I Can't Win

I may have told you this in some form before, so if I have. . . indulge me.  I was sitting with a group of Woke from the factory one day when I admitted I liked wearing women's underwear.  Oh, boy, they were all delighted by that.  Yup, I was quite accepted.  When I mentioned they were my mother's, however. . . well. . . the room rather cleared.  Seems they weren't quite as comfortable with that.  

So when people tell me they are for public breast feeding, I couldn't agree more.  As soon as I put a mask on the mother, however. .  . again. . . everything changes.  

Seems I can't win.  

There is a page on FaceBook that is posting women breast feeding in public in support of a woman who was arrested in Italy for just that.  I keep wondering. . . should I post this to the page?  

Why is it that people find me so contrary?  I can hardly get along, let alone win.  

I sent a pal a bad pub recording of my old band playing a Roger McGuinn tune in a shitty bar, then sent him a video of McGuinn himself doing a live version in a church or some such place.  I said that it was no better than ours.  He replied that though we were friends, I shouldn't say such things or he would feel the need to respond.  Oh, boy.  My band's pub recordings are pure shit.  Nothing could be much worse.  I was trying to point out, however, that even rock gods can sound bad. My friend, however, wanted to make a point, I guess. . . . Like I say. . . I can hardly get along.  

But I don't have any friends who don't feel they have not been more successful than I.  I'm certain they are right. 

You can try to rewrite that sentence if you like.  

Many of them no longer come to this site.  When none of them do, I will be able to write about them.  It will be a much better blog then,  Their egos hinder me. 

Brando hadn't such compunctions.  He loved to brag about "mating" with his friends' wives and girlfriends.  He hardly had a friend he hadn't a tale about. None of them seem to know.  I still hear them speak fondly of him.  It was Brando's way of getting over someone, of empowerment, I guess.  In the end, of course, he was a sad shell of a cad dying alone in a foreign country. 

He always told me, "I'll get new friends."  

I don't know if he did or not.  Experientially, I'd have to rather doubt it.  

Our greatest deeds were always in the past.  We need people who can verify.  In the end, however, I'm afraid there are none.  If you haven't recorded it, it doesn't exist.  The one who writes it, keeps it.  Or so claims Salter.  

The present always trumps the past.  There are always new and better heroes.  Well. . . of course there are The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Frank Sinatra, etc.   And the Renaissance, I guess.  

O.K.  I'm wrong.  It was a set up.  I knew better.  But if they don't tell stories about you. . . .