Random

I'd better write this tonight because tomorrow will be mad.  I'll have this in the bank even though I am now a few sheets to the wind and nodding out.  I will bull through the thing.  It will die and then be dead.

My life is random now.  No narrative.  Nothing but this then that.  Atavistic failures.  Yesterday dropping keys into a mystery hole.  Today breaking a crown.  No health luck.  No luck at all.   I broke a crown today eating some nuts.  I have a shoot tomorrow with a model who is not who she says she is.  The software I bought will not show up in Photoshop.  Hours of phone time ahead.  After a strange big influx of visitors, today's visitors were about half.  No email.  Stranded in a sea of fools and heathens, cut off from the mother ship.

I posted a comment on Q's blog yesterday.  He said that some of his friends had worried that he was getting too weird lately.  I told him he needed new friends.  But my own weirdness gets me into trouble, too. I'm not one to give advice.  One of the models I shot with lately is a "video vixen" in rap and hip-hop videos.  She is very much into that scene.  She likes sex with strong, handsome men.  Lots.  I am a good listener sometimes, as I have said before.  She likes to be spanked until there are welts.  She likes to be choked when making love.  Yippee ti yi yo, I said.  I asked if she had ever slept with anyone for money.  Yes, she said.  She didn't feel good about it.  What was the most you got paid, I asked,  $600, she said.  You should get a thousand, said I.  A thousand dollar ass, she said.  Should be six.

O.K.  I could go on, but you get the point.  Anyway, at some turn I said something that made her ask, "What. . . you don't believe in God."  I had shocked her, it seems, with a single throw away comment.  I told her I didn't care is she had imaginary magical friends.  I wasn't thinking, of course.  But that was it.  She was done.  I was way too weird for her.  Of course, I will get new friends, too.  But she was such a good model.

C.C. is going to Ohia tomorrow morning.  He is going to make a detour to meet Donald Ray Pollock, the author of "Knockemstiff."  He called ahead to the book store to see if they could save him a copy of the book to get autographed in case he got there late.  No problem, they said.  If he gets there late, they will just call Donald up.  He lives just up the hill, they said.  He will walk down to sign a book.

I can't believe I'm envious of a trip to Ohia.

I ate sushi on the veranda tonight.  The radio is still silent!  I sat next to a long line of twelve to sixteen year old girls in black short shorts, white shirts, and occasionally, ties.  There were other people there, I imagine, but this is all I saw.  Some had drawn the Harry Potter scar on their faces.  They were lined up at seven for the midnight premiere.  Awesome.

Larry Porter, Larry Porter,
Soak your feet in soda water.

I think that's T. S. Elliot.

The photo is of the Persian.  She is really something.