Little Lies

Another day in the house without food or drink until the last moment.  I got out for a 4.5 mile walk.  Limp.  It was beautiful out.  I saw many things of little interest to you here.  I watched the tour boats come through the canal, pontoon boats full of people, eight boats in all.  I was standing with two older women.  We chatted and waved to the passengers who looked up.  They would smile and wave back.  One of the boats was driven by a fellow I've known for many, many years.  He has money.  He doesn't need to drive a tour boat.  He just wanted to.  I find it hilarious as many of his friends do.  But, you know. . . people need a hobby.  

I walked back home down the Boulevard.  It was very busy with smiling, happy people.  It is something people like to do.  They come from far now to walk down the Boulevard or to merely put a blanket down in the park and let their children run and scream.  They don't buy anything, of course.  They add nothing to the city's economy, but they get out of their crowded apartments on strip mall parking lots for a minute to look at the wonders our little village has to offer.  The Boulevard was lined with expensive cars, $300,000 beasts, and the yokels ganged up to take photos with their phones.  I watched it all sitting on the hood of a new white Lotus.  It made me look rich.  People thought is was mine.  

"Are you in the movies?"

"Well. . . not in front of the camera.  Not anymore."

"What movies were you in?"

"Did you see The Last Surfer?"

"Uh-uh."

"You should check it out."

"Do you mind if we take a photo?"

I like to bullshit people.  I consider it "writing" rather than lying.  I'm the creative sort. 

After my walk, I went to mother's, then to the grocers, and I was home by 5:30.  That was it.  That was my weekend.  And, of course, I'm "lying" about sitting on the hood of the Lotus.  I was tempted, though, and if I were younger. . . . 

A Campari on the deck.  A cheroot.  Dinner of Japanese Teriyaki noodles to which I added scallions, avocado, bean sprouts, and smoked chicken.  It was the highlight of my weekend.  

Maybe I should make up more stories so that it seems I have some sort of existence beyond the norm.  I've been thinking of asking others to write some entrees on the blog.  Q doesn't write his anymore, but I'm sure he would be excited to write hidden in the shadows.  C.C., too.  They could write outrageous things without consequence.  I might ask them.  They often get out of the house and do things.  All I have is a sometimes feral cat, cocktails on the deck, and the inside of my decrepit skull.  

But I will get out and take walks.  They say it is good for you.  I shall limp around the neighborhoods and lakes and contemplate. . . things.  You know. . . stuff.  

Maybe I'll get a blanket and lie with the rest of the hillbillies in the park.