I'm Counting on You Lord

When I saw this, I thought, "That looks like an Amy Crehore painting" (link).  I've been working old, untouched images with the new tools at everyone's disposal.  Now I need to see if I can be consistent with them.  

Oh. . . I know.  These are troubled times.  But what can you do?  A hater's gotta hate.  It's pretty.  The model loved the photos.  She went to L.A. to become a star.  She used to write me sweet emails telling me she would be back in town and wanted to come back to the studio when she got here, but, she said, I should come out there.  

And then, as it will, time marches on.  

I don't know.  Maybe I'm feeling a little Lenny Bruce today.  

I did nothing yesterday but sit at the computer.  I didn't leave the house, didn't go outside.  I was going to.  I had every intention.  But I didn't want to, and I thought that I shouldn't do something I didn't really want to do.  Awful.  The day was a nice one.  I thought of swimming and lying in the sun.  But, you know. . . . 

Then my friend Travis, who has always said he doesn't like the beach, sent me photos of the beach where he is staying in an in-law's condo.  Fuck me.  Everybody I know has a condo at the beach except for me and C.C. and Q, but Q takes a hundred vacations a year and C.C. travels ceaselessly.  Everybody is a member of some club to which I do not belong.  

"Oh lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz. My friends all drive Porsches. . . I must make amends."

Eventually, though, I was going to go see my mother, so I put on my gym clothes and did a brief workout before I went.  When I got to my mother's, she was sitting outside with a beer.  I opened one to join her.  She was kind of loopy, a combo of beer and pain killers and allergy meds.  She's been having a rough time lately.  So I sat in the heat and we talked about the neighbors and her friends.  One has injections in her eye every month for some condition, and the most recent one hurts.  The 99 year old next door turns 100 today.  She lives alone, but recently her legs have swollen and her blood pressure skyrocketed.  The 89 year old down the street has been hospitalized twice for gut issues.  The woman across the street has taken to her bed.  Another is being treated for something and depression.  Yet another is bleeding from her rectum.  And another of mom's friends has a leg that is completely dead.  

"Everybody's getting old," she said.  

When I was ready to leave, she started whining that she didn't have anybody to whine to.  I started to get frustrated.  I wanted to say, "Who do you know who has somebody who comes to see them every day?" but I didn't.  It would be petty.  Fucking life, though. . . it is getting me down.  

I went home and took an Epsom Salts soak and showered.  It was time for a cocktail.  I made it simple--a Cuba Libre.  I took a photo and sent it to the girl who will not ask me out as she requested.  Her father is in her words "gravely ill," and she said she needed distractions and that I should send photos of my food and drink and anything else.  

"What's for dinner?'

A bit later I sent a photo of my salad.  I sat in front of the t.v. YouTube suggested a 1964 concert, in full, featuring The Beatles.  It was their first tour in the U.S.  First U.S. album.  I put it on.  Like everything else, it brought tears to my eyes.  WTF?  The entire thing was so primitive.  They played through their Vox amps.  They basically had no roadies.  No one handed them a guitar or moved the mic.  Venues were still small for rock bands.  It was almost like playing clubs.  And they were a truly great club band, maybe the best ever.  I watched it and thought that there would be no Taylor Swift without The Beatles.  They started it all.  

After seeing them on "The Ed Sullivan Show," their first t.v. performance just off the plane in NYC, I knew what I was going to do.  It was my birthday that Sunday night.  On Monday, I wore my hair down with no hair slickum.  I joined a band.  We called ourselves The Mysteries.  Within a year, I would have a full set of Ludwig drums and Zildgian cymbals just like Ringo.  I had a collarless jacket and suede Beatle boots.  

And, as I have said. . . I did it for the girls.  

If you don't watch the whole concert, which is a gas, at least watch the doo-wop boys sing this one, three crooners and one mic.  

The phone buzzed.  Q was FaceTiming me.  He was outside, twirling like a whirligig, like a dervish seeking enlightenment.  Oh. . . he was. . . seeking enlightenment.  He wanted me to join him.  And of course, he wanted to berate me for being. . . me, I guess.  At one point, he was screaming at me that his friend, an IT engineer, knew more about literature than I, was better read and smarter.  Well now.  

He told me that "If Taylor Swift wanted to peg you, you'd let her."  

Well sure.  She is pretty and talented.  I'm no Swiftie, but I'm not hating on her, either.  I just wish she were playing under the conditions like The Beatles were.  I'd like that rawer sound more than the overproduced studio stuff.  I'm sure she could do a great job.  

And I'm sure if she met me, she'd want to "peg" me.  

"Oh lord, won't you buy me, a night on the town.  I'm counting on you lord. . . please don't let me down."

Red dinged me.  Dinner at the fabulous restaurant was great, she said.  When I come out at the end of the month, she'd try to get us reservations.  

"I'm not sure yet.  I need to decide this weekend."

I told her about the Fontainebleau special running through July.

"Let me know," she said.  

Swoosh!

"Did you have your veggie burger?"

"Not yet."

She was home from the hospital.  Second glass of Prosecco, another bottle in the fridge.  A photo of her glass but what I look at are legs.  I don't know.  I haven't asked.  But I would guess her father is my age.  

"What would you do, daddy. . . what would you do?

"I'd. . . I'd. . . I'd cover that girl in chocolate syrup and love her 'til the cows come home" (link).  

Don't bother listening.  I link it simply for reference.  

I turn the t.v. back on.  There is nothing.  I decided to rewatch "Fleabag."  The opening scene, episode one, season one. . . holy moly!  You need only watch the first 2:50 of the clip.  If you haven't seen the show, this will tell you if you want to see it or not.  I only thought of it again because the star is now the female lead in the new Indiana Jones movie.  Careers can begin strangely.  

Thankfully, the show has only half hour episodes.  It was barely ten, but I was ready for bed.  

I thought to drive to the beach today, but it is sprinkling here now.  I don't know what I'll do.  

No, I do know one thing.  I'm going to make a decadent breakfast and wish I had champagne.  

And a girl. And a condo at the beach.