I don't think anyone would call me shallow. They could, I suppose. But they'd be wrong. How do I know? I just do. (Wouldn't it be pathetic if I were really, really shallow, but thought I was actually very deep. Oh god, I'd be Fredo, "I can handle things! I'm smart! Not like everybody says... like dumb... I'm smart and I want respect!" Would anyone have the heart to tell me I'm as deep as Brittney Spears? I'm not so sure.)
My friend who probably is still one of a very few people who know me better than anyone in the world. (She never thought I was shallow. Or she had the grace to keep that to herself) Sure we've missed a few decades. But what's a few decades among friends? Actually I think she'll be pleased to find that I'm no longer a chicken shit asshole. (FYI chicken shit and asshole fit just as perfectly as duck sauce and egg roll. Or a horse and carriage.) Maybe I stopped evolving after age 18. (I'm sorry to say that that's more true than I'd like it to be. Doh!)
My old friend and I have been exchanging emails. Honestly (as otherwise, I've been dishonest all this time, please), I didn't expect much of something that was mothballed so long ago. But there was a reason why we never argued about anything in the six years we were together in school. No we weren't trying real hard to be nice. (Unfortunately that is a piece of my makeup, and I'm doing my very best I can to shed it completely.) We were always relaxed with each other. It was just easy.
We just never had any cause to disagree. In these emails we've been exchanging- how can it not be?- there's still a connection. Where it will go remains to be seen. I'm not angry anymore. I love that! About this. My long-lost missing friend.
A reminder: Never forget, on my best days, I'm roiling with anger. I'm always a maelstrom of bitter bile. But this thing old friend thing is good. Very good. There are still things in this world that can please me.
But there's still so much that's still so very wrong. My poor darling widow girlfriend keeps busy with chores and her Blog posts. That main Blog photo of Jerry's work boots get me every time. What a fucking nightmare.
I've had shpilkes especially these past few days. It goes away when I work, when I take tranquilizers (as I've just done this very moment.) Why don't tranquilizers not make you feel tranquil? I suppose if at your best, you're roiling with anger, that's probably too much to ask of a little bitty pill. Yesterday, I finished the the last of the three Caro Johnson books. They've kept me in line for months. Now what?
I don't understand what it is with me and nonfiction, but my new fun book to "get me out of myself" is the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. I started it. I like it. They're supposed to be brilliant. And the backstory is beyond poignant. Grant was swindled into bankruptcy. He had been working on his memoirs for some time and knew he had to finish them to provide his family with some income. No farting around. Without it, they'd be destitute. He was diagnosed with throat cancer while he was writing. His clock was ticking, but the man got it done, with a few days to spare. That story gets me every time. (weepy again.) 300,000 copies of his memoirs sold saving his family from poverty. Think about that time next time you pass by Grant's tomb. I have less shpilkes now.
My beloved Rich posted an article about everybody's favorite director, Oliver Stone. Thank god for Oliver Stone. With Oliver around we will never want for material. "Outspoken Hollywood director says new film aims to put Adolf Hitler, who he has called an 'easy scapegoat' in the past, in his due historical context." He blames Jewish control of the media for this travesty. (God, do I love this.) He says Hitler and Stalin haven't had a fair shake and have not been put in their proper contexts. (!) Through this new documentary, ole Oliver will allow us to walk in the shoes of both Hitler and Stalin to understand their point of view. (I never thought the adage of "walking a mile in his moccasins" applied to Hitler and Stalin. Maybe it's just me.)
We are nearing the apocalypse.