It’s Monday. The circle in front of my house is a frozen sheet of ice. Walking my dog takes the balance of a ballet dancer and the strength of superman just to get to the other side of the street without breaking anything valuable. I went to mail stuff at the post office only to find it closed. My nose hurts. My brain doesn’t want to function and I think I may be losing my fine sense of perspective on life. I should go to Curves but mostly I just want to go back to bed. Tuesday can’t get here
Maybe this new blood pressure medicine isn’t the best one for me. I was driving down the street the other day singing very loudly to Miss American Pie when I found myself sobbing over the fact that I could remember all the words. I’m thinking that’s not a good sign.
I just found out that some people actually make money on their blogs. This is apparently similar to the way some people make money in their lives through work and investments. I’ve never actually figured out how to do that. I’m sure it can be done. I’ve had the occasional friend who has done it. I see Donald Trump on TV and it’s clear that you don’t have to be attractive or particularly bright to do it. And clearly you don’t have to have a good head of hair. So I know it can be done. It’s just not something
In my column below I mention photographer artist Robert Mapplethorpe as the creator of the picture of a cross in urine. I was wrong. He did not do that picture.
A few years ago, Robert Mapplethorpe created a piece of “art” that consisted of a photograph of a crucifix in urine. I think it would be fair to say that just reading those words causes a little shudder to run through most people who find the whole symbolism disgusting and sacrilegious.
For most of us, Mr. Mapplethorpe is probably never going to really be an artist whose work we might want in our homes. For most of us, he might not even rise to the level of artist. Having read all the reviews of his work and photography, and viewed
This whole Cheney thing was just too easy of a target. Like shooting ducks in a tank at close range with a howitzer…which, come to think of it, is not unlike what Cheney was doing. And I have to ask, how macho a guy do you have to be to drive up to tamed birds, scare them into jumping around and then shooting them? You want to hunt, Mr. Cheney, come here to Alaska and go out into the country where the bears are as wild as the moose, wolves and caribou. Trek out into it with your pack on
OK, I’ve mailed all the tax paperwork out and now don’t have to think about it again till my accountant calls to ask me to clarify some obscure financial moment in my life that I will probably barely remember. So my normally sunny disposition should soon reassert itself. If nothing else, I know I will be able to watch the Daily Show tonight and see Jon Stewart’s take on Dick Cheney’s little shooting mishap this weekend. At my age, I really don’t need much more than that to amuse me.
In reviewing my finances preparatory to giving the government my last pound of flesh – though there is apparently plenty of fat still left – two thoughts occur to me. One, money management is, in my world, a contradiction in terms. Two, for what this website cost me, I should be getting constant orgasms on demand from it every time I log on. It’s not like there’s anything or anyone else around who is apt to.
I watch the Olympics from my easy chair, light turned low, newspaper and tea by my side, so relaxed and comfortable that I all but have drool dripping down the side of my chin. On screen, young, buff athletes – buffer than me in ways I can’t begin to even imagine…buffer than I was at my best by an exponential of about a million – and I think, “All in all, I’m pretty happy in my chair.”
