Happy Thanksgiving. Know your 'shrooms. This one is called "The Devil's Penis." You don't want to eat this one. Don't even touch it. It will disappear eventually.
This is another not so good photograph with the big Liberator camera. I've committed to shooting, developing, and scanning four sheets of film a day. So far, I've been very bad at it. Yesterday, I shot four sheets of film. Somehow, though, I loaded five into the developing tank. Three of the negatives were just exposed wrong or developed incorrectly or something. The fourth had the extra negative lying on top of it and is all kinds of f'ed up. I will try again today.
What are you doing for Thanksgiving dinner? That's what people ask. It's an innocuous question but often requires a narrative answer. I will be having dinner with my mother at her neighbor's house at 4 p.m. Narrative to follow.
What I should do is make French toast for breakfast. I haven't had French toast in years. I make tremendous French toast. That was the breakfast I made the morning of the turning of the century. I'll bet I haven't had it more than a few times since. Trouble this morning is I don't have any bread. I never have bread. I need only two slices, but I would have to buy a loaf. And syrup. But darn, it is tempting. The grocers open in half an hour.
Day after day, it has been cloudy and rainy here in the Sunny South. The temperature has dropped in the night. Thanksgiving will be cloudy, cool, and damp. This may continue forever. It is quite deflating. I have no spirit, holiday or other. I have no inspirational music, not newly discovered, anyway. I should start the Hipster Holiday set, I guess, but I don't really feel it.
But maybe French toast would pick me up. Maybe it would put me in "the mood."
Selavy. Enjoy your dinner, wherever you are. Let the games begin.
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