Obviously I have not taken any pictures in the past two days, days away from the factory. The factory isn't the only thing that can distract one from the "creative process," of course. Just trying not to be an asshole will do that. Artists are assholes. They have to be. They must do what they think they need to do and damn the costs.
I am not an asshole. I am a loving, caring, nurturing sort, a caregiver if you will.
Oh. . . but if you are alone, you needn't be either to do what you want to do. That is the neutral place and perhaps the logical place for anyone wishing to be in any way (profound or simple) creative.
This doesn't apply to scrapbooking. It is something you can do around the table with family and friends. It is decorative and has great appeal. Nobody gets pissed off at you for doing it.
Even a Norman Rockwell painting is dangerous.
I think I'll take up duck carving.
But the sign is interesting in a way. I didn't go in but simply passed by without thinking about how perplexing the sign was. Sub as in submarine? Or do they only serve one kind of sub sandwich? Perhaps it indicates that moon is subpar or imperfect. Perhaps if I had bothered to go in, I would have seen something out of a Twilight Zone episode with living cadavers sitting at the bar.
I've made way too much of that. All I can say is at least its not a selfie.
Speaking of which, I read a report on a survey this morning that found over eighty percent of the adult population of the U.S. have "sexted." Right on. Everyone should be required to post a naked picture of themselves so that no one can get in trouble for doing it any more. It is only natural.
I've never had a girlfriend of whom I haven't taken pictures of in the nude. Naked, that is. Her, not me, though I have been naked often enough, too.
Poor Q, though, now that he has his second pecker, needs you to sext him. I'll check with him and see if he will let me post his phone number here. Perhaps he can get a second phone just for this. But he has a FaceBook page, and I guess you could message them to him there. Pretty soon old Double Dick will be posting naked women on his blog. Maybe. Perhaps not. It would be dangerous for him in many ways. No, just send him pictures of yourself. I'll try to get him to forward them to me.
It is only because I am a caring, nurturing sort and have given up all of that. It is the quiet life for old C.S. now. Yesterday at lunch sitting at a pretty bar on the Boulevard, I discovered Lillet. "Discovered" is not quite the correct word as it has been made since 1872. The barman poured me a little cup, and after lunch I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle. It is served chilled, but I treated it like a sweet vermouth and mixed it with Campari and soda. For a bit. Then I had a little glass of it by itself. Delightfully weird. It led to the desire for a light dinner at another place, a wonderful Italian restaurant where we sat at the little front bar that looks out over the street. It was early, just after six, and our placement was perfect. The woman next to me had a huge bowl of steamed mussels in a tomato sauce. And then we had one, too, with an arugula/tomato salad topped with a shaved parmigiana cheese. And we decided on a simple spaghetti with two big meatballs. Chianti. Perfecto.
Lillet has changed my life.
That is all I can tell you this morning. You feed your senses as you can and take just a bit more than allowed.
I'll make some pictures today, perhaps. If I get a chance. One never knows these days. I can only sit and wait for Madame Sosostris to deliver the news.
No comments:
Post a Comment