It is apparently, if not obviously, difficult to paint the moon. Research it for yourself. I took the usual photo of last night's Dirty Pink Moon, and it looked much like all the other full moon pics I've posted here over the years. Don't get me wrong. I have some darned good ones, I think. But I fear I've become too repetitious in my moon references, so I turned to the masters. Difficult. Probably the best known are from Van Gogh, his moons as swirly and messy as his stars. But the moon was kind to me last night, and Queen Mab apparently did not disturb my dreams.
Saturday was gorgeous, the sunlight, the gentle air, so of course, I did little and avoided the crowd. Maybe I've developed a phobia in addition to the many other mental defects that have plagued me of late. I did get out early for a truly long limp, but I was not out again until I went early to my mother's.
All day long, though, I was settling into my new old hippie routine. I ate fruits and grains for breakfast and had a large red mango for a snack. For dinner, I sautéed red and green peppers with jalapeños, garlic, and mushrooms, then added teriyaki drenched chunks of tofu and baby spinach leaves. This went over a brown rice and red lentil bed. Just as I was cooking it all up, Q texted and said he'd be over in thirty minutes. I wasn't sure what to do with dinner, but since I'd already started cooking. . . . I realized with a start that I had no scotch and only a table wine and some shitty lite beers, all in my attempt at a better, healthier diet. It is too easy to drink more scotch than you intend, and so I had decided to go with vodka and soda with a slices of lemon. I wouldn't drink nearly as much of this, and I would be getting some hydration rather than sucking all the fluids out of my body with glasses of whiskey.
I hadn't seen Q in years, so I was a little flummoxed. Here was the Great Man eating like a vegan and drinking like a sissy. The hero diminished.
Whatever. Don't believe everything you read.
When Q arrived, dinner was just about ready. "Only a small bowl," he said. So we plated the food and sat outside in the great late afternoon air. I hadn't tasted the food yet and wondered.
"Do you have any Sriracha?"
Indeed, that is just what the bowl required. I was quite pleased. I thought it was delicious.
When we finished eating, we took a quick trip to the liquor store. I let Q buy. It was simply the right thing to do.
When we got back, I had a text. Sky was reminding me of the evening sky. We don't communicate so much anymore, so it seemed sweet and fitting for the day.
Q was going to meet some buddies at a new bar just off the Boulevard. I haven't been, but I've been told it is cool and a place where the village swingers meet.
"Lots of cougars," they say.
Q asked me if I wanted to come. Oh, no, I said. That is not my scene. One of his DJ buddies was playing the club that evening. Yea, I said, that's a hard no.
"D.J. Buddy." I like it, but I still don't understand the whole d.j. thing. I don't like crowded places, but what is a music club without a crowd? Watching a bunch of MILFs bounce around like they are characters on White Lotus might be fun for a Miami minute, but I would take a pass.
It was dark now, and I looked for the moon. It was still rising pretty far to the south and I had to walk down the street to get a view not blocked by trees.
I cleaned the kitchen and poured a final scotch. I watched something for a minute, but I can't remember what. I leaned back into the couch, I guess, and closed my eyes. It was early as I made my way toward "Evening's Rest."
The papers and magazines keep reporting on the way to healthy living. Ingredients: Mediterranean diet, exercise, no smoking, moderate drinking, avoiding processed foods, and socializing.
Duh.
They needed research to come up with this. The articles, though, never talk about what happens to you anyway. You would think you might live young forever.
Nope.
Nature has a plan.
But. . . what they describe is a pretty nice life. I felt really good after last night's meal. I can go easy on the hooch and I always exercise. I've pretty much given up smoking cheroots, and I dislike most processed foods. I am bad at socializing, however. That is the more difficult one for me.
I do long, however, for someone who adores me. But who doesn't? People divorce after twenty years of marriage for just that reason.
But I can check off the majority of those boxes and still life will catch me by the cojones. The rent comes due and the roof falls through. . . and then one day something feels off and you are looking at a bad landing.
But the occasional reprieve is nice, a good meal under a soft sky with a visit and a text and an invitation to be declined. There are books and music to palliate existence, and other great wonders of the world.
A little Greek yogurt and a six minute egg for breakfast, I think, then a long and pleasant limp in the soft morning light. I will cook for my mother tonight. Maybe we'll have shrimp and rice. And I've read that champagne is lower in calories than other wines. Maybe a little champs, too.
Which reminds me of something Q said last night. Christopher Hitchens once opined that there were four things most overrated, he said, but he could only remember three, so he looked it up.
“The four most over-rated things in life are champagne, lobster, anal sex, and picnics.”
Q had forgotten champagne. I admire Hitchens, but I can only agree with him about one of the four on the list.
I'll leave it to you to ponder.
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