Oh. . . the promises I meant to keep. But way led to way, and things, as they will, just got away from me. And before I knew it, I was getting fucked up and watching "Inherent Vice" for the third time. That was, in retrospect, a mistake. I am really not a dopehead, but I forget that from time to time, and in an effort to forestall drinking. . . I'll just "burn one." And almost immediately, I think "that was dumb" and I am sorry. I know people who like smoking pot. A lot. Strange, isn't it, how different our reactions to the same thing can be? But, you know. . . I was talking "hippie times."
I should stick to essential oils and herbal teas.
I did end the evening with a cup of hot spicy milk, though, and a glass of water, so there was that.
But the day was not a waste. Not completely. I called the irrigation guy to come out and fix some broken sprinkler heads and adjust the coverage of everything in general. I could do it. I've done it before. It is a messy job. First you dig a big hole so you can see the PVC, then you cut out the leaky part and clean the two free ends with a powerful solvent making sure not to get any bits of dirt on them. Then you get this blue glue and spread it on the inside of the new PVC and move the two free ends enough to get them all to fit. That's the text on it. It never works out like that for me, however. As I have reported, I am not a handy guy, and it takes me three tries to do anything once. So. . . I called John. Bing, bang, bong--it was done.
I had gone to the gym in the morning. I beat the gymroids in, so I was finished when they were showing up. Tennessee is back in town and his wife is working, so he is ready to party. Since he knows how to fix things, I asked him how I needed to go about getting the corroded, leaking drain pipes apart. I saw a leak the other day, and when I tried to twist the flange, it crumbled in my hand. Uh-oh. Tennessee told me to send him a picture of the pipes. I did. He texted back.
"I can fix it."
Two down.
When I got home and was waiting on the irrigation guy, I decided to start preparing my taxes. I use TurboTax. Two hours later, I was done. Now all I need to do is write the IRS a pretty big check plus pay a penalty for not taking enough deductions during the year.
I'm trying not to bum.
Oh. . . I did chores in between, too. I picked up a prescription and bought groceries at Whole Foods. I was going to make a salmon salad or something with a good amount of protein for lunch, but walking through the aisles I spied some organic raviolis and organic sauce. I never, ever eat raviolis, but man, they looked good. So that is what I had for lunch.
That was fun.
More pictures from Puerto Rico. I just can't figure that out. But as the kids used to say, "Whatever."
It was late when both the irrigation thing and my taxes were done, so I called my mother and told her I wouldn't be over. Then I opened a light beer instead of making a cocktail. Light beer is practically water, so I was feeling admirable if not noble. So much so, I made a chopped vegetable salad with avocado and garbanzo beans topped with tuna for dinner. Yea, buddy. . . I was trying. I watched more van life as I ate. Everything was good.
Then I fell victim to "Inherent Vice."
All that said. . . it needn't have been. Not here. Maybe in a daily diary. I am often either too mundane or too revelatory here. Sometimes I'm a character and sometimes just me. "Just me" can be extremely boring but I am not always up to "character" writing. And certainly I needn't reveal to you all my psychoses, imagined or otherwise. Do I? Do I need to tell you about waking up paralyzed with anxiety and terror and maybe even regret in the wee hours of the night?
"Well. . . it couldn't be any worse than a narrative about plumbing and taxes."
True dat.
The annual "art festival" is coming up this weekend. There isn't much, if any, art now, times being what they are. Anything edgy or controversial has been pruned. You can't get in much trouble with wood carving and fabrics or watercolors of birds and boats. But, despite the lack of art, the crowds are larger than ever. One used to go to see the crowd when it was a small village event full of expensively dressed natives. Not formal. Don't get me wrong. But there was a chic, casual elegance to it. Now, the hordes arrive by cruise ships and tourist buses and is not different than any crowd you might see at Walmart.
Am I being shitty?
Oh, yea. The mouth breathers and slack jaws come in by the thousands. And they like the carved ducks and floral paintings.
"Good God, George, look at this! Isn't that wonderful? He's captured every detail of that hibiscus. Amazing."
"Do you want to get some fried dough?"
"O.K."
It is the weekend of the fabulous party at a friend's house. I say "friend," but I haven't really seen him since Covid. He is the one with the fantastic bachelor pad full of good art who has the wonderful trio play Django Reinhardt music in the garden.
When I used to see him, he would invite me to come. I know that Travis has gone in recent years, so last night I asked him to get me an invitation.
"I can't. When was the last time you took him to lunch?"
I still have a few days left.
I guess I won't be going again this year. Maybe I'll just crash it, though, and tell him Travis told me to come.
"Travis said he has taken you to lunch enough times for both of us."
Ha!
I should say. . . life is looking. . . something. Wednesday night drinks with Tennessee and whomever and a weekend full of Hoboken Hillbillies and carved ducks. I can't imagine how life could get any better.
Kidding aside, the weather is good and there is or will be an energy and a "vibe" in the air. I will endeavor to take full advantage of it this week and not be a Debbie Downer.
Let the week sound a bit like this and I'll be fine.
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