Blurry, F'ed Up

I just love blurry, f'ed up pictures that show me something that I otherwise wouldn't see.  When I come across them on a proof sheet (this was shot on film), I am drawn like a bear to honey.  Unfortunately, my taste in images is not popularly shared.  And maybe that is how it should be.  Sometimes, not very often, I imagine a world where my vision is welcome, a world where I am understood and adored.  It is as if the Beats had won the culture wars or that folk music scare had actually succeeded.  Try to imagine a lifetime of "Hootenanny."

Some things are best left in the margins of history.

But the mainstream of American life has completely worn me down.  Even the margins.  I go to bed tired and wake up tired.  I am confused.  Why do gay people like Disney so much?  It befuddles me.  And why have they become so boring?  Again, in tribute to Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, you can't out-weird America.  They have become absorbed into the mainstream the way "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis" absorbed a sanitized version of beat culture through the character Maynard G. Krebs.  I was going to give a link, but it isn't worth it.  Watching any of it is awful.  In a world where drag shows are the last vestiges of sexual femininity. . . well, I guess its no wonder they have become so popular.

Don't listen to me.  I'm frustrated at having aged prematurely.  I am living the 86 year old life.  I am an angel.  I am a saint.  But not really.  All I dream of is a vacation where I can run amuck.  I want all that I can't have.  I know now how boring the lives of saints can truly be without the opportunity to visit decadence and depravity.  Just a visit, not permanent residence.  Just a peak over the wall.

I feel something like Reinfield in "Bram Stoker's Dracula."