|
|
They Redid The Ears My foray back into fiction seems to have fizzled out. I have two Hunter Thompson books sitting beside my bed, both with bookmarks stuck in their middles. Two Eve Babitz books, both read down to the last chapter that I'm going to finish any day now. CDs are easier. I bought the new Crash Test Dummies release Give Yourself A Hand and one by Heather Nova called Siren. I bought them because I heard the first cut on each, Keep A Lid On Things by the Dummies and London Rain by Nova. Part of me likes these. A little voice says, well, maybe you've gone pop, sweetheart, the brain turned to lemon jello and your choice of music confirms it to all the world. But no. I can still tell. I'm not sure about someone who calls herself Heather Nova, the cover photograph makes her look like she's sixteen going on thirty, but I think that's the style. She's a good singer and a better song writer. Same with the Dummies: Keep A Lid On Things is worth the price of the album. Still, how many times have I played either one? Well shit. Enough. I play them enough.
I think this may just be one of these passages things, one of
I'm just thinking maybe this happens to every old goat. All the greasy kid stuff is behind me and I've got to kind of adjust to all the greasy middle aged stuff. I'm not supposed to be piddling around with Hunter Thompson and Heather Nova, that's, you know, for younger studs out persuing the terrible truth. I'm supposed to be piddling around with the Next Phase, man: New Age Music, Ginko Biloba and 24 hour room service in my cabana by the pool. My face is becoming mobile. I can move my mouth and flex the muscles in my lips and have things bump together instead of moving as a monolith. I think that's a good sign. I can purse my lips and although they still feel awkward and thick, they move and flex like lips are supposed to flex. I notice the chin juts out farther than it used to, but that was the idea, move the jaw forward and open up the throat. I'm not sure how it looks yet, but it would be interesting to go from Gomer Pyle to Clark Gable. Except I didn't look like Gomer Pyle before the operation and I won't look like Gable unless they redid the ears. |
|
|
|
these phases you go through when you're 50 and you're not quite used
to the concept yet. You look back at all your youthful passions and
notice you don't pay nearly as much attention to them anymore,
so you return and look them over to see if you can jack some of that
old magic out. Maybe you lost your way in the day to day routine, that
decade you weren't really paying attention (you know: the husband, the
wife, the kids, the company, the alcohol) and now you're 50 and have a
little time to think about art and life and what's next. So what do
you do? Start a journal, take up photography, buy Heather Nova, read
Hunter Thompson? Maybe. Can't hurt. This journal's fun. The
photography too.