People used to love me. (90s)

(This was from a birthday card. B's son provided the artwork.)

I have learned so much about you and I honestly do love you for who and what you are.
You are a very unique person and I will always cherish that about you.
You have become a part of my life that I hope will last forever.
Love,
B.

 

People used to love me. (90s)

Jim,
If you think what you have done so far is going to scare me off, well, you better try a hell of a lot harder!! I don't scare easy. I love you for who you are and what's inside! Got that?
Love,
R.

Can I tie you up, pour honey on you and then EAT YOU UP?
R.

When I was a "Live Guy." (Stick the Live Guy, phase one. Early 90s)

 

 

 

Sometimes I want to spin and spin 'til I drop. (1994)

Q: What's up, Chuck?

I write this to you, dude
Kith and kin
Kindred sprits
We have a power to rid ourselves of our torment
Buck up, most noble bro
Dig it: They're shindigging in SOME one-horse town tonight
Patti dances barefoot - she knows the real deal
She feels it.

Feeling is more important than knowing.

I wish I could paint the colours I see - the shapes I invision
Sometimes I want to spin and spin 'til I drop.

I am what I am 'cause I can't not be it
And where it all comes from - I don't know.

A: The YES at the top of Yoko's ladder.
(Sex, death, art.)

 

Things I Find Dept.

I found this letter on the floor, in our local mall, when I was working there, back in 1991. I knew I'd saved it and I was searching for it, recently. I found it today, quite accidentally, while getting rid of some clutter. This is a perfect example of why I pick up scraps of paper when I spot them.
Know that this letter began on the back side of a sheet of notebook paper - holes to the right.

"From: Weezee To: Helen From: Weezee To: Helen

Dear Helen

How have you ben doing nothing I gus. So now I am going to get to the point.
So I hreed that you have a boyfriend tell me that is not turew if that is turew I just want to say you go girl you kn-ow it.
Now I am going to tell you about Leelee. Leel-ee is doing good he spe-ans a lot of time with me and Baybay. Today Tuesday Leelee talted us how to play football.
Pam is steel the same she is still being fast in the tell. So now its time to talk about somebody else.
Now Mirt is still doing what she do best that is run her mounth like a mortrocicle.
D.J. is stell talking really fast. Do you know that seanses D.J. staying with Mirt he looks real good and I mean really, really, really good.
Now Baby still is fast like Pam. It simes like Baby and can make a good team.
Now it is time for the best Weezee the one and only. Your best girl in the world. I am going to tell you about me Weezee. I am still craze, and still pretty like always.
You already know about Mukey. So now my story is ending.

BiBi."

Elphaba, from "Wicked."

"How poetic you are," she said. "I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception."

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

I received this bible seminar invitation in the mail. The illustrations remind me of those old "Sinbad" movies. (I used to love those when I was a kid...)
Um, oh yeah, it's the end of time or "The time of the end" - or "The time of the beast," or whatever. Enjoy!

 

 

 

Just checking in.

How have I been feeling? I've been up and down. I feel ok today.
I have 2 doctor's appointments this week - one in Chapel Hill. The Chapel Hill appointment is Thursday morning, at 8:30. That means I'll have to get up at about 4:30.
I just re-watched "Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss." That's a great little movie. It's off-beat, funny, and sweet - and very nicely crafted. The soundtrack is great, too. I now have Petula Clark's "This is My Song" stuck in my head. Not a bad thing. "This is My Song" was written by Charlie Chaplin, of all people. Charlie was one of those genius guys that could do everything well.
I'm reading "Wicked" by Gregory Maguire. For those who don't know, it's the story of the Wicked Witch of the West. Apparently, we didn't get the full story from Baum.
I keep filling out these online surveys from Food Lion. You have a chance to win $2000. I sure could use it.
We had a teasing rain this morning. It was hardly enough to wet the ground. My little garden could use a good soaking.
I mailed a note, yesterday, to the ghost who wrote me a couple of weeks ago.
I saw a piece on Pablo Picasso this morning on CBS's "Sunday Morning." It focused on one of his mistresses. All I could think about was the Modern Lovers song: "Some people try to pick up girls and get called an asshole / This never happened to Pablo Picasso / He could walk down your street and girls could not resist his stare..." So on and so forth.
Thinking about Pablo now has me thinking about Gertrude and Annie.
I have to go fill my medicine boxes for the week. I also need to clean out my car. My brother-in-law is taking it to HIS brother-in-law in the morning to have the AC serviced. The AC hasn't worked since the wreck. Of course, I haven't needed it until now. My sister is worried about me driving to Chapel Hill in this hot weather.
My family has been a huge help to me during this trying period of my life. I owe them a lot.

Things blooming in my yard.

 

 

 

 

Great summer songs.

As this is Memorial day weekend, and the unofficial start of summer, I thought I'd compile a list of great summer songs. These are not necessarily my favorite songs by the artists listed (although I DO love them, or they wouldn't be on this list), and they aren't necessarily all about summer. What these are are top down, windows down, sing along at the top of your voice, summer car songs. Fresh, breezy and fun.
(I'm sure I'm forgetting a lot of good ones. I'll add more when I think of them.)


"Hot Fun in the Summertime" by Sly and the Family Stone.
"In the Summertime" by Mungo Jerry.
"Vacation" by the Go Go's.
"The Boys are Back in Town" by Thin Lizzy.
"Low Rider" by War.
"Drivin'" by Pearl Harbor and the Explosions.
"Rockaway Beach"/"California Sun" (or almost anything) by the Ramones.
"Rock Lobster"/"Dry County"/"Love Shack" (or, again, almost anything) by The B-52's.
"Hot Little Summer Girl" by Enuff Z'Nuff.
"Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo" by Rick Derringer.
"Free Ride" by The Edgar Winter Group.
"I Want You to Want Me (original or live version)" by Cheap Trick.
"Let's Go" by The Cars.
"In the Street" by Big Star.
"Come and Get Your Love" by Redbone.
"The Joker" by The Steve Miller Band.
"Rock and Roll, Pt.2 (and Pt.1 - and a bunch of other stuff)" by Gary Glitter.
"Up Around the Bend"/"Green River" by Credence Clearwater Revival.
"Brandy" by Looking Glass.
"Green Eyed Lady" by Sugarloaf.
"More Than a Feeling" by Boston.
"Midnight at the Oasis" by Maria Muldaur.
"American Pie" by Don McLean.
"Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night.
"Goin' Up the Country" by Canned Heat.
"Brass in Pocket" by the Pretenders.
"Radiation Vibe" by Fountains of Wayne.
"Celebrate Summer"/"Bang a Gong (Get it On)" by T.Rex
"Genius of Love" by Tom Tom Club.
"Dance the Night Away" by Van Halen.
"Fox on the Run" by The Sweet.
"Foot Stompin' Music" by Grand Funk Railroad.
"Start Me Up" by The Rolling Stones.
"Hot Legs" by Rod Stewart.
"California Girls" by The Beach Boys or Diamond Dave (take your pick).
"Groovin'" by The Rascals.
"When I Think of You" by Janet Jackson.
"Summer in the City" by The Lovin' Spoonful.
"Saturday in the Park" by Chicago.
"Night Moves" by Bob Seger.
"Dancin' in the Street" by Martha and the Vandellas (or Bowie and Jagger).
"Take Me with You" by Prince.
"Poke Salad Annie" by Tony Joe White.
"Summer" by War.
"Spill the Wine" by Eric Burdon and War.
"Dancing in the Moonlight" by King Harvest.
"River's Risin'" by The Edgar Winter Group.

The Smithsonian just got a whole lot FUNKIER!

George Clinton has donated the Mothership to the Smithsonian Institute. Unfortunately, it was not the original one from the mid 70s. That one was tossed in a junkyard by the band's management. Can you imagine?

 

The end of an era.

I just finished watching Oprah's last show. I was strangely moved. First the world ends and now this. (I can hardly wait to see what's next.)
No big stars, nothing under the seats, no surprises, nobody got a car. Just Oprah (or "Orpah," as I call her) saying thanks and goodbye. Rather tasteful.

I'm doing it AGAIN!

I'm on the 6th book of the "Tales of the City" series ("Sure of You"). I just can't seem to stop (re)reading them. There's something comforting about being among people you know and love.

Naples, N.Y. 1978 (Some mementos.)

This is the necktie I pilfered from an upstairs closet in Tommy's grandmother's house. The jar contains some pebbles from Lake Canandaigua. That's my brother's old duffel bag that I hauled my stuff around in. And, of course, that's a can of Rochester's finest.

 

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.5)

We we're up in Naples for a couple of weeks. We spent our time messing around the house and going down to the lake to swim. Of course, all along the way, we had our never-ending conversation about any and every thing.
I remember walking down that long sloping road to the lake. It was harder walking down than coming back up. It's so odd - I have photographic memory of my shorts. They were white denim cut-offs. I had repaired a rip in them with a scrap of crazily colored synthetic fabric. I still remember the orange and golds of it. Such a strange detail to recall.
One day, on our way to the lake, we grabbed a huge inner tube from someone's yard and rolled it down the hill into the water. Something to float on.
Back at the house, at some point, Tommy came across someone's rifle. His grandmother said we could take it into the back yard and fire it. We shot into the vineyard. She stood on the porch and watched us, laughing and telling us to be careful.
Even though it's been almost 33 years, I can see everything about that old house in my mind: The walls, the floors, the upstairs bedroom - where I would lay in bed at night listening to my tiny cassette recorder (I had brought along a couple of tapes: "Relayer" by Yes and "Equinox" by Styx) - the dining room table, the fireplace, the kitchen, the bathroom with almost no water pressure, the yard, the barn, the vineyard, the lake and the hills beyond. I can see the house itself. I heard, years later, that his grandmother had died and the house had burned down. It seemed like a valuable piece of property. I'm sure there's a big McMansion on it now.
Tommy's step-grandmother told us once that she had always wanted to see the ocean. In all of her 85 years, she had never traveled more than 100 miles or so from home.
We never saw where Tommy's dad was buried. It seems like someone would have offered to take us there. I guess he just needed to connect with his family, somewhat. I think we kinda managed to do that, at least.
I've already described the trip home, in a previous posting from my journal (entitled: "Tuesday, August 22, 1978 [approximately 10:30 pm] Binghamton, N.Y."). I remember that, when I got home, I called a soda - or "drink," as they say in the south - a "pop," in front of my mom. She gave me a look as if to say, "You were only up there for 2 weeks..."

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.4)

The next day, a woman came to visit Tommy's step-grandmother. I'm kind fuzzy on this, but I think she was the ex-wife of the step-brother who lived in Texas. She had 3 kids with her - the step-grandmother's great-grandchildren. (Phew!) This woman, who was probably in her late 20s, seemed really mature to us. She took us all down to Lake Canandaigua to go swimming. I remember her talking about the heat wave they were having, even though it was only about 80 degrees. When we left N.C., it had been in the mid-nineties.
The lake was so large that it had small waves. We all ran off of the end of a little dock and jumped into the water. We had a great time. Tommy's ex-step-sister-in-law was cool. He told her that he had lost a joint at his grandmother's. She thought it would be hilarious if the grandmother found it.
While we played around in the water, she talked about her boyfriend's cabin, somewhere in the mountains. She said he had named it the "Wizard Lodge." As we were into Tolkien, we thought that was awesome. She told us that she had a little covert project that she needed some assistance with. Would we help her? Sure.
There was a golf course nearby that used a butterfly as their logo. All along the road to the lake, there were brightly colored metal signs, cut out in the shape of butterflies, as if to say, "This way to the golf course." Tommy's ex-step-sister-in-law wanted one of these for her boyfriend's cabin. Later that night, we went with her to snag a sign. We worked it out of the ground and threw it in the trunk of her car - post and all. I told her her boyfriend should re-name his lodge, "Iron Butterfly."
I remember her asking, in the car, how long we had known each other. Tommy told her that we had been best friends since the 5th grade. She thought it was extremely cool that we had stuck by each other all those years.

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.3)

Tommy's step mom said she would give us a ride back to his grandmother's house. She knew where it was. It's a small, rural community, so everyone knew everyone. On the way back, we stopped by the home of some other relative - Tommy's uncle, maybe. It was dusk and there were people sitting in the yard, talking. They were happy to see Tommy, all grown up. A man offered us a beverage from his cooler. They were drinking Genesee Cream Ales - which seemed to be a favorite in that area. They're brewed right up the road in Rochester, N.Y. I recognized the label from Tommy's grandmother's house. In the upstairs room where I slept, there was a hat, sitting on a dresser top, that someone had made by cutting out labels of Genesee cans and lacing them together with yarn. Most unusual.
The next day, back at the grandmother's, we did a little exploring around the house and barn. In the basement of the house, we found an old MG that his step-father's son (from his first marriage) was planning to restore. I think Tommy's older step-brother lived in Texas, at that time. Tommy told me that his step-brother's wife was an agent and that she represented the actor who played Chewbacca in "Star Wars." I was somewhat dubious, but he swore it was true. (Years later, after Tommy was long gone, I was having drinks with his sister, his step-sister and his mom. At one point, the conversation turned really serious and his sister told her mom that the step-brother had tried to rape her, once - and that she had never said anything about it, while her step-dad was alive. Her mom said no, no, I don't believe it. His sister was a tad high strung, so who knows?)
Upstairs, we plundered through the closets of our rooms (we were across the hall from each other). In Tommy's room, we found some old neckties. We each picked one out, to keep. I still have mine.
I remember that there was a picture on the wall, in the hall between our rooms, of Tommy's step-dad, as a boy, sitting on a mule. I told him I was going to tease him when I next saw him.

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.2)

Tommy and I decided to go to the house he had grown up in. As he hadn't been there since he was a kid, he only had a vague idea about the distance. We set out walking.
I remember seeing a dead raccoon on the road, which prompted a discussion about the particulars of his death. Tommy noted the grimace on his face, which left him with the impression that the raccoon had been struggling with a great task and had died giving it his all. I imagined him to be the leader of a raccoon tribe who risked his life to recon the highway in advance of the Great Raccoon Migration of '79. We both agreed he had expired heroically.
We walked and walked and walked.
We talked about someone from his childhood - a friend of his parents - named Chief Doughnut. There are lots of Native Americans in the Finger Lakes area. In fact, they're called the Finger Lakes because some believe that the Great Spirit rested his hand on the earth and left an imprint.
And we walked.
At one point, a large menacing dog ran out onto the road, and if his owner had not rushed to retrieve him, I'm quite sure he would have attacked us. I still remember that man. He was large and dark (vaguely Mediterranean), he wore a wife beater, and he was covered in black fur. I remember thinking that he had the hairiest back that I had ever seen. At any rate, we were very grateful that that big bear was able to subdue his Hell-hound.
It was cooler in New York than in North Carolina, but still it was August. And we had no water with us.
We walked.
At about mid day, we felt we could go no further without something with which to quench our epic thirsts. When we came upon a large ditch, we both stopped and ogled the water flowing through it. We had to convince each other that it wasn't a good idea to drink ditch water (there was talk about pollution and harmful micro-organisms). We were so thirsty that we had seriously considered it.
We walked.
After about 2 more miles, we saw a country store. God, were we happy to see that oasis! As I was paying for my beverage, I noticed a jar on the counter asking for donations to help the family of a local man who had recently died. That man was Tommy's dad.
Eventually we made it to Tommy's old house. He made the usual comments about how it looked so much smaller to him now.
There was a large bolder half buried in one corner of the front yard. Tommy said that it was a meteorite and that he remembered scientists coming out to study it.
His dad's wife was home. She invited us in. When we told her we had walked from his grandmother's house, she was surprised. She told us that we had trudged about 17 miles!

Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.1)

In the summer of 1978, when I was 17 years old, my best friend, Tommy, told me that he had gotten word that his dad had died. Tommy had been living with his mom and step dad in North Carolina for years. He hadn't had much, if any, contact with his dad in upstate New york. We decided, in August, to try to go up there to see his family.
Tommy's mom, dad and step dad had all grown up in the same area near Naples, NY. He got in contact with his step grandmother and she said we could stay with her. We bought Greyhound tickets and we were on our way.
The bus ride up took 25 hours! We stopped at bus stops in the middle of nowhere all along the way. We had to wait 4 hours, in D.C., for a connecting bus. I remember walking around D.C. in the middle of the night. I don't know what it looks like now, but in the 70s it was a slum. You could see the dome of the Capital building just blocks away from the run down area we were in. Looking back, it probably wasn't a great idea for 2 teenage white boys to be wandering around that area in the middle of the night.
When we arrived in New York, the bus station was in some nearby town and we had to walk to his grandmother's house. She lived in this really cool, run down , old, wooden two-story house. There was a barn next to it. Beyond her back yard, the land began to slope down toward Lake Canandaigua - one of the Finger Lakes. Between the house and the lake was her vineyard. On the other side of the lake were rolling green hills. It was beautiful. I would move there now, if I could. His grandmother's grapes were made into Taylor wines, among many others. The old Taylor label looked like her back yard.
His grandmother, who was 85 years old, lived in this ancient house by herself - if you didn't count her dog Traveler. There were some grand-kids and great-grand-kids living nearby who would drop in occasionally, but with most of the men in the family gone, she wasn't able to assertively manage the vineyard. I think she was making just enough to pay taxes on her property.
I remember her huge, old fashioned stove and her unsweetened iced tea. I remember her sitting at night, next to a lamp, reading through Coke bottle glasses. I recall her telling tales about the people in the area (there's a lot of insanity in the Finger Lakes region).

"...and I feel fine."

Skeeter Davis asked, "Don't they know it's the end of the world?"
Both of my sisters are religimous (both are married to preachers) and they don't seem to be worried. They're making mundane plans for the weekend. Although, my younger sister (whose birthday is today) is selling her cemetery plots tomorrow. Does that mean anything?
It's so strange, she used to think I was crazy when I said I wanted to be cremated. Almost like it was blasphemous. Now, she's planning on getting cremated - so it's ok. She was like that when I buzzed my hair in the 80s. She came over and had a talk with me. What was I doing? Did I want people to think I was weird? Someone asked her if I was sick. Or maybe I had just got out of prison. This from the woman who thought my long hair was a disgrace. The funny thing was that, within a couple of years, all of her sons - and their sons - had buzzed hair. Hey, I'm a trend setter.
My next door neighbors are getting married in their yard tomorrow. I guess they're not concerned about the end of the world. Talk to them in a few years and see how they feel.
I asked my dog, Scooter, how he was doing. He had a pretty good day today, as far as I'm concerned. He got to go outside for several hours while I mowed, he got fresh water and leftover spaghetti for dinner (he LOVES spaghetti), he had a bath (which makes him feel frisky) and got to sniff the cat's butt on the doorstep. What a life!
I mentioned, in an earlier post, that I received a letter from a ghost the other day. I wrote the ghost back. I gave the ghost my email address. I'm waiting on a reply.
I fertilized my tomatoes, watermelons and squash today. I hope it will be beneficial and not, you know, burn them up. I don't know what kind of fertilizer it was. It looked like a mixture with ammonium nitrate in it. Someone told me that tomato plants will grow well with nitrogen, but the fruit won't amount to anything. We'll see.
I'm getting a new mattress tomorrow. Well, it's not exactly new. My sister told me the history of it and it was such a saga that I drifted off somewhere in the middle. When I came back around, she was still saying things like, "And then it went to so-and-so, she used it for a while, until she moved, then the whatch-a-ma-call-ems got it, and they used it until they got a new one, and - finally - it came back to me." Still, it's got to be better than the one I'm currently sleeping on.
The story of my life.

The last day. (Should I mow my yard or just let it go?)

I don't have a lot to say - but since the world is going to end tomorrow, I thought I should probably chime in with something.
Actually, I have a lot on my mind, but as far as saying it - I don't think so. Not now.
If not now(to quote Tommy Chong's dad in "Up in Smoke"), "When, boy, when?!" The end is not only nigh, it's tomorrow!
Will it happen as soon as the clock strikes 12? If it does happen like that, instantaneously, I'm assuming the kick-off will be 12 AM American time. (Oh, Jeez, we have all those time zones. Central?) We ARE the center of the universe, right?
Will it just go BOOM?! Or, will it happen gradually over the day?
Will there be Fire and brimstone? A nuclear happening? Or will it be rain and floods? I guess a plague or disease would take too long. Me? I'm for getting it over with. Let's not drag it out.
What will happen to all of those people who have given their things away? You know, if the world doesn't end? I almost hope it doesn't happen, just to hear their excuses. Do you think they'll ask for their things back?
Maybe God will change his mind. Can he do that? Or is everything locked in? And if it IS locked in, what chance have we ever had, anyway? I think we did pretty well, considering the possibility that the game was fixed all along.
I'm just pissed off that I never got a flying car. They promised us flying cars in the future and here we are at the end of time. No flying cars. Also, I wanted a monkey - but that's another story.

My past.

I got a letter from a ghost yesterday.

My strange interest in religimous art.

Remembrance of first holy communion and St. Expedite.
St. Expedite may not even be an actual saint - or an actual person. There's a lot of myth around him. He is usually depicted holding a cross with the word "hodie" written on it - Latin for "today." He stands on a crow (a symbol of the devil) with a banner in its mouth which reads, "cras." "Cras" means "tomorrow."
St. Expedite is the patron saint of rapidity and urgent causes. Some say he's the unofficial patron saint of nerds and slackers. In Haitian Voodoo (or Voodou), he is associated with sex, death, cemeteries and children.
I found these laminated cards in a book about St. Francis of Assisi. I wish the gold embossing of the originals translated better to the computer screen.

 

 

In a dream, last night...

To tell TBOGL about the dream I had last night, I'm going to have to leave out some of the disgusting details, I think - specifically pertaining to a diseased prostitute. I feel as if I've said too much already.
There's not much you can do about the contents of your dreams.
I often have dreams where I'm with a woman who's a composite of several of the women I've been with in my life. I was with her last night. We rode, in a yellow Mustang convertible, to a garage. She was driving. We were not a couple anymore, but more like friends. When we got to the garage, she went into the office and spoke to the owner about why her husband (Charley?) wasn't at work. Apparently, he worked at the garage. It seemed as if maybe they were on the verge of breaking up and he was generally throwing his life away, as men are wont to do under such circumstances.
I was lying on the garage floor, propped up on my elbows, waiting for the composite woman, when I noticed the big roll-up doors were going down. They were closing early because of some sort of storm. I looked out. The sky was dark and lightning flashed.
We left and went to a motel. Oprah was on the TV. Her guest was some black guy trying to set a sexual record. He came out on stage, naked, having sex with a naked woman, who had her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. They pooched thusly as he ran across the stage, pushing a grand piano in the process. (I know, it almost sounds like a set-up for "The Aristocrats.")
The composite woman somehow procured a prostitute for a friend of mine who had magically appeared in the motel room. I don't know who my friend was. He was a vague entity. The prostitute was sick and disgusting. The women went into the bathroom, and without getting into too many vile details, the prostitute left a bathtub full of bloody water, which seemed to set off a catastrophic chain of events, once the plug was pulled and it flowed down the drain. Step by step, domino-like, the earth, life, existence itself began to erode and extinguish - until it reached its lowest level, its basest form - no, not atomic, but rock. At the core of our world's actuality are rock people. I was there. I saw them. Their leader was a rock priest. They were worried - and rightly so - for they realized that they were the last defense against annihilation. Then, in what was an ominous indication of the degeneration of the situation, the rock god appeared. He was humongous and spoke in a deep, weary voice. He asked for "The Pencil." Was he going to write something? An antidote to the ghastly ills plaguing Existence? The priest reverently removed "The Pencil" from a rocky shelf. When he did, a pebble fell, then another, and another, until a gigantic mountain crumbled - destroying the rock people and their god.
I stood, in the distance, against the yellow Mustang. There was nothing now but a rocky, desert landscape. Dry, dusty and barren. I slid under the wheel and drove off.

This and that. Nothing, really.

I spent this entire weekend without talking to anyone. Well, anyone I know. I spoke to some checkout people in stores. Hello. How are you? Thank you. I feel like I have to find something to do with myself. Something positive that I'm physically able to do. But, everything seems to be on hold, for now. I'm waiting on the roll of the bones.
It's annoying to me to have to hear other people's cell phone conversations. You're a physical presence, but someone from somewhere else takes center stage - via a little plastic device - and everyone present is expected to sit quietly and patiently while the chat happens. Riding in a car with my 66 year old, religious sister, recently, I heard her have a phone conversation about Lady Gaga. Most disconcerting. What a strange culture we live in. Everyone knows a little about everything.
Chaz Bono is everywhere these days. He had to borrow money from friends to have his sex change - a child of Cher's! I'm happy he's happy, but I feel a bit inundated by the media blitz. They always say the same thing: "If I can help just one person by telling my story..."
I watched "Get on the Bus" again, today. I think it's one of Spike's best. Who doesn't love Ossie Davis?
I have to go to my doctor's office, tomorrow, and have some blood-work done. It's this whole Warfarin thing. God, I hate drugs.
I know I said I feel like I need to find something to do with myself (see opening paragraph), but at the same time, I wonder how I ever accomplished all the things I used to when I was working. Maybe it's because I now have only a tenth of the energy I once had. If I vacuum my bedroom and my living-room, I have to lie down and rest.
I just finished reading a small novel (I would say novella, but it plainly says, "A NOVEL" below the title. I once knew a large lesbian named Novella. But, I digress...) by Joyce Carol Oates. It was a story about an influential, liberal, somewhat playboy-ish, democratic senator from New England who drunkenly drives his car off the road into a body of water, killing the young girl with him (not his wife). "Thinly veiled" doesn't even begin to describe it. Very odd.
I'm going to bed now. I'm tired.

Personal ad.

"Equine sports, tennis, B-ball, soccer, jogging, swimming, water-skiing, camping, baseball, hiking."

I'm exhausted just reading it...

"A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us."

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery.)

Will a series of events awaken a mob?

In a dream, last night...

Gunter Grass said, "I know to tell a dream is to tell it badly."
Here goes:
I was in a huge department store with my ex-wife. Apparently we were still married. The store was very dark. There were no lights on. We became separated and I wandered around, not really looking for anything in particular. People kept coming up to me and asking if I were me. They said my name. Yes I am. They would then imply that I had ordered a large amount of propane, in oddly small, slim tanks and that I owed the store money. No, I didn't. It's a mistake of some sort. As I went through the store, more and more people would come up to me and suggest the same thing. I would say, no, no, and try to get away from them.
As I was walking away from a couple of these strangely annoying - and quite mistaken - sales people, someone sidled up to me, grabbed my arm and led me down a dark and quiet aisle. It was my ex-mother-in-law. She said she and her husband were going to help me get out of this situation. The section of the store she led me into was where they sold beds. We sat down on a bed and I noticed that my (ex) wife and her sisters were on an adjacent bed. We started talking about my alleged propane bill problem.
There was an odd 3D picture of my (ex) wife on the bed on which I sat. In it, she was a good bit younger. She had on a necklace and I could just barely make out that it had some writing on it. I tried to tilt the picture, as one might do with a 3D image, to better read the writing on her necklace. I couldn't make it out.
The next thing I know, I'm in a grocery store and I run into an old Sunday school teacher. She had her cart parked against another woman's cart and they are talking. As I walked by, she acknowledged me and asked if I wanted some Cool Whip. I told her sure, but that I was going to buy HER a tub of Cool Whip. (I really was, but I don't know why.) She looked at me as if there was something wrong with me and handed me the Cool Whip. I noticed that she also had a much larger tub of store brand dairy topping in her cart - which she kept.
Then I was on laying on a couch in a restaurant parking lot, somewhere. I was talking to someone who sat on the end of the couch. I saw a little red car, an older Acura coupe, still in good shape, pull into the parking lot. Then I got a call on my cell phone from the driver. It was my old friend Mike ("Big Mac Mikey B.") who died 20 years ago. We had worked in a restaurant together. It was as if he were still alive and just a little older than he had been when I knew him. Now, he was the manager of this establishment. He was talking about one of his employees, Kevin, that he sometimes had to pick up and give a ride to work. He said, you remember Kevin that we used to work with. I did. I couldn't believe that Kevin was still washing dishes. Mike said he sometimes wished he had an old hooptie to go around and pick up these employees with.
Then, a cat came up to me as I lay on the couch (in the parking lot...). I knew it as my old cat Butterbean, but it looked nothing like her. Butterbean was a tailless gray tabby. This cat was yellow and white and had a tail. As I was petting "Butterbean," she began to bite me - playfully at first, but soon, it was almost unbearable. She would bite down hard and not let go. I tried to get her off of my hand by attempting to pry her jaws open. She would hiss and snarl and bite down again. I would free myself and push her away, but she kept coming back.
Then I woke up.

People used to love me.

Hey there,

I hope you are feeling better today. I just woke up about an hour ago and I am thinking about you. You are so good to me that I could never thank you enough. This has (sic) been some very hard times for me lately, emotionally and financially. You have been right there for me and I am so proud to be with such a handsome guy! If you ever need me, I will be right here for you. I see things getting much better really soon.

Love,
J.

A mish-mash, hodge-podge, a melange, if you will...

I seem to encounter incompetence everywhere I go, these days. Whether it's a new, evolving (de-volving?) condition plaguing mankind or I've just become more sensitive to an existing malady, whether I'm less patient or I'm imagining it - I can't say.

The following, while somewhat interesting, is from a chain letter/spam email I received (from a friend, no less):
July 2011 will have 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays. This only happens every 823 years.
Some interesting dates this year will include: 1/1/11, 1/11/11, 11/1/11 and 11/11/11.
If you take the last 2 digits of the year you were born and add the age you will be this year, the answer - for everyone - will be 111.

As George Clinton would say, "Everything is on the one!"

My health? It's up and down. It changes from minute to minute.

It's raining - a nice cool, steady shower. Great for gardens. (My watermelons and squash have sprouted. My Roma tomato plants are looking good.)

I just finished "An Odor of Sanctity." I've probably read it 5 or 6 times, over the years. On page 357, Alaric Teudisson remarks, "...I sometimes think that theology is the tribute that nonsense pays to sense."

I found a nickle from the Bahamas the other day. On the flip side is a coat of arms. Last night, as I was doing a crossword puzzle, one of the clues was "Island nation with a marlin and flamingo on its coat of arms." I thought, "Hey!"

I just had a small thing. Like I said, up and down. Minute to minute.

I'm living outside of society, these days. I'm in a sort of limbo. (Those 2 sentences have conjured up 2 songs. Guess what they are, for 10 points.)

I'm having another thing. Gotta go.

I'm back, several hours later. I'm ok. I'm ok...

I'm not sure what this means, if anything.

I just finished watching the Judds on OWN. This was the final show of the series. I don't know what it is, but I find them compelling. Of course their final song of the tour was "Love Can Build a Bridge." That song always makes me cry.
I flipped to PBS just as "Eastenders" was coming on. I used to watch that every week. I started playing the piano bit from the theme song on Scooter, as he lay across my lap. Then it hit me: I used to do that every Sunday night with my beloved dog Pooky. She would lay straight across my lap and I would play the "Eastenders" theme song on her, as if she were a piano. What's really weird is Scooter usually curls up on my lap. Tonight, he was a perfect piano. When I realized what I was doing, I felt surprised - and sad.
Ok, I know - I'm weird. I'm a weird, sad, confused, lonely man. Thank goodness for Scooter. (He's as weird as I am, in his doggy way.)

Sliding with Jarod.

Ok. Yeah. So, this Jarod Reactor - our Jarod - has liquefied. Like quicksilver, fragile and cool, he pours down the skins of things and drips into the dirt. Maybe that's where he belongs. Maybe there has to be a gritty component.
Dirt.
Everything comes from dirt.
Everything comes to dirt.
Dirt.
But he's moving, he is. There's a point there, isn't there?
I think so.
From the moon drenched rooftops to the earth below - it's the slow slide.
Do it! Do the Slow Slide!
Elegant and primitive, crude and divine, let the emotional motion move you forward.
You can't fight it anyway, Jarod. Be a good boy. Slide.
Mingling with the base and the basic, Jarod trudges on.
Hero? Anti-hero? Zero?
Keep your hands in your pockets, keep your eyes looking forward, keep your thoughts to yourself. Move through this rigid production. Beware of the applicable superstitions. Know your lines. You've got to keep moving. You have to make it through that door.
An odor, a color, a texture, and everything comes flooding back.
Sing out! Sing out!
Everything is everything. And nothing means anything.
A desperate stranglehold on the life force and away we go!
Ride it, Mercurial Cowboy!
Oh, to look at things, to touch things, to taste things.
Things.
Silver things.
Dirty things.
Oh, the things you say.
Oh, the things you do.
Pick up a brush, a pen. Anything to ward off the cataclysm of a sexual explosion.
(Yes, our boy is a sexual being.)
The base. The basic.
I wish I could say "celebrate" and mean it. I remember when I could.
Not anymore.
Quicksilver in the dirt.
Slide with our boy Jarod Reactor. Hold his hand.
He could use some gleaming empathy.
You've got some.
Release it.
Release yourself.

Books - and the things you find in them.

I've read almost everything in my house (other than rather dry classics by Jane Austen and George Eliot and "The Brothers Karamozov," in which I can't seem to get a foothold) and have begun re-reading books. I am currently re-reading Frank Yerby's "An Odor of Sanctity." I love that book. Frank was an interesting guy.
I went to the Goodwill store, today, for the sole purpose of picking up some new reading material. The pickings were rather slim, but I did find a couple of Toni Morrisons (have I already read "Sula?") and Salman Rushdie's "The Satanic Verses." I can't believe that book was published in 1988. Tempus is fugiting.
As I've written about in previous posts, I love finding notes and other "clues" in used books, and I lucked up with Morrison's "A Mercy." On the opening page, there was an inscription that read, "Good reading, Leah. Critique it for me, will you? Love, Grandma Janet and Grandpa Alden." Then, I noticed a scrap of paper in the middle of the book. It said:

Jan.26, 2009
Dear Leah,
Trust you're basking in warm sun while of course either creating a poem or piece of art. Yes?
We're freezing. It's like Vermont.
Talked with Rachel last Friday and she seems good, is touching base with a therapist, a woman who knew Kristen and was a member of U.U. Church they went to. Maddie is skiing once a week with school and loving it.
Amanda and Megan are in Brewster being solitary and writing and I hope not freezing. Allie's at Bridgewater State with an apartment in Middleboro.
Sorry this is late. I didn't finish it. Been housebound for a week with a heavy respiratory problem, but on the mend.
Hope you saw some of the inauguration. The benediction by Rev. Lowery was outstanding.
Peace and love,
Grandma J.

P.S.
I'm recycling Joanna's fine taste in wrap, knowing you'd appreciate it.

The heroes of my youth - in their original regalia.

 

 

The Mighty Marvel Universe.

The Thor movie is out - oddly enough entitled, "Thor." Now, when I was a kid, you were either a D.C. guy or a Marvel guy. Make mine Marvel! I was a true believer. 'Nuff said! So, I was rather excited, in my limited range, to hear about the Marvel films about to be unleashed: Thor, Captain America and The Avengers.
After sneak peaks at these films, however, I'm somewhat let down. Why do they have to change the characters' appearances so drastically? I want the superheroes of my youth. I want the pretty, clean shaven Thor, with the spandex and long blond tresses (as untrue to the Norse myths as that may be). I want the original red, white and blue Cap costume. Is it that Hollywood can't find actors muscled enough to fill out these outfits? Is that why they use this molded, plastic looking gear? And why does it have to be so drab? I want the vibrant hues of the classic Marvel characters.
Ahh, nostalgia. Lou Reed said, "I don't like nostalgia - unless it's mine."

"Spill the wine / da da da..."

I've been somewhat obsessed with the lyrics to Eric Burdon and War's "Spill the Wine" for some years now. Great song, love to sing along, but what the heck is he saying?
"Spill the wine / dig that girl?"
"Spill the wine / take that girl?"
"Spill the wine / take that pearl?"
Someone online suggested, "Cool ride / tic tac toe."
There have been suggestions that there are references to Ibsen's "Peer Gynt" and "Hamlet."
After much listening, researching and consideration - taking into account the culture of the times in which it was written - I have settled on:
"Spill the wine / take that pearl." ("Pearl" being a vague sexual reference. In a live version, he says something like, "Take it in your mouth and roll it around...")
Now, there's the question of the part in the background with a girl speaking Spanish. I haven't a clue. (Rumor has it that she was Jimi Hendrix's girlfriend.)
Of course, Eric Burdon's not talking. Like Carly Simon, he knows the value of mystery.

This is where I am.

I haven't been blogging. (If you're a blogger, you know the thing about not being one of those people who blog about not blogging. Sorry.) I've had a lot going on, lately - physically and mentally.
I keep playing phone tag with UNC medicaid eligibility councilors. They call me and I miss it. I call them back and leave a message.
Laying in bed last night, unable to sleep, I did 3 crossword puzzles, a Jumble and a Find a Word. I then began picking up books - some I've read, some I haven't - and skimming through them. "Juliette" by the Marquis de Sade. "Mansfield Park" by Jane Austen. "The Sound and the Fury" By Will.i.am Faulkner. And some others. I couldn't make heads or tails of the opening chapter of "The Sound and the Fury." Who are these interchanging people? What the heck are they talking about? Maybe it was just me, but that book - at least the beginning - is a mess. And those "southern" accents!
My sister loaned me the book "The Flags of Our Fathers." It's about the men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima in WWII (yes, that famous photo), after what was probably the most bloody battle in history. I'm not much of a war or history buff, but it was a good read. It makes you feel ashamed to complain about anything, after what those guys went through.
I slept a little last night, without a sleep aid - although it was after 3 o'clock before I dozed.
I got a message from a friend of mine who suggested, "Let's do something fun this weekend." That's part of my problem. No one understands that fun is out of the question for me at this point. I'm just trying to get to the point where I can go to the grocery store without fear of something happening.
I'm on coumadin now, so I have to be tested weekly. My blood level has to be within a very tight range. I went to a small clinic in a nearby town to be tested. It's a first come/first serve clinic. I described it in an earlier post, but I'm going to reiterate my experience. I was there before they opened the door. No one really acknowledged me. The place is awful. It looks dirty and it smells funny. The nurses and office girls were crowded into the little reception booth eating breakfast. Someone came to the front door, stuck his head in and called out someone's name. "Tell her I got a new dog." The whole office rushed out to see the dog - even the PA (there is no doctor there).
I finally got my blood test done. This was Friday. "Call back Tuesday," they said (it was the Easter weekend). Ok. I called back Tuesday. They were closed. I guess they decided to take an extra day off. I called back Wednesday. "Call back this afternoon," they said. I called later that day. "Call back tomorrow." It was Friday before I got my results. One week.
I changed to a doctor's office up the road. Good idea.
This place is new and clean and everyone is very professional. The doctor was confident and knowledgeable. He called me the next day (a real doctor actually called me - himself) after my coumadin check (the results of which I got back in one day) and said I may have a thyroid problem. That would mean more medication. And it's the amiodarone that I'm currently taking that's probably causing the problem.
That sucks, but at least he caught it. That other place should be shut down.
I'm no longer receiving unemployment compensation. I can't be on that and apply for disability. I'm in a scary place, right now. Nothing is for sure and there's no money coming in. And, here's a funny thing that's happening: I have no money, but my bills keep getting bigger. More drugs. My car insurance has doubled. More doctor visits. And, of course, the price of gas.
How am I feeling? Other than being really concerned and feeling as if my future has been wiped out, I'm doing a little better. Maybe I'm adjusting to the meds. Of course, I'll soon have MORE meds to adjust to. It just never ends.
My sister keeps saying, "Take one day at a time." It's so hard to live that way. Robert Duvall tells his nephew, in "A Family Thing," that the secret to life is to have something to look forward to. That no longer feels like an option to me.

In a dream, last night...

My sleeping problem continues. I slept a little last night, woke up early this morning, then, eventually, fell back asleep. When I did, I had a crazy dream.
I was an adult (I'm not sure what age, exactly) and I was with my mom. One of my sisters was there. I can't remember which one. I was holding the old Silvertone guitar my dad used to have. They were cheap guitars, but now they're collectors items (think Jack White or Beck). I strummed a few chords and they sounded awesome - real jazzy. My mom gave me a disapproving look. She made some negative remarks. I knew, in the dream, that she had never loved me. I said as much to her. Me, her and my sister got into an argument, but my mom remained cool, detached and disdainful throughout. Did I say cool? Cold.
I tried to play the guitar again. Nothing came out right. I couldn't play.
I attempted to get others to see my position (my cousin showed up, at one point). Everyone made me feel as if I were nuts. "Your mom raised you and took care of you! How disrespectful..!" But, I knew, in my heart, that my mom had never loved me. I felt so alone.
In another part of the dream, I was a child, riding a bicycle in my sister's house. My niece, who is only 11 months younger than me, was riding also, with her dad on the back. I rode out into the yard and then into the woods. I found a puppy. She was a mixed breed, and even though she was a baby, she was quite large. I picked her up and kept riding. Further in the woods, I found the rest of the litter. While the first puppy was mostly black and seemed to be part Spaniel, the rest looked like St. Bernards - mixed with some other large dog. There were about 6 of them. The rest of the puppies were wilder than mine (yes, I had decided to keep her) and I couldn't catch them.
Upon inspecting my puppy, I noticed her belly was covered in red bumps, like the measles. My cat (my long gone Bo?) casually reached out and dug his claws into the puppy's belly, as if doing his own inspection. I had to remove his paw from the poor diseased puppy. I took her to the vet. I told him I was concerned about the rest of the puppies in the woods, as the high at the end of the week was going to be 19 degrees - even though it was late spring. I couldn't see any way those puppies would survive.