I blame Louis C.K. I watched one episode of his show, (Season 4. Episode 2- Model) and it rattled me. As Louie, playing himself stood on the shore and watched a shimmering vision dance naked into the surf, I was struck with a thunderclap of existential self-awareness- a true peer over the edge and into the void where your horrors are realized. The bony hands of time clawing their way up to you. Such writing. Such art. It knocked the pen out of my hand and under the family credenza, where I have only now managed to retrieve it, what with this sciatica.
It is time to end the stalemate. I resign this match to Mr. C.K. and have no choice but to saw away at my own tinny reel and keep the dwindling crowd on the dance floor.
So my wife, my main squeeze, “Baby Girl” herself is on a mountain bike, and attacking the problem with her standard forthright earnestness and relentless pursuit of the facts. For a man who attributes all biking success to the magic of turpentine and the tensile strength of barbed wire, I am afraid actual science may have her dropping me in short order. Like all others though, she will have to come through me to do it.
What else? Finding a sweet friend who moved away in a crowded theater- that quick and unexpected hug an elation.
The heat? There is always the heat.
But we don’t come here to talk about the weather now do we?