O.K. I think I've been suffering from depression. Duh. Things have been stressful. Understatement. I have been sitting in the house unable to move for far too many wonderful days. Living in Catatonia. Paralyzed and Fearing.
And who do I have to tell? Who's telling me, "Oh, baby, baby, baby"?
Whatever.
So after sitting inside for most of a gorgeous day, gripped by something bad, I forced myself to put on some clothes and walk down to the ostensible Art Fest. I hadn't bathed for days, but I couldn't even bring myself to splash water on my face. I just put on some walking shoes and left the house.
If you know anyone who is depressed, get them to move. It helps.
And then I was in the crowd. I walked slowly, observing the art and the people. The art was mostly schlock, but they gave away a lot of prizes this year as about half the booths had a ribbon that said "Winner" on them. The better stuff, of course, seemed to go unnoticed.
Surprisingly, people think that a crowded art festival is a good place to bring a dog. I can't imagine. Some thought it best to bring a baby stroller AND a dog. No envy. Neither the kids nor the dogs seemed to be having a good time. But you know, parents being parents and misery loving company. . . .
Just fun loving Americans.
I stopped at a booth of photographs that were hand painted and housed in elaborate frames. It was the framing that caught my eye, all old wood, battered with peeling paint. The woman in the booth began talking to me. I guess she assumed I was a "fellow artist" from the conversation. I look like a version of an artist, I think, or something opposite of a version of a corporate type. Maybe "homeless." It depends upon who's looking, I guess.
I saw a few people I knew, but I didn't engage. I stood outside my buddy's new bar for awhile, leaning against the exterior, watching the crowd pass by. Then I made my way home.
It was three. I opened a beer. It was a cold beer, a good beer, and since I hadn't eaten, it went to my head.
Just the place for it, I thought.
And then I went to my mother's. I told her about my cracked crown but not the rest of it. The rest was just the usual talk, and when I left, I said, "I want to go have sushi on the Boulevard, but I don't think it will be possible to park anywhere around there."
Still unwashed, looking like a homeless hippie, perhaps, I thought I would just go home. I was really not wanting to cook, however, and I was craving me some sushi, so I decided to give parking a shot. . . and BAM! I found a spot first thing.
Victory!
I limped up the Boulevard to the sushi place and sat at the bar. Miso, edamame, some sort of spicy fancy tuna roll, and sake. I looked through the big plate glass window at the passing crowd. The seated crowd was different than the passing crowd, by and large, as the hoi-polloi headed to their Hyundais and Kias, then back their apartments and houses on the outskirts. I'm being an elitist asshole, of course, but I looked like I should be getting into a 2005 piece of shit Xterra driving back to the commune or ashram, so don't jump to judgement. I REALLY need to see my beautician, but she keeps putting me off. Still, the waitresses came over to say hello and the owner took my order rather than kicking me to the curb, so there was that.
I was back home before dark and sitting on the deck with a worm killer reading texts that I had not gotten to all afternoon. I didn't take my phone with me when I left the house. I try not to live with my phone. All day, I'd watched people walking the art festival while looking at their phones. The Country Club College kids are beautiful but man, they never look up. They always walk phone in hand. Maybe not having a phone makes me look more homeless, too.
I hadn't missed much. Nothing, really, other than a kid sending me pictures of her and her friends at some sort of festival in Miami. They looked like they were having fun, but they all know how to do that now. Everything is IG-able and no generation has ever in the history of the world been so perfect and beautiful.
"Too bad she won't live!" (link)
Yea. . . replicants.
There was nothing really to respond to, so I didn't. What I did do was go to the liquor store to get more worm killer and some little cheroots. Across the street at the Cafe Strange, the evening was getting started. I don't know what goes on there at night, but it looked about the same as the crowds did when I was playing with the band in small clubs long ago, disaffected people in costume clothing coming together for whatever kind of fun was to be had. The sun was setting, and just down the street, the Art Party would be starting, a completely different crowd of people with much the same intentions and, to me, much better music. But I didn't fit in with the young crowd and hadn't been invited to party with the oldsters, so I took my bounty home for a hi ball and a smoke.
Once again I was alone on a Saturday night when people are out having fun. It is going to need to come to an end.
One way or another.
I'll try one way first and see how that goes.
In certain communities, there were two types of music. There was Saturday night and then there was Sunday morning. The nightclub and the church.
Here, Saturday night runs into Sunday morning without notice. It is all a big hum.
I think I'll walk up to the Boulevard now and try to get breakfast. Maybe I'll get lucky.
I could use a little luck.
"But then again. . . who does?"
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