An Airplane Flew Over Leaving a Thick Trail of Smoke

I have always loved being on vacation but always hated going on vacation, the days leading up to it, the getting there. Currently sitting in the waiting area of BWI, I board a flight to Detroit in an hour and a half, I hate this, the waiting, the boarding, the assholes who refuse to put their luggage into baggage arguing with flight attendants who tell them they can't put all their shit in the overheads, the coughers who won't wear masks - why would anyone anytime get on a tube of recycling air without wearing a mask even if these weren't plague times? - the taking off, the flying, the sitting next to a woman with a screaming infant, the landing, the assholes who stand up the minute the plane gets to the gate as if they'll get off the plane sooner for standing, I'm like this right now:




That's half of two/thirds of the latest self-portrait, the torso, see the other half, the head, of the two/thirds here. I can't read in the airport, might as well type and give you the grid that's amassing. Should be in Chelsea by 2:15, should be on the Waterloo-Pinckney Trail with L by 2:30, will be having dinner with our daughter by 6:30, by which time I will love being on vacation. Not only was Glenn Branca born 78 years ago yesterday, his music is perfect for hating to go on vacation

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☟	Anticipatory being on vacation song						☟

THE WALK HOME

James Tate

I told the doctor I wouldn’t be seeing him again. “No, I guess

you won’t,” he said. I walked out the door feeling really good. Of

course I knew I was going to die, but still the day looked bright to

me. I walked down to the water. Ducks were circling around and about.

A sailboat sailed by. I walked along the shore. The sun beat down

on me. I felt as though I might live forever. I sat down on a bench

and watched the joggers pass. A pretty blonde walked by and I said,

“Hello.” She looked at me and said hello. A man with a greyhound

on a leash walked by. I got up and started to walk. A woodpecker

was pounding on a tree. An airplane flew over, leaving a thick trail of

smoke. I left the lake and walked on up the road. I crossed at the

streetlights and crossed the bridge. A car swerved to miss me. I

thought, that could have been it, the end right there, but I walked on,

bravely dodging the cars. When I got to the residential district, I

felt relieved. There were large elms and maples overhanging the street,

and people pushing baby carriages. Dogs ran loose everywhere. A man

stopped me and asked if I knew where 347 Walnut Street was. I said

I didn’t. He said, “Oh well, it didn’t matter anyway.” I said, “Why?”

He said it was a funeral notice. I walked on, bumping into a fat lady

with a load of groceries. I said I was sorry. She kept going, dropping

a load of grapefruit. Then, further on, there was a giant explosion across

the street. Police and firemen were there right away. It appears it

was a gas main beneath the shop. No one was there, luckily, but the

firetrucks had their hands full. I left before it was out. The shop

was pretty much destroyed. When I got home I was tired. I made

myself a cup of tea and sat down on the couch. I thought about calling

my mother, but she was in heaven. I called her anyway. “Mom, how are

you doing?” I said. “I’m bored. Don’t come here. There’s nothing to

do,” she said. “Aren’t there angels?” I said. “Yes, but they’re boring,”

she said. “But I was going to come see you,” I said. “Go to hell, it’s

more exciting,” she said. I had fallen asleep with my teacup in my

hand. When I awoke I realized I had thought it was a phone. My

mother would never be so sarcastic about heaven.

I got a call from the White House, from the President himself, asking me if I’d do him a personal favor. I like the President, so I said, “Sure, Mr. President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?” “Why, sure, Mr. President, you’ve got it. Normal, that’s how I’m going to act. I won’t let on, even if I’m tortured,” I said, immediately regretting that “tortured” bit

BIG NEWS! In the private democracy I live in I have been outvoted, per usual, 2 to 1, and Lucy and Babalu will be Fred and Ethel, the sillyass reason is unimportant (I didn't ask so don't know what it is, I eat the (wine I drink the bread) vote results and will honor the vote and not claim it rigged, nor crash a fucking unwatchable NBA game and then fall asleep as I'm booed). Too, turns out Ethel nee Lucy is NOT a Scottish Fold, a relief, actually, since I've read that Scottish Folds come with many unpleasant and debilitating for the cat health issues

Good news for me if not for you: I'm back on this drug, it helps me cope more than even tending this shitty blog

BIG NEWS! Two posts before this one post (the link above), when Fred and Ethel were still Lucy and Babalu, I mentioned Lambert Strether, a character in Henry James "The Ambassadors," and remembered digibud Lambert and later wondered whether he (both the alias and the person using the alias) still online, and yes, look here and then bookmark it and read daily! 

NEW OLD NEWS! I have done zero research into Graham Platner's history and character deliberately, I said to a question asked me yesterday by a chaired History professor renowned as a Liberal Sage with a specialty in New Deal history, though I noted that every professional (and amateur) Liberal and Corporate Democrat I would expect to campaign against a threat from the Left has united to fight Platner harder than they've ever fought Tronald Dump, so Platner can't be all *that* bad. He has a fucking Nazi tattoo, said chaired History professor, who lives one zip code east of mine and has the same congressman. You work on Jaime Raskin's campaigns, I said, he funds the Israeli genocide in Gaza and the Israeli ethnic cleansing of the West Bank and now southern Lebanon, you still voting for him? A Nazi tattoo is more disqualifying than funding genocide and ethnic cleansing and imperialist land theft? Chaired History professor informed me, That's different and fuck you





BIG NEWS! Fellowjeff's Noise & Syrup, my very favorite show of hundreds in the thirty years I've been listening for hours daily to WFMU, is on this Summer's schedule, the song above and below from the first show this morning!

For the record, if Platner is elected I fully expect him to fund the neverending Israeli genocide in Gaza and the Israeli ethnic cleansing in the West Bank and now southern Lebanon and to vote in general like all motherfucking Corporate Democrats, it's just illustrative that Corporate Democrats' Job One is to destroy even the most minor threat from the Left, I said to the other professor engaged in the conversation at the Circ Desk after Chaired History professor stormed out. Yup, second professor said
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Fellowjeff did a fill-in early past Saturday morning and played this favorite earworm of mine							☟

BOUNDEN DUTY

James Tate

               I got a call from the White House, from the

President himself, asking me if I’d do him a personal

favor. I like the President, so I said, “Sure, Mr.

President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act

like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would

mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?” “Why,

sure, Mr. President, you’ve got it. Normal, that’s

how I’m going to act. I won’t let on, even if I’m

tortured,” I said, immediately regretting that “tortured”

bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was

dying to tell someone that the President himself called

me, but I knew I couldn’t. The sudden pressure to

act normal was killing me. And what was going on

anyway. I didn’t know anything was going on. I

saw the President on TV yesterday. He was shaking

hands with a farmer. What if it wasn’t really a

farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly

I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on.

I looked “normal” to me, but maybe I looked more

like I was trying to be normal. That’s pretty

suspicious. I opened the door and looked around.

What was going on? There was a car parked in front

of my car that I had never seen before, a car that

was trying to look normal, but I wasn’t fooled.

If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise

people will think something’s going on. I got into

my car and sped down the road. I could feel those

little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush,

but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop

me. I ran into Kirsten in the store. “Hey, what’s

going on, Leon?” she said. She had a very nice smile.

I hated to lie to her. “Nothing’s going on. Just

getting milk for my cat,” I said. “I didn’t know

you had a cat,” she said. “I meant to say coffee.

You’re right, I don’t have a cat. Sometimes I

refer to my coffee as my cat. It’s just a private

joke. Sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?” she

asked. “Nothing’s going on, Kirsten. I promise

you. Everything is normal. The President shook

hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such

a big deal?” I said. “I saw that,” she said, “and

that man was definitely not a farmer.” “Yeah, I

know,” I said, feeling better.