The lights are going down on another day in the city of angels. It’s already dark in much of the rest of the country and now it’s our turn to join the night. Sometimes it’s a city of angels and sometimes a city of sociopaths. I’ve been digging deep into soil of my mind and its soiled, tainted, dark algae has grown over the open fields of my consciousness, I’m finding that a lot of what once was vital and fertile ground has withered, there are no strawberries growing forever and all the Beatles are either dead or disgraced or have grown boring with age. Even Paul couldn’t avoid being irrelevant. Someone pass the message along to Madonna.
It’s just a fact of life, the older we get the less relevant we are, even pop stars can’t avoid disappearing. Especially them.
Paul Newman took it gracefully. He said the world doesn’t want to see me old and awkward so I’ll stay out of its glare. And we’ll always love him for it. The spotlight loves the young and curses the old. Old people should write memoirs and columns in the Sunday paper. Look at Andy Rooney. They should stay off the T.V.
Just ask John McCain.
I’m not saying old people should shut up. In fact, there is tremendous wisdom that comes with age. It’s that the culture doesn’t have time to sit and listen. What I’m really saying is that I feel the shadow of my rapidly approaching irrelevance, and it’s fucking cold!
It’s true that everybody has a story to tell, some people just can’t tell it for shit. They close up and shut down and quit in the face of fate. Fate that they allowed to flourish and then extinguish. They don’t tell their story because they really don’t care. I want to tell my story. That’s what artofstarving is all about.
I have a very dear dream that I want to see come true.
I want to own a pet monkey.
Along with the monkey comes the riches and fabulous wealth that a pet monkey would require. I’m very American in this respect. I want to be rich. Hell, I want to pay less in taxes too. Am I a real American yet, Sarah? I’ve even been known to croon along to country songs, although sans pickup truck. (Oh shit, I’ve probably blown it with the fancy Latin)
The world has felt real dirty lately. I’ve been listening to The Clash, trying to make sense of it. I’ve taken to long, contemplative walks with my hands clasped behind my back. I sniff the jasmine on the trellis of my neighbor’s house and oddly think of Bob Dylan. That was almost 50 years ago last time I checked.
In my last post I waxed exuberantly about staying positive. Well, even a rose-tinted pisces gets a little blue sometime. Peace out.