Wild at Heart

Last night, I posted quickly as if there was some rush to get the video up before someone else did.  I guess I was panicked when I realized that I had missed something so great for so long and didn't think that I was just pointing out my lack of hipster credentials in the doing.  Whatever.  But I am still mesmerized by the video this morning.  Every day, more of my romantic vision of the world is stripped away to be replaced by the oddness that I've thought only marginal.  Nope.  The world is weird at heart and wild on top. I think that is a bastardization of something Barry Gifford wrote in "Wild at Heart."

The homestead, though, continues on its melancholic normal ways.  Puss in Boots did not like being left alone outside.  She felt, I believe, that the good life had come to an end.  She felt abandoned.  Now she is manically happy again, determined to show her appreciation and love of all things that are me.  Last night, in normal fashion, I grilled for my mother with whom I had just spent the last three days.  The cat, usually demure around my mother, took to her like a long lost friend.  She jumped up beside her and made a show of displaying her affection.  She would not leave her side.  Craziness.  She stalks me around the house trebly now.  She is annoyingly cloying.  Makes me think of some relationships I've had.  A balance between reticence and affection must be struck or else be stricken.

I have worked only three days in the last two weeks, and so this Monday is particularly onerous.  The factory is fraught with political perils from which I was glad to be away.  Today I will have to deal with what has been left undone and all the things that have blossomed in my absence, too.  So much better to wander about with little purpose other than to look and listen, to make some pictures and tell some stories, and to think sweet and melancholic about. . . you know.  Sitting here at the window this morning, I think how wonderful it would be to have time to do all that, but then the horror strikes when I think about depending on my own talents to make my living deprived of the weekly stipend.  I am not quite mad enough for that.  And what could come of it?  I might leave a body of work as rich as Mohammed Rafi?

Since my friend Q has reported on his blog in the most defamatory way that he depends upon me as a news source, I should report that Robert Downey, Jr. is now the voice of Mr. Peanut (see it here).  It is a terrible waste of talent, akin to having Johnny Depp do a voiceover, for certainly they are two of the most entertaining people on the planet to watch.  There have been complaints that Planters has dressed Mr. Peanut and given him a "partner" (here and here).

A forty-six year old drug addict who went to jail, had sex with hookers--all the things your parents warned you about.  Nope.  Seems sometimes they were wrong about most things.  Sometimes.  But then again, what would you tell the little girl pictured at the top of the page?  Would you tell her to stay away from the likes of Mr. Peanut?