"Be careful what bait you fish with," that dead villain Brando used to say. "It determines what you'll catch." He was speaking of women, of course, and Rolex watches and shiny Porsches. But it holds up in other areas, too.
C.C. liked something I sent him the other morning about carrying contemporary baggage into other eras and coined the phrase "Leftist Colonizers." Indeed. Misappropriating the past for use in a moral universe they did not envision does seem dishonest.
To extend yesterday's trope, as Q pointed out, once you learn to play tic-tac-toe, nobody ever wins. That is where we live today.
You know, when I was a young man, the kind of people who will not wear masks were the ones that would not let me get a job with long hair. I lived in a world of "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service." Disney still has rules about the way employees are allowed to look. So really? Nobody can tell you you have to wear a mask in a pandemic? Who the fuck are these people?
They are sociopaths. That is the only explanation for it. They have no conscience about their behavior toward others. They are extremely narcissistic. I dread using the term as it has been so much misused in the world of pop psychology, but it truly applies to this behavioral aberration. Of course they support Trump, the King of Sociopaths. He is their idol.
I've decided that requiring me to wear pants or anything covering my genitals is an attack on my inherent freedom. I'm going pantless in public from now on. If people don't want to look at my pretty jewels, they can stay home. Let them self-isolate for awhile and see how they like it. My balls are beautiful. I'm tired of oppression. Stand up with me. Let's set the boys free.
I'm sorry, but that seems no less absurd than the idiots who think that they cannot be required to wear a mask. It may be time to turn them into Soylent Green.
I am not very coherent this morning. I woke up yesterday with bad vertigo, and it lasted all day. I also had a lot of body pain, so last night I took "a lot of things" to help me sleep. I can't tell whether the vertigo is gone or not. I'm still numb and thick and slow. I'd probably lose a game of tic-tac-toe.
I'm out of bait. Fishing with a bare hook doesn't get you anything unless you can snag something, but that is very difficult to do. Usually the only things you snag are weeds and rocks. It seems the ponds are stocked with only guppies and catfish anyway. What's the use in going fishing?
If there are catfish to be had, dispense with the hook and go noodling. Didn't your Appalachian American fore-bearers teach you nuthin'. The allegorical applications of noodling also apply. Here endeth the lesson. Selah.
ReplyDeleteDon't need no stinking catfish. They've stocked that pond all wrong.
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ReplyDeleteWhen we were little kids - and it wasn't a beach day - we went to the Bay. There were lots of us. Cousins. My Aunt & Uncle had 10 kids.
My uncle Nicky - He was a plumber who never had hot water in his 1 Bathroom 2 bedroom house in Nutly, NJ. Yeah - 10 kids one bathroom 2 bedrooms. He was our Pied Piper.
He'd give us each a string with a chicken leg tied to the bottom and of course - if it was your first summer being allowed to participate - instructions - on what to do if a crab bit (which was call one of the older kids on Net Duty).
My Ma tells me the story - her sister Marie would "disappear" when she was pregnant (again). Wouldn't talk to her Ma, my Grandma, whom I loved with all my heart or call her. Then My Ma would get on the horn (NO7-6796) - God how old am I? I remember a telephone number with the letters) - with Gran and say "Have you heard from Marie? "
"Nope"
"She must be pregnant."
And obvs. she was.
Anyways.
We thought - we were doing an activity just for us kids - crabbing. What it actually was - we were slave labor for the adult crab dinner that night.
Gawd those were some days.
All of us jammed into a tiny Seaside Park bungalow.
Oh. I should have really told the story of my Grandpa teaching us all to fish for trout on the Delaware. Where we'd also go on Summer Days with Uncle Nick and the Gang. Cause that was real fishing - not crabbing.
That story involves picking moths from trees for bait - and digging for earth worms - and other wonderful things and I'm thinking I told this story here.
Fuck I have to get some new stories if you are going to keep writing for 100 more years.
But there are seminal ones - aren't there?
That sort of replay in the cinema of your mind - how that works.
Okies. I've decided tonight I'm going to dream of being in Paris. Even if it is strange because of the Plague - I'm going to think about being there in a lovely apartment. Living like a Parisian. Calling on Patrick and Diane. I can't call on Ute anymore. I really must get to see her in Berlin.
I can smell the stone buildings wet with summer rain. Feel the steam of the street. I can taste a warm baguette and a gulp of wine - maybe a bit of cheese and honey. I want to sleep with all the shades up - so I can watch the light move across the alleyway and buildings across the street. And I want to hear the piano player - who lived across the street on the Ile St. Louis and played and played music through those big windows every night.
There's an allegorical application for "noodling?" I don't even know what the non-allegorical application is.
When we "noodle" here - it means bringing along - a long styrofoam flotation device. Utilized for "hanging" in whatever body of water choice of the day is - Nantucket Sound, Joshua's Pond, Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay, etc.
Mostly they are good for Nantucket Sound cause that water is warm and just gentle rolls of waves mostly - perfect for floating - having a cocktail hidden in some type of cup - with family for long periods of time.
Those who sunburn easy must be diligent with sunscreen application. And hat wearing is encouraged.
They won't be here to Noodle this summer.
You can noodle by yourself of course but it's best to noodle with those you love. OF course there are always other noodling pods as well. And you might converse about a general topic -
hehe. It's Friday Night I'm having a party all to myself!
Thanks for the space to unwind the mind.
ReplyDeleteMon Amour
your arteries of arched bridges entangle
the mess of my heart when I leave
oh you are more to me
than crepes with hard cider, mon cheri, even more
than delicate macaroons or Jacques Genin's
chocolate shop on the hill - that little jewel box of sweetness
up past Le Marche des Enfants Rouges where Moroccans
cook everything with cinnamon--your Marais patisseries and St Germaine galleries, the perfect baguettes and yogurt in little blue clay containers--
When I think of my blood
I wish it rubbed in the paint of Olympia's pink flower
it is unbearable not to be drunk on the Ile St. Louis
or on my way to the Musee d'Orsay
past the stone-faced stares of Notre Dame's blind gargoyles.
In April it was cold & rained while I read Ezra
in the tiny upstairs room of Shakespeare & Co.
It was only the essence of decadent history
that kept me warm
by the fountain of St. Michael
as I wrestled the devil
in the 5th after sipping absinthe.
And let us not speak of 13 rue Ravignan,
the Bateau- Lavoir where Modigliani's drunken yells
echo in my ears. Picasso, wide-eyed stabbing
his next canvas on top of Montmartre.
I'm broken without you beneath my feet
and like Nike of Samothrace --
I fly toward you.
Just some dramatic fun I had writing about Paris after my first visit - 8 years ago.
I think I've worn myself out enough to go read quietly now and fall asleep.
Paris. Everybody has one. Each one is different and personal. That is the great thing about places like Paris. It's big enough for everyone.
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