Until Then

Hand held exposure in the darkness--30 seconds.  I held the camera for 30 seconds to take this picture.  Stupid.  But I like it.  It is how I see the world this morning anyway.  I went out with the gymroids last night.  I drank too much and didn't sleep well.  I was up too early, and now I am going back to bed because I can't think to write.  I will publish this non-post now, and when I get up later, I will amend and finish it.  This is just a marker.

Pretty sure.  This is just a "warning."  Hell. . . I may still be tipsy.  And so. . . until then.  

* * *

Two Tylenol and a couple more hours of troubled sleep have not set me right, though my mood is much better.  But my head is still a disorganized mess.  I'll be off a bit today for sure.  I am hungry now and think to make an egg and ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast.  I'm pretty sure I need cholesterol.  The greasy fried Irish food last night seems not to have been enough.  Yea. . . and a big glass of whole milk.  I'm going to try that and see.  I'll post again, but I'll be back. 

* * *

Good God, this sandwich is good.  I should eat this every morning.  At least on the weekend.  I'm heading toward Orson Welles country now. 

It started out as just three of us taking a girl out for her birthday at her request, but of course the whole thing morphed and she didn't come which I said would happen all along (why would she?), and in the end it was another big group dickfest.  We got the backroom of the Irish pub which was great.  It was a slow Thursday night.  Really?  Well, as we were to find out, it was Open Mic Night.  The front room was full of the musicians who were going to have a turn, most of them big, arthritic, gray haired Garcia types.  Our waitress switched out with another one to take care of us.  Now the gymroids are all reaching an age.  They have all been married for twenty-some years, but they like to think of themselves as "players."  The waitress, though, was a hell of a good sport, bright eyed and laughing at the stupid shit they said.  Of course, they wanted to know all about her.  She had moved up from Miami to go to the World's Largest University here in our own hometown.  Majoring in Digital Media.  Blah, blah, blah.  More food.  More drinks.  One guy had a pocket full of blow.  Tennessee had been out on his boat drinking tequila all day.  It was loud.  It was boyo boyish. 

They had invited another guy from the gym, in his thirties, shoulders, small waist, bright eyes, arms tatted in full sleeves, a big hipster beard.  As stupid as this crowd acts, though, they aren't.  The hipster kid was trying to impress them.  He was buying properties, trying to get rich, too.  They were all willing to help him.  He was being dumb.  He was buying up cheap properties in places like Illinois and renting them out.  And so some of the conversation turned to that.  The rest of the guys have all made their money in real estate investments and development.  Multiple LLCs set up under trusts.  When McLaren started talking, he told me not to listen.  "Narco liberal," he said.  But it all sounded like Blah blah blah Shamen.  Blah blah blah blah blah Shamen.  I don't understand this stuff at all.  What I learned, though, was that you set up multiple companies that serve one another in business transactions, and that you have a big holding company for them all that is set up in Delaware.  

"Why Delaware?"

"It is like the Cayman Islands of the United States.  They have laws that protect the privacy of companies and shields them from revealing certain information."

They are wealthy.  Their attorneys are wealthy.  They have parties that look like scenes from "Scarface" and "Wall Street."  They don't like to give up names.  

"What attorney do you use in town?"

"Clarence.  I don't remember his last name."

But they all go down to his place in Key West every couple months and party.  I've probably already said too much.  

The waitress was busy.  One of the fellows is a "shock jock," or was.  The radio station has made him tone it down, so he is going out with another fellow to do their own podcast.  "We won't be as big as Joe Rogan," he said, "but close."  He is sponsored now by Budweiser, and in the past, he drank nothing but Bud Lite.  But all the bars have quit carrying it since the tranny thing.  Still, he orders beers two at a time.  

"What do you want, Shaman?"

"I think I'll have a scotch."

McLaren said, "Let's go to the bar and see what they have."  He wanted the "expenzsivest" shit.  I settled for what I always drink.  The rest of the table switched to scotch, too.  

Oh, shit.  

They talked about the Bud Lite tranny thing and about how much it has hurt the company.  Target, too, with the LGBT+ thing.  McLaren holds a lot of stock in both companies, he said.  He'd been taking a bath.  This is how democracies work, though, isn't it?  It's why we had Trump.  It's why we have DeSantis.  People vote at the ballots and with their wallets.  When you are losing, democracies seem to suck.  When your side is winning, it is the best thing in the world  

"Look, your brother took the stage."  An old guy with gray hair was playing the guitar.  Laughs all around the table.  But the guy was good.  He was really good.  He wasn't like the other amateurs who could play fast and furious trying to hit every note in the scale.  He played the essential notes.  Lovely.  

"He's like Miles Davis," I said.  Another musician had walked into the room and heard me.  He agreed.  

The boys started egging me on to go onstage and play.  Tennessee said, let's go.  He plays too, I guess.  I had no intentions of doing that, so now I was in for it.  Tennessee went over to talk to the waitress.  They both looked at me and laughed.  When they came to the table, she was giggling.  

"You have an OnlyFans page?"

"He's got a huge following.  Caitlyn Jenner is his idol.  You should see his house. . . ."

She was looking at me with bright eyes.  Mine were wry.  

"No, I don't have a JustForFans page."  

That killed them.  "What the fuck, dude--OnlyFans!"

"I'm not like them.  I'm the nice one." 

She said a phrase in agreement that I wish I could remember because it elevated me above the throng.  I told the table that this would be my theme with them from now on.  But I can't remember what she said.  I lament that it is gone. 

Too many scotches went around.  The shock jock had to be up early for his morning show.  We went to pay up.  Nope.  McLaren already had it.  O.K.  We'll give her the tip.  What was the total?  The waitress made out for not calling the cops on us.  She got a two hundred dollar tip on a four hundred dollar tab.  As nice as that was for her, I felt kind of greasy.  They had been buying her drinks all night, and then this.  I felt like I'd spent the night in a strip joint watching the boys get lap dances.  But she was happy.  

"I work Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays," she said.  

"Funny how money works," I said on the way out.  The Billionaire Boys Club. 

Now it's time for me to lay low, to read, to write, and to work on the projects I have been slacking on.  Fruits and vegetables and warm teas.  Yoga and meditation.  Love letters posted to the cosmos.  

I'm tempted to go back to bed.  Just for a bit.  

It is June.  It is Friday.  The first storms of the nascent hurricane season have formed.  God knows what lies ahead.  I need to rest up.  I need to be prepared.  

Just remember, I'm not like the others.  I'm the nice one.  We're just passing in this fleeting moment of time.  Yup.  I'm a sweet boy.  I'm your friend.