Random Notes

I think it should say the doctor is "far out."  But I get their drift.  

Or I did when C.C. sent this to me yesterday.  I'm not getting much of anything this morning.  Muzzy.  Took sleep aids last night and still slept fitfully.  Woke up to an early equinox.  I think it is due to global warming, but I'm uncertain.  That side of my brain is most asleep.  There is no way I can make a narrative, so. . . just a bunch of random notes.  

This is the hole they dug in my yard beside my driveway.  I watched them as I wrote yesterday's post.  Just before I went to my mother's house, I saw them filling it in.  Two big fellows, sweaty and wet with rain.  

When I walked out, I said, "Looks just like it did!"  They looked up surprised, then laughed.  

"Oh, don't worry.  They're gonna fix it.  Unfortunately, we're gonna have to dig it up again anyway."

"You mean this isn't the final resting place?"

Confused looks.  "Huh?"

"The body.  They are going to dig up the body?"

Oh, we were having a swell time.  They said they'd like to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my house this year . 

I haven't had a wallet since my car was broken into.  I've just kept my driver's license, credit card, and money in a rubber band.  Why?  I simply haven't thought about it.  I had an old wallet in one of my drawers, I remembered one day, so I pulled it out.  Black.  "Genuine Cowhide," it says.  Try-fold.  So that's where my social security card has been!  How old was the wallet?  I'm guessing from at least the 1970s.  Could have been a Christmas gift.  Not sure.  Back "in the day," wallets were like. . . well, my dad called it a pocketbook.  His was as thick as a brick sitting in the rear left pocket of his baggy pants.  It held all sorts of things.  A little money, some pictures, the usual licenses and bank paraphernalia, notes and reminders.  It had many places to hide things.  Wallets came with those little plastic windows, too, where people kept pictures of their loved ones.  My black, tri-fold, genuine cowhide wallet had them, too.  What the hell.  I put my stuff in it.  I carried it for two days.  

Yesterday I ordered a wallet.  Trim, card carrier.  

I used to have a money clip.  Scoff if you will.  I've had all sorts of things.  This one was silver and engraved.  At one point, I thought to use it, but I could never find it.  What would have happened to an engraved silver money clip?  I don't think I would have thrown it away.  

Swedes sing songs, get naked, and roll around on the ground to celebrate the solstice.  That's what I read this morning.  Those crazy Swedes.  They used to be so liberal.  Immigration has turned their politics on its head.  

Louisiana passed a law requiring the posting of The Ten Commandments in all public bathrooms.  No. . . school rooms.  My eyes are still foggy.  

Woody Allen had a t.v. show when I was a kid.  He had Billy Graham on as a guest.  Woody asked him, "What's your favorite commandment?"  Graham said, "Given the times, I'd say 'Honor thy mother and thy father," to which Woody replied, "Funny. . . that's my least favorite."  I about shit myself.  Not long after that, I was watching "The Merv Griffin Show."  He had on the comedian Biff Rose who played piano and sang, "I'd hang on the cross too, if I knew what Jesus knew."  The life of that young boy was turned upside down.  

Those wacky republicans. . . they're always fooling around.  They just like to cause mischief.  

Went to Whole Foods for something yesterday.  I walked out with a whole lotta things.  I haven't been eating meat much for awhile now, mostly fish, chicken, and tofu, but when I walked by the meat counter, I had to buy a big fat steak.  I was going to cook it up for dinner.  I'd changed my mind by dinnertime, though, and ended making a big salad topped with chicken.  

Later, I snacked on the fresh figs, goat cheese, and truffled almonds.  Paired with a French Vouvray, Demi-sec. Holy Moly, Joseph and Mary!  I first had fresh figs and goat cheese in Carmel By the Sea at the wonderful, historic  La Playa Hotel (link).  We sat outside in the fresh sea air and had this most romantic snack with a good wine, the name of which I can't remember.  I don't think I've had it since.  Last night. . . oh. . . it was orgastic.  

Yea, yea. . . I remembered that word from the "Gatsby" quote I posted a few days ago.  I would normally say "orgasmic," but "orgastic" doesn't seem so dirty.  

All I'm saying is you should certainly try it.  I don't see fresh figs on sale here very often.  But Christ, paired with that goat cheese. . . something magical happens.  Get the almonds and Vouvray, too.  

There is a "major" news story going around about a Texas minister who has admitted to having an "inappropriate relationship" with a twelve year old girl many years ago.  To protect the not-so-innocent, I'll not report who sent me this reaction to the story.  

Pedos go into the ministry for reasons similar to the ones that Willie Sutton gave to the judge for why he robbed banks: “Because that’s where the money is.”

I liked that a lot and sent it to a friend of mine who is the best, most honored author I know.  In his youth, he became a minister and eventually had his own rural church.  He wrote back:

When I look back now and remember the ministers I worked with, it's amazing to me that I didn't realize how many of them were gay. I just thought of them as  . . . I can't think of a word that completely fits. 

Now I'm like, Holy criminy, they were a bunch of closeted gay guys. The kids of a significant number of them were adopted -- because the wife "can't have children." It should've been OBVIOUS. Right? 

 I wrote back:

Most of the strangeness of life passes before our eyes unnoticed. That's why we have the arts, I'd guess.

I impressed myself with that acute observation, which was, I think, the whole point of posting the rest of it.  I'm a real sage, sometimes.  But yea.  It's true.  

Ministers and priests, Boy Scout leaders, teachers, coaches. . . I'm shocked!

To wit. . . well. . . it seems to have fallen into some kind of "to wit" order in spite of (not despite) my muzziness. . . I watched "Freud's Last Session" last night (link).  It is ostensibly a debate between C.S. Lewis and Freud over the existence of God, but it is much more than that.  It is so beautifully filmed you just lose yourself in it.  Both actors, Anthony Hopkins and Matthew Goode, are better than any of the trite words I can pull up right now--"fantastic," "wonderful," "marvelous."  I'm just not up to the task.  Maybe later.  But the story of Freud and his daughter, Anna, is well-played.  I don't know much about it, but now I am compelled to look it all up.  

In the movie, Freud says something I've been laughing about for weeks.  He admits to Lewis, "I'm a flawed character!  We are all flawed characters."  

I've been chuckling that scholars and critics so often use that same attack on a person to attack the work the person has done.  I was thinking of Hemingway scholarship, for instance.  For many, we must not accept the work of a flawed character.  

Oh, my!

Sorry, but that's an idiot's offensive.  For me, it is as ludicrous as the insanity plea.  

"He wasn't in his right state of mind when he committed the atrocious act."  I mean, who in their "right mind" commits an atrocity?  It seems a tautological argument to me.  

What artist isn't flawed?  For that matter. . . the devil's in the mirror.  

Which brings us back to the picture of the cat psychiatrist, doesn't it?  I can't help it, I guess.  I just think in narrative ways, even if unconsciously.  

And that's what I got here on the twentieth day of June, the day of equal light and darkness. . . approximately, or so I've read.  In the northern hemisphere, at least, daylight will be shortened a bit each day, and for that, I am grateful.  

Oh. . . I almost forgot one good thing I heard last night.  Before "Freud," I watched a documentary on the very promiscuous if uncomely Peggy Guggenheim who was asked by a reporter, "How many husbands have you had?"

To which she replied, "Mine or other's?"

Oh, God. . . I do love wit.