Friday, October 16, 2009

Winter, spring, summer, or falling....

I hate James Taylor. I always have. Unfortunately, everyone in the Berkshires loves him because he spent some time here when he was a total heroin addict and needed to dry out. So, he checked himself into a really expensive rehab joint and "found god" in this sodden piece of landlocked hell. Coure, he thinks it's beautiful here because of his revelation.
Apparently, James Taylor never split wood in the pouring rain on Labor Day Weekend. Nor did he freeze his balls off in mid-November when the gas guy refused to make a delivery the day after Thanksgiving, even though you pleaded with him that your 8-month-old daughter was forced to drink cold formula for two days.
"Sorry, ma'am, C.O.D. only."
Yeah, I bet James Taylor would have some pretty nice ballads to sing about that shit. So, it pays to be a rich junkie. Clearly being sober and poor pales in comparison, but god knows I could write better songs. With my fingerless mittens.
The seasons are changing. Rapidly. It was 60 degrees last week. This morning, I took a digger right outside my front steps. The leaves were slick with SNOW and I was vain enough to wear my cowboy boots because my snowboots are so uncool and clunky. I pay for fashion and beauty.
And for what? I've learned not to wait for some cute puppy to start sniffing at the post, if you know what I mean.
The boots are for me. I fall in them, but I pick myself up and laugh at my own vanity. But they still look good on my feet, even though my ass is covered with wet leaves and my pride is injured to almost behind recognition.
So, James Taylor, have fun with your protected seasons and your blah songs about driving around and shallow friendships. I have my own recovering to do, and no high charging shrink to guide me through.
For dinner, which I know have to mention more out of habit than it actually "going" with the tone of the blog, I had squash soup and a salad and a warming, giggly glass of Malbec. The meal was amazing probably because I was awash in the almost sexual afterglow of a poetry reading. Yes, I am that much of a nerd.

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