Living LIke Hugh

Fuck it.  I only have pictures of the models I've worked with to post.  And I find them soooooo wonderful that I just don't care.  I have files and files and files of pictures I've never gotten to work on.  This image is over a year old, a digital file from when I was only doing Polaroids.  I love it.  It is a miracle.  So what the fuck.  Consider me Hugh Hefner.  Might as well.  Tonight, I was in my pajamas at six o'clock.  They are really all I want to wear, and tonight I thought of old Hugh.  He was right all along.  Work in your pajamas.  Clothing is horrible and only for show or for covering up the flaws.  I am home on a Saturday night with no plans to go out at all.  I have invitations to go to "Nude Night," an annual art and performance art program downtown that has been going on for years.  I've never been.  I've been asked to show, but I am not interested.  Nude is sleazy.  Naked. . . now that is another thing.

It is hard to explain, but I am happy tonight.  The day was perfect with the blue skies of memory, and as is often the case with such beautiful things, I was not its equal.  I worked on old photo files all morning and then dressed without showering and went to the Farmer's Market up the street.  People flock to the thing, though I can't quite figure out why.  But they do, and it is a social event where you should be seen.  So I was.  Then I walked a bit and got into my car and went to a diner for breakfast.  It was noon.  Three eggs, bacon, wheat toast, and grits.  I sat at the counter and wondered once again if the young hispanic waitress was flirting with me or if she did that with everyone.  She was flirting with me, but probably not seriously, so I put away my desire to ask if I could photograph her.  Still, when I caught her stealing glances, she was unrepentant.

After breakfast, I went to see my camera repair guy just to shoot the shit.  Another friend of mine was there, so it was a good trip.  And then, mid-afternoon, I geared up for the gym.  Finally awake, I went to Whole Foods and bought the fixin's for the evening meal and a bunch of red tulips, too.  They caught me eye on the way in, and I thought, "I haven't had flowers for awhile."  Twenty tulips for $17.  O.K.  I bought them anyway.  Then, checking out, I saw that many people had flowers--and cards.  Oh!  Tuesday is Valentine's Day.  I will need to go back and get a bunch for my mother.  But for now, I had bought myself some birthday/V'Day tulips.

Home and finally showered, it was six o'clock.  What did I want to do?  Nothing.  I wanted to watch the episodes of "Boss" that I had DVR'd and some episodes of "The Wire," too.  I wanted to read and to work on pictures, and all of that was too much for the few hours I had left before bed. I would do it all in my pajamas.  Six o'clock, Saturday night.

I am happy now.  I've eaten and cleaned up and the cat has had her fill.  The tulips are a perfect red.  I've watched an episode of "Boss" as I ate and may watch another one, too.  I have no desire to see anyone but my own true love.  And she will have to be someone who likes to see me in my pajamas.

Yup.  Me and Hugh.  We know how to live.  I am considering buying more expensive wines.  It is a big decision, but I make more money than I ever have, and I don't think that I will live forever.  What price range?  I'm thinking $35-$45, just a couple a week.  I've been a nigger all my life.  I've driven old beaters for cars.  I've scrimped on everything but travel.  I've exercised until my body is broken to pieces.  Now it is time for good bottles of wine.  If you like to eat good food that someone else (me) has made and you would like to eat in your pajamas and then drink good wine and watch "Downton Abbey" on t.v., you're the girl for me.  I've got your flowers already.  I can make you laugh and regale you with unlikely tales.  And there is more, too, that we will not tell.  And I make a mean pot of coffee in the morning, just in case.

O.K.  That's pretty grandiose for an old guy sitting in his pajamas after dinner alone, having drunk half a bottle of wine and ready for most of what is left of the scotch at 8:30 p.m. E.S.T.  I am content on a Saturday night.  We'll see what lies ahead. . . (though, I think we know).