Ah geez – I am the Tangent Queen. I’ve always been bad, or good, depending on how you’re looking at it, but now it’s gotten so each of the 27 or so tangents I can go off on from one story, sometimes not even my own, have their own batch of tangents, and so on and so on. Look at how I am in writing – and I edit myself! I wonder if the tangents keep sprouting, could they go all around the world and eventually meet up with each other? Tell me you’ve never thought of that.
Anyway, it’s a possible goal if I look upon my trips to Tangent City as a talent, rather than a curse. It’s so bad, or again, so good, depending on how you look at it, that one merely has to say “hi” and again, not even to me, and there I go. Tangent City. And I am its Queen.
And that brings up that other issue that I know has just occurred to you. Cities don’t normally have Queens, well not the royal kind and not counting the borough where I lived for 30 years. Cities have mayors. Except I don’t want to be the Tangent Mayor. And I also don’t want to be the Queen of Tangent Sovereignty, though I might consider Duchess of Tangent Duchy, but only if I had to give up my crown. But for now, I accept the crown and wear it proudly along with my cynic’s scepter.
BTW – In keeping with the blogs’ music theme, Pete Townsend can still write another opera, and Roger Daltry can still sing it (for you young’uns, that’s The Who – the remaining two Who), and if they make a movie of it, I would be pleased as punch to have Tina Turner play my character of The Tangent Queen. (I hope I don’t have to explain that Tina played The Acid Queen in the movie version of The Who’s rock opera Tommy.)
That surgery thing – it’s scheduled again. Wednesday. And yeah, I’m feeling a bit anxious.
I’m looking forward to going to the IWWG conference next month.
Before ever going away the summer conference of the International Women’s Writing Guild, which at the time seemed like something only real writers do, I attended a couple of their much smaller conferences held in the City. I must have written about that before. That was in the last century.
It was a big deal for me to go to one of those as well, traveling into Manhattan from eastern Queens. I liked these weekend conferences and the attractive woman who started it all, although she had way too many kumbaya moments going on. I was uncomfortable going around the room before the start of both days’ sessions, and having each attendee stand, say who they were and give one word to describe themselves. Butterfly, Optimist, Rainbow… were some of the words I remember. I hate this kind of crap. I played along, but did not feel confident enough to say the word I wanted, so instead, when it came my turn, I said “survivor.” I didn’t mean in the cancer sense as not only had I not had cancer back then, but the term survivor to particularly describe someone who has survived cancer, was in its infancy. I used the term just to describe all the other stuff I had not only survived but continued to move forward through. Slowly, yes, but forward nonetheless (I love the word nonetheless. Isn’t it great?) So, survivor fit then too.
The next day, yes she had us do it again. When it came back around to me , I stood, said my name and explained that the day before I had wanted to say cynic, but thought it was too, well, cynical. I got quite a few chuckles.
That woman who started the whole IWWG thing, was even worse at the annual fest that took women writers and goddesses to Skidmore College for a week. She had one those Tibetan gong bowls and numerous flags which she presented to all the people who came from different countries, having them come up as she called there name to collect their particular flag. My first year, there were about 1,000 attendees. All this gathering of women stuff took up too much time at the evening gatherings when most of us wanted to get to the announcements by the late great Annie, and the readings that were usually a hoot. We all loved, that woman that started it all, and still do, and what she did was lovely, really, just long. She was eventually booted from her creation, as sometimes happens, causing a big to-do a few years ago from which the Guild has yet to recover. And it may not. It looks like this year they’re actually pulling out all the stops to bring back some of the old feel of the conference while showing a new direction. The numbers have been ridiculously down since the dissention. But I’m excited and hopeful for this year.
Am I still a cynic? Of course and with more and more right to be. Without going into detail, no surgery scheduled yet, and the further tests have exacerbated the thing with my feet. I’m getting pissed, but I won’t go off on a rant, tonight.
Though I maintain my pride as a card-carrying member of the group, I do try to deal with the negative aspects of my cynicism by working on the assumptions that I’m not going to like “it.” Like prosecco, for instance. I prefer my wines very dry and am not into effervescent types. In my time, I have tasted a nice champagne or two, but it’s not up my alley. I have never had prosecco and from what I know of it, have an unproved bias against it. I’ve also have a bottle in my refrigerator for what could be a year or more, that Gilda brought. No one has wanted me to open it, not even Gilda, so the other night I thought, hey, I could do with a glass of wine, and remembering what the cheap Trader Joe’s cabernet sauvignon tasted like, I wasn’t interested in trying that brand’s pinot grigio that stood next to the untouched prosecco. So I did it. I opened the bottle against which I’ve held a prejudice, and not just because there are hearts on it. It had the champagne cork (Trader Joe’s had a twist off top), poured clean not fizzy, and had a nice clean aroma. And it tasted like swill. So, there you go.
Since trying new things out of my comfort zone is on my agenda, I strayed today from Tribeca’s Kitchen, and while I cannot say I will never again stray, I did try a more traditional diner down this way in the Financial District, and can report that I shan’t be dallying with them again.
BTW – After breakfast and finding hits and misses on my Sunday outing to another part of downtown Manhattan, I came home and really discovered John Oliver. I think I watched five episodes, all that was available On Demand. He is incredibly informative and incredibly funny. To my delight, while he had us all laughing at the newly elected president of the Philippines, who is likened to Donald Trump, Oliver referred to him, not as a “fucking moron,” which would be the funnier choice of word, but he called him the more frightening “fucking monster,” forcing deeper thought on our part. I love that kind of humor and straightforwardness. I would have gone for moron. Plus, in researching President Elect Rodrigo Duterte, he’s a much bigger dick than Trump. Pardon my French.
We are all 99 – Except for those of us who are not.
And that’s my political commentary for the day.
I don’t feel like writing this week. I’m okay. I’m just coddling myself again after the Friday I had, which actually ended on a really high note. The business event wasn’t a booming success in numbers, but those who attended had great time. Myself included. I did overindulge in too many ways and realized while someone was telling me that it was national doughnut day, that it was also my four-year anniversary of being a non-smoker. All in all, I think I deserve a little self-coddling.
And yeah, I looked pretty darned good in my dress, considering that I had the MRI biopsy that morning, which was not much fun, but interesting, and gave me the opportunity to party that night with an icepack in my bra.
BTW – Though my post-procedure instructions advised me to refrain from any kind of exercise for three days, I cheated. It’s Sunday, and as we know, no matter what, I perform a full workout on Sundays, and did so this evening, albeit somewhat less energetic than usual. I only cheated by three quarters of a day, maybe two thirds. Had to. You should have seen all the crap I put in my body Friday night, given that crap is a relative term. It should be noted though that I had neither cigarette nor doughnut.
Oh see now I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I have a separate notebook with stories just for the blog that never see the light of day. Too personal. Too intimate. They remain hidden in the notebook as do many of the writings in all the other notebooks I have, the current ones and those stacked behind me in the headboard from years past. I haven’t figured out a way to present them so that I won’t feel rejected or ignored, but it does sometimes feel better to just write them down. I can kind of look at myself through my own sympathetic eyes, and then sometimes, more often lately, feel better about “it” and put it out of my memory.
And then my stepmother calls. I haven’t written much about my stepmother, out of respect for her, though I often doubt the feeling is mutual. You did get a glimpse of her after I came home from my visit to see her in Holland in “The Inner Selfie” post last November (I get a lot of use out of that picture, and a lot of laughs). She’ll be 90 soon and is still in her nursing home, trying to get back into her apartment. She has told me that she wants to die in her home, and I can’t blame her, but she can’t go back unless she has 24/7 help. She still thinks that I should be the one to do that for her, but without going into details and history, I will just say that I sometimes consider it, then remind myself how insane that would be, and how insane that would make me. She calls when it is the wee hours of the morning in Holland, which is perfect given the six hour time difference, and she’s awake and lonely. But that’s when she’s at her nuttiest and she’s not always nice, even though she refers to me as her daughter (now) and says that she is coming to New York to look after me so I don’t suffer alone. Don’t worry, she’s not coming.
And here’s the part that I just deleted, or not the part actually, so you’ll have to trust me that she says things, painful things that remind me and haunt me, and then I wake up the next morning with my childhood, and things going into adulthood ruminating through my head and my heart. And frankly, with the cancer thing and those other peevish life occurrences, I really have a lot going on. So I’m even surprised I wrote this evening at all. But I thank you, because I do feel a little better now.
BTW – I was mistaken last week when I mentioned that I was to have a mammogram biopsy in both breasts. The surgeon had actually said that I was to have an MRI biopsy, but I thought he was mistaken, cause how could you use a needle in an MRI, and I was standing on Westside Highway as we spoke, so… But I am indeed having an MRI biopsy on Friday, and of just the currently offending breast. I will say this, I am just relieved not to be having another mammogram, because really, they’re not good for you, and at least I’ll be observing something new for me, and the fascination I have with all this crap helps me get through it.
BBTW – That Fulton Street Transit Center down this way is mighty confusing and I consider my hike that seemed to go on for miles throughout it yesterday, going down stairs then up stairs and up stairs again (no escalators), then down a long passage in search of the 2/3 to Brooklyn Heights, to be a darned good Saturday workout, minus the chanting.
I did something the other evening I’ve not done in a very, very long time. I tried on dresses at home. Yes, I do have dresses. Three in fact that I can consider wearing now. Two made the cut as the third could use a few pounds off the middle so it doesn’t pooch in the back. It’s for a thing – a work cocktail party thing that I’m helping to organize because I’m the one with event-planning experience even though it’s not my event. As it has been five years since I have bared my legs in public, I thought I might just wear a dress. Give my colleagues a treat. I’ve got ‘em, I just need to wear ‘em. I got shoes, too. The shapewear is on its way.
On another topic, it is a good thing that the concoctions I’ve been whipping up lately aren’t totally inedible, as I follow the bartenders’ creed that one must drink one’s mistakes. I am learning by my mistakes, little by little, unfortunately my cooking skills are not really improving. I was a bartender, in fact, at one point in my younger life. I wasn’t very good at that either, however I didn’t have to drink my mistakes. I just made everyone drink beer. I am though, a very good business event planner.
I had an MRI on Friday, followed by a facial at GemVie, all set to have surgery tomorrow. But on my way home that evening, my surgeon called to say that the MRI produced results that because of my decision to not follow up with radiation, further tests, meaning a mammogram biopsy on both breasts is needed. I know, I did say, do say, that I would rather lose the breast than put a necessary organ at risk, but I’d prefer that they both stick around for a while. I kind of feel like I’m being punished for my choices, and of course was hopeful that this would be as simple as last time – just cut me open, pop out the tiny tumors and send me on my way. I suspected I’d be back, and suspect I will be back again. I won’t regret my choices, I just need to get over the stress and anxiety, which I believe is a big contributor to health issues, even cancer.
BTW – Life really is much better with multi-colored bendy straws. For me and Max.
We went through such a bleak streak the week before last, which I would swear started the week before that. It was miserable, one day after another, grey, dank, dreary days and nights. I was miserable. Inside and out. And unmotivated. I had to make sure that I at least did my Sunday workout, which I did, but not much more than that, of anything – exercise, music, writing. I knew I was in a foul mood, at times so low I feared sinking into depression. Then last Sunday, after the sun had come out two days in a row, I found myself walking home from errands with a smile on my face. Literally. It was a big toothy smile that had grown bigger as I realized why I was smiling and why I had been in such an ill frame of mind. People looked at me as if I were goofy. I was goofy, and glad to be so. I stopped at McDonalds for a large dollar coffee, the best deal in NYC, got some writing done and gave a couple of bucks to two separate homeless guys (so they said, believably) and actually made small talk with both. That’s how good the sun is. Plus, the technician who performed my ultrasound on Tuesday said that she had been feeling the same way, so it is nice to know that I am not the only kook affected to such an extreme by extended drear.
Even though I got back to working out four times this week, I’ve broken the usual routine on days other than Sunday. I mentioned before that I had killed the Ex’s Linda Ronstadt CD. A lovely friend offered to replace it with one from his very own collection right after I posted the blog that night, however I had already found the same CD in the $4.99 rack at my local Barnes and Noble. And this one has a case with song and artist listings, unlike the ziplock sandwich bag that the Ex’s collection came in. So, instead of playing the first three songs of Ronstadt’s Heart Like A Wheel, and shrieking along to “Faithless Love,” I play three songs off of the best of CD – “Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” her version of The Eagles’ “Desperado,” and of course that song that embodies that high school angst and heartache of having a freakin’ wicked crush, “Long, Long Time.” Talk about shrieking along, and doing so with that little catch in your throat as you reminisce about that dufus who you thought you just couldn’t live without.
And back to me. I find I can only listen to those songs now as some of the others are striking me as kind of stupid or too commercial. “Love is a rose so you better not pick it. It only grows when it’s on the vine.” Huh? Neil Young wrote that. And I used to love “Love Has No Pride.” If not for her stirring rendition of the song, it would just be some sappy story of some pathetic, weak-willed sister. Regardless of it being a masterpiece in Ronstadt’s voice, I am irked by the humiliation, and can no longer suffer through it.
Those that I find commercial are the ones like Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be The Day,” and Smokey Robinson’s “Tracks Of My Tears.” Great songs, but not for Ronstadt. She doesn’t come remotely close to making them hers. I think I covered this CD before, so the review is unnecessary, but I do love writing about Linda Ronstadt. I don’t think people realize that as successful as she was, she took chances by stepping out of what must have been a comfort zone of success, doing Broadway, singing the songs of her Mexican roots, and collaborating with other artists of non-pop genres. Not to mention dating the governor of California. She’s inspiring. I would have loved to see and hear what she would have done in her later years – loved to have seen her sing with EmmyLou Harris and Dolly Parton again, if her beautiful and powerful voice hadn’t been robbed from her by Parkinson’s Disease. At least that’s what she says. I’ll bet, and hope, that as bad as her voice may have gotten, she can still shriek out her old songs better than I can.
BTW – About once a month I take the train, whichever one happens to be running because the MTA likes to shut down half the train lines on weekends, to Brooklyn Heights to buy Max food, and have lunch at this fantastically inexpensive vegetarian Chinese restaurant that from its location one flight up has an entertaining view of the street. Yesterday, a lovely sunny day that clouded up a bit, the place was packed. And, it appeared that only the regular waitress was taking care of everything but the cooking. There was no cashier (on vacation, she explained) and not until after 2:30 (I’d been there since 1) was there someone to even help her clear tables and fill water glasses. Still, she served, took table and take-out orders, answered the phone, found the credit card a man had left there the night before, stepped over the baby dragging a pocketbook around the floor, stooped to pick up somebodies sunglasses and laughed at one of my jokes. She remained unfrazzled and pleasant. Lunch specials at are $6.43 plus tax, come with soup, but I recommend springing for the salad instead for a dollar extra. Tea is not free and you need to purchase a pot if you want one, which I do, but I have noticed that many people opt for their smoothies. Their black bean sauce is wonderfully tangy. Oh, and overtip the waitress.
You’ve got to love a man who says they like you because you have opinions. Even better when it’s coming from the man who has your breast in his hands, as you both admire his previous handiwork. Maybe more appreciate than admire. And he has opinions based on your opinions – and it’s all based on your well-being. A total well-being. I was surprised when he said that as it has been my experience recently, and with the last bout of cancer, that doctors just want you to do what they want you to do, putting you in the box that they are incapable of thinking outside of. I know I griped about this before, but it bears repeating. Besides, I love my surgeon. He’s adorable.
Now, if it were my brain, I would have to think long and hard about someone mucking about with my ability to think long and hard. And this I base on people I know losing loved ones, and my own loss of the woman who was like a surrogate mother to me (not my step-mother or anyone related to me), from an operation that I deemed not only unnecessary, but botched. She died as a result of the operation, not as a result of the benign brain tumor, and it was a sad deterioration.
But this a breast. It’s not something I think with, I don’t need it to walk or talk, taste, see, smell or feel. I don’t breath with my breast, and breathing is a necessity that I don’t want to jeopardize to keep something that is kind of unnecessary. No disrespect. I am not knocking breasts, and don’t want to lose either one, but it is an option I am willing to consider. And as it turns out, my decision to forego radiation the last time turned out to be prudent, as the cancer that manifested in tiny stage one tumors, one in either breast, did not return. This cancer, which is two even smaller lumps in a different area of one breast, is new, and would not have been prevented by radiation. Plus, if I had had the radiation, I could not have it again. Not in the breast. The oncologist back then, seemed disgusted with me when I tried to discuss other options, and the radiation oncologist, with whom I was all set to start therapy, had distinct dufus qualities about him, and when I asked him if, as it was flu season, if he recommended I get a flu shot, or if it could possibly have detrimental effects, he had no opinion. I didn’t know. How would I. But I thought it was a question I should ask. Could there be a bad reaction, would it be a good idea to ward off the flu especially due to the weakening effects of the radiation? I couldn’t believe that no one had ever asked these questions before, but apparently not of him. He had no idea, and showed no interest in even finding out about it. I wasn’t feelin’ him. But, my surgery went well and I liked my surgeon, now even more so. I have a sonogram scheduled next week and an MRI the Friday of the following week so we can decide what kind of action to take, and then, well I’ll let you know. But as you can see, my situation is not dire and time, while not being overlooked, is also not of the essence.
I’m not getting another mammogram, I just like the picture. There are several pictures and recipes for mammo-grahams throughout the internet, but this was the only one I found that didn’t show only white or pink breasts.
BTW – Do you know I have never been to Arby’s? But that Bourbon Bacon & Brisket that they’re advertising now? Tempting.
The thing about Spider Solitaire is that it’s not easy. It requires careful observation, peripheral vision literally and metaphorically, and you have to consider all options even if nothing comes of it. It’s a puzzle. I like puzzles – jigsaw, crossword, kakuro… But you have to be wary when things start getting too good too fast. You can’t get caught off guard. You have to slow down, even stop if things are all working out amazingly swell. This card goes on top of that card and that finishes the run and closes out the deck and there are less and less cards on the screen, which is after all, the goal. But the game tries to lull you into false hope and tries to trick you and if you are not careful, you could run out of enough cards to continue the game and so you automatically lose. You may have to be one of us (gooba-gobble, gooba-gobble) Spider Solitaire fanatics to understand. Or not. My question is – does Spider Solitaire imitate life? Or does life imitate Spider Solitaire?
BTW – Things on the cancer front are moving along. Decisions still to be made, but surgery soon.
I know I used this picture not long ago, but I hear you out there saying “We just don’t see Max enough.”
4/19/16 – You know what’s a really creepy sound? A helicopter hovering.
A couple of months ago an agreement was reached to cut back on the number and frequency of tourist helicopters that leave from the downtown NYC heliport. It never bothered me. In fact I like it, but then I don’t work from home where the helicopters come buzzing around frequently. If you were ever to get me in a helicopter and I didn’t live here, I would want to see this area from up high. And I am up pretty high, so once in a while it’ll look like a helicopter may be coming a bit too close. It’s just an illusion though. Not to worry.
I do however work on the other side of the southern tip of the Island and my office window catches a sliver of the heliport itself on the East River. Once upon a time I had the office two doors down that had a better view of the heliport with a church in Brooklyn in the background. But that’s another story about sexism in the workplace and guys named Dick. (breathe) I found watching the helicopters take off and land quite calming and would often swing my chair to the left, put my feet up on the radiator or whatever we want to call that thing that runs from office to office giving out hot air in the summer and cold in the winter, and just watch the helicopters come and go. I am, as we know from my frequent tangents, easily distracted, and pretty much happy to be so.
The red helicopter soon became my favorite, which amused some of my friends at work. In fact, on a weekend three years ago, when a red helicopter carrying a family of Swedes lost power in one of its engines and went down onto the Hudson, I was home watching it on the news. Everyone was safe and dry as the 21 year old pilot managed to successfully use the pontoons to land the helicopter smoothly into the water. A reporter came up to the visibly shaken young man and asked how he felt being a hero. “I was just doing my job,” he responded. I love that story. But the red helicopter… it was going to have to go away for a while and hopefully recover. I knew this was one of my helicopters, my red helicopter, until I realized it had too much white on it and was indeed the smaller red helicopter that I would also see. My favorite is the more solid red and is your basic standard-sized copter.
The following Monday at work, a couple of coworkers called me to pay their condolences over the loss of my helicopter, having seen the event on the news as well, and were glad for me when told it wasn’t the one that I’m anxious to see during the week. Still, the loss of the little red helicopter saddened me, and I was pleased to see it return a few months later. I have to admit that in those three years the number of different helicopter has grown (there are now four red helicopter amongst the others) and people were getting annoyed. As I said, the noise does not bother me in the least. In fact, I jump up and run to the window to watch the army copters go by in formation.
But, the sound of a helicopter buzzing in place, as this one has been doing for more than an hour now as I write this, means that something is going on. That does bother me. It gives me such an uneasy feeling and really creeps me out. It happens now and then, yet I’ve never found out why. I don’t mean to minimalize any other crime or threat that may have happened to someone else, but so far it’s nothing that has been catastrophic. I guess it comes with the territory, the City and the neighborhood. I said when I moved in to my apartment that as soon as the Freedom Tower was finished, I would leave. But we see that that’s just not happening right now. I have to work, I have to have insurance, and I have to be rid of this cancer thing. And then, who knows.
BTW – My friends roll their eyes, which I can feel through phones and read into texts, whenever I say “tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1999.” A bit outdated, but a great line and song. I was never a Prince fan, per se. It’s kind of like that Madonna thing for me. A mixture of annoyance and respect, disliking some things about them, but appreciating when they don’t take themselves too seriously, and getting portions of their songs stuck in my head. On Thursday, the new guy at work came into my office. I had already heard the news, but I think he, being a big Prince fan, needed to share with someone, and I, being in his age group and having an appreciation for all things music, was glad he chose me to talk to. The radio was on as usual, and as we spoke he identified the Prince song that was playing. “Dirty Minds.” Sorry, I didn’t know the song, and was not impressed that he did. As a Prince fan, he should.
I told him of my favorite Prince moment that happened a few years ago when he came out to present the award for best song at the Grammys. He opened the envelope and said, “I love this song,” and announced the winner as Gotye’s song, “Somebody That I Used To Know.” Gotye and Timbre took the stage, ecstatic not just that they had won, but because as it turned out, they are huge Prince fans and that made the award that much more worth winning. Hey, people win awards all the time, but when it’s presented by one of your idols who announces to millions that he loves your song, what a freakin’ kick that must be. So goodbye to Prince. And thank you.
My kitchen reeks of curry and I haven’t even cooked since last weekend. On behalf of the cauliflower and myself, thanks J.
Here’s how weird Max is. Since I started exercising regularly, which is coming up on three years, Max has had a fondness for my yellow exercise mat. I would lay the mat out and put two notebooks and a pen next to it so I could write about the albums that I was exercising to at the time while lying on my back with my legs up against the wall. I had been writing and posting on the blog nearly every night. Remember those days? As I would get the aerobic portion of the routine done, Max would often go lie on the mat himself. He liked the mat. Even when I rolled it up and it took on a whole new shape, he would swat back when he’d get bopped with it. It was playtime. I rolled it nice and tight to store it in an old magazine rack. After a while, the mat would remain partially curled up when unrolled. I put up with this for a very long time, as I am not the swiftest human on the planet, and it took me till not too long ago to figure out that if I rolled it looser, it wouldn’t curl up. Trouble is, Max no longer recognizes the fatter roll as plaything, and viewing it as a threat, runs and hides after I’m done exercising and putting the mat away.
I was going to tell a story tonight. But I think this is what you’re getting. Tidbits. That’s exercise, and Max. Here’s diet – I’ve been cooking a lot of cauliflower lately. Focus on the cooking thing. Not a lot of that gets done around here, but I’m having fun starting with a whole head of cauliflower as my base as I concoct dishes by experimenting with spices and other ingredients. (Caution: Just because you have leftover red wine, it doesn’t mean you can throw it in any dish.) As I have to eat all my concoctions, the good news is that all dishes so far have been edible, however nothing I would serve to guests. And while we’re talking food, sadly I’ve not been able to have my usual brunch served by my wonderful waiter at Tribeca’s Kitchen for the past two weeks. Last Sunday there was a note on the window about a gas leak that had occurred in the residential part of the restaurant’s building. And there was the sign again this morning. As I stared at the note today I heard honking. The owner drove up and told me that the leak had been fixed immediately last week, but it was all the paperwork that was taking so long. They’ll be open again on Wednesday. I had to go to the diner nearer to where I live, which is far inferior to Tribeca’s Kitchen, and they don’t understand the importance of coffee, and making sure my cup is always full.
Music – I killed the ex’s Linda Ronstadt CD. Damn. No more “Desperado.” I don’t have that on any of my albums. Regardless, Linda is still helping me improve my vocal chords as most workouts these days begin with me singing along with the first quarter of Heart Like a Wheel. I had the ex’s best of CD on the other evening while doing the dishes when it just went wonky, and as I couldn’t listen to it, I got a hankering to hear Rod Stewart’s Gasoline Alley. Still one of the best. And mighty scratchy.
Writing – I hate working. But it gives me an excuse not to write or to focus my thoughts on the story I’m writing. Actually stories. I have too many ideas. Writer’s block is not my issue. Avoidance and procrastination, the symptoms of more deep-seated issues are.
BTW – Why do you think there is such aversion to producing really well-done French fries when they are specifically ordered that way? Ah well. If they came the way I ordered, I would eat them. And yes, you can have too much cauliflower. It’s either chicken or fish for dinner tonight.
Beautiful weather in NYC this weekend, J. How ’bout you?
The Walrus Was Paul 