Broke Ass Fool

Yesterday was a continuation of the way things have been going.  I had no callback from the State Attorney's Office, so I sent an email.  

Here is the letter I just sent to the Assistant State Attorney about my stolen camera gear.  I’m sure it will have no impact.  

Dear Mr. Lawyer, 

I left a voicemail for you yesterday concerning a letter I received from your office about case number 09i-l-lk-ll-K/P, State vs. Villian.  I was confused as the letter stated there will be a possible hearing about Mr. Villian's violation of parole.  When I called your office on Monday, I was told he had accepted a plea deal giving him probation in July 2025.  For years, I received letters from the State Attorney’s Office informing me of court dates that were later postponed, but I received no information about the July plea deal.  Over a year ago, in a phone conversation with another Assistant State Attorney, I was asked if I wished to ask for compensation for the over $22,000.00 of photo gear that he sold to Better Photos that belonged to me. I was told at that time he was facing many years in prison but would probably get a year or less.  What I could ask for, I was told, was compensation, and that after serving his sentencing time, he would remain on probation until the compensation was delivered.  

That was the last conversation I had with anyone about this case.  

I was informed, too, that the woman with whom he sold my photo gear received nineteen months in jail.  Again, I had received multiple notices of court dates over the years that were always delayed until a later date, but I received no communication about this.  

Now that the plea deal has been settled, am I simply out of options for your office to ask that I be compensated for the over $22,000 dollars (replacement cost) of stolen camera gear?  

This has been a long and frustrating saga for me, as you might imagine.  I look forward to hearing from you.  

Sincerely, 

Victim

Well, that is not it verbatim, but you get the gist.  I sent the letter to an attorney friend who told me that I should not have had to pay to get my stolen property back.  No, I said, the detective was at the photo store with me when I identified all my equipment and he told me I would have to pay back what the store had paid to get my equipment.  

"He's a cop, not an attorney."

So I looked it up on The Google. 

The State Pawnbroking Act states: To obtain possession of stolen property held by a pawnbroker, the victim must notify the broker by certified mail, return receipt requested or in person, evidenced by a signed notice such as the one in the brochure, Guide to Rights and Remedies of the State Pawnbroking Act. 

The notice must contain a description of the property and must be accompanied by a copy of the law enforcement agency’s report of the theft. If the court orders the property returned to you, you may also be able to recover your attorney's fees and costs from the pawnbroker. The court will order the person who stole the property and sold it to the pawn shop to repay the pawnbroker the amount they received, plus any associated fees, as part of restitution if they are convicted of theft. 

Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn!!!!

 I was sick at heart.  

There is nothing I can do about it now, though. 

Selavy . 

And so. . . life goes on.  

After that, I began going through the piles and piles and piles of mail I have thrown onto a desk top for God knows how long. Per usual, if you leave stuff long enough, you can just throw it away.  But!. . . I did find a check for $2,500 from the bank who holds my mortgage.  The letter said I had overpaid into my something fund.  Holy shit!  

Because I don't have a shredder, I take all my statements and things with personal info outside and burn them.  I know, but burning things is fun.  When I went back into the house, though, I couldn't find my check.  Holy shit. . . had I burned it?!?  

I started searching the house in a panic.  No, no no. . . but finally. . . I found it.  I looked at the check lovingly, then noticed something.  It was only valid for 180 days.  Six months.  I closed my eyes and counted.  No, no, no, no, no!  

I am nothing if not a buffoon.  

When I deposited the check later, the cashier didn't question it.  Now I'll have to wait to see what the other bank does.  

A fool and his money. . . . 

I went to my mother's house twice yesterday to see her.  I started collecting her info for income tax.  I called Block to see what documents my mother had used the year before.  I had everything but one.  My mother couldn't remember anything about it, so I will have to get in touch and see if they will re-issue the W-whatever.  

Life is work and then you die.  

Last night, I told my mother that Tennessee asked me to go over to the coast for Bike Week to make some photos.  I said I might go.  My cousin said I should, and so. . . 

I think I will.  I'm not sure what I'll get as I have never been before, but this will be the furthest I've travelled out of town for years.  If nothing else, I'll see the water and drink some beer.  I will try hard not to piss anybody off and get my camera smashed.  

But I'm feeling like a broke-ass hillbilly today.  I need a handler.  When the frivolous girl I would eventually marry moved in with me, I was far behind in my mortgage payments.  She, at a tender age, took over all the finances.  

"Can I buy this magazine?"

"No."

She got my finances straightened out pretty quickly.  When we got divorced, though, she got it all back.  Ha!

I just like to go places and tell stories and make things.  I'm a child.  

With a wicked imagination.  

There is a video above this, but I checked and it doesn't become visible right away.  Wait for it to show or run your cursor over it.  I don't know. . . 

I'll Never Get That Time Back

Dare I?  Dare I take a photo of a friend who looks like this and turn her into a painting by Frida Kahlo?  O.K.  Of course I do.  But do I dare to show it?  I mean, given the times?  

How long does consent last, anyway? 

And is it still my "creation" after converting the image using A.I.?  

I feel it is.  

You should see it printed. Then maybe you'd say. . . ah!  

I bought a new printer that would allow me to use thicker art papers in the top feeder.  Making a print using the top feeder is a lot easier and more predictable.  

It was a cheap Canon printer.  I'm sending it back.  The quality is shit.  

There are some great thicker art papers made for inkjets that will not feed through the top feeder.  It is frustrating, and I wonder how the companies who make them are able to sell them.  

I had a lot of time to set up and use the printer I had ordered yesterday as I waited on the gas guy to come check my meter.  I was given the option of 8-12 or 12-4.  I took the former.  

"The tech will call you half an hour before coming.  Make certain you have your privacy settings on your phone turned off."

At 11:45, I still had not gotten a call.  From the tech, I mean.  My phone rang a lot, and each time I answered it, it was a spam call.  I decided to call the gas company to see what was going on.  I chose the automated option to have them call me back when a representative was available.  Twenty minutes later, I got the callback.  

"No sir, we don't give times.  He will show up sometime today."

I called bullshit on this having just been given the option the day before.  

"You don't need to be there anyway," said my rep.  "He's just going to read the meter."

I was pissed. 

"What the fuck good is that going to do?"

I didn't say that, exactly.  Something milder.  

I was getting nowhere, and I gave in.  

I never did get the call from the tech.  I don't even know if he came.  

Meanwhile, I was having a devil of a time making a decent looking print.  It turns out that none of the paper companies make paper profiles for that particular printer, so I was using profiles that were close.  

Nothing really worked.  Now comes the pain of repacking the printer and paying shipping cost to send it back.  I should have bought it on Amazon.  

That is what I get, though, for trying to go with a cheap option.  Lesson learned.  

Just read we are changing the clocks again this weekend.  WTF?  Will this never end?  

I haven't gotten a callback from the State Attorney's Office, either.  I just keep swinging and missing.  It's the mirror I broke, I'm sure--combined with the voodoo hex my spooky ex put on me.  I should have ground that glass into dust and buried it instead of simply throwing salt over my shoulder. 

I'm always willing to take the easy way.  

Working Too Hard

My life feels so very awfully terribly confused right now.  It seems I'm going in many different directions at the same time.  I often wonder, "Is it just me?  Am I selfish?  Incompetent?  Both?"

I broke my mother out of rehab yesterday, but it was a bit of an ordeal.  My mother was up and packed and calling me before I'd even finished my coffee yesterday.  

"Hold your horses, mom.  A lot of stuff has to happen yet.  You have to be checked out and released by the doctor."

Shortly after, I got a call from one of the facility administrators.

"Your mother is wanting to leave the facility now.  We usually need a few days to process a patient out.  Could you give me a call back?"

My cousin texted that she was going to have something to eat and then go up to see my mother.  I had to call her and say she might be walking into a shit storm.  She decided to wait.  

The jail break occurred just a little before four.  Apparently, we had rushed the process.  As we were waiting for the final paperwork, one of the fellows my mother had meals with, a swell guy, told my mother he was going to miss her.  I think he might have had tears in his eyes.  It can get lonely, I guess, in a facility like this.  As he walked away on his walker, I was feeling quite heavy with emotion.  

Not mom.  

I packed her things into the car.  Then her.  It was about a mile to her house. 

I started putting together her meds.  I'd bought a plastic pill organizer with four containers per day for seven days, twenty-eight containers to fill with four different pill combos per day.  It took me awhile. 

"Do you want to sit outside?" I asked my mother.  She did.  

And she wanted a beer. 

She downed it pretty quickly.  Before I knew it, she was calling for another one.  

"You know I don't tell you what to do, but. . . ."

She decided to hold off on the second one.  

We were sitting in the garage, my mother, her niece, and I, when the woman from across the street came over.  I gave her my chair and said I'd call later.  I had a whole lot of things left to do.  

And so I left all the responsibility of my mother's first night home to my cousin.  

My house is a disaster right now.  Things are a mess.  I have photo gear and a weeks worth of important mail lying everywhere.  

Important paperwork.  I had addressed two of them that afternoon.  The first was a letter from the State Attorney's office that confused me.  It said that the fellow who had stolen my camera gear and got caught selling it at the camera store over two years ago had violated his probation and was coming to court next week.  I didn't understand this at all, so I called the number the Assistant State Attorney had provided in the letter.  

Zippo.  Blank.  The number was a black hole.  A mechanical voice asked me to enter the number of the party I wished to reach.  I only had the one phone number, so I entered that.  Nope.  Bagel.  

WTF?

I searched for another number, and at the bottom of the page in small print was a number for another office.  I called that one and got a person.  I explained my dilemma and the person said she would transfer me.  A woman answered.  I went through the litany of confusion once more with her.  She explained that the fellow had gotten a plea deal in July.  WTF?  I was never notified, I said.  What happened to the girl who was also arrested.  She was the one with whom the former prosecutor wanted to make a deal for probation.  

She received nineteen months in lockup!

"So. . . she got nineteen months and he got probation, and I was never notified.  A year and a half ago when I talked to the prosecutor, he asked if I would like to try to get a judgement for compensation.  I probably would have a hard time getting it, he said, but since [the fellow] was facing twenty years worth of grand theft charges but would probably get less than one, they could stipulate that he would stay on probation after he did his time until he had paid back the lost funds.  That was the route I said I wanted to choose.  Now what?  I'm just out the twenty-two thousand dollars without ever having a chance to make a statement?"

The lady said she would transfer me to the Assistant State Attorney.  Of course I got to leave a message.  It was a long one, and halfway through my explanation, the recording ended.  I had options, though.  I could press 3 and leave my message once again.  O.K.  This time I was a speed talker like the announcers on a drug commercial explaining the side effects of the drug.  

I wait to hear back.  Probably won't.  

No wonder people become thieves.  

That took half my afternoon, but that was quick compared to the next call.  My gas bill had jumped from twenty-four dollars this month last year to two hundred and sixty four dollars this month.  I looked back through my past statements and my bill had consistently been in the twenty dollar range.  So I called the gas company and was put on hold waiting for "the next available representative" for half an hour.  When I finally got connected, I was speaking to a moron.  She kept asking me questions like, "what temperature do you have your thermostat set to?"

"I understand the logic of lowering your thermostat.  I don't need advice on that.  I need an explanation of the over two hundred dollar jump in my bill."

Christ, it went on and on and on.  Finally she said, "Can I put you on hold?  I want to check on something." 

"Sure."

Fifteen minutes later.  

"What I CAN do is schedule a technician to come out to check your meter."

He will be here between eight and noon today.  

That was just a little of what I still need to deal with.  

I was fortunate, though, to be home when the FedEx driver showed up with the new printer I had ordered early last week from B&H.  They sent it express two day delivery.  It was supposed to be here last Thursday.  I kept checking to see if I was going to need to sign, but nothing said that I would.  

I did.

The new printer is sitting in the middle of my living room floor waiting to be set up.  The cleaning crew comes today and I have an hour or more of putting things away before they get here.  

I woke at one last night.  Don't know how long I lay in bed thinking, but I know I am very sleepy this morning after getting up at 5:30.  Sleep disruptions will kill you.  So I read this morning.  So will living too long.  I just know that.  

And so. . . that is my Full Worm Moon saga.  Mom came home on a Blood Moon.  I haven't checked with the online soothsayers to see if that is good or ominous.  I don't think I will.  

The only advice I can give you, kids, is try to keep your chin up.  

It makes a great target that way.  

As Fast As I Can

I'm busy again.  My cousin got to town late in the afternoon.  I gave her all the appropriate tools and instructions and then took her up to see my mother.  I will get my mother home later today after she has been released by the doctor.  There is a lot to do.  

I just read this in the Times this morning.  People keep telling me that such and such and so and so will pay for my mother's care, but I keep finding out that this is not the case.  This piece was written by a doctor who had to use hospice.

When my siblings and I decided to put our father in hospice care at his home in the spring of 2021, his Alzheimer’s was near end-stage. He could barely get out of bed or dress or feed himself. Hospice care seemed to be the best way for him to end his life with dignity.

Nearly all Medicare hospice patients receive care in their residence. So, as is standard, we enlisted the services of a Medicare-approved hospice agency.

We soon encountered a harsh reality, however. Dying at home isn’t easy, even with hospice care. The hospice system, we learned, requires family involvement in the dying process to a degree that even we, as a family of doctors, weren’t comfortable with. We were responsible for bathing my father and helping him use the toilet, changing his clothes and, most daunting, administering morphine and other sedatives to treat his pain and anxiety. A nurse was scheduled to come to the house only for about an hour twice a week. Getting an aide to help with basic activities of daily living was nearly impossible.

The main problem was funding. In 2024, the average per-patient Medicare payment to hospice agencies was about $200 a day, with an annual cap of $33,500. That outlay would barely pay for a part-time aide, yet it is also needed to cover medications, medical equipment and nurse visits. So hospice agencies are forced to shift the bulk of responsibilities to families as the dying process unfolds over weeks or months.

 Compounding all these issues is the fact that dying in America is increasingly corporatized. Today, about three-quarters of hospice agencies are for-profit, and many are owned by private equity companies. It is hardly a stretch to imagine that many of these companies skimp on care to protect their bottom line.

This does seem to be the case.   

I've been surrounded by the aged and dying for a long time now.  Every doctor's appointment, every hospital visit, every rehab stay.  It does not make me cheery.  

Now I must get busy.  The day is a beauty, but I won't get to enjoy it much.  I must run, run, run, as fast as I can. . . .

Testing and Pretending

Just kidding.  I don't even like cars.  However. . . I have watched all the seasons of "Drive to Survive" on Netflix, and last night I fell asleep on the couch after watching one episode of the new season.  I don't like cars, but I had a fascination with F1 race car drivers when I was a teen that came from a couple of movies and, probably, Playboy magazine--and here was the thing I imagined, my takeaway that seems to have dominated a large part of my life thereafter.  

A race car driver swaggered because he had tested and knew his limits.  He knew how far he could push before he failed.  Other people only ever imagined their limit having only fantasized about it and never having really tested it.  I wanted to be able to swagger.  

I tested my limits in many ways with many things.  And this is what I learned most of the time: "Quit it."

I've said many times, "Pretending's fun."  

One of my curses has been having a romantic imagination and reading too much.  I wanted for awhile to solo sail around the world.  I bought a sailboat.  I even crewed on a 30' racing sailboat in a series race called The Lipton Cup which we won.  But I soon realized I would probably die if I tried to sail around the world alone.  There were many reasons, but one stood out--I couldn't fix a fucking thing if it broke.  I've already confessed that.  

So I tried climbing rock faces and giant mountains.  

I met people whose feats scared the hell out of me.  

I tried lots of things.  I was o.k. at some, but there were many better.  

So, do I swagger now?

Fuck no.  I limp 😂!

But I did learn my limits, and that was an important life lesson.  

So, you know. . . sometimes, I still pretend.  Just push the play button. 

There are some things that I can't pretend about.  My cousin from Ohio will be here this afternoon.  I will bring my mother back home tomorrow.  For the past two days,  I did my duties.  I cleaned the house, mopped the floors, got rid of old things in the fridge, washed the sheets and made the beds. . . etc.  My own home life will again take a hit, not the one it will take when my cousin leaves, but quite a hit nonetheless.  We'll see how it goes.  I think my mother will need a lot of care.  

And I still have everything to do around my own house, though I am beginning to have the idea I might hire someone to lay all the granite rock in the driveways.  I tweaked my back making beds yesterday.  I'm trying to imagine the damage I could do shoveling granite.  

I took some photos yesterday.  I was experimenting.  It took awhile for me to get the process right using a dark filter and flash on my Leica M, but I think I got it now.  All I have right now are photos of things in my yard, though, and nothing to show.  Maybe later.  

Maybe not.  

I can only hope you are enjoying my A.I. creations.  What I have done there will make it's way onto paper in various ways sometime. I can't say "soon,"  but I will do what I can.  

O.K.  The sun is shining and I gotta scoot.  There is much to do today and only a man who knows his severely hampered limits to do it, so. . . .

When I preview this post, I see that you have to go to YouTube to see the video, so you can either click on that or on this link (The Cuba Project).  

Or. . . here's a version that is only the music. . . but you are missing some good visuals with this one.  

Change of Plans

 And then, just like that, plans change.  My cousin will be here tomorrow it seems, so I have much to do to get my mother home.  I'm thinking Monday.  My stomach clenches.  I'm going back to work.  Sure, I will have more of my own time than when I am living with her, but I still must do all the technical things for her care.  And this is only the prelude to what will come in a few weeks.  I'll be back to full-time caregiver.  Having had this time at home, it is going to be hard.  

But enough of that.  I turned down another happy hour with the bros.  I just don't seem to enjoy it anymore.  In fact, my day went pretty much as planned.  I spread some rock around the perimeter of the house.  I took a bag of dirt and filled in the hole in my mother's yard.  I went to the auto supply store and got new wiper blades and wiper fluid.  I stopped in to see my mother who was sitting with a group playing a game I'd never seen before.  I went to the gym for a very brief workout.  I got liquor then went to the grocers and got what I needed to make the seafood stew plus a good crusty bread.  

All good.  Now let me back up.  

When I got to the auto supply place, I tried taking off my wiper blades before going in.  I tried.  And tried.  But I couldn't figure them out.  So when I went into the store, I asked the twelve year old boy working behind the counter which blades I needed.  He walked me over and recommended one brand.  Then came the hard part.

"I can't seem to get the old blades off."

"I'll do it."

He rang me up to the tune of $64 fucking dollars and walked me out.  It took him about a minute.  When he left, I opened the wiper fluid and opened the hood and started pouring.  I realized I'd never put any wiper fluid in the Xterra in all the time I'd owned it.  Carefully, I aimed the gallon of light blue fluid into the the little opening, amazingly without spilling.  Pour, pour. . . wtf?  How much fluid does that little thing hold?

It took the whole gallon and still didn't reach the top.  That is when I began to have my doubts.  I looked under the car to see if it had just run out onto the ground.  Nope.  So I closed up the hood and started the car.  I pulled the wiper handle to squirt the window washer fluid.  Nothing.  Again.  Nothing.  Again and again and again.  Now I was wondering if I had put the washer fluid in the wrong place.  What was there?  Oil.  Coolant.  I didn't put it in either of those.  Brakes.  Power steering.  I didn't think so.  

I tried again and again.  I guess the pump or something is broken.  Piss shit fuck goddamn.  My fault, I'm sure.  I should have put the fluid in years ago, I guess.  

The stew turned out poorly, too.  Cod, bay scallops, and peeled shrimp.  Something made the whole thing taste like fishy iodine.  Not terrible.  Still.  Carrots, celery, and potato.  Crushed tomatoes.  It just didn't come all together as it usually does.  Don't know.  Beats me.  

I had no deserts in the house.  Still, an adult beverage and the new season of Drive to Survive.  Two cups of tea and then some hot Ovaltine (malted) with milk.  I was ready for bed before ten.  

I got up at five, so I will go to my mother's house and get to work after I post this.  I think my mother will enjoy her nieces company more than she does mine.  They are hillbillies and talk hillbilly shit, stupid stuff I can't do.  They eat shitty food from cheap places or some salty, fatty thing they fix at home.  My cousin doesn't enjoy my cooking, so. . . .

My mother will cry when she decides to go home.  And then she will be stuck with me.  Not the same circus at all.  

I need to make some photos.  It is a cloudy rainy day.  I should shoot film and make some blurry ones, but Quasimodo with a camera seems to draw a lot of attention around these parts.  Quasimodo just wants to stay in his bell tower.  

I guess I should mention the possible End of the World.  I've warned you, but I know warnings do no good.  What could you do, anyway?  Build a bomb shelter.  I just don't trust Trump and his Criminal Band of Jokers to succeed at anything, let alone war.  I am of the mind that the war won't stay in the Middle East this time.  

But what I think is of miniscule importance.  It is informed only by paranoid intuition.  So I suggest you discuss it among yourselves.  If I were you, though. . . I'd make as sound a financial plan as you can.  I think I'll start looting my rich neighbors' houses soon.  

O.K.  I must get with my pick and shovel to work.  You know the song. 

Hi-ho, Hi-ho, 

It's off to work I go, 

With a shovel and a pick

And a great big dick, 

Hi-ho, Hi-ho.  

I think that comes from "The Ginger Man."  J.P. Donleavy.  Was a must read when I was a budding intellectual undergrad.  It's still in print.  I just looked it up.  Has been ever since it was published.  Sold millions.  How about that?

Here's a little song to get your day started.  Gentle and easy.  Just what we need. 

Big Night Out

Well now. . . it seems these pictures of '50s mom are resonating with a lot of "folks."  Makes me happy.  There is just something plain wholesome about them, isn't there.  Oh, I know the past was a dirty little secret that people just kept quiet, by and large, but as in the Victorian era, there was a lot of mask wearing and coded language.  It was early morning coffee, and mom had just popped a benzedrine to get her going after the barbiturate that helped her sleep the night before.  

Good god, those were the days!

I went to Happy Hour with the boys after visiting my mother yesterday.  Mom seemed a little glum.  She is ready to go home, but the launch date has been pushed back to maybe Wednesday.  I understand she wants to go home.  That is how I felt almost the entire last year.  There are many similarities, sleeping in a bed not your own, not having your own things surrounding you, nothing to do but watch television or read.  The difference is she doesn't have to do all the work, doesn't have to cook or clean or prep the day's meds, doesn't need to run anyone to the endless stream of doctor's appointments. . . etc. 

That is not what is on her mind right now.  I understand.  

Still, I have another weekend at hand.  Sort of.  There is a lot to be done before mom goes home, and I'm just the man who needs to do it.  

And so. . . out with the boys.  We had the gold standard sidewalk bordering seats at the nice restaurant and bar on the Boulevard, and it was an endless parade of beautiful young women walking by.  How did everyone get to be so beautiful?  I guess I have been gone for a long while, and maybe that is the reason.  

But there was something else, too--a fair amount of young and very attractive women on the arms of older men.  And when they walked by, the women almost always looked our table over like. . . like what?

"Rented," Alain said.  

Ooohhh. Sure.  It has been around, but it seems to have become more public.  

"We need to take him down to Costa Rica for a weekend and get him laid."

That got the boys going.  Sure, soon.  

"You need to pop that cherry, boy!"

Yea, yea, yea.  I had little enthusiasm for it other than a weekend in Costa Rica.  I don't want a hooker.  These boys are all jacked on testosterone.  I'm running on estrogen.  I want women to fall in love with me, flirt with me, court me. . . .  

But it didn't make me glum.  I just was.  I had nothing clever to say, nothing at all, really.  It felt like something was broken in me.  I felt like gum on somebody's shoe.  Life had passed me by.  None of those girls were going to pick me out of a crowd.  

We drank drinks.  I was going slow, though, for I hadn't eaten a thing all day.  Is this an old man thing?  It happens all the time now.  I just forget to eat.  I ordered a beer and a lobster roll.  Then I had a Negroni.  This place makes outstanding Negronis.  Of course the Negroni, nice and red as it is, gets me catcalls from the crowd.  

"Can you put a little umbrella in that for him?" Alain queries the wispy young waiter with the man bun.  

In a bit, I order a hamburger.  So does everyone else.  We are tired of waiting for the famous judge to show up.  

He never does.  

After burgers, they order another round of beers.  They all get light beers and I an IPA.  When the waiter brings them, he says, "Here you go, fellows, three girly beers and one manly one."

Ho!  This guy took a big chance with his tip.  But the boys get a kick out of it.  

I only take a sip of mine.  The boys are ready to hit the next bar.  

"Why aren't you drinking?"

"I just don't want it."

"Too manly for you?"

We split the tab evenly and all leave good sized tips for man bun.  

The next bar, a few blocks down the Boulevard, is owned by a friend.  It is not my favorite, though, for it serves just beer and wine and snackable food.  There is liquor--kind of.  It is some special deal.  The owner doesn't have a liquor license, but he is able to sell liquor made by a local distillery on their license somehow, but only theirs, and they do not make scotch.  All the liquor drinks are cocktails that I don't care for, so I just have water.  We sit at the bar with the owner's wife while some guy with a guitar strums chords across all the strings and sings.  

"I can't stand a strummer with a guitar.  This guy sucks."

The d.j. objects.  

"This guy is very popular.  He's got quite a following."

"Sure.  I'll bet.  He sucks."

He continues to quarrel about it, but I won't relent.  The performer is awful, but people flock to bars to hear "the music."  

Whatever. 

I listen for awhile to the talentless guitar player and the round robin of conversation, but I am a bum, and so in a little while I say, "Sorry boys, but I'm buggin' out."

Nobody objects.  

Home by eight.  

And that was My Big Night Out.   

The morning is gray and drizzly.  It will rain today and tomorrow they say.  O.K.  I will spend the weekend on my couch.  I will make a seafood stew for one.  With crusty bread.  It sounds delightful.  I don't watch much t.v. anymore except for YouTube, and mostly I just put on music now, but maybe I'll watch a movie.  I read that "Sentimental Value" is now streaming.  Maybe that.  It sounds like a movie for grownups.  

I will burn the Lampe Berger, drink hot cocoa or golden milk, and good hot teas as the rain, soft, I hope, falls upon the roof.  There is work to be done, and though I had good intentions, I did none of it yesterday.  I will not pressure myself, though, and I will try to do a little of it today.  Doing a little makes me feel better than doing none at all.  That is the gentle way.  

Let's just be sentimental one more time. 

Sad Songs for Lonely People.  Such a thing.

Working Man

I finally got to work yesterday.  It felt good to get things done.  I started with cutting up a bunch of old boards that have been laying around outside for far too long.  I cut them into three foot sections hoping the garbage guys will take them.  If not. . . there are other ways.  Afterwards, I drove across town to pick up some meds and then went west to the Home Depot where I bought some bags of granite to put on the ground next to my newly painted siding.  Got two batteries for my circular saw for what I considered an outrageous price since I hardly ever use tools, but my old batteries won't hold a charge anymore.  A few more items, too.  

When I got home, I spread the granite.  I will need a ton more, so I think I am going to have it delivered to re-rock the drives with enough for making pathways and covering the ground next to the house.  Granite is heavy.  I'll be sick of moving it in minutes and will wonder why I didn't hire somebody to do it. 

I'll order the big pile of mulch for the driveway, too.  

Today, though, I am going to clean my mother's house in preparation for her return.  While there, I will wash my Xterra.  

I think.  

I never know what I will do.  Some days I just don't want to work.  Maybe I'll take a nap instead for I am scheduled to go out with the gymroids for happy hour.  I don't want to, but I've already committed.  

I just thought I'd throw this in.  No narrative.  Nor reason.  I didn't sleep much last night and am too tired for narrative.  Outside the city is working on the power lines and two yard crews are mowing and blowing.  I just want a second cup of coffee and some danish.  I don't really think I'll get much done today, but as they say. . . there is nothing that can't be done tomorrow.  

Temptation

Good news!  My mother has a plan for aging at home.  

Me. 

We met with the staff at the Four Seasons Rehab Center yesterday afternoon.  My mother has made a determined comeback, apparently.  They said she could go home depending on when I wanted her.  What could I say?  She wants to go home.  

"I tell her we all want to live in our own homes, but it doesn't seem to resonate."

And so, by the end of the week, I will be back to caretaking.  There is a lot to be done.  She called her hillbilly niece who said she could leave to come down on Saturday.  Sounds good, right?  People think that will make it easy.  

"You should take a trip, go somewhere.  Take advantage."

Really?  Her regimen of meds is complicated, and I wouldn't trust it to my mother's niece.  I will prepare them with labels for days at a time in a big, plastic pillbox I bought for the occasion.  I will need to pick up her meds and take her to the numerous doc appointments that now must be rescheduled.  My mother's niece is not going to do a 20 hour shift the way I did, so I will need to go sit with my mother every day to give my mother's niece a break.  

I will, for a few weeks, get to sleep in my own bed, though.  After that, I move back in.  

I asked about getting some help for my mother's care.  It is all out-of-pocket, I was told.  I argued, not vociferously, of course, but in a well-reasoned manner.  Unexpected, I guess, for then the social director recanted.  There are ways, but not really.  She will set up a meeting with some Medicare people for me, she said.  

And so it goes.  

I had an inquiry about these pics.  I don't have nudes of my mother, so I just posted these as a suggestion that she was not always 94 years old.  My mother was a real hottie in her youth and even longer.  She was the sexual fantasy of the neighborhood boys, I am sure.  I had my own about one of the mothers down the street.  I shouldn't say "sexual."  They weren't about me humping Mrs. Jones.  It was way more nefarious than that, more of a visual, sensual thing, I am certain, where she sits in her underwear smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and is nice to me.  Who can remember?  But when I was a kid, we didn't see pictures of naked women except on calendars at the auto repair places.  

I guess these images rather reflect all of that.  

I can, though, remember the smell of the breath of those coffee drinking, cigarette smoking women.  But they always wore perfume. 

So. . . I am enjoying my days and evenings at home.  Last night, I hazarded a Negroni on the deck after getting the rehab news.  Wasn't sure how my diverticulosis gut would react, but my nervous system reacted as it should.  Maybe even better.  I ate a safe dinner of rice, steamed brocolli florets and garbanzo beans, with scrambled eggs all mixed together in a bowl.  I watched something on t.v. as I awaited the Trump Bowl later on.  Around 8:30, I think, I fell asleep.  When I woke up, it was 10:30.  I went to bed, but of course, I couldn't fall back to sleep.  At midnight, I gave up and took a sleep aid.  

I didn't wake up until 8:30.  Hence the late posting.  

I read about the State of the Trumpian Nation this morning.  My god, I'm glad I didn't sit through that.  No information there, just outrage.  

Today I must get busy.  I've been both lazy and sick and then even more lazy.  I've babied myself.  I haven't even gone to the gym in almost a week.  Don't know if I will go today.  There is much work to be done, and I'm the only one to do it.  This lazy streak must end.  

Nerd Rich and Proud of It

Since this blog has become somewhat of "The Misery Tour," I'll post Robert Carradine's Hollywood Death Mask here--and tell a story.  I'll also post his Life Mask, too. 

Forgive me for repeating myself, but a eulogy is in order.  When my conservative friend still lived here, long ago, I would go to his house and drink up his wine and whiskey and eat his food, especially on a Friday night.  It was his house, but I had rented it for years, first from his brother, then from his mother.  It was a groovy old Florida bungalow built the same year as the one I live in now, but this was right next door to Country Club College and had a big screened in front porch that was half of the undercover porch that sat on the front of the house.  Out back there was a huge deck where untoward things used to happen when his brother lived there, but that is another story best told in low voices in the flicker of candlelight.  My friend owned it now, though.  I bought my very own house, but I still went to the old house often.  

One Friday afternoon when I stopped by, a new guy was there.  The hors d'oeuvres were out and the red wine uncorked.  So was the new fellow.  He was a smart alec which was typical of my friend's friends at the time.  '80s.  Wolf of Wall Street wannabes, etc.  I had learned to hold my own with this pack of coyotes, so I spent a while trading barbs and jabs with the two of them--until something clicked.  

"Hey. . . wait a minute. . . you're. . . ."

Realize, I'd only seen him in two movies, "The Long Riders" and "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," movies in which his parts were smaller.  But both of his brothers were in "The Long Riders," too, so I knew he was a Carradine.  

"Man, I love Keith's films.  I just flipped out over "The Moderns."  

Robert was snide about his brother.

"I made more money doing "Revenge of the Nerds" than he has made in all his films."

I, of course, had not seen "Revenge of the Nerds."  But now that I recognized him, I was a bit more deferential.  My  conservative friend was a pilot (had won the National Aerobatic Championship competition recently) and was flying Carradine down the next day to compete in the Twelve Hours of Sebring race.  It was to be Carradine's first race.  

Not much of a story, I know, but. . . he told me his brother had painted the pictures in "The Moderns." 

"I'll get you one," he said.  

He never did.  I guess I'll never get one now.  

Scary, though. . . a man my own age.  

But at least my gut is better now.  And yet, the misery continues.  I can't use my right pointing finger.  The nail is black and blue halfway to the tip and the finger is still swollen.  

Last night, not yet trusting meat in my tender gut, I cooked a frozen pizza and did the thing I've done so many times.  I couldn't wait, and the first bite scalded the roof of my mouth.  A big blister formed and then popped.  I had a one inch piece of skin flopping around for the rest of the night.  It "disappeared" while I slept, so now I simply have a raw tender spot that my tongue won't leave alone.  

Freud? 

I have a meeting with the staff at the rehab place today at two for an evaluation of my mother's condition.  Realizing that the hospital was adamant about not sending her there because it was short term "rehab," they kept insisting on sending her to a nursing home where we know what happens.  Today my concern will be how I get the help I'm going to need for my mother's deteriorating health using Medicare and not paying out of pocket.  My mother has bad osteoporosis, stenosis, sclerosis, etc., but her organs are pretty healthy, so I think she will live (in pain) to be a hundred.  I'll go broke quick enough if I have to pay for her care.  So, today will be tricky, indeed, with my mother sitting in the room.  I have to be careful with how I phrase my concerns.  

Is there an upside to this post?  It is 34 degrees this morning here in the Sunny South.  Crisp and crystal clear.  I should get out with a camera somewhere. . . but I won't.  Actually, I have a ton of labor I had planned to do around the house that I am putting off for a few days until it is warmer.  But work there is and plenty of it.  It will be good for me.  That is what they say.  I've got my circular saw batteries charged and am ready to do some damage.  

I really shouldn't be using power tools.  I've had enough trouble with simple kitchen tools and door jambs lately.  

That's it.  That's what I got.  And a song.  None of the ones I have cued really go thematically with this post, but that is probably a good thing.  I'll just pick one and let it live on it's own.  

Maybe something to get you out shakin' it on the dance floor.  Go ahead.  Nobody's watching.  Whatever way you like.  

The Dying Animal

Mom wasn't always old, of course, but now that is all people see.  It is difficult for me.  Sad and terrifying.  Phillip Roth wrote a book titled "The Dying Animal."  That is what we are, Dying Animals.  It is stupid not to preserve everything we can in our lives, especially when we are young, but "younger" is better, too.  There needs to be a record, I think, though in the end it doesn't matter, I guess.  Still, it is nice to pretend that it does or will, to have the illusion that we will remain once we are gone.  

I don't want my picture taken anymore.  Nobody took it when I was young.  Now people with their phones are always wanting to put me in some dumb fucking picture.  Fuck that.  I love photos of the young Cary Grant.  Even Trump does.  But I hate seeing him toward the end.  He was still better looking than most men his age, but that isn't the point.  

Pepsi had an add long ago that went, "For those who think young."  I try, and I think I do.  But the body. . . oy!

Yesterday I told my mother I thought I had a bout of diverticulitis.  Ironically, I said, I hoped it was that or else it could be something much worse.  I rallied a bit late in the day and went to see her right before dinner.  

"You had me worried," she said.  

"You've had me worried, too. . . for a year.  It has stressed me out."

Indeed, I think stress is what brought on the attack.  That and too much liquor.  

So yesterday I didn't eat.  That is what you do when you have an attack of diverticulitis.  My gut was still worrying me with little but constant pain, but I had my fingers crossed.  Around three, I decided a walk might be good for me.  And indeed, at the time, it seemed so.  Once I had showered, though, the nagging pain was still there.  It either was or I imagined it to be intermittent.  

When I got home from visiting my mother, I ate a can of chicken noodle soup.  Here's my gastronomical recommendation--drop an egg into it.  That's what I did.  It made a sort of egg drop soup.  Strands of egg thickened it.  I had it with a slice of fresh white mountain bread from the bakery.  Clear liquids and white food, they say.  White rice.  Bananas.  I was wondering if vanilla ice cream was included in that.  

I took a nerve pill and went to bed.  I didn't waken to pain during the night.  I am still paranoid and think I feel some sensation deep down, so it will be another clear liquid diet day.  Toast for breakfast, another egg drop chicken soup for dinner.  Tea.  

The finger is a mess, too.  My fingernail is half black.  The nail has weird and painful sensations.  I will surely lose it.  

Other than that. . . I'm a mess.  What is there to say?  

I keep reading that people are not in favor of A.I.  Who are these people?  I saw a "town hall" with Matthew Mcconaughey, just a clip, telling young actors like Timothée Chalamet (really?) that A.I. is not going to be stopped and they need to trademark their voices and images so that they own them.  I find this silly on so many levels.  A.I. will make their own new stars if it comes to that.  They might train their engines on past stars, but the new ones will be unrecognizable amalgams, just as writers steal the styles of others until they synthesize their own.  But that is not the thing that really struck me.  It was the rationale behind it--$$$!  It wasn't about art.  It was simply commerce.  Like. . . "I deserve to be rich because people like to see me act."  I abhor the amounts of money paid to celebrities and athletes.  It is a large part of the insanity in this country.  

But some people fear A.I. technology. 

"It will take over.  It won't be stopped.  Eventually, humans will be puppets."

Something like that.  Too many 1950s sci-fi movies, I think.  Oh, don't get me wrong--I loved those old sci-fi movies, and just a whole lot of other stuff, too. 

If A.I. can make those movies, I'm all for it.  And the music.  And anything else.  

Hey. . . maybe it can make photos of me when I was younger and better looking.  I think I'll work on that.  

O.K.  This ain't there yet, but you can tell it's coming.  This was made for zero dollars by kids on a laptop.  What do you think some studio with bank will do?

This Life Is Killing Me

Things went to shit last night.  Stress, I reckon.  Cleaning up after dinner, I sliced my right pointing finger open.  Not sliced, really.  The tip of a very sharp kitchen knife cut small and deep.  I had the devil of a time getting it to stop bleeding.  I used a styptic pencil for a long time, and finally wrapped it tightly in a bandaid.  I went back to the kitchen to take out the garbage.  Coming back into the house, I closed the same finger in the door.  Hard.  The nail went blue right away and did not stop throbbing all night . 

But it got worse.  Woke up with a terrible pain in my gut.  Wouldn't let up.  I finally realized it was probably diverticulitis.  I didn't get an hour's sleep all night long.  

The pain has lessened but it is still there nagging me.  I can't sleep.  I can't stay awake.  It is going to be a miserable day.  

Mystery Hole

"I have a lot of work to do around here still."

"Like what?"

"I need to do the driveways.  Mulch the one in front and re-rock the other two."

"Re-rock?  I've never heard that before.  Do you hyphenate that?"

"You bet.  I love the hyphen.  I love a good hyphen and I love a dash, and I especially love the ellipses."

Today will be a work day.  When I finish this, I will head out for the Home Depot.  This seemed like a good and noble idea a couple days ago, but I am face-to-face with the monster now, and I do not feel as fresh for it.  I fell asleep on the couch last night, not even watching television,  and woke up at 11:30.  Afraid I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, I took a Tylenol P.M.  Taking one of those approaching midnight is not a good idea if you are hoping to wake up and get to being productive.  Uh-uh. . . I wouldn't recommend it.

Already, though, I've used the hyphen, the dash, and the ellipses.  At least there's that.  

My Satruday workday, though, started on Friday afternoon.  As was reported, the neighbors had spied a hole in my mother's front yard.  Not knowing what to expect, I dutifully went over to look.  Sure as shittin', there was a hole.  A perfect hole, not sloppy.  I looked in.  It was eight or nine inches deep, and as one reported, there was a piece of pvc pipe.  

What the fuck was I looking at?  I reached my hand into the hole to feel around.  Dumb, right?  Nothing squirmed or bit me though.  I reached into the pipe with my fingers and dug out some dirt.  The pipe was attached to nothing on the side pointing toward my mother's yard.  It was on the border between her yard and the next door neighbors who live in Georgia but come down on weekends some.  They have been remodelling the house for a year in preparation for moving in. . . eventually.  

I was stymied, so I walked across the street to the handy fellow's house, the couple who always invite my mother and me to holiday dinners.  

"I HATE asking people for favors, but if you have two minutes, I'd like for you to look at something and tell me what I'm missing.  You know more about this stuff than I do."

He followed me back across the street.  He looked in the hole.  He put his hand in.  

"I have no idea," he said.  "It doesn't make sense."

"That's what I thought.  Good.  I am not as dumb as I thought."

After a minute he said, "Get a shovel.  We need to dig it up to find out."

I paused.  He wanted to dig up the yard.  I said, "I don't know," but I turned to walk back to the garage.  "Get a picture of this," I told him.  "This really isn't my thing."

I cut through the grass and pulled out the dirt.  Loe and behold, the pipe popped out.  It was simply a piece of four inch pvc pipe about two inches long.  It was connected to nothing.  

"What the fuck?"

That didn't explain the hole, though, so the neighbor took the shovel and kept digging.  About two inches below where the pvc pipe had been, he found another two inch pipe.  He dug and found it was going toward the street.  

"Ah-hah!" he said.  

"Yea, but the soil isn't swampy.  There is no water puddled up around it."

He decided it was an irrigation pipe.

"We need to turn on the irrigation," he said.  

My mother's irrigation meter/timer is from the '60s.  Nobody knows how to use it.  It is connected to a shallow well.  The neighbor started flipping and punching things.  

"Man. . . nobody knows how this works," I said.  

But he was undeterred.  For awhile.  He never got it to turn on.  I have no idea if it will ever come on again.  

We went back to the hole.  The across the street neighbor who lives next door to the other one, came over to see what we were doing.  We were three old men looking into a hole. 

"You're mother had a drain line put in for her washing machine," said the new guy.  "They didn't want to go under the slab, so they ran a new line out down the side of house."

That made sense to everybody.  

"Sure, it's a drain line.  If it were a water line, it would be under pressure coming from the street."

Duh.  

The first neighbor went across the street to get his prober, a long. slender metal rod with a handle for pushing into the ground to find pipes and such.  He started probing trying to find the drain line.  We had already dug up the yard from where we saw the pipe running to the street, but there was no pipe.  Then he spotted a clean out drain that was covered with grass.  He pushed in the probe.  Ah--the line took a turn toward the clean out drain.  

"If it is a drain line, it doesn't make sense that it blew out a hole in the yard."

"It could have gotten so backed up. . . who knows, it may have bee backing up since they put it in."

"I don't know. . . ."

He had me run the washing machine on a rinse cycle and we waited until it drained.  No water showed.  

He said he'd help me dig it up later if I wanted.  Right now, he had to take his wife to the doctor.

"I do this kind of stuff all the time.  I enjoy it.  I didn't like the way the drain lines ran at my house and I re-routed them.  Hell, it's just pipe and glue."

"I don't know.  I don't do this, you know?  This is the kind of thing where I go, 'shit, I need to call a plumber.'"

"Man, a plumber's going to cost $800.  I like doing this.  I'm a Renaissance man.  I can do it all."

I looked at him and grinned.  "A Renaissance man didn't do the work.  He knew how to do it, but he didn't dig the ditches himself.  He just knew it needed to be done."

He laughed and nodded.  Then he said let him know as he turned back to his own home.  

I filled in the holes we dug and put the grass back on top, all but the original hole.  I put a garbage can over it and put flags around it so nobody would step in.  Then I went inside, washed my hands, and got in the car to go and see my mother.  

Driving there, though, I thought about the hole.  If water had caused it, the offending pipe would be exposed and not be two inches beneath normally damp dirt.  A drain pipe wasn't going to blow a hole from eight inches below the ground.  Fuck no.  The hole was still a mystery.  If an animal had dug the hole, there would have been dirt on the grass in front of it.  Nope.  I had no idea how it got there, but I was pretty sure I knew how it didn't.  

When I told my mother about it all, I said, I'm just going to fill the hole back in.  "If a leak caused it, we'll see another hole, right?  I'm going to fill it back in."

And I will. . . with some trepidation.  

But now it is time for the Home Depot.  Today is just dumb work, nothing technical.  I kind of forget what I had in mind to do today, really, but it will come to me.  

I'd like to be on the Boulevard somewhere for lunch this afternoon, though.  And then off to see my mother.  

So I'd better get started.  Yup.  

My Photo Confession

Fuck it--I'll post a photograph.  I have a hundred of these kind of images sitting on my desktop.  There is nothing special about any of them, but I don't know if everybody or anybody is enamored of my A.I. creations.  There is some enigma about this photo, maybe, but not enough to hold interest for more than a second.  It sure as heck ain't no Vivian Maier.  But. . . you know. . . photography gets me "out in the world."  

I watched this guy on YouTube last night.  He's about as fucked up as I am. . . but with a better accent.  I "enjoyed" what he had to say about his photography experience, though.  And he mentions Kierkegaard.  How about that?  

I've watched all of his six or seven videos.  He has only been on YouTube for a few months.  While his YouTube vids are pretty well shot from different angles and edited together fairly well. . . his photography is bad.  I don't watch him for his aesthetic vision.  I'm not sure his has been well developed.  No, I watch him to hear him explain his tortured soul.  

This morning, I thought to just shoot medium format film today.  It is going to be sunny and 87 degrees, or so they say.  Similar weather all weekend.  People will be out, I think.  Me and my Hasselblad.  Me and my two Rollieflex cameras.  Me and my Mamiya 6x6.  

And I'll wonder if I am experiencing life or just recording it.  Ha!  I've been "experiencing" life for a long time now without recording much of it, and I have to tell you. . . it ain't much fun.  I'd rather put it in a box for awhile, see it through a little viewfinder.  

"Did you just take my picture?"

"Not really.  I mean, I don't know you.  I used you as a trope, perhaps, for the time and place, but no. . . I don't think it was you."

That doesn't usually help.  But with film cameras, I can simply say no and hope they don't punch me.  

I haven't taken a good picture for a very long time.  I am beginning to suspect that I have put too much pressure on myself to make the kind of photos that I think I should.  I've gotten too many voices in my head.  I really should only be photographing what I like and what truly interests me and fuck the rest.  I don't really care about broken down factories, grain towers, old cars, etc.  I like the way girls look.  I like what they do.  I'm not allowed to say that anymore, I know.  These aren't the Rat Pack years.  I shouldn't even confess it now, I am certain.  But it is true and I still can't take my eyes off them.  It isn't sexual.  Even now, I am like a chaste girl from a Victorian novel.  I still say no most of the time.  I like the attention, but I really want love.  So no, you can guffaw if it pleases you, but it is purely visual.  Boys are the most awkward looking and acting things alive.  They are like horses.  Some of you, maybe many, think horses are beautiful, but to me, they look hideous.  That long neck and outsized head are monstrous, I think.  Same with boys.  Not head and neck, but just the way they seem to be put together out of machine parts.  Maybe it is their psychological makeup.  Their attitudes about everything, really.  Not to say that girls aren't fucked up.  Sure they are.  Badly.  But the aesthetics disguises so much of that if you only look from a distance.  And sometimes their talk really makes me giggle.  They make me want to be smart and witty.  I like to make them laugh.  The way they laugh. . . omg. . . like diamonds falling into a crystal goblet.  A boy's laugh, of course, is a donkey's bray.  I do have male friends, don't get me wrong.  But I don't enjoy looking at them.  From women friends, I must always tear myself away before I become too obvious.  

"What are you looking at?"

"I was just admiring your earrings."

Yes, I've learned.  There is a deep paranoia in many beautiful women.  Boys stare at them day and night.  They end up concentrating on their flaws.  

Have I made enough generalizations yet?  I'll stop.  But that was fun.  My choice of photographing anything, though, would be a woman in just about any context or setting, cheap and tawdry or deeply textured and romantic.  

There is my confession.  Do you think I could put that in an ad?  

And yea. . . like that fellow says, it is not a real interaction.  I would be stepping out of the river, a mere witness.  

Hadn't planned on writing that today, but there you have it.  Something other than the miseries of my own current life.  

Maybe tomorrow I will explain how that spills over into my musical tastes.  Yea. . . that would be good. 

If I can remember.  

I Had a Feeling. . .

I went out to dinner last night.  It was fine, but I got nothing out of it.  I'd have just as soon stayed home.  I didn't even have to pay.  Still, the whole thing left me feeling hollow.  

Just the way I feel this morning.  Empty and soulless.  

I looked through the photos I have taken in the last months to pick one to post, but they all left me blah.  Worse.  

I'd better find something soon to fill the void, to replace this fear and dread.  

I'd sat in the afternoon with my mother and two of her neighbors through one hour of entertainment at the luxury rehab, a singer with a karaoke style machine and a microphone.  Funny, I'd seen him last time my mother was there.  He wore a tropically patterned shirt, a small brown Panama hat, brown pants with a belt and big buckle, and, the kicker--gold shoes!  He had a nice voice and danced around as if he were playing in a nightclub, but what he was looking at. . . oy!  

And perhaps that stayed with me through the night.  

I don't know.  But once again, I could go to sleep forever.  

I ordered a new Buck Mason t-shirt yesterday.  Maybe that will make me happy.  I haven't created a tangible piece of "art" for a long while now.  Maybe that would help.  Or maybe just taking care of all the house projects hanging over my head would do it.  

But my mother will be out of rehab soon, and I'll be in that routine once again.  

The world becomes a Beckett play.  

Will Trump attack Iran to distract people from the Epstein files?  We'll know something by this weekend, they say. There is no telling what the Syphilitic King will do.  Will he wait until the Olympics are over?  

We'll all just have to wait and see.  

I can find no way to end this post, nothing with which to finish it off.  I had a feeling when I got out of bed it would go like this.  So, rather than ponder any longer, I'll just say. . . 

Sayanora.  

Hippie Surfer Dude Son

I watched a documentary on the origins of "surf music" a couple nights ago.  It was fairly fascinating.  Surf music of the late 50's and early 60's was jazz.  Back then, in California, the people making surf movies were shooting with 8 and 16mm film and no audio, so when they showed them in small gatherings, they would just put on a record, Miles Davis or Chet Baker, and let the projector run.  Henry Mancini, and, a surprise to me who loves this shit, Martin Denny and Les Baxter, too.  The early live music came from people like Dick Dale, Duane Eddie, and The Ventures, all instrumental, no singing, no lyrics.  In other words, kind of jazzy.  Once the surf craze caught on, mainly after the movie "Gidget" was released, surf music got commercialized. . . and so. . .  The Beach Boys.  But early on. . . it was all jazz.  

Love that. 

When I went to see my mother yesterday, her across the street neighbors were there.

"Here's your hippie surfer dude son," said the man.  Such are his ways.  

When I left, I went to the grocers to get the fixin's for a pho dinner.  I hadn't time to run to the Vietnamese place where I buy the bone broth they cook every day, but I had read a recipe in The Times that said when you don't have stock, buy chicken drumsticks and boil them for an hour or so, then take out the drumsticks and used a fork to take off the meat.  

It worked like a charm.  I boiled them in grocery store stock, added all the spices, peppers, and vegetables, and served it over rice noodles.  Wowza.  

As I was buying the fixin's, I saw a guy a little younger than me, I'd guess, kind of bummy, surfer looking guy, eyeing me.  Did I know him?  I didn't think so.  In the check out line, I heard a voice behind me say, "You were a surfer.  Where'd you surf?"

I turned around.  It was him.  

"I surfed when I was younger some," I said.  "Mostly at the inlet and south."

"East Coast surfer," he said. "Me, too.  I went to the Pipeline once, but it was too much for me."

"Yea, I had a hard enough time surfing here."

I turned back to settle up the bill when he said, "Good hair."

"I pay my beautician for this," I said.  The small Black cashier looked up and giggled.  

As I walked out, I waved goodbye.  

"Keep the sand between your toes," he said.  

Man, that sounded good to me.  

Here's a little clip of my buddies and I in the 9th grade.  We'd all just gotten surfboards and were learning to surf in no break white water.  We had to go with my parents, of course.  But as I've said many times before, pretending's fun.  

Etc.

It Takes a Lot of Medicine

I got beautified yesterday.  Hadn't been since October.  I was looking more than a little Wild West/Buffalo Bill Cody.  The beautician improved me once again.  We talked.  I didn't really want to talk all about my mother, but she had plenty of things she wanted to say.  So I mostly listened.  

Went in at ten, out at one.  I went to see my mother.  Oy!  I finally said to her, "Has there been one good thing that has happened to you today?"  

She wanted to know when she was going home.  That is her mantra.  For me, the question sounds like, "When are you going to spend all your life taking care of me again?"  

"You've only been here a few days--I don't know what to say.  We have an evaluation meeting on Monday.  Probably then."

"I've got another week?"

I could get them to keep her there for over a hundred days, of course.  I argued and argued to get her into the Four Seasons Rehab Facility, but. . . . 

And so, my day was pretty ruined.  I was going to go to the gym after seeing her, but I couldn't manage to pluck up the energy when I left.  

This morning, the neuralgia is back.  Head to toe agony.  

"The pills, the pills."

Driving back from my visit with mother, I heard this song.  Yea.  Seems true enough.  

All things come, and all things pass.

It takes a lot of medicine to go this fast.