Lucy (foreground, scratching) and Rocket in younger days
That's texteramus for "Best of Times, Worst of Times" or is it WOT BOT, can't remember the Dickensian book start, but ITM (It Matters Not). This whole summer, for me, is summed up by the Best/Worst deal. Most of us got through it. Even Lucy, as I write this, is hanging in there, but winding down. She and brother Rocket celebrated their 13th birthday October 15th. They got toys, and bless her, she fought for one that he has now hidden. She won, too, keeping her "Toy Retention Champion of the World" title. They are ninety-one in Aussie 50-lbs-and-over years.
WTF, I took my meds, okay? Okay?
Summer, this October, seems ever with us. Global warming, sure. Happens every fifteen or twenty million years I'm told. Finally though, the nights are cool. Soon the days will be. Baseball is still humming along. Cubs and Dodgers are tied 2-2. Indians are waiting for one of them. I didn't regard the Blue Jays as legal anyway. By the time I post this it'll be history. Maybe the weirdass election too. Jeez. Nurse Ratshit (Ratchett?) against Jack Nicholson in that Cuckoo movie.
Expenses were awful. We managed to get the house rehabbed, painted, and F's daughter's place livable, all but the roof. We'll get that soon I guess. You've no idea the horrors involved in those two sentences. And, not wishing to relive them, I'm dropping that whole subject like a dirty shirt.
This is showing signs of becoming one of those godawful purple mimeographed Christmas letters most of you are too young to remember. (Aunt Maudie broke her whatever and poor Ron was arrested again for a trumped up charge of driving while etc.) Most people hated those yearly missives like kids hate fruitcake, but I read them aloud with glee and appropriate voices for each participant. I miss those like I miss the electric train Christmas display in Macy's window. And ads with a pre-presidential Ronald Reagan shilling for Chesterfield cigarettes.
Simpler times.
If elected, no unpleasant aftertaste...
Poems. I waxed poetic and dropped fiction for awhile. Got twenty-one a' them suckers into the lit rags at most recent count. Everything from Rat's Ass Review (true) to Oxford Magazine. Noble objectif? The New Yorker. I'm gunning for poet laureate of Resume Speed, Kansas. And trying to finish L.A. Hardscape, a novel which will be published by Black Opal in 2017. I'm at page 157.
Had to quit the novel for show prep for a gallery in sunny Santa Monica. Slow going. They want my work, but they don't want my work that I want them to want. So I'm second-guessing that outfit. Trouble is, welding is hard work. And when you make something it pretty much stays made. If the welds are good.
Plus a freelance job that is a joy but has deadlines and interferes with all else, but I'm committed. Or I will be. Nicholson reference again. Anyway, this is long and disjointed enough. Newsy as a mimeographed crazy-letter at holiday time. Speaking of which, Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas. Or whatever you celebrate. Or don't celebrate. Or want to institute a class-action suit against. This PC shit gets convoluted don't it? Joy to the world.