And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on and so did I — Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Not so very long ago I could quote long passages from that poem by memory. Today I should be wearing a yellow tape bandana as my mind looks like a crime scene. Maybe little numbered cones where obvious evidence of mayhem is. Eftstoons!
Michigan State is playing at home today, any minute the streets will fill with drunken students. I miss the days when they’d drop acid and fill the meridian of Grand River Ave chanting incoherent shit and feeling each other up. A thousand thousand slimy things.
The Paris thing is an omen, bad portent, a legacy of ruin. It takes a whole village for village war III. Kinda makes you want to turn to revelations next time you’re stuck alone in a motel with the Gideon’s. A hundred years ago it seemed kind of far fetched that the world would focus on the middle east. A thousand years ago even. Water water everywhere and all the boards did shrink.
I can’t remember where I heard this little tidbit, but somewhere, in real life or digital, “… He pronounces the L in salmon” It’s not as easy as it looks. Makes me think of Portland. Number wise, north to south, Portland is a grid, the number tells you how far you are from the river, the Willamette, and the designation NW, NE, SW, SE tells you which segment you are from the dividing street, Burnside. Now Burnside is part of an alphabetical grid; Alder, Burnside, Couch (no, you’re pronouncing it wrong, it’s cooch) and so on. However, most of downtown is south of Alder and the names are random, city founders, sexual innuendo (e.g. Johnson. Heh.) and, of course, Salmon, which, given the whole pronunciation thing could be pronounced with an L, but it isn’t. Also, those streets begin with a letter of the alphabet, so when a local tells you it’s easy, alphabet and numbers, you are good and fucking lost on Salmon street. And a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow.
Man plans and god laughs. That’d be the Old Testament god, mean son of a bitch, having a virgin bear his kid mellowed him out. He still has the same sense of humor, whether you believe in him or not you crack him up. I’ve got plans is all I’m saying, don’t draw attention. For all averred I killed the bird that made the breeze to blow.
Our plans for thanksgiving are to go to what used to be called the faculty club. It had been a club for MSU faculty exclusively. It was fun as kids we could hang out at the pool and just sign our number for burgers and such. I forget what’s called now but it’s not exclusive anymore, as a general country club it’s a bit shabby in places. The dining area isn’t one. Last time I was there most of the other tables were hungry young suits having power luncheons. Obviously not faculty. Professors have one tux for ceremony, one gown for ceremony, and closets full of funky jackets that you’d bargain down to a buck fifty at a garage sale because you’re not paying 2 Bucks for it. As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.
I invited the GF and she’d like to go. I really need her for sanity. My BIL has lost his motherfucking mind, um, they’re calling it dementia. My nephew with fragile X doesn’t always do well in crowded social gatherings. I’ve got two dental appointments between now and then, and my mom doesn’t walk so well. So, selfishly, it’d be really cool if the GF came. When looking westward, I beheld a something in the sky.
Oh, and tennis courts, I used to play tennis there. There’s also community tennis courts like four blocks from where I’m typing, always at least one open. You would think that for all the tennis I’ve played in my life that I’d be good at it. I’m not. I’m not being modest, I really suck, or I sucked twenty years ago, I can’t imagine not holding a racket in twenty years has improved my game. I do like whacking the shit out of bouncy green balls. The last time I played was in Portland in the rain a game lovingly referred to as sog ball. In sog ball you have to whack the shit out of the ball to get it over the net. The community courts at Laurelhurst park are often empty in the rain. See! See! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!
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