A Fantastic Sunday

Lots going on in the background, but I can't complain when I'm listening to slinky bossa nova style Japanese music with mrguy and looking outside at the city far away. The clouds above it make it resemble the Cascades. 

Check out Chiaki Naomi, people! Super relaxing.

Prior to that we were picking out plane tickets for my solo trip to New York for Thanksgiving. Mrguy was invited but doesn't want to go, nor does any one of my friends. Whatever. I am going to NY to spend gobs of money and do one of my bucket list items. I feel untethered from finance because this is literally something I wanted to do before I die, a dream trip, so I am looking at tasting menus at expensive restaurants and all sorts of things that I would not necessarily want to do. But I'm pretty sure that the people who I am crewing with would not want to do those things, so I'm planning for togetherness on Thanksgiving Day and then fending for myself.

And prior to that, we spent a little time in the garage, doing triage. We loaded up several boxes of random stuff in Tiger Brown for me to take to Goodwill. I said goodbye to my dad's little chest that sat on the side of his favorite chair. It was a deep cherry color, and until it went to live at my mom's house, had zero flaws in its finish. The ring pulls on the upper drawer had a distinctive sound that I can't forget but can't quite describe. The upper drawer held all of the coasters you would need to keep everything in the living room pristine. One lower held sable brushes that I would use to dust the semi-precious stone flowers on the Chinese lacquer screens, and the other held our Christmas stockings through the year. You wonder how I came to be a historian? I can mentally walk through my entire childhood house and tell you what's in almost every drawer, because someone before me told its story.

Oh wow, the indignities that that chest endured in my mom's care in her final years. It sat next to her bed, so its finish was removed in various places by potions prescribed and spit into the air (children's Tylenol, for one), and her nightly water glass and juices. It's almost unimaginable that my mom's furniture would have a water ring on it. At one point she broke part of the chest. I glued it back together, an activity that I found completely satisfying. I polished it with diaper paste as a final tribute on Christmas 2022.

But yesterday? I rolled it to the curb at Goodwill and drove away before they could complain about my bringing them furniture, and I am free. Every one of these moments letting go and then actually jettisoning items carves out a bit more freedom. I memorialize them here, and then *poof* I don't have to feel bad about them.

Then I went to the car wash. Three color foam for nine bucks, as you know. A friend from school says she goes for the cheapest one color wash. I told her I file that nine bucks under "entertainment". The car wash seems so extravagant to me. More extravagant than going to New York.

Flaco and Me

There really is no Flaco and Me, but I thought it would sound good.

In the day, in the college town where I colleged, there was a bar called The Club. As I remember it, not as it was, it was on a corner, where the sidewalk ended and the dirt started. It was an old man bar -- dark wood, dry oak floors, two pool tables whose overhead scoring abacus (what else would you call it?) hung with dust. Around the rest of the room were booths, and a back alcove held a perpetual poker game that you could only get in on by invitation.

The Club served minors.

I really only went there a few times, because I didn't want to get busted, but the best times were on weekends. Not sure how, but a guy I knew from class invited me out for a beer one Saturday. As I recall he was from the Central Valley and was studying city planning. Wore a light blue pearl button shirt, which spoke volumes about where he stood, and what his roots were, despite what he was learning at college. He was intellectually provocative, shall we say.

Anyhoo, he hipped me to what I was missing that day as he bought tokens from the bartender and plugged them in the jukebox. That was the day I learned about Flaco Jimenez and the sound of accordion. Damn. In 1983 accordion was considered desperately uncool, but here was this tremendous music spitting at my notion of what it was. That was a great day.

After I moved away the next year, I went up to school a few times on a weekend and sat at the bar with the old guys. They put their dentures on the bar, drank short mixed drinks and watched baseball. I didn't want to interrupt, so I don't think I got to listen to Flaco again in the space where I became acquainted with him, but I never forgot the name.

A few years later, I was living over an Irish bar. I'd briefly played ukulele and sang harmonies in a band that played a combination of pop originals, 70's Americana covers and Texas border conjunto covers. My bandmates brought up Flaco's name again. Shortly after I was tossed out of said band (long story), Flaco came to town. Not only that, he was set to play at the cultural center that was next door to the building I lived in. Faaaantastic! The venue didn't have a backstage, so when Flaco needed to warm up he went into the walkway behind the building and did so. My apartment was on the first floor, so I quietly jimmied my window up a few inches and had a private concert. 

It was divine. Thank you, Flaco. The concert inside an hour or so later couldn't have been as good as these few moments I had you to myself.

Sweet Magnolias. Those Bitches!

We're watching whatever season this is of Sweet Magnolias. I have enjoyed this show even though it's a sweetly terrible throwback. We decided to return to it after a long absence. For some reason I care about these characters, but...

Those bitches!! Your best friend puts on a surprise Halloween wedding for herself and her man. You two get so bent out of shape that the day after your best friend's wedding, when she's up in the clouds with happiness and returns to her home, you sit on her porch, laying in wait, and then drag her for two pages of dialogue about how you two didn't get to participate in the planning of the wedding.

Well, characters on a show based on a book that could have been better, you probably participated in and were happy about the first wedding to that guy Bill, who they killed off at the end of this episode so that we can all come together in sadness. I will not be sorry to see Will Wheaton's (correction: Chris Klein's) squinty face struggling through the terrible dialogue he's given.

Mrguy says he smells another death. This show loves a death.

My prediction: Dana Sue's hot husband whatsisface is next. He tripped while helping Coach Cal move into his new wife's house. Bet he has ALS, which is just the kid of lingering disease they give a man on these shows.

Can I still label this "television"? I'm too old to know. "Content"?

Whatever

First Anniversary-ish

Today's my parents' anniversary. The first one with both of them deceased. In honor of the occasion, one of my sisters sent us all a classic photo of the two of them.

It is one of the nicest photos of the two of them. I kept it on a table in the kitchen for many years.

When Mom had to stay with us for a few weeks during the pandemic, we would walk out of the kitchen and past the photo at bedtime. She would pull over, and pause to turn it face down.

Every 

Single

Day.

And that's what I see when I look at this photo. 

I also see heads. My parents had heads.