The weather turned. Last weekend I could smell it in the air. It was still in the nineties as we walked around Denio's, but there was a hint of a chill, not a real chill, but a sort of fragrance of winter, tickling the olfactory nerves. Maybe I sensed the arctic winds begin to stir in their homes far north. Anyway, it's actually cloudy today, and there was a sprinkle of rain last night. Wonder of wonders!
I find it almost impossible to write these days. All right, I find it almost impossible to concentrate and do anything. Fortunately I have a job so frantic with reactive multitasking that for any given project I'm not getting anywhere on I have at least five others to blame for it. I'm an old hand at playing that game but yes, you must accomplish something eventually.
Denio's was a trip. Rows and rows of junk being hoarded and maybe occasionally sold by rows and rows of sad sacks from Mexico and Oklahoma and Taiwan whose stories I wish I knew ... but I'm not the interviewer type. The place was so overwhelmed with ratty furniture and lawnmower engine parts it reminded me of my garage. Kind of gave me an idea: Maybe I really could get rid of some of my own crap. Are there really people who want twenty-five year old stereo equipment?
I'm reading L.A. Confidential and I think Ellroy's writing is destroying my mind.
I wrote this to cleanse some of the political hackery I indulge in, which, if you are aware of my thoughts at all, is another sign that I'm going crazy. I will be so glad when the next Prez gets sworn in and we can start worrying about the damage he will do for real.
So I grew a beard.
11 comments:
Whoa, that was unexpected! I like it--you look much more writerly now. I think this will help. Do you have a tweed jacket?
I was not served well by the Cubbies in my hopes to feel better from some bronchitis/crud. Oh how I hope Lou can beat the odds and pull them up from their most dismal Wrigley performances of the entire season.
I used to frequent the Marin City flea market back in the mid-80s. Similar to Denios, I suppose. You should see the flea markets round these parts, though you'd prolly end up like Hemingway from listening to those stories.
Speaking of Papa - nice beard.
I bet watching your beard grow was much more interesting than observing the inane political landscape.
Marin Flea Market was the best evah!
Except maybe the Santa Cruz Flea Market. My flea marketing days are long gone--now we're just trying to get RID of 27 years of stuff.
I like.
wow..., a, good pic. love the eyes.
I agree that the beard will help with writing.
Now you look like a sensitive new age guy. A tweed jacket is a good idea, and you might think about taking up pipe smoking.
Ellroy is great, though nuts. Read all those novels and you will find yourself furtively wandering 'round downtown Sacramento, twitching at this site of a cop.
I note that the Ayers post has disappeared. I was allset to post a link to a rebuttal of the case against Obama vis-a-vis Ayers.
Oh well.
I moved it to my political screed junkpile. It concerns me; but then I have to remember that all candidates have something of concern to someone, the difference often being more of cultural bias than substance.
I see. Yes. I do see, and I'm glad to see you visibly ascribing to a feeling I've had about politicians for a long time. They are all weird on some level, and you just have to decide what variety of weirdness you are willing to put up with. I get inspired reading about Bobby Kennedy's run for the White House, but remember what an absolute monster he was capable of being in the interests of the Kennedy clan's hold on the White House.
Oh by the way, have you thought of shaving just the chin, and growing the sides really long, what my Old Dad referred to as Dundreary Weepers? Lord Dundreary was the personification of the idiot British aristocrat of Victorian Times, (not unlike Lord Cardigan, haw-haw!)in the play which Lincoln was watching when he was offed by Booth.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Dundreary
I have indeed, as weekend after this I will be transported to the 1860s, in which a young man wealthy enough to take his horse back east to fight Johnny Reb will surely sport a rakish facial hairstyle. But I'd have to hack it all off afterwards lest The Corporation think I've become an independent thinker.
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