Thursday, April 20, 2023

Maybe I Should Get Back to the Narrative

I just lost my mind and wrote a whole blog entry on sex.  I made sure that I offended everyone in it.  It is easy, by the way.  There is absolutely no one, I am convinced, that you can't piss off talking about some sexual activity.  I think I covered them all in the post, but probably not.  There were some things even too dangerous for me to speak of.  

I am not sure if I will continue the narrative of Crazy Larry and the Mexico City Ladies.  

And so, we pause.  I am going to see C.C. in a theater production tonight in a distant town.  I am going to be there after dark.  Ooooooo. . . it is fairly spooky for me.  When was the last time I was out of town after dark?  Oh my god, the traffic. . . . 

The cover of this week or month's City Magazine has my ex-wife on it.  I know this because it comes in the mail to everyone who lives in town, I assume.  But before I saw it, someone texted it to me.  My ex is a real socialite.  I think that might be her official title.  She is a member of all the important clubs and organizations.  She organizes society events, galas and the like.  When I met her, she was a crazy kid from the country club set.  She fell for me anyway and in a few years told me I was going to marry her.  She was fun then, and I enjoyed her.  After our divorce, though, she returned to the country club.  Now she is married to the builder of exclusive homes, and she has her own couture shop in a building they bought.  She has partners who run the business by and large, though I think she probably does much of the buying.  Anyway. . . there she is on the cover of the magazine.  I always wonder how they coerce people into that.  The image is always something hideous.  But she is standing between her two seated partners, so I imagine it was a business decision.  The thing is, my wife had very conservative tastes.  Her closet was arranged in whites, blacks, and khakis.  And shoes.  Lots and lots of shoes.  But what she is wearing on the cover of the magazine. . . holy shit!  I sent the picture to Q.  He wondered if she were wearing a table cloth.  Ha!  Exactly.  She is wearing a hideously patterned moo-moo.  Now I AM a fan of the moo-moo since I've grown fat, and I would wear one, but not the one she has on.  Jesus--I can't imagine anyone wearing it anywhere.  It makes Lily Pulitzer look colorless.  

But she is not fat like me, and apparently she has had some work done.  That is what people do, I guess.  She was always one to stay ahead of the game.  I'm absolutely certain all the rich gymroids are familiar with her.  I don't want them to know I was married to her.  I really don't.  

But, you know, that's what happens to women when they don't have me to wrestle around with in the mud.  

I'm still finding shards of glass from last week's party with my feet.  

Remember my cocktail photography?  I have changed.  I only drink wine with healthy dinners now, spring salads with chopped beets, avocado, garbanzo beans, and garlic.  Grilled vegetables with tofu.  Q has lost fifty pounds or so, he tells me, and is halfway to his original weight of eight pounds and six ounces.  He pisses me off.  I liked for him to be a man of excess.  But. . . given my doctor's prognosis and my seemingly unnatural weight gains, what can I do?  

"I want more life, fucker."

It may be easier for Q, though, with a wife and child and the whole catastrophe cheering him on.  My voice surely rings hollow as I advise him to consume.  He just seems all cocky and shit now.  He spends all his time on the ski slopes drinking Fiji water.  Christ.  

I'm still scanning film and learning how to edit it in Premiere Pro.  It is taking a very long time and I am losing my mind with it all.  What will I do with them after I finish?  I send clips around to friends now, but I feel as if I have invited them over for drinks and have set up the projector to show them my hone movies.  


But right now, they are only ten to twenty seconds long, and I'm finding out that not everybody has such things.  I'll share one with you. . . just in case you ever wondered how I turned out like this. . . . 

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