Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.
I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.
Continue reading “Is It November 3rd Yet?”
Slam the door; turn the key; close the transom; roll the bureau in tight and stack the chairs on top. My on-hand reading is full and even with a strict yoghurt diet I’ll never outlast the shelves of books and the digital jungle of novels, short stories, poetry, and an essay or two or two thousand. I’m done. No more books.
Do you think the publishing houses will honor my demand?
Drat! What if I read on-line or in the Post or hear a recommendation on Twitter? Should I resign from all social media? Should I cancel the Post? Should I sell my computer? If I disappear will Apple Books survive me?
Continue reading “Away All Books!”
August: Still hiding out in my old-man rooms waving to the grandkids when they’re cavorting in the backyard and having my lonely plates of dinner delivered at arms length with the three day old but adequately fumigated mail.
I’m reading a lot but I’m also gorging on cable television series. Currently finishing five years of The Wire which my daughter considered as hard evidence that I was hopelessly behind the times. I didn’t tell her I just watched Mr. Lucky (oh, that Andamo).
Continue reading “Lucky?”
Currently reading Doug J. Swanson’s detailed history of the Texas Rangers, Cult of Glory (a real “myth buster”). Swanson expands on the pronouncement of Maxwell Scott and prints both the legend and the fact.
Two things caused me to stop early in the book and think. The first was in a section devoted to John Salmon Ford, Old Rip (a sobriquet indicting Ford’s prominence as a Texas Ranger who dealt savagely with any person he deemed a bad-guy). Ford attempted to create a slave empire in northern Mexico as a by-product of the Mexican-American War. He failed.
Continue reading “No Silver Bullets”