Magazine Style

Too many of my pictures turn out like this one--magazine illustration.  Did this on Sunday in the 'hood, and of course there were people about, me explaining that I just wanted to take a photo "of this cool old car," so that I didn't take my time but just framed and shot once.  Selavy.  And the damned thing doesn't look nearly as beat in the photo as it did in reality.  Whatever.  

I just needed to get back and show the car in its environment.  But the dogs. . . you know.  

Another.  A Church's Fried Chicken shack.  It seemed abandoned, but in this part of town it is often difficult to tell.  Across the street, though, was the real picture.  Two men were setting out big tires in front of a cruddy used car dealership.  The picture would have been with the two of them standing with the tires, the small flags and the dealership in the background.  Again. . . I didn't have it in me.  

Stranger in a Strange Land.  I couldn't grok well enough.  

The rest of the photos I took were worse than this, so. . . . 

Here's a good one this morning.  

This from a state that doesn't want weed--Ibogaine!  In case you don't know:

So on May 11, 1972, Thompson gave the campaign a jolt, filing a speculative story through a primitive version of a fax machine he called the Mojo Wire. Describing Muskie as a competitive political animal who would never back away from a challenge, Thompson couldn’t understand why the senator had suddenly become rigid and unresponsive—seeming to read directly from a script—but he took one hilarious shot at figuring it out.

“Not much has been written about the Ibogaine Effect as a serious factor in the presidential campaign,” Thompson wrote in an article he later claimed was never meant to be taken at face value. In it, he declares, “word leaked out that some of Muskie’s top advisers called in a Brazilian doctor who was said to be treating the candidate with ‘some kind of strange drug.”

The effect of this, though, was devastating to the Muskie campaign, and he never regained momentum.   

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CxorjE_pMXy/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

 You'll want to watch the clip.  

One of the things MAGA likes to do is look back and speculate.  Trump learned his lessons well from Dr. Thompson.  

"I've heard people say that Biden didn't sign those orders.  Someone was using the autopen."

Trump is big on the "I've heard" statements.  Pure Thompson.  

"I didn't say it was true." 

One of the big MAGA claims is that Fauci was hiding the facts, that he should be put in prison.  This one kills me.  They will cite all sorts of spurious evidence that contain a grain of truth to make the rest sound legit.  

No, man. . . Hunter S. Thompson sure as hell taught lessons to the right.  

"People claim that Trump has tertiary syphilis  and it is effecting his brain.  Some report that his doctors have been trying to treat it with hydroxychloroquine, Exelon and Reminyl."

So easy. 

 I went to YouTub U. to learn how to set up a website.  Even the easy ones will take days to shape.  So many things. . . ugh.  I've already forgotten most of them and will have to go back and watch again.  Baby steps.  One thing at a time.  

Four weeks of brutal antibiotics, beds and chairs, then another few weeks of not doing too much in order to let the surgical wound heal, plus the eating and the drinking. . . have made me a fat boy again.  Now the long road back.  Again, you can always come back but you can't come back all the way.  And besides, fat is only one of my problems.  But I need to start, so yesterday, I decided I would quit drinking.  I had an Athletic beer with lunch instead of wine.  It was good.  This would be easy.  Before mother's, I went to the liquor store and bought some THC drinks just in case.  Five calories and a buzz.  Back home, I eschewed my afternoon cocktail for a cranberry and water, A.A. cocktail style.  Mmmm.  I drank a bunch of them.  Then, as I cooked, I eschewed my usual prep wine, and when dinner was plated, I had another Athletic.  Things were going swimmingly.  But then, having just eaten chicken, me speculating about salmonella, I thought I needed something to kill any random bacteria.  Yea, that's what I thought.  So I had a scotch.  Christ, it was good, so I had another.  

But then I stopped.  I made some green jasmine tea from little tea pearls.  And then I drank about 2.5 grams of the THC drink.  It was nine.  I was ready for bed.  

All in all, I think "not bad."  I kicked a lot of calories to the curb.  Oh. . . for desert I had half a honey dew melon.  I mean, really. . . I'll lose weight, right?  

Or at least not keep piling it on.  

But. . . what to do about the other stuff?  Well. . . !

(link)

For $300-$350, I can be looking like an embryo again.  

In truth, for most of my life, I was the only man I knew using little beauty products.  Nothing, really, just putting moisturizer on my face and the occasional home face mask with egg white, whole milk, turmeric, and honey.  And that was only more lately.  For most of my life it was just the egg whites that my mother used at home.  

Now, of course, metro men do it all from manscaping to botox to little surgeries.  I'm not hating.  I'm just late to the game.  

I'm simply using hyaluronic acid and DMAE.  

But I'm going to ask my surgeon if he can do my eyes 😛!

Joke.  

But I'll ask him if he knows someone.  

How the fuck did I get here?

Well. . . I didn't sleep well at all, up every hour or so.  I'm going to spend all my money on sleep things.  The reports are that bad sleep will kill me.  I'm against that.  

Life is still weighing heavily upon me.  Nothing is getting done and the problem pile just keeps growing.  I tell myself "Thursday."  That is when I see my surgeon again, and after I get the "all good," I am going to begin doing some of the needed projects myself.  But there are still the big, major things like the floor joists to be taken care of.  And I think maybe that is bothering my sleep.  

It is hotter than Hades here when the sun is out, and when the clouds seem to cool things off, the air gets stuffy.  Chubby thighs will chafe and heat rash will have its way.  I read this morning that the number of people dying of heat exposure is multiplying exponentially because nighttime temperatures are not dropping low enough.  

 

Drill, baby, drill.  

So tonight or tomorrow, depending on what you read, is the Strawberry Full Moon.  I think of the strawberry wine Skylar ordered at a bar when we met up in Strawberry Country a couple years ago.  I was on the wagon at the time, and didn't get to taste.  But. . . 

That's a fair warning, a cautionary tale, I'd say.  

But that can't be the song of the day.  Q sent me the death notice for Sly Stone last night.  Ah, man. . . shit.  Here's the song Q sent.  Stone was so effing good.  

Dance to the music, baby.  In the Summertime.