March 29, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

March 29, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

My gardener came over to the house, and I totally forgot yesterday was the last Saturday of the month. It makes sense that he’s working because he doesn’t have close contact with people in his line of work. I went out to the yard and put his check under a rock and pointed that to him.

My mother called me and told me that Instacart would go on strike on Monday, and she has food ordered and to be delivered on Wednesday. Not sure if the strike will affect her or not. If things are not clear, or they are on strike tomorrow, then she will more likely cancel the order. I will probably have to go shopping for her. This means Lun*na will buy for our food, and I will shop for my mom. My Uncle’s partner is taking care of my Uncle, so he’s been transporting food to their house. They are not Internet savvy, so they don’t know how to use Instacart. The irony was about a month ago or so, I put the Instacart app on my Uncle’s phone, but didn’t set it up for him. Then the next day was the shutdown, and here we are.

In the past, such as last night, there were occasional groupings of young people on the next door empty lot. Mostly drinking and chatting away. It seems that they have no concern about getting sick. When you are young, and if you are not ill, that world of sickness doesn’t mean much in their lives. Until, of course, they get the virus. It must be odd to be a teenager now. Well, it’s always strange to be a teen. Still, I think to be of a certain age, and you have been exposed to President Virus as well as the virus itself, and having your social world contained, is something that must be ‘what the fucking hell?”

If you read my previous post, you know that I had a stressful few days, but now, we are all OK. But who knows about tomorrow. Today, Kimley and I did our first podcast of Book Musik, since the lockdown.  Both of us had to deal with issues involving the isolation, and we missed our deadline for the current show. Kimley figured out how to do our show while she’s in her apartment, and I’m here in the house. It seemed to work great, but I do miss doing the show with her three feet away from me on our round table in the tiny dining room by the side of the kitchen. The book we focused on is Ian Penman’s “It Gets Me Home, This Curving Track.” It’s an excellent book by a wonderful writer who digs deep into his subject matter, which is James Brown, Prince, Elvis, and Mod Culture, among other things. That show will be up on April 1.

I feel anxiety about everything. Politics is a real shit-hole, and even though I’m not a firm supporter of Biden, I’m concerned about his campaign. He has a lot of stuff against him due to the Trump Virus, but also I feel he doesn’t have a firm message. I think it’s time for him and Sanders to get together and work for each other’s presence in the election year, which is now. Biden needs Sanders, and I think he and Bernie should have a serious chat among themselves, and continue forward.  As for me, I’m going to do face-time chat with some friends, and then listen to my box of 45 rpm singles. The isolation life works for me. My fear is getting the virus, not for my health, but the fear of spreading it to my family and money issues galore. 2020 is a lot of fun.

The Sunday Series: Sunday March 29, 2015

Sunday March 29, 2015

I loathe Sundays.  The day of rest is a day of thinking about resting.  Sunday is like being slowly buried alive.  Just as my face is being covered, Monday comes along, and you're dealing with the thought of once again, facing another Sunday.  To this very day, I'm still confused if Sunday is the first day of the week, or the last.  The vagueness of it, drives me insane.  I can never understand the mania about Sundays.  All I know is that by chance if I feel restless, it seems to be always on a Sunday.  Fucking Sunday.

The other thing that bothers me is that I travel throughout Los Angeles on the bus, and the bus schedules on Sundays are slow or non-existent.  Many times I find myself in a part of town, and not being able to get out of that area, due to the limited bus services on Sunday.  Once on the bus, no problem, but waiting for a bus that may or may not show up, is torture.  Also, there are few shade trees on streets or especially at a bus stop.  Direct sunlight which causes skin cancer is also part of the equation of life on a Sunday.

Sunday is also the one day of the week, where I think about the other six days of that week. For me, it's the period at the end of the sentence.  Rarely does the week work out OK for me.  So my depression kicks in on a Sunday, realizing that I was pretty much of a failure throughout that week.  When the thick Sunday paper hits my door every Sunday morning, the depression is so thick, I feel like I can't swallow.   The paper rarely has news of that day, but mostly looking back on the week - which is like looking at my weekly journal, which is mostly blank.   Which to be honest is a perfect self-portrait.

I've read that German and Swedish researchers have determined that Sunday is the most depressing day of the week for a lot of people.  It was suggested on one website to write a letter to yourself on a Sunday night, and the second part of the letter, imagine yourself doing something exciting.  Moronic advice which even makes me more depressed.

"The Sunday Night Blues" is the terminology for those who can't face the rest of the week, and realize that Sunday is just a reminder of things to come.  Which is partly true for me, but what I loathe the most about that specific day is that it's set up as a day of relaxation or meditative thoughts.  Those who control the calendar also control the world.  I'm even upset that there is a 24-hour day.  The restriction of days, months and even years I find to be restrictive and totally depressing with respect to the creative spirit.    If I was free of Sundays, I feel I could take each day as it is, and not what I imagined it would be.

I can't imagine anything worse than the Sunday Brunch.   The combination of breakfast and lunch.  More likely an excuse for those who can't get up early for breakfast, which leads to a sense of guilt of missing that meal and having lunch instead.  A world that is not causal made up this late morning/early afternoon meal - and it is usually a social outing, where one has to deal with the like-minded crowd.  It's a disgusting practice.   British author Guy Beringer coined the phrase "brunch" in an article printed in "Hunter's Weekly" in 1895.   Brunch was proposed by him as a stance against the meal after one goes to church.  It should be lighter in mood.  Beringer's theory is that the brunch will "put you in a good temper, it makes you satisfied with yourself and your fellow beings, it sweeps away the worries and cobwebs of the week."  For me, it is totally the opposite.  I can't stand eating with a group of people who honor the work week by having a meal together on a Sunday.

Also the Sunday brunch was a good excuse for those who are burned-out, due to their work week, to start drinking alcohol in the late morning.  Bloody Marys, Bellinis and Mimosas are the popular drinks tied to the image of Brunch on a Sunday.  In the United States, brunch became part of the social life in the 1930s.   The hotel restaurant also jumped in because a lot of restaurants were closed on Sunday - so there was a service that needed to be offered.  Traditionally it is agreed upon that brunch takes place between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Oddly enough, this is the time-frame where I do most of my writing.

For years, I have refused to have "brunch" due that it cuts into my private time with pen and paper.   The fact that most have to have a social life while working, and then on the weekend they are expected to once again, have a "social life" is a life of misery.   One needs not only to eliminate the 'brunch' but also the concept of a day of imprisonment - known as Sunday.

March 29, 2014

March 29, 2014

I had exactly two martinis and a glass of red wine last night when the earthquake hit Los Angeles.  I didn’t feel a thing, but maybe it was the combination of my conversation with Richard as well as the waitress who seems to have the longest legs possible.  It was not just her legs, but she also gave out a certain amount of charm as well.  We were sitting at the smallest table possible, and yet, she was able to put the food and drinks we ordered in perfect spots.  I asked her if she had trained as an interior decorator, and she told me that her apartment is really small.

When we arrived at my doorstep, Richard looked at his phone and told me that there was an earthquake that took place, and it was 5.something or else.  Again, probably because I was a tad high, I didn’t feel it and neither did he.  Or the waitress as far as I know.  When I got to bed, I started to think about this waitress around when I was 19 or 20 years old.  She worked at Sambo’s on Ventura Bouvelard and had the night duty.  Meaning she was there from 10 PM to dawn.  My friend Gary and I would go there around 11, in excuse to have coffee and some sort of desert, but the fact is I think we both wanted to see this waitress.  She had bleached blonde hair, and wore bright red lipstick. She was very slim, and also, had long legs.   The thing about Sambo’s, is the interior of the place was all in the color pink.   Even the food served had a pink glow to it.  In the middle of the night, it was a weird juxtaposition of truckers stopping by for food, due that the Ventura Freeway off-ramp was close by, and these heavy set masculine men in an environment that is basically pink.

She would joke naturally with the truckers, but was awkward with me and Gary.  I remember feeling a little bit weird going there after a while, because my interest was for sure not in the pink interior, but in our waitress, who clearly had no interest in us or to be specific, me, at all.   I have this distinct memory of having a break down of some sort while I was there one night.  I can’t remember why or what caused this emotional melt-down. It may have something to do with a relationship that was going bad at that time.  Nevertheless I remember excusing myself from the table, and needing to get to the bathroom.  I didn’t even need to use the bathroom, but I just wanted to be alone for a few seconds.  I began to cry, and I couldn’t stop crying.   I never cried so hard in my life. It was like if someone unplugged a broken faucet within me and the water flowed out.   As I was crying, I flushed the urinal and the water wouldn’t stop.  Eventually it overflowed and the bathroom became flooded.   I felt my emotional state was one with the plumbing here in the bathroom, and I was immediately ashamed and embarrassed at the same time.   I went back to the table, and left some bills there and got into my car and drove off.

As my thoughts were bouncing around my head, and laying on my back in bed last night, I started to notice a crack in the ceiling that I don’t think was there since last night.   I suddenly felt the sensation of water hitting my forehead.  I didn’t move, or even react to it.  I just accepted that fact, because water is truly a friend of mine.