Monday, January 20, 2020

Return from Tahoe


We made it up to the snowy mountains and then back again. Going down steep hills should be easier, if it wasn't for all the ice.

The boy broke out with pink-eye and then vomited at the threshold of the men's bathroom at the restaurant where we were having dinner, leaving an acidic and stinky puddle that most men just walked back and forth through as I tried to comfort the youth and get his face and mouth washed. One gentleman kindly asked if he could help. He let the restaurant staff know to draw straws soon, because someone was about to clean up the vile, child wretchedness... None of this tainted our weekend enough to obscure the fun we had. See Raquel's face above. 

A face can always be many things to any person who sees it, but that one is happy for me. I told her she looks like a

Well, I should not relay here the private flattery that I shower her with. The words do not seem as flattering when not being whispered only to her, when no one else can hear. But that is what I like to tell her, and what she seems to believe. It's good to have whispered secrets with one that doesn't need to strictly believe them any more. 

I have started this post poorly. The boy getting sick happened last night. We came home today. Everyone should know by now that I am attracted to the woman I love, sometimes even in orthodox ways. We call it the "Missionary Piston," when we're feeling artless and thrusty.  

We had considered skiing today also, but after two full days of the snowy stuff and then the public vomiting, we opted to drive home. Family vacations are strenuous. So many things can go wrong, there is so much time and effort and expense put into making it all work. Mom and I both agreed that we sort of lucked out. The boy getting sick sooner would have meant more severe limitations on what we could and could not do.

Tahoe is expensive, don't go often unless you really just love throwing cash money into an avalanche that never happens. That's what we have been doing. If we ever go to Yellowstone I am going to fly a drone into the asshole of Old Faithful, because I am nothing if not newsworthy. Our trips skiing and snowboarding could have easily paid for a family trip to Japan by now, but what the fuck... the boy can snowboard, and so can dad.

So, that's what parents do: spend all their money trying to create good memories. 


(Undercover Agent - R-Q6)

The boy, of course, loves all the snowboarding gear. The goggles were a gift from Colorado ski friends, for his birthday. The helmet-mounted camera was a gift from mom and dad for Christmas.

Is he "spoiled"...?
Perhaps a bit.
Fuck you. 
You try to have a kid. 

I grew up begging my mom to buy me very specific things, - model numbers included - she would buy me the cheapest knock-offs of those things. They were not the same. It was the Sony Walkman that broke my tender heart one Christmas morning. I remember the moment of my disappointment and shame. Looking back on it I can remember the moment of tearing open the wrapping paper, as if I had been involved in a crippling accident, I could see back to the moment of impact but could not ever change the moment, no matter how much thought I applied. 

I never remember being hungry or cold. Don't shed a tear for me, yet.

I have decided that I want to make more money. I have never bothered focusing on that, at all, though I did spend my first adult decade having mostly tax-free money pour into my pockets from both sides - drugs and music.

Like Jimmy said, I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away more and more slowly over time as my kidneys aged and I couldn't always get the flow started. I trickled it away so fast. 

CS says that he will soon take a 40% cut in income. I know that this will greatly anger me when I see him next, and I will not spare him my wrath. He will show discomfited concern about lavishly spending money on me the way that he should and I will not like that at all. He has recently lost his romantic partner. You would think that something like that should help my cause, but it won't. He has been a very poor father figure but I've never seen him eat cat food for dinner. I know he can afford to purchase me some pleasure, and pay to watch.

He worries about money as if he had lived my life rather than his own. 

I don't worry about money, I worry about living too long. How would I explain my poverty and my longevity. I only built stories for one or the other.

What a mess.

"You're on Earth. There's no cure for that." - Samuel Beckett

Um, Sammy...
Yes, there is.

I call this DWI-Art. When you are driving after drinking in the snow at dusk and you have a new point-and-shoot and the people who are screaming or whining at you in the car are also boring you witless with their fears and you wish that they would all just shut up for once and let you do your art because it might live on past their little selfish moment of terror.