Temperance

I should take it easy, slow down.  I want to throw up all the pictures I took Saturday night, but if I do, I'll have nothing new left to share.  I won't be shooting another event until November 9.  So. . . show a little restraint.  I'm not sure if that has ever been my M.O., though.  

Yesterday is done.  I don't think the dentist likes me.  He said nothing to me other than, "Open wide," and "Turn your head away from me."  True.  He has joined the National Guard and has that tight military haircut now.  His head practically shines.  I heard him say "Code 2. . . could become Code 3" to another dentist in the building and then give a quick chuckle.  "Is he talking about me?" I wondered.  He put the numbing agent on my gums at just past ten.  I was out of the office with two new fillings at 10:36.  I was one thousand dollars poorer.  

And I couldn't feel my face.  My right eye was numb.  I put my finger to my nose, but it was gone.  My tongue was useless.  And I still felt like shit from the sleep aids.  What to do?

I went to the pharmacy to get 2X vaxed, Moderna in one shoulder, the flu vaccine in the other.  I waited to see if there would be some terrible reaction because of the novocaine.  Since I never talked to the dentist, I'd forgotten to ask him to leave out the epinephrine in the numbing agent.  Epinephrine really jacks me.  They use it, or at least they used to, to make the novocaine last longer.  Maybe they don't use either drug now.  Maybe they use something else.  I don't know.  The dentist sure as hell didn't tell me.  

When I got home, tired, numbed, confused, I decided to take a long walk.  It was ok. It was fine.  Then I went to the gym.  They say it is better to exercise after getting vaccinated.  By the time I was finished, it was 2:30.  I decided to go see my mother since I was on her side of town rather than driving home and back after showering.  I did a couple of chores for my mother, and when her neighbors stopped by, I took my leave.  I stopped by the grocery store to get the things I needed for dinner.  

Home.  Soak.  Shower.  It was already four-thirty.  I'd been drugged, vaxed, and exercised, and hadn't eaten a thing all day.  What the hell.  Cocktail.  I sat on the deck in the pleasant afternoon and began to ache.  Was it the effect of the two vaccines or was I really dying?  Maybe I shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, I thought, but as I have previously explained, restraint may not be my M.O.  

At five, I prepped an easy dinner, Japanese teriyaki noodles with lots of chopped vegetables and pieces of the roasted chicken I had bought.  A big bowl.  I made it extra soupy.  The broth was full of jalapeño peppers, scallions, and garlic.  I drank it like a tonic.  It made me feel better, I thought, but I was sinking with the sun.  The achiness was settling in.  I couldn't wait to go to bed.  

I am still aching this morning.  Not bad.  Both shoulders are sore, but not bad either.  I got out of bed too early.  My eyes are bad and I saw the red lcd lights on my 1970s clock radio wrong.  But the maids are coming today, so I won't be able to go back to bed, I think.  The house is still a mess.  I have camera gear spread out everywhere.  Maybe I should go back to bed now.  It is still dark outside.  Maybe I should take some Tylenol.  

Dare I eat a peach?

Things will be better tomorrow.  I am certain of it.  And then it will be Halloween.  And then we will change the clocks, and everything will go haywire again.  Nobody wants to change the clocks.  Why do we still do it?  It is madness.  

Well. . . that was a shitty report.  But it is all I've got.  We change the clocks and then we vote.  Maybe you already have.  I like walking in on Election Day.  I'm fairly traditional that way.  I don't understand voting early.  What if something happened?  What if one of the candidates was found at the 11th hour to be a murderer or child rapist?  It wouldn't make a difference, though, I guess.  Most of you still wouldn't change your vote.  We no longer share a common morality.  The compass has been broken.  Up is down, black is white.  There is only one side vs. the other.  

I've given up on all of that.  I now only wish to document the bright underbelly of life.  Bright underbelly?  Does that make sense?  

Have you ever seen a shark from underneath?  

The Wrestlers

I don't have much time to write this morning.  It is a shit day which starts with a trip to the dentist.  After that, I will get double vaxed.  If I am still on my feet, I will make a trip to the gym.  But I am whacked right now.  I had only slept for five hours on Saturday night.  I was sleepy before bedtime on Sunday.  Still, I took a Tylenol PM before I went to bed at ten.  I didn't open my eyes until eight, and I am still groggy.  No time for reading the papers.  Just some coffee and a shower before I half unconsciously begin this hellish day.  

I am sure to feel badly tomorrow.  

I spent all day Sunday working on the wrestling pics.  They are difficult.  There was very little light and the photos are dark.  I have to work like a devil to bring them to life.  Each one is its own problem and takes me twenty minutes or so in postproduction work.  Selavy.  

Have you seen Aronofsky's "The Wrestler"?  Yea. . . this is like that.  The routines these wrestlers were performing were pretty tough--coming off the top rope, flips and pile drivers.  It is easy to get hurt.  They can't be making much money, if any.  They are not independently wealthy for sure.  I saw them after the match standing together talking about the evening's performance.  I didn't see them leave, but I'm betting they had shitty cars like mine.  Where do they live?  Certainly some are in apartments with roommates or living in trailer parks.  But on Saturday night, you know. . . they are in the limelight.  

There can be no other explanation.  None of them are going to be making it into the televised big leagues.  They gamble their bodies for a small crowd of people sitting on folding chairs in a metal warehouse on the outskirts of town.  

I have no idea what the people who pay to come see the show think.  Many of the sparse crowd (that makes little sense) wanted to talk to the performers.  

I want to go back and do more.  I have ideas.  

But now my idea is to get into the shower and get this thing done.  I am glum.  This is not the day one aspires to.  It is a day to suffer through in hopes of better ones.  

Wish me luck.  If you want.  

A Ramble in the Outskirts

I sit here now before the radiant Xenon screen in the dark having slept but five hours.  Despite multiple "sleep aids," I could not slumber.  I should have, I think, but something has gotten up my nose.  I mean, for the life of me, I couldn't breathe and now I sit, a box of Kleenex at hand, blowing. . . gulping air through my open yap.  

I got cold last night.  Maybe that's what did it.  Or maybe it was the extraordinary stress of a crazy busy day.  

Saturday was spent getting ready for my photo excursion into the world of little league wrestling.  I spent the day charging batteries and trying to get all my peripherals to work and then work together again.  I hadn't used some of it for years.  How much light would there be?  Would I be able to use those Holga lenses.  Should I try film?  Certainly I would take my old standby, the Canon 5D, with which I shot the overwhelming majority of "Lonesomeville."  I pulled out all the lenses.  And, of course, the Leicas.  And lenses.  And the synchronized Leica flash.  I spent a useless hour trying to get it to work on the 5D.  I watched some videos on how to drag the shutter--all things I already knew.  I even watched some YouTube vids on shooting professional wrestling matches.  Time slipped away.  My dining room table was full of photo gear.  I needed to chill.  There was no way I was going to take all of that.  I pulled out camera bags.  I tried to pack what I needed this way and that.  It was imperative I make decisions--what would stay and what would go?  

I looked at the clock.  It was three.  I hadn't eaten.  I reheated last night's steak and cut up a McIntosh apple.  I called my mother.  

"Thee is no way I am going to make it over today.  I'm a mess."

I stunk.  I dropped into an Epsom tub and then showered.  I washed my hair.  It was after four.  I would need to leave the house by six-thirty.  What I needed, I thought, was a Canon Speedlight to synch with my 5D.  I drove to my buddy's shop.  Nope.  They didn't have one.  I went to the big shop downtown.  They had them, but they were too expensive.  I drove home.  Cameras still lay strewn on the table. Tennessee had texted a brief note earlier in the day: 

"Im out on tonight. Make some good photos."

No explanation.  I would have no one to watch my gear while I was shooting.  

Time ticking, I made my choices and crammed them willy nilly into two bags.  It was too much, but. . . . 

I needed to get dressed.  How does one dress for a little league wrestling show as a photographer?  Cargo shorts, I thought.  I'd need the pockets--maybe.  Funky black and white tennis shoes.  A henley.  I grabbed a ball cap in case I needed it.  I looked in the mirror.  Who in the fuck was this?

I had a few minutes before I needed to leave the house, so I made a Campari and lit a cheroot.  I sat on the deck thinking myself a fool, not for going to this thing, but for spending an entire day stressing over it.  The Campari was familiar.  I came back to myself.  Was I an alcoholic?  Did I need "liquid courage"?

No, I thought, I was a good photographer and knew what I was doing.  I could feel some of the old confidence returning.  I'd need to be certain.  Fuck yea.  It was as it always was--anxiety then certainty.  It was the only way I knew how to work.  

I put the bags in the car and came back to get my phone.  I took a shot of whiskey.  

The place was hard to find.  It sat in a morass of metal shed buildings housing industrial stuff in a rough part of town.  The road in was littered with cars parked wherever they could fit--mostly along a fence posted "Fire Lane--No Parking."  I found a spot there, but I chickened out.  I drove around and found a place between two big panel trucks.  I wasn't sure if this was o.k. but I had to go.  

The rolling door to the metal building was open.  Three rows of plastic chairs sat at the entrance inside and out looking toward the ring.  I walked through the entrance, nobody saying anything to me.  The ring was big, the room small.  There were chairs lining the walls perhaps two feet from the ring apron.  The lighting was going to be bad--three overhead fluorescent lighting strips.  I found a chair out of the way and pulled out a camera to see what kind of light metering I would get.  Holy shit.  Even with the ISOs cranked to maximum, the shutter speeds were low.  I pulled out my film Leica loaded with Tri-X rated at 800.  Somehow, it seemed to be fine.  I would have to shoot with a bigger aperture than I would have liked meaning focus would be critical. I took a couple test shots with each of my cameras.  A little guy I recognized from his photos walked out in wrestling togs.  He looked at me and smiled.  I walked over and said hello.  

"Are there any places I shouldn't go or stand?" I asked him.  

"No, no. . . do what you like."

The fellow standing with him said, "Just remember not to stand in front of people.  They are paying to see the matches.  And be aware.  Sometimes wrestlers come over the ropes.  I've seen expensive cameras broken."

"Oh, sure. . . I'll be respectful."

And that was it.  I could do what I wanted in the small metal warehouse.  A few people came in and took seats, fifteen, maybe twenty at most.  After awhile, they began to yell for the matches to begin.  They were regulars, I assumed.  

The first match was the promoter wrestling a young kid.  There was introductory music.  There was a female announcer introducing them.  There was a bell, and they began the show.  The kid wasn't very good, and the promoter carried him along.  They didn't do much that was complicated.  I was trying out different camera/lens combos.  And then, maybe five minutes later, it was done, and the promoter picked up a mic and talked about the kid.  

The next match was a woman fighting a young, soft and chubby man.  They were practicing their choreographed moves.  You could hear very well everything the crowd said.  

"C'mon. . . you can't let a woman beat you.  Give it to her."

"Ref. . . that was a slow count."

"Give it to him, Bella!"

Five minutes later, the ref raised the woman's hand.  She had pinned her opponent to the mat.  

I scrolled through the photos I had taken.  They looked o.k., but a lot of them were blurry, especially anything taken with the Holga lens.  I would need to give up on that.  I was shooting mostly with the Canon 5D and a zoom lens, the same one I shot with on "Lonesomeville."  I thought earlier in the day that might end up being the case.  It is a good camera.  I was shooting the Leica's, too, but they all had prime lenses.  That zoom lens on the Canon--a 24--105mm--was really good.  

The next match was between two blubbery guys.  They went through their paces and had a few more things in their repertoire than the others.  One fellow had his face painted.  That was o.k.  

The night wore on.  There was a women's title match.  Big fat girl was the champ.  She retained her title.  

We were getting to the main events.  Two women, a title holder against a title holder.  One was the woman who beat the boy earlier in the night.  There they are at the top of the page.  They really went at it, coming off the ropes, flipping each other upside down, and putting on a little drama.  They were much better than what had come before.  

Then the main event.  I couldn't figure that one out.  Three guys got into the ring.  An elimination match, the announcer said.  These guys were moving pretty fast and taking some really hard falls.  Their punches were a little harder and louder.  Two wrestlers were fighting outside the ring and the other came over the top rope on top of them.  They all went to the ground.  This was looking more like the pro wrestling you would see on t.v.  

And then it was over.  The thing was done.  I packed up my gear and walked over the the promoter to thank him.  I said it was a real learning experience for me and that I would send him some photos.  Maybe I could come back sometime.  

"Any time.  Come any time."

Driving home, I was pretty exhausted.  And hungry.  I stopped at a Chic-fil-a near my house and got a sandwich to go.  When I dropped my bags on the floor, I grabbed a Guinness and sat down to eat my sandwich.  I wondered if I had gotten anything worthwhile.  I was too tired, I thought, to download any photos before bed, but when I was finished eating, I pulled the card from the Canon and put it in the computer.  As he photos downloaded, I went to pour a scotch.  It took quite a while for the photos to transfer.  I looked through them.  So much was garbage.  Did I have anything at all?  I picked one--just one--to work on just to see.  Hmm.  Then another.  

When I looked at the clock, it was one.  I needed to make my ablutions and go to bed.  I was worn to the bone.

But the "sleep aids" I took didn't work.  I woke up at two.  I took some more.  It was cold in the house, too cold.  I couldn't' sleep.  I got up and turned on the heat.  In another hour, my head was a block of snot.  I got up and blew my nose.  I went back to bed, but it was hardly worthwhile.  I miserably looked at the clock.  Six.  Fuck it.  I got up, made the coffee, and sat down to tell you this.  

I have lots of photos to go through and work on.  My house is a total mess from yesterday's carnage.  It will take me at lest an hour to put things away and clean up.  But I am a little jazzed.  I took pictures.  I'd like to go out into a crowd and make more today.  But I am going to need rest.  I'll go back to bed now, perhaps.  Maybe I'll take an antihistamine.  Maybe I'll sleep 'til noon.  I don't know.  

But it was alright getting out of the house for a minute on my own, a stranger in a strange land doing strange things.  "Look at me!" I know I thought, rambling with the dregs on the outskirts of town.  

I'm pretty sure I'll go back.  

And Away We Go!

  I'm shaking in my boots about shooting the wrestling match tonight. . . but we'll get to that. 

I had unusual excitement last night.  The tenant stopped by to tell me that she could smell gas outside my house.  The gas company has been working on the lines and turning off the gas to the $1.7 million house across the street which is about to be torn down to make way for a new one.  The tenant is a bit of an alarmist, so I told her she should go over with a lighter and see if she could locate the leak.  If she found it, I said, she should call the gas company.  

Then I went to my mother's.  

I decided I would cook up a steak for dinner.  I hardly ever eat beef now, but one of the gymroids had said that afternoon he was grilling a steak over a wood fire and drinking a bottle of wine.  The idea stuck with me all day and seemed a good one, so I went to Whole Foods to get their very good beef, some asparagus, and a potato.  

When I pulled into the driveway of my house, a neighborhood woman was walking by with her dog.  She had already passed my house, but she turned around and approached me.  

"There is a strong smell of gas outside your house," she said.  

"I've heard that.  I guess I'd better call the gas company."

Pain in the ass.  I pulled up their info page online and read, "If you smell gas, call 911."  That seemed odd, but. . . O.K. 

I seasoned the steak, put it in the Dutch Oven, and put it on the stovetop to sear each side before I put it in the oven to broil.  I poured a glass of wine and then heard crazy sirens, many, coming down the street.  There were four trucks in all.  They blocked off the streets, lights a-flashing.  Then the boys slowly climbed out of the trucks wearing full-on firefighting gear.  It didn't look comfortable.  As they gathered, I sauntered out, a glass of wine in hand, and explained the situation.  Many of the firemen looked at me with something between mistrust and dislike.  I grinned and took a gulp of wine.  

"O.K. boys, you don't need me, so. . . ."

But I was worried.  What if they shut off the gas line.  My dinner!

I went back inside to flip the steak.  Sizzle, sizzle.  In two minutes, I put it in the oven.  Then I poured more wine, lit a cheroot, and went out to sit on the deck. 

By then, people were showing up in the streets to see what was going on.  The tenant and the across the street retired orthodontist walked up.  

"Did you call them?" asked the tenant. 

"Yea."  I took a hit off the cheroot with smiling eyes.  "I guess I really shouldn't be smoking."

The retired orthodontist looked at me aghast.  He seemed a little jumpy.  I took another hit.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

He really looked nervous now.  "I have some scotch in the car," he said and hurried away, but he didn't come back.  The tenant said she was going to take a walk.  I went back inside to tend to dinner.  I got the asparagus and potato started and walked back outside.  One of the firemen was walking up the drive, so I stepped out to meet him.  They had re-dug the whole in my yard where the gas people had been working.  He wanted to show me that the cap they had put on wasn't on all the way.  They had clamped it and were now waiting for the gas company to arrive.  

"They'll be here in about an hour," one of the firemen said.  

"I'm glad to know they are so responsive to the Fire Department," I laughed.  

"It always takes an hour," the fireman sneered.  

"Well. . . thanks gentlemen.  I've got to go back inside and answer my calls and texts.  All the neighbors want to know if I died."

"Not yet," said one of the fun ones.  "Not this Friday night."

We both chuckled as I shook my head in agreement.  The muscled up skinhead firemen, a tall one and a shorter stocky one, looked at me with MAGA eyes.  I raised my wine glass to them in a faux-salute and emptied the glass down my gullet.  

"Thanks again."

When my dinner was ready and plated, I took it to the deck to eat.  I figured they'd like that.  

Earlier in the day at the gym, Tennessee told me that our Black Sheep trust fund boy had called him that morning.  He was at the jetport.  

"Get your things and fly up with my to New York."

You see, Black Sheep is working for the Trump campaign and they were flying him up in a private jet for the big weekend--Joe Rogan and Madison Square Gardens.  Black Sheep doesn't know shit about politics, I'm certain.  He's no policy wonk.  But he loves to party.  

"Come on, man. . . you know what kind of women are going to be at this thing?!?!?"

He'll have plenty of stories, I am sure.  But T declined opting to stay home and go to dinner with his wife.  

"He's flying into some private jet airport in New York City.  I didn't even know it existed.  Can you imagine what this weekend will be like?  He'll be all kinds of fucked up.  You're right about his politics.  He's just doing it for the parties."

He'll do well.  It is his kind of crowd.  They'll love his monied prep school charm.  

So. . . here's what has inspired me to try to shoot the little league pro wrestling thing tonight--the photos of Elmo Tide.  This is what I have in my head to make.  But it won't be like this, I know.  

There will be no dramatic lighting, I'm positive, and I am worried.  I have never tried shooting action stuff before.  Will everything be blurry and out of focus?  Will I be able to drag the shutter and make the kinds of images I have in mind?  Will I have the chutzpah to get the angles?  

The wrestlers will not be this skilled, I'm pretty sure.  I wonder if they will let me into the dressing room.  "O.K. boys. . . I've got a camera, so if you don't want to be on the cover of this shoot, put away your cocks!"

That should win me points.  The highlight is going to be a city championship women's title fight.  I'm not kidding--citywide!  Ha.  

T is coming along.  He invited himself.  He's a real fighter, won some grappling tournaments, fought in Thailand, but he's never seen this kind of thing.  It makes me nervous, though, to have someone I know there to watch me fail.  But what the hell.  "Tits up," as they say on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  I'll be learning on the job.  

I should be happy.  The roller derby people said yes to my shooting as well, so I will photograph their "championship" finale in another two weeks.  Alain said he wants to come to that.  

So yea, I can fail in front of an audience.  Whatever.  This is what I said I wanted, and I actually used my credentials in my pitch.  I NEVER do that.  But if this little league stuff works out well, I will use it as a step up.  Showing my old Lonesomeville project won't open some of these doors.  And if these turn out o.k. I may head out to Freemont Street in Vegas for a little photo fun.  

If I fail and it all goes to shit, though. . . you will be the first to know.  

O.K.  I have to start getting my photo gear ready.  Charging batteries, learning to shoot my photoflashes again, practicing dragging the shutter. . . all of it.  So. . . a little music to calm my jellied soul.  

Fear of. . . Failure

I was at the dentist for about ten minutes.  They took an X-Ray and a picture, then the doc said he thought he could fill it and another spot where I had lost a veneer. 

"Today?"

"No.  I jammed up today.  Make an appointment at the desk.  I'll see you in a week or two."

I got an appointment for Monday.  One X-Ray and one pic--$127.  The two fillings--$1K.  If he has to do a crown instead--$2K.  A little on the steep side, I think.  And he didn't seem to like me much.  

So I was home early and the sun was shining and the air was very pleasant.  I decided I would go walk around the lake where Tennessee and I had eaten the other night.  I felt light.  

But first, and I don't know what got into me, I looked up some of the oddball things going on in my own county, things I've thought over and over again to photograph.  I found two things of interest.  One was a gym that trains people to be pro wrestlers.  They have a BIG EVENT on Saturday night.  I wrote to them to see if I could come take photographs.  Then I wrote to the women's roller derby team asking the same thing.  

The day was moving along, so I got on my togs and drove to the lake.  

I'd thought to walk/run again, but the day was pretty and my legs were sore and my knee was hurting, so I decided just to walk and look and think about the pictures I might make.  I was up again.  

There were other walkers and runners and bike riders on the trail, but not so many.  I walked by the dog park where people can take their dogs to run and play and swim in the lake.  It smelled of dog poop, and I wonder about the wisdom of doing such a thing.  My old dog, Wiley, would have just gotten into fights with the other dogs.  She was a lot like me--a loyal loner.  She was true blue, that girl, a one man dog.  

I passed beautiful old oaks and brand new pine saplings.  This was good.  This was fun.  But I swear, this was the longest few miles I had ever walked.  I think it was because I was walking in a huge circle around the lake.  My bearings were off, maybe, and I wasn't sure how close or far I was from where I began.  

But I wasn't tempted to sit.  Just to pause to make phone artifacts.  

Then there were homes again decorated for Halloween.  I figured I was close. 

And I was.  I'd left some electrolyte drink in the car and chugged that right down.  It's called Electrolit.  It isn't so sweet and tastes much like the original Gatorade before it was bought by Pepsi and given the big sugar makeover.  

I got a text.  Billionaire Boys going out at five.  I was down for that.  

When I got home, I was hungry and opened a can of sardines and spread some crackers on the plate.  I sat down to check my mail.  Uh-oh.  I had a message from the wrestling gym.  

Thank you for reaching out and would love to have you at our event this Saturday. Come down. Come in for free. Can show this note at the door. Feel free to reach out as well (phone number redacted).  

Great!  Now I was in for it.  What if it all turned out bad?  What if I couldn't make any pictures that were worthwhile?  Now I was full of self-doubt.  Big shit.  Big man.  Ugh.  

I finished eating the sardines and put on some music, sunk into an Epsom salts soak, and started thinking.  Which camera?  Which lenses?  Should I just go for the weirdest look or should I. . . I wasn't sure.  

A trip to mother's, then to the bar.  The boys were already there.  Drinks, talk, food. . . the usual witticisms and banter.  More people showed up, then some left.  We went across the street to the Irish pub to finish up the night.  

When we walked in, a waitress who has served us before came running over happy to see us.  Sure.  There was nobody in the bar.  It was a ghost town.  She would be making money.  And she remembered everything we'd said and done.  You know. . . hip "older" guys.  I think that's what she said.  What she meant, though, was "Cha-ching!"  The boys don't care.  They think she's fun.  She is a couple semesters away from graduating with a business degree.  I told her she needed to give the big spenders her resume.  They could help her, I said.  And oh, those boys were happy to take her LinkedIn page where her resume resided.  

"I don't need it," I said.  "Unless you want to read a good book."

She didn't.  

Alain asked her if she wanted to get a master's degree.  

"Oh, no.  I'm ready to make some money.  My boyfriend is majoring in economics," she said.  "My brother is a political science major.  What are they going to do with those degrees?  It's like a waste of time."

Tennessee got her IG page.  

This is what they all do.  

This morning I read an article in the Times--'For College Kids, Giving Up On Books Is A Perfectly Sensible Choice" (link).  The author used to assign nine books a semester in his classes.  For years now, he hasn't assigned any because, for many reasons, kids don't read.  They see college as a means to a career.  Yup.  Our waitress was a perfect illustration of the article.  But she is a fine girl.  When we called for the check, she took it right to Alain and said, "Am I going to split this up--a pain in my ass--or are you paying as usual?"  Good girl.  She knew right where the money was.  I made an obvious attempt to give him some cash in front of her which he, of course, refused.  

Did she wink at me as I put the money back in my wallet? 

This morning, when I checked my email, I had this from the women's roller derby team:

Thank you for reaching out to us. We don’t have a problem with it, we love any opportunity to collaborate and get some promo. We have had more than one photographer before. Would you need us to sign any releases or anything? 

H-o-l-y  S-h-i-t!

I was in for it now.  My stomach kind of fell.  I didn't want to do this anymore.  It was just too much trouble and I was sure to fail.  Then what?  Oh, man, oh, man. . . what the fuck had I done?

Yea, yea. . . I'm a baby.  I'll do it.  I'll make myself do it.  I think.  50/50 anyway.  

T said he showed the waitress a couple photos by me.  She liked them, he said.  She said she wanted some pictures like that.  

"I don't have a studio anymore."

Yes. . . I need to open a new page.  I need to shoot the wrestlers and the roller derby girls and some burlesque dancers and boxers and body builders and circus performers--anything I can get.  

If, you know. . . if I can figure out how to make good pictures again.  

O.K.  Let's listen to some music to calm my troubled soul.  If I had this talent, I'd. . . . 

Fear of Dentistry

Happy no more.  I called the dentist yesterday.  They can get me in today.  I haven't felt well since.  I don't want to go to the dentist, but I have to.  I am a big baby when it comes to these things.  It's the pain, the inconvenience, and the money.  I go in a couple of hours.  I'm already beginning to tremble.  I don't like my dentist.  I should have called another, but I am a creature of habit.  I don't like change anymore than anyone else.  Maybe less.  But I'm beset by it on all sides.  Oh for those Valhalla days of elementary school and the womb of those years.  

I think of elementary school this time of year.  It was the most exciting time as we decorated the classroom every month for the changing season.  There was Halloween, of course, and for weeks we would all talk about costumes and candy and spooks, ghosts, and goblins.  It was getting dark earlier each day, and at dusk, we might see them in the shadows if we were lucky enough to be out.  Somehow, though, they all disappeared in November and the colors of the classroom went from orange and black to orange and brown.  Turkeys and pumpkins and nuts of all kinds.  We looked forward to pies and getting together with relatives, but mostly football and the annual Thanksgiving Day game between the Lions and the Packers.  But then, it was our favorite season and orange was replaced by a dark, deep red.  Now the days were really short and sometimes, after dinner, the family would go out to look in the department stores for possible things Santa might bring.  And there he was, the man himself, children lining up to sit on his knee.  It was a little odd, of course.  No kid really wanted to sit in his lap, but you didn't want to take any chances.  At night, there were the Christmas specials on t.v.--Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, and of course A Charlie Brown Christmas.

I wrote that for me, just to calm my nerves.  Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn--I have to get ready for dentistry.  And tomorrow I am determined to get both my Covid and flu shots, so I will be on the couch most of the weekend.  

Oh how I wish I had someone to ask me if I wanted anything, someone who would bring me grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of homemade tomato soup.  I look around me and every dumbass shithead has some pretty girl.  It makes no sense to me, really.  Why isn't someone knocking on my door some night telling me she really wants to go out with me?  

Yea. . . I know. . . I know.  

But I would light the oil lamps and make nice dishes and pour good wine and play the best music to be heard, and they could be enamored with me and fall in love.  And they could assuage my fears and calm my nervous soul.  

But they like shitheads instead.  

Whatever.  I still have the rest of it.  

Man, these kids can swing.  

Feeling Good (For Now)

I've been "a mess."  So I've said.  But something great and strange happened yesterday afternoon after I had spent more than half of another beautiful day--one on which I had planned to get out early and do some chores--sitting alone and silent in front of a computer screen.  It was getting near time for my daily visit with my mother.  I needed to take a walk at least, so I changed and headed out into the world.  My knee hurt, but, I thought, after half a mile or so, it would begin to feel better.  Maybe it just begins not to feel at all, though.  Maybe it just goes numb with pain.  So I limped down my street and made the downhill turn to the lake.  As I walked the sidewalk around he lakeshore, I imagined that I was feeling better.  The sun was shining and the air was no more than warm and a breeze was ticking up off the lake.  I crossed over to  the Country Club College campus passing through some sort of outdoor tent market where kids were milling about, then across the four lane road and onto the sidewalk that I would stay on for the next three and a half miles.  This was my long walking day, but I could feel "time's winged chariot" drawing near.  I decided that I would run a tiny bit.  Just a bit, maybe from telephone pole to telephone pole.  

When I began, I almost toppled forward.  Embarrassingly.  My stride was short and wobbly, my ankles weak.  This was no good for I was in a neighborhood  just off the Boulevard on a street that many people use.  I would know a good number of them.  I walked.  Then I began to run again.  Run?  I don't know what to call it--an old man's stumbly shuffle, I guess, feet barely leaving the sidewalk then smacking loudly down back on the pavement.  No. . . no. . . this was not good.  

I walked.  

Then I began again.  Fuck it, I thought, you can't live in the shadows.  This was one of the routes I ran for ages.  I used to live in a house next to the college and each day, I would run shirtless on this same route.  Back then, I was proud.  I felt I looked like Tarzan, and when I'd run, sometimes, girls would giggle and wave.  Sometimes, too, cars would pull over and girls would give me their phone numbers.  I'm bragging and you are sickened--but it is true.  No worries, though.  Now I would look like Brendan Fraser in "The Whale."  People would still stare, but they would laugh in horror if I ran shirtless.  So. . . don't be a hater.  Bad things come to those who wait.  

I ran.  "Clip, clop, clip, clop."  Then I heard a voice calling to me.  I looked across the street to the sidewalk on the other side, and there was a young, attractive girl smiling and waving.  It was the pretty Sunday girl from the Cafe Strange who serves me mimosas.  Holy shit!  What must she think?  I stopped "running and called back to her.  Good God. . . was she laughing or smiling?  Was that horror or happiness lighting her eyes?  We chatted for a mere moment.  She was very sweet.  Funny, really. . . did she call out to all the weirdos she sees from the cafe?  

Maybe she didn't notice.  

I walked.  I ran past the churches.  I walked by the tree trimmers stopping traffic.  I ran past the golf course.  I walked.  I ran.  I was turning onto a busy street.  It shouldn't be a busy street and didn't used to be, but while 1,000 people/week move into the area, there is no more infrastructure than there was in the 1950s.  There is no other way for people to go.  

"Don't run here," I said to myself.  "People you know will see you."  

But then, I thought, "Don't live in the shadows."  I am actually proud of myself.  I am my own hero.  I could have and maybe should have given up long ago when I was run over almost to death.  I am reminded of it with every breath.  No. . . I thought, I'm not going to be ashamed.  

I ran.  And then a horn blared loudly just behind me and continued as it passed.  A big white pickup.  Oh, fuck. . . it was Tennessee.  He, who runs ultramarathons just saw me stumbling.  Great.  

I walked.  I ran.  Another horn and a hand out the window waving.  I walked.  Another horn.  These were people I knew from the Club Y toward which I was "running."  I reached the small bridge over the canal, the halfway point.  I gazed down into the water for a moment, then turned to run back up the hill.  I walked.  I ran.  I tried to lengthen my stride.  Back past the golf course, past the tree trimmers and the churches.  Two more stretches where I would run.  My legs were shaky when I reached the four lane road and waited to cross.  But I felt good.  Really good.  

I crossed the street with the light.  A horn honked and I heard my name.  I looked at a truck with a small waving hand.  I put my hand to my brow to sign I couldn't see who it was.  

"It's Daniella!" a small voice shouted.  Daniella.  She's been out with the gymroid group on a drinking night.  I call her Circus Girl.  She trains like a trapeze artist, I think.  I never believed she really liked me, or more likely never gave me a thought.  Nice.  

As I walked across campus, all the kids were out, it seemed.  And I felt fine.  Better than fine.  As I limped along, people would catch my eye and smile.  That's what happens when you feel good, I thought.  I felt good.  

I found a tennis ball lying in the grass as I left campus.  I was walking the last half mile home.  I bounced the ball with one hand and caught it with the other.  I'd bounce it hard, and if it hit some funk in the sidewalk, it would bounce so that I had to stretch and step to get it.  Ouch.  No. . . this was good.  Now that I am not playing ball, my eyes never need to focus this quickly, my hands needn't reach reflexively.  I was feeling like a kid.  I threw the ball high into the air.  Quick step, catching it below my waist.  

"Hey, kid. . . stay off my goddamned lawn." 

Kidding.  

When I got home, I had a text from Tennessee.  He wanted to get dinner at the good sushi place.  This was fine.  I didn't want to sit home now.  A visit with ma, then off to the restaurant.  We would meet for an early dinner at 5:30.  

But traffic was terrible.  I was three cars back from a car that wouldn't make the lefthand turn onto a busy street.  Two cars.  One car.  Shit.  My turn.  The traffic was stop and go.  I was going to be late.  As I sat in still in the unmoving line, the sun was shining brilliantly on a church with a giant cross.  I snapped a pic with my phone and sent it to Tennessee so he'd guess why I was late.  Slow and go, I got there and parked on the street.  The phone rang.  It was T.  

"This fucking traffic isn't moving."

He was just beyond the church where I had taken the photo.  The brilliant late afternoon light was still shining.  

 I stood on the pleasant sidewalk in the perfect air.  I looked up and saw the light.  I took another picture and texted it to him.  

"O.K.  I'll get us seats at the bar."

T is on some kind of doctor's cleanse.  He didn't like some of his bloodwork results.  He hadn't been drinking, so I ordered us a pot of green tea.  They have the best green tea at this sushi restaurant.  T arrived.  We ate a light, early meal, bullshitted, then went out into the early evening to stand on the sidewalk overlooking the big lake around which T often runs.  

"What did you tell me it was around the lake. . . four miles?"

"Just over two," he said.  

I looked out.  From where we stood on a hill above the lake, you could see the circumference.  It looked longer than four miles.  

"What?!  That's not two miles."

"Yes it is.  When I run two laps it is just under five miles."

"No way."

There is a sidewalk around the lake, but it is a wild trail with possums and snakes and coyotes living in the tall grass that borders it.  

"I think I'll start coming up here to do my limpy walk run," I said.  

"Park at the dog park.  That's where all the hot women park."

We strolled slowly back toward the cars.  

"What's this?"  T had spotted a new restaurant.  Camille's.  It had a Michelin plaque beneath which was a scan code.  T pointed his phone and pulled up the info.  It was one of those places that serves a prix fixe meal once a day for about $400 a plate.  There were little videos of the chef talking about the food he was preparing.  

Camille offers an intimate dining experience with an 8-seat chef’s counter, four cozy booths, and an exclusive private dining room. The concept features a seasonal, multi-course menu that offers a contemporary twist on Vietnamese cuisine with French influences. Set in the picturesque village on the lake, the restaurant combines elegance with a unique culinary perspective.

T noticed that a lot of people he knew "followed" the restaurant.  

"Yea. . . I won't be going.  Four hundred dollars to sit with eight people eating plum quinoa and scorched quail eggs on flambé salmon."

I felt, though, that T would be there sooner or later with his buddies.  

And so we strolled back to the cars, lingered in the night air watching the passersby, and said so long.  

I poured a scotch.  I thought not to.  I was feeling fine.  I'd drunk more water since running than I had drunk in the three days before.  Water and green tea.  I didn't need the scotch, but need had nothing to do with it.  It was good.  But just one. I switched to the AA cocktail of cranberry and soda after that.  I'd lose weight, I thought.  I'd eat light meals and drink very moderately, and I'd run and go to the gym and. . . and. . . Christ, my knee hurt.  

I put on t.v.  I watched some more Joan Chamorro videos.  Listened.  I have looked him up.  He is quite amazing, really, a Spaniard jazz musician who "invented" a new way of teaching music to students.  So they say.  He had hundreds of videos online of performances in his home, with students in auditoriums, on streets, and in clubs.  There seems to be an endless supply.  Ask Q about the live recording quality.  It is exceptional.  But sometimes the video can be lacking.  Here is one from what I take to be a room in his house.  Crazy, but crazy good.  

A run.  Green tea.  A light meal.  One scotch.  It was the best I have felt in a pretty long time.  Here's to hoping I can keep it up. 

This morning, before writing, I read this article in the Times.  

Running is one of the most popular forms of exercise in America. It may also be one of the healthiest. 

 

Numerous long-term studies — some involving thousands of participants — have shown that running benefits people physically has also found that runners tend to live longer and have a lower risk for cardiovascular disease and cancer than nonrunners.

One might assume that in order to reap the biggest rewards, you need to regularly run long distances, but there’s strong evidence linking even very short, occasional runs to significant health benefits, particularly when it comes to longevity and mental well-being.

Short.  Occasional.  Nice.  

AARP Ideas

"What are you doing?"

"I take photos for the society page of the newspaper."

"Which one?"

"Oh. . . you've probably never heard of it."

"What is the name of it?"

"Uh. . . AfroTimes."

"Bullshit."

"Nope.  They send me 'cause I'm white.  I'm kinda undercover."

Laughter.  

"Well you could do a better job.  Why would they want a photo of us?"

"Just for fun.  You gotta admit. . . it's funny."

"What is?"

"White people."

"You're full of shit."

"Yea.  I was reading the AARP Bulletin, and it said that walking was a great form of exercise and that combining with a hobby like photography could be both fun and healthy, so. . . I decided that's what I'd do.  So far it's been fun, but I'm not sure how healthy it is.  A lot of people get mad at me and want to beat me up.  I just thought since you were already getting photographed, you wouldn't mind."

"Uh-huh."

"I used to have a studio.  People came to be photographed.  They wanted to be photographed--by me.  They liked the way I did it.  I gave that up, though, and now I just wander around in the street where people don't want me to take pictures.  That part IS funny.  It wasn't as much exercise in the studio, but nobody ever got mad at me.  Quite the opposite.  The world works in strange ways."

"What. . . you were like an Olan Mills or something?"

"You bet.  They were pretty much what I was going for, sort of a stilted, awkward picture, strange and unnatural.  Kind of like the ones you'd see in their store windows in the mall."

"Yea. . . those were nice."

"Alright then.  Good luck to you all.  I gotta keep moving or it ain't exercise. . . you know what I mean?"

Sometimes, you just gotta chat people up, you know.  They just have to get to know you.  

Little Lies

Another day in the house without food or drink until the last moment.  I got out for a 4.5 mile walk.  Limp.  It was beautiful out.  I saw many things of little interest to you here.  I watched the tour boats come through the canal, pontoon boats full of people, eight boats in all.  I was standing with two older women.  We chatted and waved to the passengers who looked up.  They would smile and wave back.  One of the boats was driven by a fellow I've known for many, many years.  He has money.  He doesn't need to drive a tour boat.  He just wanted to.  I find it hilarious as many of his friends do.  But, you know. . . people need a hobby.  

I walked back home down the Boulevard.  It was very busy with smiling, happy people.  It is something people like to do.  They come from far now to walk down the Boulevard or to merely put a blanket down in the park and let their children run and scream.  They don't buy anything, of course.  They add nothing to the city's economy, but they get out of their crowded apartments on strip mall parking lots for a minute to look at the wonders our little village has to offer.  The Boulevard was lined with expensive cars, $300,000 beasts, and the yokels ganged up to take photos with their phones.  I watched it all sitting on the hood of a new white Lotus.  It made me look rich.  People thought is was mine.  

"Are you in the movies?"

"Well. . . not in front of the camera.  Not anymore."

"What movies were you in?"

"Did you see The Last Surfer?"

"Uh-uh."

"You should check it out."

"Do you mind if we take a photo?"

I like to bullshit people.  I consider it "writing" rather than lying.  I'm the creative sort. 

After my walk, I went to mother's, then to the grocers, and I was home by 5:30.  That was it.  That was my weekend.  And, of course, I'm "lying" about sitting on the hood of the Lotus.  I was tempted, though, and if I were younger. . . . 

A Campari on the deck.  A cheroot.  Dinner of Japanese Teriyaki noodles to which I added scallions, avocado, bean sprouts, and smoked chicken.  It was the highlight of my weekend.  

Maybe I should make up more stories so that it seems I have some sort of existence beyond the norm.  I've been thinking of asking others to write some entrees on the blog.  Q doesn't write his anymore, but I'm sure he would be excited to write hidden in the shadows.  C.C., too.  They could write outrageous things without consequence.  I might ask them.  They often get out of the house and do things.  All I have is a sometimes feral cat, cocktails on the deck, and the inside of my decrepit skull.  

But I will get out and take walks.  They say it is good for you.  I shall limp around the neighborhoods and lakes and contemplate. . . things.  You know. . . stuff.  

Maybe I'll get a blanket and lie with the rest of the hillbillies in the park.  

A Whole Lotta "Maybe"

I didn't leave the house yesterday.  It was the most beautiful day of the year so far.  I just couldn't muster up the courage.  It seems to happen to me mostly on Saturdays, I find.  Maybe I just don't want to see the crowd.  

So I sat without music, food, or drink.  I cooked up a bunch of old photos.  I have billions, but it takes so long to process them.  I don't know. . . maybe I should try to find a simpler way.  But then I wonder why?  Why process them at all?  Whatever is the point?  

And then I think. . . but whatever is the point to anything?  

I should have been a comedian.  

Like Trump.  God he's funny.  A grifter, but funny.  I keep thinking that if he keeps talking, Americans will wake up to the crazy.  We'll see.  Just a couple of weeks now.  And then the revolt, maybe, the successions, etc.  

I need to cheer up.  Maybe today.  My horoscope says Venus is in my love house or something for the rest of the year.  I'm not supposed to limit myself to one person but be open to my prospects.  

I think I need a personalized reading.  

Maybe a mimosa would be good today after a very long walk.  I'll take my camera.  That's sure to bring me down.  I can't seem to make the photographs I used to.  Can't write either.  

I'll go to my mother's for dinner tonight and yell to her.  Not at her.  To her.  So she can hear me.  There's that.  

Maybe I'll get vaccinated.  Maybe I'll go for a Meyer's Cocktail drip.  

"Maybe I'll go to Amsterdam.  Maybe I'll go to Rome and rent me a grand piano and put some flowers 'round my room."

I've been told two things about my blogs.  People at Carnivale can't see the titles of the posts.  People at Cafe can't play the videos.  You need the titles.  You need the videos.  Just saying.  

Squirrel Brain

I don't feel like writing today.  Something's off.  I can't get focussed. I feel like a mouse in a cage full of snakes.  I need to get my mind right.  

I need a lot of things.  

I'm not looking forward to anything right now.  I am filled with dread.  I have let too many things pile up and my life is looking like a hillbilly shamble.  It is going to cost me money to scramble out of this hole.  A whole lot of money.  It seems to me there are only two kinds of people right now, the rich and the totally fucked.  I'm not rich.  

I think everyone else I know is.  They don't seem to have the same problems.  

Just thought I'd share.  I'm going back to bed and pull the covers over my head for awhile.  That should do it.  

And the Music Played On

I'm a master of this kind of photograph.  I love the empty non-ness of it.  It is an acquired taste, maybe, sort of like scotch.  

Whatever. 

I forgot to comment on the Hunter's Moon.  Travis reminded me.  Twice.  However, I am not the man I used to be apparently.  In so many ways.  I weary of all the things I must do now and remember.  I am overwhelmed with insights and revelations these days, but none of them are anything I want to know.  The world troubles me so.  

Something was wrong with me yesterday, some infirmity, and I didn't leave the house until I was forced to.  I slept and sat about all day until it was time to take my mother and her friends to another neighborhood happy hour at the City Golf and Country Club.  It is a public thing run by the city, not one of those highfalutin places, so don't get too excited, but it is very nice.  I guess taking the girls out once in awhile was my idea, and they look forward to it now.  So, o.k., I rallied.  I showered and got dressed in jeans, a thickish Henley, and socks with my Birks.  And Holy Moses, did those clothes weigh me down.  It was going to get cool as evening approached and having not felt so well all day, I thought to stay warm, but I can't remember the last time I wore a pair of long pants and something other than a t-shirt.  Even the socks and Birkenstocks were more than I would normally put on.  

Traffic was heavy.  I was stuck in a slow moving line of cars when my mother called.  The girls were worried.  

They were waiting when I nosed the Xterra into the driveway.  Another neighbor was going to meet us there.  Well. . . we were only half an hour early for the six to eight get together.  I got a tasty IPA at the bar and told the gals I would grab us a table outside.  My beer was almost gone by the time they came out.  The sun was getting low in the sky over the manicured golf course.  I sat under a brief canopy looking out past the putting green and the driving range.  All about me were young, pretty mothers and fathers dressed in that Golf and Tennis Pro Shop way, Banlon logo shirts, salmon-colored shorts and ball caps or some other jock take on the idea.  And kids.  It has been a long, long while since I had seen so many of them.  I'd forgotten that they run and scream without pause.  They ran and yelled and screamed playing made up games that took them around planters, down golf cart trails, and across the lawn where they would fall and roll causing me to remember all the sundown chigger bites I would get as kid.  Oh those chiggers.  But they never seemed to stop us from rolling in the cool, moist sunset grass.  The sky made a beautiful backdrop for the tall pine trees that lined the fairways.  Pines have become rare in neighborhoods that profit from giant oak lined streets and thus have become more beautiful to me than I could have imagined.  

The girls came out and the conversation began, everyone repeating what they said for my mother whose hearing is going.  

"What?"

She'd been to a new doctor that day, a specialist in thyroids, and he looked at her bloodwork and told her she was in great health.  Sure.  She can't walk, see, or hear, but otherwise. . . . It is the legacy of her generation.  They may live forever.  

But this doctor. . . I'm not so sure.  

"He was great," my mother said.  "He talked to me.  He told me that castor oil was good for everything.  He rubs it on his body for pain relief.  He said it cures toenail fungus and athlete's foot.  He even told me it will get rid of eye bags."

This guy has a medical degree and is touting castor oil?  I was wondering if he likes to use sage to vanquish bad ju-ju, too.  But what the hell, I thought. . . he made my mother happy.  

After an hour and a half, I suggested to my mother that I was ready to go, as, I guess, were the others, and so we bussed our table and turned in our name badge holders so they could use them for the next get-together.  

It was after seven when I got home.  I'd only had a small bowl of soup to eat.  I hadn't been to the store all week.  What did I have?  I'd cleaned out the freezer and the fridge after the hurricane.  There was a super green salad mix.  How old was it?  I looked at the sell-by date.  Or was it a consume-by date?  Whichever it was, it had passed.  I had tomatoes, garbanzo beans, and roasted beets.  Garlic.  A can of chicken.  I guessed the salad would be alright.  It was organic.  What could go wrong?  

Wine.  T.V.  YouTube was feeding me some pretty great stuff.  Really good.  So good, I had to send some of it to friends.  I got crackers and cheese. . . and somehow managed to break a tooth.  It was a filling that I remember the dentist telling me, "I don't know how long this will hold."  All I could hope is that he would fill it again for cheap.  I do not want to get another crown.  

Outside, the full moon was raging.  Clear night, big ole sky.  Down by the creek, coyotes and owls were hunting in the cool October air.  Moms and dads had put their chigger-bit kids to bed.  My tongue kept rubbing over the place where the filling had been.  And the music played on.  

There will be a lot more of this coming.  There is a good life out there-- Barcelona.  Cuzco.  Buenos Ares.  Santiago--such wonderful things.  Why isn't this going on somewhere around me?  

Last night, I wondered which was the greater art, painting or music.  Such a beautiful live performance, though. . . . 

Ramble, Ramble, Ramble

The printer is a no-go.  I wrote to the owner and he sent me a picture of the head check print out.  It is as bad as my big printer and beyond saving.  

I've not decided about the scooter yet.  I'm going to have to use the Magic 8 Ball for that one.  

I just got my new copy of Reader's Digest in the mail.  Did you know hydrogen peroxide will take out blood stains?  That or baking soda.  They have some good articles and it isn't that expensive, really.  I got a deal by bundling it with the T.V. guide.  That has some pretty good articles, too.  

That fellow on Fox was rude to Kamala Harris yesterday.  I was shocked.  He wouldn't let her talk.  Maybe he is a member of Hamas.  

Oops.  I don't want to get in trouble with the Pro-Palestinians.  

Just kidding.  I don't care.  

I had a job once.  They were always encouraging people to "think outside the box."  Ha!  They were always trying to put me back in it, but then someone would come along and turn the handle.  

I actually stole that from C.C.  It was his line. But a good writer must be a good thief.  I've met several.  None of them liked me.  

I think that I need to use that short sleeve plaid shirt and a popsicle disguise when I go out to take photos.  It's a darn good one.  Nobody seems to care at all.  I think disguising myself as a woman would be better, but I can't seem to bring myself to do it.  I do think people would be nicer to me, though.  I could probably even take pictures of children.  Newspapers run headlines like "One hundred and five people killed in attack, including children."  Children are the future, I'm reminded.  

I was walking with one of my favorite profs in grad school once, just the two of us.  In a candid moment, I guess, he said to me, "You just like to piss people off, don't you?"  I was taken aback for a second, but only a second, and then I laughed.  "I prefer to think of it as shaking people out of their complacency," I responded.  He seemed to like that.  

But yea. . . people don't enjoy having their ideas about things challenged.  I know my bosses at the factory didn't enjoy it all that much, but I was playing to a different crowd.  The workers enjoyed it a lot. . . as long as I wasn't standing too close to them.  

I think the door was left open too long, though.  It seems a lot of people got out of the box.  Some of them got together and made new boxes.  MAGA, The Woke, etc.  People like boxes, I think.  They feel safe in them.  

As Hemingway said in To Have and to Have Not, "[A] man alone ain't got no bloody fucking chance." 

He meant "person."  I believe so.  

I am taking my mother to another Happy Hour event tonight.  It seems I have created something.  Her neighbor asked her yesterday if we were all going.  What can I say?  The girls like getting out.  So it will be another night of hot dogs, soft pretzels, and beer, I guess.  

Man. . . I am living the dream.  

Go, See, Tell

Writing is much about where you went, what you saw, and what you thought about it all.  

"He stood on the high bank of the muddy river listening to the swirling water he could not see as the quarter moon climbed higher in the sky, and he thought. . . ."

Famous quote.  I just made it up. . . but it will be.  

O.K.  See what I mean, though?  It's all about sitting in a cafe drinking a tea, coffee, or brandy and watching the fly struggling in the spider's web and finding a question or drawing a conclusion from what you have just witnessed.  Describe and delight.  

Whatever.  I haven't been anywhere nor seen anything lately.  I haven't a thought in my head.  Not any that I can control, anyway.  Lately, I feel I am victim of my own memories of the life I've lived.  Many that I don't wish ever to remember have been coming back to me as a flood.  I don't want to think them, but I can't stop them, and I imagine, "This is where the concept of hell must have begun."  

My advice?  Don't let yourself spend much time brooding.  Better yet, always do what's right.  Never do anything wrong.  Your memories may be bland, but they will likely be undisturbing.  You can grow old without a wrinkle in your pretty little face.  You won't even need Photoshop.  

I have two big dilemmas now that have nothing to do with that.  Yesterday, for the first time, I went on Facebook Marketplace.  Holy smokes--it is so much better than Craig's List.  I wanted to see if I could find a large format printer for a good price.  I found one that is dubious.  It is the larger 44" version of my 24" Epson printer which has died.  I like the printer, but it is very, very old for a printer.  However--$500. What?  The description says it has some clogging in a couple of the color channels but is still printing well.  That is a problem. . . that maybe I could solve.  Maybe.  For $500, though. . . I might take a chance.  The rub is that it is in a city on the coast some hour and a half away and it won't fit in my Xterra, I think.  I'll have to measure and see. 

But while I was on the site, just for fun, I searched for Vespas.  

I found one that is a bit newer but exactly like my old one--even the color.  What--$1,700!  And it is only a few miles away.  I was excited, but the more I thought about it, the more fearful I became.  Would it be tempting the Fates?  There is not much protection from collision is there?  The thing brings back both good and bad memories.  Would I have the nerve to ride it again?

Here's a photo of my old one I just found.  Huh.  

I was telling my mother about it last night explaining where I might and might not ride it.  I told her I would eschew the major highways unlike before.  This was during the first few minutes of my visit.  Later on, I mentioned it again.  

"You're thinking about getting another Vespa?"

"I just spent fifteen minutes telling you all about it.  What?"

"I thought you were talking about getting a new car."

"Why would I not drive a new car on the highway?

Then I was not so nice, and it makes me angry with myself.  I told her she couldn't just do a stupid grin and nod her head when she can't hear what is being said.  But that is what she does.  It is getting harder and harder to have a conversation with her now.  She needs hearing aids, but she is refusing.  I am frustrated, not by her refusal, but my inability to do anything about anything at all.  And the anger wells up inside me.  I probably need some counseling.  I mean. . . in this case, it might be a good idea.  Just behavioral stuff.  How not to react badly, etc.  

I probably won't buy either the printer or the scooter.  That is the easy thing to do, and I have been choosing the path of least resistance of late.  My bank account is steadily shrinking despite the reports that we are in an improving economy.  Somehow, I need to make some money.  

I don't think I can make a living as an artist and stripping is now out of the question.  All that is left is becoming a Walmart Greeter, but I am not sure they have those anymore.  Maybe I should start posting my blog on Substack.  Hell, it might really take off there.  I could probably make enough to cover my new checking account fee at the bank.  

Well, I'm, out of good ideas.  I'll need to think on all of this much, much more.  Until then. . . .

Let's try an old Jimmy Buffet tune.  What?  Yea.  You won't recognize it, though.