Since I’m on Twitter-break in what is probably a hopeless attempt to preserve a portion of my sanity (And, too, that of my friends and family who have to bear the ranting and weeping in which my timeline and news-feed cause me to indulge.) I have nowhere to deposit (and I chose the word carefully, make of it what you will) my pithy and pissy and loving and snarky observations. So, I’m going to put them here in this compendium of random-ness.
6:30a.m. I could happily go the rest of my life without ever again seeing a TV featuring — let alone hearing sound from — MSNBC, CNN, FOXNEWS, and all the rest who have built networks and fortunes by serving agendas, chasing ad dollars and ratings, and playing to specific focus groups — drumming up drama so they’ve something to report, and leaving out those “news” items inconvenient to their agendas. It’s fucking exhausting and endless trying to sift through all the noise and repetition and arched eyebrow, Simon Legree’d sneers and “get this” and gotcha bullshit and it is bad for everyone who has any interest in actual truth.
9a.m. I am about to read the New York Times choices for best books of 2017 (while carefully avoiding all other sections and headlines). I have already perused a few “best” lists and thought, “What the fuck?” But, isn’t that always the way? And once again those lists reek of their compilers’ MFA-cult-think; out of the tens of thousands of books published, miraculously a couple of the same ones make nearly every list, and often those are the books about which I thought, “What’s all this noise about? This is NOT that great.” I won’t be naming those books because that’s a level of ugly to which I don’t want to tunnel; even the worst books were toiled over by a human being with a heart and soul, and I have no interest in making anyone feel bad. (Today, anyway. Well, there is that one guy on Grindr who made me feel really shitty about myself and ugly and such, so, him I could make feel bad if I hadn’t blocked his ass. And other parts of him as well.)
9:15a.m. And another problem with “best” lists? For me, like crack. When they include books about which I’ve not heard and the write-up is compelling, I’m helpless. I’m blithely (and with great gratitude) depleting A’s generous present of gift card from my local indie bookstore, Curious Iguana [click HERE], messaging and requesting books from these lists. I am a full-on sucker for book reviews — like they was books. (If reading that sentence didn’t bring to mind one of Rose’s rant lines from Gypsy, and at least three different women you’ve seen play the role, not like you and I will be sharing a cocktail. Or coffee. Or be Twitter pals.) Oh, so, these are the books I’ve so far requested: Sunshine State: Essays, by Sarah Gerard, and The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue, by Mackenzi Lee.
9:20a.m. And, as I feared, there on one NYTimes critic list of best is that book to which I was earlier referring about which there is much huzzah-ing which is something I Do. Not. Understand.
9:24a.m. Okay, I’d lose myself in this “best” list for the next few hours, but it’s Momma hair day. Today she is getting a permanent. Which means extra time in the hole-in-the-wall salon in the kkk-populated town where Momma insists on going to get her hair done. Weekly. By the same person who has done it for thirty years. Thirty years. Hair done. Once a week. I need to think about that some more. And then, when I have time, tell you about the magazine I stole from the salon last week and why I did so. (See THIEVERY NOTE below.)
12:55p.m. Finished hair day with Momma. She didn’t want to do any shopping today so I was spared excursions through Boscov’s or WalMart, and she wanted only a quick lunch so she could get back to Record Street Home for Movie Day. This surprised me. Momma usually skips Movie Day because, “Some of those women are so deaf, they turn it up too loud, I can’t understand it when it’s that loud.” Says the woman whose favorite word is, “What?” I asked if it was a musical, because, you know, I’m me, and she said, “No, no. It’s the one about flowers and nuns with that black actor. I’ve watched it many times. You know.” In fact, I did. Sidney Poitier in Lilies of the Field. The film which marked the first time a black man won a competitive Oscar. So, for lunch, she wanted a hot dog and the only place you can get one is Burger King. Correction — WAS Burger King. As we discovered today, they have removed it from the menu. I don’t know how often you spend time with older people, but it has been my experience that when things change — as in a hot dog being removed from a menu — they do not take it well. (Hmm, I guess that makes me an older person, because the changes I’ve been experiencing lately don’t make me too happy either.) Momma eventually settled on the fish sandwich. She was some surprised it had lettuce and a pickle and onion as garnishment. When I asked why she said, “This is NOT how they make them at McDonald’s. A pickle. On fish.” Indeed.
1:15p.m. Well, I’m downtown. Dropped Momma off so she could spend the afternoon with other deaf women, Sidney Poitier, and a bunch of nuns. And since I am downtown, it’s only sensible I should stop by The Curious Iguana and pick up Sunshine State. I picked up The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue yesterday. I don’t enjoy sitting on the shelf waiting to be picked up, I feel sure books don’t either.
1:45p.m. Home. With my new book. Luckily I have the DVR set to record Days of Our Lives. Chandler Massey has returned to play a risen from the (pretend) dead Will Horton. He does not remember his husband, Sonny, who — thinking Will long dead — had fallen BACK in love with his first love, ex-baseball player, Paul, with whom he broke up years earlier because Paul wouldn’t risk his baseball career by coming out of the closet, but who Will — a reporter and married to Sonny at the time and with no idea Sonny had once been in love with Paul —
— cheated on Sonny to sleep with Paul that he might get the exclusive on him being gay and out him thus cementing his reputation as a reporter; a move that nearly destroyed his marriage, causing Sonny to leave the country, during which time Will was (we thought) murdered by the NeckTie killer. Once Will was discovered to be alive, albeit with no memory of his life as Will, having been brainwashed by evil, crazy Susan into believing he was his mother’s now dead third or fourth or fifth husband who was, coincidentally Susan’s son whose death she blamed on Will’s mother which is why she wanted to steal Will from his real mother and convince him he was her, Susan’s, dead son. Anyway, Sonny has now called off the engagement to Paul, breaking his heart, because Sonny’s love for Will is just too great. Only, Will, still with no memory of being Will, doesn’t much care for Sonny, but does want to fuck the shit out of Paul, who came to the door dressed in only a towel yesterday and on whom Will made quite the move. Who wouldn’t —
—I have NEVER liked Sonny and I want Will and Paul to end up together because, well, LOOK AT THEM. Chandler Massey won a couple of Emmys before he left the show and he is really and truly amazing — which is really and truly NOT the case for most of the male actors on this show. He’s also ridiculously sexy.
Yeah. I watch it. On DVR. So I can fast forward. And, of course, rewind. And freeze-frame. I like to see just how method the actors are. So to speak.
After DOOL, I watched my DVR-ed Real Housewives of New Jersey. Sue me.
Surely you didn’t think I spent my days reading Proust and contemplating the meaning of all the layers of reality in order that I might solve the problems of the world, all the while performing good deeds and baking cookies and cobblers selflessly for others, did you? Cuz, I seriously don’t. I am basic. Basic as can be as often as can be, baby. Don’t even ASK what that means because you would be surprised (well, not you B.W., but the rest of you).
5:30p.m. For dinner tonight I am re-purposing Sunday’s Chicken and Dumplings by NOT adding dumplings, rather, adding kale and broth to make a new tasting soup/stew. We’ll have some bread, too. And there’s still cobbler. And ice cream. So, that.
8:30p.m. Dinner done. Jeopardy over. Alex Trebek still officious and annoying and flashing around that ridiculous French accent every chance he gets, flaunting his assumed superiority. Damn Jesuit schooling. I’m in my room. On my bed. Pecking away at this. After I hit publish, I’ll be diving into Heather, The Totality by Matthew Weiner, which I started this morning in lieu of going to the gym — I really needed not to get up at 5a.m. today — and it’s really short, and so far, really good and unique and I think I like it although it has an ominously jaded kind of tone, which doesn’t bode well for a happy ending. I could use a happy ending. We’ll see.
As promised, here is the story of the magazine I stole. Last week at the hair salon Momma and I visit each Thursday, I was looking through the magazines and there in Martha Stewart Living was a picture of one of the food editors next to his pie recipe and damn if it wasn’t a boy — now man — who many, many years ago I taught (briefy and I take no credit for his talent) to perform. He had one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard and I wrote a special role for him in a show I authored and designed. I stuck the magazine under my coat and snuck it out of the salon. Or, sneaked it. I took the damn thing.
And, why? If I had told them the story and asked they would have been more than happy to give me the magazine and they would have enjoyed the story with me. So, why did I do the shove it under the coat thing? Once, when I was in my early twenties, I stole food from a WaWa in New Haven when I didn’t have any money, had just moved there literally in the middle of the night, and as yet had no place to live. But, that’s about it. It may have more to do with me being afraid to ask for things I want from people — I live with the expectation of being always answered NO.
Why is that? Something else to think about. A reason to keep journalling, stay off Twitter, read more, think more, re-charge, spend time with me.
Yes. That. So, here I am, basic, and going.