Birthday Boy

I’m writing because booze, food, and time are not going to stop me, this evening. The day was satisfyingly full, which is unusual for me, in this period of my life. I’m usually sluggish and boorish. Anyway, it was a satisfying day. Why am I writing here and not in my journal? Good question. Probably because I think too much when I’m writing by hand, and I can just type when I’m writing on my laptop. At least that is what I’m theorizing.

As I said, the day was full. I kept myself extremely busy, tried to be mindful of my actions, recognized my errors, and attempted to correct some of them. Without getting into details, this would seem to describe a pretty good day.

I had some remarkable insights today. While I was sitting at Borders Bookstore (I actually thought it was Barnes and Noble’s Bookstore. It must be that “B” in their name), I came to the conclusion that I should write for an audience of God/Allah/Yaweh/Dharma/No-god/No-Allah/No-Yaweh. In other words, I should just write for me. So, just write Stupid.

That’s what I’m doing. Not on paper tonight. That is too slow. Just writing is the answer. Plus, it gives me an opportunity to type.

Woke up, got out of bed.
I ate pancakes, piled high
with margarine, syrup, and milk.

Read the paper with coffee,
while I watched a movie on TV.
Gary Cooper was captain of a crew
which would be famous after his death.
A telephone call from an assistant
broke the calm of a Saturday afternoon,
to tell of human foibles
and gross behaviors of the vain.
The Dean of soulless bitches,
bent on sly and cunning tricks,
sought to steal the light of children
and maidens yet to bear.

I brushed my teeth, shaved my face,
and took a shower to be clean.
Made a list of where to go:
Costco, Staples, CompUSA,
Borders Bookstore, and BevMo.
Each provided a particular treat.

I tamed the beast at the bookstore,
when I took the measure of my day.
There I realized that it was crazy,
to have let it get this way.
In the café I reconnoitered,
taking bearing of my day.
What I needed was to chart my wishes,
and consider what needed to be done.

So I read outdated entries, and thoughts of long ago,
And believed the Lone Pine School of Writing
was not a ghost of dreams long lost.
That friends, and family, and strangers
can still grow to fill my hopes
of becoming a band of storytellers
to keep our legend real.

I bought some Wilson Pickett,
and 52 songs of Bee,
and washed away my melancholy,
with J&B and Irish Whiskey.
The monitor was too wide,
and the pictures wouldn’t fit.
A mistake was made,
Which the macho man had to admit.

And Harper Lee goes riding,
free of books, boos, or jeers,
And finds the attic of her longings,
in a cigar box from a tree.