Uh-Oh

Originally Posted Tuesday, February 4, 2014

I want to read a high-adventure tale, a pot-boiler that has not been ruined by p.c. consciousness.  I've already read Marlon Brando's "Fan-Tan."  I've read everything by Bartle Bull.  Any suggestions?  I want something unafraid to be ragged and perverse, but it should have a good sense of language, too.  The adventures of contemporary life are just too awful. 

I have another confession to make this morning, too.  I am sick of the way people who study the stock market look and speak.  They are everything that is wrong with life.  If there was a God, he would make a special hell for them.  And they would, no doubt, enjoy it. 

I'm considering buying a Mont Blanc Meisterstuck roller ball pen.  It makes no sense, I know.  None at all.  I've wanted one for many, many years.  I have a Meisterstuck fountain pen, but it is often difficult to write with on many contemporary papers.  I want a roller ball.  I bought one for a colleague/friend many years ago.  I wonder if she still has it? 

And I also want a friendship bracelet/anklet.  Whatever they are called.  Someone said she would make one for me a month or more ago, but it has not been forthcoming.   I used to have a young girl who began making them for me when she was in high school.  I had a terrible crush on her.  She went to a private high school where all the rich kids went.  My girlfriend at the time taught there and was her paid companion on occasion when there had to be an adult chaperone and the parents couldn't go.  The first time I met her was at a beach condo where she and her boyfriend's little sister and her friend were staying for the weekend.  I fell in love with all of them.  I had never seen such incredible sophistication at such a young age, and they were in bathing suits!  Better, they were casually flirtatious.  And I was built like Tarzan. 

The girl who made the bracelet for me was a bit of a Tomboy, too.  She loved to take her little brother fishing in the afternoons at the lake.  She played soccer on the boy's team since they did not have a girl's team at her school.  And. . . she was also elected Homecoming Queen.  She had sleepy eyes and the low, rough voice of Lauren Bacall.  She used to write me letters when she went away to college.  We always ran into one another on the Boulevard when she came home.  She was almost in love, I think; I, quite. 

She made me the first bracelet when she was a high school junior.  It was the color of the Jamaican flag.  I never took it off, and when it rotted away, she made me another, and another. 

It might not be good for me to make my own, but I want one. 

I used to wear expensive silk scarves as bandanas.  I want that, too. 

I am going to spend the money to fix the Jeep.  I will drive it in the cool early spring air. 

I want a mountain bike, a vespa, and a Triumph motorcycle. 

I think I even want to go fishing.  I will surf and eat seafood cooked on the beach in the setting sun. 

Maybe I need a seventeen foot Boston Whaler, too. 

Weekends at the Fountainblue. 

One very expensive sports coat. 

Two pairs of fold up, handmade Italian shoes. 

O.K.  I have all the symptoms.  I didn't realize it until I wrote it out.  I'm in trouble. 

I will certainly blame it on the images of Aunt Thelma.