First off, I was wrong. It wasn't Lil Red they wanted me to listen to. Nope. It was Sexyy Red.
O.K. White Boy.
What can I say? I'm not part of the Community. But, you know. . . this is a lot sweeter, right? Sexyy.
Oh, yea.
I've spent the morning looking at the papers. Big mistake.
"Iran Turns to Hells Angels and Other Gangs to Target Critics"
Leave it to the genius of the Hells Angels, sure, a group who doesn't even know how to use a possessive apostrophe. "Hell's Angels" you dumbasses.
"Gang of Wild Otters Mauls Jogger"
That one, at least, had a photo of a pack of wild otters walking down a suburban street.
Well. . . that explains that, doesn't it?
There were a lot of opinions, of course. I eschew most of that. Then there are the articles that pose a question.
"Can Weed Improve a Workout"
They ask me, I guess, because they don't know. The answer is always equivocal. And speaking of equivocating:
"Adderall in Higher Doses May Raise Psychosis Risk Study Finds"
Maybe. Maybet not. That's the way "maybe" works. WTF?
So, by and large, other than the comical effect I get from cutting headlines and irritating my friends with them (much like I am doing here), I get nothing from my perusal.
"What a world. . . what a world" proclaims the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz" after Dorothy douses her with a bucket of water. Quite right.
I went to a Muay Thai fighting gym yesterday with my camera. I want to make some dark photos of fighters there. I pulled up, looked in without getting out of my car, and drove away. Chickened out. I am ashamed of myself. I'll try again to muster up the courage. There is a Roller Derby arena here, too, I was informed. I need to see if they will let me photograph as well. I need to get off my ass and document Weird America on my own. It would be easier, however, if I had a young female assistant. I would get much more and much easier access to things. I've thought about going in drag, but trannies don't get the same sort of consideration, I think. Especially old ones.
Strippers, boxers, roller derby queens, body builders. . . what is stopping me?
Routine? I've become housebound. And. . . don't tell. . . I don't mind. The world "out there" is full of Lil and Sexyy and migrants eating peoples pets. It's scary. I know. I read all about it.
So, rather than do something artful and productive, I took my chickenshit ass to the Cafe Strange where I can sit with a big cup of green tea for cheap and write in my little notebook and not be bothered by the freaks.
I can make phone pics of the little things people stick to the walls and the windows without fear.
And later, I can go sit with my mom.
Whatever. You're wasting your life, too, you simply either don't acknowledge it or don't know it. Don't judge me because I tattle on myself. At least I have that. There's a comfort in recognition, maybe.
O.K . That was an equivocation. I've been infected.
I am to help Tennessee repair a wooden floor in one of his rental condos today. So he says. I'm hoping he got too fucked up with his buddies going to hooker bars and strip joints last night to want to do any work today. It is Friday. Even now, I still feel it. It still affects me. It is comforting. I am fine.
Let me leave you with a little something I like. It is long. Ten minutes, I believe. You won't want to watch it. But there is a quality in her voice that can break me down and make me weep. I think she's as good as Sexyy Red. I mean. . . she can really sing.
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