Consider this: Last week, at end of the working day. Me-refilling my water bottle for the 1.5 mile walk home. In strolls one of the network dudes. I say something about the California primary energy really picking up. He says: "You must take all of that fairly seriously" I tell him that if seriously means that I am paying attention, then yes. Also that I had voted in every presidential election since 1976, when I voted for (guess who?)
I told him I hoped Hillary wouldn't win here. He said he thought she probably would. I say he shouldn't count Obama out yet. He looks mortified, and proclaims that he'd never vote for him, strictly because of his middle and last names.This isn't Oklahoma, mind you. It's Nor Cal. And this young man is a well-paid, college-educated, very savvy network guy. I was stunned. The walk home felt really good that day. People sure do scare me sometimes. No wonder I hide away more and more. Take it, Declan.
My first sick day. Since February, when I lucked into my new, much-improved job.What an odd thing, when teeth chatter uncontrollably and the fever burns. I burrowed into my comforter and thrashed about a while. We noticed thatV for Vendetta was just starting, so we watched it. Despite feeling poorly, it floored me.Two Sissy Hankshaw-sized thumbs-up. Feeling less weird today, but not 100% healed. Maybe a minimal rant will help.
So much to say about so much. It takes me over sometimes. Every day I feel more disillusioned. If only... I were the type that could look away, ignore the insanity, and distract myself in a myriad of ways. I've never been one to deny the obvious, no matter how upsetting it may be. It's obvious (to me) that we are approaching the point of no return. I will not just shut up and watch it occur. I keep up this incessant blogging for my mental health. This is for me. Plain and simple. It's not because I think I am another undiscovered writer. No chance. It is a place for my burgeoning frustration. Sometimes it's for the things in my little world that soothe my soul or make me laugh. Either way it feels sort of obsessive. That troubles me. (Add it to the motherfucking list!) I hope there comes a time I won't need this silly thing for venting about my fucked-up country. That may be overly-optimistic.
My son and his cohorts are driving to Los Angeles (What???!!) this weekend, to see Roky Erickson at the El Rey Theater. As he pointed out: "The City itself is not on fire, Mom." He has friends there, keeping him posted. They're staying at one of his pal's mother's place.In Malibu. The tickets were procured weeks ago. Even though he's 25, I have the maternal urge to suggest that they wear those white masks over their mouths whenever they're outdoors. The particulate down there should be quite something. If I do suggest this, he will laugh at me. No matter, I probably will.
One of my very best friends is treating me to a getaway to see her soon. Gracious! There are now direct flights from Santa Rosa to Seattle. This is less stressful than getting to San Francisco or Oakland. She's a friend from my formative years at Tahoe. One of only a few that have remained friends for about three decades. As I pointed out to Tara Dharma recently, my circle of friends gets smaller as the years roll on. The trade off is... the remaining friendships that I hold dear and rely on are strong. Many others have been lost along the way. Some are mourned, some are forgotten. It's complicated stuff, friendship. Like life is.
I've been wondering about labels. There are labels for everything and everyone. For instance, I could easily be labeled a deadhead. I am one. Or was, depending on your outlook. But is that all I am? Perhaps, to some. No matter, really. I can handle the label. But wait, there's more to me than that, musically. I have seen and/or worked at almost every genre of music you can fathom. From Lollapalooza to the San Francisco Symphony. Due to my years as a blue coat for B.G.P., I saw shows I would not necessarily have seen by choice. Like Tiffany or Duran Duran or Run D.M.C. It's music, and it intrigues me-whether I am particularly fond of it or not. I'm weird like that.
Lastly, I think our kitten has a name that will stick. Dusty became Cassidy. It fits her the best. Finally. I felt negligent, being uncertain. Not Cassidy like the song, or after Neal Cassady. She hops. Naturally I thought of Hopalong Cassidy. Another archaic reference.Consider it's source! Anyway, Cassie works too.
