Camera at the ready, this is the first image I made on Saturday as Red opened the door. I hope she won't be pissed I am posting this, but. . . yea. . . I love a blurry photo. And I love the impossible rendering of character and emotion in that nearly cubist capture.
O.K. I'm justifying.
I took about a dozen pictures, all of them in dimly lit places, Red mostly silhouetted, and I'll probably use four of them.
If you are not a fan of the blur, here you go. Straight up phone photography. After fixing mother breakfast, as the day was warming, I headed to the Home Depot to get a shop vac. I hadn't any idea what I was doing, really. As I understood it, I'd hook this up to the drain end of the ac drain line and let it suck out whatever. In the store, I asked three different Floor Geniuses for advice on what I was doing. They were all nice and helped me read labels. . . . I could tell they were guessing, too. Many of my questions were about the drain cleaning chemicals. I have old black plastic pipes, or so I'm told, and drain cleaners like Drano cause chemical heat and can damage such pipes.
"Does this one cause heat?"
And so they read the label.
I settled on two, one that said it was safe for ALL pipes and another that works using probiotic bacteria. The fact is, however, things like vinegar will kill the probiotics, but the one safe for all pipes works faster. All there was to do was make up my mind. I did, but I was uncertain about it all.
When I got back to mama's, I put everything out on the garage floor. WTF? I sent a text to my friends.
C.S. is a real cowboy now!! WTF? It requires assembly!!!! I know some boys love putting shit together. I’d rather take pictures of it. Piss shit fuck goddamn.
Yea, I'm not a real tool using hominid. I've never been physically fascinated by the way things work. I can read about it and tell you, but don't put the tools in my hands and tell me to do it. Still, my mother was watching, so I began. It really wasn't much assembly--casters, top handle, and a cradle for the hose. Just a bunch of lining up the screws with the holes and using my forearm muscles. And then it was done.
Now came the real part. I got extension cords and took everything around the back of the house. The attachment I bought fit on the end of the drain pipe fine. I hit the switch and the shop vac began to whir.
I went into the house and poured a gallon of hot water in a plastic jar and started feeding it down the other end of the drain pipe. It's called something, but I can't remember. But it was running through bits at a time and when I heard the sucking sound, I'd put in more, and by god, within a few minutes, the water had all gone through. I went back out to look into the holding tank of the shop vac. Grungy, crummy stuff. I felt like I'd done it! I'd cleared the drain line. Hell yea. I packed everything up and put it back into the garage walking like Big Balls in Cowtown and then I poured the drain cleaner down the pipe. I walked out to the garage and sat down with my mom.
Fuck yea now Bubba—I’m a certified a.c. Cleaner. I’ll underbid all you mo’fo’s.
So I told my friends.
"You're becoming a man," my mother mocked. But now she had ideas. "You know what that shop vac would be good for? After you pressure wash the porch, you can suck up all the water."
Yes, she had many ideas about what I could do now. What I did was spray a wasp's nest and trim some palm fronds that were touching the roof.
I went back inside to turn the ac unit on. It had gotten warm in the house. It has been hot here in the sunny south. The unit came on. Bravo. Then I waited to see what it would do. When the house began to cool, I told my mother I would be back. I was going to my house to shower and meet my mountain friend who said he would help me with the ac stuff but who didn't answer his phone or text when it was time. Turned out, though, I didn't need any help at all.
I had just gotten out of the shower and was standing naked drying my hair when he walked into the bathroom. He slapped me on the shoulder and laughed.
"You look good!"
"I'm fat." But yea, I still have some muscle left.
"Give me a wank or go sit in the living room while I get ready," I said. He chose sitting in the living room.
His mother is the same age as mine and she is in similar condition. We talked about it all. His father is older, 96, and is taking care of his mother--but not alone. His sister lives nearby and his brothers come down for weeks at a time to help. They have hired two women to come in at night and stay so his father can rest.
"What do they do?"
"They make sure my mother is ok."
"Do they just sit up all night? Do they read? Watch t.v.?"
"I don't know."
Even now, he doesn't understand the strain of going through all this alone. The women take turns and stay all night. They get $20/hr. It is about $5,000/month. $60,000/year.
We talked about another friend, a dentist, who he had grown up with. Best friends. He'd come over the night before to visit. His mother had died last year. Hospice. My mountain friend was surprised. He didn't know about that process.
"They call it 'End of Life Care' but it is really a slow assisted suicide."
"That's what he said."
While we visited, his phone was blowing up. First one teenage son called and then the other. Then his sister. Then his wife. Maybe others, too.
When his wife was on the phone, he put her on FaceTime. We chatted. I am lucky. She likes me. That is not always the case with friends' wives. T's wife likes me, too. Some wives tolerate me and others show an active disdain. I'm a bad influence I think they imagine. Maybe I am, but I don't think so. I'm a sweet, romantic boy. Some, however, see only the "ironic" side.
Selavy.
My buddy stayed until he had to go to get ready for dinner with his sister and her husband. The husband had sold an educational company for hundreds of millions. He was taking my buddy to a Michelin star sushi restaurant that costs over $400 a seat until you order drinks. I wanted to go, too. I have friends who go, but I am not of that economic caliber. It must be fun to have money.
I can't find it quickly, but I read an article this morning about a study of I forget how many people--over two thousand, I think--who were born in 1947--again, remembering--that found financial security added years to people's lives and to their mental cognition. Financial stress isn't good for you.
I can't believe I've lived this long and can still think. Given the study, I should be dead either physically or mentally.
To tell you the truth, though, I never worried about it. I had so much fun when I was making barely enough money. But then, the barmaids and waitresses were buying me drinks, so. . . . I probably shouldn't say that in light of the old photos I've shown.
"How can that possibly be true?"
I think I worry about money more now, really, being the White Negro in the crowd (link). Knowing how sensitive some of you are, I felt the need to put a link to explain the term. I guess I could have said "The Ginger Man" (link).
I get beautified again today. Short hair requires more maintenance. And more money. I'm not sure about the tradeoff. This week, mother has two doctor's appointments. But my copy of "The Frenchmen: Or, My Life in Theory" came yesterday, so I'll have some reading to do. It's a thick book. It will probably take me awhile. If it is any good, I'm sure some of it will end up here.
And so, I must away. Oh. . . people, both libtards and semi-libtards as well as the conservatives, have really liked that Ella Langley song that Q sent, and they love the video. It seems to tap into some primitive part of the soul, I think. Such things are always inexplicable. Music is. Well, except for this one, maybe. This guy is making an attempt.
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