My first pool visit of the season.
Last year, nearly no one was there from 11am to 1pm. Every time I came out, I had the pool to myself.
This time, for my 2018 debut at 11:15am on May 28: A couple were there already. They had some some sort of modern-day "disc" that the girl was throwing for the guy to dive and catch. And they were overtly whooping-and-hollering about it.
When I appeared, I immediately took over the left side of the pool for my breast-strokes and backwards-kickoffs.
It's awkward with a small pool. Those two kept throwing the disc for a bit, and then my overt presence got a bit awkward. (At one point, I jumped into the pool and my waves shot the disc directly into the drainage hole --- I pretended I didn't notice while the guy went over and scooped the disc out of the hole).
Finally, the guy sent the girl back to his/their apartment for beers in coozies. After the girl returned with the beers, they then sat pool-side and didn't move much. I had on dark glasses, so could watch without being observed: The overweight girl was very subservient and gentle and loving: I was 10 ft away from them, and she was always making eye-contact and smiling and congratulating him for something.
I outlasted them.
I watched as they walked out: The fat chick opened the gate for the guy and then walked a step behind him on their sidewalk home. (Note: The only time I've ever seen a woman open any door for any man is if she's fat.)
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Thursday, May 24, 2018
Get Happy?
As a gay person, I've been told for the past 30 years that I should love Judy Garland much more than I do. In truth, I don't like her very much at all. Her life story is shitty; I've never read an interesting word out of her mouth; I hate the "look at me trying so hard/LOVE ME" schtick. (She's technically a very good singer, but then so are Barbra Streisand and Mariah Carey --- they also bore me.)
Trying to get over my Judy-anemia, I recently ordered the "Get Happy" bio by Gerald Clarke, whose bio of Capote I really liked, and then the Carnegie Hall album (said by all online to be a classic) plus a 4-CD set. The book, I got a couple of weeks ago and read in a day: At the end of it, I didn't care one whit for Judy Garland! I didn't feel a thing for her. Other than my usual, since learning of her in my teens: "What a sloppy, depressing mess." The CDs haven't arrived yet ---maybe Carnegie Hall will lead to my Great Awakening...
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
The Unwanted
Oh, let's see... I haven't spent the past two Christmases with family (mother, brother/wife/2 nephews), all of whom live in the same town as I do.
Christmas Eve 2016: I arrived at my mother's house. Her first question to me when I walked in her home: "Where's your car?" I'd parked down the street, so I said, "Down the street." She then repeated: "Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car?" I then repeated: "I parked DOWN THE STREET." She then repeated: "Where's your car?"
At that point, I dropped my bags full of Christmas gifts in her living room and walked out the door, telling her, "I can't take this bullshit any more."
That was the end of my Christmas 2016. The Eve was planned for my mother's house; the Day the next day was supposed to be at my brother's. He didn't call to ask what had happened and why I wasn't there (didn't expect him to).
I didn't speak to any of them until April 2017, when I moved into a new apartment, and invited my mother over for Mother's Day in May. I asked her then what had happened to all of the Christmas presents that I left back in December... Oh, they were all still sitting in a bag in her living room.
Later in May 2017 was my nephew's birthday. My mother brought my still-sitting-around Christmas bag of presents to our lunch for my nephew. We quickly opened the presents IN THE PARKING LOT of the restaurant.
In August 2017, my mother called and let me know that she was seeing a lawyer the next day re her will. Five years earlier, it had been me and my brother splitting her legacy 50/50. Three years earlier, she had told me that I would get one-third, my brother would get one-third, and the two nephews would split the other one-third. In August 2017, turned out I was to get her house --- but 50% of that would be co-owned with my brother! And the whole inheritance would be split 25% apiece with me/brother/nephew 1/nephew 2.
No way. The one thing I needed in this world was a home. (I'm doing OK otherwise, just cannot afford a home.) And like hell I'm going to live in a home that my brother has any control over. And like hell I think some tweens should be in control of hundreds of thousands of dollars when I myself have worked my ass off throughout my life (currently having $501 subtracted from my paycheck every month to pay off my student loan that my parents didn't bother saving up for or paying for).
I haven't spoken to her since.
Thanksgiving, Christmas 2017 = spent alone, of course.
2018: My older nephew just turned 16 over the last weekend. I sent a birthday card, with a $50 gift card. I was on-hand in the hospital in 2002 when this kid was born. I've been around him ever since. I mailed the card last Thursday, heard nothing all weekend. (Was kind of hoping for an invite to celebrate.) Monday, I e-mailed my brother at his work: "Did you get my birthday card and gift cards?" Answer on Tuesday: "Yes, thanks."
Wow. I had to fish for ANY response. (I was hoping that someone would say "thank you" before I had to ask --- does the 16-year-old know about manners? Why didn't his parents teach him?)
The younger nephew's 13th birthday is coming up in July. I'll send a card and present to him then. And that's the end of any family connection at all, I guess. It's very sad. I'm being forced into Nothing.
Christmas Eve 2016: I arrived at my mother's house. Her first question to me when I walked in her home: "Where's your car?" I'd parked down the street, so I said, "Down the street." She then repeated: "Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car?" I then repeated: "I parked DOWN THE STREET." She then repeated: "Where's your car?"
At that point, I dropped my bags full of Christmas gifts in her living room and walked out the door, telling her, "I can't take this bullshit any more."
That was the end of my Christmas 2016. The Eve was planned for my mother's house; the Day the next day was supposed to be at my brother's. He didn't call to ask what had happened and why I wasn't there (didn't expect him to).
I didn't speak to any of them until April 2017, when I moved into a new apartment, and invited my mother over for Mother's Day in May. I asked her then what had happened to all of the Christmas presents that I left back in December... Oh, they were all still sitting in a bag in her living room.
Later in May 2017 was my nephew's birthday. My mother brought my still-sitting-around Christmas bag of presents to our lunch for my nephew. We quickly opened the presents IN THE PARKING LOT of the restaurant.
In August 2017, my mother called and let me know that she was seeing a lawyer the next day re her will. Five years earlier, it had been me and my brother splitting her legacy 50/50. Three years earlier, she had told me that I would get one-third, my brother would get one-third, and the two nephews would split the other one-third. In August 2017, turned out I was to get her house --- but 50% of that would be co-owned with my brother! And the whole inheritance would be split 25% apiece with me/brother/nephew 1/nephew 2.
No way. The one thing I needed in this world was a home. (I'm doing OK otherwise, just cannot afford a home.) And like hell I'm going to live in a home that my brother has any control over. And like hell I think some tweens should be in control of hundreds of thousands of dollars when I myself have worked my ass off throughout my life (currently having $501 subtracted from my paycheck every month to pay off my student loan that my parents didn't bother saving up for or paying for).
I haven't spoken to her since.
Thanksgiving, Christmas 2017 = spent alone, of course.
2018: My older nephew just turned 16 over the last weekend. I sent a birthday card, with a $50 gift card. I was on-hand in the hospital in 2002 when this kid was born. I've been around him ever since. I mailed the card last Thursday, heard nothing all weekend. (Was kind of hoping for an invite to celebrate.) Monday, I e-mailed my brother at his work: "Did you get my birthday card and gift cards?" Answer on Tuesday: "Yes, thanks."
Wow. I had to fish for ANY response. (I was hoping that someone would say "thank you" before I had to ask --- does the 16-year-old know about manners? Why didn't his parents teach him?)
The younger nephew's 13th birthday is coming up in July. I'll send a card and present to him then. And that's the end of any family connection at all, I guess. It's very sad. I'm being forced into Nothing.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Friday, May 18, 2018
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
In Cold Blood
Finished re-reading Capote's 1965 "In Cold Blood" last night. I remember the first read was as a tween living out in the country (an RFD address 40 miles to the west of Fort Worth) in the mid '70s, a book from my parents' bookshelf. Unlike last night, when I finished the book and had the anodyne of TV and 10-ft-away neighbors to assuage the disturbance, the first read was especially scary. As a 12- or 13-year-old, I didn't yet fully understand the history of Perry Smith's psyche, but what I did understand was: I'm out in the country as that family was. I've put the book down now, and now I am alone in the dead of night listening to whatever sticks crackle outside my window...
Last night, at exactly 9:35pm, I was onto the last 50 pages or so, and then: BANG-BANG-BANG! on my apartment door. I was on edge anyway because of the subject matter, plus no one now comes to my door after dark... I leapt up and yelled out in my toughest voice, "WHO IS IT?" Turned out to be a DoorDash food delivery guy, meant for the complex next door. (That alter-ego chick, "Monica," has quite the after-hours life: I've had 3 errant deliveries for her, plus one police call, in the past 4 months.)
The Mader family bought the Clutter family house in 1990. Here are links (1) to a 2005 article page that includes photos of the house today and (2) to an interview with Donna Mader when the Maders were trying unsuccessfully to sell the house:
http://www.hauntedcolorado.net/In_Cold_Blood_House.html
http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2005/apr/06/in_the_end/
From the second link:
Three of the four upstairs bedrooms Herb Clutter designed for his family still remain as bedrooms. All but the biggest, which was Kenyon Clutter's, bear a distinctly feminine touch. The smallest, formerly Nancy Clutter's, has been converted into a computer room.
"We used to have a bed in there, but the kids won't sleep in there," Donna says.
A practical woman, she is more interested in cabinet space than who used to sleep where. She can't help but wonder why, when the killers shut them in the bathroom, the Clutters didn't block the door with the cupboard drawers.
With the drawers pulled out, Donna says as she demonstrates, the killers couldn't have re-entered the bathroom, and the Clutters might have escaped through a window.
-------------------------------------------
Donna Mader's latter-day, highly insouciant theory --- that a mere pulled-out-drawer in the bathroom could have saved the family --- is chilling for several reasons. (1) It's true. (2) Herb Clutter didn't think of such a simple thing at the time because he had no concept that his family was in danger of being murdered. It was a robbery, that was all. Don't make the intruders mad. (3) Donna Mader didn't put herself in the Clutters' place; her assumption that they could/should have saved themselves is an utterly dumb, but commonplace, fallacy. When we hear of bad things happening to innocent people, we almost always try to figure out what the VICTIMS (!) did wrong. It's too frightening to think that perhaps there is indeed an utter randomness to the universe --- that Evil (Chaos) strikes at will, and that there's no way in hell we can be prepared for it, unless we want to live a completely paranoid existence.
A p.s.: In October of 1977, my father, after coming home drunk from bar-hopping in his suede going-out jacket and gold chain, demanded that my mother have sex with him. When she refused, he grabbed her, and I was sent to my room. I waited a minute and then peered out of my room down the hall: My mother had pulled the gold chain from his neck and was kneeling at his feet on the carpet. My father then went for his gun, kept at the top of the hall closet, and my mother ran. I closed my door. I heard a gun-shot, then silence. After about a half-hour, I snuck out of my room into the dark house... My father was by then snoring in my parents' bedroom; I did not see my mother anywhere in the house. I peered out the back door, then opened the door to the garage: there my mother was, huddling. I told her that Daddy was asleep, she motioned me back into the house...
Point of the story? Anybody could have been murdered that night. My mother could have been shot, my father could have then shot me and/or himself. (My 6-year-old brother, long asleep at the time and a favorite of both my parents, was probably exempt.)
I was very lucky that I wasn't murdered that night. At that moment, I was thinking like Herb Clutter: "This type of thing doesn't happen." Later, I learned that it could have very well happened. It happens all the time.
Last night, at exactly 9:35pm, I was onto the last 50 pages or so, and then: BANG-BANG-BANG! on my apartment door. I was on edge anyway because of the subject matter, plus no one now comes to my door after dark... I leapt up and yelled out in my toughest voice, "WHO IS IT?" Turned out to be a DoorDash food delivery guy, meant for the complex next door. (That alter-ego chick, "Monica," has quite the after-hours life: I've had 3 errant deliveries for her, plus one police call, in the past 4 months.)
The Mader family bought the Clutter family house in 1990. Here are links (1) to a 2005 article page that includes photos of the house today and (2) to an interview with Donna Mader when the Maders were trying unsuccessfully to sell the house:
http://www.hauntedcolorado.net/In_Cold_Blood_House.html
http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2005/apr/06/in_the_end/
From the second link:
Three of the four upstairs bedrooms Herb Clutter designed for his family still remain as bedrooms. All but the biggest, which was Kenyon Clutter's, bear a distinctly feminine touch. The smallest, formerly Nancy Clutter's, has been converted into a computer room.
"We used to have a bed in there, but the kids won't sleep in there," Donna says.
A practical woman, she is more interested in cabinet space than who used to sleep where. She can't help but wonder why, when the killers shut them in the bathroom, the Clutters didn't block the door with the cupboard drawers.
With the drawers pulled out, Donna says as she demonstrates, the killers couldn't have re-entered the bathroom, and the Clutters might have escaped through a window.
-------------------------------------------
 |
| Top: Herb and Bonnie Clutter. Bottom: Nancy and Kenyon Clutter. |
A p.s.: In October of 1977, my father, after coming home drunk from bar-hopping in his suede going-out jacket and gold chain, demanded that my mother have sex with him. When she refused, he grabbed her, and I was sent to my room. I waited a minute and then peered out of my room down the hall: My mother had pulled the gold chain from his neck and was kneeling at his feet on the carpet. My father then went for his gun, kept at the top of the hall closet, and my mother ran. I closed my door. I heard a gun-shot, then silence. After about a half-hour, I snuck out of my room into the dark house... My father was by then snoring in my parents' bedroom; I did not see my mother anywhere in the house. I peered out the back door, then opened the door to the garage: there my mother was, huddling. I told her that Daddy was asleep, she motioned me back into the house...
Point of the story? Anybody could have been murdered that night. My mother could have been shot, my father could have then shot me and/or himself. (My 6-year-old brother, long asleep at the time and a favorite of both my parents, was probably exempt.)
I was very lucky that I wasn't murdered that night. At that moment, I was thinking like Herb Clutter: "This type of thing doesn't happen." Later, I learned that it could have very well happened. It happens all the time.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Who wants a roommate post-50??
Later this month, I might be letting someone into my home who doesn't like me. Why?
Companionship? But, really, I actually do like being alone A LOT. I like to read, to think, to work on my Joan Crawford website for hours at a time, to lie around channel-surfing. BY MYSELF.
I like going to sleep on my couch when I get home from work, OR... staying up 'til all hours. Now that I have a place without connecting walls, I like playing my music loud when I want to. And then there's the basic roommate stuff: I don't want to have to worry about walking around naked in the morning as I'm getting ready for work, or about results of being uncommunicative. I don't want someone drinking the last of my milk or coming home late and waking me up.
I offered my place to be nice. She and I were at loose ends together 10 years ago. Since then, I've settled down; she's still at loose ends. I want to help someone I care about who's in need, but I also don't want any of that constant chaos back in my life.
I also don't look forward to rearranging my closets, but that's just shallow.
RE: "She doesn't like me." I think she likes me OK, but she's primarily concerned with not being out on the street, and no one else will take her. I was once in love with her, so there's that nostalgia. Plus I'm kind of bored with my life right now and wonder if this will be something interesting, a problem to solve.
Companionship? But, really, I actually do like being alone A LOT. I like to read, to think, to work on my Joan Crawford website for hours at a time, to lie around channel-surfing. BY MYSELF.
I like going to sleep on my couch when I get home from work, OR... staying up 'til all hours. Now that I have a place without connecting walls, I like playing my music loud when I want to. And then there's the basic roommate stuff: I don't want to have to worry about walking around naked in the morning as I'm getting ready for work, or about results of being uncommunicative. I don't want someone drinking the last of my milk or coming home late and waking me up.
I offered my place to be nice. She and I were at loose ends together 10 years ago. Since then, I've settled down; she's still at loose ends. I want to help someone I care about who's in need, but I also don't want any of that constant chaos back in my life.
I also don't look forward to rearranging my closets, but that's just shallow.
RE: "She doesn't like me." I think she likes me OK, but she's primarily concerned with not being out on the street, and no one else will take her. I was once in love with her, so there's that nostalgia. Plus I'm kind of bored with my life right now and wonder if this will be something interesting, a problem to solve.
Sunday, May 06, 2018
A plebe in furs (1932)
I recently posted this picture of Joan Crawford on the Crawford Facebook page. One reader responded: "Simply classy." My reaction was the opposite: "Simply sassy. Joan was kind of a punk in this picture. No real 'lady' poses like that. But she gives us plebes a real thrill."
I miss a creative project.
The Joan website used to be "The Project." But now, I can knock off Joan stuff in 3 or so hours a night every other night. After 14 years, it's important to me, but rarely a source of blinding, profound insight.
I've got 20 pages of a second screenplay written. I've read that screenplays should be about 120 pages. After all of the thinking about this one, it feels like 100 pages instead of 20. I keep adding a scene or two, and it remains 20 pages in reality!
Anyway, I need some intellectual challenge. I'm stagnant as hell, thinking that this by-rote job-going will be the rest of my life. I'm happy for the income, and the job itself is actually interesting, but... really, that's it??
I've got 20 pages of a second screenplay written. I've read that screenplays should be about 120 pages. After all of the thinking about this one, it feels like 100 pages instead of 20. I keep adding a scene or two, and it remains 20 pages in reality!
Anyway, I need some intellectual challenge. I'm stagnant as hell, thinking that this by-rote job-going will be the rest of my life. I'm happy for the income, and the job itself is actually interesting, but... really, that's it??
Saturday, May 05, 2018
Paul McCartney: Too many people preaching practices (1971)
"Too Many People"
Too many people going underground,
Too many reaching for a piece of cake.
Too many people pulled and pushed around,
Too many waiting for that lucky break.
That was your first mistake,
You took your lucky break and broke it in two.
Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two.
Too many people sharing party lines,
Too many people never sleeping late.
Too many people paying parking fines,
Too many hungry people losing weight.
That was your first mistake,
You took your lucky break and broke it in two.
Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two.
Mm-mm-uh-uh.
Uh!
Too many people preaching practices,
Don't let 'em tell you what you wanna be.
Too many people holding back,
This is crazy, and baby, it's not like me.
That was your last mistake,
I find my love awake and waiting to be.
Now what can be done for you?
She's waiting for me
Too many reaching for a piece of cake.
Too many people pulled and pushed around,
Too many waiting for that lucky break.
That was your first mistake,
You took your lucky break and broke it in two.
Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two.
Too many people sharing party lines,
Too many people never sleeping late.
Too many people paying parking fines,
Too many hungry people losing weight.
That was your first mistake,
You took your lucky break and broke it in two.
Now what can be done for you?
You broke it in two.
Mm-mm-uh-uh.
Uh!
Too many people preaching practices,
Don't let 'em tell you what you wanna be.
Too many people holding back,
This is crazy, and baby, it's not like me.
That was your last mistake,
I find my love awake and waiting to be.
Now what can be done for you?
She's waiting for me
Friday, May 04, 2018
Senility Onset
The other day I woke up after a nap on the couch, saw something on TV, and was unable to form an opinion about what I saw.
Whether the person on the screen was bright or an idiot, what his surroundings were, nothing.
My brain was frozen, stuck. I saw a 30-something male on the TV screen, but I couldn't think anything about him or the program -- nothing.
I realized: This is what it's going to be like when I'm old and senile: I'm going to attempt to make thought connections of some sort, but will be utterly unable to. It was a weird sensation: Seeing something purely with the eyes, but not being able to note anything else about what I was seeing: My brain was missing.
What are the pills that people get from their doctors and overdose on? I'd better start stocking up now.
(I also had another thought: Geez, what if this is what the majority of people see when they watch stuff? Just with Eyes and not Brain --- no processing. A gliiiiiiide..... My brain-glitch felt like a "glide," a swift sled-swoop down a frozen hill. I suppose thought-processes would be the snagging on dirt-clods and bushes.)
Whether the person on the screen was bright or an idiot, what his surroundings were, nothing.
My brain was frozen, stuck. I saw a 30-something male on the TV screen, but I couldn't think anything about him or the program -- nothing.
I realized: This is what it's going to be like when I'm old and senile: I'm going to attempt to make thought connections of some sort, but will be utterly unable to. It was a weird sensation: Seeing something purely with the eyes, but not being able to note anything else about what I was seeing: My brain was missing.
What are the pills that people get from their doctors and overdose on? I'd better start stocking up now.
(I also had another thought: Geez, what if this is what the majority of people see when they watch stuff? Just with Eyes and not Brain --- no processing. A gliiiiiiide..... My brain-glitch felt like a "glide," a swift sled-swoop down a frozen hill. I suppose thought-processes would be the snagging on dirt-clods and bushes.)
Sunday, April 29, 2018
To a possible roommate:
Experiencing my apartment for the past couple of weeks with the idea of you possibly moving in:
I prefer being by myself. I like sleeping whenever I want. I like watching TV at all hours. I like all of my closets filled with my things in whatever way. I like my 1200 square feet being all my own.
Had you expressed a definite need, I would have said "Sure, move in!" But, as usual, you were mushy and noncommittal: "Maybe Doug is dying and can't pay the rent, maybe not."
I cannot stand that kind of bullshit any more. 10 years ago, sure. Not today. I have a nice job and a nice place. I no longer want Chaos fucking with me.
I prefer being by myself. I like sleeping whenever I want. I like watching TV at all hours. I like all of my closets filled with my things in whatever way. I like my 1200 square feet being all my own.
Had you expressed a definite need, I would have said "Sure, move in!" But, as usual, you were mushy and noncommittal: "Maybe Doug is dying and can't pay the rent, maybe not."
I cannot stand that kind of bullshit any more. 10 years ago, sure. Not today. I have a nice job and a nice place. I no longer want Chaos fucking with me.
"They're Not On Your Side"
My family moved from Iowa Park, Texas, to Azle, Texas, in the summer of 1976. My parents divorced the next fall.
At one point in the fall of '77 (when I was 12), my parents were being, as usual, contemptuous of me, when an outside voice very clearly came into my head: "They're not on your side."
Lest I seem crazy, I've not heard a voice inside my head either before or since.
That particular night that my parents were being nasty to me, I took "the voice" into consideration and went off to bed without giving either of them any energy. (Nights past, I would have cried or fussed or argued.)
Pretty soon afterward, I forgot about the incident. (I hadn't yet heard about "energy" and certainly didn't know about how to work with it.)
Today, though, I'm very thankful for that "voice," whatever it was, or wherever it came from. The second I heard it back in '77, I was too young to understand what it was --- yet it told me at the time to disengage, to go to bed and ignore them. I normally don't have the strength to do that because my natural tendency is to fight and get upset --- that night I did have the peacefulness, given by an outer force.
To this day, I don't know what happened. Thank you for the example. I haven't been able to transfer that early knowledge to anything constantly useful in my later life --- I recognize the substance, though. Thank you.
p.s. A phone conversation with Sandra last year: I told her I had just gotten a raise... Her: "Yeah, I saw that on your blog." A modern-day example of "They're not on your side." (i.e., a real friend would be excited for you and want to talk about it)
At one point in the fall of '77 (when I was 12), my parents were being, as usual, contemptuous of me, when an outside voice very clearly came into my head: "They're not on your side."
Lest I seem crazy, I've not heard a voice inside my head either before or since.
That particular night that my parents were being nasty to me, I took "the voice" into consideration and went off to bed without giving either of them any energy. (Nights past, I would have cried or fussed or argued.)
Pretty soon afterward, I forgot about the incident. (I hadn't yet heard about "energy" and certainly didn't know about how to work with it.)
Today, though, I'm very thankful for that "voice," whatever it was, or wherever it came from. The second I heard it back in '77, I was too young to understand what it was --- yet it told me at the time to disengage, to go to bed and ignore them. I normally don't have the strength to do that because my natural tendency is to fight and get upset --- that night I did have the peacefulness, given by an outer force.
To this day, I don't know what happened. Thank you for the example. I haven't been able to transfer that early knowledge to anything constantly useful in my later life --- I recognize the substance, though. Thank you.
p.s. A phone conversation with Sandra last year: I told her I had just gotten a raise... Her: "Yeah, I saw that on your blog." A modern-day example of "They're not on your side." (i.e., a real friend would be excited for you and want to talk about it)
Respect for Acting
Oxford Illustrated History of Theatre
The Fervent Years: The Group Theatre & the '30s (by Harold Clurman)
An Actor Prepares (Stanislavski)
Respect for Acting (Uta Hagen, 1973)
The Art of Acting (Stella Adler)
So far, I've only read Hagen's "Respect for Acting" all the way through. Straight to the "re-sell on eBay" pile. After an initially brief, but interesting, comparison of the way both Duse and Bernhardt played an unnamed role, I was hoping for more of the same psychological insight. Instead, I found a series of quite dated "observations." For instance, here's an example of the latter part of an "Object Exercise" in which you've woken up with a hangover after a date "to a great new French movie" and now have a reading that you're late to, plus you're dealing with an ongoing Peeping Tom across the way:
ACTIONS: You leap out of bed and flaunt your behind in your thin nightie at the peeping Tom, before yanking the curtains together and putting on your gorgeous robe. You turn the clock to the wall so that your lateness won't rattle you. You empty your friend's ashtray in the attempt to get him off your mind. You look for an aspirin for your headache, etc., etc.OK:
(1) Flashing your ass to a Peeping Tom might have been cute and innocent in '43 or '53, but by '73, when Adler wrote the book? Actually dangerous, psychotic, drug-addled creeps had clearly come out in full force by '73; you don't flash them. (p.s. What poor young acting kid has a "gorgeous robe"?)
(2) NEVER have I, or anyone else I've known, physically "turned the clock to the wall" when we know we're late. Ridiculous.
(3) My emptying of ashtrays has always been an attempt to merely clean up the apartment. Looking at foreign (not my) butts might bring up a brief thought of who else had been there the night before smoking, but... specifically emptying an ashtray to "get someone off your mind"?
Overall, quite boring and literal stuff like "how do you feel when you've come home tired after a hard day of auditions --- how do your tired feet feel? what do you do when you get home?" (In Hagen's world, struggling 20-year-old actors come home and prepare a soothing foot-bath and gin-and-tonic as opposed to just grabbing a beer out of the fridge and lying down on the second-hand sofa.)
On the other hand, I've just started reading Adler's book (published in 2000, though she died in 1992, so I'm not sure in what year it first came out) and while doing so, searched for a pencil to underline certain thoughts:
I don't like Hagen at all, but I'm annotating Adler.We imagine we can start over anytime we want. Isn't that absurd? You didn't even start fresh the day you were born. You were born into a pattern of life.Acting is not just imitating everyday behavior. It's capturing the essence of it. It's giving the audience the idea of an action. What happens on the stage must be more precise, more intense, more interesting than everyday behavior.
If you confine yourself to the beat of your generation only, if you're bound within the limits of your street corner, alienated from every object or period that does not contain your own pulse, then you dismiss the world in general, you make everything foreign.When you give me your rose, that is your play.
Saturday, April 28, 2018
Friday, April 27, 2018
Kanye West - Jesus Walks (2004)
Yo, we at war
We at war with terrorism, racism, and most of all we at war with ourselves
(Jesus walks)
God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down
(Jesus walks with me) with me, with me, with me [fades]
You know what the Midwest is?
Young & Restless
Where restless (niggas) might snatch your necklace
And next these (niggas) might jack your Lexus
Somebody tell these (niggas) who Kanye West is
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death is
Top floor the view alone will leave you breathless Uhhhh!
Try to catch it Uhhhh! It's kinda hard
Getting choked by the detectives yeah yeah now check the method
They be asking us questions, harass and arrest us
Saying, "We eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast."
Huh? Y'all eat pieces of shit? What's the basis?
We ain't going nowhere but got suits and cases
A trunk full of coke rental car from Avis
My mamma used to say only Jesus can save us
Well mamma I know I act a fool
But I'll be gone 'til November I got packs to move I Hope
[Hook 2x]
(Jesus walks)
God show me the way because the Devil trying to break me down
(Jesus walks with me)
The only thing that that I pray is that my feet don't fail me now
(Jesus walks)
And I don't think there is nothing I can do now to right my wrongs
(Jesus walks with me)
I want to talk to God but I'm afraid because we ain't spoke in so long
To the hustlers, killers, murderers, drug dealers even the strippers
(Jesus walks with them)
To the victims of Welfare for we living in hell here hell yeah
(Jesus walks with them)
Now hear ye hear ye want to see Thee more clearly
I know he hear me when my feet get weary
Cause we're the almost nearly extinct
We rappers are role models we rap we don't think
I ain't here to argue about his facial features
Or here to convert atheists into believers
I'm just trying to say the way school need teachers
The way Kathie Lee needed Regis that's the way I need Jesus
So here go my single dog radio needs this
They say you can rap about anything except for Jesus
That means guns, sex, lies, video tapes
But if I talk about God my record won't get played Huh?
Well if this take away from my spins
Which will probably take away from my ends
Then I hope this take away from my sins
And bring the day that I'm dreaming about
Next time I'm in the club everybody screaming out
(Jesus walks)
God show me the way because the devil trying to break me down
(Jesus walks)
The only thing that that I pray is that my feet don't fail me now
(Jesus walks)
And I don't thing there's nothing I can do now to right my wrongs
(Jesus walks with me... fades)
I want to talk to God but I'm afraid because we ain't spoke in so long
School Spirit, Motherfuckers (Kanye, 2004)
I get Kanye's point. I, though, am not hyper-talented, just mildly smart. I played the game and got the degrees (two of 'em) for lack of anything better to do (and just to see if I could---turned out I could). Glad now that I got 'em. Wooo!
School spirit motherfuckers
[Chorus]
Alpha, step. Omega, step
Kappa, step. Sigma, step
Gangstas walk, pimps gon' talk
Oooh hecky naw that boy is raw
AKA, step. Delta, step
S G Rho, step. Zeta, step
Gangstas walk, pimps gon' talk
Oooh hecky naw that boy is raw
[Verse 1]
I'ma get on this TV, momma
I'ma, I'ma break shit down
I'ma make sure these light skinned niggaz
Never ever never come back in style
Told 'em I finished school, and I started my own business
They say, 'Oh you graduated?'
No, I decided I was finished
Chasin' y'all dreams and what you've got planned
Now I spit it so hot you got tanned
Back to school and I hate it there, I hate it there
Everything I want I gotta wait a year, I wait a year
This nigga graduated at the top of my class..
I went to Cheesecake, he was a motherfucking waiter there
[Chorus]
[Verse 2]
I got a Jones like Norah for your sorror'
Bring more of them girls I've seen in the Aurora
Tammy, Becky, and Laura, or'a Shirley
I'm tryin' to hit it early, like I'm in a hurry
See, that's how dude became the young pootie tang tippy tow
Rocafella chain, yeah that's my rapper style
Rosary piece, yeah that's my Catholic style
Red and white One's, yeah that's my Kappa style
And I ain't even pledge
Crack my head on the steering wheel and I ain't even dead
If I could go through all that and still be breathing
Bitch bend over, I'm here for a reason
[Chorus]
[Outro]
I feel a woo coming on, cuz. I feel a woo coming on, cuz
WOO
There it was
I feel some woos coming on, cuz. A couple woos coming on, cuz
WOO, WOO
There they was
I feel a woo coming on, cuz. I feel a woo coming on, cuz
WOO
There it was
A couple woos coming on, cuz. A couple woos coming on, cuz
WOO, WOO
There they was
Monday, April 23, 2018
Sharing a Space, Part II
I live next door to the maintenance room. When I was shown the apartment a year ago, the manager told me, "See, no neighbors on this side" as a selling point, since I'd expressed my desire for quiet.
When I first moved in to the apartment, I thought that "maintenance room" mean "supply closet" --- as in something the maintenance guys would visit occasionally to pick up a PART, and then go on their way.
Initially, my location next door to The Guys was hellish. There was a young maintenance crew, and all 3 or 4 of The Guys would be hanging out for HOURS, especially from 2 to 5 or so in the afternoon (when did they ever go off and repair things?). The walls were very thin, and when I worked from home, I could hear every fucking word of their huh-huh-huhs, every word of their lengthy, angry phone conversations. About 6 months ago, though, the head young guy left for whatever reason and a new 60-ish man was in charge. Since then, things have quieted down in the room next door. A big bunch of Guys rarely hang out there now, thank god. Today, though, I got home as usual at 5-ish. And some big, loud Guy was going on and on and on. Perhaps for 45 minutes of big, basso bullshit.
Now, the reason I bring up the issue of "sharing a space" --- I ended up banging on the wall a couple of times, and getting right up next to the wall and yelling "SHUT THE FUCK UP" a couple of times (trying to let them understand that the walls are very thin). Which did no good, of course. Whatever guys were next door didn't stop huh-huh-huh-ing and only left when it was time for them to go home for the day.
I did get to let off some steam with my own banging and yelling, which is fine when I live by myself. But... How would that sort of behavior on my part go over with someone else living in my apartment? Yelling and banging, when solo, is OK; yelling and banging with someone else in the next room is weird and uncomfortable. They would probably be far more discomfited by ME than by whatever I was getting mad about.
When I first moved in to the apartment, I thought that "maintenance room" mean "supply closet" --- as in something the maintenance guys would visit occasionally to pick up a PART, and then go on their way.
Initially, my location next door to The Guys was hellish. There was a young maintenance crew, and all 3 or 4 of The Guys would be hanging out for HOURS, especially from 2 to 5 or so in the afternoon (when did they ever go off and repair things?). The walls were very thin, and when I worked from home, I could hear every fucking word of their huh-huh-huhs, every word of their lengthy, angry phone conversations. About 6 months ago, though, the head young guy left for whatever reason and a new 60-ish man was in charge. Since then, things have quieted down in the room next door. A big bunch of Guys rarely hang out there now, thank god. Today, though, I got home as usual at 5-ish. And some big, loud Guy was going on and on and on. Perhaps for 45 minutes of big, basso bullshit.
Now, the reason I bring up the issue of "sharing a space" --- I ended up banging on the wall a couple of times, and getting right up next to the wall and yelling "SHUT THE FUCK UP" a couple of times (trying to let them understand that the walls are very thin). Which did no good, of course. Whatever guys were next door didn't stop huh-huh-huh-ing and only left when it was time for them to go home for the day.
I did get to let off some steam with my own banging and yelling, which is fine when I live by myself. But... How would that sort of behavior on my part go over with someone else living in my apartment? Yelling and banging, when solo, is OK; yelling and banging with someone else in the next room is weird and uncomfortable. They would probably be far more discomfited by ME than by whatever I was getting mad about.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Sharing a space
When you share a space with someone, one of the two has to be rather tolerant. Both have to be, but one moreso.
For a couple of days now, I've contemplated the idea of sharing my 1200-sq-ft apartment. I surely have enough space. I rarely sleep in my very nice bed because I usually go to sleep on the couch in front of the TV in the living room; so I could offer that room with bath to someone (I have 2 baths, and I usually use the other one). I have enough closet space to share one of the three with someone else.
I don't think I want anyone else to watch me sleep, though. Half of my days during the work-week, I come home and work on my Joan Crawford website; those days are fine if someone else is wandering around the house; I could easily chat during Joan. The other half, though, I come home and just want to collapse on my couch and channel-surf and doze off. Sometimes I sleep from 6 to 10pm, then wake up and read/watch TV, then go back to sleep from 3 to 7am. Sometimes I channel-surf for hours, finally going to sleep from 12 to 7am.
Weekends have no schedule. This Friday/Saturday, for instance: I initially went to sleep on the couch at 10pm Friday, woke up at 3am Saturday, read a bit and ate something, went back asleep until 9am... Went in to work Saturday to do overtime hours, got my hair cut, came home @5pm and felt utterly compelled to lie back down on my couch and watch TV and sleep until 10:30pm, then woke up and cleaned various parts of my house and painted a table and hand-washed a sweater and then went online.
What if someone else were around the house? (1) I'd feel guilty about disturbing my guest after 10:30pm. (2) I'd probably be angry if the guest were moving innocently around the house earlier while I was trying to sleep.
Sigh. I don't know that I should share a space unless the other is willing to put up with me.
For a couple of days now, I've contemplated the idea of sharing my 1200-sq-ft apartment. I surely have enough space. I rarely sleep in my very nice bed because I usually go to sleep on the couch in front of the TV in the living room; so I could offer that room with bath to someone (I have 2 baths, and I usually use the other one). I have enough closet space to share one of the three with someone else.
I don't think I want anyone else to watch me sleep, though. Half of my days during the work-week, I come home and work on my Joan Crawford website; those days are fine if someone else is wandering around the house; I could easily chat during Joan. The other half, though, I come home and just want to collapse on my couch and channel-surf and doze off. Sometimes I sleep from 6 to 10pm, then wake up and read/watch TV, then go back to sleep from 3 to 7am. Sometimes I channel-surf for hours, finally going to sleep from 12 to 7am.
Weekends have no schedule. This Friday/Saturday, for instance: I initially went to sleep on the couch at 10pm Friday, woke up at 3am Saturday, read a bit and ate something, went back asleep until 9am... Went in to work Saturday to do overtime hours, got my hair cut, came home @5pm and felt utterly compelled to lie back down on my couch and watch TV and sleep until 10:30pm, then woke up and cleaned various parts of my house and painted a table and hand-washed a sweater and then went online.
What if someone else were around the house? (1) I'd feel guilty about disturbing my guest after 10:30pm. (2) I'd probably be angry if the guest were moving innocently around the house earlier while I was trying to sleep.
Sigh. I don't know that I should share a space unless the other is willing to put up with me.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Morrissey - Everyday Is Like Sunday (1988)
Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench
Where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon—come, Armageddon! Come, Armageddon! Come!
Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey
Hide on the promenade
Etch a postcard,
"How I dearly wish I was not here."
In the seaside town
...that they forgot to bomb
Come! Come! Come—nuclear bomb!
Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey
Trudging back over pebbles and sand
And a strange dust lands on your hands
And on your face, on your face, on your face, on your face
Everyday is like Sunday
"Win Yourself A Cheap Tray"
Share some greased tea with me
Everyday is silent and grey
Back to the bench
Where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon—come, Armageddon! Come, Armageddon! Come!
Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey
Hide on the promenade
Etch a postcard,
"How I dearly wish I was not here."
In the seaside town
...that they forgot to bomb
Come! Come! Come—nuclear bomb!
Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey
Trudging back over pebbles and sand
And a strange dust lands on your hands
And on your face, on your face, on your face, on your face
Everyday is like Sunday
"Win Yourself A Cheap Tray"
Share some greased tea with me
Everyday is silent and grey
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
False Memories of Barbara Bush?
Barbara Bush, former Second Lady ('80-'88) and First Lady ('88-92), and mother of President George Dubya (2000-2008), died today at 92.
I have only limited memories of her. She was known as an independent-minded woman who was pro-choice and pro-Equal Rights Amendment--as was her husband George H.W. Bush, BEFORE he became Reagan's running mate in '80. (Post '80, he towed the social conservative line.)
After GHWBush left office, I remember reading several things about her that have stuck with me all these years: One, that when she found out her husband was having an affair (in the '70s?), she was deeply depressed but found solace in constant work (in her case, volunteer work). And that when she discussed leaving GHWBush with him, he replied: "Where exactly are you going to go?"
The attempt to get over the affair and the cold "Where are you going to go?" line have stayed with me. But why exactly? ARE those actual things? I tried to look up these memories tonight, thinking that the Internet was surely the repository of EVERYTHING, but... even in mentions of her 1994 autobiography (pre-Internet), I found nothing. Did I make these up?
Another Barbara Bush "memory" is what I thought was a quote from an Ice-T song on his 1991 album "Original Gangster." I could have sworn that there was a line: "fuck George Bush and his bug-eyed bitch." Why this stands out in my memory is that this was the first (and only) rap album that me and my liberal white friends had bought at that point (in our mid-20s). We were righteously into the beats and politics and anger, but I remember us first giggling, then kind of cringing at the "Bush and his bug-eyed bitch" line ---"well, she has a thyroid problem that makes her eyes look like that."
That said, I own the Ice-T "OG" CD today, and it has lyrics written out in the booklet... I glanced over them twice, and could not find said "Bush and his bug-eyed bitch" line. Did I make this up?? Again, a search on the Internet found nothing re this line.
Why are my memories of Barbara Bush so ostensibly nonsensical and completely un-backed up by facts? Why would I make this shit up?
I have only limited memories of her. She was known as an independent-minded woman who was pro-choice and pro-Equal Rights Amendment--as was her husband George H.W. Bush, BEFORE he became Reagan's running mate in '80. (Post '80, he towed the social conservative line.)
After GHWBush left office, I remember reading several things about her that have stuck with me all these years: One, that when she found out her husband was having an affair (in the '70s?), she was deeply depressed but found solace in constant work (in her case, volunteer work). And that when she discussed leaving GHWBush with him, he replied: "Where exactly are you going to go?"
The attempt to get over the affair and the cold "Where are you going to go?" line have stayed with me. But why exactly? ARE those actual things? I tried to look up these memories tonight, thinking that the Internet was surely the repository of EVERYTHING, but... even in mentions of her 1994 autobiography (pre-Internet), I found nothing. Did I make these up?
Another Barbara Bush "memory" is what I thought was a quote from an Ice-T song on his 1991 album "Original Gangster." I could have sworn that there was a line: "fuck George Bush and his bug-eyed bitch." Why this stands out in my memory is that this was the first (and only) rap album that me and my liberal white friends had bought at that point (in our mid-20s). We were righteously into the beats and politics and anger, but I remember us first giggling, then kind of cringing at the "Bush and his bug-eyed bitch" line ---"well, she has a thyroid problem that makes her eyes look like that."
That said, I own the Ice-T "OG" CD today, and it has lyrics written out in the booklet... I glanced over them twice, and could not find said "Bush and his bug-eyed bitch" line. Did I make this up?? Again, a search on the Internet found nothing re this line.
Why are my memories of Barbara Bush so ostensibly nonsensical and completely un-backed up by facts? Why would I make this shit up?
Monday, April 16, 2018
Productive Sunday
No drink at all Saturday night; wake up Sunday at 6:15am... Contemplate sleeping more, but then see on Turner Classic Movies that "The Women" is starting at 6:30... Perfect opportunity for getting hyped up and getting stuff done... I jump up and shower before the film starts. Knowing that Joan Crawford doesn't appear for awhile, get my laundry together and into the apartment machines. Drive to Whataburger for a breakfast taquito meal. Get home for Joan, switch laundry to dryers, spend the rest of the film retrieving and folding. By the time the film's over at 9, ready to go into work to get in 4 hours of overtime. After work: Return a shirt to Old Navy, check out candles at Pier 1 (no Asian Spice and no Lavendar, and the shopgirls don't think those scents will ever be back), get a crispy taco meal from Taco Cabana.
Once home and tacos scarfed down, lie on couch, '61's "A Taste of Honey" on TCM --- I've never seen it before, though heard about it: Tony Richardson-directed, "kitchen sink," et al. Working-class girl who doesn't get along with her partying mother gets knocked up by nice black sailor and moves in with nice gay guy... I fall asleep an hour into it, read later on the IMDb that the mother later returns, the sailor never returns...
Wake up around 7pm, work on my Joan Crawford website.
My idea of a good, productive day!
Once home and tacos scarfed down, lie on couch, '61's "A Taste of Honey" on TCM --- I've never seen it before, though heard about it: Tony Richardson-directed, "kitchen sink," et al. Working-class girl who doesn't get along with her partying mother gets knocked up by nice black sailor and moves in with nice gay guy... I fall asleep an hour into it, read later on the IMDb that the mother later returns, the sailor never returns...
Wake up around 7pm, work on my Joan Crawford website.
My idea of a good, productive day!
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Sleeping with, loving: Whatever happened to?
I've only slept with 5 people (though have been in love with several more), so every now and then when I'm bored I have to do an Internet search to see what might be up with the Fab Five.
(1) First girlfriend, first lover (Scorpio) is pretty much the same today. I was 23, she was 36 when we first met in '89. She was a dominatrix, heavy into Austin's goth club scene and teenaged girls. Today, I'm 52, she's 65 (!) --- and, according to random online sources, she's STILL posting suggestive photos and asking teenaged girls to tell her about their masturbation habits (!); heavy PhotoShopping involved in her photos!
HOW does that creepy shit not change in nearly 30 years??
(2) Second lover (Virgo) was a rebound from the first in the early '90s; met her via the Austin Chronicle personals (Female seeking Female) section, back before there was "online" and people actually wrote letters and sent photos to each other. We slept together occasionally for about 3 months. At the time, she'd just gotten out of the military, was living in a one-room boarding house (bathroom at the end of the hall), and was about to enroll in the local junior college. The sex was boring (and I hated going down on her specifically, though I've usually not had a problem with that), and she disapproved of the fact that I'd dated the above-mentioned dominatrix, who was known around town in the cloistered "lesbian community." I wasn't very in to her sexually, but I liked her to hang out with... but SHE ended it.
Here she is (center) in the late '90s, a couple of years after we'd dated (singer Sarah McLachlan at left). She was a DJ for a local Austin radio station at this point (I had always listened to the station that she DJ'd for and would actually hear her on the air), and I remember feeling envious: I'd just gotten out of grad school in San Francisco and was jobless and back in Austin --- and here was this random person that I'd once slept with supposedly living the high life.
A few years after this, she enrolled in the film department at UT Austin and went on to make several gay-oriented short films. She's now living in West Hollywood, still making short films and appearing at gay film fests, and she now looks like this:
According to her Instagram, she had the sex change a couple of years ago.
(3) A young woman I met at the campus library where I worked (Aquarius). After being friends for months at work, after going out to clubs dancing, after weekly drinking sessions with a group of friends at Austin's Les Amis cafe, after her taking me home to meet her parents (she and I had rented "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane," which her father didn't want to watch; he left the room in a huff)...we finally slept together at a party at her house. Her much-older boyfriend knocked and knocked and knocked and knocked at the bedroom door the next morning; he finally left after I got up and greeted him. (He had gone home from the party at an early hour, after which she and I drunkenly slept and spent the night together; he was a very polite person.) Prior to this, she had often told me how boring he was and how bisexual she was. After this, she made a point of telling me what her plans were with him that weekend. We never hung out again after we slept together. Last time I checked, she was working as a psychiatric nurse in Seattle or someplace (I couldn't ever figure out if the nice, older boyfriend went with her and married her up there).
(4) My male boss at the office where I worked (Leo, like me). I was 28, he was 54. The first, and only, man I've ever had sex with (though I've made out with several more men). Despite my often being furious because he had other things to do (like... his marriage and his job!), I probably had the best time with him. We had fun bar-hopping, he was fun in bed, and he was a great conversationalist --- very interesting all around. I dated him for about 8 months right before I went off to grad school in San Fran. We talked a few times on the phone while I was there. Once I got back to Austin, he avoided me completely. He had a heart attack that I read about in the local paper (I sent him a get-well card) a couple of years later, and retired from state service about 10 years ago.
(4) My male boss at the office where I worked (Leo, like me). I was 28, he was 54. The first, and only, man I've ever had sex with (though I've made out with several more men). Despite my often being furious because he had other things to do (like... his marriage and his job!), I probably had the best time with him. We had fun bar-hopping, he was fun in bed, and he was a great conversationalist --- very interesting all around. I dated him for about 8 months right before I went off to grad school in San Fran. We talked a few times on the phone while I was there. Once I got back to Austin, he avoided me completely. He had a heart attack that I read about in the local paper (I sent him a get-well card) a couple of years later, and retired from state service about 10 years ago.
(5) A young woman I met at a gay club a couple of times before I finally slept with her (sign unknown). I honestly don't remember her name---oh, wait: Katie. She was bright, and at one time after we'd first met, she came right up to me at a club and bit my lower lip, which I thought was hot. Sex: Her: "What do you want me to do?" Me: "Fuck me." (Next morning, all I had to offer her for breakfast was a banana and orange juice.) After this, we spoke a couple of times on the phone, but I was still into my first ex (see #1 above), who was still hanging around, and this never went anywhere.
Between and after all of these, there were/have been various make-outs and various long-distance loves on my part, but these were the actual.
Love/lust, but no sex at various points between 1983 and 2018: Ginny (Libra), Elena (unknown sign), Sandra (Scorpio), Murrah (Aquarius), Alex (Scorpio), Julie (Pisces), Sandra again. I'm pretty sure that all of these remained women over the years.
Love/lust, but no sex at various points between 1983 and 2018: Ginny (Libra), Elena (unknown sign), Sandra (Scorpio), Murrah (Aquarius), Alex (Scorpio), Julie (Pisces), Sandra again. I'm pretty sure that all of these remained women over the years.
Thursday, April 05, 2018
Wednesday, April 04, 2018
Monday, April 02, 2018
Denny Laine with Paul McCartney and Wings: "Go Now" (1976)
As someone commented on YouTube: "He has a pretty good backup singer!"
Sunday, April 01, 2018
The One Mystery (Truman Capote)
A work of art is the one mystery, the one extreme magic; everything else is either arithmetic or biology. (Self-Portrait)
----------------------
Reflected reality is the essence of reality, the truer truth.... if I was in a strange room, and wanted to understand the room and the nature of its inhabitants, I let my eye wander selectively until it discovered something -- a shaft of light, a decrepit piano, a pattern in the rug -- that seemed of itself to contain the secret. All art is composed of selective detail, either imaginary or, as in "In Cold Blood," a distillation of reality. (Ghosts in Sunlight)
------------------------
It was desperate to feel that one could never be a part of moments so moving, that always one would be isolated from this landscape and these people; and then gradually I realized I did not have to be a part of it: rather, it could be a part of me. (To Europe)
-------------------------
(New York)
She belongs to that sect most swiftly, irrevocably trapped by New York, the talented untalented; too acute to accept a more provincial climate, yet not quite acute enough to breathe freely within the one so desired...
Only success, and that a perilous peak, can give relief, but for artists without an art, it is always tension without release, irritation with no resulting pearl. Possibly there would be if the pressure to succeed were not so tremendous. They feel compelled to prove something, because middle-class America, from which they mostly spring, has withering words for its men of feeling, for its young of experimental intelligence, who do not show immediately that these endeavors pay off on a cash basis. But if a civilization falls, is it cash the inheritors find among the ruins? Or is it a statue, a poem, a play?
...Could it be that the transition from innocence to wisdom happens in the moment when we discover not all the world loves us? Most of us learn this too early...
Later on, when one is older and in love, it is the double vision of sharing with your beloved which gives experience texture, shape, significance. To travel alone is to journey through a wasteland...
...once away, you do not remember, all that is left is the ghostly echo of haunting wonder.
----------------------
Reflected reality is the essence of reality, the truer truth.... if I was in a strange room, and wanted to understand the room and the nature of its inhabitants, I let my eye wander selectively until it discovered something -- a shaft of light, a decrepit piano, a pattern in the rug -- that seemed of itself to contain the secret. All art is composed of selective detail, either imaginary or, as in "In Cold Blood," a distillation of reality. (Ghosts in Sunlight)
------------------------
It was desperate to feel that one could never be a part of moments so moving, that always one would be isolated from this landscape and these people; and then gradually I realized I did not have to be a part of it: rather, it could be a part of me. (To Europe)
-------------------------
(New York)
She belongs to that sect most swiftly, irrevocably trapped by New York, the talented untalented; too acute to accept a more provincial climate, yet not quite acute enough to breathe freely within the one so desired...
Only success, and that a perilous peak, can give relief, but for artists without an art, it is always tension without release, irritation with no resulting pearl. Possibly there would be if the pressure to succeed were not so tremendous. They feel compelled to prove something, because middle-class America, from which they mostly spring, has withering words for its men of feeling, for its young of experimental intelligence, who do not show immediately that these endeavors pay off on a cash basis. But if a civilization falls, is it cash the inheritors find among the ruins? Or is it a statue, a poem, a play?
...Could it be that the transition from innocence to wisdom happens in the moment when we discover not all the world loves us? Most of us learn this too early...
Later on, when one is older and in love, it is the double vision of sharing with your beloved which gives experience texture, shape, significance. To travel alone is to journey through a wasteland...
...once away, you do not remember, all that is left is the ghostly echo of haunting wonder.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Lost Europe
As a kid, I visited Germany several times with my German mother, the last time when I was 18 (over 30 years ago). I'd always planned to visit Europe, Germany especially, again as an adult.
I'd wanted to visit Paris (to re-discover the 1920s haunts of modernists). London (to get a feel for the Victorian era and for the Plath/Hughes and Beatles early '60s). Germany of the 1970s when I was there last, and then right after the 1989 reunification...
All of that is gone now.
Last I heard, France, England, and Germany have been overrun by (1) Middle Eastern oligarchs who are buying up prime properties and driving up surrounding rents, and (2) Muslim immigrants. No one is telling them "no." (I understand that the Germans have had pride of country guilted out of them post WWII --- but the stolid ENGLISH? The stubborn French?)
The hearts of the main cities of Europe are now no-go zones, even for police. There wouldn't be a thing there for me to see, or feel, other than regret for not having gone back two decades sooner.
p.s. After I wrote the above, saw online that the murder rate in London had overtaken that in NYC for the first time ever: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5566689/London-murder-rate-overtakes-New-York-time-including-11-killings-just-16-days.html
Congrats, Mayor Khan.
I'd wanted to visit Paris (to re-discover the 1920s haunts of modernists). London (to get a feel for the Victorian era and for the Plath/Hughes and Beatles early '60s). Germany of the 1970s when I was there last, and then right after the 1989 reunification...
All of that is gone now.
Last I heard, France, England, and Germany have been overrun by (1) Middle Eastern oligarchs who are buying up prime properties and driving up surrounding rents, and (2) Muslim immigrants. No one is telling them "no." (I understand that the Germans have had pride of country guilted out of them post WWII --- but the stolid ENGLISH? The stubborn French?)
The hearts of the main cities of Europe are now no-go zones, even for police. There wouldn't be a thing there for me to see, or feel, other than regret for not having gone back two decades sooner.
p.s. After I wrote the above, saw online that the murder rate in London had overtaken that in NYC for the first time ever: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5566689/London-murder-rate-overtakes-New-York-time-including-11-killings-just-16-days.html
Congrats, Mayor Khan.
Good Friday
Usually I don't feel like joining in group activities, but my apartment complex's "Adults Only" Easter Egg Hunt this Friday appealed to me. ("Adults Only" for one thing --- that didn't mean "X-rated," although there was the promise of a "Golden Chick," just that kids weren't allowed; at first, I wondered why in the world kids wouldn't be allowed, since the activity was meant to appeal to kids... but then I didn't care.)
I've had one particular set of bad neighbors at this complex ever since I moved in last April (2017), right up until those guys moved out earlier this month. For a solid YEAR, I've been tense, waiting for their next obnoxious behavior: loud music, constant hanging-out right above my backyard, dogs running loose, firecrackers on holidays, etc.
Since those guys left March 5, I can relax a little more.
This Easter Egg Hunt was mildly fun. For one thing, I'd actually been looking forward to it all week, to the point where I told my boss about it and asked her for help with what basket I would use. (I didn't just want to use a garbage bag or something.) I had a small basket in my office and asked her if she had any pipe cleaners to use for a handle... No pipe cleaners, but she did have multiple sheets of tissue paper and was nice enough to fashion a GREAT Easter basket!
As it turned out, my fellow apartment dwellers were just carrying whatever crappy plastic bags; and they were aggressive in their egg hunting! I ended up with only 3 eggs.
The Egg Hunt was set to begin at 5:30pm. I watched the clock on my cable box and left my apartment at 5:29 to head to the main office... As I was approaching the office, apparently seconds after the official start time, people came RUNNING out; the Asian guy with the red backpack straps in the picture, especially! I didn't know it was like THAT! :)
After the initial BURST, people dispersed and didn't seem so spastic. I spent the next 20 minutes or so moseying around the apartment complex looking at bushes, etc., and making small-talk with other egg-searchers. It was a mildly jolly situation, but still mostly non-communicative: I talked with one guy and one old lady during the search, but most of the participants were Millennials and thus unwilling to make eye contact as we passed, even during such an interesting excursion.
As I said, I found a mere 3 eggs, that's all. I was disappointed. But not in my beautiful Easter basket that my boss made for me. p.s. After seeing the photos below that my apartment manager sent out: I really would have liked one of the succulent planters!
I've had one particular set of bad neighbors at this complex ever since I moved in last April (2017), right up until those guys moved out earlier this month. For a solid YEAR, I've been tense, waiting for their next obnoxious behavior: loud music, constant hanging-out right above my backyard, dogs running loose, firecrackers on holidays, etc.
Since those guys left March 5, I can relax a little more.
This Easter Egg Hunt was mildly fun. For one thing, I'd actually been looking forward to it all week, to the point where I told my boss about it and asked her for help with what basket I would use. (I didn't just want to use a garbage bag or something.) I had a small basket in my office and asked her if she had any pipe cleaners to use for a handle... No pipe cleaners, but she did have multiple sheets of tissue paper and was nice enough to fashion a GREAT Easter basket!
As it turned out, my fellow apartment dwellers were just carrying whatever crappy plastic bags; and they were aggressive in their egg hunting! I ended up with only 3 eggs.
The Egg Hunt was set to begin at 5:30pm. I watched the clock on my cable box and left my apartment at 5:29 to head to the main office... As I was approaching the office, apparently seconds after the official start time, people came RUNNING out; the Asian guy with the red backpack straps in the picture, especially! I didn't know it was like THAT! :)
After the initial BURST, people dispersed and didn't seem so spastic. I spent the next 20 minutes or so moseying around the apartment complex looking at bushes, etc., and making small-talk with other egg-searchers. It was a mildly jolly situation, but still mostly non-communicative: I talked with one guy and one old lady during the search, but most of the participants were Millennials and thus unwilling to make eye contact as we passed, even during such an interesting excursion.
As I said, I found a mere 3 eggs, that's all. I was disappointed. But not in my beautiful Easter basket that my boss made for me. p.s. After seeing the photos below that my apartment manager sent out: I really would have liked one of the succulent planters!
Monday, March 26, 2018
Paul McCartney and Wings (Denny Laine singing) "Again and Again and Again" (1979)
I'm sorry that Linda died of cancer, and I'm glad that she and Paul had a lovely relationship; that said, she is annoying as hell in this video, as she is in just about every other Wings video I've ever seen. (Same can be said of Yoko and her participation in John's music. I'm a feminist, but Linda and Yoko utterly ruined any natural vibe among musicians--Linda with her "trying to be cool" stilted mannerisms and Yoko with her left-wing politically correct posing. Each a failed rich girl: Linda's photography wasn't working out, Yoko's art wasn't working out...)
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Friday, March 23, 2018
Oh, yes, I will!
I've loved "Gone With the Wind" since I was 12. I've loved Trump since I was 51.
Scarlett's "Oh, yes, I will!" in the scene below reminds me of me upon seeing Trump's "Bush didn't keep us safe" comment in 2016: "Oh, yes, I will, willingly, go beyond all currently bullshit! Thank you!"
Scarlett's "Oh, yes, I will!" in the scene below reminds me of me upon seeing Trump's "Bush didn't keep us safe" comment in 2016: "Oh, yes, I will, willingly, go beyond all currently bullshit! Thank you!"
John Lennon "Scared" (1974)
You don't have to suffer
It is what it is
It is what it is
No bell, book, or candle
can get you out of this...
Bell, Book, and Candle from the Encyclopedia Britannica:
can get you out of this...
Bell, Book, and Candle from the Encyclopedia Britannica:
Bell, book, and candle, in Roman Catholicism, a ceremony formerly used in pronouncing the “major excommunication” or “anathema” (see excommunication).
Its origins are not clear, but it dates back certainly to the late 9th
century. The bell represented the public character of the act, the book
the authority of the words spoken by the presiding bishop. The candle was believed to symbolize the possibility that the ban might be lifted by the repentance and amendment of its victim. The ceremony was performed in some conspicuous
place, and, upon its termination, letters were written to bishops of
other sees to report the fact. When the assemblage had been convoked, a
bishop appeared with 12 priests, and all 13 held lighted candles. The
bishop, wearing violet vestments, then recited the formula, ending thus:
“We separate him, together with his accomplices and abettors, from the precious body and blood of the Lord and from the society of all Christians; we exclude him from our holy mother the church
in heaven and on earth; we declare him excommunicate and anathema; we
judge him damned, with the devil and his angels and all the reprobate,
to eternal fire until he shall recover himself from the toils of the
devil and return to amendment and to penitence.” Those present answered,
“So be it!” Then the bishop and the 12 priests extinguished their
candles by dashing them to the ground, and (as a general rule) the
ceremony then ended.
Dear Snowflakes:
https://www.mystatesman.com/news/local-education/march-for-our-lives-students-demand-safer-schools-stricter-gun-laws/oOj5eiRRdL8uMZIPezdHQM/
RE: “These shootings are aimed at students our age,” she said. “Older generations don’t seem to understand the fear placed in us. We need to take matters in our own hands and try to make a change.”
Dear Snowflakes:
(1) Mass shootings aren't aimed at you. Shootings are committed by mentally ill, or politically radicalized, people with access to guns. And they're aimed at adults in Las Vegas, adults in night-clubs, people at marathons, kids in elementary or high schools, etc. You're not special.
(2) Don't dare condescend to said "older generations" who have faced much more than you seem to be aware of. Don't they teach history in classrooms any more? Or is it all "social and emotional learning" nowadays? Some generations have actually faced serious poverty and war and the threat of nuclear annihilation. You're not special.
(3) Cutting class isn't "taking matters in your own hands." I understand that you feel self-righteous about it, but...that doesn't make any difference whatsoever. You're not special.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
"No bell, book, or candle..."
"...can get you out of this, oh no!" (John Lennon, "Scared," 1974)
I had a nice day today.
For one thing, Austin is great for about 6 weeks in the spring --- mid-March through end of April usually features temps in the 70s during the day and lows in the 40s at night: perfect, as far as I'm concerned. (May through September, on the other hand, is a constant muggy mess, with temperatures in the 90s--May, June, September--or 100s--July and August--by day, and no breezes at night to alleviate the tedious heat. By May, the AC comes on and stays on for a solid 5 months--no outside fresh air in the home.)
TCM is featuring Joan Crawford movies for over 12 hours on Friday, her birthday. In her honor, I requested the day off from work. At a perfect time: After 5 months of constant busy-ness and weekly overtime since October, there's a brief lull... I finally feel comfortable taking some time off. Thursday, as well as Joan Friday.
Aside from a lot of work to do, I also, honestly, hadn't had any particular place to go or people to see, which is what I'd always associated with "vacation." I finally figured out that sometimes people need time off and space just to do "basic" things. Like getting my car washed, for instance. I've had my car for over 2 years now, and have only washed it once (relying on the rain to clean it the rest of the time, I suppose). That one time, I did it myself after collecting $5 in quarters for weeks.
Lately, it had been bugging me for weeks/months that goop had collected on my car roof, and in the cup-holders, and that the driver's side of the floorboard was full of grit. It had also been bothering me that, months ago, a bought a new windshield wiper--only for the driver's side! Not occurring to me at the time that the passenger-side wiper indeed swiped over on the driver's side, and that if I didn't have BOTH wipers swiping properly, driving during rain was going to be a mess. (When I'd bought the first wiper months ago, the guy at the auto-parts store was dismissive of me, and I couldn't figure out how to hook it up properly, finally relying on a kind guy from work to do it for me.)
Today, Thursday, I slept in and woke up, invigorated, with the knowledge that it was nothing but Car Day! First task: Go back to the same auto-parts store and get the passenger-side wiper! Unlike during the first purchase, this man was courteous and helpful and asked ME, "Would you like me to put that on for you?" (Oh my god, yes I WOULD! Thank you!)
I then decided to splurge for a professional cleaning of my car, rather than doing it myself. (I only had $3 in quarters, and last time I'd tried to wash, the machine wouldn't give me change for my dollar bills)... $29.99, which included exterior, interior vacuuming, dash wiping, etc. I'd never had this done before on any car, so the process was interesting to find out about. (The Genie car wash where I went has an indoor area with windows where you watch your car go through the wash; before, guys vacuum, and after, guys clean your dash, console, etc.)
The result: Not worth $30! The cup-holders and spaces between the seats still had some ashes; there was still some gunk on the roof. At Genie, at the end, I pointed out the ashes, and they politely had someone re-vacuum. I didn't notice the "gunk" 'til I was driving around later; when I got home, I took a roll of paper towels and some window cleaner and wiped it off. I won't pay for this again, but I'm still glad I did it, just to find out about the process. (Next time, I'll just make sure I have enough quarters and do the job myself! I thought paying $30 would grant me something beyond what I could accomplish myself!)
Post-car cleaning, my official Task for the Day was done, and I then cruised around the 'hood in my fresh-smelling car visiting random places that I haven't had time to visit in months:
At the Dollar Store: I bought cheap Woolite substitute and other soap products. Only one register open, line of 6 or so. Black girl at the counter explaining loudly (could be heard all across the store) to all customers that she didn't see why people expected her to both ring up items AND bag them. (Thankfully, by the time I'd shopped and gotten to the register, another woman was in charge. She had no "thank you" or anything.)
At the Savers: I bought a candle dish. At the register area, one other man was standing around --- no open registers in sight. I spied a black woman walking to and fro with a young man, seemingly training him about things. After the man and I had been standing there for a while, I finally approached the woman/trainee: "Are any checkouts open?" That shook her out of whatever lethargy. Neither she nor her trainee looked at me during my $2.99 checkout, and certainly didn't have any paper to wrap my glass dish in.
At the "Now and Then" Episcopalian consignment store: I found a bell, tra-la-la. The 80-year-old white lady behind the counter was busy talking with a customer for a very long time. (Same customer who had asked me a half-hour earlier: "Did you hide that?" when I had said "excuse me" to him while in front of the picture frames). I finally had to ask another 80-year-old behind the counter: "Is this where I check out, or...?" This time, though, my purchase was wrapped very thoroughly.
The above all sounds very mundane, but the difference to me was: I had the time and space to wander around doing all of this stuff without getting greatly irritated by other people's foibles. The Dollar Store and Savers and church consignment store were all exactly as I'd experienced them when visiting them in months/years past. The first two have ALWAYS had crappy, random employees who don't have any concept of customer relations; the latter has ALWAYS had slow-pokey, snobbish old people. Sometimes I wonder if it's "just me." Nah. I'm learning that I'm often quite correct in my impressions to begin with! :)
Rest of the day: Visits to two furniture consignment shops (no $100 chairs or $40 side tables that I'd wanted), and then to McAllister's deli (where service was slow, as usual). Then to the liquor store to buy some 100-proof Smirnoff in honor of Joan's birthday tomorrow. (The 60-something owner refused to engage in any conversation about Joan's birthday.) Then a nap in the springtime afternoon --- Austin smells good in the spring; nothing woke me up until I woke up naturally.
This evening watching on TCM: Sunset Boulevard, Gone With the Wind (now on as I write), Casablanca...
And then tomorrow: Joan Crawford for 12 hours! :)
A good day!
I had a nice day today.
For one thing, Austin is great for about 6 weeks in the spring --- mid-March through end of April usually features temps in the 70s during the day and lows in the 40s at night: perfect, as far as I'm concerned. (May through September, on the other hand, is a constant muggy mess, with temperatures in the 90s--May, June, September--or 100s--July and August--by day, and no breezes at night to alleviate the tedious heat. By May, the AC comes on and stays on for a solid 5 months--no outside fresh air in the home.)
TCM is featuring Joan Crawford movies for over 12 hours on Friday, her birthday. In her honor, I requested the day off from work. At a perfect time: After 5 months of constant busy-ness and weekly overtime since October, there's a brief lull... I finally feel comfortable taking some time off. Thursday, as well as Joan Friday.
Aside from a lot of work to do, I also, honestly, hadn't had any particular place to go or people to see, which is what I'd always associated with "vacation." I finally figured out that sometimes people need time off and space just to do "basic" things. Like getting my car washed, for instance. I've had my car for over 2 years now, and have only washed it once (relying on the rain to clean it the rest of the time, I suppose). That one time, I did it myself after collecting $5 in quarters for weeks.
Lately, it had been bugging me for weeks/months that goop had collected on my car roof, and in the cup-holders, and that the driver's side of the floorboard was full of grit. It had also been bothering me that, months ago, a bought a new windshield wiper--only for the driver's side! Not occurring to me at the time that the passenger-side wiper indeed swiped over on the driver's side, and that if I didn't have BOTH wipers swiping properly, driving during rain was going to be a mess. (When I'd bought the first wiper months ago, the guy at the auto-parts store was dismissive of me, and I couldn't figure out how to hook it up properly, finally relying on a kind guy from work to do it for me.)
Today, Thursday, I slept in and woke up, invigorated, with the knowledge that it was nothing but Car Day! First task: Go back to the same auto-parts store and get the passenger-side wiper! Unlike during the first purchase, this man was courteous and helpful and asked ME, "Would you like me to put that on for you?" (Oh my god, yes I WOULD! Thank you!)
I then decided to splurge for a professional cleaning of my car, rather than doing it myself. (I only had $3 in quarters, and last time I'd tried to wash, the machine wouldn't give me change for my dollar bills)... $29.99, which included exterior, interior vacuuming, dash wiping, etc. I'd never had this done before on any car, so the process was interesting to find out about. (The Genie car wash where I went has an indoor area with windows where you watch your car go through the wash; before, guys vacuum, and after, guys clean your dash, console, etc.)
The result: Not worth $30! The cup-holders and spaces between the seats still had some ashes; there was still some gunk on the roof. At Genie, at the end, I pointed out the ashes, and they politely had someone re-vacuum. I didn't notice the "gunk" 'til I was driving around later; when I got home, I took a roll of paper towels and some window cleaner and wiped it off. I won't pay for this again, but I'm still glad I did it, just to find out about the process. (Next time, I'll just make sure I have enough quarters and do the job myself! I thought paying $30 would grant me something beyond what I could accomplish myself!)
Post-car cleaning, my official Task for the Day was done, and I then cruised around the 'hood in my fresh-smelling car visiting random places that I haven't had time to visit in months:
At the Dollar Store: I bought cheap Woolite substitute and other soap products. Only one register open, line of 6 or so. Black girl at the counter explaining loudly (could be heard all across the store) to all customers that she didn't see why people expected her to both ring up items AND bag them. (Thankfully, by the time I'd shopped and gotten to the register, another woman was in charge. She had no "thank you" or anything.)
At the Savers: I bought a candle dish. At the register area, one other man was standing around --- no open registers in sight. I spied a black woman walking to and fro with a young man, seemingly training him about things. After the man and I had been standing there for a while, I finally approached the woman/trainee: "Are any checkouts open?" That shook her out of whatever lethargy. Neither she nor her trainee looked at me during my $2.99 checkout, and certainly didn't have any paper to wrap my glass dish in.
At the "Now and Then" Episcopalian consignment store: I found a bell, tra-la-la. The 80-year-old white lady behind the counter was busy talking with a customer for a very long time. (Same customer who had asked me a half-hour earlier: "Did you hide that?" when I had said "excuse me" to him while in front of the picture frames). I finally had to ask another 80-year-old behind the counter: "Is this where I check out, or...?" This time, though, my purchase was wrapped very thoroughly.
The above all sounds very mundane, but the difference to me was: I had the time and space to wander around doing all of this stuff without getting greatly irritated by other people's foibles. The Dollar Store and Savers and church consignment store were all exactly as I'd experienced them when visiting them in months/years past. The first two have ALWAYS had crappy, random employees who don't have any concept of customer relations; the latter has ALWAYS had slow-pokey, snobbish old people. Sometimes I wonder if it's "just me." Nah. I'm learning that I'm often quite correct in my impressions to begin with! :)
Rest of the day: Visits to two furniture consignment shops (no $100 chairs or $40 side tables that I'd wanted), and then to McAllister's deli (where service was slow, as usual). Then to the liquor store to buy some 100-proof Smirnoff in honor of Joan's birthday tomorrow. (The 60-something owner refused to engage in any conversation about Joan's birthday.) Then a nap in the springtime afternoon --- Austin smells good in the spring; nothing woke me up until I woke up naturally.
This evening watching on TCM: Sunset Boulevard, Gone With the Wind (now on as I write), Casablanca...
And then tomorrow: Joan Crawford for 12 hours! :)
A good day!
Monday, March 19, 2018
Sunday, March 18, 2018
My Brave Face - Paul McCartney (1989)
Spring of 1989. My first answering machine and message: "Now I don't have to tell anybody when I'm gonna get back!"
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Paul McCartney & Wings: With A Little Luck (1978)
Did I mention already that Paul McCartney is sweet?
Friday, March 16, 2018
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Truman Capote, 1960s
I've been reading and re-reading Capote over the past couple of weeks. What is most annoying in his history is the constant latter-day claims that he was working on his grand opus "Answered Prayers" when in fact he was just doing drugs and drinking. The so-called "Answered Prayers" chapters that appeared in the media in the '70s were just gossipy transcriptions of scenes he'd been around. He hadn't taken the time to (1) internalize his impressions, or (2) organize his impressions. Lazily, he just spat them out.
For instance: Was it so important to Capote that he wrote about Bill Paley (husband of Capote's muse Babe Paley) fucking someone else's wife, who was having her period and left a blood-stain in the bed? As others have pointed out, having sex with a woman having her period isn't that big of a deal for a straight man... but Capote seemed to obsess about it, creating a sort-of demarcation line... A demarcation line for WHAT? Babe Paley, upon reading Capote's public account, chose to stand with her husband. THAT was the demarcation line.
Friday, March 09, 2018
Back in February...
My uncle posted a flower-photo on Facebook with the trope: "Share if you have a daughter you love with all your heart and let everyone know how much you are proud of her."
I'm his Facebook Friend, and I responded: "Wow! I wish my own father felt the same way."
My uncle responded: "I do not know what he thinks but you have at least one uncle, and maybe more, that love you, admires your writing skills, and thinks you are beautiful and smart. You write as well as any famous syndicated columnist, perhaps better than most. Your debating skills are outstanding, and i like your arguments when we are both on the same page."
I cried. I'd never heard any such thing from my mother or father or anyone.
I'm his Facebook Friend, and I responded: "Wow! I wish my own father felt the same way."
My uncle responded: "I do not know what he thinks but you have at least one uncle, and maybe more, that love you, admires your writing skills, and thinks you are beautiful and smart. You write as well as any famous syndicated columnist, perhaps better than most. Your debating skills are outstanding, and i like your arguments when we are both on the same page."
I cried. I'd never heard any such thing from my mother or father or anyone.
Thursday, March 08, 2018
Wednesday, March 07, 2018
Wings/Paul McCartney - Treat Her Gently (Lonely Old People) 1975
Treat her gently
Treat her kind
She doesn’t even know her own mind.
Treat her kind
She doesn’t even know her own mind.
Treat her simply
Take it slow
Make it easy
and let her know
You’ll never find another way
Take it slow
Make it easy
and let her know
You’ll never find another way
Here we sit
Two lonely old people
Eking our lives away
Two lonely old people
Eking our lives away
Bit by bit
Two lonely old people
Keeping the time of day
Two lonely old people
Keeping the time of day
Here we sit
Out of breath
And nobody asked us to play
Old people’s home for the day
Nobody asked us to play
Out of breath
And nobody asked us to play
Old people’s home for the day
Nobody asked us to play
Treat her gently
Treat her kind
She doesn’t even know her own mind
Treat her kind
She doesn’t even know her own mind
Treat her simply
Make it slow
Take it easy
and let her know
You’ll never find another way
Make it slow
Take it easy
and let her know
You’ll never find another way
Here we sit
Two lonely old people
Eking our lives away
Two lonely old people
Eking our lives away
Bit by bit
Two lonely old people
Keeping the time of day
Two lonely old people
Keeping the time of day
Here we sit
Out of breath
And nobody asked us to play
Out of breath
And nobody asked us to play
Old people’s home for the day
Nobody asked us to play
Nobody asked us to play
Monday, March 05, 2018
Chumbawamba - Tubthumping
Heard this on the way to work this past week. Cranked it up, rolled my windows down... I'm not dead yet, motherfuckers.
Bye!
The dicks at the apartment overlooking mine who've given me so much grief with their ongoing obnoxiousness (partying on their stoop and at the apartment pool) moved out tonight! Before I re-signed my lease a few weeks ago, my apartment manager assured me that their last day was March 5, but somehow I didn't quite believe it... It's true!
I heard a large CRASH around 6pm... Boo-hoo, the dicks had dropped their couch as they were moving out.
When I moved in over a year ago in April 2017, these assholes were parked in chairs in front of their apartment watching me and sniggering as I struggled to haul stuff in to my apartment. Tonight, I briefly contemplated sitting out back and watching their own dickish struggles to move their shit.
Thank GOD they're gone.
(Though, The Overlook isn't yet dumbshit free: The punk couple in the apartment to the right of The Dicks just had the police called to the apartment Friday night. I peered out through the sliding-glass door during the police call; the police isolated the male and talked to him for 15 minutes. Haven't seen them since.)
I heard a large CRASH around 6pm... Boo-hoo, the dicks had dropped their couch as they were moving out.
When I moved in over a year ago in April 2017, these assholes were parked in chairs in front of their apartment watching me and sniggering as I struggled to haul stuff in to my apartment. Tonight, I briefly contemplated sitting out back and watching their own dickish struggles to move their shit.
Thank GOD they're gone.
(Though, The Overlook isn't yet dumbshit free: The punk couple in the apartment to the right of The Dicks just had the police called to the apartment Friday night. I peered out through the sliding-glass door during the police call; the police isolated the male and talked to him for 15 minutes. Haven't seen them since.)
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