tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56827385810193601002024-03-28T23:28:06.426-04:00cafe selavyAn eclectic reflection about life in the present. Photography. Brief writings.cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.comBlogger3213125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-11951362134201880642024-03-28T09:24:00.000-04:002024-03-28T09:24:04.750-04:00Sandalwood Beads and Birkenstocks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYzs6ZI9UzkrXaq7fziII84isQ15fytkK8IuUQw3sxkJv4ZtCZ01usQ5dMN2oD8Ev2RH9bMUyhcyZVg00-1N7-8YgA3G-RRsgTA5zvbAGazx0Nf3Wq4QdTbmgs3qG7y_6qdunbKqZYtT8JUud2TsQFH1_JVxVXaFrNvAdcGtXj0TAr8_k8oh_XhXK52Tp/s1500/edison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYzs6ZI9UzkrXaq7fziII84isQ15fytkK8IuUQw3sxkJv4ZtCZ01usQ5dMN2oD8Ev2RH9bMUyhcyZVg00-1N7-8YgA3G-RRsgTA5zvbAGazx0Nf3Wq4QdTbmgs3qG7y_6qdunbKqZYtT8JUud2TsQFH1_JVxVXaFrNvAdcGtXj0TAr8_k8oh_XhXK52Tp/w320-h400/edison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Let me begin again. That was some very boring prose. Report writing, really. Discard. Delete. </p><p>But now what? Should I tell you what I did or what I will do? I should make up a story about that rich little hippie girl who rubs me up with fragrant oils. I could tell you true tales, but I am not sure that is allowed. I have been thinking a lot about that, though, as I go through my incredibly large cache of untouched photos. Not the studio stuff, just travel photos and photos of everyday life. I'll stop once in awhile and cook one of them up and wonder why I never did before. But then I remember I had virtually given all that up. I was otherwise engaged. Oh, but you should see the stuff. Maybe you will. Maybe one day I'll tell tales. So much that is pretty and fun. </p><p>I tend to delete the bad parts. They do no one any good. </p><p>You should, too. </p><p>Because we don't live in Myanmar or Haiti or Syria. . . aren't forced into labor nor threatened with rape or beheading. . . . </p><p>"Gather ye roses while ye may," said the good poet. And though things seem to be going to shit, we still may. </p><p>I spent yesterday as I said I would. I did a long cardio workout, then stretched, took a schvitz in the sauna, came home and showered and took a nap. When I woke up, I let myself linger awhile just enjoying being lazy without guilt. "This is a luxury," I thought. Maybe I was practicing "gratitude," you know? I read about that in an advice column once. </p><p>Oh. . . and my dinner. . . let me tell you. Sautéed veggies and mushrooms, garlic and jalapeños, over whole grain pasta topped with teriyaki tofu. A citrusy sav blanc. </p><p>Then I grabbed my new digital medium format camera and a tripod and headed out into the night to try some dark photography. I drove around town stopping from time to time. I got nothing worth showing, but the whole thing was intriguing, and I will do it some more until I get proficient. Most of my experiments lately have not panned out. . . yet. They might, though. I keep refining. </p><p>"Why? What is the point of driving around photographing the dark?"</p><p>Yea, I'm not unaware. There is no grand purpose. But what did you do last night?</p><p>"Taxes."</p><p>Well, there's that. When I got home, I listened to a couple lectures on postmodern literature. </p><p>"Why don't you do something practical or useful? You're like an infant."</p><p>I know. </p><p>"Did you listen to your music, too?"</p><p>A little. Dope Lemon. I like the hippie vibe. Did you know they imprison and kill artists in China? The ones who don't toe the party line? It's true. Hey. . . who's your favorite photographer? No? Novelist then. </p><p>"Stephen King."</p><p>Right. There you go then. I mean, I have to admit, he writes novels. They are very popular. </p><p>I don't live in a town that has a lot of hippie girls. There are a lot of alt.women, laissez faire feminists, bleeding heart Woke activists. . . but not those gentle, happy hippie girls who like to make bracelets and bake brownies and see the world. I don't think you can even find a drum circle here. Happy hippie dancers with dirty feet who smell like patchouli. There are no food co-ops that I know of. But there are ten thousand cocktail bars packed with men and women all dressed up and looking to score. </p><p>I just reminded myself of the bartender at the good Italian restaurant. She was a happy girl. I hope she passed the bar exam. Maybe. She said she wasn't sure she wanted to be a lawyer. I should ask her about drum circles, get close enough to see if she smells of patchouli. </p><p>O.K. That was not a report, but a report might have been better. Some days are just like that. I'm happy, though. I have a good day planned. The good photo gallery has a new show up, and I will go to see it today. I have a big discount card I want to use at the REI store, too. And I will go to Whole Foods to get more hippie food. It is drizzling now, but the sky will clear by afternoon and it will be sunny and temperate for the next few days. </p><p>Let me check my horoscope.</p><b>Mar 28, 2024</b> - <i>Are things really going this beautifully for you, Aquarius? This is a question you might ask yourself now. All looks perfect as career, romance, education, and spiritual matters seem to crystallize into a wonderful life. Don't waste time worrying if this is all too good to be true! You're concerned about the future, but right now, live in the moment. You're creating some great memories, if nothing else. Enjoy!</i><p>Well hell yea! My mood is goofy and light. I think I'll put on my sandalwood necklace and Birkenstocks and go have some fun. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wfZJ6sHeA6k" width="320" youtube-src-id="wfZJ6sHeA6k"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-74101102898252066032024-03-27T09:48:00.003-04:002024-03-27T10:03:05.975-04:00Talent Interrupted<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWagp22U9TUwhM_2kOGItEDzabUQzsmdT4_holqI1rH15tPAufdMYzt13mVtwlFIwhuYAhdOTot8YRXy_9ifVjyn67EgoESBann01XFQkMueuKQZD48vekQM9GSkaGyweIUZKFNcpi7nM0OWjS3Aw3ehzhnGwBD573CBwxFh9ycATqU914W1vKXnjwKA/s1500/bikecrowd%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWagp22U9TUwhM_2kOGItEDzabUQzsmdT4_holqI1rH15tPAufdMYzt13mVtwlFIwhuYAhdOTot8YRXy_9ifVjyn67EgoESBann01XFQkMueuKQZD48vekQM9GSkaGyweIUZKFNcpi7nM0OWjS3Aw3ehzhnGwBD573CBwxFh9ycATqU914W1vKXnjwKA/w400-h266/bikecrowd%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>It's not really night yet. It is after seven, but there is still another half hour of sunlight. I don't want to watch television, and I don't want to go anywhere, so perhaps I'll write. There are things I will forget or have forgotten already that are on my mind. But I have eaten and had drinks, so I may be too muddle-headed for it. We'll see. </p><p>I just got back from the liquor store. It is a chain, but they have hired some really "alternative" people. It's O.K. with me. I get along fine. So the boy with the full neck tattoo and the--I don't know, maybe 22mm gauge earrings--checks me out. He likes me, it seems, but maybe he is just a friendly guy. </p><p>"How's your day been," he asks?</p><p>I think for a moment. "It's been really chill."</p><p>"That's great, man."</p><p>I look at him for another moment before I say, "All my days are pretty much like that."</p><p>"Oh, man. . . I wish mine were."</p><p>I want to tell him to wait long enough and when he is not able to do much of anything else, they will be. But I stop myself. I just smile a friendly smile and bob my head. </p><p>They like me at the liquor store. </p><p>I forgot to tell you that my day, yesterday, ended as badly as it began. When I was leaving the grocery store and got into my Xterra to back out of my spot, I cut my wheel too soon. The truck next to me had an extra long bed. Big mother. Brand new. I heard and felt a scraping. </p><p>"What the fuck was that?!" I absolutely said out loud as I hit the brakes. I looked in the driver's side mirror and saw. Then I looked up and saw a fellow walking toward the truck.</p><p>"Is that your's?" I asked. </p><p>"Yea," he said. </p><p>I pulled up, parked, and got out. </p><p>"Let's see what I did," I said. </p><p>There was a nick on his back light. Nothing much. I was wondering how many hundreds of dollars I would be willing to pay him to go home. </p><p>"Nothing much," he said smiling. He was a real redneck with a southern accent. It was at least a $90,000 truck. </p><p>"Let's see what happened to mine," I said. </p><p>Oh, yea. I had engraved mine pretty good. </p><p>He was an alright guy. I like cowboys. If he had been a fucking real estate agent with more money than balls, it would have been a different story. But he wasn't. He was probably a Trumper, too, but he had a heart. He looked like he had made his money legit. </p><p>When Tennessee called me later on his way to the Blue Ridge Mountains to finish his cabins, he was stuck in Atlanta traffic at six. </p><p>"What the fuck were you thinking, dude? Atlanta at rush hour?"</p><p>I told him my story. </p><p>"Yea. . . you're lucky it was a redneck. If it had been some pansy who just liked driving a truck. . . ." </p><p>I can't back that Xterra up for shit. I can't tell you how many things I have hit. This is the second time I have hit a redneck's truck who looked at it and waved his hand like, "It's a truck. They take a beating." </p><p>Hippies and rednecks sometimes have a lot in common. </p><p>I had two deliveries today. I like having packages in the mail--don't you? I needed underwear. I only wear them to work out in or for walking so I don't chafe my chubby little thighs. I thought about going to the mall, but the traffic is always bad and it takes to long, and I couldn't be sure they'd have "my brand," so I just ordered on Amazon. I got another package today, too. I saw that Agfa was making a new Scala b&w film that develops as a slide, a positive rather than a negative image. I'm a fool. I ordered six rolls and the requisite developing chemicals. $138.00. I don't really want it now. I have maybe sixty rolls of different films sitting around. I am trying to finish off the rolls I have in my cameras now and can't. I had to go to a store in one of those new communities that look like a Disney set today, one where they first build the big, luxurious houses, then the smaller ones, then the luxury apartments, then the not so luxury apartments, all built around a little Disneyesque "downtown." Oh, they are clean and nice. . . for awhile. But they keep building and the place goes further and further down the tubes. Since I had to go, I took a camera and thought to walk around and finish the film. Only six frames to go. So I walked and I walked, and I took one photo. The place is just one replica after another without texture or variety, every patio, every facade, looking just like the other. </p><p>All in all, I am having a hard time finishing the film roll. Thirty six exposures. So. . . why am I buying more film? You can't make pictures in the suburbs. You can, but you can't. You need texture and grit. Or access to filthy rich older women lying poolside with their toy poodle, Gucci sunglasses, Chanel slippers, etc. </p><p>Access is everything. </p><p style="text-align: center;">* *.*</p><p>That's as far as I got last night. I was interrupted. I'm not sure where I was going with it all now. Probably the same place I always go. . . nowhere. </p><p>I woke this morning with some feeling of dread. Surely I've overlooked something, done something wrong. I woke remembering that I still haven't filed my taxes. I've done them, just haven't filed them. I have to write a big check which pisses me off because the rich gymroids have set up corporations and LLCs in such ways that they avoid paying taxes altogether. One of them was trying to explain to me what one can do to get money after paying off a house, something to do with insurance. . . I couldn't follow. He tried explaining to me what he did and how it benefitted him when his house was flooded. Talking to me about money is like talking to a dog about life. All I hear is "blah blah blah, Spot. . . blah blah blah."</p><p>I should have married an investment banker. A nice one. </p><p>So maybe it is the check I have to write that is getting me down. No. . . wait. . . it is the doctor's appointment that is weighing on me, I am sure. Yup. It really freaks me out. </p><p>I was kibitzing online this morning about news headlines with my conservative "Yea. . . what about Biden" republican buddy. So many of the headlines are screwy or obviously lopsided that it is fun. Then I asked if they still published the daily horoscope. I went to the top of the WaPo page and hit the search icon. Sure as shitting, they do. </p><p></p><blockquote><i>You can make resolutions about your life at any time. If you want change, there is no time like the present! It's a good day to make a fresh start, turn over a new leaf, and put bad habits behind you. You shouldn't wait any longer, especially if you feel the urge to change right now. You have clarity now, which isn't always going to be the case. Cut out the bad and start focusing more on the new.</i></blockquote><p>Good advice. Then I wondered if they still had a cartoon page. I hit the search icon again. </p><p>Nope. </p><p>"No Beatle Bailey is an indicator that the rest of the paper is suspect," my buddy wrote. I never liked the cartoon page, really, even as a kid. The only one I looked forward to was "The Phantom." What a weird one that was. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Uz0E52bINg_0f6kDv9wZXmV-3HbJEfRkBE9L8hWNBIgkXH_Hf9pC_H9fqx7IxPHdQ4h73f47YPaqGxWGBJ5VDd1OUDmxq1RDEBTdgwpqSABLwv6d6Vq6BF96u8hlfo_Mxq3q2-qY9CFV6KttttSVNWtwsGI9-IIicAHV-c65X42Wg-EmEqHMCv2Zz6M/s868/856735.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="868" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Uz0E52bINg_0f6kDv9wZXmV-3HbJEfRkBE9L8hWNBIgkXH_Hf9pC_H9fqx7IxPHdQ4h73f47YPaqGxWGBJ5VDd1OUDmxq1RDEBTdgwpqSABLwv6d6Vq6BF96u8hlfo_Mxq3q2-qY9CFV6KttttSVNWtwsGI9-IIicAHV-c65X42Wg-EmEqHMCv2Zz6M/w276-h400/856735.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /> I could never really figure him out. He carried a gun and didn't have a cape. So why was he in a mask and tights? <p></p><p>The day is gloomy and so am I. What to do? Be gentle. Do some cardio and stretch. Maybe sit in the sauna. Avoid alcohol and drink healthy tea. Find a rich hippie girl who loves me, braids my hair, rubs me down with fragrant oils, strokes my face and tells me everything is wonderful. </p><p>Is that too much? Why is everything so hard?</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i><b>(Warning: The following song is not for you old people)</b></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kbqbTammoAo" width="320" youtube-src-id="kbqbTammoAo"></iframe></div><p></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-39842878078202329082024-03-26T08:29:00.001-04:002024-03-26T08:59:08.701-04:00I Worry About You<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2daAXsQkzj6UkkU5ySWdEob6nCCEfQRlJ_qSe4Ob8McamijxeMkR_g12bMqp9NOdCgQ5VJuYIPd8CSC6mAmFBW9mSt0oGkKJRhbsx-8TC5YZC-HmtfN96ndOzj5ZiTZagb744IHlVj5oQ98jyXt_mjG4v1W9on9ipQNIlNKAMEdzRQSnK_VLsqLQkRFqf/s1500/scootergirl%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2daAXsQkzj6UkkU5ySWdEob6nCCEfQRlJ_qSe4Ob8McamijxeMkR_g12bMqp9NOdCgQ5VJuYIPd8CSC6mAmFBW9mSt0oGkKJRhbsx-8TC5YZC-HmtfN96ndOzj5ZiTZagb744IHlVj5oQ98jyXt_mjG4v1W9on9ipQNIlNKAMEdzRQSnK_VLsqLQkRFqf/w400-h266/scootergirl%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>I wrote a blog post last night. It began, "I think I like writing the blog at night. . . ." When I read it this morning, though, I deleted it. If I let all my blog posts sit overnight and then read them in the morning, I would probably delete the majority of them. Now I will write in the usual way, straight out of my head with no re-reading or editing. Surely it will be one I would delete tonight. </p><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it was the call I got from Q last night. Apparently he had just gotten back from NYC. The boy is always going somewhere. I'm not sure where he stayed or what he did, but he seemingly had a good time. He called me from his car on the way to the grocers, so the conversation did not last long. Part of what he told me, though, was that I needed to get out, have friends, talk to people. . . . The subtext was that the blog sucked, that people are tired of hearing the inside of my head. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wow! If he thinks <u>he's</u> tired of the inside of my noggin, he should try living with it. But he's not the only one who has criticized the writing lately. What can I say? You gotta dance with the date you brought to the ball. </div><div><br /></div><div>What else can I do?</div><div><br /></div><div>He asked me something about retirement, if I was happier or having more fun or something. That's when I was pretty certain he doesn't really read the blog. </div><div><br /></div><div>"For sure, dude. My life is one hundred times better now. All I do is have fun."</div><div><br /></div><div>For those of you who <u>do</u> read (anyone?), you know that my retirement was the equivalent of "The Perfect Storm." </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, I know that people are worried about me. That's nice. </div><div><br /></div><div>"How are you feeling? Are you better?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Puzzled. "Better than what?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"You were feeling kind of down."</div><div><br /></div><div>More puzzled. "Never better. Fit as a fiddle."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, good."</div><div><br /></div><div>Then it occurred to me. There are conversations that happen when you are not around. I mean me, when I'm not around. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Where's your buddy?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"He's at home curled up in a fetal position. His ovaries have been hurting."</div><div><br /></div><div>Fucking Tennessee. </div><div><br /></div><div>This happened at the gym yesterday after I was not told I was dying. That has to wait another week. When I went to the doctor's office yesterday and signed in, I was told I did not have an appointment. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I have a card that says I do."</div><div><br /></div><div>Brow furrowed, the woman with what I assume is a very low IQ looks at her computer. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't have you down. Did you bring the card?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No. It is at home."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now she's got something. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You need to bring the card with whoever made your appointments signature on it."</div><div><br /></div><div>Total bullshit. But she is going to plow ahead.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You should always call the day before to see if you have an appointment."</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm too savvy to argue with a moron with some power over my situation, so I just stand there looking at her waiting for something to click in her partially developed brain. She looks for another appointment time and sets me up for next Monday. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have another week of depressed anxiety before Doctor Death gets to fuck with me again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I shouldn't curse so much. And it is not nice to call people morons. I'm taking too many liberties here. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I got to the gym, I wasn't in a talking mood. I am not one to start conversations anyway. I never believe that anyone is hoping I will come over and say something to them. I think, in truth, they would probably rather I didn't. If I know someone, I <u>will</u> weakly smile and wave in recognition, but that is just a common courtesy. I especially never start a conversation with women at the gym. I watch fellows do it all the time, and I note the way women react. If a women like some boy, she will let him know. She'll smile and say hello or ask him how he's been. But you can see the tension in their bodies when they catch a glimpse of some fellow making a beeline for them in the mirror. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not me. No, sir. Not old C.S. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm working out, keeping my eyes to myself, when one of the pretty, young gymroid girls says, "Where's your buddy?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She's talking about Tennessee. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You look kinda lonely," she giggles. "Do you miss him?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, sure. My life isn't the same when he's gone. I don't spend a lot of money going out for dinner and drinks. I don't have anyone sucking up my good liquor."</div><div><br /></div><div>She laughs. We chat. I think she has a little crush on T. </div><div><br /></div><div>A bit later, another woman wants to know what's up. "Are you feeling better?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus. For awhile, Tennessee had people convinced that I was a Furry. When I missed a few days at the gym, he told everyone I was at a Furry convention. One older woman asked what that was. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, he dresses up in an armadillo costume,"he told her. "It's his spirit animal."</div><div><br /></div><div>She thought that was nice and asked if I would be willing to dress up one day and read to he children's group. That story just about never died. </div><div><br /></div><div>The two retired nurses come by. I tell them about my morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Who's your doctor?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I tell them. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Really? Do you like her?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No."</div><div><br /></div><div>They suggest that I get another doctor. </div><div><br /></div><div>"As you get older, it is important that you have a doctor you feel good about." </div><div><br /></div><div>I tell them how I feel about doctors. I complain about the psyche evaluation questions I have to fill out every visit. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you ever have thoughts of harming yourself? Really? They make sure that everyone lies to their doctor. She gets paid for that! What a scam."</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's required by law," they tell me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wow! What a crock. Some lobbyist got that through. Cha-ching.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's also required by law that she report anything like that to the proper authorities," I say. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that I am not doing myself any favors here if I want people to quit asking me how I am doing. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh. . . he was talking about lying to his doctor on the psyche eval. That's scary." </div><div><br /></div><div>I think the blog has started spilling over into real life. Maybe there has become a blurring of lines between the character here and the real me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Real me? Wouldn't that be something.</div><div><br /></div><div>A long time ago, a photographer from Belarus with whom I traded photos wrote to me, "When you can't take pictures, don't take pictures." Good advice. And when you can't write?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well. . . I like the photo I posted today. I wouldn't know how to explain it to someone not schooled in "the fine art of photography." There is a visual history you'd have to know. Eggleston. Cohen. Etc. Fragments. Uncertain elements. Negative spaces. Intrusive, provocative, imbalanced. . . blah blah blah. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Everything is photographable."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Why do you take photographs?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"To see what things look like when they are photographed."</div><div><br /></div><div>Do you know who said that? Those are famous quotations. </div><div><br /></div><div>"How can they be famous if people don't know them? That's rather contradictory, don't you think?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Yea, I guess it's like those song lyrics--"Can you still have any famous last words/ If you're somebody that nobody knows?"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mn_d34Gzj10" width="320" youtube-src-id="mn_d34Gzj10"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><i></i></div><i><blockquote>Last night the street collapsed on itself <br />In fact, it broke right in two<br />And I fell in<br />The strawberry vines<br />Into a pool of strawberry wine<br />Strawberry wine and clouds<br />Burning in the desert, surrounded in flowers<br />But the stems breaks the armor<br />And the morning comes<br />Until it's all just the same things again<br />Oh god<br />Don't spend too much time on the other side<br />Let the daylight in<br />Before you get old and you can't break out of it<br />My old friend<br />'Cause its getting winter, and if you want any flowers<br />You gotta get your seeds into the ground,<br /><span style="background-color: #ffd966;">And I worry about you<br />Why? Because you want me to</span><br />Can you still have any famous last words<br />If you're somebody nobody knows<br />I don't know<br />Somebody go and ask Clair<br />She's been dead twenty years just look at her hair<br />Strawberry blonde with curls<br />She gets hair done then she gossips<br />With the younger waitress girls at the bar<br />The old Irish Rose<br />Drinking strawberry wine<br />Until it comes out her nose<br />She spent too much time on the other side<br />And she forgot to let the daylight in<br />Before you get old you'd better break out of it<br />My old friend<br />'Cause its getting winter and if you want any flowers<br />You gotta get your seeds in to the ground<br />And I worry about you<br />Why? Because you want me too<br />This fella downtown, he jumped off a bridge<br />He was angry about a letter he received from his friend<br />He fell in<br />To the arms of the most beautiful girl<br />That have ever, ever lived in the history of the world<br />And with nothing left to lose he got screwed<br />He sold his apartment before they made him move<br />Then he jumped straight in<br />To the San Francisco Bay<br />Now he lives on Molly's farm<br />Picking berries all day<br />Don't spend too much time on the other side<br />Let the daylight in<br />Marty was a kid when he learned to steal boats<br />His dad was a deejay on the radio<br />He fell in<br />To a life of riverboating crime<br />He's the man you see in prison<br />If you want strawberry wine<br />Strawberry wine and smokes<br />He sent a letter to his friend<br />Explaining one night on coke<br />He and Clair<br />Jumped right in to the strawberry vines<br />And lord knows you get lost<br />On that strawberry wine<br />Don't spend too much time on the other side<br />Let the daylight in<br />Now I'm getting old and I gotta break out of it<br />My old friend<br />'Cause its getting winter and if I want any flowers<br />I gotta get my seeds in to the ground<br /><span style="background-color: #f1c232;">And if you worry about me<br />Don't bother<br />Why?<br />I'll be fine</span><br />I'm just sitting here laughing<br />Little old me and my<br />Strawberry wine</blockquote></i>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-55249090002230266182024-03-25T08:23:00.000-04:002024-03-25T08:23:32.433-04:00Depressed or Dying?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWozp3oKsUT8zSYinmf_550sbQYsos8k0516qGrAodTUUb_nHpMroLSEjhKJFFzCfmnBj4eXCqXvshf-AsKBM4C4aEhdMP77ysVbJegY5vlIg9Y70bgpcymRnAlIaqPaL5in_Bmh6tgu3elZAM52pjdhqog8d2EIRLGBnRfTR3GCc3FsjOnCIaT3SVX6jN/s1500/alexandrasidewhiteslip%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWozp3oKsUT8zSYinmf_550sbQYsos8k0516qGrAodTUUb_nHpMroLSEjhKJFFzCfmnBj4eXCqXvshf-AsKBM4C4aEhdMP77ysVbJegY5vlIg9Y70bgpcymRnAlIaqPaL5in_Bmh6tgu3elZAM52pjdhqog8d2EIRLGBnRfTR3GCc3FsjOnCIaT3SVX6jN/w266-h400/alexandrasidewhiteslip%20copy.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p></p><p></p>I will have to write again "the night before," as I have a doctor's appointment early in the morning. The annual. It stresses me out beyond belief. I know people who go to doctors all the time. I can't stand it. I don't trust them. They are corrupt like college basketball, having sold out to the medical corp for the money. When I was in dire straights after I got run over, my doctor wouldn't even see me because she didn't take accident cases. Hard to get paid, you see. You might wonder why I don't get another doctor. I researched it. Most doctors don't take accident patients. That's the medical system. That's America. <p></p><p>I will go tomorrow and my doctor will tell me I'm dying. Not in those words. Just "probability." </p><p>"Why are you so upset? We all die."</p><p>Yea. . . .</p><p>So. . . I am fucked up tonight. I skipped a cocktail party because. Just because. </p><p>I didn't get my early start today as I predicted. I didn't even wake up until well after dawn. I think I am depressed, dying alone and all. I don't mention it except here. Out there I'm "better than ever." But, you know. . . I have to tell someone. </p><p>I've gotten some critical comments of late about my supposed life here on the blog. I'll keep my responses to myself. </p><p>Maybe I need to listen to some gangsta rap music for awhile. Everything I have been listening to makes me cry--lost love, loneliness, death. . . . Perhaps I need more of this (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7chDL-cVqU&pp=ygULZ2FuZ3N0YSByYXA%3D" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). Know what I'm sayin'? In your mother's booty, in your mother's booty. You know you gonna get capped.</p><p>I found out I CAN rap as long as I don't use words. Sort of like the Italian fellow who used to do American rock and roll with made up sounds (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Adriano+Celentano" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). I have the rhythm and the beat and the intonations down. I've studied the gestures. I need to be more thuggish. Yo. . . yo. . . . </p><p>But my ovaries get so swollen. </p><p>Rather than getting "an early start," I drank coffee, dunked biscotti and worked on more old photographs. I have so many. They make me happy and sad. Mostly happy. But I'm low, so maybe not. </p><p>Seriously, though. . . I think it is the doctor thing. Or perhaps the music. </p><p>Do you listen to the music I post? I think most don't. I know some, however, who have made playlists from those songs. They are like me. . . emo and moody. Probably. </p><p>So I didn't leave the house until three-thirty. I went to my mother's, but I took a walk on the trail by her house first. Nobody was about, and I realized how little one is absolutely alone outside with their thoughts in an urban/suburban environment. I walked and I thought for almost two hours. I walked with a camera. I took a few pictures, too. And. . . I have HOPE. I think my vision was working. </p><p>Probably not. </p><p>But the walk was good. Then I sat with my mother and cousin. My mother is not doing so well, but I can't really talk to her. My cousin wants to do all the talking. I think I am climbing into the grave with my mother. It is difficult not to. </p><p>After tomorrow, though, no matter what the doctor tells me, I want to be off. Out and about. Seeing the world. </p><p>Or I will be a shut in like all the old Hollywood stars who became reclusive and lived out their lives alone (<a href="https://www.ranker.com/list/famous-recluses/celebrity-lists" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). Pretty good company, though. </p><p>Toss a coin. </p><p>"So what's the picture?"</p><p>"Oh. I like it. It is the stuff I like. I can't post the other stuff. Just this."</p><p>"O.K. I know what you mean." </p><p>"Do you? Really?" </p><p>"Yea. . . I think so."</p><p>"There's so much beauty. . . and so much misery."</p><p>I'll let you know what the doc says. </p><p>Maybe. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y4lz5nSUVAc" width="320" youtube-src-id="Y4lz5nSUVAc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-78790577821953811302024-03-24T09:06:00.005-04:002024-03-24T21:02:45.265-04:00The Melody a Cowboy Holds So Dear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9q3Xxa4iUu8uGVLWSpTOTzHgJpq-dNfwmuBX_iCp5K2Iz8TIxfM7RjtTzkVug7f1HUDPv2q2FKfxAL0YOv5815_l53RM-szSov9TdzOeaOoKgOwPo1t7fNyjdmwidrxKvYCPJhHXy4FH98tGwo9YfmbGBBBox592QDqb45vHg7CX6m_reQ-RynMKXsY/s1500/rainystreetbw2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1302" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9q3Xxa4iUu8uGVLWSpTOTzHgJpq-dNfwmuBX_iCp5K2Iz8TIxfM7RjtTzkVug7f1HUDPv2q2FKfxAL0YOv5815_l53RM-szSov9TdzOeaOoKgOwPo1t7fNyjdmwidrxKvYCPJhHXy4FH98tGwo9YfmbGBBBox592QDqb45vHg7CX6m_reQ-RynMKXsY/w348-h400/rainystreetbw2.jpg" width="348" /></a><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>I'm becoming a shut-in, I think. Rather than driving to the beach and photographing the famous German filmmaker, I stayed at home. Not just at home, but in the house. I didn't even take a walk. It wasn't until 4:30 that I left to go to my mother's. I didn't shower. I won't. I'm going nowhere. What, you might ask, do I do inside all day? Lately it has all been music and photos. I have been going through my MASSIVE archives and have become endlessly fascinated. I think the only things that are real are these photographs. They are as accurate as any memory you or I may have. They are not "literal" for sure, but neither are memories. I manipulate photographs consciously. Memory manipulations is. . . you know. . . we all do it. Defense mechanisms the shrinks call it. Good music and old photos and I am suddenly in a time warp. I don't mind, either. The hours pass unnoticed. <p>But tonight I had to drive to the liquor store just after dinner, just past sunset, and oh my goodness. . . there are things you just do not see from the windows of the house. I love the world, really. It is a marvelous place, worthy of pictures and of words. </p><p>But I get ahead of myself. I am writing tonight in case I don't tomorrow. My plan is simple. I will leave the house early in the morning, and begin my day. In case I do, I will have this to post. </p><p>How far back do I go? Nothing really happened until I got home from mother's, so. . . . </p><p>I went to the grocers. I was going to eat a simple meal, Amy's Organic Macaroni with tuna and broccoli. It is a go-to standard here. But. . . the grocers had no Amy's Organic Macaroni. I wish this blog had millions of readers so I could lambast this chain who has essentially run every other big chain grocery store out of town. Oh, they used to be good. Once they had monopolized the market, though, they became greedhead pig fuckers raising prices and narrowing selections. It's all about the money. </p><p>"You know I used to love her, but it's all over now" (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVpFf2DmFSM&pp=ygUQaXRzIGFsbCBvdmVyIG5vdw%3D%3D" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). </p><p>I had to make on the spot decisions. What would I cook for dinner. I stood in the frozen food aisle for a very long time. . . thinking. I had some mushrooms. I had whole grain spaghetti noodles. I had already put the broccoli in the cart. A green pepper and a jalapeño and an onion. Sautéed with the mushrooms. But what else? O.K. Whole grain spaghetti noodles and garlic over a can of tuna topped with sautéed vegetables and. . . I got it! I'd top it all with some shredded cheddar. Kosher salt, pepper, red pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. </p><p>Too much prep, but kid. . . it was good. </p><p>I needed beer. Beer rather than harder stuff. *F&^#S--the fuckers didn't have Dale's Pale Ale, either. I bought a six of Funky Buddha IPA instead. </p><p>Checkout. The pig fuckers have gotten rid of most cashiers, too. Self checkout by the score. O.K. Scanning isn't hard. Put the jalapeño pepper on the scale. Now find "jalapeño peppers" from the alphabetical menu. Nope. Nope. Nope! </p><p>"Hey. . . lady. . . . "</p><p>The half simple grocery store helper comes over. We go through the menu together. </p><p>I wish this blog had a million viewers. </p><p>After dinner on the patio as the sun went down, some neighbors walking their dog waved. </p><p>"Haven't seen you for awhile. How are you doing?"</p><p>"Couldn't be better," I lied. </p><p>"Great. That's what we like to hear."</p><p>Yea, I know. That's what people want to hear. Nobody wants to hear your problems. </p><p>It is later than usual by the time I clean the kitchen. What to do? I can watch the March Madness highlights on Max. They whittle a full game down to ten or fifteen minutes, virtually every play but nothing else. Why do I watch it? I am not a fan any longer of college sports. Kids no longer play for colleges. They play for "athletic programs." I am stunned at the brazenness of announcers saying this though I know I shouldn't be as both they and the kids are part of a billion dollar business. It has nothing to do with college any longer. Still, people wear the colors and cheer for the uniform. I am not immune. </p><p>Each morning and night, I text my old college roommate about the games. We used to watch them all. March Madness held a special place. It was magical. We loved hearing Billy Packer and Al McGuire argue about the games. We, of course, admired McGuire who had quit coaching while he was on top and bought a motorcycle, let his hair grow, and toured the country like an Easy Rider Jim Bronson, a rebel at heart. But we watched all sports together. We played them and watched them and we talked and talked and talked. And today, I realized that was the magic. It wasn't the games or anything else. It was the talking and talking and talking. </p><p>I can't watch the games now, but I realize I could if. . . . </p><p>We are older now and have gone our separate ways long ago. He has something now that diminishes him, Parkinson's or Lewy Body. . . . So I watch the games in fast forward and text him in between. But I know I cannot sit here and watch a game alone tonight. </p><p>There are the 8mm films I took of us in college and all the stills. They are true. Good God, we were beautiful in our youth. </p><p>But of course, we all were. </p><p>He and I played basketball every day. Incessantly. He was a lefty and had a sort of beautiful game. That is what the fellows say. Mine was not so beautiful. I was more a workhorse, a battler and a garbage cleanup fellow. He was six-four, I was five-ten. We were like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid or Larry Csonka and Jim Kiick. Minor league. But we won or placed in tournament after tournament against elite players, NFL alumni and graduated NCAA b-ball players. We were slow white guys, but we were smart and knew the game. We beat teams that on a physical level we should never have beaten. We walked like heroes. </p><p>Much later, when we formed a band, we played in front of crowds in the thousands. We had "something." </p><p>Now, during March Madness. . . whatever. </p><p>Sitting with the old photographs is much the same. My god. . . my life has not been mundane. I become, of course, conscious of all the mistakes I have made. Too many. But Christ. . . don't YOU judge me. Look at your own life now. </p><p>That is how I feel tonight. </p><p>That picture on top is Paris in October. It was rainy. It was Fashion Week. We stayed in a fabulous apartment on the Isle de la Cite just across the bridge from the Isle de St. Louis. It was owned, I must admit, but a woman who did social arrangements for Donald Trump. But it was pretty near perfect. Per usual, there are very few photos of me on that trip. When I look at the ones that do exist, however, I think it is probably a good thing. A year after my accident, I didn't look so good. Those pictures bear a great resemblance to Quasimodo. Our apartment was only a block from the Cathedral de Notre Dame, so. . . you know. . . apropos?</p><p>I have written away the evening now and will go to watch those game recaps on Max. Then it is off to bed. I have this in case I get an early start. If not, though. . . you don't mind reading two, right?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SJy8j0YDwIM" width="320" youtube-src-id="SJy8j0YDwIM"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-74497259862440943132024-03-23T12:32:00.002-04:002024-03-23T12:47:37.832-04:00Even My Shirts Are Wrinkled<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmXQnohaYWr1bUgINlyKhF1WnbKNMuHp5pjQWjkTB0eT3KrcncKac6pEUTEilUo1MrorPPOS9IA1Y7kdDGxqPoKnNZY2dt3udIrRevCr7JqFXZfrbMztYAsSyaH40BmNlA0p9iRDMTVG7mke9Rws09cmYQnpCtfQHPCGt1kYKX7CKW_ZgUBtcO9lDCiNt/s1500/brian,lily,-and-me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmXQnohaYWr1bUgINlyKhF1WnbKNMuHp5pjQWjkTB0eT3KrcncKac6pEUTEilUo1MrorPPOS9IA1Y7kdDGxqPoKnNZY2dt3udIrRevCr7JqFXZfrbMztYAsSyaH40BmNlA0p9iRDMTVG7mke9Rws09cmYQnpCtfQHPCGt1kYKX7CKW_ZgUBtcO9lDCiNt/w299-h400/brian,lily,-and-me.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is <u>still</u> Spring Break, I assume. There are festivals. I've been invited to Grit City to take photos at the Mutts and Suds Festival. Dogs and beer. I'm taking a hard pass on that one. I'm also half expected to go to Cracker Beach to a bar called Coconuts where they used to have "Bikini" contests every Saturday. Who knows? It's really a throwback crowd, so they might still. But I would be there to photograph a famous German filmmaker. I have half a mind to go. I still don't know. I stayed up until one last night listening to music and working on photos, then took a Xanax so I could sleep. I get jacked and could stay up all night when the music and the images are good. I lose all track of time. Luckily, I didn't open my eyes until nine, so I got eight hours sleep. But the day has gotten away from me now. I should go, but I am so loathe to go anywhere any longer. . . . </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We all know what I need. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I hadn't gone to the gym for a few days and people were wondering where I was. They said I hadn't been myself lately. I'd been "grumpy," they said. Tennessee, always my buddy, told people I was home curled up in a fetal position. He said my ovaries were swollen. Nadia is a woman I have known since my yoga days, a couple decades ago. We barely spoke to one another then, but we remember one another. She is slightly older than I, a total Swede from Minnesota, thin and well built and still quite attractive. We have become friends at the Physical Culture Club in the past few years and talk fairly often. She is now friendly with the other Gymroids, too, especially Tennessee. When she asked him where I had been and he gave his smart ass answer, she reportedly said, "Well. . . we all know what he <i>needs</i>!" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nadia!!! That, I think, is sooo out of character for her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But the world has gotten weird. There are far more beautiful people than ever before. Many reasons. But it is true. And yet, they are less happy, have difficulty sustaining relationships, and have far less sex than in the past. We have become worse than Puritans about sex. Porn, of course, is a problem, but A.I. porn is worse. If you read statistics on it as I did today in the Times, it is epidemic. They are putting people in jail for creating it now. The Prime Minister of Italy, Giorgia Meloni, is suing two men for making "deep fake" porn videos using her image.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I've said many times, we should all be required to post nude pics of ourselves on the internet so that it isn't such a thing. I'm a big fan of the Ivy League and its Seven Sisters colleges nude posture photos from the 1940s through the 1970s (<a href="https://www.boston.com/news/schools/2015/09/07/ivy-league-students-used-to-have-to-pose-for-nude-photos/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). The '70s, of course, brought the big porn rage then the backlash and we began the road back to Puritanism once again. HBO did a series about it that was pretty raunchy which is why, I think, it didn't last (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkzaGABsOQA" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). "The Deuce."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvNcGcSVKbjN9wUHq1-hoS4ySUKtlqD1h3ERRbgOabaxbfa9J8DQaw05QQjoqz2BwNMRoT7Cz12eZxp1zOQMMf20B4f0bUicEvhRfQWGixAFlChvbco_D9wqm68Q7X-bvg0MKVLR81aU7mV7DoeKKbFqNoaUE-JsmsimN9TSO6EYoc3fWwpvnKRLANTXW/s1500/club-deuce%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvNcGcSVKbjN9wUHq1-hoS4ySUKtlqD1h3ERRbgOabaxbfa9J8DQaw05QQjoqz2BwNMRoT7Cz12eZxp1zOQMMf20B4f0bUicEvhRfQWGixAFlChvbco_D9wqm68Q7X-bvg0MKVLR81aU7mV7DoeKKbFqNoaUE-JsmsimN9TSO6EYoc3fWwpvnKRLANTXW/s320/club-deuce%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a dirty world, I guess, and somebody has to clean it up. That's what they say. But it won't be James Franco. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm not a fan of porn for more than about a minute, but I like looking at people. Who doesn't? Tennessee got it right, though, and I think he knew it. I'm kind of an emo. Sex is sex, Nadine, but sometimes you just want someone to hold you in the night. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well. . . I do. I know women who don't want to be held in the night. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Get the fuck off me, I'm suffocating!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Deuce to them, I say. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I certainly don't object to the bikini contest as long as they haven't forced young girls into it. It's better than Mutts and Suds, though by and large the crowd is about the same. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-G-va-0-YJfDrjZ4RaaPwGGJ38LW28qucr19PJ__8p14WuvqELn-VypmO_HDCqE5LEPicd6QwaVfVCwk8yf4QN1moZyWOZugiNYZ6WYcStgZJxwbzrvnwSqQmxYCHV0mbqJXr_PCtAaZI24GZmV2gLxiqVS_gIBG5v4UmqPFSExJbbe0PvW-mBqZU061p/s1500/alexandraportraitbust2%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-G-va-0-YJfDrjZ4RaaPwGGJ38LW28qucr19PJ__8p14WuvqELn-VypmO_HDCqE5LEPicd6QwaVfVCwk8yf4QN1moZyWOZugiNYZ6WYcStgZJxwbzrvnwSqQmxYCHV0mbqJXr_PCtAaZI24GZmV2gLxiqVS_gIBG5v4UmqPFSExJbbe0PvW-mBqZU061p/w266-h400/alexandraportraitbust2%20copy.jpg" width="266" /></a></div></div><br style="text-align: left;" /><div style="text-align: left;">So. . . is she A.I.? They, I mean. Of course they is, just like Kate Middleton. It's been through Photoshop. Funny. . . people don't mind A.I. that puts a glamor glow or some other flattering filter on them. Our world has been A.I. for a pretty long while now, in tech years, anyway. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm envious of young people, of course. They <u>already</u> have a youth fixation. They are worried about getting and looking old. My friends in their forties look like they are in their twenties, many of them, at least, those with money, because they started with botox and other beauty procedures early on. When I see a photo of myself with them, I wish I had started that shit sometime ago, too. They look like they've never had a serious complicated thought in their lives. I, on the other hand, look as if I have pondered all the problems of the world. Alicia Menendez on MSNBC is a great public example. She is forty but looks like an embryo (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alicia_Menendez" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). The film director I might photograph today is in her eighties. German. Not an embryo. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is supposed to be raining but the sun is shining now. I should go. Even though it is a cracker coastal town, it is still the beach. I can ruin my skin a tad more, deepen the lines around my eyes and mouth and get a few more sunspots to boot. But it won't matter. Like I said, it's a cracker town. They may start out young, but hard jobs, drugs and drinking, old cars, and rental housing will take its toll. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Time and gravity will have its way. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Thank goodness for A.I. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still. . . even broken old hillbillies sometimes need to be held through the night. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And yes. . . my ovaries hurt. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/obbtbCk29Tk" width="320" youtube-src-id="obbtbCk29Tk"></iframe></div><br style="text-align: left;" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WE38eofHNsI" width="320" youtube-src-id="WE38eofHNsI"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-17049484948561689892024-03-22T09:30:00.002-04:002024-03-22T10:08:11.857-04:00Lazy<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzuWKGKzyHE0WT-Pd3GMMEjI26D9QquWRc93QI_f6iqnwS_X0lUXDaE9VSBWyW_-rAqxNBTibeByTD-3Mr0unsZlWndBRupVO7184H6Z3criE8fpT3YnVE-5KiZxk9RKwlzc4bK35gZgoxQAsUTiER6Wn2pLA83I5B4cfJSgo-erushqU3OMOnbhe7R75/s1500/samanthatablefur%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzuWKGKzyHE0WT-Pd3GMMEjI26D9QquWRc93QI_f6iqnwS_X0lUXDaE9VSBWyW_-rAqxNBTibeByTD-3Mr0unsZlWndBRupVO7184H6Z3criE8fpT3YnVE-5KiZxk9RKwlzc4bK35gZgoxQAsUTiER6Wn2pLA83I5B4cfJSgo-erushqU3OMOnbhe7R75/w400-h266/samanthatablefur%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>The lazier I get, the happier I am. I don't mind being "lazy" anymore. It feels good. It makes me almost giddy. It has been the most glorious weather for three days running, sunny, cloudless, temperatures that rest "like a soft hand upon your cheek." And for three days, I barely moved. I didn't do anything, even shower. I don't think I stink, though. It's my new diet. I smell like strawberries. I'm filled with helium. </p><p>It can't continue, though, this laziness that isn't <u>exactly</u> laziness. I don't lie around in bed. I've ben busy making photo experiments, going through cameras, trying filters and lenses in new combos, and even ordering a new/old black and white positive slide film with its necessary developing chemicals. I think that was probably a mistake. After buying the chemicals which were described as "simplified," I read up on the process. It takes a mighty long time to develop this film and a lot of crazy steps. I'll do it, but I'll surely make mistakes and get pissed off and wonder why in the hell I want to shoot film when I have so many wonderful digital cameras. </p><p>And yet. . . I'm excited. </p><p>Most of my editing experiments went awry, too. Selavy. You know the old saying. There are a lot of them. Pick one. </p><p>But I am exaggerating a bit, I think. I have gone to the grocers, to the liquor store, and to my mother's. And people have come by the house in the evening. And there are, of course, the endless lascivious text messages from various women. O.K. I DO make things up. </p><p>But I skipped out on walking and the gym. Now that I think about it, it has only been the exercising I have eschewed. No wonder I feel so peppy. </p><p>And of course there is skipping the news reports which certainly must lighten my mood. I don't want the moment by moment opinions and commentary. My teachers were wrong. I don't need to "keep up with current events." Indeed, I think a weekly paper is just the thing. </p><p>"A man walks into the cafe."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Bob. A man named Bob walks into a cafe."</p><p>"What does he look like?"</p><p>"He's wearing checkered pants and a cook's white button up jacket."</p><p>"Is he a chef?"</p><p>"I don't know. Our conversation was brief. He asks me what I would do if I was on a boat with four cigarettes and no matches. I just look at him. Then he says throw a cigarette overboard. The boat becomes a little lighter."</p><p>"Jesus." </p><p> "I know." </p><p>That actually happened. Life is strange. </p><p>Here's a song that I think gets better as you listen. Give it a minute. I love simple songs, duets and such. But if you want the studio version, I'll put that here, too. It might be a little too hillbilly for you, though. I won't judge you if you don't like it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ui4eJ9auFJ8" width="320" youtube-src-id="ui4eJ9auFJ8"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/poGAwWtFqog" width="320" youtube-src-id="poGAwWtFqog"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-249393926145291692024-03-21T10:28:00.000-04:002024-03-21T10:28:07.433-04:00The Over/Under of Happiness<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUigvx4fIeqwBWOG8fiwOYcaUoRuX0J-isv-JkmsDXx3u8wDXoLRGH8imIXKs6rwx1VJIWEvnH2jWaN0aIZlKYAcclazpwLo2hCsK4c5xSqk3cvTvuhyx3t0V0SegrE-aLwo3b5_oDlpozuS_C0lFK2Ra6favOsEZij4yqDwPJHqSj0hjt83zJwUiEVWmk/s1500/tatteredflag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUigvx4fIeqwBWOG8fiwOYcaUoRuX0J-isv-JkmsDXx3u8wDXoLRGH8imIXKs6rwx1VJIWEvnH2jWaN0aIZlKYAcclazpwLo2hCsK4c5xSqk3cvTvuhyx3t0V0SegrE-aLwo3b5_oDlpozuS_C0lFK2Ra6favOsEZij4yqDwPJHqSj0hjt83zJwUiEVWmk/w400-h266/tatteredflag.jpg" width="400" /></a>I'm sure all anyone will be talking about today is the new Happiness Rankings by Country. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXyvffHX8xlMn4afvo8ibV2LeP_SoKyDDZc9xNKpgXzxyfDhtWD_hmKIvyQ6xelZlyFczNtwDzMHTxBctbqcdxXnRn0_x64GGEZZuhnFF2WB_qUyBnecR8BNjpXWWZNSwjo2V2WF_bEGIlogbFWx10Zzaq0XUVrA4_tkrKh3QIasBEMBnyPQXnvk1lC5W/s587/happiness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXyvffHX8xlMn4afvo8ibV2LeP_SoKyDDZc9xNKpgXzxyfDhtWD_hmKIvyQ6xelZlyFczNtwDzMHTxBctbqcdxXnRn0_x64GGEZZuhnFF2WB_qUyBnecR8BNjpXWWZNSwjo2V2WF_bEGIlogbFWx10Zzaq0XUVrA4_tkrKh3QIasBEMBnyPQXnvk1lC5W/w341-h400/happiness.jpg" width="341" /></a></div><p>The U.S. fell from 15th to 23rd. It seems that young people are much unhappier than old people. C.C. says that it is because old people know it will all be over soon, but you must look at the anomalies like Israel. I almost commented that the happiest countries are the ones with the most homogenous cultures, but then I realized so are the most miserable on the worst list. I'm glad I caught myself on that one. </p><p>What makes young people so unhappy? </p><p>Old people. </p><p>All this chart tells me is that the young will eat the old. I think, though, that will leave a bitter taste in their mouths. </p><p>I would have no idea how to gauge how happy I am. The real me, not this C.S. character. He is a schizo who dwells in light melancholy when he is not manic or depressive. Well. . . maybe he <u>is</u> a <u>bit</u> like his creator. </p><p>But I have never hated old people. I moved into an apartment after college in what had up until then been reserved for retirees on fixed incomes. I was one of the youngest people to live there. There were two others. I would walk with the old folks and sit out and talk with them in the early eveneings. They would bake me cookies and tell me I reminded them of someone. </p><p>Even now, I spend almost every day with the over 90 crowd. </p><p>I would never eat them. </p><p>Rather, I am still pretty much meat-free and loving the flavor. I feel like I'm floating. I think I'm producing helium. It is lovely. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5uBrP9XYjXE_RlDDlY5Vy8-S3ZWL9Dxp_VCNKgdoIlvW0ucIyNwOimPpAcHbs5dBIE56KNnQDTbHOZu3boojizD9hxglw5I1vwyQyJlikJGYJl4LN3jG8Zm3y9tQ2LugGQ53zNFeA-RWo6dLBlKL7PA2LDcXmYkav2W6il1HCpEfz8Px0F_ClUTSndexH/s1500/dust.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5uBrP9XYjXE_RlDDlY5Vy8-S3ZWL9Dxp_VCNKgdoIlvW0ucIyNwOimPpAcHbs5dBIE56KNnQDTbHOZu3boojizD9hxglw5I1vwyQyJlikJGYJl4LN3jG8Zm3y9tQ2LugGQ53zNFeA-RWo6dLBlKL7PA2LDcXmYkav2W6il1HCpEfz8Px0F_ClUTSndexH/w400-h300/dust.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I went to the Cafe Strange for a decaf cafe con leche in the afternoon. I felt the need, not for the coffee but for the experience. It was packed. As I sat down at one of the sticky tables, a <i>cafe con leche</i> girl with slight epicanthal folds walked in wearing very small cut off jeans shorts, cowboy boots, and a veneer of a top. She was with a pan-boy, pale, wan, small, nearly transparent. They were very happy giggling, touching, laughing. They walked straight to the Photo Booth and made secret photographs that I could only imagine. And when that was over, they left. I liked them, but I fear for their happiness as they age. All about me were tables of young people gathered in twos or groups whose conversations sounded much more sophisticated than mine. My experience of age groups and happiness seem to be skewed in the opposite direction. I don't think C.C. is correct. I don't think knowing it will all be over soon makes old people happy. </p><p>He was kidding, I know. As the tagline on an opinion piece in the Times read this morning, "You Know You Are Old When You Spend the Evening Talking about Your Knees." </p><p>Did I tell you about mine? </p><p>While I was sitting with my coffee and writing in my notebook, an old fellow, a bit disheveled, walked in with a bedraggled labradoodle. He came up to my table and stood close beside me. I say he was old and . He was probably my age--but really much older. </p><p>"Excuse me."</p><p>"Hey, man. . . what's up?"</p><p>"What is this place?" he asked. He stood mouth agape taking in the lights, the crazy art on the walls. </p><p>"It's a cafe."</p><p>"Oh, he said, still gazing about him, "I thought it was a restaurant."</p><p>"Well, they do serve food. I wouldn't eat it, but they have coffee and wine and beer and a full bar."</p><p>He didn't say anything for a minute, then, "I'll have to come get a beer sometime. I haven't seen a place like this for a lot of years."</p><p>"Yea, it's sort of hippie, isn't it?"</p><p>He kind of shook his head and wandered off. In a few minutes, I saw him put his dog in a car and drive away. </p><p>The cafe started out as a video rental store many, many years ago. I used to go there with my dead ex-friend Brando who knew the owner's father. They were both architects. The place had the best selection of videos in town, most of them bootleg copies. They did a hopping business then, but as video tapes became a thing of the past, the place successfully transformed into a groovy cafe. Used books line some of the shelves where the videos used to be. </p><p>Last weekend they had a celebration/reunion and advertised a call for all the Old Strangers to come on Saturday night. They were going to screen the first movie they had ever rented out, "Rebecca." When I went in yesterday, they were selling a zine with photos of the place over the years. There are still some Old Strangers who go there. </p><p>It is an odd place certainly, but I think by and large the people who go there are happy. They seem to laugh a lot. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApHbwgFo2fLpeBvLb_MOY7LNJdPk7AiMpravnqPI41TvpjghTZJiD_gW-1Q8HB0HFWJjhNSFPL42_kaKWDZF6ycK7LjAos4JPxiVKtC1SUD6_uSp1CuSFEOp6Nk-UoCHZZrg8pH_xLstE87Zec7xo08m81O0kf573HKiwEYOKfNs85oq0JSJMSal8YWYp/s1500/smilinggirls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApHbwgFo2fLpeBvLb_MOY7LNJdPk7AiMpravnqPI41TvpjghTZJiD_gW-1Q8HB0HFWJjhNSFPL42_kaKWDZF6ycK7LjAos4JPxiVKtC1SUD6_uSp1CuSFEOp6Nk-UoCHZZrg8pH_xLstE87Zec7xo08m81O0kf573HKiwEYOKfNs85oq0JSJMSal8YWYp/w400-h320/smilinggirls.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I think we in the U.S, probably have a different idea of happiness than do those people in Nordic countries, however. I think that their version of happiness is much more subtle. Or was. Social media has probably altered what young people conceive of as happiness which is about as subtle as their rage. It is easy to blame social media, and surely that assumption will be born out by research one day, but I blame shitty parents, too, those helicopters who want to be their kids' friends, want to be just barely more than equals, who dote over and talk about the little fuckers constantly and make them play soccer or tennis or whatever from the time they can walk. And the other kind, too, those hillbilly/cracker/redneck fuckers who jack their kids up on conspiracy theories and arm them to the teeth and take them to MMA sessions so they will know how to kill a motherfucker. </p><p>Well. . . I guess just parents in general. But it is probably social media. I just get very tired of hearing about how great everyone's children are. </p><p>"Oh, Barry came home almost in tears yesterday. He was afraid he was going to get a "B" in biology, but he found out he aced his final and so he was on the honor role this period. I thought I was going to have to go up to the school and have a talk with that instructor."</p><p>"They're ALL on the honor role, you idiot! Everyone gets good grades now. Teacher's are not allowed to give bad grades."</p><p>O.K. I've outed myself on this one enough. It is the fault of social media. </p><p>"My mom is on the computer all the time now. She's on some dating site."</p><p>All the kids laugh sarcastically.</p><p>"Yea, my dad is on one, too, but he hardly ever gets a date, and when he does, he talks about how awful the woman turned out to be."</p><p>Eyes roll. </p><p>"At least your parents aren't still married! Mine drive me crazy. They won't leave me alone. It's worse than school when I come home."</p><p>"Hey. . . we should smoke it up before we have to go home."</p><p>Wow--this went sideways. I blame most things on Hunter S. Thompson, but I'll throw in Kerouac and Bukowski and the whole Literary Rat Pack of the 80's, too. Not that anybody reads anymore, but it doesn't matter. Not everybody read "Interpretation of Dreams" when Freud published it at the turn of the 20th century, but everybody was influenced by it. Shit just gets in the culture. </p><p>Tennessee stopped by last night to look at some repairs I need to make. When we were done and I walked him to his truck, a car pulled into my driveway. There was a big dog staggering around in the road. </p><p>"I think that dog got hit by a car," T said. I thought it was the dog who loves me, the big Labradoodle named Ace. I started calling him and walking down the street. The lady in the car asked, "Do you know him?" </p><p>"I don't know if that is him or not." </p><p>Tennessee followed me down the road. The dog was staggering away from me. Then another big dog came out and got between us. Then I knew whose dog it was. The two dogs lived down the street from me in the big brick house owned by a contractor and his pretty, skittish wife. I've only seen them about twice in the years they have lived there. </p><p>The dog kept walking and falling and struggling to get back up, his buddy running circles around him and barking. </p><p>"It's o.k., it's o.k." I kept saying. I caught up with them just as they turned down the long driveway to the house. I thought the healthy dog might try to attack me as I walked to the door, but I heard a woman's voice call him from the back of the house. I rang the doorbell and went to see the other dog who was just standing in the drive. Then the front door opened. It was the woman. I realized I was barefoot wearing shorts and a t-shirt and carrying a glass of whiskey. I like making a good impression. </p><p>"Is this your dog?"</p><p>"Oh, yes. . . . "</p><p>"I think he might have gotten hit by a car. He was staggering around in the street and. . . ."</p><p>"Oh, no. . . he is old. He's had a couple of strokes. I've thought about putting him down. . . ."</p><p>I didn't say, "Holy shit, lady!" but I thought it. She thanked me for bringing the dog home, and Tennessee and I headed back to the house. </p><p>It was nine-thirty when T went home. I sat on the couch and listened to a reading of Didion's "Slouching toward Bethlehem"--sort of. When I woke up, it was midnight. </p><p>It is another, maybe the last, in a string of unbelievable days. I must get out into it. These days make me happy. But of course, you know. . . I'm over thirty. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-Kr3pkd1H5o" width="320" youtube-src-id="-Kr3pkd1H5o"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-86098152864602840342024-03-20T09:54:00.004-04:002024-03-20T09:54:37.038-04:00Groovy<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpThtA0rsWHT6Eoc1QuSOmHHSCiiP-gD3SHP0IHmBhrp_veNZFjqzDxj_ynQLhGRMkw5vFdESfs83nNqMppMet_xZWmhtVnUFeNHCJZ1JhrWwQW4Ue2xTN6Krux5S1xf-Hzg8vgylbJEf8vkY60fPQF2x6BMaI2AKz8zfgTkRJoIeM_8e_9U1r9aI6yJa7/s1500/boyjacket%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpThtA0rsWHT6Eoc1QuSOmHHSCiiP-gD3SHP0IHmBhrp_veNZFjqzDxj_ynQLhGRMkw5vFdESfs83nNqMppMet_xZWmhtVnUFeNHCJZ1JhrWwQW4Ue2xTN6Krux5S1xf-Hzg8vgylbJEf8vkY60fPQF2x6BMaI2AKz8zfgTkRJoIeM_8e_9U1r9aI6yJa7/w400-h400/boyjacket%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>Let me begin again. I was writing the post but kept responding to incoming messages. When I read back what I had been writing. . . . I'll just start over. </p><p>Let's see. . . what were the best parts? Um. . . Sky sent me a Spring song on the last day of Winter. . . beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. . . today a carbon copy. . . yada yada yada. . . mad as a Hatter. . . .</p><p>I think that about does it. </p><p>The maids came yesterday while I was at the gym, so the house sparkles for Spring. It feels symbolic. But the lawn guys have not come and the ground is covered in leaves. Maybe today. </p><p>I'll not do it because. . . here' the thing. I haven't had the pep I used to have since I got run over. Oh, I try, and I pretend, and I do a good job, but it is just a fact. I've decided to "be kind to myself" and to "give myself permission." That's what the self-help book I am reading says I should do. To wit: I've decided to limit myself to doing one thing each day. If I do more, that's a victory, but it just ain't necessary. Yesterday was a good day. I did several little projects. The first was to fix the lock on the apartment. The tenant got locked in and I had to come up to let her out. So yesterday I got my toolbox and some graphite and went up to do a bit of man's work. I had watched four or five YouTube videos on fixing locks. They made it look so easy. I know from experience, however, that nothing ever goes the way it should. Probably the first mistake I would make would be trying to get the old screws to turn. I would strip them and sweat and cry. Or, if they came out o.k., I'd find rotten wood or something that wasn't in the videos. If I needed to change the lock, these old ones would probably not be the same size as the new hardware, and then I'd have to cut larger holes. I would have to buy an attachment for my drill, and then I would cut it wrong so that I needed a whole new door. Trust me. </p><p>So I did the first simple thing that I had learned. I spritzed graphite dust into the key hole, then the--hell, I don't even know what it is called. . . the thing that goes in and out of the cylinder, the locking mechanism. . . whatever it is called. After turning it a few times, it was working as it had before. </p><p>Hero. </p><p>Except I got graphite dust all over the floor. I got a paper towel to wipe it up. And again. And again. </p><p>"I'm not really a very handy handyman," I said. "That's why the experts cleaned my house today."</p><p>"Well. . . lucky you."</p><p>"Nope. It's not luck. It's a simple exchange of values. I give them money and they clean the house. No luck involved at all."</p><p>The second bit of heroism was changing the burned out light on the front of the apartment twenty feet off the ground. I don't feel as brave as I used to. Climbing that shaky, two part twenty foot ladder kind of scares me now. It reaches to just below the light fixture which means I have to climb up and stand on the top rung, one hand against the house for balance. It sucks. Yea, I've climbed thousand foot rock faces and 19,000 foot peaks. And I used to come up this ladder without fear, too. But man. . . if I fell now. . . . </p><p>I felt a nice rush when I was back on the ground. </p><p>VICTORY!</p><p>Today. . . replacing the S-trap or J-trap or whatever it is called on the sink in the guest bathroom. I will have help. </p><p>Did I tell you I finally fixed the doorknob that Red broke. . . a year ago? Yea. I did that. </p><p>But it is a day to be outside. I'd like a good cafe and a cool and groovy crowd. Yea, yea. . . funky. Not prissy sophisticates but hip hugger hippies in cowboy hats and love beads. </p><p>I've been eating like a hippie lately. I haven't prepared a piece of meat for six days. I'm not becoming a vegetarian. I'm not being didactic or ideological. There was chicken in the soup I ate. But for the last two nights, I've fixed sautéed vegetables with seared teriyaki tofu. I feel light. It is nice. I'll not avoid meat, fish, or poultry, but I think I will keep them as flavoring and side dishes. I'm going to quit fearing carbs. I'll eat brioche or croissants with my cafe coffee if I please. Wear a beret if I want. Smoke clove cigarettes. </p><p>Are they still a thing?</p><p>I've been wearing a bracelet I got for my birthday. It makes me feel cool. Yesterday at the gym, the bio prof asked me if that was my "love bracelet." He said he'd break it for me. I had to perform some trig functions to figure that one out. </p><p>"Yea. . . I guess it kind of is." </p><p>I just Googled "love bracelet." She did NOT get me the Cartier. That seems to be the one of choice. But the best love bracelet I ever had was one woven by a young girl out of green, red, and yellow strands. She tied it on. It lasted for a very long time. I ran into her in Fresh Market a few months ago. I think the bond still holds. </p><p>Maybe I should burn some sage today and clear out any bad ju-ju that may linger here. Then I'll light an oil burner filled with frangipani. </p><p>It is Spring</p><p> far </p><p> and<br /></p><p> wee!<br /></p><p>I slept late and must start my day. I've lingered already far too long this morning. </p><p>I'll just end by leaving you a groovy, cool song. I want you to feel groovy, too. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SDl9a5Vsb_0" width="320" youtube-src-id="SDl9a5Vsb_0"></iframe></div><br /><br /><p></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-86256428445029700272024-03-19T09:42:00.000-04:002024-03-19T09:42:44.269-04:00It Might Be Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5N6PqLZePijFJn4O6_Oc8XOSz0lzuDhia4QBIvae2H7Ortg4A6-M1_VnabwCkD5sSRP4ovoq3sXGd5Pgc7KGyTj8mkKkGKCGlm67EWbj_Bc-KDMbCc_GhMskcy7pkZsl72iB7we-ws2MCrJfixr-ViFmnre5P-peoXlSrHH_Ynjyj0LSxj2tPnjILYt9v/s1500/girlswalking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5N6PqLZePijFJn4O6_Oc8XOSz0lzuDhia4QBIvae2H7Ortg4A6-M1_VnabwCkD5sSRP4ovoq3sXGd5Pgc7KGyTj8mkKkGKCGlm67EWbj_Bc-KDMbCc_GhMskcy7pkZsl72iB7we-ws2MCrJfixr-ViFmnre5P-peoXlSrHH_Ynjyj0LSxj2tPnjILYt9v/w320-h400/girlswalking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I feel like Bob Harris in "Lost in Translation" lately, trapped in a life that has been lived so long it is impossible to escape. That moment when he is in the tub talking to his wife is <u>the</u> scene. I've just spent twenty minutes trying to find that clip from the movie on YouTube and the rest of the internet. You can find just about every other scene but that one. WTF? I tried to find a transcription. Nope. How can this be? The film is about four relationships, not just the one between Bob and Charlotte. </p><p>Whatever. </p><p>"I went to a cool party tonight. I want to change the way I eat."</p><p>Something like that. Mundane profundity. And of course, the mood and tone of his wife, Lydia, in response. We've all been there.</p><p>Bob is a terribly flawed man. He knows. We know he knows. He watches one of his old movies one night on t.v. He has made the life he wants to escape. </p><p>"What are you doing here?"</p><p>"Forgetting my son's birthday. Getting away from my wife."</p><p>I've been trapped in dreams lately. We can't escape ourselves in dreams or nightmares, can we? There the past, present, and future mingle and our flaws are ingloriously exhibited in cinematic technicolor. </p><p>Nobody is perfect in sleep. </p><p>Thank you, Doctor Freud. </p><p>Some people keep quiet about it, though. Perhaps that is best. Eight billion people in the world. All that jabber. </p><p>It's just that I have more alone time than most of you and less distraction. Sometimes it is <i>my thinking</i> that pisses me off. Sometimes it is <i>your distractions</i>. </p><p>I think the old saying, "Hope springs eternal," is true, however. We could not go on in the face of utter reality. Perhaps. . . . </p><p>Today is the vernal equinox. Or tomorrow. It occurs just before midnight. Seems odd, but who's to question the authorities? We can call today the First Day of Spring, but that is questionable as well. There are many ways to mark the season. </p><p>We'll call it Spring. </p><p>It is what e.e. cummings might call the Carnal Equinox. The sap starts to flow. The creeks start to rise.</p><p>"in Just-"</p><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">in Just- <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">spring when the world is mud- <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">luscious the little <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">lame balloonman <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">whistles far and wee <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and eddieandbill come <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">running from marbles and <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">piracies and it's <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">spring <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">when the world is puddle-wonderful <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">the queer <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">old balloonman whistles <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">far and wee <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and bettyandisbel come dancing <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">from hop-scotch and jump-rope and <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">it's <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">spring <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> the <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> goat-footed <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">balloonMan whistles <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">far <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">wee</div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div>I have too much to do today and it is the opening round of March Madness. I don't want to watch it, but I know I will. There are far too many games, however, and as I say. . . there are things I must do. <div><br /></div><div>Isn't it queer that the old goat-footed balloon man is lame? There's something to ponder. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll buy you balloons, honey. Just for you. You should come and see. We could have something more than fun. I'm mad as a March Hare. </div><div><br /></div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-82587789262981658432024-03-18T08:16:00.000-04:002024-03-18T08:16:15.046-04:00Festivities in a Sea of Change<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMfGdNQYOcnMZeCcw3RO_NM55dnJA15GnXLR-aeTx-54CRUG2kBtSHt1zBj6TfUnDQL1fDOqZFGLulce3PvlueXM-rRnJ7wivgZ00_whP1SsG79wZPd_JTjr9kmR4wmJt8OEAU567LaTJDUsp-SCOPSKrmnDLBbw4PY3FPQ7Kdrf8v58h0hyphenhyphenR7GOrK-xy/s1500/gazinggirl%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMfGdNQYOcnMZeCcw3RO_NM55dnJA15GnXLR-aeTx-54CRUG2kBtSHt1zBj6TfUnDQL1fDOqZFGLulce3PvlueXM-rRnJ7wivgZ00_whP1SsG79wZPd_JTjr9kmR4wmJt8OEAU567LaTJDUsp-SCOPSKrmnDLBbw4PY3FPQ7Kdrf8v58h0hyphenhyphenR7GOrK-xy/w400-h320/gazinggirl%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>The end of the Crap Festival here this year was highlighted by St. Paddy's Day celebrations. I was on a text message group with people who were there. It was crowded. It was sweaty. I didn't go. I stayed home once again the entire day without leaving the house. The festivities went on without me. It's O.K. To stand in a crowded bar with a bunch of drunks held little appeal for me. Not so all. Some of the people were excitedly trying to get past the doorman to get inside. </p><p>"Where are you?"</p><p>"We're inside."</p><p>"The doorman told me that he couldn't let me in, that they were at capacity."</p><p>"Come to the side door. I'll let you in."</p><p>"I did. There is a guard outside."</p><p>"Flash him 😎"</p><p>Etc.</p><p>When pretty gymroid girls can't get in, you know it's crowded. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgL5ESqGn1rPm8xokGnNsaFAt3r5M3iPgQ88kjTLJu1PgrAm0b0u1eIs54B6Qd8VeGfteRGx-CL5tKCjJYxx7yuFDmTRN1FzDabeFCj6imusxdlWmGYRCrh8ib7xemPED0KORlkXn96Rk2CduzuXr3DCd6nFetrYByiJpotEp_cHMV651RHzg-4ekM41g/s1500/girlslookingon%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgL5ESqGn1rPm8xokGnNsaFAt3r5M3iPgQ88kjTLJu1PgrAm0b0u1eIs54B6Qd8VeGfteRGx-CL5tKCjJYxx7yuFDmTRN1FzDabeFCj6imusxdlWmGYRCrh8ib7xemPED0KORlkXn96Rk2CduzuXr3DCd6nFetrYByiJpotEp_cHMV651RHzg-4ekM41g/w400-h320/girlslookingon%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Reports on the art party I missed on Saturday night said it was the "Who's Who" crowd. If they say so. I always go for the music. I'm not so very good at chit-chat. It always makes me nervous. But, you know. . . it is always good to be seen. </p><p>I was not. </p><p>Rather, I spent much time reworking old images. I have developed a different look and editing style which probably does not interest most people. But I am intrigued. I would spend an hour on a single image going through the steps in different order, looking, appraising, failing or succeeding, being happy or disappointed, and then moving on to another. </p><p>What madness. </p><p>Then, as nighttime fell and the texts grew quiet, I put on "American Fiction." Oh boy, I was looking forward to this. The trailer was good. </p><p>It was better than the film. </p><p>The film was good, but the trailer was rather misleading. The movie turns the trailer on its head. White people's version of what's Black sells. Both White and Black cultures buy the stereotypes. So what's a fellow going to do? Sell out? </p><p>To make the point, all White characters are goofy stereotypes to the nth degree. Black characters are full and richly complicated. Well-served. </p><p>Maybe the trailer wasn't so far off now that I reflect on it. It may have been the fabulist plot that, to some degree, I reacted. I never much cared for the novels of Fowles, Gaddis, or Barthes. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2f5zxvmRSguvzs7UXjjltR_IaDlgqEhg7KZ6AW-CMPEqAtkU4VCmJI_nVbVU20EWbfdJg59bAS4ssDVBwEyO0zPYOJIRd9gZj9iQlmS9EGvIAZCaDfvHrA7YeXw5srlt_RAU76xpCOadCEz9keHGvHYL4pNzHWzCV1ta5XzfcKESFco11jkgG6JoKWrS/s1500/girlsinawe%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2f5zxvmRSguvzs7UXjjltR_IaDlgqEhg7KZ6AW-CMPEqAtkU4VCmJI_nVbVU20EWbfdJg59bAS4ssDVBwEyO0zPYOJIRd9gZj9iQlmS9EGvIAZCaDfvHrA7YeXw5srlt_RAU76xpCOadCEz9keHGvHYL4pNzHWzCV1ta5XzfcKESFco11jkgG6JoKWrS/w400-h320/girlsinawe%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>But they never spoke highly of my writing, either. </p><p>My friend who moved to the midwest sent photos from Puerto Rico. She stood in the exact same place that her parents stood on their honeymoon over fifty years ago. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7Njsjqy7sATk0383_DUVsHBKRuyD8vrESsdEEhtHmxvz4rDrr8abQNw6RSbFHkv3ToIovxlP2sexEHP6aliplJk5EtJ1lt_rn6bYBSXOBwsF3_9zHbs5ynDf4Q0bipIF8a-dPidEmi2hzsF8tZy_QOTJaP7zibhd8hTN8XMPtaXS1VewBzCRXSpltOpD/s646/IMG_8290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="645" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7Njsjqy7sATk0383_DUVsHBKRuyD8vrESsdEEhtHmxvz4rDrr8abQNw6RSbFHkv3ToIovxlP2sexEHP6aliplJk5EtJ1lt_rn6bYBSXOBwsF3_9zHbs5ynDf4Q0bipIF8a-dPidEmi2hzsF8tZy_QOTJaP7zibhd8hTN8XMPtaXS1VewBzCRXSpltOpD/s320/IMG_8290.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIbB37XzTMlsWnSOu3-MddQDSXwmWyH-MvyEtQ96UwNEHVjHupJarlioL8A4N3I31elZL0y3hcOT1FG_Ez6m2CBwfrhbJixe1SoPRKUjygX2002i-emBw0H9diRp4F4-462AqaNww-76_h-yb1E7uqRs6Dj_DUemcdk6EHROnxZMFE31tGfF7tttz0yoqK/s3349/IMG_8292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3349" data-original-width="3174" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIbB37XzTMlsWnSOu3-MddQDSXwmWyH-MvyEtQ96UwNEHVjHupJarlioL8A4N3I31elZL0y3hcOT1FG_Ez6m2CBwfrhbJixe1SoPRKUjygX2002i-emBw0H9diRp4F4-462AqaNww-76_h-yb1E7uqRs6Dj_DUemcdk6EHROnxZMFE31tGfF7tttz0yoqK/s320/IMG_8292.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><p>Incredible. It's as if time stood still. One wants that, I think, some bit of stability in the world, something one can expect, something to count on. But it was deeply emotional for her as both of her parents are dead now. She would have felt much differently, I am sure, if this had turned into a Margaritaville or a Tommy Bahamas. It is why, if to some lesser degree, we like returning to National Parks and other preserved spaces. My friend, Travis, loves visiting sites with pictographs and glyphs, I imagine, for much the same reason. Things that last. Things unchanged. Something more enduring than the carnival marketplace in which we live. </p><p>But change is inevitable as we add more people to the planet every day. The world's population has increased from 2.5 billion to 8 billion people in my lifetime (<a href="https://www.un.org/en/global-issues/population#:~:text=Our%20growing%20population,and%202%20billion%20since%201998." target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). It is, in most ways, unthinkable. But there you are. There you have it. I've lived through a period of change unlike anything in the earth's history. "Future Shock," it was once called, but we've moved well beyond that. And so we turn our hopes, it seems, to colonizing space, "the last frontier." </p><p>So. . . let me bring this thing around. Full loop. Awkwardly. . . so be it. That is why, perhaps, people love festivals. They seem transcendent. They are buoys in the sea of time, markers of historical significance where we can celebrate and recreate the past. </p><p>"On St. Patrick's Day, I remember my grandfather would always make. . . . Mine isn't as good, but. . . ."</p><p>I sure wish I could have gone to that party. </p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-31604267985864743612024-03-17T09:46:00.000-04:002024-03-17T09:46:24.787-04:00Creatures of Time and Circumstance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFY3apsfJ4l3v-RE1EcVh8EE4E1ero6BLxXlt9LzeEHtiwmgJZOLIQu_P3X4fs9JBY9XHGGbnRhr_PF-xvaZNuHqU9gUZOCYB5n8i5SqvtOWehN6cCoA4Yi9A0gC9FJSBPzx02TjnAR1cbs8DY11x7uJVr1UsJkm-vj_sveRrTiGCBPV-_cXin5k4diBp/s1530/Screenshot%202024-03-16%20at%2010.29.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="1038" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFY3apsfJ4l3v-RE1EcVh8EE4E1ero6BLxXlt9LzeEHtiwmgJZOLIQu_P3X4fs9JBY9XHGGbnRhr_PF-xvaZNuHqU9gUZOCYB5n8i5SqvtOWehN6cCoA4Yi9A0gC9FJSBPzx02TjnAR1cbs8DY11x7uJVr1UsJkm-vj_sveRrTiGCBPV-_cXin5k4diBp/w271-h400/Screenshot%202024-03-16%20at%2010.29.35%E2%80%AFPM.png" width="271" /></a></div><p>I missed out on yesterday. Something got me, some bug, I hope. I was down, my gut an agony, my body chilled. I may have had a slight fever. I didn't leave the house. The day was one of worry and nada. My thoughts were dire. </p><p>As evening approached, having eaten nothing, I thought two things might help--chicken soup and beer. And that is what I had along with a bit of baguette. </p><p>There was no music, no distraction from my bleak and fearful thoughts. In sickness, I go to the darkest of places. It wasn't until the chicken soup and beer that I came back to earth a bit climbing up from some under-otherworldly dungeon. Sitting down to dinner, I turned on the television. I watched a tutorial on how to do a photo thing that has me inspired. I am anxious to try it, but I need human sitters to do it. Where will I get a human? That is a problem I am not sure I can overcome. Afterward, I watched another in the series from that woman's van life. This time, she irritated me. She is too pretty and I am susceptible. I realized that she trades in cute hippie cliches. Travel makes her "heart happy." Her dilemmas are those of an entitled beautiful young first world woman. I didn't think I could watch her anymore. </p><p>But then. . . holy smokes, folks. . . I put on the documentary "Frida" (<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B0CV25CSXR/ref=atv_hm_hom_c_lZOsi7_2_1?jic=8%7CEgNhbGw%3D" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). I thought I'd view a bit of it before putting on "American Fiction," but I couldn't quit watching. </p><p>There were simply too many elements of attraction. First, of course, Kahlo's art and the AI animation of it. It was good. Some people hate AI. I don't. Watching her drawings, sketches, notebooks, and paintings come alive was fascinating. And though I do not enjoy reading a movie, it was narration, not dialog and much slower and easier to follow without losing the visual aspects of what was onscreen. It was not really a distraction at all. </p><p>The story, a biography, was not what I thought I knew. Kahlo speared with a bus handrail in a bizarre traffic accident as a teen. The surgeries, the braces and immobility that brought a lifetime of pain. Meeting Diego Rivera at eighteen and changing her wardrobe, her life. And there is Rivera, eyes as large as Picasso's, a smiling walrus of an artist painting murals. Film footage of Zapata and the revolution that was essentially televised in movie theaters around the world. Old Mexico, a world of tradition and mystery, religion and witchery, a land inhabited by spirits. Mexico City and its mish-mash of modernity, peasants and primitive crafts, formal suits and traditional peasant garb. </p><p>Viva Mexico! </p><p>Kahlo and Rivera. The film both reveals and unravels the popular myths that have grown about the two. They were Bohemians who lived lavishly, monied communists with romantic concepts. They marry. Rivera is sexually unfaithful. He loves beautiful women. Kahlo takes on lovers. She is a homosexual Rivera says and is devastated by her infidelities with men. There is Trotsky fleeing Russia and Europe falling in love with Kahlo who tires of him. There are unconscious inconsistencies. Rivera is invited to exhibit at MoMA. They fall in love with NYC. "I can't believe it was built by humans," she writes, but she hates the wealthy patrons of Rivera's art. She is a wife who copies Rivera's artistic style. She is a fashion icon. Then Detroit and the murals at the Institute of Art where he paints his revolutionary murals under the watchful eye of Edsel Ford. Then Rockefeller Center where Rivera's mural of Lenin is torn down. The money runs out and the return to Mexico where they divorce and Kahlo begins to paint seriously in her own style. </p><p>She is not famous. She works to support herself. She lives with pain, surgeries, braces for her back. Her work gets recognition in the U.S. and Europe and she remarries Rivera. They are a traditional couple. They are not. I think once again about the difficulty of living on a tightrope. I think again about love and true love and what that means and how hard it is and why it is gone. </p><p>I stop at various points in the film to send links to my friends who I think will enjoy the documentary. I send one to Travis, a man well travelled in Mexico and as enamored of it as I, the history, the art, the literature. . . . He who has suggested I should not "crash" the fabulous art party a mere mile from my house. It is o.k. I have been too sick to go anyway. He sends me a video of the fabulous music trio playing in the garden. I write back simply, "Sure." I am sick, isolated, alone. My broken body has ached all along with the Kahlo film. </p><p>Kahlo was never the famous icon she would become in the years after her death. I delighted in the revelations the film so gently illustrated, the inconsistencies and dichotomies and flaws of Rivera and Kahlo's lives. As Rivera says so profoundly, we are creations of our time. In other times, under different circumstances, we may have believed and behaved differently. </p><p>Amen. </p><p>I am glad I travelled before the internet, before the great unwashed hordes descended, before even the most primitive places were restructured by cell phones. The internet has done much. It has undone much as well. I like it all. I want it all. Selavy. </p><p>I am hoping to feel better today. I will try to take a walk and see. I get scared when I am sick. Terrified. I like the world. . . even still. The sun is shining now and the crowds will have grown downtown. That is where I will walk just to see. I will go alone and maybe take a camera with me this time, though I do not like to photograph in my own hometown. Maybe I won't take any photos. I don't know. Feeling better would be enough. Having a human sitter so that I might experiment with the new technique I have learned would be even better. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMm600pEyI2hWRjvCboES37V4uJ5jk7TUMgPMK9Nfg_XUenH5fvj0XLdu3PHc44wN1OmyteYvSdnOqHHOjhgHleH4ZwTCg1iFgTJqUI4H03CUFlenBYZhJwU7rMYzwWge5BQF6HYjQOf-C6bdurLdvVRtzoImddsZa0D370su4j4ILomBfoCwvq5XN6Oi/s1500/mariamedclosereddress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMm600pEyI2hWRjvCboES37V4uJ5jk7TUMgPMK9Nfg_XUenH5fvj0XLdu3PHc44wN1OmyteYvSdnOqHHOjhgHleH4ZwTCg1iFgTJqUI4H03CUFlenBYZhJwU7rMYzwWge5BQF6HYjQOf-C6bdurLdvVRtzoImddsZa0D370su4j4ILomBfoCwvq5XN6Oi/w266-h400/mariamedclosereddress.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p>She was 100% Mexican. I adored making her pictures. Yes. . . Viva Mexico. </p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-39074877766685962522024-03-16T08:47:00.000-04:002024-03-16T08:47:36.917-04:00The Weird and the Mundane<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjztVjgf9eifwdnt8oHRWnjTVnutuQFeOAQ_oLjHIKuF9RJukU6DhG_KDoOeUQEnbhctvshZwAoY7g0EAPrHSk83smuZ0nnCl8bP_m-q42IKhPigMwf8NTXL-pSgbAvSIWDbWmw0jEpliqcmLN9JzWB6YzsNlgtmeMOQoWqiTy0rI7fADQvuY5YLB3LvZI/s1500/dupontbldggrunge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjztVjgf9eifwdnt8oHRWnjTVnutuQFeOAQ_oLjHIKuF9RJukU6DhG_KDoOeUQEnbhctvshZwAoY7g0EAPrHSk83smuZ0nnCl8bP_m-q42IKhPigMwf8NTXL-pSgbAvSIWDbWmw0jEpliqcmLN9JzWB6YzsNlgtmeMOQoWqiTy0rI7fADQvuY5YLB3LvZI/w400-h320/dupontbldggrunge.jpg" width="400" /></a>Up since four-thirty, I went down an unsuspected rabbit hole. Mina Loy. She ran with a strange and weird crowd. Her life is certainly movie-worthy. Painter, poet, editor and publisher, early modernist, intimate of Gertrude Stein and Djuna Barnes, praised as one of the most important symbolist poets of her time. . . not so many people know of her. I did, but I didn't. </p><p>I started to write a Wiki-style intro to her life, but you can Google her if you are interested. There is too much to write about her this morning, and for many reasons the "rabbit hole" was disturbing. Having finished watching "Poor Things" late last night, my mind is a bit overcome with strangeness, perhaps, whatever "strangeness" is. But everything weird, it appears to me, is somehow rooted in the common and mundane from which it rebels and, given enough time, something back to which it returns. One, it seems, cannot sustain life on a tightrope. </p><p>Reading her biography, however, is like reading the Who's Who of the Unconventional, Unorthodox, and Outlandish. </p><p>It makes me wish for the comfort of toast and tea.</p><p>I walked up to the Anti-Art Festival yesterday with a friend and realized how slow I am now. It was 86 degrees and I was sweating like an alcoholic pig. Once we got uptown, our pace slowed. There was barely a reason as the "art" was just what I had predicted, a collection of tchotchkes. But we saw friends and acquaintances to whom we spoke. One of the friends I ran into heads up the Art Festival Committee or Commission or Council or Whatever. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, and it was a shock to see his new girth. Shit happens. I said, "I asked my friend if you were still in charge of this shit-show and she said, I don't think so. I heard he died." Later, miffed, she would ask me, "Why would you say that?" </p><p>"It's just rough guy talk," I said. That didn't appease her so very much. </p><p>We walked the width and breadth of the park in which the booths are located before heading to outdoor seating for one of the Boulevard restaurants. Just as we were sitting, one of her friends came to join us. He is a strangely unorthodox but mundane fellow of wealth and average tastes. He needn't work, so he and his girlfriend travel. He visits many interesting places and has been just about everywhere, but his tales are uninteresting at best and boring in the main. They were, at least, until he decided to excite us with tales of his sexual adventures. I think I set him off with my description of Boulevard prostitution, highbrow and expensive. This seemed right up his alley. His eyes lit with intrigue. Since I am home most nights, my knowledge is all second hand, but I suggested my friend open her purse and place it table top which is how the Russian working girls announce they are available. </p><p>"It won't take long and you can buy us lunch." </p><p>Animated now, he began to tell us about some threesome he engaged in with two women one night in his condo. His threesome sounded about as exciting as his travels, I thought, but I could tell my friend was shocked. She spends a lot of time with him, visits him in Washington and stays on his yacht, and she touts him as someone reputable, so I was really enjoying this. When his tale was told, I decided to spice it up a bit, it having been reduced to something you could get from Reader's Digest, and concluded, "It seems they might have roofied me. When I woke in the morning, my Rolex was gone and I smelled of shea butter." </p><p>He liked that. </p><p>I actually stole that ending from a recent experience told by one of Tennessee's friends. </p><p>The restaurant was relatively quiet, but our service was poor and our food took far too long in coming, so I said I'd let them know we were 86ing the food order. When the check came, my friend's wealthy pal fretted over how we would divide the expense. I giggled and threw down my card to cover the two beers and one iced tea. Yea. He drank the tea. </p><p>I think my friend was fairly stunned, not by the splitting of the check but by the sexual tale of adventure and daring. </p><p>"He's quite something," I said. </p><p>She just shook her head. "That must have happened before he started going with Claudia. She keeps him on a tight leash."</p><p>"Yea. He didn't seem interested in the Russian hooker stuff, did he?" I laughed at her willing naïveté. "Where is Claudia now?"</p><p>Privilege has its power. </p><p>But why am I still here? I was going back to bed. The sun is up now and the day has more than begun. The hoi-polloi will be crowding the Boulevard soon to look at the carved bowls and blown up travel photos on display. </p><p>"Oh, look at that? Is that Venice? Oh, John, I've always wanted to go there and travel the canals in a gondola." </p><p>John will nod and try to avert his gaze for the moment from the teenaged girls in cut off jeans shorts he had just been ogling. </p><p>"How much is the photograph? Oh. . . wow. Hey. . . do you want to get a chili dog? I can smell them?"</p><p>Mina Loy married Arthur Cravan, a man described as a "poet/boxer." He was once knocked out by Jack Johnson in a fight in the Canary Islands. Some say he was paid to take a dive. He was a draft dodger during WWI, so the couple was on the lam in Mexico City. They felt that they were being tracked by some "secret agents" from the U.S. and decided to travel separately, she going ahead to Chile from where they were to depart for Europe. He was to follow, but she never heard from him again. His disappearance remains a mystery. </p>Asked by an interviewer later, "What has been the happiest moment of your life?" she responded, "Every moment I spent with Arthur Cravan." <div><br /></div><div>"The unhappiest?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"The rest of the time." </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8LLr-M-BPnIu3xUp8WhVtHNlaaikQKpbfkSVDFspuX1sOTP9s6KhVhhkO8LnHV-Uh-ADpsoJYFJt8p6r45814Ni3Pu0VerR9ZIgpeL9eVPKjo75nhHv5-9mWqYVThmaN6fZVjR7ZwpIrGfRMojCNBNYiD5DQMH3tXYpB-xMt3ca9S3S9Tm6oZ3UlQk8O/s1745/stories-and-essays-of-mina-loy-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1745" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8LLr-M-BPnIu3xUp8WhVtHNlaaikQKpbfkSVDFspuX1sOTP9s6KhVhhkO8LnHV-Uh-ADpsoJYFJt8p6r45814Ni3Pu0VerR9ZIgpeL9eVPKjo75nhHv5-9mWqYVThmaN6fZVjR7ZwpIrGfRMojCNBNYiD5DQMH3tXYpB-xMt3ca9S3S9Tm6oZ3UlQk8O/w275-h400/stories-and-essays-of-mina-loy-3.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-11722155613115254102024-03-15T09:43:00.003-04:002024-03-15T09:55:55.010-04:00Oh. . . That Shakespearean Rag<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWVB13gFSIYUDqSQE0THj3rgrEu5QKTBulc3LOW1inkDgp7OEUzpfOOOwBz2ojBZMvVXoqJyPADLPMkjeXmuBYJFyzeUNd04RHy3uvDybJby4vYXqd7AN5E6zBBjSFiZy42iX53wlop6Ij49y3dncSfO9L3YccPp-lpqmIqvATV-wEdg2FriIPkRrefIz/s1500/Colonyho.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWVB13gFSIYUDqSQE0THj3rgrEu5QKTBulc3LOW1inkDgp7OEUzpfOOOwBz2ojBZMvVXoqJyPADLPMkjeXmuBYJFyzeUNd04RHy3uvDybJby4vYXqd7AN5E6zBBjSFiZy42iX53wlop6Ij49y3dncSfO9L3YccPp-lpqmIqvATV-wEdg2FriIPkRrefIz/w320-h400/Colonyho.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I think there is a possibility that I am. . . how does one say it now? "Going crazy"? "Losing my mind"? "Becoming disturbed"? "Insane," "psychotic," "deranged"? They all seem like old movie terms. </p><p>I'll simply say that I am not "coping well." Mental anguish and physical lassitude. Anxiety, depression. You know the drill. </p><p>I'm not acting right. It is frightening. </p><p>It bothers me that I know there are people who will find satisfaction or even take pleasure in that. </p><p>"He always thought he was <i>something</i>. He was a loner. Look how that worked out. He's a sad and lonely man now. You reap what you sow, isn't that right, dear."</p><p>"Well. . . he kind of was, though."</p><p>"Kind of what?"</p><p>"Something."</p><p>O.K. I made that last part up. I made the whole thing up, but the last part I stuck in there just to succor myself a bit. Don't be a hater. I'm just being confessional and oversharing. I can confide in you, right? I mean, you know. . . still?</p><p>You see, I went out last night. I was back from my mother's house sitting on the deck trying not to drink while sipping a Campari and soda. Drinking is bad. Q told me so. So did my expanding waistline. So. . . maybe just a simple Campari and then some herbal tea. I had no idea what I would eat for dinner, though. "Nothing," I thought in my infinite fatness, but I knew that would not be doable for without food, what would the evening hold? </p><p>Just then as I anguished over it all, the phone rang. It was Tennessee. He called to tell me the news. I knew something was up. </p><p>"Let's get some dinner."</p><p>Ah. He was on his own for the evening. He was in his truck not far from one of my favorite Italian restaurants. </p><p>"O.K. I'll jump in the car now."</p><p>"No. . . I need to change. Give me thirty minutes."</p><p>"Fuck that. Who gives a shit what you are wearing. We'll eat outside."</p><p>"No, man. . . .'</p><p>"Fuck it. I'm just going to cook."</p><p>"Alright. I'll meet you there in a minute."</p><p>There is an art festival starting today, but people were already out and about last night. Besides, Thursday is the new Friday since Covid. The inside bar was full and there were only a few undesirable tables left outside, so I sat at the outside bar facing in. There were two bartenders I didn't know, pretty Italian women, one smiling the other looking stern as a Mafia hit-woman. They were both True Beauties.</p><p>I ordered a Chianti Classico and said I was waiting for my buddy to show up. I ordered some bruschetta while I was waiting. Tennessee showed up just as the bruschetta came out. He started chatting with the hit-woman right away. He knew her from another restaurant bar in town. </p><p>Chat chat chat. We recounted the follies of the night before and he caught me up on what I missed when I bounced out. </p><p>The smiling bartender came over to see if we were ready to order. I ordered the Pollo Scarpariello. Sort of. I butchered the last part. The barmaid laughed. She had beautiful eyes that seemed true. She said it back to me correctly.</p><p>"Yea. . . that."</p><p>"Funny," she said, "I knew what you meant." </p><p>She didn't blink, didn't look away. Nobody has looked at me like that in years. Maybe never. I didn't believe in it, though. I mean, I didn't think it was more than it was. </p><p>"I'll have the same thing as my dad," said Tennessee. </p><p>I shook my head and rolled my eyes. She was still looking at me.</p><p>"He says he's my friend. He says he has my back. But every time we get around women, this is what he pulls."</p><p>"I think you need a new wingman," she said, smiling, looking. I was about to wet myself. </p><p>"Nahhhhh. . . I'm just kidding. I love this guy. He's smart. A lot smarter than I am."</p><p>Still looking, still smiling. "I can tell he's smart," she said. "I can see it in his eyes." </p><p>Jesus Christ, holy shit. . . fuck me. I was starting to buy it hook, line, and sinker. </p><p>"Don't do it, old sport. Don't be stupid. Don't lean in. Don't say a thing. Don't don't don't don't don't."</p><p>I didn't. But I didn't need to. Tennessee is a talker. He was going to chat her up regardless. </p><p>I always listen to that little voice in my head: "Of course. . . she's working for tips. She wants the money." </p><p>Tennessee was on my team now. He told her she should see my house, that it looked like Hemingway's, that I taught literature. I sat there like I was somewhere on the spectrum, a stupid Alfred E. Neuman grin plastered on my face thinking, "Yea. . . you should see my house."</p><p>The thing was, and I am a keen observer, she kept looking at me when Tennessee was talking. She was looking at me most of the time. Usually when I'm with Tennessee, I hardly get a glance. But there was this, and there was the waitress from the Irish pub I didn't go to the night before who was asking about me. I didn't believe Tennessee when he said it, but it was verified by two other's who was there. </p><p>Now this is my tale, and I wouldn't lie to you about any of this. You can trust me even as you doubt. I wouldn't make this up without telling you I was making it up. </p><p>The barmaid kept coming back to chat. She had just graduated from law school and had recently taken the bar exam. She was waiting for the results. Christ, I thought. She was more than pretty. I wanted to tell her I had dated a pretty attorney for many years. I wanted to tell her something. Anything. I knew I shouldn't and wouldn't. I would say nothing about anything at all. Desperate men are talkers. It is better not to talk most times. Only when invited. WWDDD popped into my head. </p><p>"What Would Don Draper Do?"</p><p>It made me laugh. </p><p>Before our meal came, Tennessee got up to find the restroom. As I sat there alone, a fellow came over, slapped me on the back, and said hello. I looked at him and smiled. I didn't know him. </p><p>"You were a professor at Country Club College, weren't you?" he asked me. </p><p>WTF? I'm always leery about these things.</p><p>"Yea. . . I taught there for awhile."</p><p>"I thought so. I'm ______." He told me his name. "I live on_____." He told me where he lived. He said it was in "the professor's quarters." I knew the street. It was very expensive. </p><p>"What's your area?" I asked thinking he was a professor himself. </p><p>"Oh, no. . . I am a ________." He told me what he did and the company he owned. He was a solid man, well built, with wavy white hair and a tan. </p><p>"When we both had long hair," he said," girls used to think I was you. They'd come up to me all the time and ask me if I was you."</p><p>I laughed. </p><p>"Really. How many of my girlfriends did you date?"</p><p>I didn't say "date." </p><p>"I don't know," he said in a serious tone. I was laughing because I knew he had never dated any of my girlfriends as I didn't have any. I never dated like that. It was true that I ran around town and was pretty high profile, a sophistahippie in a white jeep with a Shepard/Husky companion riding in back, but I was never a "player." </p><p>Just then, Tennessee came back. I introduced him in hopes of handing the fellow off to him. It didn't work. The guy was hammering me now. </p><p>"This guy used to have all the women in town," he told Tennessee. I shook my head and rolled my eyes the way I always do at the incredulous while enjoying the fictional notoriety all the same. The fellow made an ironic comment about Tennessee needing to get in shape. The guy had joined our party. It turned out that he was an olympic swimmer who never got to the olympics. </p><p>"I medalled in the 1980 Olympics," he said. </p><p>"Really."</p><p>"No. That was the year we boycotted them. I didn't get the chance. I would have."</p><p>"Where'd you swim?"</p><p>It turned out he swam at my alma mater. They have a great swim team and have probably produced more medal winning swimmers than any other school, so the fellow had some cred. </p><p>But the guy was a nut. He started in on heritage. He deemed us all Alsatians, crossbreed Anglo-Franco-Jew warriors who beat the hell out of the Romans. . . . I don't know. He went on and on until our food arrived. And then, like a hallucination, he just disappeared </p><p>"That guy was a nut," I said. </p><p>"Yea."</p><p>"But he was right about one thing."</p><p>"What was that."</p><p>"The girls liked me. I was something." I laughed but did not guffaw.</p><p>After dinner, I wanted a Sambuca, but I couldn't remember its name. </p><p>"I don't want to look stupid in front of you," I said to the bartender, "but I want that drink with the coffee beans in it. . . and I can't remember what it is called."</p><p>"Sambuca?" </p><p>"Yea, that's it."</p><p>She still smiled at me with that same intensity. I felt myself falling apart. </p><p>In a bit, Tennessee and I settled the tab. </p><p>"It was a pleasure to meet you," I said. </p><p>"I hope to see you again," she replied. </p><p>My knees buckled.</p><p>Once I could walk again, not because I was weak kneed but because my bad knee had stiffened after sitting for so long, we ambled down the street past the busy bars and restaurants of the night. We stood on the corner where are paths diverged lingering, talking about the eventing, about past nights, and nights to come. There is a remembered pleasantness about standing on a corner chatting with a friend under the glow of a street lamp as people pass in pairs and groups.</p><p>Tennessee mentioned my fuck up the night before when I said the wrong thing to his friend about the fellow who owns the large restaurant chain. I knew I had fucked up right away; now Tennessee was verifying it. To me it didn't matter so much, but I didn't want to be Tennessee's obnoxious friend. He told me decadent tales of the filthy rich that were the same ones you read about in the tabloids in an attempt to succor me. </p><p>"But don't say anything bad about Senior to him. He's a real loyalist there."</p><p>As we stood there chatting, pretty women passing by would eye Tennessee up and down, smile. We were back to that now, the new normal.</p><p>"Did you see that?"</p><p>"Yea, I saw it. It pisses me off."</p><p>It had been a good night. </p><p>Back home, I sat on the couch and remembered what it was like to be looked at again. </p><p>"I <u>am</u> smart," I thought. "Maybe she <u>could</u> tell." </p><p>I didn't mind flattering myself alone at home for a moment. It is only normal, right? Then I realized that I had not had an evening update from Puerto Rico. Selavy. Whatever. </p><p>The phone rang. It was Q on FaceTime. He started playing his guitar right away, so I hung up. I dialed him right back and got a message that he was unavailable. Maybe he took me seriously and had blocked me, but a bit later, he called. I went on a tirade for a few minutes before I realized he was FaceTiming me with someone else on his phone. Then he told the fellow he'd call him back. </p><p>Skip ahead. I got "triggered" as the pop psychologists say, and the conversation ended badly. I lost my temper in a strange and terrible way, the kind of way that leaves you feeling sick and monstrous. Piss, shit, fuck, goddamn. </p><p>But something is wrong with me. I am acting in strange ways, and it scares me. My mind is a house of horrors, it seems. I am desperately in need of a victory. What kind of life is it when a bartender's smile is the highlight of. . . god knows of what? The day? The week? A year?</p><p>There was nothing to do but eat some Xanax, wash it down with whiskey, and hope you pass away peacefully in the night. </p><p>But here I am, all fear and regret, hoping to preen my remaining feathers to face the day. I am beginning to envy those of you who only need to see a therapist. I'm pretty sure that sooner or later they will have me locked away in a looney bin. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNiUZxnlRd0bavbQ1mUKMlcasAHBykWsFQmtYAI0hSJJNcsOzrJ97ZxJ52-8rQSURKAMfJiP4F_slKO72YCUvT_kfrLJwk8HlhhdR8SmDhs1YIgR-1PD93mn0WA5UKsR-daSh4IgDO_gI40F6RQRUkTEiQ_P2rS2uKBaEGwI2P13-bhkRNGpc8v3NVzgV/s1500/la-flora.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNiUZxnlRd0bavbQ1mUKMlcasAHBykWsFQmtYAI0hSJJNcsOzrJ97ZxJ52-8rQSURKAMfJiP4F_slKO72YCUvT_kfrLJwk8HlhhdR8SmDhs1YIgR-1PD93mn0WA5UKsR-daSh4IgDO_gI40F6RQRUkTEiQ_P2rS2uKBaEGwI2P13-bhkRNGpc8v3NVzgV/w320-h400/la-flora.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * * </p><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I never know what you are thinking. Think.’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> I think we are in rats’ alley<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Where the dead men lost their bones.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> ‘What is that noise?’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> The wind under the door.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Nothing again nothing.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> ‘Do<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘Nothing?’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> I remember<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Those are pearls that were his eyes.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’ <br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> But<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div>O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—<div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s so elegant<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So intelligent<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘What shall we ever do?’<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> The hot water at ten.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And if it rains, a closed car at four.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And we shall play a game of chess,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.</div><p>(T.S. Elliot, 'The Waste Land')</p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-25669098468758534032024-03-14T08:58:00.003-04:002024-03-14T08:58:24.654-04:00Animus Mundi<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufUXULDicLMTabAg2nvLuReErCRFnaP_9OToJlGLzdStmU8CfqjXzBBaIBDouO9k9fWldut1ReB3UUuiEtk7KZC_k_SaypQdIltJTHTUEdNWBgSqrujWnmktP4FEE4sWtRGYw-6V9RtjUdqvPQSx2hnu58JoCRTi9O3BZdGgke6uVd-KSLOhBnYf7JfKi/s1500/nanettewhitebacklookcouch%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufUXULDicLMTabAg2nvLuReErCRFnaP_9OToJlGLzdStmU8CfqjXzBBaIBDouO9k9fWldut1ReB3UUuiEtk7KZC_k_SaypQdIltJTHTUEdNWBgSqrujWnmktP4FEE4sWtRGYw-6V9RtjUdqvPQSx2hnu58JoCRTi9O3BZdGgke6uVd-KSLOhBnYf7JfKi/w400-h266/nanettewhitebacklookcouch%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>I went out last night. What was going to be a couple of people turned into a group event, intimacy replaced with public display, stories never completed, points never made. One needed to be quick with a short and pithy jab delivered at high volume, never more than a couple of brief sentences. New people constantly arrived so that it seemed the party was always just beginning. </p><p>When the crowd decided to move across the street to the next bar, I bounced. My phone pinged. Tennessee sent a text. It was a phone photo of him, the car guy, and Little Hands, the waitress. </p><p>"She's asking about you," he wrote. </p><p>"Oh. . . I'm certain."</p><p>Another ping. It was a sunset photo from Puerto Rico. </p><p>It was neither late nor early. The food had been disappointing, the drinks worse. I sank into the couch and the quiet. </p><p>I've never been good in social settings and have always shrunk away from crowds. I much prefer intimacy. </p><p>Before bed, I started watching "Poor Things." The stilted, stylized acting reminded me of a Wes Anderson movie. Just the delivery. But I was tired and went to bed after half an hour or so. To be continued. </p><p>Bedtime. I took a Tylenol and an Advil. I don't remember moving all night. It is good to dull the pain once in a while. </p><p>Awhile/a while. Interesting distinction there. </p><p>Have you read Thomas Mann's "Magic Mountain"? A sanatorium seems peaceful and appealing. "Poor Things" reminded me of that, too. A world apart, etc. </p><p>I'm still not hitting on all cylinders. I made some blunders last night when I was introduced to one of the "prominent men" in the community, as they say. I was not enamored, I guess, and said something wrong. I should not be speaking right now. I should keep quiet. I have had too much frivolity and have lost all purpose. One needs a purpose. Simply being is not enough. </p><p>Unless, of course, one is in a sanatorium. I desperately need a sanatorium. The world is too much with me. </p><p>I wrote something about the Anima Mundi yesterday. It is not to be confused with the Spiritus Mundi. That is what "they" say. I had to go back to check, though, thinking I may have written Animus Mundi. That, I believe, is a more accurate description of what I am feeling now. </p><p>I may have coined a new phrase. The Hostility of the World. </p><p>The roosters are crowing LOUD in Puerto Rico. So I am informed. I will reply:</p><p>ANIMUS MUNDI!</p><p>I think that is boilerplate. </p><p>A footnote here. Jung describes animus as the unconscious masculine side of a woman and anima as the unconscious feminine side of a man. Curious, that. </p><p>And so. . . the photo may be illustrative. Or not. I'll leave it to you to connect the dots. </p><p style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://api.razzlepuzzles.com/dot_connect" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>)</p><div><br /></div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-22684055442705438412024-03-13T08:48:00.006-04:002024-03-13T08:48:33.994-04:00To Be Determined<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aUk0iYVkMyBkBxcpbSFasG-iJFBAQGYoiHd6e3XdOhZrgCBqN1dUS3g7htyHCpIOmK0TdT7oDG665o0JNm_qy4oe8b8_Q7JiA0mDjbnCM0Jv5s7LH6ByYy4uMPKfCu7TDDcqoqVqaGlPMB87d0brRl9WQYUjyBb_QxemKdPvBB0a3TJliEzMtqvEx1UA/s1500/levard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aUk0iYVkMyBkBxcpbSFasG-iJFBAQGYoiHd6e3XdOhZrgCBqN1dUS3g7htyHCpIOmK0TdT7oDG665o0JNm_qy4oe8b8_Q7JiA0mDjbnCM0Jv5s7LH6ByYy4uMPKfCu7TDDcqoqVqaGlPMB87d0brRl9WQYUjyBb_QxemKdPvBB0a3TJliEzMtqvEx1UA/w400-h320/levard.jpg" width="400" /></a>Here, minutes before sunrise, the outline of the trees separates from the sky and I can see the silhouette of the neighbor's cat lying on the mat in front of my kitchen door looking in at me in the chair where I sit mornings in the Xenon glow of the laptop computer, first reading, then writing, a cup of coffee balanced next to me on the arm of the chair. I don't read so much now. I find that the news does me more harm than good, informing me less about what is important rather than more. The writing of new articles is predictable and poor, by and large, and I am not interested in the many opinions which come to dominate the online "papers" more and more. </p><p>And so I turn to this, struggling to make sense of my life, wrestling with words and phrases and then sentences and paragraphs that take on some life of their own--for good or ill. A million words, I'm sure, in the years long archive. Maybe several. I have no way of checking. The words are just there sitting without obvious appraisal, perhaps as only an indictment. I thought yesterday of just turning them off, leaving them silent like yesterday's news. </p><p>I should check my horoscope. I am struggling with some bad ju-ju, I think. People's reactions to me are not what they have been. I am not lighting up anyone's world, or so it seems, not even my own. I am feeling no joy. I struggle like a man who knows he has to take a beating that is unavoidable. Each step brings me closer to it. </p><p>Still, I labor on. Each day now, I do things that must be done. I fertilize and weed and trim and spray for bugs. I buy the tools I will need and prepare for the work ahead. I sat down for a couple hours the other day and did my taxes. I will have to write a big check to cover the taxes I have not had taken out of my pension payments. Plus a penalty. One is not allowed to wait until the end of the year to pay their taxes apparently. The government wants their money up front. They are willing to hold your money and, perhaps, give some back at the end of the year, but not vice-versa. I am not one to complain about paying taxes, but this part doesn't seem quite fair. </p><p>Boring. Would you rather hear about my peculiar romantic life? </p><p>Each day now, my heart sinks with the sun. Nights are predictable. The first cocktail, The preparing of dinner. A glass of wine and a plate of food before the television. Etc. </p><p>There are nights out. I go. I will go tonight. These nights, however, are as predictable as the nights at home. Drinks, then food in front of a live "t.v." Banter. Chatter. </p><p>All this could lead me to believe in auras and chakras and the alignment of the planets. Maybe there are circumstances where the soul dies before the body. </p><p>The withering spirit. </p><p>Perhaps it is something larger, an illness of the entire Anima Mundi. </p><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">“Man himself has ceased to be the microcosm and eidolon of the cosmos, and his “anima” is no longer the consubstantial scintilla, spark of the Anima Mundi, World Soul” (Carl Jung). </blockquote><p>Perhaps this is what Emerson and Thoreau felt. Each person a little piece of the larger spirit.</p><p>Or maybe it makes me feel better to simply imagine myself part of this high brow company. <i> </i></p><p>Like Hemingway's, for instance, who always needed a little "giant killer" and a light for the night. </p><p>I feel myself becoming a character in a story by John Cheever. </p><p>Last night, I vomited in my sleep. Fairly awful if not terrifying. </p><p>As I keep telling you, I need to change my life. </p><p>I think, though, it might have been the result of spraying insecticide on the lawn and around the houses yesterday. Maybe. I am not so very careful and I think I might have breathed some of the mist coming from the spray. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the body <u>will</u> die before the soul. </p><p>There is so much to do both here and at my mother's house. I feel deeply overwhelmed by it. Perhaps I should consider just paying people to do the work at this point. </p><p>"What are you saving your money for?"</p><p>This from my mother's 90 year old neighbor. </p><p>"What money?" I reply.</p><p>This blog goes back to September, 2007. That is when it began. There is too much there to ever read. And even though most of it is better than today's post, I think there is no need to leave it "out there." It is only "bot bait" at this point. </p><p>I like some of the new photos, though. They are a nice new direction. But, like a woman in a red dress, many of the old photos might be "dangerous." I'll not make any decisions today, though. I've been around the block enough to know not to make decisions in times of desperation. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dQRPcQ_eI_rHpX-tj4o2FTW8FZphzyvkB3TPxS2vqeoYosZCpQCVT_SmX-ZOIpPtNcY9E0z5MV7ZLDsUmRxnKhwliYQUO00vCY82qo5rXymMW5apXE-mD2lOi2qJ1d0wBIFt17O6IwF4DkG5kDEyI25O9wkPCJ2DnZzmUrMFJxvqYAnpciZEGmt87J7P/s1500/reddress%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dQRPcQ_eI_rHpX-tj4o2FTW8FZphzyvkB3TPxS2vqeoYosZCpQCVT_SmX-ZOIpPtNcY9E0z5MV7ZLDsUmRxnKhwliYQUO00vCY82qo5rXymMW5apXE-mD2lOi2qJ1d0wBIFt17O6IwF4DkG5kDEyI25O9wkPCJ2DnZzmUrMFJxvqYAnpciZEGmt87J7P/w400-h320/reddress%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-40017387297936165182024-03-12T09:20:00.001-04:002024-03-12T09:20:44.714-04:00Hoboken Hillbillies and a Festival of Carved Ducks<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwQgOb3PIIFN3xLskK1yzh55m1ny8lbb376b5Q87ivu_sV5u6N3CpneAALXOA-EXX9KdAGgS6-6rMiH5p5NNHGV7kEYy6fXogfaC9ZRraKR092ArTnLF6wiD9xNshWvI5jnEK6aIzxXun4imtbJqYR1O48fpQMWx0xvhBzAdzYwnkeAMk5n0lG9sQsRHE/s1500/gummachines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwQgOb3PIIFN3xLskK1yzh55m1ny8lbb376b5Q87ivu_sV5u6N3CpneAALXOA-EXX9KdAGgS6-6rMiH5p5NNHGV7kEYy6fXogfaC9ZRraKR092ArTnLF6wiD9xNshWvI5jnEK6aIzxXun4imtbJqYR1O48fpQMWx0xvhBzAdzYwnkeAMk5n0lG9sQsRHE/w400-h320/gummachines.jpg" width="400" /></a>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." </p><p>I should stick to essential oils and herbal teas. </p><p>I did end the evening with a cup of hot spicy milk, though, and a glass of water, so there was that. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>"I can fix it." </p><p>Two down. </p><p>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. </p><p>I'm trying not to bum. </p><p>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. </p><p>That was fun. </p><p>More pictures from Puerto Rico. I just can't figure that out. But as the kids used to say, "Whatever."</p><p>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. </p><p>Then I fell victim to "Inherent Vice." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwC1hQ9F1Z-VnL2XgHe1SFaYNm2-Q6MDZ1-N3uUZvqWvS2vQZR_ajrkYymdGwaoMFjlT8bjLqmYrTRtofwPIGqMseoDFxrs8VAG_0a-VxZbhNdd_GAqrtdvOVlGBL_F5deiHlJZ7H24rOYvPVgJM7iSfz3E_nZvnQ6KGfMin-XNyAYeMEqvS8B7GdlONKa/s1500/merealtygroup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwC1hQ9F1Z-VnL2XgHe1SFaYNm2-Q6MDZ1-N3uUZvqWvS2vQZR_ajrkYymdGwaoMFjlT8bjLqmYrTRtofwPIGqMseoDFxrs8VAG_0a-VxZbhNdd_GAqrtdvOVlGBL_F5deiHlJZ7H24rOYvPVgJM7iSfz3E_nZvnQ6KGfMin-XNyAYeMEqvS8B7GdlONKa/s320/merealtygroup.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p>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? </p><p>"Well. . . it couldn't be any worse than a narrative about plumbing and taxes."</p><p>True dat. </p><p>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. </p><p>Am I being shitty?</p><p>Oh, yea. The mouth breathers and slack jaws come in by the thousands. And they like the carved ducks and floral paintings. </p><p>"Good God, George, look at this! Isn't that wonderful? He's captured every detail of that hibiscus. Amazing." </p><p>"Do you want to get some fried dough?"</p><p>"O.K."</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N-WNLF0f0EM" width="320" youtube-src-id="N-WNLF0f0EM"></iframe></div><p>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. </p><p>"I can't. When was the last time you took him to lunch?"</p><p>I still have a few days left. </p><p>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. </p><p>"Travis said he has taken you to lunch enough times for both of us." </p><p>Ha!</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Let the week sound a bit like this and I'll be fine. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4jEhkk64Jm0" width="320" youtube-src-id="4jEhkk64Jm0"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-63960553445057915162024-03-11T08:56:00.002-04:002024-03-11T08:56:38.425-04:00And the Winner Is. . . . <p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnKBeB_i3EBg8hYr_zFLLIbhWCfj_4knMYanOU9IBnv2ZJAz6aWa10ALVad3QudJP-khDZ1wU4OLc354S3CcYEfCrCylLiRL-7nbnrWe8bLlzuCp0B6HD-23rzNBggB7vuTB_qkxeyBwii2Jr-4ujwZmGq7nJV1c8d4vfMCI-NVLjC7FujLmvxh0wSYLN/s1500/pinkhat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnKBeB_i3EBg8hYr_zFLLIbhWCfj_4knMYanOU9IBnv2ZJAz6aWa10ALVad3QudJP-khDZ1wU4OLc354S3CcYEfCrCylLiRL-7nbnrWe8bLlzuCp0B6HD-23rzNBggB7vuTB_qkxeyBwii2Jr-4ujwZmGq7nJV1c8d4vfMCI-NVLjC7FujLmvxh0wSYLN/w400-h320/pinkhat.jpg" width="400" /></a>"Are you going to watch the Oscars? The Red Carpet stuff is coming on right now."</p><p></p><p>"I don't have cable. I don't have network television,"</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>You know what I found out last night, though? Amazon Fire Stick gives me access to network stuff. I can watch local news, for instance. Didn't know that. My internet provider, however, doesn't let me have network shows. I think I can get a set of digital rabbit ears and get the networks which might be OK for watching some things like the Super Bowl. I wasn't interested in any way in watching the Oscars, though. That just seems like slow motion torture to me. </p><p>That is to say nobody came over to not watch the Oscars with me last night. </p><p>What I watched instead was a lot of Van Life videos. I knew that Covid had ruined much of our previous life experiences, but the impact on camping in your car or van has been devastating. Just before Covid hit, I was looking at rigs for living on the road. Then, with social distancing affecting life, the price of all things "camping" skyrocketed, and I pretty much decided to stay home. </p><p>While I was away. . . oh, boy! It seems that too many people got into van life and, like everything that gets popular, it was ruined. Where once you could park a van or camper in Walmart and Cracker Barrel parking lots everywhere, many local ordinances have put a stop to that. The chains themselves have, too. Too much partying, too many drugs, too much trash. Apparently these were homeless people with wheels. Stealth camping became more difficult, too. Local police are on the lookout for overnight parking. Consequently, campgrounds have raised their fees. At forty dollars a night, it is cheaper to rent an apartment. </p><p>So I heard from my favorite van life girl (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/@ChristianSchaffer" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). Sure. . . hate on me because she is pretty, but that isn't what brought me to her YouTube station. It was because for years she lived in her Xterra. When the cost of campers skyrocketed, I was watching videos on camping in my car. She had that shit nailed, so one day I put down the seats and threw a sleeping bag and a pad in the back to see. Uh-uh. I was already too broken up and stiff for that shit. It was painful. She, obviously a flexible yoga girl, made it look inviting, but last night when I stumbled across her once again, I found that she had moved up to living in a stand-up van. Now, though, after years on the road, even she is ready to give up her life vagabond life.</p><p>Some people are cool. Most just suck. And that is one reason I can't stand the Republican Party. They want more babies. WTF? </p><p>When I got up this morning, I got baited and clicked on WaPo's Oscar article. "See All the Winners." And I did. In five minutes or so. And that was too much. I did remember, though, that the Oscars used to be on Monday nights. I only thought of that because Woody Allen never went. He had a standing Monday night music gig at he Carlyle Hotel. But that was a long time ago. </p><p>I have been wondering how I would ever use today's photos. Voila. He's Just Ken. </p><p>I went out to feed the cats at sunrise. The sky was a ablaze with red. And what does that mean, kids? </p><p>"Sailor take warning."</p><p>The chilly air shocked me, though. I had to turn on the heat. Haven't done that for weeks. </p><p>The thing about van life is that it looks simple on the surface, but there is a lot of work that constantly has to be done. You have to be well-organized and handy. I am neither. I am messy. And my friends won't let me use power tools. To wit. I keep telling you about all the work that needs to be done around my house. I need to trim the old branches off my crepe myrtle before the new growth begins. My cousin had bought a small electric chain saw, and when I said I was going to trim the tree, she told me to use that. O.K. I had cut only two small branches when I did something that stopped it dead. Uh-oh. I got the screw driver and took what I could apart. It took me an hour to put the chain blade back on and stretch it over the gears. And when I had it all back together finally--nothing. Jesus. I ordered her another one on Amazon. It will be here on Wednesday. It would have been cheaper to just hire someone. </p><p>I was about as handy when I had my sailboat. A camper is just a land boat. I'm simply not a tool guy. </p><p>"I'm Just C.S." </p><p>Ho!</p><p>But I will get busy today, I swear. I am going to change my life just like I tell you every couple of weeks. I read this morning that daily pot use ups your chances of having a heart attack by 25% and that Tai Chi will lower your blood pressure much more than other exercises. Eating more fruits and vegetables will help you live to be 100, so they say. </p><p>I ate five eggs and two pounds of steak this weekend. Last night, I didn't want to cook, so I got a fast food chicken sandwich from Guy Fierro's place, The Chicken Guy. I barely left the house except to go to my mother's and the liquor store. </p><p>But today. . . you know. . . watch me eating a veggie pita sandwich after group Tai Chi in the park. You'll see. I'll get with it. I'll start moving again. I will. </p><p>Right after this. Oy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/H_9Mw4FulBs" width="320" youtube-src-id="H_9Mw4FulBs"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-59951379158688679312024-03-10T11:23:00.005-04:002024-03-10T13:20:45.068-04:00It's O.K. with Me<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4lt_ZzmEffZOMv0_Z5B2aa1ULgEwXBixA0nIH02aRqLQTYeLK0PuyTWENcjlEQeJ2ohjbRqtQcMMs4m543i3dlZJeqksHIHdIa5aLuJ8ylCCq-xYoQJ0ydMsymrbj1QqbxQUqZ7-lgHsSicrge7YlsVOnE70ZIAPapmrliEwOVdazrSsdw8OlySBrBLn/s1500/redcadiinterior%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4lt_ZzmEffZOMv0_Z5B2aa1ULgEwXBixA0nIH02aRqLQTYeLK0PuyTWENcjlEQeJ2ohjbRqtQcMMs4m543i3dlZJeqksHIHdIa5aLuJ8ylCCq-xYoQJ0ydMsymrbj1QqbxQUqZ7-lgHsSicrge7YlsVOnE70ZIAPapmrliEwOVdazrSsdw8OlySBrBLn/w400-h320/redcadiinterior%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>I guess I made a mistake last night. Somehow, I stayed up beyond the time change. Bad. I've fallen victim to the whole thing. I'm already dragging. <i>¡Ay, caramba!</i> </p><p>I guess that's not accurate, though. I changed my clocks after midnight, but the official change I think is after the bars close. I'm not sure. </p><p>But it was a weird day all around. I didn't leave the house until I had to go to my mother's. She called and was miffed. She had bought an exercise bike at a garage sale and wanted me to pick it up in the Xterra. When I got to her house, my cousin texted the people, but they had just gone to dinner. My mother and cousin kind of looked at me like I had somehow screwed the pooch. WTF on two counts. Why was it my deal? And why is a 92 year old woman buying an exercise bike? </p><p>"It was only $10."</p><p>While I was sitting there, the 90 year old neighbor stopped by on her tricycle. She had her little dog in the front basket. She usually loves me, but this afternoon she wasn't so very enamored with me. I guess I wasn't funny. </p><p>When she left, the pretty lady from another street came walking up with her two big dogs. My mother and cousin think I should hook up with her. </p><p>"Do you think she is going to ask me out?" I laugh. I'm certain she has a plethora of suitors. She looks like the pages of a magazine. </p><p>Her dogs are pretty raucous. They seem vicious. But when she came up with them this day, they were all over me wanting love. They are big, and the female jumped up on me where I sat and put her paws on my shoulders and started kissing me. The pretty lady was surprised. </p><p>"Oh, no. . . get down, get down. . . I'm sorry. . . ."</p><p>"No, it's o.k. It's been awhile since I've been kissed."</p><p>"I know what you mean," she laughed. Hmm. </p><p>I had gotten there later than usual and stayed longer than I intended. I needed to make a run to the liquor store and to the grocers, but it was getting late and I made a choice. </p><p>Liquor. </p><p>I had eaten the leftovers from my steak dinner for lunch, so I wasn't really starving. Maybe I'd have something at home to cook up. Probably not, but I am a creative sort, so I chanced it. </p><p>The cat was waiting and complaining when I pulled into my driveway. </p><p>"Meow, meow. . . meow. . . O.K. . . O.K. . . . Hold on."</p><p>I sat my stuff on the counter and got the cat food. She's been watching me pet the neighbor's cat when I give him a couple of kibbles, and now she follows me closely and leans in very near my hand when I put the food in the bowl, but I ain't touching her. She's a wildcat. Who knows what crazy shit she'd do. </p><p>Still, you know. . . the women I am attracted to. . . . There IS a history. </p><p>After I had all that settled, I made my afternoon Campari and soda, lit a cheroot, and went out to keep Kit Kat company. That is when I noticed something strange. The tree pollen has been falling here like rain. Everything outside is covered in a golden green sheen. I've swept my deck a couple times, but within a few minutes you can't tell it was ever done. When I sat my Campari glass on the glass table, I noticed it had been wiped. The pollen was gone. Then I noticed the deck had been swept in an evil way. Someone had pushed all the pollen not out into the yard but up against the house. The hair on the back of my neck tingled. I ran through a catalog of people who might have done this. Really, it made no sense. I looked at the yard. Nope. It wasn't the yardman. Was this supposed to be funny, or was it a warning of some sort? </p><p>There was no way for me to know right then. </p><p>The phone pinged. It was a text from the girl who finally asked me out. She was sitting under a palm tree somewhere. I hadn't heard from her since Porch Fest. There were no words, just the picture. I texted back, "That looks awful." </p><p>Ping. Another text. This time it was her cocktail. I sent back a picture of mine. </p><p>I got back a red heart emoji. Shit. I always forget to like the photos people send. </p><p>I put on a song that I have been playing over and over again. It is what I have told my privileged friends "an anthem to my people." </p><i></i><blockquote><i>Some say the world is made for fun and frolic </i><div><i>And so say I, indeed oh so say I </i></div><div><i>But I’ve got to go and earn my greasy dollar </i></div><div><i>So I can keep on working 'til I die</i></div></blockquote><p>The woman is from West Virginia and announces herself as a full on hillbilly. She is, of sorts, kind of like me. Ph.D. and pretty as a picture. She likes hillbilly music and I think to send the song to her. But it seems too eager to me, so I stop myself. I sit in the last light of the day and play the song again singing along with the lyrics suddenly realizing I have them wrong. Why? Why do I keep singing,</p><p></p><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"So I can get to heaven before I die."</blockquote><p style="font-style: italic;"> ?</p><p>It's a clever mistake on my part, sure, but a mystery, too. The second one, the swept deck being the first. Were I Thomas Pynchon, I'd be thinking "conspiracy." You've read him, surely. If not. . . there's a pretty good movie.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wZfs22E7JmI" width="320" youtube-src-id="wZfs22E7JmI"></iframe></div><p>But why haven't you read him? </p><p>I can barely see the cat now in the dying light as she slowly walks back to wherever she lives and disappears behind the wooden fence. I Google "David Childers." Turns out he's a hell of a guy. Reminds me of that journalist who lived down in Mexico that Travis keeps telling me to read. I've read some. They are similar. I take it that Childers is a reformed attorney. Ha! I like that. I listen to the end of the song once more, pick up my things and, turning my back to the darkness, go back into the house. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/I7JAasjY4xE" width="320" youtube-src-id="I7JAasjY4xE"></iframe></div><p>What to do? I'm not really hungry, but I will be. I search the fridge, the cabinets. I have the rest of the Brussel sprouts I didn't cook last night. There is some left over brown jasmine rice. I pull down a pack of spicy lentil stew. I look in the freezer. That is always an adventure. I spy a package of. . . freezer burned cube steaks. </p><p>I cook. I make a mess. It isn't worth it. The dinner was fairly appalling. At least, though, I had gone to the liquor store. </p><p>I check my email. There is one from Q. He is complaining about an argument he had with a woman in Tahoe. He explains. I write back simply, "Mansplaining, silly." </p><p>In another email, Apple News has an article complaining about the masculine toxicity of Hollywood and the Oscars, so I add. . . "Fuck Oscar. And the Barbie goes to. . . ." </p><p>Q argues with me about Taylor Swift. I just don't get her appeal. I've said, though, that I might like her in a club playing acoustic. For me, her music is WAY overproduced. But then I come across this. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FvVnP8G6ITs" width="320" youtube-src-id="FvVnP8G6ITs"></iframe></div><p>My argument collapses. "I was wrong," I write. "She needs to be overproduced. She needs all of that."</p><p>But I have fallen into the trap. Just another toxic male, I know. I get it. I understand. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbwBtrCP4Gfj9GQ212cQF4WmGVzoah8Mz1PSiR_UcEXpMan91dcQA4tnytpta_cL6VVyUYiKNnI8C8judAB0TN76CYyfpNnQsnUPsxi1yN0JOXJ5EBomIIso9dObN4J-3_yPfZUr34bMBy1TAf8sq8jd5MtofyGEkEeoFA2w_hpxIEjSKCO3HAJ1-H-DZ/s1600/ken-song.jpg.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbwBtrCP4Gfj9GQ212cQF4WmGVzoah8Mz1PSiR_UcEXpMan91dcQA4tnytpta_cL6VVyUYiKNnI8C8judAB0TN76CYyfpNnQsnUPsxi1yN0JOXJ5EBomIIso9dObN4J-3_yPfZUr34bMBy1TAf8sq8jd5MtofyGEkEeoFA2w_hpxIEjSKCO3HAJ1-H-DZ/s320/ken-song.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wwux9KiBMjE" width="320" youtube-src-id="wwux9KiBMjE"></iframe></div><p>O.K. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. I know it's the time change that's messed me up. I'll be better in a few days. </p><p>After dinner and a little t.v., I look at the clock. Uh-oh. It must have been the whiskey. Or maybe something else. As I say, I hadn't left the house all day other than my mandatory trip to mother's. I worry. Have I fallen back into the old ways? Am I depressed and housebound once again? </p><p>I'd need something to sleep. </p><p>I wake late. Or is it? I had changed the clocks before bed. The sun is up. I don't know. I get up to coffee and texts. A photo of a coffee cup on bare legs looking out over a balcony to the beach. </p><p>"Where are you?"</p><p>"San Juan."</p><p>"Be careful. That's where the whole Depp/Heard fiasco began."</p><p>She is hooking up there with my friend who moved to the midwest in a few days. She is alone now ready to explore the old city. </p><p>"Girls Gone Wild."</p><p>"Ha! I was in bed before ten."</p><p>Well. . . that's attractive. </p><p>I have things I must do today. I have plans. But I have a terrible feeling none of them will get done. I think it's O.K., though. I haven't simply been staring into empty space. I've been working on photos. I started building a website, but it looked like shit and I deleted it all. That is going to be a lot of work. It is going to be hard. </p><p>But the photos! Oo-la-la. </p><p>I know one thing now. I need to get out. I need to talk to people. I need to travel. </p><p>My friend from the midwest sends photos of her mother and father on their honeymoon in Puerto Rico. Holy shit are they gorgeous. The color has faded from the snapshots so that they are mostly reds and browns. She is going to meet up with the other woman in Rincon where her parents spent their honeymoon. </p><p>"I think my father has a Hunter Thompson vibe." </p><p>I send her the same message about Heard/Depp.</p><p>"Buy the ticket, take the ride."</p><p>She hearts that. I think she has. </p><p>But goddamnit, I have once again forgotten to like the photos she sent. </p><p>Crazy ladies. It's O.K with me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iqMqy2qRYQo" width="320" youtube-src-id="iqMqy2qRYQo"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-70095485898052070352024-03-09T09:27:00.001-05:002024-03-09T11:17:09.504-05:00I Ain't Old Baby. I'm Brand New<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEIFEHtOu26tQAN25EcRdRw98cPyYLuvIAPCf6cy-GGz2avsgHhyJbbgeAHENlsTcl6mWuDRjh3I1rqSWpoeScD_Zct6NKwM-N0IXBDl_YZ7FKaedvyepfybytZeyOvJEatUR-BV6if8VSYySQPYSHWHta5Atuol6tFkLXsHo-i_3ISzZK6XPyjp1VAr_/s758/elastic%20lady.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEIFEHtOu26tQAN25EcRdRw98cPyYLuvIAPCf6cy-GGz2avsgHhyJbbgeAHENlsTcl6mWuDRjh3I1rqSWpoeScD_Zct6NKwM-N0IXBDl_YZ7FKaedvyepfybytZeyOvJEatUR-BV6if8VSYySQPYSHWHta5Atuol6tFkLXsHo-i_3ISzZK6XPyjp1VAr_/w298-h400/elastic%20lady.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p>I'm a good cook. I make delicious meals almost every night. Dinner for one. Scoff if you will, but it is true. I've been the predominate cook in my house since I was in my twenties. It has been out of necessity. Only my college girlfriend enjoyed the kitchen. But even then, I was cooking, too. It was hippie times. I had bought a vegetarian cookbook and was making delicious bean stews and cheesy lentil casseroles. After college, I was on my own. That is when I learned to eat out. I met some people who worked as servers and bartenders, and they would go to restaurants for lunch and get big plates of shrimp fettuccinis and drink cocktails. My tastes expanded. </p><p>I'm not saying I'm a chef. No, I am a good cook. When I was floor boss at the factory, I hired a lot of young kids who grew up with the famous chefs and cooking shows. They were more "chef-like" than I, using reductions and sauces and consommés that took hours and hours to prepare. They shared duck fat and celery roots and other things I hardly understood. Sometimes they'd laugh at my culinary ignorance. I got invited to dinners, though, and often. . . well. . . I was the better cook. I could make tasty meals out of basic foods. . . with the best of them. </p><p>I will admit, however, that my palate became better for their meals and lessons. </p><p>Lately, however, I haven't been able to make a decent steak. I've been blaming the grill. It just doesn't seem to get hot enough. My steaks haven't been searing. There is no sizzle. They come off the grill just grey beef. I don't know what happened. I've always been able to grill steaks. </p><p>Last night, I decided to go a different route. It is a common one, I'm certain, but not one I've ever explored, being. . . you know. . . men, meat, and fire! But I read an article on the common mistakes people make when preparing a good steak, so I bought a Porterhouse from Whole Foods (who truly have the best steaks in town) and left it out to approach room temperature. I patted it dry with paper towels before I seasoned it--simply salt and pepper--and turned the oven on to 450 degrees. I poured some olive oil in the enameled cast iron Dutch oven and turned the burner on high. I braised the steak on each side for two minutes, then put it in the preheated oven for nine. </p><p>Fuck me! That's the way to cook a steak!</p><p>Served with steamed Brussels sprouts, oven roasted shitaki mushrooms, baked beans and brown jasmine rice, and a good red. My head was spinning. </p><p>There was a knock at the door. It was the tenant. She was making loaves of banana bread and wanted to know if I would like one. Well, now. . . indeed I would. I love banana bread and have even made it using an old girlfriend's recipe, but this is where I am a cook and not a chef. Not a pastry chef, anyway. Making bread is the messiest thing I have ever done. Cleanup is ridiculous and I have given the whole thing up. After dinner, I sliced into the small loaf. Dense. Really, really dense and not too sweet. I ate almost all of it right away. </p><p>This had been a hell of a meal. It was time for a whiskey. </p><p>The phone rang. I don't often answer the phone at night, but it was my Yosemite buddy. </p><p>"What's up, nigga?"</p><p>He was sitting outside at his son's soccer practice. He was just checking in. </p><p>"What are you doing sitting at home alone on a Friday night? Are you still waiting for that knock on the door."</p><p>He knows me well. </p><p>"I've been waiting, you know, but I don't think anyone's going to knock again."</p><p>"You need to get out and let people see you."</p><p>"No I don't. They don't want to see me. Trust me."</p><p>"What about that woman you told me about?"</p><p>"I don't think that's going to work out. We are not the same type, I think. She's really practical."</p><p>"Maybe that's what you need."</p><p>"No I don't. I need someone who at least kind of understands me. I don't need anymore criticism. I've had that."</p><p>"Well come on out. I'll fix you up with some mountain girls. Remember Faith?"</p><p>"I don't know. I can't recall."</p><p>"Well, she remembers you. Come out, man. You'll have fun."</p><p>"Yea. . . I think I remember fun. I'd like some of that. Fun would be good."</p><p>"Let's go back to Mexico City."</p><p>"Yea. . . that's what we should do."</p><p>Like all my married friends, both male and female. . . . There are always compromises and fantasies.</p><p>"Does your wife still like you?"</p><p>"Yea. . . once in awhile. Once every week or two. . . you know." </p><p>It's an old story, a common joke. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"I'd rather live in solitude than spend another lonely night with you."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>Q highlighted that line when I wrote it a few posts back. It's a good one. But I have put that to the test, too. I'm funny. I'm smart. I'm a good cook. </p><p></p><blockquote><p>"<i>Are you still waiting for that knock on the door?"</i></p><p></p></blockquote><p>Yea, yea, yea. . . . </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"Let's go back to Mexico City."</i></blockquote><p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_aeuwcARMfLehZmR-SAl3rVpiJoxKJG12IEZ1Ge3O6v4LXltfW2x2h3lvZKooM5kaeOTc3yPdGzE2z05zpfa_gyLfETfc40-T_u7taFA6p9RLfLGRX_4z0YGG9ibbKcFqY8AhZvT7VL_s0M0FyHDLw2JwvTKvOrhdgOrYsUprd2FA4P4HN4EkRmeibvh/s1500/IMG_5181%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_aeuwcARMfLehZmR-SAl3rVpiJoxKJG12IEZ1Ge3O6v4LXltfW2x2h3lvZKooM5kaeOTc3yPdGzE2z05zpfa_gyLfETfc40-T_u7taFA6p9RLfLGRX_4z0YGG9ibbKcFqY8AhZvT7VL_s0M0FyHDLw2JwvTKvOrhdgOrYsUprd2FA4P4HN4EkRmeibvh/w400-h266/IMG_5181%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><i>"Senorita. . . senorita. . . por favor. . . . "</i></p><p>I know it's wrong, but I think I will get another Vespa. When you are not getting run over almost to death, they are really fun. After talking with my buddy, rather than turning on the television, I'd take a little ride. Sliding through the night air is like floating with a Friday moon. Everything changes. You feel different than you did the moment before. And eventually you end up somewhere, a cafe or a coffeehouse, and there are people looking at you. You don't need to worry about parking. You just pull up anywhere. When you get off the bike, you feel like a star in an Italian movie and you know that people envy you.</p><p>That's how I remember it, anyway. My little village is the perfect place for one. A scooter wouldn't do you much good out in the 'burbs. And not buying another Vespa isn't going to fix the damage already done. </p><p>I want to post some music. I have so many good songs I want to share with you, but I need to match the melody with the tone of the thing I am writing. Somewhat, anyway. So. . . here's what Saturday night and Sunday morning should sound like. Exactly. I'll post the song and then lyrics of another. You know me. I'm a conflicted character full of heartbreak, love, and promise 💔💔💔💔💔. </p><p>Maybe you could tell your friends. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4IKEEFksif4" width="320" youtube-src-id="4IKEEFksif4"></iframe></div><p><br /></p><div>Don't ask me if I'm lonely, baby<br />You know I'm lonely<br />If I wasn't lonely then I wouldn't be talking to you<br />I'm trying to drink this poison<br />And see if it'll kill me<br />I used to have immunity, but now I don't know what it'll do<br />You don't know where I've been<br />I was just a canvas back then<br />But now I'm drippin' with paint<br />I ain't old baby, I'm brand new<br />Don't ask if I've been writing, baby<br />You know I ain't been writing<br />If I'd been writing then I wouldn't be talking to you<br />I'm trying to board this trainwreck<br />I used to have a ticket<br />All the best shit I've ever written, honey<br />It's all been coming from you<br />So don't shut me up<br />It ain't like it was<br />I've shed some layers<br />I ain't old baby, I'm brand new<br />That old cocoon is dead and gone<br />I ain't old baby, I'm brand new<br />I ain't old baby, I'm brand new<br />I ain't old baby, I'm brand new</div>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-20756471757565032482024-03-08T08:25:00.000-05:002024-03-08T08:25:08.054-05:00Firebrand<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtW1l3mkW0oMn2tn-zOGtZ75pqmnPGnb0NAC9yZr58jqRTp9ESelUGc1T4hRE3QtNUg0bXFcyv7HdBYVWrrqvlS-P1JuONPfZk0GZIsOfES9MR0mNxocs9iwgORxMWPdsL7AM3dJd8q9kEQhkUH-t7NFwZaWsKfLo6XAObHW4CfJQbBf0aAyg1ZTbiLtA0/s1500/ardhotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtW1l3mkW0oMn2tn-zOGtZ75pqmnPGnb0NAC9yZr58jqRTp9ESelUGc1T4hRE3QtNUg0bXFcyv7HdBYVWrrqvlS-P1JuONPfZk0GZIsOfES9MR0mNxocs9iwgORxMWPdsL7AM3dJd8q9kEQhkUH-t7NFwZaWsKfLo6XAObHW4CfJQbBf0aAyg1ZTbiLtA0/w400-h320/ardhotel.jpg" width="400" /></a>I went to the little meet up in the Factory City yesterday. I was going to take the train, but I didn't like the departure times. I would have had to leave either an hour and a half or over three hours after my arrival. I needed a better escape mechanism. </p><p>I drove. </p><p>I am no good in large group settings where you need to go from table to table to speak to people. To whom should you talk? Where should you look? How much time with each person? Wait. . . did so and so just snub me? Why are they spending so much time talking to him? </p><p>Etc. </p><p>I sat at a table with my old college roommate and a few other people who came and went. Asocial people, more or less. I stayed long enough to finish three gin and tonics. </p><p>"Did you take the train?"</p><p>"No. I drove."</p><p>"Are you O.K. to drive?"</p><p>"Are you shitting me?"</p><p>It was early. The sun was just setting. Some people had only recently arrived. I didn't want to get into a long and difficult night. I hadn't eaten. I wanted to go home. </p><p>The entire day had gotten away from me. Most seem to now. I have projects in mind, but I am very late in getting to them. More and more is left undone. I am not so much in command of my world anymore. So it seems. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"I'm a climate scientist. If you knew what I knew, you'd be terrified, too."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>That was the tagline to one story this morning. Most of the news was about Biden's State of the Union speech. I didn't watch it. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"I'm a political scientist. If you knew what I knew, you'd be terrified, too."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>I'm sure that could have been another tagline for another op-ed. </p><p>The drummer from the old band wrote that Keith Richards' flashbacks must be horrifying. </p><p>"I've been having flash forwards lately. They are much worse."</p><p>I looked at the headlines on the webpages for both CNN and The NYT this morning, both declaring Biden a real firebrand last night. </p><p></p><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"See Joe Biden's Response to Marjorie Taylor Greene's Interruption"</blockquote><p>Real click bait. How could I not? After a long commercial, Biden came on. Holy shit. The doddering, stuttering, mumbling old man came out swinging? Like I couldn't see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears? He's gotten much worse in the last four years. There is a weird combination of fear, confusion, and anger in his beady little eyes. It is terrifying.</p><p>That clip was enough. I wanted no more. </p><p>The day lies before me like an open wound. Not really. I just thought that sounded "literary." It's good, right? <i> </i>But I can't think like that. It is Friday, gateway to a fun weekend. What shall I do? </p><p>"Have fun, silly."</p><p>Oh, yea. That's right. Have fun. But what if I get caught? I mean, what if someone reports me or files a complaint? </p><p>"Oh, Christ. . . you're incorrigible."</p><p>Maybe I'll find a drum circle and dance naked with dervish twirlers. Drink gin, smoke pot, howl at the stars. . . . I need to check the hippie calendar of events. Surely there is something going on. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Wf02V8AtMag" width="320" youtube-src-id="Wf02V8AtMag"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-22382744015543489082024-03-07T09:28:00.000-05:002024-03-07T09:28:04.903-05:00What Evil Lurks?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OeLbBW5a8UsIf0SkZR5sYOkuEZxGdc2nII5WikDlksbGney3oEEHY8oMVwEunS_PMBZiTT7gvA_Axh0SnbEUqot5x2P2U_kCdfMI_Hj_c0_3Jy5BwGrxXJpfdlUzcSkgfvvtLYEx_7tf_XyaZRz2-KdkoViUZDyc5SgQhRCHWvkKwJMkourPWebn4xhF/s1500/crossinair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OeLbBW5a8UsIf0SkZR5sYOkuEZxGdc2nII5WikDlksbGney3oEEHY8oMVwEunS_PMBZiTT7gvA_Axh0SnbEUqot5x2P2U_kCdfMI_Hj_c0_3Jy5BwGrxXJpfdlUzcSkgfvvtLYEx_7tf_XyaZRz2-KdkoViUZDyc5SgQhRCHWvkKwJMkourPWebn4xhF/w320-h400/crossinair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> I had a good idea about what to write this morning. . . then I read the news. I'm pretty sure that reading the news is bad for cognitive functioning. It's like sugar and red dye number two for kids. I'm not kidding. It's like an active form of ADHD. You are yanked from one pole to the other, emotions wild, mind a-flailing. There are hormonal dumps involved, I'm feeling pretty certain. In the end, your brain must try to put all of that together into some sort of narrative. We only know the world through stories. We live by myths. </p><p>That was the "great breakthrough" in postmodern theory. Then we got the tools to attack the myths we didn't like. Or even the ones we did. It began as theoretical discourse, but like all things, it trickled down to the dinner table. By the time it made Instagram and TikTok, it had gotten granular. What was once a keen academic trick became a party tool for everyone. Find the assumption and attack its origins. You needn't be schooled in hermeneutics or semiotics. You needn't have read Derrida (because hardly anyone has), and you certainly didn't have to challenge your own assumptions once you had overturned the hierarchy. </p><p>And so. . . I don't know exactly where I am going. . . but somewhere along the way I was thinking of the Propaganda Machine that is active now. Russians, I mean. And Chinese. I'm thinking about the election. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"A single dose of LSD provides immediate and lasting relief from anxiety, study says."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>That was a headline in the Times this morning. The entire country is going to need that leading up to November. But, you know. . . it's not a fact, just a finding. And we love findings. Especially by the proper authorities. And if one is good, more must be better. </p><p>I need to go on a strict regimen of Wegovy and LSD. </p><p>You see? You see? I had a good idea this morning and then I read the news. I should have just written. </p><p>You know that story about the origins of the universe that dumb people are so skeptical of? The Big Bang? Well. . . that theory just got an update. A newly discovered dead galaxy has given astronomers pause and now they are attempting to revise their understanding of the early universe. The story changes.</p><p>See? </p><p>All of this favors a second Trump presidency. Fact free. Intuition and common sense. I'll bet that one day we'll learn that the sun <i><b>does</b></i> revolve around the earth after all. That WAS once the wisdom and heretics were burned for saying otherwise. </p><p>"Oh, come on, man. . . you're being melodramatic." </p><p>"O.K." </p><p>I think the impetus for my lost morning's revery was the attack on an AI company that used AI generated images of a nude 16 year old Jenna Ortega to promote its product. The ads ran on Facebook, Instagram, and others. One wonders, "How is that a selling point?" Huh. There can only be like ten of fifteen people in the entire country who would want to do such things. But wait!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8JSroiDGJ3E" width="320" youtube-src-id="8JSroiDGJ3E"></iframe></div><p>We're all sailing on the Pequod, friends, and Ahab's at the helm. We'll find that Great White Heart of Evil and we will vanquish it from the earth. We <u>will</u> kill Moby Dick! </p><p>"Are ye with me, men?"</p><p>"Ay!"</p><p>We are awakened. We Woke when we were given the appropriate tools. Given. They were like gifts, really as we had no part in their production. But. . . they make us feel wise. <br /></p><p>No. . . maybe it was the song I heard while taking a hot Epsom's soak last night, sort of a hierarchical overturning of Disney's "Song of the South." Or maybe this is Disney's version now. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"It ain't necessarily so, what you are liable to read in the Bible." </i></blockquote><p></p><p>How'd this one ever get past the censors?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oyHMrgOhyAU" width="320" youtube-src-id="oyHMrgOhyAU"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-84846403067418457952024-03-06T07:18:00.000-05:002024-03-06T07:18:18.541-05:00Diary of a Mad Man<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3roxwrepDCvULxMba887dzvdK9wQoP1Jh3X86q5Ep7mc7iBB2wWBvSg5UMXryeoOGykhY7_LsXNf23Yixv-uzCQE7lgQQA-Naa5bWlF9C9C3NQVTSe3xshVKF_crENN9iqJaHCbkHKxJBiaGUgVcLqiwuJsFa2ZU7G441Wuys2NYCgAiuzp43Pu_POLxu/s1500/6thst-lifefguardstandandgirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3roxwrepDCvULxMba887dzvdK9wQoP1Jh3X86q5Ep7mc7iBB2wWBvSg5UMXryeoOGykhY7_LsXNf23Yixv-uzCQE7lgQQA-Naa5bWlF9C9C3NQVTSe3xshVKF_crENN9iqJaHCbkHKxJBiaGUgVcLqiwuJsFa2ZU7G441Wuys2NYCgAiuzp43Pu_POLxu/w400-h400/6thst-lifefguardstandandgirl.jpg" width="400" /></a>Spring Break is coming. Well. . . maybe not for most of <i>you</i>. I don't think I have a lot of college kids reading this, not because it isn't good but because I don't think they are reading much of anything at all. Actually, I just looked it up. Now I can say it is <i>not</i> my opinion but a matter of fact. They are barely reading at all. </p><p>So there's that. </p><p>What I meant, however, is that most of you will <i>not</i> have Spring Break. Is that right? Or does your employer give you a week off, too? </p><p>Mine did. I have had Spring Break my entire life. The Factory closed down for a week every March and we would be like "Factory Workers Gone Wild." You don't want to see <i>that</i> video. </p><p>Actually, originally it was Easter Break, but you know, times being what they are. . . . But go back and watch Connie Francis in "Where the Boys Are." No, don't. I'm just saying. But if you do, you will notice the influence of Hunter S. Thompson on behavior. It's all Fear and Loathing now. Bad things happen during Spring Break, the worse the better. No one wants to be the center of a boring life. After Thompson, to be boring was a sin. I'm not saying kids read Thompson. Again, they don't read by and large. But there are movies and there is YouTube and so everybody knows how to party like a savage beast. </p><p>It ain't MTV anymore, either. We've moved WAY beyond your parents' party now. </p><p>Again, I have ALWAYS had Spring Break, but I have never "partied." I have always spent my time away from The Throng. </p><p>It is difficult to avoid The Throng now. They seem to be EVERYWHERE. </p><p>I looked back at the blog yesterday. One year. I wanted to see what I was doing last year at this time. See? The blog is a useful tool. So. . . what I was doing was The Gardening. I'm a bit behind last year's schedule. A year ago yesterday, I went to the big nursery on the outskirts of town and bought plants and mulch for my mother's garden and for mine. I had already tilled the soil. So. . . I have decided to begin that process today. </p><p>PARTY!</p><p>The thing I woke up realizing this morning is that I don't want to. There is a lot that I don't want to do. But I have to. I just need to put in a few backbreaking, hand blistering days. I should look forward to it, but in a fallen world of global warming, terrible fires and horrible storms where rainwater contains microplastics and disease carrying mosquitoes swarm the land. . . I'd rather go get fucked up with the illiterate crowd, stay up late, have unprotected sex, and watch TikTok videos on my phone. </p><p>It's hard to blame the kids, right? Well, no. . . it is really quite easy. It just may not be justified. </p><p>It will all begin with the Turning of the Clock on Sunday. Daylight Savings Time. Let's just fuck everyone up again. Nobody wants it. Nobody looks forward to falling back or springing ahead. Maybe one, but not both. "Quit fucking with the time," people say, but somehow the tyranny continues. It is as unbelievable as re-running the 2020 election all over again. It's like being trapped in a dystopian Terry Gilliam film. It is like listening to the theme song "Brazil" 24 hours a day. </p><p>No, you can't blame the kids. </p><p>And these are just the minor American horrors. We have it made. Try Spring Break in China, Africa, India, or the Middle East. Malaysia. Haiti. </p><p>Yea. . . we are plagued with micro-concerns. I'm not saying Global Warming is a micro-concern. Nor plastic. Those are universal tyrannies. But they are not enough for us, apparently, so we make more. I don't think people truly want to be happy. Rather, I don't think they want anyone else to be. We don't want anyone having more fun than we personally are. </p><p>And yet. . . social media. Yea. . . there's the good life. </p><p>Yesterday, I thought my accounts had been hacked. I couldn't log into things. I spent the entire morning in a panic, checking banking and investment accounts to see if I had been robbed. Then I went about changing all my passwords. It is difficult to change a password when you think someone else has already changed it. Now I have a bunch of passwords that I don't know, that are remembered by Safari and Google and god knows how many other entities. Here's an example: </p><p>XPgr245q!Zzqu@5mMmzz3. </p><p>Something like that. That's a good one, <i>they</i> say. Now I'm simply dependent on the corporations filling in my passwords for me. Terrific. </p><p>I found out this morning that it was all unnecessary, that there was an internet glitch plaguing the land. But I think yesterday had a profound effect on me. I'm not sure how much banking and payment stuff I am going to do online now. I may go back to a cash based life. </p><p>Probably not. </p><p>But last night I couldn't turn on the television. I did, but I turned it off. I've become like the kids. I don't read enough anymore. So last night for a few hours, I read. I put on some jazz turned low and chilled. After reading awhile, I got on the floor and stretched. Nothing formal, just things that felt like they needed stretching. Reading and stretching to jazz felt really good. When did I quit doing that? During the Golden Age of Television? Well that is over now, ruined by the big Corporate Entities. Where there were two streaming platforms there are now thirty. And the content has become the stuff of public taste. </p><p>And so I am giving up television the way I have given up the news. </p><p>Probably not. </p><p>But maybe. </p><p>I got shit from some people for the photo at the top of the page. </p><p>"She's look back wondering who the creeper is."</p><p>What the fuck? But I get it. Photography, other than selfies, is pretty much a crime. It is invasive and exploitive. Thank goodness we will be able to create such images with AI soon. That will be controversial, too. However. . .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwhqi2yllyV22LXnsa8PNgGuw3B3XWj5U7WYu-dQUJTafPw2qlyCAdlMVEqZZb3QIE6AS0n1Nr_iTGpfEF-1tNSJBcjF9VAcOpDOh3iFoETK4WjFcE1LyaDYY69MpvzjMOEqfM92mhKGnw05-EzoCeC09Wf2oP0_DnSGyMKrgpsY1skyAtKO8SgxJf2hg/s1500/miamibeachposecouple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwhqi2yllyV22LXnsa8PNgGuw3B3XWj5U7WYu-dQUJTafPw2qlyCAdlMVEqZZb3QIE6AS0n1Nr_iTGpfEF-1tNSJBcjF9VAcOpDOh3iFoETK4WjFcE1LyaDYY69MpvzjMOEqfM92mhKGnw05-EzoCeC09Wf2oP0_DnSGyMKrgpsY1skyAtKO8SgxJf2hg/w400-h400/miamibeachposecouple.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I was standing and waiting to take a photo of the colorful lifeguard shack. You know. . . IG style shit without the selfie. This family (there is a kid somewhere), however, were pretty much owning the space. I smiled and stood and then held up my camera and they smiled and didn't mind me taking photos of them taking photos and hogging the shack. They were there for-EVER. I don't think they spoke English. But it was all O.K. I like these more than I would have liked the guard shack alone. </p><p>I don't like the new zeitgeist. But whatever. Life is full of tyrannies we just have to accept or go mad. We are not brave Navalnys. We've seen what happens to "his kind." No, even a strong letter to the editor is sent with a pseudonym now. There is no use garnering the attention of the authorities, one of the three versions of The Chinese Curse. </p><p>See? A year from now, when I look back to see what I was doing, I can say, "What the fuck?!" </p><p>Diary of a Mad Man. </p><p>Oh. . . and enjoy Spring Break. </p><p><i>P-A-R-T-Y!</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZwMVMbmQBug" width="320" youtube-src-id="ZwMVMbmQBug"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-51962658870709996002024-03-05T09:09:00.005-05:002024-03-05T09:09:34.204-05:00You'd Have to Ask My Ex<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhs6YTfBXdH_voojxGRSDB7XXofwl6Gn1rKUv7Q4Jw4mkh34PW_9wDGSnUZwSBXcAmbTWNWzq3E-XM_0PlS-IKHkpDvnGdm4nKieNGxDAJpmVhkf12gfdkBv-YKGA5nqyVi3qaROW-ReOEEbp5N8rxDYr7QYRBg2tTsRkpnNb5odm9DHvuhke_vuEm2WP/s1500/jenstandawkwardtable%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhs6YTfBXdH_voojxGRSDB7XXofwl6Gn1rKUv7Q4Jw4mkh34PW_9wDGSnUZwSBXcAmbTWNWzq3E-XM_0PlS-IKHkpDvnGdm4nKieNGxDAJpmVhkf12gfdkBv-YKGA5nqyVi3qaROW-ReOEEbp5N8rxDYr7QYRBg2tTsRkpnNb5odm9DHvuhke_vuEm2WP/w266-h400/jenstandawkwardtable%20copy.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p>Not everyone has my taste. Hardly anyone, maybe. People, by and large, go for slick and pretty. Dark and weird if it is science fiction or about vampires. People seem to like vampires and killer dolls that become little girls. Those things aren't so subtle, though. Maybe subtlety is the problem. </p><p>"What <u><i>problem</i></u>?"</p><p>"Yea. . . I guess you're right."</p><p>I can't seem to shut out those conflicting voices in my head. </p><p>If you recall, my biology prof friend, a kid in his thirties, asked me to send him some of the surfer pics I took for "A Few Days One Summer." I did. He seemed <i>very</i> unimpressed. I told him they were portraits done with a cheap plastic camera, a toy. I'm sure he likes the crisp color photos of surfers surfing that the magazines publish. I warned him, but it did no good. Now I have to look at those photographs through his eyes. </p><p>"Why are they so hazy?"</p><p>Or, perhaps, take the picture above. </p><p>"What's she doing? Why is she standing that way? That's weird. Let me see that other girl, the pretty one."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnoZmUGLKNG4PDKoCDqFikMB3Gyg1Sr_SpYkqzN_vdPIQDI1BeK3liwXq1cMuioYgBlH71FVNFSfaiOKTeCM8-Uuh-5JyA8rFZ1sxQJfAqjaK0vaLOfeEKFGp1DvGKJbifl5-X3L4OaqbLxm7LLQo9lKI6xDYzYfxMFN8a7DhivegxV2ipfDzi-IHiGuc/s1500/blurrygirltable%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnoZmUGLKNG4PDKoCDqFikMB3Gyg1Sr_SpYkqzN_vdPIQDI1BeK3liwXq1cMuioYgBlH71FVNFSfaiOKTeCM8-Uuh-5JyA8rFZ1sxQJfAqjaK0vaLOfeEKFGp1DvGKJbifl5-X3L4OaqbLxm7LLQo9lKI6xDYzYfxMFN8a7DhivegxV2ipfDzi-IHiGuc/w320-h400/blurrygirltable%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>"Jesus Christ. . . no, man. What's wrong with you?"</p><p>"You'd have to ask my ex. She'd have plenty to say on the topic."</p><p>I didn't get to bed until after midnight again last night. I was headed to bed at ten, but I decided to open up the computer and then some files and then I put on some music and by the time I had cooked up a couple pics, two hours had passed. It is like a time warp when I do that. Maybe it is the music. One song will thrill me, then another. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/egE7EufCOvg" width="320" youtube-src-id="egE7EufCOvg"></iframe></div><p>Meanwhile, I'm correcting color and tonal ranges, adding layers and filters, dropping contrast and desaturating, then, changing my mind, backing up and trying it another way. And all the while. . . the music. </p><p>And then, in the morning I look at what I have done and am disappointed. Mostly. But occasionally I'll think, "Yea. . . that's what I mean." </p><p>It is distraction from the horrors of the new world we are facing, perhaps. Or maybe it is a metaphorical reflection of them. Maybe it is simply a way of controlling what I can. </p><p>I'm an ostrich, perhaps, but I know the rich don't feel the damages of climate change the way the poor do. Take the Texas fire. Caused by climate change they say. Burned off grassland used for grazing cattle. Cattle production will drop. The price of beef won't. The shortages and jacked prices won't bother many of my friends. They will still go out to expensive steak dinners and be glad that the rest of us are home eating a little chicken. Maybe. The price of chicken will go up, too. And fish? They are disappearing in the warmer ocean. The great currents are falling apart. Plastics replace nutrients. </p><p>I hope they are able to make protein powder from worms. </p><p>Making pictures is therapeutic, I guess, just like writing this faux-journal. Both seem fine until I show the photos or somebody reads this. </p><p>"Jesus, man. . . why do you tell people all that stuff? You're going to get cancelled. . . or worse. Did you read what you wrote yesterday? Do you think all women either work at a diner or are married to rich guys? You know my wife's an attorney, right? So is my sister, and she's not married. There are plenty of professional women, you dunce, successful women."</p><p>"I know. They are the ones I like. I wasn't trying to be comprehensive. It was just what I was thinking about at the breakfast counter."</p><p>"Well you better watch it, old sport. This kind of shit can cause a lot of trouble."</p><p>"It's o.k. Nobody reads this anyway. They used to, you know, before the social media stuff."</p><p>"Well you should count your lucky stars, then. What if someone you knew stumbled upon this?"</p><p>"I'm Batman."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Never mind."</p><p>Tennessee called me yesterday. Like almost all calls, it was a drive time thing. He was on his way to the mountains to finish up his cabins. He's ready to make a killing. </p><p>"It's Bike Week. I'm going to miss it. I go every year."</p><p>"I've never been."</p><p>"You've never been?!?! Why? Man, you need to get over there with your camera. You wouldn't believe the stuff you'd see."</p><p>"Yes I would."</p><p>But maybe he's right. I think of Bike Week as Obvious Weirdness. Not subtle. But maybe I could see it differently. There is a weirdness beyond the cartoon characteristics of the whole thing. I mean, the week is a tribute to criminal biker gangs by doctors and attorneys who saw "The Wild One" and bought a Harley to experience "the freedom of the highway." Or perhaps it was "Then Came Bronson." </p><p>Maybe I will go. </p><p>I'm getting texts now to see if I am coming to The Factory Brewery to celebrate the homecoming vacation of the fellow who replaced me as shop foreman. He got a job in the Great White North that wasn't so white this year, and he and his family will be in town for a week. There is a lot of excited jizzing among the crew. But of course I will go. Maybe I'll be coming back from a day of Bike Week. Two birds. One stone. </p><p>Last night, this was the final song before I went to bed. I needed something naive, sweet, and melancholy. You see the pictures then you hear this. I'm a mess, you'd guess. Maybe. I don't know. You'd have to ask someone else. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JVp2l_M2vvc" width="320" youtube-src-id="JVp2l_M2vvc"></iframe></div><br />cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682738581019360100.post-6396601534992327642024-03-04T07:55:00.001-05:002024-03-04T07:55:49.508-05:00Don't Worry Baby, Everything Will Work Out Fine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGrY1PwYL1Do-iU5c2SQ31exKbymzzHt7p2jCxWkml1ZOfjt2cRIjau1SmvfVrkDAhbyqNjpQnCGBAZvXvuQtLtqbN4HJRwvvzgL2QmJowhNwiTrvgCwNfclxJm_L_mflrGq42HkIJCfB7eqez2jNCYM-RFNEiq_4wqfFBmoQFhDvdLs0MWpdfYjqzvsu/s2856/vwbuss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2142" data-original-width="2856" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGrY1PwYL1Do-iU5c2SQ31exKbymzzHt7p2jCxWkml1ZOfjt2cRIjau1SmvfVrkDAhbyqNjpQnCGBAZvXvuQtLtqbN4HJRwvvzgL2QmJowhNwiTrvgCwNfclxJm_L_mflrGq42HkIJCfB7eqez2jNCYM-RFNEiq_4wqfFBmoQFhDvdLs0MWpdfYjqzvsu/w400-h300/vwbuss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>"This is what I need to get."</p><p>"Yes you do!"</p><p>"I've never seen a more perfect vehicle for you. Even the stickers."</p><p>"You should leave an offer on the windshield right now."</p><p>Those were the responses I got to the VW camper pic I sent around to friends when I went to breakfast yesterday. This was kind of what I had in mind when I retired, but Covid hit at the same time and the price of campers of any kind skyrocketed. If you have never watched online videos of camper life. . . well, you could pretty much do that with any kind of camping vehicle forever (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSjoX1c-ZWY&t=11s&pp=ygUobHV4dXJ5IGNhbXBlciB2YW4gaW4gcmFpbnkgd2VhdGhlciBqYXBhbg%3D%3D" target="_blank"><span style="color: #b45f06;">link</span></a>). It seems a very romantic life, especially when you are sitting in the comfort of your own home watching the videos. </p><p>Still, a small camper like this one has its own appeal. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOzbk4tnwuSi3mq4EqLmFNm3Ccgkq-bgGbOBK-PpQU2OO3YjVwv7y_KEWxEspkmBmAHemD_YVA0shUwE7gV96pyyKhWHZpc-8tRpPWwOSnXcJsBH9Zj2zdbXOlKNc2z-ExLQ0gcLmbhaqX_fRa8AlcBXWjA_nUFkFpucMQggZYv49kOn_QU9GxKV_HfSw/s1500/coffeepotscopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOzbk4tnwuSi3mq4EqLmFNm3Ccgkq-bgGbOBK-PpQU2OO3YjVwv7y_KEWxEspkmBmAHemD_YVA0shUwE7gV96pyyKhWHZpc-8tRpPWwOSnXcJsBH9Zj2zdbXOlKNc2z-ExLQ0gcLmbhaqX_fRa8AlcBXWjA_nUFkFpucMQggZYv49kOn_QU9GxKV_HfSw/w400-h300/coffeepotscopy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>It began to rain just as I stepped into my favorite breakfast restaurant. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a real heart-clogger. I go to this place once every couple weeks and now the waitresses have come to recognize me. There are a lot of them. It is a busy place on a Saturday or Sunday morning. </p><p>"Where's your partner in crime?" </p><p>I guess they really have been paying attention. I've gone a couple times with Tennessee during the week when it isn't so busy. </p><p>Just as my waitress finished taking my order, the entire wait and cooking staff broke out into what was seemingly a spontaneous a capella performance. It was short lived, and then they all were laughing. </p><p>"Wow. That was pretty good."</p><p>"We're trying to get the boss to let us form a singing group."</p><p>"I think the customers would enjoy that."</p><p>"Looks like a lot of rain." </p><p>Etc. </p><p>I watch the waitresses. They are the kind of working girls I grew up with. In youth, they are pretty and handsome as is the rule. There are boys and parties and shopping with friends. But then there are children and maybe a marriage, and there is always the work, and year by year their smiles grow harder and their jawlines begin to soften as their waistlines start to thicken. Older cars and recapped tires, apartments or sometimes moving back in with relatives. There's Gladys, all made up, eyes still bright. She's forty now and she has settled into life. She's a favorite with the working men sitting at the counter. She enjoys the attention. Most of the girls have tattoos now, a growing number of messy ink stains on arms which are visible and maybe elsewhere, too. Juanita has added a few in the time I have been coming here. She's gaining weight now which is showing in her upper arms. They are all sweet but repetitiveness of their lives visibly weighs on them. Some add blue or pink highlights to their hair. At slow times, they stand in groups and talk in low voices. I look past them to the men working the kitchen, cooks and dishwashers. They hustle and talk trash to the girls. The last orders are in by two. By three they've bussed the last of the dishes, cleaned the tables and counters, and are ready to go home. </p><p>It's the world I grew up in, the one I tried to leave. Now I live among women who can stay on a Stair Master for half an hour with barely a sweat before they step onto the gym floor, who get beauty treatments and botox and have hair, jewelry, and clothing from the pages of Vogue. Their bellies are flat and their jawlines are sharp and their husbands are builders or developers or attorneys and doctors. They drive new BMWs and Benzs and spend months of the year at their beach condos and mountain homes. They live in big houses with clinical interiors. It is only the passing years that begins to bring them sorrow and therapists. </p><p>That, at least, is what ran through my mind as Juanita chatted me up. I might have thought about the lives of men as well, but I didn't want to. I was focussed on what was standing right in front of me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tqco0J-M14TZf8APaHZjL0aA7eqHNi3ZkVEjfpala09yYqp1kI7o5MbvROI-8CMmB60MldBxXmM_JF1YqOk-BBq2eVu003FsHNFsxMGImHu365DbGWHYMt9VmkR8v_u9G_u5A7OdHX4WnnNpxWrgzWJWnoasI-WB5ndinT9ByQu57qpaBnDx5ZJl5afq/s1500/hippiemarket%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tqco0J-M14TZf8APaHZjL0aA7eqHNi3ZkVEjfpala09yYqp1kI7o5MbvROI-8CMmB60MldBxXmM_JF1YqOk-BBq2eVu003FsHNFsxMGImHu365DbGWHYMt9VmkR8v_u9G_u5A7OdHX4WnnNpxWrgzWJWnoasI-WB5ndinT9ByQu57qpaBnDx5ZJl5afq/w320-h400/hippiemarket%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>My conservative friend has two sons who graduated from Ivy League schools and one who is a senior at Vanderbilt. His older sons already have bright futures after joining the corporate culture. Like their father. He and I could not be less likely friends, but I enjoy his company above almost any. He was one of my first corporate buddies when I moved to this little enclaved village. I watched him climb the corporate ladder. Like most of my conservative friends, he can be liberal about some things, but never about money. They all believe they worked hard for it. </p><p>"Yea, like Manny at the Coca-Cola bottling plant where I used to work. You don't work hard. You couldn't stand it."</p><p>Such comments never faze them. If one of them were to win the lottery, they would just think it the wisdom of the cosmos favoring them over those with less moxie. The cosmos is just until a democrat gets in. To the man, they all hated the best president in my lifetime. </p><p>Well. . . I've gone far afield from my contemplation of the Vanogon. But you see, if I had money, I would have one. Not that one, but a nice one. My friends on both sides of the ideological fence can't seem to understand why I don't just get one. WTF? But I'm cutting expenses left and right now, everything from cable to car washes. </p><p>I wanted to watch "The Bear," a series that can be streamed on Hulu. People tell me it is the best show on t.v. But Hulu is $18/month, and that is the only show they own that I want to watch. So last night I signed up for the 30 free trial, same as I did with Paramount in order to watch the Super Bowl. I will binge it for the next few weeks, then cancel my subscription. I'm still the same hillbilly who used to steal cable. Yea. . . I did that. </p><p>The morning is thick with fog. The sun is not predicted to show itself today. Monday of the new month. The yardmen must be paid. The maids come tomorrow. You see what I'm saying? A foot in both worlds. I'm sure it is the root of many of my. . . sorrows. </p><p>I heard a song the other day that wasn't one I would recommend, but the lyrics were poignant. </p><p><i></i></p><blockquote><i>"I'd rather live in solitude than spend another lonely night with you."</i></blockquote><p></p><p>To hell with that. Let's just wrap ourselves up in the old adolescent dream. I'm a sucker for it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SvZHoF0A9WQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="SvZHoF0A9WQ"></iframe></div><p><br /></p>cafe selavyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15326753057795689263noreply@blogger.com0