“Hey dude. You know that some of us want to remain anonymous. You put us on the web and people willl know we are here.” What’s wrong with that.” “There are people here who may be wanted.” “Sure enough, my man, but most of them are unwanted.”
Eric ponders whatever Paul was talking about. “I had too much whiskey, too fast.”
I went to the Sholem Shuk, a local thrift shop to pick up a some clothes for Paul. Bought two pairs of pants and two T shirts for $5. Some kids stole his shoes, but the store that is too far from downtown to help the homeless, didn’t have his size shoes or any socks. Believe it or not, he liked the shirt.
To protect what little is left of my retirement and savings, I sometime watch CNBC. No more. Aside from the yelling, bickering, and free market blather, they try to do news. Because of their bias, that part of their offering falls way below even FOX’s, whom we all know is simply a tool for Rupert Murdock’s and Roger Ailes’ political machines. The government had a chance to stop Murdock, GE should stop Kernan and the rest of the banterers. I will watch no more.
Not a big fan of Facebook, though I know I should be. Just making my way through the web based social networks. Have a blog-www.Duckpondworks.com. Have a Twitter account which I don’t use. Have three e-mail addresses. Why anyone would have to deal with me these ways rather than than in person, I dunno. I am moving out into this virtual space, late, without a lot of support or tech knowledge, so who knows?
Frenchy will undoubtedly return with his own review after he sees the movie. Until then, a very dry Chopin martini while he peruses the Times coverage.
The yahrzeit for my Father, Lenny, is 25 Sivan, which in this year corresponds to the sundown before, through the evening of, Monday, June 7, 2010. I find the Jewish calendar comforting in this regard since, were we to observe the Roman calendar date, the actual date on which he died, June 16, 1963, Father’s Day, I would always be saying Kaddish and lighting a candle for him on a made-up day designed to have you remember your father. A little too contrived for me, since my relationship with him didn’t last so long and most of it was too painful to be worthy of celebrations endemic to Father’s Day.
When he died, I was a year short of my sixteenth birthday, a milestone of significance only because it allowed me to obtain a learner’s permit. His sickness carried on for most of my memorable childhood. We started taking him to the hospital and to the doctor’s offices when I was six or seven. I can remember the operations to remove little cysts from his arms, neck, and head. I remember the coughing, the wheezing, the fatigue. He couldn’t throw a ball anymore, walk, carry things, or bend over. At ten, we found out he had some kind of blood disorder and something growing in his lungs. He fought on for all those years, missing work, getting treatments. I helped put salve on the wounds left by the primitive radiation treatments of the time. No surprise when he died; subject to the remissions, he had a dead-going-through-the-motions-look for years. No one thought I knew. (continue reading…)