moved to my own hometown.  Now I live with shit eating greed heads.  All I wanted was a pretty, tranquil life, but it seems there is no middle anymore.  I would say that people need to read more, but, you know how that turns out.  

I need to get out and do some intense observation and keen listening, but. . . well, O.K. . . . I'll tell you how it worked out for Maeve.

"That genius was increasingly forgotten by the world as she fell prey to alcoholism and paranoid mental illness in later years. A brief 1954 marriage to St. Clair McKelway, The New Yorker’s drunken, philandering managing editor, lasted five years.

Broke and homeless, she took to sleeping in the bathroom at The New Yorker. In 1987, she was spotted in the magazine’s entrance hall, a crumpled, puzzled wreck, staring at the floor, banned from entering the office. What a fall from grace for the youthful, gamine beauty whom, some say, her New Yorker colleague Truman Capote used as a model for Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She spent her last years in a nursing home in Queens, where she died in 1993 of a heart attack."

 I don't know how things worked out for the model, but I'm pretty sure that Scar the Cat is with Jimmy Carter and Ansel Adams now.  Nature has a plan.  

There was no YouTube version of this song other than some crummy live ones, so I have had to spend too long making and uploading one.  I hope it will be viewable and not blocked for copyright reasons.  I mean, I'm providing a service, not making a profit, so. . . . 

It still has fifteen minutes of uploading.  Oy!

I can't wait any longer.  It may get blocked.  Selavy.  We shall see.  

The Hindu Way

Why would I bother with film when I can do this with digitals?  Color film, anyway.  Black and white, maybe, but there seems to me to be no need for color film in my shooting.  I'm just saying.  

I'm just saying that here and now, tapping away at the keyboard in the dark once again after a fairly sleepless night.  I am thinking I am not the only one.  I think many of you have trouble sleeping, too.  We could get by on less sleep, and be happy, if it weren't for those pesky researchers telling us that if we don't get eight hours of good, solid sleep every night we will get diabetes, have strokes or heart attacks, or, at the very least, get fat.  

It's so hard to live a perfect life.  

But I couldn't stay in bed another minute.  

I had planned on a fun travel camera morning, but rain is predicted to fall all the live-long day.  The forecast is often wrong, but still. . . . 

So in an imperfect world with imperfect lives, let me lighten your mood by telling you my woes.  You can either relate or be happy repeating the old mantra, "but for the grace of god. . . ."

I felt dampness on the rug that lies before the sink the other day.  I thought I had spilled water.  Yesterday morning, I felt it again.  I hadn't spilled anything.  Oh-oh.  There was only one thing to do.  I took my stiff and broken body to the floor and ran my hand around the cabinet beneath the sink.  Dampness.  WTF?  So I began taking all the items out and setting them about on the kitchen floor.  In the back of the cabinet, I found a vase that was full of water.  What?  Who put a vase full of water in the back of the cabinet?  This made no sense at all.  Maybe the maids hate me.  I took it out, dumped the water in the sink, and dried out the cabinet with paper towels. Then I felt around the pipes for dampness.  I didn't feel any and decided to wait until daylight to check again.  

When I checked again, there was water.  I dried it up, lay a paper towel down on the dry cabinet floor, and found the drip.  Piss shit fuck goddamn.  Now I needed to bend my really bad knee further than goes, get down on the floor and onto my back to peer up at the plumbing above.  

"Holy shit, I'm fat," I said aloud, grunting and puffing as I did some crazy pilates twist and roll.  "I need to go back to yoga."  

I traced the pipes with my hand until I found some dampness.  It was coming from the line that carries water to the sprayer.  I reached up to the fitting and tried to diagnose what the problem was.  There was a clamp of some sort, so I gave it a twist, then another.  Hell, yea, that should do it.  

Like fuck it did.  What I discovered is that the tube leaked only when the water was running, and not so very much even then.  I figured it must have taken months for the vase to have filled with water.  It had been fortuitously situated under the leak.  So I thought at the time, but sitting here now reliving this, I don't think it was.  That is a troubling thought.  

Having located the leak and not having the requisite skills nor adequate desire, I knew I'd need to call a plumber.  Cha-ching.  

I stood up.  Everything hurt.  I looked at the kitchen floor littered with all manner of cleaning products and decided to do inventory.  When was the last time I had done that?  There were things I had never purchased, things Ili had bought, organic counter cleaners and hand sanitizers and hand lotions.  There were extras of everything, triples of Clorox cleaners and multiple packages of dishwashing pods and dish soaps.  There were old sponges and ant and roach bait. . . . I decided to organize the mess putting like with like into dishpans, throwing away the products I didn't know I had and would never use, and requisitioning some things to the garage.  When I was done, I had three dishpans that went neatly back under the sink.  Then I thought of something.  I could fix the problem. . . the hillbilly way.  I'd just put a dishpan under the leak!  Brilliant!  Problem solved!

And that is what I did.  

Don't worry.  I'm still calling a plumber to fix the problem.  Eventually.  

It was still early, not even late, morning.  I thought about going back to bed, but then I thought again.  I changed into my workout costume and took a long walk to the outdoor gym at the park.  I would do a long walk and a little exercise and come back home before the morning was gone.  Having taken off a holiday week from the gym, I would just come back to exercise slowly.  

On my way home, I saw an old friend of mine, a retired judge with whom I had travelled several times out of the country.  I stopped to talk to him and his dog for a bit, and as we stood, a couple came by and commented on the dog.  My friend has had Irish Setters since I have known him, some forty years, and he apparently barely feeds them for they are always excruciatingly thin, all lookalikes.

"You've had that dog a long time," the man said.  

"Yes. . . he's fifty now," the retired judge kidded.  

"You live in that house. . . ." 

The conversation turned.  "You were a judge.  And you live. . . " the man was speaking to me and pointing in the direction of my house.  "You're an artist."

What?  Ho!  I told him I was a straw boss at the factory.  

"Oh. . . the neighbors all say you're an artist."

I guess that makes them feel better, safer, than referring to me as the old, disheveled bohemian.  Later, I would think I should have told them I was a shaman, but then again, I don't need trouble in my own neighborhood, so best not to kid.

We chatted a long time about all the houses that had been and were being torn down to make room for new mansions.  Yes, we all agreed, the neighborhood was changing.  

It was later than I would have liked when I got back to the house.  I took a soak and a shower and a bit of a nap, but when I got up, it was still early afternoon.  The sky was grey.  I decided to go shopping for two things, a plastic container 15"x15", and some tea from the Tea Exchange.  

It takes frustratingly forever now to go a few blocks in my village.  Traffic and traffic lights galore.  I drove to the Office Depot in the big shopping plaza that has a Home Goods store and all the discount clothing and shoe places connected with it.  And apparently, everyone was doing their post-Christmas shopping.  The parking lot was jammed.  

Fuck Office Depot.  They didn't have anything that suited me.  I headed for the Tea Exchange on the Boulevard.  

Equally packed.  The sidewalks were full.  

Fuck the Tea Exchange.  They didn't have what I wanted, either.  

So. . . why do people complain about online shopping?  I can order exactly what I want from my computer and have it in two days or less.  Driving from store to store looking for what they don't have is a drag.  

Now it is time for confession.  I've already begun my Dry January.  I've probably already told you.  I need to lose about a hundred pounds.  I keep telling myself I don't need food.  Tea.  I am drinking a lot of tea.  Mmm, I say.  But it is not yet January and I am still susceptible, so. . . .  I've had a few invitations out in the past couple of days.  A Friday cookout with the gymroids and a Friday night invitation to come meet some girls, waitresses with whom one of my old co-workers is enamored.  They give him presents and treat him special, take pictures with him and make him happy.  He wanted me to come to the bar to meet them.  I had an invitation to go to a backyard party with a Bohemian crowd last night coming from my writer friend.  They were going to show "Slapshot" on a big screen and have roasted hot dogs and drinks.  

I turned all of the invitations down.  Stupid, I think, for my future girlfriend was most certainly waiting for me there.  I, however, stayed in, alone with dinner, hot tea, and home entertainment.  

Yea, yea, yea.  Maybe in February.  

The grey sky is beginning to show.  I am tieed and may go back to bed.  Such is my so-called life.  My hope is that you who are living similarly feel comforted and those of you with richer lives are amused.  But remember, there is an arrogance in looking down on people and their foibles.  You may avoid misery for awhile, but it is always watching you, peeping 'round the corner.  

"Give us this day our daily bread, and lead us not into temptation. . . ."

In the song I posted yesterday, one line goes, "I'd do it all better if I could do it all again."  I think the better line is simply "I'd do it all the same if I could do it all again."  I mean, the difference in the two must have led to the idea of karma and rebirth long ago.  I think, by and large, we wish we could be better but know we can't really change what we are.  Hence, our eternal return to struggle, suffer, etc., the Hindu way.  

I just saw this yesterday.  I wish I'd seen it before Christmas, though.  I don't know shit about the Kardashians and have never cared.  I'm arrogant that way.  But now. . . holy shit. . . I'm a fan.  This thing is great.  

After  I watched this, I Google Kim Kardashian and saw some of her (in)famous sex tapes.  She's the real deal, alright, an unrepentant bad girl.  If she came back in another life. . . if she had it to do all over again. . . . 

Ain't It a Cold Cold World

The remnants of Christmas will linger for awhile.  In truth, the Twelve Days of Christmas lasts until the first of the year, so. . . O.K.  But nobody I have ever known celebrates the Twelve Days of Christmas, so there is that.  Besides, it is Hanukkah now, so. . . . .

I have dated Jewish girls and have many Jewish friends, and all of them participate in Christmas.  The Santa version.  

I have to tell you that I am just gaga over some photos I processed last night.  They were made with my medium format Fuji and non-Fuji, non medium format lenses.  The sensor on that camera is totally oo-la-la.  The color saturation knocks me out.  So what do I do with such a lovely thing?  Well. . . I pretty much fuck it up.  But the thing is. . . the image stands up to it.  There is so much there there.  So last night I cooked up a bunch of images in a process that gave me shivers.  I don't know if it always will, but for now. . . . 

I am making old postcards again!  They are almost 3D.  

I want to try it on people.  You know. . . some visual lust.  It is only visual, you know.  You may not believe it, but it is true.  I am addicted to visual beauty and pleasure.  My sexual proclivity is for my own true love, but absent that, a little creative activity would be nice.  

But I grow old.  Not in the way of old movies, though.  I watched TCM with my mother on Christmas Eve and realized something.  Movies of the late thirties through the early fifties had a real staunch ideology on the stages of life.  In old movies, old people were portrayed as old. They dressed "old" and moved "old."  They had "old" personalities, staunch, stern, and brittle.  Even one of my favorite characters, Uncle Willy in "The Philadelphia Story" can't escape the stereotype.  I like his "spunk," but he is written off in the film as a "pincher."  

I need to research this and see what has been written about the ageism of old films.  It seems a fertile ground for academic papers.  

Have you seen Peter O'Toole in "Venus" (link)?  C.C. and I saw it long ago, and even then we found it devastating.  O'Toole is brilliant, however, and nails the type hook, line, and sinker.  

Oh. . . I don't wish to think of it.  

For now, I have the clock tower in the village square and some other fine objects to show you later.  Given circumstances, they will have to do.  

Sleep has become a problem for me.  Went to bed at eleven and was up four times during the night.  Finally got up at five.  Of course there are naps, but I've read they don't make up for a good night's sleep.  I've eschewed sleep aids for a bit hoping to cleanse my system.  They surely must be toxic.  I'm trying to give my body a chance to regain its "natural" rhythm, if it still has one.  But I'll not worry myself over it.  I'll just have to go with whatever I am given.  Play the hand I'm dealt.  Suffer the blows I may have inflicted upon myself.  

It is still dark out.  I've read the news, though at this hour it may still be yesterday's.  I guess I can go back and see if it has been updated to the newest horrors and latest opinions.  Maybe I'll take a long walk in the dark.  I see people doing that every "morning."  I'm guessing that those are people who cannot sleep, either.  

Abandoned Again

I need to get outside myself and write about something else today, but I am stymied.  It seems I am all I know right now.  That isn't good.  I need to take up a field of study, something new to me like botanical gardens or meteorology.  I've forgotten almost all the philosophy I've read, which is probably a good thing.  There are many histories to study in these turbulent times, but that field is overcrowded as it is.  By and large, people have become abhorrent to me.  The natural world seems to maybe be the thing.  

The cat is gone.  She has not been around for a long time now.  I fed her for seven or eight years.  There was nothing more I could do for her.  When I sit out on the deck now, I will not have my usual company.  The neighbor's cat doesn't come around much for awhile, and when he does, he acts very strange.  He spooks easily.  I suspect coyotes got the feral and the domestic cat is aware of the danger.  I don't understand the laws against killing the coyotes given that they kill pets and are not a native species.  They are, in a Trumpian vision, illegal aliens.  The city, county, and state do nothing to prevent them, but they will certainly jail your cat or dog if it is running about unleashed.  The logic escapes me.  

I keep wondering how a bull mastiff pit would do against a coyote.  Of course the pit could never catch a coyote.  They are a marvel to drive behind when they are running.  There is a terrible beauty in it.  

But the cat is gone and I dreamed of her last night.  I just now remembered.  I was walking by a retention pond and she and the neighbor's cat were there catching minnows.  Ahhh, I thought, she has food.  

The day breaks wet.  Dreary after Christmas weather.  The world seems weary.  We'd better do something quick.  Shit's fucked up.  

Post Holiday Breakdown

So, the holidays are over and done.  No, wait. . . is New Year a holiday?  I guess, maybe.  Still, the Big Guy has done his work, the parades are done, and everyone has opened their gifts, so. . . . 

We didn't open gifts, mom and I.  Well. . . there were a few things from other people.  I got a box of 1960s slides from my college roommate's wife that she got from someone on that Neighborhood Gossip thing, faded color architectural photos.  Why?  I guess she figures one set of photos is like another.  I got a spatula from the tenant and my mother got a box of chocolate.  But we bought one another nothing.  Neither of us cared to go Christmas shopping and buy gifts like spatulas and chocolates which we will give up after the holidays.  I was feeling terribly guilty, though, so on Christmas Eve I took mother to Costco and told her to pick out what she wanted, either a smart t.v. or an air fryer oven.  They didn't have the air fryer she wanted, so we got the smart t.v.  I thought it would be easier for her to use.  So we took it back to her place and I set it up.  I spent three hours setting it up because it has all sorts of internet components that required her passwords which she can never remember, so I spent most of the time calling the cable company and the company who made the router trying to figure it all out.  Then I had to register the thing with Samsung.  At the end of three hours, though, it was all done, and. . . "forget about it" as the old movie Italian saying goes.  There was no way my mother was going to figure out all the menus.  So I took it all apart and put it back in the box, then set her old t.v. up again.  Then I left.  I was going to spend Christmas Eve with her, and I needed to do some things at home to get ready.  

What I did was fall asleep in my clothes.  I wasn't feeling well at all.  Bad belly, body aches and weakness.  After dark my mother called. 

"Are you coming over?"

When I got there, neither of us wanted to eat.  We were both sick.  And so, Christmas Eve was an unplanned, unofficial fast.  I'd eaten nothing all day.  Since I can't watch commercial t.v., I found the TCM station and put it on.  We watched "The Bishop's Wife" with Cary Grant as an angel.  Without commercial interruption.  

"How'd you like that, mom?"

"It was too slow.  I need something with action."

Oy.  

It was bedtime.  My mother had Tramadol that the doctor prescribed for her long ago.  We each took one, and I took a Xanax, too.  That should do it. 

Nope.  I couldn't sleep, so in the middle of the night, I got up and took another Tramadol.  

We were both slow on Christmas morning.  There was nothing to do but make coffee and breakfast--bacon and French toast.  It was good, but after that I lay on the couch and fell asleep.  When I woke up at noon, I needed to go home to get ready for the Christmas dinner across the street at four.  When I got home, I fell asleep until three, then three thirty.  At four, my mother called to see if I was coming.  I was on my way.  

I won't bore you with dinner.  It was fine.  Another family from the neighborhood was there, too.  We didn't get back to my mother's house until eight, after which, I went home. . . and to bed at nine.  

And that was the Christmas holiday for me.  Just a side note. . . I still don't feel well, and it worries me.  

There IS one good thing to come this holiday.  I snuck a few posts onto my new Substack account.  I can't even figure out how it works, really, but within three posts, I had someone pledge $80 to my account with a note.  Holy Shit!  I'm a writer almost!  

I won't accept the money, of course, but it lifted my spirits a bit.  I don't even think people see my account and postings, but I have a few subscribers now.  

And I've been giving this away for free for decades now.  What?

I hope your Christmas was better than mine.  I got through, but that is about it.  Now to get healthy again.  

I'll bring back the music later.  I know you are excited about that.  

Ho!

Merry Christmas to You

I'll tell you about my Christmas Eve later.  I just want to say Merry Christmas here on the morning itself.  I hope your Christmas is bright.  

Eve

I had a smart ass post for tonight, but I've deleted it.  As you have read, I've avoided most of the holiday things,  No movies, no songs. . . then C.C sent me this and I wept.  

We never know if and when we might meet again.  So . . . here's hoping you get what you've wished for.  

Merry Christmas

Christmas Shopping in Grit City

 

I went to Grit City early yesterday to hit the cool little home goods stores and shops selling interesting knick-knacks.  I'm skipping the gym this week which means I have a whole lot more day to spend in the wild.  I needed to get motivated, so I did a bunch of necessary home chores, changing a.c. filters, pouring clearing fluids down pvc drains, both the house and the apartment, taking out the garbage, too, and setting the cans on the street, etc.  

I don't have "cans."  Throwback lingo. 

It was cool out, so after I showered, I put on shoes and jeans and a warm layer over my t-shirt.  

Just before I hit the interstate, I had a text from the cleaning service.  They had a cancellation and wanted to come at 11:30.  I wrote back that I wasn't in town and the house wasn't ready, so . . . 

They said they would come at the scheduled time.  

When I got to Grit City, the streets were empty.  

Not a soul around.  It didn't look as if the town was open.  I checked my phone for the time.  Had I jumped the gun?  Nope.  Where in the hell was everyone?

Turns out, most of Grit City is closed on Mondays.  For real?  The Monday before Christmas, and the shops are closed?  

It is a town of bums and drunks, and about that, I am not exaggerating.  There are more bars, breweries and distilleries in a few block area than anyplace I've ever been. . . and I've been around.  I'd estimate that in a five by five block area, there are fifty.  Not making that up.  

I decided to walk the town, block by block.  I went past all the places where the cool little shops once were.  Nope.  They were gone.  Even my buddy's import furniture shop had closed down.  Nothing but bars ever make it in Grit City, which is a shame as it has one of the prettiest little downtowns you will ever see.  And it is lakefront.  Big river boats ply the river.  This was once the main artery for getting products out of the center of the state.  It was rich with opera houses and the original Country Club College.  I think that part is correct.  There is a plaque somewhere in town that says that.  Or something like that.  If memory serves.  

The streets surrounding downtown and the waterfront are filled with big old wooden mansions, and they are aplenty.  The town, however, fell into hard times mid-last century, and the old mansions were falling apart.  Now, though, there have been restorations galore and things have gotten expensive.  Oh, those little streets run for beautiful miles now.  

So you would think that those pretty shops would be just the thing for serving the downtown population.  But you'd be wrong.  Even the historic old train station and the fire department have been turned into bars. True dat! 

I walked for a very long time.  Ili once lived here early in our relationship, and I spent some happy hours there.  We ate and drank, of course, and walked the city far and wide, so I had a little nostalgia thinking about those old days, but nothing maudlin or morose.  No, indeed, they were happy memories.  

I was carrying my big medium format Fuji GFX camera and a camera bag with two Leicas that never came out.  I had a strange lens mounted on the Fuji, a Lens Baby swirly bokeh thing that I had never used much before though I have had it for around a decade, I would guess.  And I learned something.  If you shoot the lens wide open, the swirly bokeh is very pronounced, but if you stop it down. . . not so much.  I like the lens and now that I have learned its characteristics, I am sure to use it more.  It can be a real pip.  

After walking awhile, I was getting hot.  A few people had come out into the streets, and they were all wearing shorts.  I should have worn shorts, I thought as I peeled off my warmer layer.  It was hot.  I checked my phone for the temperature.  

70 degrees!  If I were in my house and it was 70 degrees. . . but here I was sweating.  Strange.  

I decided to eat, so I went to the old train station turned food court and bar.  I got a spicy miso ramen bowl and a light beer.  The barmaid was pretty-ish, short and stocky but well built, too, with a full sleeve on one arm and a small bullring in her nose.  She, however, looked like two completely different people depending on which side you saw her.  Her left side was eight years older than her right, it seemed.  But that was Grit City.  

"Do you want to keep your tab open?" she smiled.

"No.  I'm not from here.  I can't drink like the fine citizens of Grit City do."

She laughed.  "Yea, it gets pretty wild."

I looked around the station.  I was familiar with the crowd.  It was not like the crowd in my own hometown where all the women begin getting botox and dermaplaning just before puberty.  Alabaster faces, subtle makeup, and perfectly coifed hair even when it is pulled up slutty secretary style.  It is still Vogue.  It is Hollywood.  

But there was no Lulu Lemon in the train station.  Off-brand leggings, jeans, and sweat pants with big pockets, not rolled down at the waist to show those beautiful, bony hips and flat stomachs like those Country Club College girls do.  Tennis shoes or plastic clogs, no makeup or too much and hair of straw.  

Am I being sexist?  Am I unkind?

O.K. then.  The men were balding with big arms and slight bellies.  There was a plethora of baseball caps.  The worst of them wore sleeveless t-shirts.  The best of them walked with their lats slightly flexed, chins up, chest out, their movements and expressions declaring them little league football coaches mimicking their sports heroes on ESPN.  

Yea. . . I'm an asshole.  It was like going back home.  

After lunch, I walked back to my car empty handed having gotten my mother not a single gift.  I was defeated.  I decided to drive around the larger town before leaving, past the million churches (at least as many as there were bars, especially in the old African American section of town where my good friend grew up) and neighborhood parks.  I spied something and wheeled my car into a parking lot.  I had to get a photo.  

I laughed to myself--a perv bus, ho!

I wanted to see if I could remember how to get to Ili's old apartment.  You have to know which streets to turn on as there are many dead ends and backtracking streets before you get there.  I drove past slowly.  It didn't look quite as I remembered it.  There at the end of the block was the community garden where I had helped clear, dig, plant, and fertilize her plot.  From there, I turned out onto the onetime highway now clogged with cheap, meretricious buildings that served the community and made the long drive home.  

I went to the cafe for a latte, then to my mother's for a visit.  She was confused and thought I was spending the night.  

"Nope.  Not until tomorrow."

She thought it was Christmas Eve.  She was dumbfounded.  She checked her phone.  

"I thought you were staying, so I told Marlene I couldn't go with her and Jamie to see the Christmas lights.  I'd better call her."

Just then I got a text saying the cleaning crew was on their way.  What?!?!?  I thought they were coming tomorrow!  Holy shit. . . it must be genetic!  I was as confused as my mother.  

I jumped in the car and hurried home.  I needed to put things away and get them their money.  I dashed into the house and put things away as quickly as I could.  I hadn't washed the second set of sheets, so there would be no changing the bed.  Shit.  

Just as I finished, the big van pulled up.  I poured a Campari and lit a cheroot.  I would sit on the deck as they cleaned.  

"Don't worry about the bed," I said.  

Last night, I slept in the same sheets.  I'm a bum.  I'm thinking of sleeping in them until next time the maids come.  I won't. I promise.  But the thought is there.  Whatever.