Sad, Not Bad

Are you curious?  

"Fuck no."

There's nothing bad to tell.  It was just what anyone with half a brain might expect, two people sitting at a bar chatting.  I ordered a martini before she got there and a board of cheeses, cold cuts, olives, etc.  When she got there, she ordered a sparkling water.  

"I still have to run," she said.  

So here's the takeaway.  I've been taking care of my mother and not myself.  I've been up since 4:30 with that in mind.  

She's a cool cat.  Frequent traveler.  She has three trips lined up in the next three weeks.  She dances ballet, goes to the gym, runs, does yoga, and doesn't have a television or a microwave.  She goes to bed at 9:30.  I realized that is how I used to live.  I can't now.  I am unable to exist in my own life.  It has slipped away from me.  Invisibly.  

So this morning, I sit here with coffee in the dark trying to come back to myself in some meaningful way.  

She loves saunas.  She dated her high school history teacher.  She's dated older men but was afraid to tell her parents.  It's not that she doesn't drink.  Some of the best times she's ever had were when she was drinking.  Her breakup with her boyfriend now is feeling like the right thing.  He was footing the bills when they traveled, but the itinerary was always his.  She has more fun when she travels with friends.  

I listen.  I'm a good listener.  Now I need to focus.  I need to regain some of the life I've had to abandon.  I'm not feeling low, exactly, just. . . good things don't come to those who sacrifice.  That's all a bullshit fable. The tenant's mother has been doing what I'm doing for many years now.  That she lives in her own home with her things is an advantage I don't have, but still she has been physically and mentally destroyed by caring for her 104 year old mother.  The tenant said her mother cried for days before she left.  Nobody who hasn't done this alone for years can begin to understand.  What you once were just disappears so gradually you don't realize it until it might be too late.  

Yesterday afternoon, I didn't feel as groovy as I used to.  And last night, not sleeping, I seemed to be revisiting all the eyes I ever caught and all the heads I'd ever turned.  How'd I do it?  It's a mystery to me now.  

But I can still iterate that I have never asked a girl out for the first date.  

I told my friend I wouldn't be calling or texting, but if she wanted to, whatever, let me know.  I'll not be the creepy old guy blowing up your phone.  If I don't hear from her again, that's o.k.  There was another thing of which I was reminded yesterday.  It was nice to be asked out, sure, and it is fun to be something akin to desirable, but I'm too romantic to go through the mechanics of things without feeling I'm in love.  I am a showoff in many ways, but I don't put notches on my belt or marks on my refrigerator door.  

But what I wouldn't give to be in my own house, to read and listen to music, to be able to go to the gym in the morning and take long walks before dinner, to sit on my deck and watch the birds.  To burn incense and my Maison Berger lamp oils, to work on pictures whenever I was moved to do so, to have cocktails on the Boulevard with friends.  To walk to the dock some nights just to watch the stars and moon and to listen to the frogs and the crickets and the splashing of fish and the hooting of owls.  To get in the car and drive to some good part of the state for a few days or to take a cheap flight I found on Google Flights to cities I've never seen.  To visit my friends all across the map.  

I have lost all of that and have lost myself.  

See?  I told you I wouldn't say anything about my "date" unless it was bad.  No, it wasn't bad.  I'm just sad.  

Still, people I don't know stop me to say, "You've cut your hair!"  I grin the grin of somebody running for mayor and say, "Yes, a bit."  Maybe there is still some little part of me left.  

It is a bit weird, I think, that all of my friends now are people who have only known me as I am at present.  Not all my friends, but the ones in town.  New friends.  They don't know me any other way.   For them, this is it.  I've become friendly with another fellow from the Club Y.  He's a swell guy, is a recruiter and has a firm of about twenty people in a building adjacent to The Boulevard.  His brother has been partners in several successful restaurants on The Boulevard and around town, and he is opening up a new one now.  Their mother lives at the end of my street.  The restaurateur is a fisherman and has invited me to come out with him whenever I would like.  Both brothers have had their share of madness.  The recruiter is a degreed chiropractor who never practiced.  He ran a restaurant instead.  And it was all smoke and blow and alcohol, he says, and he wrecked his marriage and his life. 

"I haven't had a drink in twenty years."

"What do you do at night?"

"I go to bed." 

He stopped by the house with his wife one day, and she was very sweet.  They have houses in a couple places in the state and a condo in Palm Beach. 

"I've accomplished everything I set out to," he told me yesterday.  "Big houses, big boats, expensive cars.  And I'm not happy. I've been having a lot of anxiety lately.  I just want to simplify my life." 

He told me how much money he made a year and said he was in the top 1%, "but barely."  He places people in big corporations and said, "I know how much money people make.  I know what salaries are.  There is so much money here it's crazy.  I just want to sell everything, downsize. . . ."

I know his brother is stressed out about the restaurant, too.  

I asked the recruiter how he was coping with his anxiety.  His eyes went a little wild.  Some positive thinking manifestation thing called Quantum Physics.  And, as I have suspected, "Prayer."

I guess it is like Groucho said: "Money will never make you happy. . . and happy will never make you money."

I'd like that old pleasant melancholy I had been able to maintain most of my life.  This is the first time I have ever been depressed.  It's a deep hole.  I've had anxieties, of course, but running usually cured that.  I think walking would help, too.  But the depression thing is new.  I am trying to cope.

I felt guilty yesterday sitting at the bar drinking a martini and eating a charcuterie board knowing my mother was waiting for me to make her dinner.  I was really only half in the moment.  

But the world is on fire and I don't think there is any going back.  The planet will never be as it was again, I fear.  

Adapt or die.  

I may go back to bed in a little while.  I need to take better care of myself.  Quasimodo needs to sleep.  I'll need to get up again soon, though, to give my mother breakfast and meds.  

Selavy.  So they say.  

I'll Only Tell If It Goes Bad

I have a "date" with a twelve year old today.  Am I nervous?  Wrong question.  Am I fit enough?  

There you go.  

I'll only tell you about it if things go wrong.  Nobody wants to hear about it otherwise.  Like if I get roofied and she steals all my candy, yea, there's the story you want to hear.  That's a good story.  Or if the barman puts Visine in my cocktail.  Something like that.  

"Well, what did you think would happen?  Happy ever after?  You're an idiot. . . did you know that?"

What are my choices?  Yes I knew it or no I didn't?  There's no good response to that question.  Let me phone a friend.  

"Hey, ma?"

Yesterday, I picked up a roll of slide film I had developed at the hipster lab.  You'll like this one.  Remember how happy I was that the pretty blonde woman who worked there remembered me, my name?  Yea.  Not yesterday.  I was a complete stranger.  Never saw me before.  I tried to be clever, but she had rather talk to a couple who were also there.  I looked at the slides on the store's light table.  Wow.  They did a great job developing them.  But there wasn't a single shot there that interested me.  An entire roll of bupkis.  I didn't bother looking at them again when I got home.  

I'm not sure I want to keep shooting film now.  It is expensive.  I DO like, however, not seeing the images for a few days or a week after taking them.  If I'd shot Saturday with a digital camera and saw I had nothing that same day, I probably wouldn't be interested in going out again for a good long while.  Maybe that is the advantage of film.  Delayed non-gratification.  

The tenant came back yesterday from her summer stay in Minnesota.  My sphincter tightened as I worried about what troubles will plague me at the apartment.  My bank account is shrivelling as quickly as my manhood.  The A.I. fix on my mother's air conditioner is only temporary.  Since my great victory, the fan has continued to run twice.  I had to "fix" it again this morning.  Sooner or later, it will require something expensive.  My anxiety grows disproportionately.   

I read this morning that America has a loneliness epidemic, especially among men.  40% of men surveyed said they had no close friends.  They felt nobody cared about their wellbeing.  They should have my friends.  They want me to shit my pants on a date.  I mean, that's caring, but in the wrong direction.  But I get it.  My close friends have all moved far away.  It is the great American migration.  People are mobile.  People don't grow up, live and die in the village where they were born.  Except for Gen Whatever.  I don't keep up with the names of gens.  But whoever the 30 year olds living at home with their parents are--that one.  

Which reminds me.  Parents are complaining about the treatment of their sons and daughters in the military.  How about that!  It began in the schools and then the colleges, professors getting scolded by mommies and daddies.  I sat through a lot of those meetings where mom was indignant and the son or daughter (usually the son) sat sheepishly quiet.  Now, I guess, military generals are fielding the calls.  

"My son told me that he couldn't EVEN shower for three days!"

I'm not saying conditions in the military are good.  But I always wonder who decides to go into the military, especially as a sailor or a soldier?  

I think that Arday's mother was complaining about her son's treatment, too.  I won't say who sent me this, but it was a colleague who has rotten disdain for the way degrees are sold in Cracker Jack boxes now.  Academia has become a broke ass mule.  

"This is the Title Page of Jason Arday’s dissertation. lol 😝   Possessive apostrophe rather than plural! In the fucking title!"

Now, I don't always agree with Michelle Goldberg, but I always think she is smart, and I would recommend her editorial on this topic. 

 link

So we live through WOKE 2.0 and MAGA 1.5 with Trump punishing allies and sucking up to enemies and Democratic Socialists ready to take on the republican establishment.  It is going to be a hell of a year, loser take all, winner leave town. 

But hey, you can always bury your heads and watch The Evening News.  Lead story for the past three days?  Ready?  America grieves for the "tragic" loss of an "icon" who turned to drugs to help her cope with her fame and gave up her child and then wrote a tell-all about her troubles.  Her mother (yes) blames it on her toxic boyfriend.

"And tonight, what we've learned today about the death of. . . and the boyfriend with whom she had a troubled relationship.  More on this in just a moment."

This is what happens when I have time to think on days when I don't have to take my mother anywhere early in the morning.  I think I'm better off under pressure and time constraints.  When I am able to sit and think what to write next, I get crazy.  

And so, I'll end with something that has disappointed me.  I remembered a story about Jackie Gleason.  The guy was truly amazing.  He did everything well, pool, golf, cards, acting, music. . . and drinking. He was legendary.  I remembered a story about him playing golf with Arnold Palmer.  On the first day, he was leading Palmer by a couple strokes, but that night he partied all night and so the next day Palmer beat him badly.  I looked the story up yesterday, though, and A.I. told me it was an urban legend.  There is no documented source for the story, it said.  The only source it found was a golfing magazine in which Palmer said it wasn't true and that he could beat Gleason in everything but drinking.  There is another legend about Palmer's manhood that Trump famously referenced at least once.  I should ask A.I. if that is true, too. 

Have you ever had an Arnold Palmer?  

Is it true that Palmer's wife always kissed his balls before he played in a tournament?  Again, A.I.: 

"No video or audio recording of the alleged event exists."

I think the story about Gleason is true, though.  The guy was amazing, bigger than The Abominable Snowman or The Loch Ness Monster.  He even won an Academy Award nomination for his role as Minnesota Fats in "The Hustler."  

I heard this song the other day and had to look it up.  Gleason did everything, man.  Just about.  

Bag of Broken Bones

As the song goes, what a difference a day makes.  I wish I could have finished my tale yesterday when I was full of piss and vinegar.   And I was.  But the story now takes many twists and turns, one of the most miserable being a visit to the ortho for a gel injection in my knee.  My doc retired, so I saw a new guy.  He wanted new Xrays.  Understandable.  So they did three.  Then they put me in a room where I waited for an hour and a half.  Miserably.  I have a problem with the vitreous humor in my eyes that some people get.  The vitreous humor is the liquid gel-like material that fills the eyeball.  

"Sometimes, as we age. . . ."

It can get "sticky" and start to pull at the lining of the retina and cause tearing.  I've had this for a long time.  At night, sometimes, I see sparks of fireworks in my eye.  This is what happens when the retina tears.  The result is that particles float around in the eyeball.  Floaters.  I have a lot of them, and sitting in a stark, bright room with white walls reminded me of that.  In the hour and a half that I sat there, I got more and more depressed.  I did an inventory of the damage my body has sustained over the years.  I am a bag of broken bones.  I started with my head and worked my way down.  Broken nose, deviated septum, chipped teeth (all from fighting), terrible arthritis in my cervical vertebrae (rear ended in my teens), torn rotator cuffs in both shoulders (falling on an ice climb, dislocation playing basketball, Vespa accident), broken collar bone, several breaks of the left scapula, broken AC joint, and seven broken ribs, two plated (Vespa accident), broken wrist (basketball), compressed discs in my lower back, knees, and two crushed big toes (dropping very big things on them).   By five o'clock, I was wondering if I had been forgotten and everyone had gone home.  

When the doc came in, he barely introduced himself.  Said a few words and picked up the tray with the large needle.  

"Did you look at my Xrays?"

"Yes."

That was it. Yes.  He didn't ask how the knee felt, nothing about my health and wellbeing.  He just said, "You need to start thinking about a replacement."  

He was putting the needle in a part of the knee that the other doc had not.  OK.  I guess there are many ways.  But motherfucker, did this hurt. And when he started the injection, I thought I might pass out.  When I opened my eyes, he made a joke to the two people in lab coats he had brought with him.  I was in too much pain to remember what it was.  He said, "I'll see you in three months," and was gone.  When I stood up to leave, my knee buckled.  I limped out of the office in pain.  My knee hurt during the night.  It hurts now.  I am having trouble walking.  

Now I've only mentioned the mechanical issues.  There are others.  And I've been chewing on them all.  So, I am not full of yesterday's enthusiasm.  And I have to take my mother to the dentist in a bit, so I don't know if I have time to tell my tale.  

And this old computer keyboard isn't working so well anymore. 

I'll have to be quick.  

So I was coming into the Cafe Strange feeling grand.  The parking lot is small, but a car pulled out just as I was pulling in.  I felt like picking six number in the lotto.  When I walked in, the cafe con leche server was working, and when she saw me at the back of the line, she lit up.  

"You cut your hair!"

"Yes. . . I don't know how I feel about it. . . ."

"I like it."  

When I got to the counter after she filled other orders, she grinned and said, "Mimosa?"

"If you are still making them."

"Always for you.  Only for you,"

"You look like you're doing well.  You practically glow."

"Fifty-fifty," she said, and she went to squeeze the oranges. When she came back I asked what was wrong.

"I broke up with my boyfriend.  It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.  My heart hurts."

"Why'd you break up with him."

She smiled like a devil. "Because I'm more fun."

"Well!," I exclaimed.  "Did you live together?"

"No, but we live on the same block."

We talked about relationships for a minute.  I told her about the tenant, about Ili, and she said she couldn't stand to see her boyfriend with a new girl.  I told her I'd dated women who were younger, and I certainly wasn't as much fun.  

"I've dated older men," she said, "and they were a lot of fun."

New customers were lining up, so I said I'd let her get back to work.  

"Come see me before you leave," she said. 

When I'd finished the mimosa and the counter was clear, I went to say goodbye.  I try not to fool myself.  There's no fool like. . . you know how it goes.  So what came next floored me.  I'll make it quick. She wanted my phone number.  We are having happy hour cocktails on Wednesday. 

WTF?

Nobody likes that story.  I understand.  So let me skip ahead.  Yesterday I took my mother to a doctor's appointment, and afterwards I asked her if she wanted to go to breakfast.  She said no, so I asked her if she wanted an egg mcmuffin.  Sure, she said.  We ordered, paid, and pulled up to the window where a pretty, young female was working.  She smile hugely and asked, "Did you order the two egg mcmuffins?"

"Yes." 

"Did you order two cokes?

"No."

"I have two right here.  Do you want them?"

Oh, yea. . . I was on a high.  Maybe I wasn't looking so much like Quasimodo as. . . 

"You two are a cute couple," she said.  "How long have you been together?"

I fell a hundred and fifty floors.  Loud thud.  

"Since I was born," I said.  

It took me awhile to see the humor in that one.  More than a minute.  

After breakfast, I went to the gym.  I was not going to tell people about the happy hour date, but man, I couldn't resist pairing it with the McDonald's story.  I told it to the Shock Jock.  He laughed and laughed. After my workout, I was sitting at a table with him when a woman trainer who just won some body contest walked by.  We we are friendly.  She was wearing a pair of leopard skin shorts.  I don't know what got into me, but I hooted.  She didn't respond, and the Shock Jock callee her name. 

"I thought I heard somebody hoot," she said.  

Does your husband know you are wearing those shorts?" I asked.  

"What?  Yea."  She laughed. 

"You know what would look good with those?"

"What?" 

"High heels."

Then I told her the story.  She looked concerned at the first part then laughed hard at the second.  Yes, people much prefer to hear the second part.  Nobody likes the first. 

So I sat in the doctor's office and counted my miseries and thought about Wednesday Happy Hour.  I shouldn't go.  She probably wants me to lend her money or something equivalent.  I'm old, but I'm not a fool.  

But I'd like to have somebody to drive the car while I take pictures.  That would be nice. 

Well now. . . it's time to take my mother.  I told the tale too quickly, but what can I do?  My life is not my own.  And I'm down in the dumps about my knee.  I don't have time to go back and check my grammar, look for repeated words or phrases, none of it, so I will have to once again post the draft.  

Selah.  

The First Step

 I have a big story to tell and no a lot of time.  I have to take my mother to a doctor's appointment this morning, so this is most likely going to be a tale poorly told.  Too bad, really.  I'd like to think had I the time, I could really make it sing.  

Let's just go with chronology.  It is the simplest, quickest way to a narrative, or perhaps, if you are a postmodernist, narrative death.  

Q sent me a quotation from Foucault about the monster in us.  I wrote back that I was a mere beast and not a monster.  Yes, he said, "the beast with one back."  Funny enough.  Then, "the beast with one hand."  So I sent him an image of Onan. 

He quickly told me that he was a devout Onanist.  

I'll say this--it is an easy worship.  Maybe one day we'll talk about our mastubatory practices here.  

Probably not.  

Enough of that, though.  I had to make my mother breakfast.  Eggs and protein toaster waffles. She loves those things.  

Now came the first, most difficult step, as I reported yesterday that I would try to take.  I got a pair of big clippers and went into my mother's backyard to trim her wildly out of control crepe myrtles.  It was still early, but man, the heat was brutal.  Or maybe it was the humidity.  But probably it was the drinking.  I had sweat through my clothes in five minutes.  In ten, I was panting.  In fifteen, the middle of my back was stinging from working the giant sheers against the thick, wild branches.  In twenty, my lower back was killing me from bending over to pull the twelve and fifteen foot stalks into the yard.  I worked for an hour.  So it seemed.  The yard was full of big stalks that needed to be cut into pieces and put into bags for yard trash day.  Sweat was dripping off my nose.  I decided I'd done enough for the day, more than I had planned on.  Those branches weren't going anywhere.  

I got my mother to come outside and take a look.  She would see things and I would do a bit more pruning.  I told her I would finish it up later, though.  It was getting late and hot, and I wanted to go make some pictures.  

"We have that big Porterhouse steak for dinner tonight."

"What?"

"See you later."

The a.c. blew cold against my damp body and gave me chills.  But I was drying.  I thought about going home first to change, then I decided against that.  I was going to sweat like a. . . a. . . heathen. . . walking in the heat, so I pointed my little chariot in the direction of a distant part of town.  Traffic had already picked up and it was slow and frustrating going.  I was getting antsy.  I wanted to walk on empty streets.  

I pulled the car to the side of the road and parked.  I had eight shots of slide film in my Leica R5 to shoot up.  I grabbed a roll of Porta 400 and stuck it in the camera bag.  I didn't think I would take many photographs really.  I was thinking more of just putting in some miles. 

But it was one of those days when you see things.  I was seeing things and shot off those last eight shots quickly.  Good.  I wanted to get them to the lab.  

I came upon a fellow sitting in front of a barber shop.  It was a good barber shop.  You'll see, eventually.  He was a young Black male with tats on his neck and arms and cropped hair that was dyed bright red.  I nodded.  

"Do you work here?"

He gave a Mona Lisa grin and nodded.  

The shop was empty but well lighted.  

"Do you mind if I make a photo through the window?"

"Go ahead.  You can go inside if you like."

"Cool." 

So I did. I don't know if I made any good pictures, but the place had about eight chairs and was old time fancy.  When I came back out, the fellow asked, "What are you shooting?"

"You mean film?"

"No, what are you taking pictures of?"

"Oh, abstractions, reflections. . . colors."

Yea, I felt dumb.  

"Is this your place?"

"No.  The owner isn't here today."

"Do you mind if I take a photo of you?"

"Go ahead."

"I'll bring the pictures back when I get the film developed.  When are you here?"

"Everyday but Tuesday."

"Alright, then.  I'll see you again."

Well, I thought, that was fun.  And I walked on.  And on.  And too soon, I'd finished the second roll of film.  But it was fine, for once again, my clothes were soaked.  I was excited to take the film to the lab, but I drove a long way around through parts of town I would have stopped to make photos if I had brought more film.  I've been a dumbass about not bringing enough film.  I had black and white film in my Leica M, but I would save that. There was another pop-up market in the parking lot behind the film lab, so maybe I would use it there.  

I had to park far away from the lab.  Cars lined every street.  I don't get it, these little "vintage" hipster markets where they sell old clothing, but I needn't.  I grabbed the two rolls of film to develop and my Leica and headed for the store, and as soon as I turned the corner onto the main street. . . wham!  I love these kids.  Costumes.  They spend a whole lotta time making up their looks.  I'm a fan, and I want to make photos of them all.  I stole some photos from the hip, but I needed color film, really, to capture the colors that they wear, the clothes, the makeup, the hair.  For the millionth time, I thought I should rent a space and set up a photo booth.  

"Photos.  One dollar."

When I got to the door of the film lab, a young couple was walking out.  Everybody is young, I think, who shoots film.  They were a pretty boy and girl.  

"Wow.  Nice camera," the boy said. 

"Thanks."

Inside it was cool and dark.  

"Dropping off?"

"Yea." 

I filled out the order forms.  Oh, shit.  I left my wallet in the car.  Long walk.  I took more photos.  

When I got back to the lab, the fellow who worked there said, "Nice camera."  Those Leica Ms are just lovely works of art.  They are truly beautiful.  I remember desiring them so badly but not being able to justify the cost.  At some point, however. . . the heart wants what the heart wants.  

When I went back on the street, I wandered the market.  It was bigger than I thought going on for blocks.  But I felt obvious walking around with the camera.  The market had just opened and wasn't yet crowded.  I took a few pictures and decided to bail.  There was a good brewery just down the street that had fabulous beers and terrific boiled peanuts--in many flavors.  

I sat outside.  It was hot.  The beer was ice cold.  The waitress was cute with crazy dyed hair, short shorts, tats, a great face, nice figure.  She smiled the smile of a woman working.  I wanted to take a thousand photos of her.  One day I would ask her.  

This was Crazy Larry's hangout, the retired NASA engineer.  He comes here with his scratch off lotto tickets most days.  Once, he told me, he'd gotten a ten thousand dollar scratch off ticket and had given it to the waitress.  

"I'd won one before, and it was too much of a hassle.  You have to go to the lottery office and fill out all these forms. . . .  They let me drink here for free now."

Indeed, I once asked a server if that was true.  Sure as shittin'.  

I sat in the heat with wet, sticky hands busting open the peanuts and sucking out the meat like a madman.  I looked around.  These were not the cute hipster kids.  These people were older, not old, but young parents. The women now pushed strollers or carried babies on their hips or both.  Once cute, I'm sure, they now looked broken down, their faces carrying a heavy disappointment.  The men looked something else, more irritated or perhaps just bored.  Once flat stomachs now protruded.  The women did not make costumes.  They wore. . . what everyone else wore, or whatever, and I wondered why.  I'm sure they were like the kids in the market once.  What made them do it?  What made them succumb?  I have never figured it out.  They must have had trashy daydreams at some point.  They gave them up for. . . the dull thud, thud, thud of this.  

I'm sure I looked like quasimodo to them sucking and slurping, fingers wet and shiny, my shirt clinging to my belly with sweat.  

"Among the throng, but not of the throng."

Yea, right.  But I felt glances from some of the mothers. Probably not, but I felt certain of it.  

"You're an idiot. Did you no that?"

They play awful rock music here, but I heard something I liked. 

"Siri, what is this song?"

Holy moly, this was good.  Not great musical talent but a fun sound. It reminded me much of my old band, New Suburbans.  Just raw garage.  This was turning out to be an outstanding day. 

When I had finished sucking and sipping, I took my stuff to the trash can.  I stepped inside and asked if they sold any of their beers to go.  Indeed, they had a cooler full of canned beer.  Hell yea, I grabbed a pack of four tall boys of what I had been drinking, "Punks in the House."  

On the way out, I saw Crazy Larry working the lotto.  He didn't want to talk.  Maybe he didn't recognize me with short hair. 

Back in the car, I decided to stop at The Cafe Strange for a mimosa, if my friend was working.  If not, I wouldn't be able to.  Everyone else tells me no.  But she usually works there on Sundays, so I'd take a shot.  

And this is where the narrative gets very, very, interesting.  But guess what?  I'm out of time.  I knew I couldn't do all this before we had to leave.  And so. . . for now, this is on the QT.  Just between us.

I don't even have time to go back to correct any errors here.  I have to post it just as is, straight from my fingers to your ears.  

A Free Day: Total Paralysis

And so. . . .

I cleaned my mother's windows in the morning.  Some of them.  The ones we look out, front and back.  They were filthy.  Now the rooms are bright.  While I was finishing up, one of my mother's neighbors with a lot of her own troubles came over for a visit.  She wanted to take my mother out to eat and maybe get her nails done.  Would mom rather do lunch or dinner?  My mother seemed dazed and uncomprehending, and she looked at me with terrified eyes.  It took awhile to get my mother in the game.  I let the woman keep talking just for fun before I yelled at my mother, "Lunch or dinner?  Which one?" 

"Dinner, I guess."

"Do you want to get your nails done?"

"Sure."

The neighbor would pick her up at three.  And suddenly, just like that, I was free.  I could do anything I wanted.  I could have a beer in the afternoon.  I could go anywhere I wanted for dinner.  When I got into my car to leave, my mind was a frenzied jumble.  I'd go home first and make a plan.

I never made a plan.  I never left the house.  I was as uncertain and confused as my mother.  What would I do?  I don't know how to have so much freedom anymore.  When I looked up at the clock, it was six. I no longer had time to get dinner.  I didn't want to go anywhere anyway, I told myself.  

I got a Big Mac on my way back to mother's.  

I am, by any estimation, pathetic.  

"How was dinner?"

"It was good." 

She'd had fried shrimp, one of her favorites.  

"Did you do alright?  Were you able to sit o.k.?"

"Yes.  I did fine."

Shit. I mean, I was feeling. . . guilty.  I don't take my mother out to eat.  First she makes salmon, then she has a half day outing.  I think she's getting better.  I'm need to start taking her out for beers or something I guess.  But she has given up beer.  She is now drinking my whiskey.  True.  Maybe that is why she is feeling better.

In the evening, my mountain friend sent me a video of a little concert on a hilly green, two women on a stage playing guitars and singing.  

"This is what I do," he wrote.  He sends me such things all the time.  It pisses me off since his own mother is here in the same or worse condition as mine.  But he is able to feel o.k. visiting once a year and calling sometimes because he has a family and lives in Cali.  

"You need to bring your art to Burning Man.  Crash for twelve nights.  Make memories with a girl."

"I'll see if mom feels up to it."

Nobody gets it.  Or maybe I don't.  

I put on the television.  I watch bookends of my photographic desires.  One made beautifully aesthetic photos without going anywhere, sitting alone, drinking coffee, and listening to music in his studio apartment (link).  The other had gallery and museum shows and was well known.  He travelled and photographed incessantly in the American street (link).  

My blood was racing.  What do I have left?  Six weeks?  Six months?  How long before I can do none of it any longer?  

I sat in my house the entire day without moving.  

I will move today.  I will trim the branches of some bushes that are growing into small trees in my mother's backyard.  After I make her breakfast.  

If I were free, I'd already be out with a camera.  Before the heat.  Before the rain.  

So I say.  But time is running out.  

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  

I am gaining an appreciation of those who have nothing inside them trying to escape, who are content with dinners out, family vacations, golf. . . .  

"But what of us who have all the desires of the artist but none of the talent?"

That was a good film.  Too bad he only made one like it.  His Bergman.  But it underperformed at the box office.  Naturally.  

"O.K.  Buck up, laddie.  There are things to be done, and you are just the fellow to do them."

There's another big Ribeye in the fridge.  There is always something to look forward to.  

But first I have to get off my ass and out the door.  The first step is always the most difficult. 

24 Hours

It is Saturday, and I've thought to go out and try making pictures once again.  It is strange how that works, though.  Sometimes every photo you take feels like a good one, and other times you can't make a photo on a hundred dollar bet.  A couple weekends ago, I was on fire.  Since then, nada.  And after a couple nada days, I have a very hard time motivating myself to get out and try again.  

"Why?  I mean, why do you want to go out and make pictures?  Of what?  What's the point?  It's kind of weird, don't you think?"

Yea, I'm starting to think.  It is kinda weird.  Maybe I could do something else.  Like what?  Go shopping?  I am not sure what other people do.  Oh, I could work in the yard, I guess.  People do that.  Wash the windows.  Get with others and play a game of Scrabble.  

The windows DO need to be washed.  

Already this morning, though, I've had a small victory.  The internal fan on the HVAC system here at my mother's house wouldn't turn off.  It just kept running when the outside unit shut off.  This happened once before and I called the engineering firm with whom my mother has a service contract.  The guy who came out said it was the capacitor and that it would cost about $1,000 to replace it, but he said he wouldn't do it, that the fan motor used very little electricity and that they were built to run forever.  

Then it started working again.  Cool. 

This morning when I got up, it was continuously running again.  Just running.  So. . . have you ever used A.I.?  I asked for some solutions.  Yup. It said to turn the thermostat way down below where I usually set it, wait awhile, then turn it back up.  

And Bingo!  That worked! 

It also told me that this was caused by a faulty thermostat, not a capacitor, and that replacing a capacitor should not cost more than $400.  

At least the engineering firm didn't charge me for the kid's "advice."

This victory is coming off the heels of a wonderful night's sleep.  I don't remember waking once.  And that followed a surprising dinner--by mom!  Kind of.  She said in the morning that she would make salmon patties for dinner.  Really?  I was shocked.  I didn't think she had it in her, but I love her salmon patties and said, "Sure."  I had to do the heavy lifting, of course.  I opened the can of Sockeye salmon, but she had already crushed the crackers and cut some onion.  I cracked a couple eggs into the mix for her and added wine to moisten it when she said the mix was too dry, then I oiled the pan and did the frying.  But man, those patties were perfection.  Look at mom.  It was nice, too, that I had bought her sunflowers to brighten up her day.  

So the past twelve hours or so have gone swimmingly.  I'm a little upbeat.  

Maybe I should wash her windows.  

My Physical Fitness Club visit yesterday went well, too.  People were chatty, and I met a new, very friendly, very pretty woman who was sweet, and some of the other women told me how much they like my hair now.  I'm not quite on board with that, but it was nice.  This is my only social outing, by and large, so I was feeling upbeat after. 

Then I followed the Shock Jock to his house to look at the e-bike that he wants to sell me.  Never had I been to that part of town.  He had a nice house and a cool dog, but the bike was not really an e-bike, not the kind I want, but a pedal assist bike. You can't just let it act like a little motor scooter.  You have to pedal all the time.  I asked him not to be offended, but that wasn't what I was looking for, so we sat and talked a good while before I split.  

Going home, a big pickup truck was blocking one of the roads I was on. I didn't know why, then I saw the fellow grin and try to push it out of the way.  I got out to help him.  

"It just quit on me," he said sheepishly. Together we tried to push it uphill into a driveway.  We were able to move it a little, but not all the way. 

"Can you get by?"

Cars had lined up behind us, and just then a tall boy got out of the car behind me.  

"This looks like a three man job," he said, and indeed, he was right.  We got the truck out of the road. Although the driver was thankful, as I got back into my car, I thought now the shitty part of his day has just begun.  As I drove away, though, I thought about me. Look at that, I smiled, jumping out to help a fellow push a truck just like you were a kid.  

I decided to go to Whole Foods and buy nice things for mom's, including another big container of tapenade, a nice bottle of wine to compliment the salmon, ripe watermelon for desert, and, as reported, sunflowers.  

Back to my house.  I showered, had a protein drink, part of my new plan because I don't eat enough protein-rich foods anymore having only breakfast and dinner.  Clean, physically fit, and full of amino acids, I decided to cook up another couple of film scans for viewing.  

Then came the crazy rain.  The rain here is not like the rain in other places.  It is like the rain in Viet Nam, I've been told by people from Viet Nam.  The weather here is much as it is there, they say.  Beautiful Viet Nam, not the one from old war-torn movies.  The one where rich French families went to vacation.  But yea. . . the summer rains.  

And when the rain has passed, the air is cooler, so when I got back to my mother's house, we sat out for awhile and had a cocktail.  Backing up, then, I'd say maybe I've had a good twenty-four hours or so.  Nothing big.  Just minor happiness.  

I'll take that.  

But the question remains.  Will I go out with cameras?  

Probably, but I don't think I have a vision today.  Maybe I'll go to the little hipster record store in the hipster plaza and peruse their good book section.  Maybe I'll wander and find some little magic somewhere once again.  A shaved ice truck.  A strange home goods store.  Maybe I'll sit somwhere and have a beer.  

But. . . I think I'll wash my mother's windows first.  At least a few.  

Have Your Bot Call My Bot

I just found that on one of my blogs I have to O.K. comments before they appear.  I didn't even know they were there. I just released them.  Glad to have seen them, too.  Evidence that I may still have an audience.  

"Have your chatbot contact my chatbot.  We should do lunch."

 I read an article yesterday that reported there is an app that can, with 99% accuracy, detect writing created by A.I.  You can subscribe to it for $20 a month. . . and I wonder why?  I mean, who needs to know?  I guess it might be handy for lazy teachers and professors who don't want to handle writing assignments effectively.  I thought about signing up for a month just to run my blog through the app.  I think my use of ". . ." and "--" and hanging italicized sentences might be mistaken for bot writing.  So I've read, anyway.  But nope, I swear, I am fucking up the writing all on my own.  But do I care if you are having A.I. write your memos, letters of recommendation, etc?  Not a bit.  Why would it matter?  After the bot has done your job, you still look it over and approve or disapprove of it like any good admin, right?  Back at the factory, after I left, they hired a VP with an Ed.D. who is as illiterate a person as you will ever read. Then--BOOM!--A.I.  Everyone knows she doesn't write her memos any longer.  It is a standing joke, one which has not raised her esteem in anyone's estimation.  Were I working there still, I'd have A.I. summarize her briefs so that I got the gist and not the bloviation.  

And I'd probably do something scandalous, too.  

I'm just a little scamp. 

But I don't really blame her.  Writing is fun until you have to do it.  Unless you adopt a character.  At lunch on Wednesday, my secretary and I were having a good laugh over the way I'd write return emails in response to some disgruntled complaint.  I would speak the words I was writing in the voice of a 1940's movie actor, many times William Powell in "The Thin Man."

"Dear Mr. Equitone, It has come to my attention. . . ."

It really helped make a miserable chore fun, and my secretary was always delighted.  She'd laugh and clap her hands in approval.  

"And so we will attend to this most pressing matter without delay.  Sincerely. . . ."

Those old actors were really something.  A.I. can't match them.  

I recently got fooled by some A.I. music, though.  Again.  Damn!

That same app that can detect A.I. writing is not very good at catching A.I. images.  But, and this was something new to me, A.I. companies are embedding secret codes in images that identifies them.  Hadn't thought of that.  If they can do that, doesn't it seem obvious that they can embed other codes, too?  

A.I. is watching you!  You can't escape.  

As I've said from the beginning, the people in charge of A.I. scare the shit out of me.  

"Dr. Eldon Tyrell.  CEO, The Tyrell Corporation.  Our Motto: MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN!"

 Still, I like fooling around in it to make things.  I'm like J.F. Sebastian, "living a lonely, isolated life in the abandoned Bradbury Apartments."  

"I make friends. They're toys. My friends are toys. I make them. It's a hobby."

Rusted brandy in a diamond glass
Everything is made from dreams
Time made from honey slow and sweet
Only the fools know what it means

Temptation
Temptation
Temptation
I can't resist

What the hell, we might as well end on a song.  I've posted it before, but I'm not sure anybody listens to what I put here anyway.  I can say with great assurance, this isn't A.I. 

 

Temptation, temptation, temptation
Oh, temptation, temptation, I can't resist
I know that she is made of smoke
But I've lost my wayy

She knows that I am broke
So that I must play
Temptation, temptation, temptation
Oh, whoa, temptation, temptation, I can't resist 

Dutch pink and Italian blue
She is waiting there for you
My will has disappeared
Now my confusions oh so clear 

Temptation, temptation, temptation
Whoa, whoa, temptation, temptation
I can't reisist

The Troubles of the Bourgeoisie

It was a beautiful day.  I had no idea what to do.  

I did nothing.  

I came back to my mother's house early.  It was too soon to have a cocktail, I thought, but. . . .  After a bit of sitting and staring, I read for an hour.  But I was outside in the garage porch, and it was hot.  I was sitting in a plastic leather lounger, and I was sweating.  I decided to make an early dinner.  I wasn't making much.  

The news.  More t.v.  Bed.  

I need human interaction.  

"Hi.  I'm one of the boys from the neighborhood.  What's your name?"

One good luncheon date has put my present life in perspective.  It is miserable.  

"You need to be careful what you say out loud.  When she's gone. . . ."

Oh, trust me, I would be full of guilt.  But not to worry.  I'll be gone before she is, the last years of my life spent in empty servitude.  

The film lab sent me an email at noon.  My film was ready to pick up.  I had shot slide film and was excited to see.  

I was surprised when I walked in.  The pretty blonde woman at the counter reached into a bin and pulled out my film.  I'd only seen her once, and she wasn't there when I dropped the film off to be developed.  She didn't ask my name, just smiled and handed the rolled up strip to me.  

I put the film on the light tray on the counter and started looking through.  She was talking to another customer as I went through each slide with a loupe.  

"Funny, isn't it, that when you get your film back, you wonder where all the masterpieces you thought you made have gone."

She looked at me and said, "Well. . . slide film is tricky."

"Oh, no. . . I don't mean the processing.  I meant the photographer."

"Oh. . . yea.  Ha."

The excitement was gone.  I had my cameras with me, and I only needed to make eight exposures to finish another roll, but it was hot and there seemed to be no magic in it anymore, so I drove back home to start scanning the film.  And that is when I began to wonder.  I had shot this roll on the old Canon film camera.  And the film was older.  The slides looked either underexposed or underdeveloped.  The colors were not saturated.  What was it--me, the camera, the film, or the lab?  

Food for thought.  Maybe shooting up the 100 or so rolls of old film wasn't the best idea.  Thrifty, sure, but I could be screwing up what might have been some good photographs.  

Or was I just shitting myself?  Was I able to make "good photographs" anymore?  How would I know?  I wasn't winning any awards.  Nobody was clamoring for a print.  I wasn't a social media star.  I don't even know how that shit works.  I've posted some photos, but like ten people see them.  

Vivian Maier never showed anyone her work.  Eggleston said he only liked his own photographs.  Did he mean all of them or only some?  

Why should it matter?  As I said before, speaking to the void, making pictures should be fun.  And as a photographer from Belarus sagely told me by email so long ago, "When you can't make photographs, don't try to make photographs."  That's pretty much the same thing, right?  

I wonder what happened to him.  Sasha.  And his girlfriend.  I still have a photo of her that he sent me hanging on a wall in my house.  A sad ballad, I think.  

The rest of the photos I bartered for are by women who are doing quite well.  Three in particular.  When I traded out one desk for the one T gave me, I found, among the many, many other things stored away forgotten in the drawers, a birthday card from one with a small hand colored photo pasted on.  I'd forgotten about it completely.  It warmed my heart.  

But that now seems long ago and far away.  

It is going to be another bright sunny day.  I wish I could spend it at the beach.  Take some photos.  Sit in a beachside pub and drink a cold beer and eat a fried fish sandwich.  Talk to the locals.  Which reminds me.  The last time I was at the beach, the only time I've gotten out of town for the day in years, was Bike Week.  I still have the phone numbers of two women who wanted me to make pictures with me.  Not "with me"--you know what I mean.  Lunch with Red one afternoon.  Lunch with the factory women yesterday.  

That's it.  That has been my social life this year, at least with any females.  

And mom.  

I'll go make breakfast for her now.  I bought some of those whole grain protein frozen toaster waffles for her.  She asks for them all the time now.  But I'll fix eggs and Canadian bacon and toast with honey and a side of Kimchi for gut health today.  She hasn't lost a pound on my watch, and the old machine keeps ticking.  Vitamins and minerals and good fats and proteins.  

And about 30 prescription pills a day.  

I'm going to look at my buddy's e-bike today.  And who knows, I might even go out and make some pictures that only you will see.  

And that is better than what 90% of the world's population will have today.  Mine are the troubles of a bourgeoisie, First World privileged baby.  

And I'm just the fellow to document it.  For you.

Selah.  

Lunch

I was nervous about going to lunch with my old colleagues, my old secretary and the new shop foreman who took my position twice removed.  I got to the restaurant first, and when they walked in the door, their eyes popped and they both said, "I love your hair.  You look good."  And I have to admit, the cosmos, in all its wisdom, had given me a good hair day.  

"Thanks.  The trouble is now there is nothing but face."

And suddenly, I had found my old groove again.  I like being with women more than with men.  It is just more comfortable, I find.  I think I'm just full of estrogen.  So we caught up, and everything was as it always had been, and the time flew by.  An hour and a half later, it was time to leave, but I could have stayed awhile longer.  

Driving home, I ran through the day in my head, and I realized I am still witty.  You might not find it here, but I seem to have a knack for telling stories, and that can't happen in a group of guys.  You get maybe ten seconds before someone cuts you off.  Guys don't listen.  When I was a young man eating alone, I would watch couples intently, and what I saw was a man talking and a woman listening, and I thought I didn't want to be that guy.  I was going to listen when women talked and try not to butt in with commentary.  It was a good lesson. My dead ex-friend once said to me, "You're really interested in what people say, aren't you.  I just wait for my turn to talk."  And it was true.  I've learned much about people by listening.  But that all changes with a group of men.  Everything is quick, whether witted or not.  No one ever makes it all the way through a story.  You get the beginning, but you never know how the story was going to end.  

Yesterday, though, I had the women laughing.  I love to hear women laugh.  I've said it all my life--it sounds like diamonds being poured into expensive crystal. 

It was mid-afternoon when I got back to town from Factory City, and I wanted to take some photos along a stretch of highway that looked promising, but it was too hot.  The little Corolla was reporting that it was 101 degrees outside on the road.  I felt it.  The heat and humidity could knock you down, so I bailed on that idea and left it for another day--probably sometime in October if this is any prediction of how summer is going to be.  

I went to the grocery store and loaded up for mother's, and then I went back to my house to chill.  And when I sat down at the computer, I came across a photographer, Kristina Rozhkova.  

Oh. . . my!  She has published a book called "The Bliss of Girlhood."  I went to her website, and here is what she said:

The Bliss of Girlhood

For some reason, as a society we sanctify "youth". You may say that this project for me is an attempt to do the same. Each one of my heroines is for me, a goddess each one of their gestures is sanctified. I met my models for "Girls" by chance, while out on a walk in my hometown this summer. I instinctively knew that I wanted to shoot my next portrait series about them, to spend time with them, and almost join them in their play through photographing them.

In working with my models I especially liked working with the notions of "affect", "sensuality", and the interplay between the concepts of the"aberrant", "erotic" and "childlike". I sought to find my own so-called "adult" experiences reflected in the world of childlike simplicity and beauty.

I enjoyed being enthralled by the image of the slightly-opened mouth, the relaxed, Balthus-esque poses; the image of a strand of hair slightly out of place or a gesture that I saw as an expression of almost-religious trepidation.

I do not fixate on the "erotic" here. For me, these photos are not about eroticism for eroticism's sake, or even about eroticism at all. Rather "Girls" is about being able to catch and reexamine that transient, waifish, liminal moment between "almost childhood" and "almost adulthood' that I have already passed in my own life. For me this photoset is an attempt to get at the heart of vitality as a concept, to examine life in all its forms.

"Childhood" and "blissfulness" converge with "aggressive sexuality" and "disquiet."

These themes are very present in my previous work as well, the conflict between "power" and "weakness" "sensuality" and "aggression". All this converged in the images of my "Girls" who are always full of contradictions. The beauty and the essence of "waifishness" or "girlhood" for me, is in its transience… 

I found the photography ordinary but the subject bold.  These were not her relatives, and she is no Sally Mann, but she is exploring something in a way that. . . well. . . you know. . . .

Innocent enough not to call the authorities down, but. . . well, she's female, and so. . . .  But you know I've echoed those same words a thousand and one times before.  

It was time to return to mother's.  I pulled the groceries out of the refrigerator and stepped out into the muggy five o'clock air.  But I was feeling fine, still thinking about lunch.  I have a wry sense of humor, I told myself.  I could even report the grimness of my current existence in ways that made them laugh.  So when I pulled into mother's garage, I put away the groceries, made a cocktail, and joined her in the garage/porch.  I wanted to tell her about my day.  

She couldn't hear what I was saying, though, so we stared out into the distance until my cocktail was gone.  

"I'm going to make supper," I said.  

I made that ground beef, garbanzo bean, and tomato sauce dinner again with grated garlic and ginger, cumin, salt, pepper, and Cayenne.  Have I told you I finally know the difference between red pepper and Cayenne?  They are both red peppers, but Cayenne is hotter.  

Over rice.  

And when we had eaten, there was still half a pot of dinner left in the pan, so I decided to put it in a container and take it across the street to the couple who had just had open heart surgery.  One of them did.  

I walked in just as they were getting ready to cook.  We chatted about how well he was doing and they thanked me for the dinner.  

When I went back to mother's, I watched a couple YouTube camera porn pieces, then looked for a movie we could watch. 

"Here's one, mom.  About Elvis.  Do you want to watch this?"

It was "Priscilla."  Oh, my.  I had no idea.  I never followed Elvis, of course, and I didn't realize that gene ran through the family.  Jerry Lee Lewis was his cousin, so I am guessing.  It was a little surprising to me.  But I love this director, the same who made "The Virgin Suicides" and "Lost in Translation."  

She understands something about "girlhood," too, that isn't always bliss, but thank goodness, she looks at it and doesn't turn away.  

Nepo baby that she is.  I can't find the photos that her father took of her when she was young.  They have disappeared from the internet as have the photos Lee Miller's father made of her.  

Selavy.  We live in dangerous times.  I heard two young men in the gym saying they wish we could bring back public executions.  

"That would make people think."  

I wanted to say to them, "Yea, like they do in Iran and Afghanistan," but I didn't really want to get involved.  It would have been a losing proposition.  

The movie was over at ten, and when I went to bed, I slept well the whole night through.  I'm sure it was the lunch that did it, that made me feel "normal" again.  

It may not seem like much to you, but as the institutionalized Tom Waits/Renfield says in "Dracula". . . a movie directed by the father. . . "my soul for a kitten!"

The Light That Burns Brightest

I have a luncheon date with some of my old comrades at the factory.  I don't want to go.  I was ill yesterday.  Badly.  I don't know what caused it, but I suspect it was bad alchemy on my part. Very dizzy and feeling like I wanted to puke.  Bloated belly, too.  Just misery.  I didn't move the entire day.  I hadn't slept, as I reported, the night before, and, perhaps, that was bad alchemy, too.  I think I feel better this morning but it is too early to tell. Physically, I think I am able to go to meet the comrades, but mentally. . . I'm not so sure.  They will be shocked by my present state.  I'm not looking so good.  I will not be the heroic figure I always imagined I was.  This life I'm living--or rather, the one I'm not--has taken its toll on me.  

One day, my mother's 91 year old neighbor asked me what I was going to do that day.  Worn to the bone, tired and distraught, I said, "The same thing I do every day.  My life is not my own."  

"Oh, come on," she replied, "you're better than that."

I don't like her as much as I used to.  

I will go, I imagine, to meet my comrades, but I will not be the same jovial cat I used to be.  I am slow now, dulled by the daily routine that grinds me down without cessation. 

"If there is anything I can do to help. . . ."

As I usually reply, "Can you take weekends?"

What they will see today is a man not retired but resigned.  It is difficult to understand from the outside, I know, for I have the freedom to do anything I like inside a box.  It doesn't look like much in a glance.  But I've worn deep grooves in the pathways now.  Incessant.  Interminable.  

They say that a person imprisoned for a certain amount of time loses their ability to function "on the outside."  Recidivism is high.  They just lose their ability to function independently.  There was a truly powerful t.v. series years ago about a man released from prison trying to adapt to life again that C.C. and I were fond of.  

Fond?  Not the right word.  What was the name of it?

I love A.I.  "Rectify." 2013-16.  

That character didn't do so well.  

The thing about prisons is that they don't seem to be a deterrent.  The number of incarcerated has grown past our ability to house them.  I'm guessing--and this is just a guess--that there are simply too many things considered criminal.  Perhaps we should think about reducing rather than increasing the things we consider crimes.  

I don't know.  I'm just considering my own case.  My sentence seems severe.  Of what am I guilty?

"You're shitting me, right?"

O.K.  Whatever.  It is obvious.  Conceited self-absorption. 

"Isn't there another term for that?  More succinct?"

A.I. and I agree on this--the term has been over- and misused in pop psychology.  Let's not confuse it with simple vanity. 

I grow old, I grow old. 

Shall I wear my trousers rolled?

Yup.  Roll 'em up, old sport.  You'll not be offered that peach.  

But enough of that kind of talk.  That's it for the daily whine.  We all live under the curse of a death sentence. Why go on about it so?  

But as Roy Batty so famously says, "I want more life, fucker!"  

At least he got his hands on his creator.  Selavy.  

Buy an e-Bike Instead

I watched the number one movie in America last night.  Broke all records for gross earnings on opening weekend.  It was already available on Netflix.  So I watched it.  If that is a glimpse into the American mind, then we are a country of adolescent imbeciles.  Worst movie since "Waterworld."  The script couldn't possibly have been more than ten or fifteen pages.  

No wonder I have such a difficult time getting along.  

I was in bed by ten.  Thought I'd slept the whole night through when I got up at 12:30.  And again at 2:30.  After that, I never got back to sleep.  Lay in bed thinking.  What would I do if I didn't have to take care of my mother?  I know, I know. . . bad juju.  I thought of all the places I'd go, all the pictures I'd make.  But I knew it was a fantasy.  I am certain I will die before she does.  You think I'm being dramatic, I know.  I'm not.  

And so, what can I do?  I think I'm going to buy an electric bike.  The Shock Jock has one he said he'd sell me "for a good price."  

"Good for whom?" I queried.  

He showed me a photo of it.  I like it.  It's a beach cruiser looking thing.  I could use it to scoot to the Boulevard or in the other direction to the little hipster section of town.  I'd go on little photo journeys, perhaps.  

Just a thought.  

The plumber came and fixed the leak yesterday.  He was a good kid.  Young.  It was a cracked pipe or hose--something in between.  It took him about ten minutes to put a new one on.  

$400.00.  

That's what plumbing costs on The Lord's Day, I guess, at least here in my own town.  

If I were a handyman, I could have put that money toward the purchase of an e-bike.  

Wouldn't that be fun?

Everything's Broken

Woke up early, before dawn.  Couldn't lie in bed any longer.  Shuffled to the kitchen to hit the button on the coffee maker, but I heard something.  What was it?  I tiptoed around turning my ears this way and that.  Something I couldn't quite sneak up on.  Faint.  Spooky.  Wait a minute.  I looked under the sink. Water was coming from somewhere.  Everything was wet, but not too wet.  Apparently it had just begun.  I pulled everything out from under the sink and reached in to find the leak.  What to do?  I went outside to look for a shutoff valve.  Apparently, my mother's house does not have one.  I began to panic.  Bucket--get a bucket.  I went to the garage and found one.  I tried to put it under the leak, but the pipes were in the way.  I forced it in anyway.  Sort of.  It was catching only some of the water.  I went back to the garage to find another, flat pan.  I found one.  It was catching all the water but filling up every five minutes or so.  I sat there watching, emptying, watching.  This would not do.  I got my iPhone and turned on the flashlight.  I got painfully on the ground and shined the light up under the sink.  I could not see the leak, but I could reach my hand up and feel it.  There were small knobs.  Hmm.  I started twisting one--twist twist twist.  The water stopped.  I'm a dumbass, I thought.  I got up and tried turning on the water.  It was the cold water tap I had turned off.  I got towels and dried up what I could.  This was going to be an easy fix--for a plumber.  I wasn't even tempted to try.  I'd fuck something up and flood the house.  I've done that before.  

When my mother got up, I informed her.  

Whatever.

In a little while, I'll call a plumber.  

That is how today began.  All my hopes and plans and dreams and aspirations. . . . 

I just ain't catching any breaks.  

Still, let's look on the sunny side.  

I stalled and stalled and stalled before going out with cameras yesterday.  Going among the throng with the a camera was anxiety producing.  But I forced myself to pack up and go.  I'd take the Xterra now that it was running.  I loaded up the car and left the house somewhere after noon.  The sun was beating down.  It was hot. It was humid.  I parked the car around the corner from the hipster market in the big parking lot of the liquor store.  I'd spent enough money there.  I wouldn't be that long.  

The hipster market was bland. Row after row of sun shaded clothes racks, old t-shirts, shit that the Salvation Army had thrown away.  Hipsters dressed in the same faded cloths.  I had an ultra wide angle lens on the Leica.  I walked through the crowd seeing nothing of interest.  I saw a girl with a camera taking photos.  She was a young hipster and would surely not get into any trouble.  It is good to be a young woman if you are a photographer.  My advice: don't be an old man with a camera.  

I may start dressing in drag.  

I walked back to the car with a camera full of film, hardly having snapped the shutter.  I decided to drive. . . somewhere.  I made a few wrong turns and ended up in a place I hadn't been for awhile.  There was a sign painted on a wall.  I stopped the car and left the engine running.  Grabbed a camera and took some photos, then went back and got another camera.  O.K.  When I got back to the car, the temperature guage was up and the a.c. was blowing warm.  Piss shit fuck goddamn.  The thing still isn't fixed.  But as soon as I started driving, the temperature gauge dropped to normal.  I hit a long red light.  The temperature gauge climbed.  I turned off the a.c.  It dropped a bit.  

And that is how I spent the rest of the day.  I turned the a.c. off at red lights, then turned it back on.  I was sweating bullets driving through town.  

I finished a roll of film and decided to take it to the film lab.  After that, I took the car home.  What to do?  Wait until winter to drive it?  

I put everything back in my mother's car and drove to Whole Foods.  I had told my mother when I left that I would fix a steak for dinner.  I picked out a good one, a big, thick Porterhouse.  Asparagus.  Baked beans.  And, oh, yes. . . tapenade.  A bottle of red wine.  That should do it.  

And it did.  I let the steak sit out for two hours to come to room temperature.  I patted it dry with paper towels and rubbed both sides with olive oil.  Salt.  Pepper.  I punched a thousand holes into the meat with a fork.  I let it sit while my mother and I drank some wine and ate the tapenade with crackers.  

Just before six, I set the Dutch Oven on the burner turned to Hi.  In a few minutes, when it was good and hot, I seared the steak for one minute on each side, then I turned the heat to medium and cooked the steak with the top on the pot for three minutes.  Flipped it.  Three minutes more.  

You could almost cut it with a fork.  Holy smokes--I've learned to make a good stovetop steak.  It was a huge steak, but there were no leftovers.  I gnawed the last bits of meat off the bone feeling like Bobby Kennedy Jr.  

I've called the plumbing company and now we wait for someone to become available.  My Sunday is shot.  I'll be here enduring whatever the fates have planned.  

But look on the sunny side.  

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Until next time. . . .   

Between You and Me. . .

I got the scanner thing figured out, and boy did I scan.  Sat my butt in a chair before the computer all the live-long day.  I won't bore you but to say the update to a software program I bought to run my old Nikon Super Coolscan 9000 ED scanner, discontinued in 2009, did the trick.  Apparently I hadn't used it with my current desktop computer which I bought in 2019 because I did not have the right cables for connecting the scanner to the computer. The cable I ordered from Amazon didn't work, but thanks to A.I., I found the right connectors.  And now things are purring like a kitten.  Before leaving home, I sent about a dozen images to myself to download onto my little laptop at my mother's house, but it is old, too, and getting funky and for some reason it doesn't pick up all the texts I should receive.  They are sitting on my phone, so I just sent this one of a very handsome devil this morning and will wait to see if the rest come through later.  

Oh, yea. . . a world of selfies.  

I was invited to Happy Hour with someo of the gymroids yesterday.  I told them I would love to go, but I'd could only have a quick pop, and then I'd have to get back to my mother's, so we met at 4:30 at the bar I last drank in with Red on a Saturday afternoon.  I got there first.  Same quirky bartender.  Remembered me.  Bartenders, baristas. . . I don't know how they do it.  But I was not there for my "usual."  I ordered what Red had, a Belvedere dirty martini.  

Made from Polish rye, I just read.  Better than corn or wheat vodkas, but some prefer potato vodkas for a more earthy taste.  I'm not a regular vodka drinker, but this thing hit the spot, cold and briny-sweet.  

So did the second one.  

The boys showed up and the barman knew them, too.  Alain ordered an Old Fashioned with Maker's "Mark."  I put that last in quotation because the barman had a field day with that.  I didn't follow, really, but there are several Maker's.  And, said the barman, he had more expensive whiskeys, too.  He wasn't through working over our section of the bar, though.  He was ramped.  I should have had my camera with me because he was looking crazy wild.  And so the afternoon went.  The bar crowd grew rapidly, and by five there was standing room only.  There were some pretty wild characters showing up, too.  Across the bar sat two pretty women.  A guy nearly as old as I and not nearly as attractive showed up in a partially unbuttoned shirt and a cowboy hat, and he slowly made his way to them.  

"Look at that," I said to the boys.  "That should be me."

"Everybody knows him," said the shock jock.  

"Why?"

"He's a musician or something."

"I don't know him.  Why should I?  Does he know me?"

"Exactly," said the shock jock.  

My across the street neighbor walked in just as I was leaving.  Alone.  He's my age, a retired orthodontist with money, divorced, and always randy.  I said hello goodbye to him on my sad way out.  I would have loved to stay, but when I had called my mother to see how she was doing . . . .

I ordered a pizza from the hippie pizza place when I left the bar.  It was ready when I got there and hot when I took it back to mom.  She wasn't very excited.  Her cable tv had been out since the terrible storm the day before.  I, once again, unplugged all the boxes and plugged them back in but it still didn't work, so, frustrated, I called the cable company.  I was two martinis and a big glass of wine in when I called.  I was on hold for fifteen minutes, and when I finally got a human, it was the usual ordeal.  I'd been on the phone for forty-five minutes when the fellow on the other end said they would have to send someone to the house.  On Monday, between nine and ten.  Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was my life, or maybe it was the motherfucking cable company, but the fellow on the other end of the line got my full, foul, filthy curse-laden, wrathful response.  

He didn't appreciate it.  

Upon reflection. . . something is wrong with me.  I'm broken.  Mine was the ranting of a madman.  I've lost control.  I'm usually resigned to the ways of the world.  Last night, I was feckless.  

I'm sure the cable company has a dosierre now.  I'm betting that a repairman never shows up now.  

There is a little hipster pop-up street market today near the Cafe.  I may load up some cameras and go.  I should, but I'm not sure I can handle the anxiety of walking with cameras in a crowd.  The chances are good that I will run into some confrontation.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't handle that well.  The cracks are widening and getting deeper.  All the King's horses, and all the King's men. . . . 

Just now, all my beautiful pictures came through on my computer.  I could have selected an image from many.  It's o.k.  I'll need them every morning.  A selfie is good for a report of my sudden mental collapse.  

But as one woman replied when I sent her the selfie, "Just a happy boy with his camera."

Uh-huh.  I sent a woman my selfie.  Tell no one.  This is just between us. 

Selavy.