I got the scanner thing figured out, and boy did I scan. Sat my butt in a chair before the computer all the live-long day. I won't bore you but to say the update to a software program I bought to run my old Nikon Super Coolscan 9000 ED scanner, discontinued in 2009, did the trick. Apparently I hadn't used it with my current desktop computer which I bought in 2019 because I did not have the right cables for connecting the scanner to the computer. The cable I ordered from Amazon didn't work, but thanks to A.I., I found the right connectors. And now things are purring like a kitten. Before leaving home, I sent about a dozen images to myself to download onto my little laptop at my mother's house, but it is old, too, and getting funky and for some reason it doesn't pick up all the texts I should receive. They are sitting on my phone, so I just sent this one of a very handsome devil this morning and will wait to see if the rest come through later.
Oh, yea. . . a world of selfies.
I was invited to Happy Hour with someo of the gymroids yesterday. I told them I would love to go, but I'd could only have a quick pop, and then I'd have to get back to my mother's, so we met at 4:30 at the bar I last drank in with Red on a Saturday afternoon. I got there first. Same quirky bartender. Remembered me. Bartenders, baristas. . . I don't know how they do it. But I was not there for my "usual." I ordered what Red had, a Belvedere dirty martini.
Made from Polish rye, I just read. Better than corn or wheat vodkas, but some prefer potato vodkas for a more earthy taste. I'm not a regular vodka drinker, but this thing hit the spot, cold and briny-sweet.
So did the second one.
The boys showed up and the barman knew them, too. Alain ordered an Old Fashioned with Maker's "Mark." I put that last in quotation because the barman had a field day with that. I didn't follow, really, but there are several Maker's. And, said the barman, he had more expensive whiskeys, too. He wasn't through working over our section of the bar, though. He was ramped. I should have had my camera with me because he was looking crazy wild. And so the afternoon went. The bar crowd grew rapidly, and by five there was standing room only. There were some pretty wild characters showing up, too. Across the bar sat two pretty women. A guy nearly as old as I and not nearly as attractive showed up in a partially unbuttoned shirt and a cowboy hat, and he slowly made his way to them.
"Look at that," I said to the boys. "That should be me."
"Everybody knows him," said the shock jock.
"Why?"
"He's a musician or something."
"I don't know him. Why should I? Does he know me?"
"Exactly," said the shock jock.
My across the street neighbor walked in just as I was leaving. Alone. He's my age, a retired orthodontist with money, divorced, and always randy. I said hello goodbye to him on my sad way out. I would have loved to stay, but when I had called my mother to see how she was doing . . . .
I ordered a pizza from the hippie pizza place when I left the bar. It was ready when I got there and hot when I took it back to mom. She wasn't very excited. Her cable tv had been out since the terrible storm the day before. I, once again, unplugged all the boxes and plugged them back in but it still didn't work, so, frustrated, I called the cable company. I was two martinis and a big glass of wine in when I called. I was on hold for fifteen minutes, and when I finally got a human, it was the usual ordeal. I'd been on the phone for forty-five minutes when the fellow on the other end said they would have to send someone to the house. On Monday, between nine and ten. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was my life, or maybe it was the motherfucking cable company, but the fellow on the other end of the line got my full, foul, filthy curse-laden, wrathful response.
He didn't appreciate it.
Upon reflection. . . something is wrong with me. I'm broken. Mine was the ranting of a madman. I've lost control. I'm usually resigned to the ways of the world. Last night, I was feckless.
I'm sure the cable company has a dosierre now. I'm betting that a repairman never shows up now.
There is a little hipster pop-up street market today near the Cafe. I may load up some cameras and go. I should, but I'm not sure I can handle the anxiety of walking with cameras in a crowd. The chances are good that I will run into some confrontation. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't handle that well. The cracks are widening and getting deeper. All the King's horses, and all the King's men. . . .
Just now, all my beautiful pictures came through on my computer. I could have selected an image from many. It's o.k. I'll need them every morning. A selfie is good for a report of my sudden mental collapse.
But as one woman replied when I sent her the selfie, "Just a happy boy with his camera."
Uh-huh. I sent a woman my selfie. Tell no one. This is just between us.
Selavy.
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