What the F*** Did I Do

Holy shit!  I didn't mean Stanley Kowalski in yesterday's post.  Jesus--you'll think I a referring to myself as a rapist.  No!  It was early, I was muzzy, addled, and confused.  I meant Terry Malloy in "On the Waterfront."  You can see how I made the error, right?  Both are Brando creations, the actor, not my dead ex-friend.  I'm no Stanley.  Terry.  Make no mistake.  

Oops. 

All that "Maisel" talk. . . I think maybe it was my time of the month.  I have too much estrogen for a fellow.  But I don't take any of it back.  I meant it all. And the ending to the show is bittersweet, you know.  I mean. . . Midge fucked it all up, too.  I guess we can't help it.  I've decided that only the shittiest of us end up happy.  To be successful and happy in such a world as this is shameful, right?  So I've read.  

So anyway. . . I'm not Stanley Kowalski.  If I were any of Tennessee Williams characters. . . no. . . I don't think I am any of them.  I'd say I'm more Dick Diver than anything.  Poor Dick.  

I felt like shit on Memorial Day, but I had my mother coming for Sloppy Joe's, so I had to rally.  A quick trip to the gym late in the morning, then a jaunt to the grocers, and I was ready.  Mom came over at two.  The Sloppy Joes were good, but I think they should really be made with shredded beef rather than ground.  Still, they were good and we ate well, and when dinner was done, my mother said, "Do you mind if I go?"  Wow. . . OK. . . yea.  

It was three.

And that was pretty much the day.  I took a nap, and when I got up, it was cocktail hour.  A trip to the liquor store, a Campari and soda on the deck with a cheroot and a feral cat.  My life is going nowhere, I thought, or maybe it is, just in the wrong direction.  There will be people happy to hear that.  They will be gleeful.  But like Jimmy McNulty says, "What the fuck did I do?"

(link)

Apparently The YouTube doesn't think I am serving adults on this channel.  You'll need to go to their site to watch that.  So. . . hey kids. . . don't wake the parents.  Just click the link. 

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I wrote that last night.  I was thinking that if I wrote at night, I could edit in the morning and avoid all the mistakes I generally and inevitably make writing when I get up and do not edit.  But habit is habit, and there is nothing that competes, as the song goes.  So, here I am, once again, typing out the inside of my head at the breaking of the day.  

This morning it is just a head full of nothing.  Just the same old complaints.  Maybe today I will go somewhere and sit with a drink and try to find some new complaints.  And then I'll try to make them interesting and funny the way Joyce did.  He was a real comedian unlike his undersecretary and scribner Beckett.  If you find Beckett funny, you have a sharper wit than I.  But Joyce, he was a real jokester, and that is what people who come to him on bended knees do not get.  He was a clever boy who trained to be a priest until he had sex.  That is when he got the joke, I think.  Then he knew what was funny.  

I'm no Terry Malloy, either.  

I've been scanning more of the old 8mm films from my childhood.  I was a hideous child.  My father and mother got fat.  The illusions are destroyed by those old mildew and fungus eaten films.  And my father was a progenitor of MTV.  His takes are the shortest in history.  He didn't linger on anything but landscapes.  There are hours of landscapes.  Put my mother or I in the frame, though, and you'll miss it if you blink.  I think my father said something like, "I see you two all the time."  Meaning, he wanted to remember the other things he rarely saw.  Fair point, I guess, but it really needn't be a choice.  

I'm learning a lot, however, about how my personality was shaped and where some of my attitudes came from, mainly from the Christmas movies he took year after year.  There I am, three, four years old, with a football helmet and football, a toy rifle, a drum set, boxing gloves, and a Superman costume.  Oh. . . and a Kewpie doll and a teddy bear.  If I still had the teddy bear, I could hold it as I weep over t.v. shows.  

I'm going to try to write about something other than me for the rest of the month.  

That should make you laugh.  

But seriously. . . what the fuck did I do?

Here is something to soothe the savage soul.  Better than breast or beast, right?  Yes. . . the savage soul.