Not All Bad

"I just come here for the photographs.  Wait. . . is that a photograph?"

Let's mix "our" news today.  O.K.  My news.  "News."  I'm trying to tell you it won't all be a bummer today.  It could be, but it won't.  "Could" is like "might" or "maybe."  It doesn't really tell you much other than "wait and see."  I'm telling you it won't.  

I don't know where to begin.  I am not taking anything to help me sleep.  Haven't for at least a week.  As always, I don't have any trouble falling asleep.  None.  It is staying asleep that is often problematic.  It could be apnea.  It could be the stress in my head.  But I've managed to do alright without help this week.  Still. . . I am a bit discombobulated this morning and organization has never been my strong suit.  I'll just dive in.  

I made a tremendous dinner two nights ago.  Here's the recipe (link).  You can read it if you have a Times subscription.  If you don't, it doesn't matter.  I'll tell you what I did.  I cooked boneless skinless chicken thighs in the Dutch oven topped with onions, chard, and parsley for twenty minutes then added a can of white beans, rinsed.  That's all there was to it.  O.K.  it was more complicated than that, but who cares.  The thing is, I've never cooked with chard before.  Didn't even know what it was.  "What?!?" you say?  That's right.  I'm an evolving hillbilly, so I took the chance.  

It all turned out wonderfully--but. . . I forgot to cook a pot of rice that would form the base.  O.K.  Improvise.  I had cooked some spaghetti the night before and had it in the fridge, so I quickly heated it up and placed it in the bowl over which the rest of the dinner went.  Voila!

I'm inventive.  Whatever.  It was very, very good.  

I took my mother to an eight a.m. ortho appointment yesterday.  Turned out well.  He is going to "fix" her, I hope.  But not until October 6.  He also set her up with a pain management doc.  Saturday.  

Suddenly I have a slight memory of telling you this already.  

Well.  They say the mind is the first thing to go.  But not in the 80s and 90s.  It was the nose.  

Did I tell you about the wet carpet.  Surely.  Well, the HVAC guy came.  It was clogged a.c. drain lines again.  

"So why didn't the float valve shut off the a.c.?"

"Yea. . . it must be faulty."

Nice kid.  Young. Huge earlobe gauge holes.  He's been out before.  Said we needed to get a pump and repipe the drain.  Over a grand.  I asked how often the pump would come on.  Oh, he said, maybe twice an hour.  How loud was it.  O.K.  I could tell by his look that it would be audible.  Hmm.  

I've decided to try something else first to clear the lines.  

And once again--no charge.  The annual contract with this company is a real pip.  

See?  Not all bad news.  Mixed.  

I woke this morning without a huge sense of dread.  It will probably return, but I'll take a momentary release.  I take my mother to her primary doc today at three, so my day gets truncated once again.  Cramming my life into a few hours a day is becoming the norm.  I have to do everything for my mother but piss, shit, and bathe.  

"How do you like being retired?"

Little things make me happy which is lucky.  I saw an ad for Mont Blanc pens and accoutrements today in the N.Y. Times.  I used to have a pen fetish.  It might be called a nostalgia fetish.  I loved the elegance and craftsmanship of the past.  Ship and train cabins.  Leather luggage.  Whatever.  Champaign poster ads.  All of it.  Int the 80s in NYC, I would drool over all of it.  All gone now.  We've moved on.  But not Wes Anderson.  That's why I love him.  And so. . . (link).  I'm just linking a bunch of his Mont Blanc ads here.  You needn't watch them, but they made me happy.  I have two Mont Blanc Meisterstuck pens that were given to me as gifts from women who once adored me.  I also have two Waterman fountain pens given to me one Christmas by two different women.  Funny, isn't it?  I mean, I was a hippy driving an open CJ7 who'd just bought a house he couldn't afford to furnish.  Had a folding card table, two plates, two bowls, two sets of forks and knives, etc.  But, you know. . . I had dreams and aspirations.  

Maybe just dreams.  

I can't tell you how many times I ruined shirts with those fountain pens.  I see the Meisterstuck is very expensive now.  See?  A good investment.  

I also read two book reviews today, one for Woody Allens's first novel (link).  

And this (link).  

I don't know if I will read them, but they seem like fun.  

Oh. . . and Jeff Tweedy has just put out a triple album that might have a few good songs on it, too.  

To answer the question at the top, yea, it is a photograph.  But how can you tell?  It is a weird one taken on an expensive digital camera with a plastic toy lens and goofed around with in Photoshop.  So what's a photograph?  Let's just call them pictures, eh?  

I'll photograph again.  I will.  Trust me.  I'm not like the others.  You can count on me.  I'm your friend.