I have a "date" with a twelve year old today. Am I nervous? Wrong question. Am I fit enough?
There you go.
I'll only tell you about it if things go wrong. Nobody wants to hear about it otherwise. Like if I get roofied and she steals all my candy, yea, there's the story you want to hear. That's a good story. Or if the barman puts Visine in my cocktail. Something like that.
"Well, what did you think would happen? Happy ever after? You're an idiot. . . did you know that?"
What are my choices? Yes I knew it or no I didn't? There's no good response to that question. Let me phone a friend.
"Hey, ma?"
Yesterday, I picked up a roll of slide film I had developed at the hipster lab. You'll like this one. Remember how happy I was that the pretty blonde woman who worked there remembered me, my name? Yea. Not yesterday. I was a complete stranger. Never saw me before. I tried to be clever, but she had rather talk to a couple who were also there. I looked at the slides on the store's light table. Wow. They did a great job developing them. But there wasn't a single shot there that interested me. An entire roll of bupkis. I didn't bother looking at them again when I got home.
I'm not sure I want to keep shooting film now. It is expensive. I DO like, however, not seeing the images for a few days or a week after taking them. If I'd shot Saturday with a digital camera and saw I had nothing that same day, I probably wouldn't be interested in going out again for a good long while. Maybe that is the advantage of film. Delayed non-gratification.
The tenant came back yesterday from her summer stay in Minnesota. My sphincter tightened as I worried about what troubles will plague me at the apartment. My bank account is shrivelling as quickly as my manhood. The A.I. fix on my mother's air conditioner is only temporary. Since my great victory, the fan has continued to run twice. I had to "fix" it again this morning. Sooner or later, it will require something expensive. My anxiety grows disproportionately.
I read this morning that America has a loneliness epidemic, especially among men. 40% of men surveyed said they had no close friends. They felt nobody cared about their wellbeing. They should have my friends. They want me to shit my pants on a date. I mean, that's caring, but in the wrong direction. But I get it. My close friends have all moved far away. It is the great American migration. People are mobile. People don't grow up, live and die in the village where they were born. Except for Gen Whatever. I don't keep up with the names of gens. But whoever the 30 year olds living at home with their parents are--that one.
Which reminds me. Parents are complaining about the treatment of their sons and daughters in the military. How about that! It began in the schools and then the colleges, professors getting scolded by mommies and daddies. I sat through a lot of those meetings where mom was indignant and the son or daughter (usually the son) sat sheepishly quiet. Now, I guess, military generals are fielding the calls.
"My son told me that he couldn't EVEN shower for three days!"I'm not saying conditions in the military are good. But I always wonder who decides to go into the military, especially as a sailor or a soldier?
I think that Arday's mother was complaining about her son's treatment, too. I won't say who sent me this, but it was a colleague who has rotten disdain for the way degrees are sold in Cracker Jack boxes now. Academia has become a broke ass mule.
"This is the Title Page of Jason Arday’s dissertation. lol 😝 Possessive apostrophe rather than plural! In the fucking title!"
Now, I don't always agree with Michelle Goldberg, but I always think she is smart, and I would recommend her editorial on this topic.
So we live through WOKE 2.0 and MAGA 1.5 with Trump punishing allies and sucking up to enemies and Democratic Socialists ready to take on the republican establishment. It is going to be a hell of a year, loser take all, winner leave town.
But hey, you can always bury your heads and watch The Evening News. Lead story for the past three days? Ready? America grieves for the "tragic" loss of an "icon" who turned to drugs to help her cope with her fame and gave up her child and then wrote a tell-all about her troubles. Her mother (yes) blames it on her toxic boyfriend.
"And tonight, what we've learned today about the death of. . . and the boyfriend with whom she had a troubled relationship. More on this in just a moment."
This is what happens when I have time to think on days when I don't have to take my mother anywhere early in the morning. I think I'm better off under pressure and time constraints. When I am able to sit and think what to write next, I get crazy.
And so, I'll end with something that has disappointed me. I remembered a story about Jackie Gleason. The guy was truly amazing. He did everything well, pool, golf, cards, acting, music. . . and drinking. He was legendary. I remembered a story about him playing golf with Arnold Palmer. On the first day, he was leading Palmer by a couple strokes, but that night he partied all night and so the next day Palmer beat him badly. I looked the story up yesterday, though, and A.I. told me it was an urban legend. There is no documented source for the story, it said. The only source it found was a golfing magazine in which Palmer said it wasn't true and that he could beat Gleason in everything but drinking. There is another legend about Palmer's manhood that Trump famously referenced at least once. I should ask A.I. if that is true, too.
Have you ever had an Arnold Palmer?
Is it true that Palmer's wife always kissed his balls before he played in a tournament? Again, A.I.:
"No video or audio recording of the alleged event exists."
I think the story about Gleason is true, though. The guy was amazing, bigger than The Abominable Snowman or The Loch Ness Monster. He even won an Academy Award nomination for his role as Minnesota Fats in "The Hustler."
I heard this song the other day and had to look it up. Gleason did everything, man. Just about.
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