Sunday, February 13, 2022

Siren's Call

I didn't feel well at all yesterday.  My entire body ached.  It could be that I have gone back into the gym and am trying to regain my teenaged body.  Or. . . you know. . . it could be The Covid.  I've been out and about.  It would feel like a small flu, I'm guessing, given that I've had Everything.  Could be that or it could be that I hadn't eaten much for awhile.  Just drink and drugs.  Oh, I want to be a skinny wastrel.  I need to do coke, I guess, or smoke crack, but I think there are fat coke and crack addicts, too.  

What I need is to get out on the highway.  California is the place I oughta be.  I'll rent a Cadillac convertible and put on Oakley Hall--the band, not the writer--though I could do with both.  I'll be a version of Harry Dean Stanton, the son of him and Sam Shepard.  I'll sleep in cheap motels on the outskirts of desert towns and write poignant vignettes.  I'll be as anonymous and unknown as a man can be.  

Chicken dinners and beer and whiskey, just like tonight.  Cameras and highways and truck stop strippers.  I can see it all stretching out before me like a movie dream.  

Sounds like big trouble. You're going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over. As your attorney, I advise you to rent a very fast car with no top. And you'll need the cocaine. Tape recorder for special messages. Acapulco shirts. 

Yes. . . and yes!  There comes a time in life where few options are available and there are fewer things you truly wish to do.  But open highways and opportunity. . . that, my friends, is the American Dream.  


 * * *
Well, that was last night's mania.  Advil PM didn't do the trick last night and I slept poorly.  Got up to a dim, wet morning and the smell of a wild animal living under the floorboards.  That little fucker (or fuckers) MUST GO!  I've ordered little spikes pads to put in front of the crawl spaces that will deter animals from walking there.  I put up chicken wire, but the shitheads just dug under it.  They REALLY like it under my house.  Something must be done, though.  It has become too much.  I may have to get SERIOUS.  

I've scanned the papers and realize that the media is definitely the reason people are so unhappy.  They blame social media, but they are as responsible.  Every story that might be positive has a "but" in the tagline.  

"Everything Is Perfect, But Is There A Dark Side To Happiness?" 

The obvious answer is "yes."  I just don't read the stories any more.  Have you heard about Russia?  China?  Climate?  Been warned, have you?  But hey, being informed is. . . is what?  Makes you a good conversationalist?  I fear not.  Listen to the Fox Hounds around the water cooler.  

"Water cooler?  How the fuck old are YOU?"

The road does have a Siren's call, but a comfortable home is another thing.  I'll get out of the state soon, though, once the rest of you get decent weather, if these songs have anything to do with it.  

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