Tuesday, June 18th–I retired in mid-morning, during a rain storm.
I dreamt I was back in an improved version of Conroe. I got downtown from home (presumably our old place west of town) by means of a city bus (which Conroe, in reality, doesn’t have). I was walking north in an alley that ran directly to the east of North Main Street.
At first I saw plenty of interesting buildings, and wondered if perhaps I had judged Conroe too harshly, if I should move back and try living there again.
I saw an ugly, chocolate-brown brick building with black glass windows, built in the 1970s, back over my right shoulder. Wasn’t that some branch emergency room or maybe a medical billing office? Hadn’t I accompanied T___ T___ there once for some payment he had to drop off?
But as I peeked through the buildings towards the west I noticed huge sections of vacant lots and bulldozed earth, where various buildings had been torn down. I had read that the old J. C. Penney’s Building was to be converted into an antique mall, but now it was gone.
For some reason I was lugging two large, heavy, but empty suitcases, the plastic mug from which I usually drink carbonated beverages, and which I soon had drained, and a bulky quilt. This made the walk unpleasant.
Eventually the pavement disappeared, the alley got very narrow, and all that was left was a thin right-of-way with a bit of grass, the back-ends of fences, and lots of garbage and discarded construction and automotive materials. The ground wasn’t even flat in some places, and the angle of it was such here and there that I was having trouble walking.
Finally I had to walk and crawl through something that was a combination between a run-down garage, a shed, a camper van, and the bed of an old truck. Perhaps this space contained elements of all these things. At any rate, the space was full of junk.
But there was also a black dog there, a female, who snarled at me at first, but I eventually put down all the stuff I was carrying and lay down in the truck bed beside her. She pushed her back against my belly, the way Belle does, and showed off her newborn puppies, who were curled up in a shallow plastic bucket which she’d lined with straw.
After a time I got up and was getting ready to leave. I heard a noise behind me, and a young man walked past me, going east to west, through the garage, into the back door of his house. He eyed me suspiciously, but said nothing.
I wondered if he was going into his house to get a shotgun. But I was determined to prove to him that I wasn’t a bum, and that indeed, I had respectable roots in Conroe. I somehow got his attention, he came back outside,… and I explained who I was, said that I had indeed just walked and crawled through his garage and met his dog, and that I was the grandson of ____, who had built half of the old part of Conroe, and this seemed to satisfy him, and he relaxed and smiled.
I got up around 5:30pm or so….
After doing my usual rituals, I went back to my bedroom, pulled up the covers, and began reading.
I started reading “Blanton Museum of Art: 110 Favorites from the Collection” and finally finished Dirk Bogarde’s “An Orderly Man.”
“An Orderly Man” is the third of Dirk Bogarde’s eight volumes of autobiography. I read the first book, “A Postillion Struck By Lightning,” recently, and went directly into this one, skipping the second book, something I correctly assumed that I would come to regret, but which couldn’t be helped.
The book covers Bogarde’s life from 1970 to 1981 and has four main story lines: 1) Bogarde’s purchase, renovation, and on-going improvements to a farmhouse in the south of France which proved to be both a peaceful haven and a money-pit, 2) the decline and deaths of his parents, 3) the films he made during the period with such giants as Visconti, Resnais, and Fassbinder, and 4) the start of his new career as a writer.
Bogarde was quite a gifted writer for someone who had been trained in an entirely different field. His light touch and eye for detail make his books delightful to read.
Wednesday, June 19th–I live in a world where I am broke and yet Taylor Swift is a millionaire and Dane Cook is considered funny. Something’s definitely wrong here.
I got up around 5:30pm or so.
Wow, I just came across my first Austin apartment lease, from way back in the 20th century . My rent was $250 a month, albeit for a room 100 feet square.
“Percentage wise, it is 100% easier not to do things than to do them, and so much fun not to do them — especially when you were supposed to do them. In terms of instant relief, canceling plans is like heroin.”—John Mulaney
I can definitely vouch for this. At least two things I needed to do in the next few days got cancelled and I’m damn near giddy about that.
Someone sent me some questionnaire questions:
193-You’re in a tattoo parlor about to get inked. What are you getting done?—I would never under any circumstance get a tattoo. You will never meet anyone who hates and is as disgusted by tattoos and piercings more than I do.
194-What’s something you can see yourself going to jail for?—Losing my temper and killing someone while in a rage. So I try to watch myself. And I’ve vowed to kill myself before I let anyone take me to jail. Last year I saw a guy run over a dog, who then died slowly and painfully. The guy pulled over, but didn’t seem too bothered about what he’d done. I came very close to picking up a big rock and attacking him with it, but I had my own dog with me, and that kept me from doing it.
195-If you could be any character, from any literary work, who would you choose to be?—Elliott Templeton in “The Razor’s Edge.”
196-You’re given $10,000…under one condition: you cannot keep the money for yourself. Who would you give it to?—My favorite animal charities. I’d love to give them that much!
197-If you had to go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?—I’d probably have somebody killed at birth.
Thursday, June 20th–Wednesday flowed into Thursday.
Someone posted this– “‘Perfect is something you never actually attain,’ he said. ‘It’s something you search for, once you reach it, its not perfect. You’ve lost it, it’s gone.’”—Anthony Bourdain
I corrected him– Actually, that’s a quote from Chef Thomas Keller, who appeared on Bourdain’s show, “A Cook’s Tour.” I remember, because I paused the TV and jotted the quotation down.
“If you’re twenty-two, and physically fit, hungry to learn and be better, I urge you to travel — as far and widely as possible. Sleep on floors if you have to. Find out how other people live and eat and cook. Learn from them — wherever you go.”—Anthony Bourdain
Someone posted this– “You see, the quality of any advice anybody has to offer has to be judged against the quality of life they actually lead.”—Douglas Adams
I added–I would fine-tune and qualify that statement, though. I’ve known people who have basically glided through life. If they have had tragedies and hardships, they have quickly gotten over them. Their lives have been charmed. The gods have smiled upon them.
If such a person tried to tell me how easy and wonderful life is, I would be inclined to take his comments with a grain of salt.
Someone posted–“I don’t get nearly enough credit in life for the things I manage not to say.”—Meg Rosoff, How I Live Now
I added–Yes, I still entertain a fantasy that right before I die I’ll tell everyone I know exactly what I really think of them. Then relish the looks on their faces.
More questionnaire questions–
189-A book you want to read/have recently read-– I just finished Dirk Bogarde’s “An Orderly Man” and am reading Virginia Woolf’s “On Being Ill” and “Jacob’s Room,” as well as “Blanton Museum of Art: 110 Favorites from the Collection.”
190-Describe your dream library–I haven’t had enough shelves for every book I own since 1973. (Yes, you read that date right.) I’d like enough shelves so that every book can be seen and I won’t have books in back hidden by stacks of books in front. Ideally, I’d like to have a huge room, two stories high, with a gallery around the second floor, the room divided into alcoves, with large tables, stained glass, large shallow-drawered cases for maps and prints, upright magazine boxes for magazines—you get the idea. But I doubt I’ll ever have that at my age.
191-Last movie you just watched–“Ratatouille.”
192-Do you like watching what type of movies?—All sorts, especially classics, foreign films, documentaries, even children’s films. But I don’t see a lot of the blockbusters and I tend to shy away from mainstream comedies because they tend to not make me laugh. I LOVE the sort of things they release on the Criterion Collection DVD series.
I just watched “Ratatouille” and was very impressed with it. The makers really did their homework, especially as concerned French food and Escoffier’s classic brigade de cuisine system. It was a sweet film, and moved me to tears at one point.
Belle woke me up rattling the papers on the floor. I tried to get back to sleep, but then heard a repetitious, rhythmic noise that I assumed was some construction crew asshole or maintenance man hammering a nail. Eventually, though, I realized it was a dog barking, and concluded the dog was either in a nearby apartment with an open window or on an apartment balcony. But I didn’t recognize the bark.
I was unable to get back to sleep, so I got up, got dressed, listened to a message from J___ D. called him back, learned he was already in town and that I needed to hurry up and get ready to go out with him and N___, took Belle outside, and discovered that the barking dog was chained to a bush (or possibly a crepe myrtle) behind my building, and he didn’t appear to have a water bowl. He seemed a bit aggressive, and though there was no growling, he and Belle didn’t seem to like one another. I was rather worried that the dog was going to break loose and attack her.
The head maintenance man was sitting nearby in his golf cart and said the dog had been there awhile, but he didn’t know which resident he belonged to.
The dog was sitting in front of a ridiculous car, slathered in house paint and spray paint, and covered with bumper stickers. The tires were painted day-glo orange.
The driver’s side of the car read:
RattleSNake FOr GOVerNOr 2014.
CONStitutioNallaborparty.COM YES WE Will!
Hey Willie is it 4:20 yet?
Let the Stoners Save Us
Legalize & Tax MARIJUANA
Atop the roof of the car was affixed a sheet of plywood, which had more crazy slogans painted on it:
“RATTLESNAKE FOR PRES.
NO MOrE EXCuTiONS! TyraNNY!
NO MOrE CLASS SYSTEM! MoNarchy!
NO MOrE INCOME TAX! SPYiNg!
NO MOrE PrOPErTY TAX! ThieVery!
NO MOrE DruG WAR! NO MOre Pigs!
NO MOrE FEDErAL RESErVE! OLigarchy!
NO MOrE (POLiCE STATE)! DEMOCraCY!
NO MOrE, Sir! 2016”
Behind that was a “Come And Take It” flag.
The other side of the billboard read:
“MArIJuANA 101 JObS!
PrOduCES 10 TiMES MOrE FUEL
Per ACrE ThAN COrN! PLASTiCS.
MEdiCiNE, CLOTh, rOPE, CANVAS, FOOd,
PAPEr, BUiLdiNG MATEriALS, BETTEr
rOTATiON CrOP ThAN BEANS, ANd
JEHOVA MAdE IT! GENESiS Ch. 1-
VS. 11–ANd HE MADE ThE HErb
YiELdiNG SEED! AMEN JOBS!”
On the passenger side of the car it read:
RattleSNake FOr GOVerNOr 2014.
Hey Willie is it 4:20 yet?
Let the Stoners Save Us
Legalize & Tax MARIJUANA
YOU CAN’T FOOL 99%
OF THE PEOPLE ALL THE TIME”
And there was a caricature that looked a bit like a moustachioed Lyndon Johnson.
The back of the car included the following:
“BaCK OFF Wrecth
DARE to keep KIDS
MISINFORMED CITIZENS BUREAU
WWW. VERMINSUPREME. COM
Don’t Tread on Me
MISINFORMED CITIZENS BUREAU
WWW. VERMINSUPREME. COM
9-11 Was an
Learn the truth at infowars.com prisonplanet.com jonesreport.com
SAVE THE U.S. CONSTITUTION
I’M WITH THE
END THE FED
ARREST THE BANKSTERS
safety MEEtiNg 4:20″
The sign and car also featured spray-painted stencils of marijuana leaves and peace signs.
Also moving around nearby was a cable guy, who seemed a bit annoyed with the scorn with which I was regarding the car. I finished Belle’s walk, took her back inside, got my camera and tripod, went out and took seventeen photos of the dog and the ridiculous car.
I then went back inside, called the cops, they asked my name, I gave it, and when they asked if I wanted to be contacted later by the officer on the scene, I said no. I tried to finish getting ready, but someone called me twice without leaving a message. I thought it might be the police, but it could just as easily have been the fucking collection agency that’s been calling me twice the day for the last few weeks, so I didn’t pick up.
Shortly thereafter there was a knock at the door and a voice calling out “MAINTENANCE!” I opened the door. It was a maintenance man, but also a cop. Belle was barking her head off.
I went outside. They asked if I was the one who’d called APD. I said I was. The cop said he’d tried to call me twice. I brushed him off.
He said he looked all around and didn’t see the dog. I said he was in the other parking lot behind the building.
My thug downstairs neighbor was standing out in the parking lot, talking with his gang-banger friend. I wondered if they were sizing me up, wondering what to do with me.
I led the cop and maintenance man around to the corner of the building and pointed to the dog, saying he’d been barking all afternoon and didn’t seem to have a bowl of water, and I was concerned about him being left out in that heat. The two men headed in that direction and I went back inside.
J____ D. called and I explained what I’d been doing. He said they were almost to my apartment and that I should step outside and meet them. I did so, and pointed out the crazy car. Now the cop was talking to a tall old hippie guy with long dark hair and a grey beard, who had a fat, trashy, old woman with him. I wondered if the saw me.
We went first to my bank where I cashed some checks and deposited $10.00. We then back-tracked and J___ D. got a glimpse of the car, and said he’d seen it numerous times parked in South Austin, usually next to a titty bar.
We took Balcones Woods through that nice neighborhood through which I used to walk late at night back in 2009, then cut over to Duval, which was full of stalled cars. We turned around and tried to find an alternate route, discovering Schroeter Park in the process, then went back to Duval, just in time for the traffic jam to unplug: it had been held up by a passing train.
We went down Amherst Drive, past Balcones District Park, where J___ D. had taken me for photography practice in 2006, past the Milwood Branch Library, onto Parmer Lane, and past an apartment complex I’d read about a few weeks ago. We had planned to eat dinner at Opal Divine’s, but even though it was not quite 5pm, the place was already packed, so we decided to go to the Chinatown Center.
Presented with a choice of restaurants, I picked the TC Noodle House. I ordered the “Tofu Home-style” and had a lovely meal. The only hitch, so far as I could see, was we got our main dishes before the vegetarian egg roll appetizers. J___ and N___, naturally, had miserable meals. While J___ found the egg rolls mostly cold, mine was hot. (I think I only got one–he ate most of them.) And both of them thought their food under-cooked. And so they complained the rest of the evening.
The problem with eating with them, apart from the fact they always try to find fault with new restaurants, is they are so stuck in their ways. Though J___ claims to have a sensitive palate, he only considers food to be fuel, and tends to eat crap, albeit crap that he likes and that doesn’t upset his supposedly delicate tastes. As a result, there are very few restaurants where he ever wants to dine.
I, on the other hand, crave variety. I don’t like having to go to same handful of restaurants over and over again and always ordering the one, usually bland vegetarian offering they have on their menus.
Anyway, after this, we went to get gas while J___ got into a long, drawn-out phone conversation with a gun nut buddy. I ran into a Dollar Tree for toilet paper and generic cola. The store was filthier than the one in my neighborhood.
My cashier seemed to be Vietnamese and had a name-tag that read “Dah.” As with all Dollar Tree clerks, she was very chintzy with the goddamn bags, and crammed three three-liter bottles of cola into one flimsy, single-ply paper bag.
J___ was upset that I’d run into the store, because that gave them less than thirty minutes to get to Jerry’s Artarama before it closed. They had to get some esoteric materials, and when I asked what they were for, J___ said it was classified, which pissed me off.
J___ had told me several times in the past I needed to see this store, but he never got around to it until today. It had some nice stuff, but I hated being rushed through.
J___ and I argued because I moaned about how I wanted to take art lessons and learn techniques and how to use the materials, and he opined that if you’re an artist you have to create no matter what, that you shouldn’t wait for lessons. He said he takes a certain number of online art lessons every week. I said that though I have some instructional books and a few art supplies, I lack the self-discipline to train myself, and need the rigor of an actual class. His opinion annoyed me.
On the way out I noticed two vehicles–one bearing Ron Paul bumper stickers, and the other Mitt Romney bumper stickers. I said that was odd to see right-wing political materials in front of an art store, since I thought the arts attracted liberals.
Now both J___ and N___ weighed in, saying that liberals are the people who sit on their asses in cafes all day and talk about creating art without actually doing so, while the right-wingers actually do something. That also annoyed me, though I did comment that the right-wingers are the only ones who can afford to pay for art now.
We drove through the Highland Mall area–part of the mall is being demolished–and reminisced about how things used to be there. We then went to the Hobby Lobby off North Lamar. It has a lot of art supplies as well, but also a lot of tacky crap and tacky customers. I did not find the place at all inspiring.
We went back to Parmer Lane, where they dropped me off at Half-Price Books while they went on to a hardware store and Fry’s Electronics. (Fry’s has become a shadow of its former self. They told me later that half of the DVD section, once a thing of great beauty and object of my desires, is now devoted to perfumes!)
I was in Half-Price for quite awhile, trying to decide what I could afford with my tiny budget. I almost got a copy of Huysman’s “Against The Grain,” but the damaged cover was irritating to my touch. I finally settled on a battered paperback copy of Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar,” and Will Judy’s “Kennel Building & Plans.” After I bought them ($4.85) I noticed that the latter had been ruined by the goddamn Half-Price Books employees marking out the original price notations on the dust jacket. So now I’ll have to buy a fucking replacement copy! [NOTE: I discovered a few months later that I already owned a perfect copy.]
Our last stop was my HEB, where I quickly realized I was going to run slightly over-budget, spend the rest of my monthly Food Stamp balance, and have to pay the difference either with cash or my Pay Pal card. Though I told my cashier I’d need bags and would pay for them separately, he decided to ring them all up together.
His action and mine for some reason fucked-up the HEB cash register I was rung up on, and my Food Stamp card was denied. So the soft-spoken, almost inaudible, young cashier had to re-do something to make it all work out.
See, my Food Stamp balance was $33.63, and the total of my purchases, including those bags, was $36.19. So I owed them $2.56, and handed the lad a $10 bill, but he only gave me three dollar bills and some coins back in change. Now even though I have a serious math disability I knew something was wrong here.
And even though the cashier, the sacker, and I were incapable of mental arithmetic, the cashier finally figured it all out and gave me the proper change, apologizing and explaining he’d had a long day. I understood completely.
As we were walking out, J___ D. started in again:
“Your cashier? Was a David. A real David.”
“Your cashier? His name-tag said ‘David.'”
“And didn’t you notice he had the real David’s hair?”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“His name was David and he had hair that looked exactly like the hair of Michaelangelo’s statue of David. Didn’t you notice?”
“No! I was busy stressing out with all that stuff fucking up at the register!”
I pushed my cart outside and pointed in the general direction of the car, after N___ reminded me of where we’d parked. But some goddamn slack-jawed HEB employee was standing directly in my way, slumped over a cart, blocking my access to the ramp down to the parking lot. I excused myself, and he barely began to react, but then N___ pointed me to another ramp. As we approached the car I began to rail about how much I hate leaving the house and how stressful grocery shopping is for me, though I did point out that it didn’t seem quite so damnably loud in there as it usually is.
But once we got into the car I pointed out how amazed I was that I actually managed to catch a math error. J___ said, “That’s pimp math. That’s the only kinda math you know. You know exactly to the penny when somebody owes you money. You know if you turn one of your stable out and she doesn’t bring back as much as she was supposed to, you still get paid and she gets nothing.”
I was worried that the conspiracy theorist with the abused dog and crazy car had come back, set my apartment on fire, and killed Belle, or that my thug neighbor and his catamite had done likewise to teach me a lesson about snitching, but house and dog were safe.
J____ had to help me carry my purchases to the door. When he felt around in the trunk and found the paper bag containing the three large and heavy cola bottle, naturally he picked up the flimsy paper bag by the side, and two of the bottles tumbled out of the bag and rolled under the car, and the bag’s handles ripped off. He had to get N___ to drive forward so we could retrieve the bottles, but I discovered they were rolling ahead of the right real wheel.
J___ also returned to me my old computer CPU, which he’d fixed-up, and says I can use for a back-up if something happens to my current computer. He didn’t do any security updates to it, however, because he doesn’t know when I’ll need it, and it’s likely the updates will be out-of-date by then.
Belle, of course, was very upset and loud when I stepped inside. As usual, it took her a long time to calm down, even with a walk.
After my shower, I did a quick revision of a piece J___ D. had sent me.
I also up-loaded today’s photos, and spotted what might very well have been a tiny water container near the chained dog. Oh well, that asshole had no business leaving the dog out there like that either way. And I do so love the idea of getting a conspiracy theorist’s paranoia up with a good hassling from Johnny Law.
“I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.” — Vladimir Nabokov
Friday, June 21st–I got up late.
The day was uneventful….
Saturday, June 22nd–Friday flowed into Saturday.
I watched the season finale of “Hannibal.”
I read more in the Blanton Guide and Woolf’s “On Being Ill,” and started Thomas Wright’s “Built of Books: How Reading Defined the Life of Oscar Wilde.” I retired probably after 10am.
I woke after 7 or 7:30pm.
While walking Belle I noticed she had worms in her stool. I took her back inside, found I was out of worming medicine, and decided not to wait to check the Petsmart website or try to get ahold of J___ D. for some money, and just ran across the street to get a new box of the stuff.
They were out of the kind of medication I used last time, so I found something else ($25.97 for two tablets!), rushed back home, dealt with Belle’s loud barking, got nervous and frustrated from the scare, the noise, the heat, and having to go out in public, got the tablets down her throat, only to see her cough one of them and part of the other up, got her finally to chew up and swallow all of them, and set about trying to calm down. I ‘d had to use some of the money my mom sent me for my own medications.
When I told J___ D. about all this, he wisely said the best course of action is always to go ahead and do the right thing immediately and worry about the consequences later. He then said he’d send me $30 into my Pay-Pal account to cover the expense.
A follower asked–Name 2 things that you like about yourself and why?
ME–There’s not much that I do like about myself, but I have made a few animals’s lives better and even saved a few. And I’ve built for myself a firm foundation of knowledge in certain areas which, if they cannot provide me with a means to support myself, and apparently are of little to no interest to others, at least keep me entertained. The reasons I like these two qualities should be self-evident.
I took to my bed to read.
I finally finished Virginia Woolf’s “On Being Ill.”
I had wanted only to read Woolf’s essay, but this edition I checked out from the library also included seven supplemental sections (introductions, afterwords, etc.), two sections of end-notes, and a lengthy essay on Victorian nursing, “Notes from Sick Rooms,” by Woolf’s mother, Julia Stephen. All the extra material struck me as over-kill, and the whole collection seemed targeted at readers in the health-care profession. I am not such a person, and found all but Woolf’s fascinating essay deadly dull.
There’s really no nice way of saying this.
All night long I’ve had a nauseating sensation that I was sitting on my balls. It has lingered even after I’ve made adjustments.
Sunday, June 23rd–
“I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it — to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.”— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
“If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave.”―Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
“Perhaps those deprived of beauty perceive it most instinctively.”--Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
“Some people from your past are best left there, while reconnecting with others from your past can spark your creativity and joy for life. Choose wisely.”–Henry Rollins
“I will never say the things that I want to say to you. I know the damage it would do. I love you more than I hate my loneliness and pain.”–Henry Rollins, Solipsist
“You have to get away from them. You have to get as far away as you can otherwise they’ll kill you with their lives. They don’t know what they do. They are careless with themselves and they take too much for granted. They make their shortcomings your problem. The only way to keep your head above it and heal your wounds is to crawl away.”–#henry rollins #black coffee blues
“Someday, I would like to go home. The exact location of this place, I don’t know, but someday I would like to go. There would be a pleasing feeling of familiarity and a sense of welcome in everything I saw. People would greet me warmly. They would remind me of the length of my absence and the thousands of miles I had travelled in those restless years, but mostly, they would tell me that I had been missed, and that things were better now I had returned. Autumn would come to this place of welcome, this place I would know to be home. Autumn would come and the air would grow cool, dry and magic, as it does that time of the year. At night, I would walk the streets but not feel lonely, for these are the streets of my home town. These are the streets that I had thought about while far away, and now I was back, and all was as it should be. The trees and the falling leaves would welcome me. I would look up at the moon, and remember seeing it in countries all over the world as I had restlessly journeyed for decades, never remembering it looking the same as when viewed from my hometown.” –Eugene Grant by Henry Rollins
“It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away.”– Henry Rollins, See A Grown Man Cry, Now Watch Him Die
I really need to dig out my Rollins books. I know I have either two or four of the older ones.
“Is there anything here I can call my own? A feeling? A moment? Anything?
Will there ever be a time when I am truly loved? When I’ll know it and not wonder if it’s real? Is there something I can protect and love and care about? Is there a truth I can keep that has no fear attached? Will there ever be a time when I will look around me and know I am finally in the place I am supposed to be? Is there anything here, anything I can see, while I breathe and breathe, trying to stay alive long enough to just be able to be here and know that I am here?
Not just any here but the here I am supposed to be in. Is there anything that I can call mine that will not eventually be taken from me? Is there anything, anyone, ever?”–Henry Rollins
“Don’t do anything by half. If you love someone, love them with all your soul. When you go to work, work your ass off. When you hate someone, hate them until it hurts.” –Henry Rollins
“The blues is losing someone you love and not having enough money to immerse yourself in drink.” –Henry Rollins
“You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have”–Henry Rollins
“Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold onto something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain.” –Henry Rollins
“The past is the Jabberwock. Forget not the fallen, but beware the jaws and claws. With your vorpal blade going snicker-snack, kill the fucker, as you go galumphing on.”–Henry Rollins
“Sometimes the actions of others drag you back into the past. They attach themselves to you from their fixed and often regressive position and all of a sudden, there you are — again.”–Henry Rollins
“Certain proclivities of some members, as young men, were possibly understandable and worked around. Sadly, some of these destructive activities were still being practiced, now hardened by years of repetition. It was a heartbreaking, incredibly sad thing to witness, not to mention infuriating to endure. Huge lesson learned.”—-Henry Rollins
“Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on.”–Henry Rollins
“Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.”–Henry Rollins
“If you hate your parents, the man, or the establishment, don’t show them up by getting wasted and wrapping your car around a tree. If you really want to rebel against your parents, out-learn them, outlive them, and know more than they do.”–Henry Rollins
Someone posted–henry rollins with a puppy
i am done
JSB–Back in my Food Critic days I worked in downtown Austin in a high-rise that had a 16-story atrium in the middle, a hotel on one side, and offices on the other.
I had a female co-worker who had very middle-of-the-road musical tastes, which inclined mostly to such country acts as Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, and the Dixie Chicks.
One afternoon after work she and her husband met at the front of the hotel and were approached by a “scary-looking” tattooed guy who said he was in town to do a concert and would pay them if they would give him a lift to Waterloo Records. He seemed legit, and since the hotel usually housed a lot of touring musicians, and since they were also kind of scared of the guy, they agreed to give him a ride, which didn’t last long anyway. They dropped him off, and he was very appreciative.
So the next day she was telling us this story at work and she said, “He said his name was Henry Rollins or something like that. Is he someone I should’ve heard of?”
It’s one thing for a person to be shallow all his life, but it’s very strange to encounter an old friend who used to have depth and substance, and then discover that over the years he has become shallow and insubstantial.
I put my Big Ass Soup on to cook at 10:44pm.
Monday, June 24th–I finished cooking my soup at 2:44am and ladled up a bowl immediately. The extra eight ounces of faux ham slices really added to the taste.
I have plenty of problems and stresses and issues in my life, but then I’ll read about some of the stuff that happens in the lives of my followers, stuff that really isn’t a problem for them, but which would annoy, irritate, and exhaust the fuck out of me if those things happened to me, and I feel thankful that I’m not them.
I started Aldo Buzzi’s “A Weakness For Almost Everything: Notes On Life, Gastronomy, And Travel.” Did I also start M. F. K. Fisher’s “Long Ago in France: The Years in Dijon?” I forget when exactly I retired.
I dreamt I went to a restaurant. At the table were my friend M___, T___ P___, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and several other people–mostly prominent writers, and all male. Since I had no money I sat at an adjoining table–I was ashamed that I couldn’t afford to buy food or drink–and listened to the others talk.
M___ dismissed Fitzgerald, for example, as a “Minnesota drunk with a well-rehearsed death speech.” T___, who in real life only has a daughter, had two small sons in this dream, and admitted that his alcoholism was so bad that he accidentally forgot about his eldest son (who was a small child) and left alone in a public place for hours. Everybody agreed that such behavior was just too much, and we (or they) had an impromptu intervention for him.
But as we were all getting up to leave I noticed M___ was staggering as well, and on the way out of the dining room he leaned against a wall and he admitted that he had a drinking problem.
I had come there mostly because M___ had promised to take me out to eat. Now it was obvious he was too drunk to take me anywhere. Then he suggested we go eat at one of my places. Though I was poor, I somehow managed to have several apartments, or hidey-holes, so to speak, where I kept small stashes of food.
I had hoped to be treated to a restaurant meal so I could, for one meal at least, enjoy a variation from the usual monotonous meals I normally ate every day. Now not only was that not going to happen, but M___ was insisting I feed his fat ass with some of my precious stores of food, of which I had inadequate amounts to share!
I woke after 5pm or so.
I went into my bedroom and read awhile in Buzzi.
I posted this in reference to ____–
Just because I haven’t blogged lately about how much I hate you and hope for your painful demise doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about you, or that my hatred for you isn’t one of the main things always in my mind.
Schedule for the Week of June 24th:
1) Call IRS. 6/24/13
2) Call Social Security Administration. 6/25/13
3) Pick up prescriptions. 6/25/13
4) Go to the Public Library. 6/25/13
5) Have an Asian lunch. 6/27/13
6) Harry Ransom Center for two photography exhibitions. 6/27/13
7) Blanton Museum of Art for two new exhibitions and permanent collection. 6/27/13
8) Assorted reading, crying, sweating, rages, and repulsive bus rides. 6/24/13—6/30/13
Much, much too much for me to handle in a week.