Tuesday, October 3, 2023

Back to the Fray

This is my wheelbarrow.  Tennessee borrowed it yesterday.  Everyone needs a friend with a wheelbarrow.  I'm showing this only because I haven't taken a picture for a long while.  This one was made with my cheap assed Holga.  It is a wonderful camera for pictures of things but horrible for photos of people.  The cheap plastic lens, though, renders the world in a distant way.  No matter what is in the frame, it always seems to have been in the past.  I guess it will work for people, too, as long as you don't get too close.  Put them in the distance with a lot of frame around them and yea, it will probably work.  

I made it out of the house yesterday.  The world was still, much the same as it was.  Swifties have taken it over, it seems, and my poli sci friend suggested she would be president in 2028 when she is officially old enough to run.  I told him that I thought The Rock might give her a run for her money.  Her demographic is white, suburban, and mostly democrats.  The Rock may run a larger gamut.  Plus, The Rock has a college degree, though Swift is reported to have done very well in high school.  On second thought, I'm not sure that a college degree is a plus anymore.  And I am certain that Swift would pull almost 100% of the LGBTQ demographic.  I must say, though, I think she picked the wrong tight end in the NFL.  George Kittle is far more interesting than Kelce.  But that's just me.  I tend toward the crazies.  

Swifties aside, the day was cooler and a bit breezy at times, and I felt something of my old self.  I was a popular man at the Club Y, so much so that I talked far more than I exercised.  But it was o.k.  One likes to be popular, and I am good company most of the time, even when I'm not feeling so much myself.  There is a stage I've had to climb onto most of my life, and I put on a show like every comedian you've ever heard about, you know. . . the people who are hiding their insecurities and sorrows.  Plus I can take a joke at my expense.  I can dish them, too, so that I'm not THE joke.  I grew up in a dangerous cracker neighborhood where wit could be a defense.  I've made some terribly dangerous criminals laugh.  A quick wit and quick feet kept me alive.  

Now I have only my wit on which to rely.  

The "gang" at the gym have decided on another night out on Wednesday.  People who have heard of the outings but who have not been have asked to be included in the group text.  The best part of it for me is that we meet early.  Some people show up before five.  I can get in, party, and still be home in time to soak my teeth and be bed by nine.  I really have no desire to be with that group late into the night.  The last time that happened, the night went south suddenly and I was left alone with two girls who got pissed off and cleared the table.  I, being the only liberal hippie in the group, had little trouble talking to "the woke."  They wanted to know how I could hang out with "those guys."  

"They're alright," I said.  

I think it is just too limiting to root yourself deep in your own ideology.  You miss much if you do.  And you can only influence people if you are with them.  As I say, I'm the only hippie in the Republican Y, and I think I do good work there.  But, you know, I've had a lot of practice.  

The cleaning crew comes today.  I have a whole hell of a lot to do before they get here.  Today the comforter goes from green to red, more specifically from hunter to burgundy.  I bought them both at Pottery Barn back when it was good.  I like to change them with the season.  It is a ritual I've been doing since the turn of the century.  I am a bit like Rain Man, I guess.  

When I went to see my mother yesterday, she was distressed.  The power company had put a new pole in her backyard last year.  Where they sat the thing for days in her side yard, the earth had sunk a bit, so she called to have them come fix it.  They did, but they did a shit job and put in half dead sod that was full of weeds.  She has been lamenting that ever since, so she called them again and asked them to come fix it.  The fellow from the power company had been there just before I got there and my mother was unhappy with the conversation.  

"Do you want me to call him?" I asked.  

She nodded.  So I did.  There was no answer, so I put the number in my phone and said I'd call him the next day.  My mother stepped into the house to get something and the phone rang.  I saw it was the power company and answered.  I said this was her son, and I was just calling to get the yard repair set up.  The fellow tried to give me the same go 'round saying they couldn't just keep coming out and fixing the yard.  

"Oh, sure. . . I understand that.  If you had done it right the first time, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we.  The indentation is still in the yard covered by sod that had been laying on the bottom of the palate way too long.  So just send out some fellows with a lot of dirt and some good sod and we should be done with this."

After a few minutes, he said he would.  My mother had walked out while I was on the phone and was smiling like the sun.  When her neighbor came up, she was anxious to tell her, "he cleared it all up in two minutes."  She was beaming.  

"That's right," I said to the neighbor, a legally blind 90 year old woman.  "If you need any help like that, I'll call 'em and give 'em the what for," I laughed.  

I wish I was as good at taking care of my own shit, and I can't help but wonder who will do that for me?  

Selavy.  We make our beds and then we lie in them.  

Not really.  I haven't made my bed since I hired the maids.  

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