My Day. Saturday. May 28. 2022. Personal Essay.

 

so I labeled yesterday's missive as May 28th. but it was friday may 27th. just goes to show i can't keep track of the date anymore. why bother? each day blends into the next, like a can of tuna into a glob of mayonnaise. i'm not complaining about it or worrying about it. old age means ignoring the calendar completely for weeks on end. instead i mark time by meals:  yesterday the soba noodles were too salty. in the evening a neighbor gave us a package of frozen bratwurst. so today is the day i decide what to do with them. should i put them in a red sauce for spaghetti? fry 'em up in a sauce pan with a little apple juice and apple cider vinegar for me and amy? or just let them sit in the fridge and amy and i will go out to eat today. yes, yes . . today could be a day to go out and get something to eat. not a burger. yuck. hamburger and i are not on speaking terms right now. but a fish fillet sandwich, with fries on the side? oh . . . that has possibilities.

so you see, that's how i mark each day of my life.

i also mark each day by how many bm's i have, since i now take two heaping tablespoons of metamucil each day -- one in the morning and one in the evening. but that is a subject even i will forbear from discussing further.

So it took a full hour to do the first 1000 word content sausage. that's ten dollars an hour. sweatshop wages. but it keeps me out of mischief.  amy seems to like the fact that i'm working on 'real' writing and not just making up poetry that i never get paid for.  here's what i wrote this morning, by the way:

I do not like to spend my coin

buying shoes or tenderloin.

In fact I hate to part with cash

in case there is another Crash --

I'll wear a barrel soon enough,

cuz Uncle Sam gets all my stuff!

I posted the above in the online Wall Street Journal, since I'm a subscriber, under a story about consumer spending.  A reader named Alex Guinness left me this reply:

well done Here is one I wrote you can have if you want Hobson's Choice, The Newest Colossus AKA The Kraken Like the brazen giant of Nordic fame, With groping hand fondles women's private parts; Here at our white-washed, gold-clad gates shall stand A mighty man with a cellphone, who inflames with a tweet on twitter, and his name Father of Fat-Cats. From his texting small hands Glows world-wide deceit; his squinting eyes demand The land-bridged beltway that frames D.C. "Give us oil-rich lands, that we may pump!" cries he With tweeting fingers. “Give me your rich, your corrupt, yearning to exploit the masses, the obscenely wealthy of your oil rich shores. Send these, the barons untroubled by ethics and morals to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

where do these nuts come from? i guess versifying always brings out the gooniness in people.

and he just left ANOTHER reply. Why does the wall street journal allow this drek to be posted under their comments? (I guess that could be asked about my original verses, couldn't it?) Here it is:

or take this one Ode to the Little Man A man who seeds both shade and shine and fails to see the pain of thine the world burns and he doth churn the worm turns as he yearns for more, he wants to see his pile grow large and strong as he is vile there is no place that he won’t go to stoke the fires of his ego as the bodies pile high he talks about the days gone by better times soon back again If you come with me they will reckon Pernicious pompous puppet pope at the pulpit preaching pulp tweeting yet another trope as the people lose all hope A man so vile and full of hate He will not stop or hesitate To strike u down and steal the crown To enforce his own renown A man whose only thought is greed He will cut and make u bleed Then he plants his fascist seed It grows and festers like a weed Rape and Pillage, Pillage and Rape Until there's nothing left to take Darkest days are just ahead Hide my children under bed Hide from the pied piper led

much later . . . 

amy and i are scrolling through the saturday offerings on tcm. slim pickins. i've got 4 of those 1000 word sausages stuffed and ready for market, with the help of amy, who right this minute is sitting next to me exercising with a can of Hunts pasta sauce, lifting it up and down with her left arm -- she's hoping this will aleviate the carpal tunnel syndrome that is on its way.  the movie she chose for us to watch while we eat a late lunch is the bride walks out, with barbara stanwyck. lunch is fried bratwurst with beans. for me. i'm never sure what amy is eating. right now she is boiling raisins in a pot.

i'm sure many more exciting and interesting things will happen to me during My Day today -- but this thing has gone on long enough. it's getting out of hand. out of control. i'm becoming another marcel proust, whose quotidian novel swann's way turned into seven volumes -- and he was an invalid and VERY boring. i've tried reading it several times.

i'm not sure anyone will ever read all this ragbag anyway. but i offer it up as something to wile away the hours if you should happen to be stranded on a desert isle with wifi.

ever thine,

Heinie Manush.