Did You Say "Paris Hilton"?

I'm in a position to tell you--people like you better when you are suffering.  At least that is what the stats on visits to my blog reveal.  If I am doing something that I say is fun, people quit coming.  But if I say that I am miserable. . . oh, the joy it must bring to the multitude.  It confounds me, though.  Don't they realize what fall takes place after any singular victory?  The higher the rise, the greater the plunge.  Shit, man, it is all ebb and flow.  Whatever.  I will title every entry with a miserable phrase.  That or a reference to some pop culture figure.  If I call this one "Paris Hilton," I will get hits.  "Paris Hilton,"you will ask?  "How old are you?"  O.K.  I did fine with Jessica Paré.  I need to hire some young kids for cultural references.

I'll admit that I had a few moments of mania.  But I am back to the dull working life.  Hour after hour of dealing with problems while the beauty of the world rolls by.  Nobody is calling.  Nobody is writing.  Well. . . I mean other than my friends.  Still, I am eating well and drinking scotch so good they have to tax it twice (though tonight, I must admit, I bought a $4 bottle of Pinot Grigio and it was as good as anything I've had in quite a while).  But the night is quiet and the cat is loving and after I write this, I will go to my bed and read until my eyes will not stay open.  It is a good life--if solitary.  And I can do as I please.  As I've said before, there is no one to tell me "no."

That is it.  That is all.  Except, of course, that I'll be in your hometown very soon.  I want to follow the good weather and surely you have some.  A day or two here, a day or two there.  Just let me know the good spots before I come.  I won't have time to waste.

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And then I took some magazines and my Kindle to bed.  I had with me something that came in the mail a couple days ago (I only look at the mail now and then), and when I unwrapped it, I was holding a big, thick pack of Restoration Hardware designer catalogs.  Art and literature took a back seat.  For an hour I poured through the rich pages designed to make me desire.  My home, once a showpiece, has fallen beyond disrepair.  But now, inspired by masterful advertising, I am ready to take up the home challenge once again.  Don't be shocked by my shallowness, though, for I had a come to this weekend when Red came over.  I live alone and have not entertained for. . . too long. . . so I have gotten used to not looking at this and stepping over that and thinking I'll clean that up later.  Living like Bukowski sounds better in print than than it looks in life.  And so there is much to do before Spring slips away.  Scoff if you will.  You will enjoy it all when you come.