I did a handoff in the parking lot at work this week. They're getting rehabbed at a local typewriter joint, and will be owned by writers who like typewriters.
I hope they go on to lead happy lives.
September 14, 2025
That Guy
Do you know this fellow? I'm assuming he's AI, and he interrupts my YouTube feed on the regular. He tells me to stop eating blueberries immediately and to eat butter.
You are not the boss of my gut biome, AI guy.
September 7, 2025
Another Painting
If this painting weren't 55" x 43" I would consider bidding on it.
I have been in that room and know the view. It's a small corner adjacent to the modest kitchen in the house where I used to pose for artists some mornings. It fascinates me that Charles would paint such a grand-sized and dreamy painting of such an austere space. I remember coming in for a gig one day, and in that kitchen he was serving a pork chop to another man, in his bathrobe. I remember the pork chop, a cast iron pan and a striped terry robe.
Houses of that era just post earthquake often had a steep wooden staircase to the downstairs, with a galvanized pipe serving as the handrail. I remember the sweet smell of raw wood rising from the painting studio as I went downstairs, and the striped curtain on a thin cotton rope offering a bit of modesty as I changed into my own robe in the closet. A bare bulb with a beaded nickel pull chain hung overhead in that tiny space.
Few people who had a relationship with the kitchen in the painting are still alive. It makes me feel as if it would be a sin if I didn't buy it, as if I owe Charles and the painting something for knowing it's out there and disconnected from its context.
Or it's ok. My thoughts are just facts, and what Charles meant by painting this setting may have been something else entirely.
Probably gonna let it go.
I have been in that room and know the view. It's a small corner adjacent to the modest kitchen in the house where I used to pose for artists some mornings. It fascinates me that Charles would paint such a grand-sized and dreamy painting of such an austere space. I remember coming in for a gig one day, and in that kitchen he was serving a pork chop to another man, in his bathrobe. I remember the pork chop, a cast iron pan and a striped terry robe.
Houses of that era just post earthquake often had a steep wooden staircase to the downstairs, with a galvanized pipe serving as the handrail. I remember the sweet smell of raw wood rising from the painting studio as I went downstairs, and the striped curtain on a thin cotton rope offering a bit of modesty as I changed into my own robe in the closet. A bare bulb with a beaded nickel pull chain hung overhead in that tiny space.
Few people who had a relationship with the kitchen in the painting are still alive. It makes me feel as if it would be a sin if I didn't buy it, as if I owe Charles and the painting something for knowing it's out there and disconnected from its context.
Or it's ok. My thoughts are just facts, and what Charles meant by painting this setting may have been something else entirely.
Probably gonna let it go.
September 6, 2025
The Last Potato Pancake
At one point while I was driving around on Saturday, I got a text from my ex-boss that she was having a really really final day at the restaurant and a final toast. I rsvped yes. Then I got a text from the former GM asking if I was going and whether I'd see if I could rally the ladies. None of them were available, but then a plan formed where a bunch of us who worked together circa 1990-1993 would share a final meal.
But first I had an afternoon date with my girlfriend and neighbor at the wine and dog bar. Very fun to catch up and drink wine and pet dogs.
Sunday was delightful, with a walk with a different girlfriend. It was good to get out in nature-ish. She showed me a beach where we could swim if we have another heat wave. Then I had a bit of a rest and went out to the final meal. It was fun and loud and tasty. The GM and I share a name and he'd brought his daughter and a son who also shares his/our name. It's been so long since I'd been in a room with so many people with our name. Someone would say the name and three of us would turn our heads. Reminded me of Friday nights where there were three of us. I had to change my waitress name on my tickets (usually a letter) because GM had claimed that letter.
Anyhoo, I had my final potato cheese pancake with a side salad. Eaten with my hands, rolled up together in bites. It was a perfect potato cheese pancake. Not because it was the final one, and in fact I had a kinda sub-par one a month ago. It is just that it was perfect.
I took the GM and his kids to public transit. So he heard my latest podcast listen -- a history of women in hip hop. He knows how little I know about the subject and cracked up that I was a) interested b) listening to something so academic about music. I'm back in my own lane now, by the way, listening to the story of people who collect eiderdown from duck nests on an island in Norway.
On Monday, after a walk with my tiny but mighty friend, I had a thought. A good one, not like most of my thoughts. It's been weighing on me that I want to get rid of my 19 typewriters, but didn't know how. Some are enormous and not in good shape. In a flash of brilliance I remembered the reuse / recycle place that's near work.
This is what a dozen-ish typewriters look like in Tiger Brown. And on a cart. I feel accomplished!
While I was cleaning the garage I was inspired to find a home for my clown painting. I put it on the free table, making a lady at work very happy.
And just a few more pictures from the week. Mrguy sent me this photo of boy kitten relaxing on a pillow near his Clayton Bailey jug, enjoying his window.
Also there was a shipwreck at the ob/gyn.
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