Talent Interrupted

It's not really night yet.  It is after seven, but there is still another half hour of sunlight.  I don't want to watch television, and I don't want to go anywhere, so perhaps I'll write.  There are things I will forget or have forgotten already that are on my mind.  But I have eaten and had drinks, so I may be too muddle-headed for it.  We'll see.  

I just got back from the liquor store.  It is a chain, but they have hired some really "alternative" people.  It's O.K. with me.  I get along fine.  So the boy with the full neck tattoo and the--I don't know, maybe 22mm gauge earrings--checks me out.  He likes me, it seems, but maybe he is just a friendly guy. 

"How's your day been," he asks?

I think for a moment.  "It's been really chill."

"That's great, man."

I look at him for another moment before I say, "All my days are pretty much like that."

"Oh, man. . . I wish mine were."

I want to tell him to wait long enough and when he is not able to do much of anything else, they will be.  But I stop myself.  I just smile a friendly smile and bob my head.  

They like me at the liquor store. 

I forgot to tell you that my day, yesterday, ended as badly as it began.  When I was leaving the grocery store and got into my Xterra to back out of my spot, I cut my wheel too soon.  The truck next to me had an extra long bed.  Big mother.  Brand new.  I heard and felt a scraping.  

"What the fuck was that?!" I absolutely said out loud as I hit the brakes.  I looked in the driver's side mirror and saw.  Then I looked up and saw a fellow walking toward the truck.

"Is that your's?" I asked.  

"Yea," he said.  

I pulled up, parked, and got out.  

"Let's see what I did," I said.  

There was a nick on his back light.  Nothing much.  I was wondering how many hundreds of dollars I would be willing to pay him to go home.  

"Nothing much," he said smiling.  He was a real redneck with a southern accent.  It was at least a $90,000 truck.  

"Let's see what happened to mine," I said.  

Oh, yea.  I had engraved mine pretty good.  

He was an alright guy.  I like cowboys.  If he had been a fucking real estate agent with more money than balls, it would have been a different story.  But he wasn't.  He was probably a Trumper, too, but he had a heart.  He looked like he had made his money legit.  

When Tennessee called me later on his way to the Blue Ridge Mountains to finish his cabins, he was stuck in Atlanta traffic at six.  

"What the fuck were you thinking, dude?  Atlanta at rush hour?"

I told him my story.  

"Yea. . . you're lucky it was a redneck.  If it had been some pansy who just liked driving a truck. . . ." 

I can't back that Xterra up for shit.  I can't tell you how many things I have hit.  This is the second time I have hit a redneck's truck who looked at it and waved his hand like, "It's a truck.  They take a beating."  

Hippies and rednecks sometimes have a lot in common.  

I had two deliveries today.  I like having packages in the mail--don't you?  I needed underwear.  I only wear them to work out in or for walking so I don't chafe my chubby little thighs.  I thought about going to the mall, but the traffic is always bad and it takes to long, and I couldn't be sure they'd have "my brand," so I just ordered on Amazon.  I got another package today, too.  I saw that Agfa was making a new Scala b&w film that develops as a slide, a positive rather than a negative image.  I'm a fool.  I ordered six rolls and the requisite developing chemicals.  $138.00.  I don't really want it now.  I have maybe sixty rolls of different films sitting around.  I am trying to finish off the rolls I have in my cameras now and can't.  I had to go to a store in one of those new communities that look like a Disney set today, one where they first build the big, luxurious houses, then the smaller ones, then the luxury apartments, then the not so luxury apartments, all built around a little Disneyesque "downtown."  Oh, they are clean and nice. . . for awhile.  But they keep building and the place goes further and further down the tubes.  Since I had to go, I took a camera and thought to walk around and finish the film.  Only six frames to go.  So I walked and I walked, and I took one photo.  The place is just one replica after another without texture or variety, every patio, every facade, looking just like the other.  

All in all, I am having a hard time finishing the film roll.  Thirty six exposures.  So. . . why am I buying more film?  You can't make pictures in the suburbs.  You can, but you can't.  You need texture and grit.  Or access to filthy rich older women lying poolside with their toy poodle, Gucci sunglasses, Chanel slippers, etc.  

Access is everything.  

* *.*

That's as far as I got last night.  I was interrupted.  I'm not sure where I was going with it all now.  Probably the same place I always go. . . nowhere.  

I woke this morning with some feeling of dread.  Surely I've overlooked something, done something wrong.  I woke remembering that I still haven't filed my taxes.  I've done them, just haven't filed them.  I have to write a big check which pisses me off because the rich gymroids have set up corporations and LLCs in such ways that they avoid paying taxes altogether.  One of them was trying to explain to me what one can do to get money after paying off a house, something to do with insurance. . . I couldn't follow.  He tried explaining to me what he did and how it benefitted him when his house was flooded.  Talking to me about money is like talking to a dog about life.  All I hear is "blah blah blah, Spot. . . blah blah blah."

I should have married an investment banker.  A nice one.  

So maybe it is the check I have to write that is getting me down.  No. . . wait. . . it is the doctor's appointment that is weighing on me, I am sure.  Yup.  It really freaks me out.  

I was kibitzing online this morning about news headlines with my conservative "Yea. . . what about Biden" republican buddy.  So many of the headlines are screwy or obviously lopsided that it is fun.  Then I asked if they still published the daily horoscope.  I went to the top of the WaPo page and hit the search icon.  Sure as shitting, they do. 

You can make resolutions about your life at any time. If you want change, there is no time like the present! It's a good day to make a fresh start, turn over a new leaf, and put bad habits behind you. You shouldn't wait any longer, especially if you feel the urge to change right now. You have clarity now, which isn't always going to be the case. Cut out the bad and start focusing more on the new.

Good advice.  Then I wondered if they still had a cartoon page.  I hit the search icon again.  

Nope.  

"No Beatle Bailey is an indicator that the rest of the paper is suspect," my buddy wrote.  I never liked the cartoon page, really, even as a kid.  The only one I looked forward to was "The Phantom."  What a weird one that was.  

 I could never really figure him out.  He carried a gun and didn't have a cape.  So why was he in a mask and tights?  

The day is gloomy and so am I.  What to do?  Be gentle.  Do some cardio and stretch.  Maybe sit in the sauna.  Avoid alcohol and drink healthy tea.  Find a rich hippie girl who loves me, braids my hair, rubs me down with fragrant oils, strokes my face and tells me everything is wonderful.  

Is that too much?  Why is everything so hard?

(Warning: The following song is not for you old people)