Twenty-eight. No, oops, make that twenty-nine.
My age. I wish. If I were twenty-eight or twenty-nine then my knees wouldn't be sore, or my back, or my neck, or my elbows. I look like I've been thrown through a windshield. No, no accident, just packing. I've got a gash on my nose and have no idea how it got there. When I finished packing yesterday I looked in the mirror before I took my shower and there it was, a big gash on the bridge of my nose. I don't remember banging my nose, but I obviously did. My arms are all scratched, and my right knee feels like I smashed it repeatedly against a concrete wall. Actually the only thing that doesn't hurt is my beard. And if I were 28 or 29 I probably would have found a job by now. But let's not dwell.
I was so pleased yesterday to have finally finished packing the books. Then came time to tackle the loft's closet, which I use for storage. Flinging open the doors, guess what I found? More books. *Sigh* To the 28 cartons already packed I had to add one more. And of course that fragmented the library because I found a Poe book, a Weldon book, a Henry James book, and one other that I can't remember, but belonged as the others did in other boxes where the authors were grouped together. After packing that one I just wrote on the carton: "Fragmented. Open first." With all the stuff that's been thrown out, it proves my grandma's maxim that "three moves are equal to one fire."
To resume my archaelogy this morning I fished out a t-shirt that had "First Cat" written on it with a drawing of Socks wearing socks. Whatever happened to Socks? It was nice to have a cat in the White House for a change. A cat may look at a king, said Alice. I've read that in some book, but I don't remember where. Neither can I, probably in Alice in Wonderland, but at least the nine lives of Socks had his fifteen minutes of fame.
People think, I think, that "bling" is a recent invention. Those who think that obviously didn't live through the 70's. Before there was rap there was disco. Before "bling" there was "glitz." This may seem at first glance a non sequiter, but it relates to my archaelogy. In digging through my layers of crapola I found two remnants of that magic age. A big chain-link silver bracelet that either belonged to someone else from that era, or was given to me. Who remembers? Too much dope and poppers has had its way with my memory. I put it on after removing the tarnish. My working out since then has made it a little snug, but it actually sits fairly comfortably between my hand and my wrist bone. I also found a stretchable thin silver metal belt which I wore with tight black pants and a black turtle-neck. I had hair then, too. We blinged on the dance-floor in a way that rivaled the blink-flashing of the mirrored balls that flash-spun and dervished overhead at The Broadway and we drank and sniffed into sweaty pools of timeless delight and oblivion. You had to be there. We Are Family. More, More, More. Boogie Oogie Oogie. You had to be there. Bling.
Someday I'll tell you about Studio 54. And the difference between VIP and VFIP. And Liza Minelli. And Patti Lupone. And Cher. And white parties. And Nureyev. And Peter Allen. And Joan Jett. And black and mirrored co-ed bathrooms. And the Rubber Room. And other debauchery. Actually I had better not tell you about Peter Allen and Nureyev. You wouldn't believe me anyway. I had an in through the alley, thank all the Golden Goddesses. I wouldn't have made it past the front doormen.
If I didn't LOATHE AND DEPISE Andrew Lloyd Webber SO VERY MUCH, now would be a good time to break out and sing a few bars of Memory.
Back to the dig. Maybe I'll discover a mummy. Friday the 13th falls on a Monday this month.
I was so pleased yesterday to have finally finished packing the books. Then came time to tackle the loft's closet, which I use for storage. Flinging open the doors, guess what I found? More books. *Sigh* To the 28 cartons already packed I had to add one more. And of course that fragmented the library because I found a Poe book, a Weldon book, a Henry James book, and one other that I can't remember, but belonged as the others did in other boxes where the authors were grouped together. After packing that one I just wrote on the carton: "Fragmented. Open first." With all the stuff that's been thrown out, it proves my grandma's maxim that "three moves are equal to one fire."
To resume my archaelogy this morning I fished out a t-shirt that had "First Cat" written on it with a drawing of Socks wearing socks. Whatever happened to Socks? It was nice to have a cat in the White House for a change. A cat may look at a king, said Alice. I've read that in some book, but I don't remember where. Neither can I, probably in Alice in Wonderland, but at least the nine lives of Socks had his fifteen minutes of fame.
People think, I think, that "bling" is a recent invention. Those who think that obviously didn't live through the 70's. Before there was rap there was disco. Before "bling" there was "glitz." This may seem at first glance a non sequiter, but it relates to my archaelogy. In digging through my layers of crapola I found two remnants of that magic age. A big chain-link silver bracelet that either belonged to someone else from that era, or was given to me. Who remembers? Too much dope and poppers has had its way with my memory. I put it on after removing the tarnish. My working out since then has made it a little snug, but it actually sits fairly comfortably between my hand and my wrist bone. I also found a stretchable thin silver metal belt which I wore with tight black pants and a black turtle-neck. I had hair then, too. We blinged on the dance-floor in a way that rivaled the blink-flashing of the mirrored balls that flash-spun and dervished overhead at The Broadway and we drank and sniffed into sweaty pools of timeless delight and oblivion. You had to be there. We Are Family. More, More, More. Boogie Oogie Oogie. You had to be there. Bling.
Someday I'll tell you about Studio 54. And the difference between VIP and VFIP. And Liza Minelli. And Patti Lupone. And Cher. And white parties. And Nureyev. And Peter Allen. And Joan Jett. And black and mirrored co-ed bathrooms. And the Rubber Room. And other debauchery. Actually I had better not tell you about Peter Allen and Nureyev. You wouldn't believe me anyway. I had an in through the alley, thank all the Golden Goddesses. I wouldn't have made it past the front doormen.
If I didn't LOATHE AND DEPISE Andrew Lloyd Webber SO VERY MUCH, now would be a good time to break out and sing a few bars of Memory.
Back to the dig. Maybe I'll discover a mummy. Friday the 13th falls on a Monday this month.
posted by DMP at 9:11 AM
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