No Mention Of Pepsi
To the naked eye of anyone who might gaze upon the scene of me it would probably not look like I am engaged in a crucially important task.
I am waiting for the phone to ring while reading an assortment of things, the novel Black Swan Green, news and feature articles (like I need to read someone's assessment of how pissed off the average American is at those that govern), some article about how Brooklyn (and possibly Detroit) wants to be careful about becoming Portland, another one about three plausible inventors of the High Five even though the first one is a hoax, which takes a brief foray into what it might mean to be a gay baseball player in the late 70s and to date Tommy Lasorda's son, even though the son, emphatically so says Coach Lasorda, was not gay.
As a passive barrier to the approaching afternoon sun the shades are drawn so gazing out the window is not an option.
I received a forwarded letter from Allstate informing me that their policy in North Carolina is to cancel the home insurance of any of their customers who don't also insure their vehicle with Allstate. I've wasted a number of days in pure befuddlement over how this could be so, another few in deep research, and the last several in casual but non forward moving acceptance of yet another thing added to the barrel of things that suck. Suck is as close as I am going to come to using foul language as partly this is an exercise in self control; an attempt at mature handling of a difficult situation.
I am finally this morning talking to a human from that aforementioned company, which I refer to in such anonymous fashion to prevent certain readers from looking for alternate meaning via secret between the lines coding as implied by repeated use of the company name. Like--see how he used the company name preceded by such and such a number of words whose total letter count adds up to such and such which if divided by three and subtracted from 37 equals cocksuckers. I don't want that to happen and I ask for mature reading only.
I thought I had received an actual email from the agent informing me of the whyfore of this policy change but as it turns out that was clearly just an automated personal sounding response activated when his inbox receives certain keywords. So I'm talking to him this morning and he has no actual knowledge that we have "communicated" by email and begins to go into the reasons for this new policy (even though I had not asked for any explanation) which are in short--blah blah limiting exposure in states with coastal areas blah and you can kiss our large ass if you don't like it. And I had to politely halt him midway through, not to inform him that I had already read the automated email and a considerably long assessment from a Lexus-Nexus type news database for financial matters, but just to say I had been in New Orleans after the big one and had certain feelings about the cocksuckers, I mean company, and how they limited their exposure but did not want to get sidetracked on that, was more just interested in the alternate insurance company mentioned in his email. I am not so interested in the specifics of how said company will one day screw me, just stupidly eager to add them to the list of things I can complain about in the future.
Sometimes I feel like I am following a path lined with little yellow lights and along which there are loudspeakers announcing--all dumb asses this way, all dumb assess this way, and even at the forks of implied choice the neon arrows pointing each way are above blinking Vegas-like signage redundantly leading me with the words, dumb asses only, dumb asses only. Eagerly walking and in some cases running ahead of me are any number of people more ambitious, some who turn and taunt--I'm going to be there ahead of you. When I ask where they answer ahead of you.
...more recent posts
LOL Chauffeur
Chauffeur and I have been recently engaged in haphazard communication. By email mostly. Chauffeur: could I use washer/dryer before someone new moves in? He has a key to the Rocheblave house. Sure I say, could you take some pictures showing condition of house and email them? Could I take pictures and email them, you are kidding right? Ha Ha LOL. The Chauffeur and that LOL thing are incongruous to me but not necessarily in a bad way. Not like a grandmother in hot pants. Like many people his embracing of the Internet and his ability to best utilize it are not always perfectly meshed.
He had first emailed me out of the blue to warn me that the property manager was showing the house to people who for him raised red flags. At the time I had not even been clearly apprised of the situation, except the brief mention from Property Manager that all may not be well in my world as a Landlord, and this only after I had emailed him to question why the electronic deposits seemed lacking in regularity.
We have shared, the Chauffeur and I, not as best buddies but as very good neighborly acquaintances, over a number of years, visions out the glass of our opposing windows of how quickly a modest somewhat decrepit neighborhood can go from nice, just how we like it, to an explosively dramatic nightmare. One in which you wander righteously indignant down a path lined with wrongness until the path dead ends and there before you rising up is a giant green and white highway sign that says--what the fuck did you expect moving into a neighborhood like this? What we expect is reasonable living costs in a vibrant setting surrounded by the greatest variety of humanity possible, without having to explore too often all the thought processes which occasional gunfire or constant street drug dealing bring to our minds' forefront.
I hear from him next just this past week that he is driving a car to Cape Cod or some such place and will be in the area briefly but no real hinting at a get together, more just a hey man look at me I'm driving cross country for some rich dude, seriously though look at me, can you dig it? Yes I can Chauffeur.
Got an email from New Orleans today saying he is back there but was stuck in Newark last night, wished he had my phone number. Same one as ever I tell him but it doesn't ring or far as I can tell even vibrate anymore. Told him next time he should try JFK which would give him the option to conveniently transport into city, within a block of here, for 8 bucks, instead of the 40 or 50 for cab or car service.
Says he's making the trip again in a couple of weeks, in reverse, to pick the car up. Did I want to drive back with him. I don't know, maybe. I guess if I got my chores done. But the timing's a little off. Someone's already moved into my house, which at times is a place I miss, and if empty would be a mark on the plus side column as a reason to go. Could see the nephew, have been remiss in familial matters of late. Long drives are nice. Have been thinking about one. New Orleans in August though. Not the best time to be there.
Bernadette has been talking about arranging with her sister the Restauranteur time to use the car they share and so maybe we will get our motor running out on the highway more locally, upstate, or into Pennsylvania or (you get some sleep, I'll drive for awhile)...and waking up she says could you pull over somewhere, I need to pee, hey what the hell...did that sign say Detroit? (Looking for adventure...whatever comes our way...)
Chauffeur and I have been recently engaged in haphazard communication. By email mostly. Chauffeur: could I use washer/dryer before someone new moves in? He has a key to the Rocheblave house. Sure I say, could you take some pictures showing condition of house and email them? Could I take pictures and email them, you are kidding right? Ha Ha LOL. The Chauffeur and that LOL thing are incongruous to me but not necessarily in a bad way. Not like a grandmother in hot pants. Like many people his embracing of the Internet and his ability to best utilize it are not always perfectly meshed.
He had first emailed me out of the blue to warn me that the property manager was showing the house to people who for him raised red flags. At the time I had not even been clearly apprised of the situation, except the brief mention from Property Manager that all may not be well in my world as a Landlord, and this only after I had emailed him to question why the electronic deposits seemed lacking in regularity.
We have shared, the Chauffeur and I, not as best buddies but as very good neighborly acquaintances, over a number of years, visions out the glass of our opposing windows of how quickly a modest somewhat decrepit neighborhood can go from nice, just how we like it, to an explosively dramatic nightmare. One in which you wander righteously indignant down a path lined with wrongness until the path dead ends and there before you rising up is a giant green and white highway sign that says--what the fuck did you expect moving into a neighborhood like this? What we expect is reasonable living costs in a vibrant setting surrounded by the greatest variety of humanity possible, without having to explore too often all the thought processes which occasional gunfire or constant street drug dealing bring to our minds' forefront.
I hear from him next just this past week that he is driving a car to Cape Cod or some such place and will be in the area briefly but no real hinting at a get together, more just a hey man look at me I'm driving cross country for some rich dude, seriously though look at me, can you dig it? Yes I can Chauffeur.
Got an email from New Orleans today saying he is back there but was stuck in Newark last night, wished he had my phone number. Same one as ever I tell him but it doesn't ring or far as I can tell even vibrate anymore. Told him next time he should try JFK which would give him the option to conveniently transport into city, within a block of here, for 8 bucks, instead of the 40 or 50 for cab or car service.
Says he's making the trip again in a couple of weeks, in reverse, to pick the car up. Did I want to drive back with him. I don't know, maybe. I guess if I got my chores done. But the timing's a little off. Someone's already moved into my house, which at times is a place I miss, and if empty would be a mark on the plus side column as a reason to go. Could see the nephew, have been remiss in familial matters of late. Long drives are nice. Have been thinking about one. New Orleans in August though. Not the best time to be there.
Bernadette has been talking about arranging with her sister the Restauranteur time to use the car they share and so maybe we will get our motor running out on the highway more locally, upstate, or into Pennsylvania or (you get some sleep, I'll drive for awhile)...and waking up she says could you pull over somewhere, I need to pee, hey what the hell...did that sign say Detroit? (Looking for adventure...whatever comes our way...)
Sublet
The bed slides easily on the waxed wood floor. Depending on what side of the bed you are claiming there is real estate lost or won whenever the bed slides. Sometimes the sliding is explicable and sometimes, frankly, how the bed slides remains one of those mysteries like why in the world is there even such a thing as potted meat. I don't own anything in New York except some socks and t-shirts and a number of inherited or gifted electronic gadgets. This is Bernadette's apartment so it is rather cheeky of me but I'm thinking of subletting the piece of real estate I've recently gained by the sliding of the bed. Bernadette on her side has a narrow sliver of pathway and I don't know how she gets in and out of bed without tripping over something, shoes or cat hairballs or gadget cords or the like because there really is just barely enough space for one foot in front of the other and I wonder if she will ever complain about it but so far so good. I'm thinking I have enough extra space that if I leave myself a sliver equal to Bernadette's then I will still have 7 or 8 square feet extra which I could rent out. Premium New York Real Estate. Eight luxurious square feet in the hip and happening Lower East Side. Perfect for a small person who is also very quiet and never at home. 750 per month. First and last month's deposit. No pets but must be able to clean a cat box twice a week. I don't want to count my chickens but I can smell that money coming in.
The bed slides easily on the waxed wood floor. Depending on what side of the bed you are claiming there is real estate lost or won whenever the bed slides. Sometimes the sliding is explicable and sometimes, frankly, how the bed slides remains one of those mysteries like why in the world is there even such a thing as potted meat. I don't own anything in New York except some socks and t-shirts and a number of inherited or gifted electronic gadgets. This is Bernadette's apartment so it is rather cheeky of me but I'm thinking of subletting the piece of real estate I've recently gained by the sliding of the bed. Bernadette on her side has a narrow sliver of pathway and I don't know how she gets in and out of bed without tripping over something, shoes or cat hairballs or gadget cords or the like because there really is just barely enough space for one foot in front of the other and I wonder if she will ever complain about it but so far so good. I'm thinking I have enough extra space that if I leave myself a sliver equal to Bernadette's then I will still have 7 or 8 square feet extra which I could rent out. Premium New York Real Estate. Eight luxurious square feet in the hip and happening Lower East Side. Perfect for a small person who is also very quiet and never at home. 750 per month. First and last month's deposit. No pets but must be able to clean a cat box twice a week. I don't want to count my chickens but I can smell that money coming in.
WWII Part II
The outside door and the vestibule door were wide open so Bill Macy and I came in off the street straight into the building and down the hall and into the first apartment that offered no resistance. The bed wasn't made and there were dirty clothes on the floor. While Macy got the TV going I ransacked the kitchen and chanted USA, USA, USA. The kitchen pantry and fridge were crowded with stuff but yielded little of interest. We had just eaten at Another Name restaurant and so weren't that hungry anyway. The Restauranteur had said we could watch the game in her apartment and warned us about the unmade bed. I'm not sure why we were supposed to give a damn about that, but since she mentioned it I thought I would too. I contemplate the title Ballad of the Unmade Bed.
The French had a Portuguese secret weapon named Bompastor who was a brief challenge to my national loyalty but in the end I took Bill Macy's advice which had been to snap out of it man, you're an American, keep your mind on the game. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the prize and so forth. That's easy for you to say, Macy, I said, completely unaware of why it would be or if it ever was. It was a tie game at 1-1 but then Bompastor lost a shoe and couldn't untie the knot to get it back on and shortly after that is was 3-1 USA, game over.
The Restauranteur came in with a dog named Pickles, just walked in like she owned the place, fumbled around in the kitchen for awhile and served up some sliced watermelon. By this time Macy and I were bored out of our minds watching the Japan v. Sweden game. Thanks for the watermelon and the use of your TV Restauranteur but good God how much of this women's soccer are we required to tolerate? She had no answer for that. Womens soccer was not her idea. Bill Macy and I had conjured it out of thin air. Macy made small talk. He got the Restauranteur talking about the last televised sporting event she had hosted. She said with all the clever critical talk and analyzation going on she had felt a little like jimlouis. I knew just what she meant. Oh you were feeling a little jimlouisy, I sympathized. That's rough. Did your head explode? You were just going along fine and then all of a sudden out of the blue you asked yourself--could people really not shut the fuck up for one minute and quit being clever and just watch the game--and that's pretty much the end. There is no recovery after that. There is the exploding head or retreat, those are the only two choices.
Maybe it's not so much the cleverness per se but the concentration of cleverness, or the competitiveness of cleverness or maybe it is just the sheer volume of cleverness unbridled that lights the fuse on the way to your head exploding. Anyway, it's bad for everybody. Nobody likes the guy the with the exploding head at their party. People are always having to tiptoe around him (careful, they whisper to each other, his head has been known to explode). Kids nudge each other giggling and pointing at the exploder--he's gonna blow they squeal, spitting red kool-aid over each other.
There are drugs which effectively combat jimlouisy syndrome but all of them have side effects including dry mouth, diarrhea, six hour erections, slow painful death, itchy eyes, aching joints, heart palpitations, slurred speech, shakespearian recitation, and in severe cases--that irresistible yearning to weave baskets.
Macy and I tried to be clever while making fun of the women's soccer announcers. One of them was clearly trying to come up with the encapsulating catch phrase that would sum up for the world just how amazing was this USA women's soccer team. We imitated him. But we weren't at the top of our game. We weren't that clever. We came up with not a single memorable slogan/catch phrase. Its okay not to be clever every day. USA Women's Soccer--They Score. USA Women's Soccer--They Kick Balls. USA Women's Soccer--They Tend to Score More Goals Than Their Opponents...eh, you can't force it.
USA v. Japan on Sunday for championship of the world. Let's dust off those slogans people.
The outside door and the vestibule door were wide open so Bill Macy and I came in off the street straight into the building and down the hall and into the first apartment that offered no resistance. The bed wasn't made and there were dirty clothes on the floor. While Macy got the TV going I ransacked the kitchen and chanted USA, USA, USA. The kitchen pantry and fridge were crowded with stuff but yielded little of interest. We had just eaten at Another Name restaurant and so weren't that hungry anyway. The Restauranteur had said we could watch the game in her apartment and warned us about the unmade bed. I'm not sure why we were supposed to give a damn about that, but since she mentioned it I thought I would too. I contemplate the title Ballad of the Unmade Bed.
The French had a Portuguese secret weapon named Bompastor who was a brief challenge to my national loyalty but in the end I took Bill Macy's advice which had been to snap out of it man, you're an American, keep your mind on the game. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the prize and so forth. That's easy for you to say, Macy, I said, completely unaware of why it would be or if it ever was. It was a tie game at 1-1 but then Bompastor lost a shoe and couldn't untie the knot to get it back on and shortly after that is was 3-1 USA, game over.
The Restauranteur came in with a dog named Pickles, just walked in like she owned the place, fumbled around in the kitchen for awhile and served up some sliced watermelon. By this time Macy and I were bored out of our minds watching the Japan v. Sweden game. Thanks for the watermelon and the use of your TV Restauranteur but good God how much of this women's soccer are we required to tolerate? She had no answer for that. Womens soccer was not her idea. Bill Macy and I had conjured it out of thin air. Macy made small talk. He got the Restauranteur talking about the last televised sporting event she had hosted. She said with all the clever critical talk and analyzation going on she had felt a little like jimlouis. I knew just what she meant. Oh you were feeling a little jimlouisy, I sympathized. That's rough. Did your head explode? You were just going along fine and then all of a sudden out of the blue you asked yourself--could people really not shut the fuck up for one minute and quit being clever and just watch the game--and that's pretty much the end. There is no recovery after that. There is the exploding head or retreat, those are the only two choices.
Maybe it's not so much the cleverness per se but the concentration of cleverness, or the competitiveness of cleverness or maybe it is just the sheer volume of cleverness unbridled that lights the fuse on the way to your head exploding. Anyway, it's bad for everybody. Nobody likes the guy the with the exploding head at their party. People are always having to tiptoe around him (careful, they whisper to each other, his head has been known to explode). Kids nudge each other giggling and pointing at the exploder--he's gonna blow they squeal, spitting red kool-aid over each other.
There are drugs which effectively combat jimlouisy syndrome but all of them have side effects including dry mouth, diarrhea, six hour erections, slow painful death, itchy eyes, aching joints, heart palpitations, slurred speech, shakespearian recitation, and in severe cases--that irresistible yearning to weave baskets.
Macy and I tried to be clever while making fun of the women's soccer announcers. One of them was clearly trying to come up with the encapsulating catch phrase that would sum up for the world just how amazing was this USA women's soccer team. We imitated him. But we weren't at the top of our game. We weren't that clever. We came up with not a single memorable slogan/catch phrase. Its okay not to be clever every day. USA Women's Soccer--They Score. USA Women's Soccer--They Kick Balls. USA Women's Soccer--They Tend to Score More Goals Than Their Opponents...eh, you can't force it.
USA v. Japan on Sunday for championship of the world. Let's dust off those slogans people.
Cat Drugs
The Cleaning Lady told Bernadette this morning that last week my cat, whose name actually is Virginia, no pseudonyms for the cat, apparently exhibited behavior unbecoming a well bred feline and hissed at her in such fashion as to prevent her passage. I might argue here that it was fear which actually prevented the cleaning lady's passage as the cat itself, however daunting she is in freak out mode, is still just a cat and could be removed as obstruction with a swift kick or most reliably a spritz of water from a spray bottle. This is not in any way meant to remove me as a culpable participant in the raising of a slightly unpredictable ill-behaved little shit of a cat behind whom on arms and faces and ankles of the many there is an etched trail of blood. I've tried drugs of all sorts, LSD and other hallucinogens, opiates a plenty, stimulates whose names I have forgotten, even an occasional antacid but these seem to have little effect on the cat, who remains predictably, understandably, unimpressed with my former drug use. And the man says, if I could walk that way I wouldn't need a doctor.
The Cleaning Lady told Bernadette this morning that last week my cat, whose name actually is Virginia, no pseudonyms for the cat, apparently exhibited behavior unbecoming a well bred feline and hissed at her in such fashion as to prevent her passage. I might argue here that it was fear which actually prevented the cleaning lady's passage as the cat itself, however daunting she is in freak out mode, is still just a cat and could be removed as obstruction with a swift kick or most reliably a spritz of water from a spray bottle. This is not in any way meant to remove me as a culpable participant in the raising of a slightly unpredictable ill-behaved little shit of a cat behind whom on arms and faces and ankles of the many there is an etched trail of blood. I've tried drugs of all sorts, LSD and other hallucinogens, opiates a plenty, stimulates whose names I have forgotten, even an occasional antacid but these seem to have little effect on the cat, who remains predictably, understandably, unimpressed with my former drug use. And the man says, if I could walk that way I wouldn't need a doctor.
New York
The man across the street called out to me, hey you slithering sea creature, you fanny arbuckle modernist prefab poster boy, you casper the friendly ghost wannabe, you high-water pant wearing blowhard, you fabulist, you correspondingly iridescent crack caulker, you sharp shooting snake oil salesman, you dog, you politically correct puke sucker, you horse's ass wipe, you stink bug loving lassie licking dingleberry, you freshwater fisherman, you lead based paint nibbling brain dead hiccuping ne'er-do-well, hey butthead I'm talking to you, you fascist mormon meat eating ignoramus, you islamic christian catnip growing procrastinator, why don't you go jump in a frozen arctic lake or nosedive into a landmass, call me when you get there, don't forget to put a stamp on it you stem cell, you shave cream hoarding hash smoker, you irruptive gabbro-head, you make want to shout, hey you, you...
...at this point I turned around from performing an important task, to spy from what source did come all this potty mouthing, as cab drivers whizzed by in the street, and hardworking earnest good solid people passed along the sidewalks, to see over there a giant black Labrador that never did nobody no harm, attached by leash to a man I recognized as a Long Island resident, the one who holds hostage one of my best friends, the margarita machine, and so I walked over and shook his hand, offering no insults of my own. I wondered and then voiced out loud what brings you to town and he said 11 Madison did, that he would just come into town whenever 11 Madison beckoned, as it did now to honor Yonder Fair Maiden's graduation from one of the windowless uptown institutions. He taunted me, describing how miserable he knew my life without margarita machine must be, and I nodded submissively, I would kid no one pretending otherwise, that life without frozen slushy salty lime flavored tequila was anything but hell, but I pretended in a pitifully transparent fashion that I would get along fine without margarita machine and it was so pitiful, really, that this man of the heretofore expressed ability for pithiness gave in, and jabbed no more at the festering wound that would afflict the soul of any man left slushiless.
The man across the street called out to me, hey you slithering sea creature, you fanny arbuckle modernist prefab poster boy, you casper the friendly ghost wannabe, you high-water pant wearing blowhard, you fabulist, you correspondingly iridescent crack caulker, you sharp shooting snake oil salesman, you dog, you politically correct puke sucker, you horse's ass wipe, you stink bug loving lassie licking dingleberry, you freshwater fisherman, you lead based paint nibbling brain dead hiccuping ne'er-do-well, hey butthead I'm talking to you, you fascist mormon meat eating ignoramus, you islamic christian catnip growing procrastinator, why don't you go jump in a frozen arctic lake or nosedive into a landmass, call me when you get there, don't forget to put a stamp on it you stem cell, you shave cream hoarding hash smoker, you irruptive gabbro-head, you make want to shout, hey you, you...
...at this point I turned around from performing an important task, to spy from what source did come all this potty mouthing, as cab drivers whizzed by in the street, and hardworking earnest good solid people passed along the sidewalks, to see over there a giant black Labrador that never did nobody no harm, attached by leash to a man I recognized as a Long Island resident, the one who holds hostage one of my best friends, the margarita machine, and so I walked over and shook his hand, offering no insults of my own. I wondered and then voiced out loud what brings you to town and he said 11 Madison did, that he would just come into town whenever 11 Madison beckoned, as it did now to honor Yonder Fair Maiden's graduation from one of the windowless uptown institutions. He taunted me, describing how miserable he knew my life without margarita machine must be, and I nodded submissively, I would kid no one pretending otherwise, that life without frozen slushy salty lime flavored tequila was anything but hell, but I pretended in a pitifully transparent fashion that I would get along fine without margarita machine and it was so pitiful, really, that this man of the heretofore expressed ability for pithiness gave in, and jabbed no more at the festering wound that would afflict the soul of any man left slushiless.
Mermaid Parade
Not The Bowl Of Rocks
We are a long way from the Remington typewriter. I must admit this. I have a glass of water nearby.
I can just type and wait for a thought to occur.
It will happen any minute now. Getting ready to happen. I can feel it. Or a nap coming on.
What if I should suddenly need some of this stuff on my desk? My phone may ring, not literally of course because I lost the ringing function long ago. But it may vibrate at least to signal that the battery is dying again. As a reminder that I am wasting 50 dollars a month, you stupid bastard you don't ever use the thing. You could be sponsoring a child in Africa for that kind of money. Ah there's my old Leatherman. I could use that to saw off my leg. Or my arm as the case may be. And yes I do need two remotes, one for the AC and one for the ceiling fan. Watch, I can make the light come on.
French Milled. I do not know what that means but I have two small bars of French Milled Neutrogena soap in individual box wrappers. First thing this morning if you had told me I would put the word box next to the word wrappers I would have called you a crazy person.
A pair of cheap bifocal reading sunglasses I may need if this electronic screen gets to harsh for me. I will try them on now. Not exactly what I was looking for.
The forward arrow on this keyboard advances the music to the next song so that is like a third remote device.
Do not know what that key goes to but am afraid to throw it away. Ditto that red ribbon although I am suspicious of it.
The AC just kicked on by itself because I have the energy saver feature engaged. Yep, that's another remote which I control by the number 77.
Am not including the cat as back scratching remote device because she just too unpredictable and if that is what she were advertised to be I would have returned her to the store by now.
I sat pondering could I get some refried black beans smeared onto Goya tortilla chips topped with jalapeno and Monterrey Jack without actually getting up and the answer was no so those ones next to me now are homemade, physically, by me. Careful though, they are hot, and spicy. To take them out of the oven I used an authentic 1966 hot pad from the Byrne Bros, Inc. over in White Plains, NY on which is advertised the 1966 Chevrolets, including the Chevrolet, the Chevelle, the Chevy II, the Corvair, and the Corvette.
If you thought me saying about those nachos--careful, they are hot and spicy, was my way of offering you one rest assured it was not. I just ate them one after another, all twenty-five of them and they are gone. I may have to get back to you on how I feel about that.
How I know the hot pads are authentic 66 is because the phone number is listed as WH 9-0423.
Is that all the stuff on your desk you may ask. No, I respond. Not by a long shot.
We are a long way from the Remington typewriter. I must admit this. I have a glass of water nearby.
I can just type and wait for a thought to occur.
It will happen any minute now. Getting ready to happen. I can feel it. Or a nap coming on.
What if I should suddenly need some of this stuff on my desk? My phone may ring, not literally of course because I lost the ringing function long ago. But it may vibrate at least to signal that the battery is dying again. As a reminder that I am wasting 50 dollars a month, you stupid bastard you don't ever use the thing. You could be sponsoring a child in Africa for that kind of money. Ah there's my old Leatherman. I could use that to saw off my leg. Or my arm as the case may be. And yes I do need two remotes, one for the AC and one for the ceiling fan. Watch, I can make the light come on.
French Milled. I do not know what that means but I have two small bars of French Milled Neutrogena soap in individual box wrappers. First thing this morning if you had told me I would put the word box next to the word wrappers I would have called you a crazy person.
A pair of cheap bifocal reading sunglasses I may need if this electronic screen gets to harsh for me. I will try them on now. Not exactly what I was looking for.
The forward arrow on this keyboard advances the music to the next song so that is like a third remote device.
Do not know what that key goes to but am afraid to throw it away. Ditto that red ribbon although I am suspicious of it.
The AC just kicked on by itself because I have the energy saver feature engaged. Yep, that's another remote which I control by the number 77.
Am not including the cat as back scratching remote device because she just too unpredictable and if that is what she were advertised to be I would have returned her to the store by now.
I sat pondering could I get some refried black beans smeared onto Goya tortilla chips topped with jalapeno and Monterrey Jack without actually getting up and the answer was no so those ones next to me now are homemade, physically, by me. Careful though, they are hot, and spicy. To take them out of the oven I used an authentic 1966 hot pad from the Byrne Bros, Inc. over in White Plains, NY on which is advertised the 1966 Chevrolets, including the Chevrolet, the Chevelle, the Chevy II, the Corvair, and the Corvette.
If you thought me saying about those nachos--careful, they are hot and spicy, was my way of offering you one rest assured it was not. I just ate them one after another, all twenty-five of them and they are gone. I may have to get back to you on how I feel about that.
How I know the hot pads are authentic 66 is because the phone number is listed as WH 9-0423.
Is that all the stuff on your desk you may ask. No, I respond. Not by a long shot.
Heavy As Carved Whalebone
Shortly after that great day in the history of my most recent personal civil war, which ended with the installation of a gigantic window unit air conditioner (go Confederacy go), but should not in this time line be conflated with that side skirmish occurring only days ago and involving a ceiling fan (oh that Confederacy does love a good beat down), it turned cool here in New York (except for two days, and for those I was in Virginia in unexpected consultation with a Republican Christian Coalition) and the windows got opened up and the remote control put away. There have been nights in this mid June New York that were simply cold.
It is though heating up a little today and while I am not committed to shutting all the windows and will in any case be leaving the apartment soon, still feel it is in my best interest, after all this hullabaloo concerning the installation of an air cooling device, to actually use said device once in awhile.
It has now been on with several windows wide open for the last thirty minutes thereabouts and I'm feeling a little cool behind the collar so I'm going to reach over here for the remote, and turn it down a notch, or two.
Yesterday I was coming back from some important mission and out front the building on the opposite sidewalk stood Jimson and Julia Creed, with their newborn son, Elkhorn Scrimshaw. I was going to call out to them but they appeared to be discussing something important. When they finally saw me it was clear from even across the street that a light bulb was going off, a solution to their dilemma, and they asked me an easy one, would I mind carrying Scrimshaw up the three flights, on my way to five? Jimson was off to some business and this was afterall only a small favor. Of course I would be glad to, and was, and am in general, but that does not prevent me from saying this--that Elkhorn Scrimshaw is one heavy kid. Is it the name weighing him down perhaps? Or is some practical joker putting rocks in his pockets? I came up here to five huffing and puffing a little. Started thinking about an exercise regimen.
Shortly after that great day in the history of my most recent personal civil war, which ended with the installation of a gigantic window unit air conditioner (go Confederacy go), but should not in this time line be conflated with that side skirmish occurring only days ago and involving a ceiling fan (oh that Confederacy does love a good beat down), it turned cool here in New York (except for two days, and for those I was in Virginia in unexpected consultation with a Republican Christian Coalition) and the windows got opened up and the remote control put away. There have been nights in this mid June New York that were simply cold.
It is though heating up a little today and while I am not committed to shutting all the windows and will in any case be leaving the apartment soon, still feel it is in my best interest, after all this hullabaloo concerning the installation of an air cooling device, to actually use said device once in awhile.
It has now been on with several windows wide open for the last thirty minutes thereabouts and I'm feeling a little cool behind the collar so I'm going to reach over here for the remote, and turn it down a notch, or two.
Yesterday I was coming back from some important mission and out front the building on the opposite sidewalk stood Jimson and Julia Creed, with their newborn son, Elkhorn Scrimshaw. I was going to call out to them but they appeared to be discussing something important. When they finally saw me it was clear from even across the street that a light bulb was going off, a solution to their dilemma, and they asked me an easy one, would I mind carrying Scrimshaw up the three flights, on my way to five? Jimson was off to some business and this was afterall only a small favor. Of course I would be glad to, and was, and am in general, but that does not prevent me from saying this--that Elkhorn Scrimshaw is one heavy kid. Is it the name weighing him down perhaps? Or is some practical joker putting rocks in his pockets? I came up here to five huffing and puffing a little. Started thinking about an exercise regimen.
Kit Lambert's Unrealized Exclamation
Kit Lambert was nervous behind the bar. Across the room was a wall of mirrors into which if squinting and fostering that lesser part of his imagination he could see himself twitch and sway and it seemed to him practically every nuanced movement was recorded in those mirrors and sent back to him enlarged and exaggerated.
Twenty people who drank little more than water sat watching two dancers shake frenetically. Later during the question answer comment portion of the evening a moderator asked for comments regarding that shaking part of the dance and he kept his eyes down, seriously contemplating the white bean dip. Opinions were expressed and counter opinions also but no one said anything about marionettes although one fellow said they looked like dancing skeletons, which Kit thought was pretty close to his marionette impression. He was happy being the bartender at moments like this, if not in general. Bartenders are not allowed the unsolicited opinion and other than what can I get ya are best at their job as mutes. Frieda Kahlo is popular and as a subject, much discussed and interpreted. Marionette! Kit should have shouted it out. Isometric Kit thought. Isometric Marionettes. Good one Kit, Kit thought.
Kit was a failed Webelos. Whatever the number of years that passed Kit still looked back to that day he dropped out of the Cub Scout organization, just at the cusp of Webelos, as the beginning of dreams gone unrealized. Oh where might I be now other than here behind this card table if only I had followed through to Webelos, daresay Eagle Scout? The badges that might have adorned me, Kit mused. He was being stared at. Oh sorry, what can I get you, said Kit.
Kit Lambert was nervous behind the bar. Across the room was a wall of mirrors into which if squinting and fostering that lesser part of his imagination he could see himself twitch and sway and it seemed to him practically every nuanced movement was recorded in those mirrors and sent back to him enlarged and exaggerated.
Twenty people who drank little more than water sat watching two dancers shake frenetically. Later during the question answer comment portion of the evening a moderator asked for comments regarding that shaking part of the dance and he kept his eyes down, seriously contemplating the white bean dip. Opinions were expressed and counter opinions also but no one said anything about marionettes although one fellow said they looked like dancing skeletons, which Kit thought was pretty close to his marionette impression. He was happy being the bartender at moments like this, if not in general. Bartenders are not allowed the unsolicited opinion and other than what can I get ya are best at their job as mutes. Frieda Kahlo is popular and as a subject, much discussed and interpreted. Marionette! Kit should have shouted it out. Isometric Kit thought. Isometric Marionettes. Good one Kit, Kit thought.
Kit was a failed Webelos. Whatever the number of years that passed Kit still looked back to that day he dropped out of the Cub Scout organization, just at the cusp of Webelos, as the beginning of dreams gone unrealized. Oh where might I be now other than here behind this card table if only I had followed through to Webelos, daresay Eagle Scout? The badges that might have adorned me, Kit mused. He was being stared at. Oh sorry, what can I get you, said Kit.