Robert (gurdonark) wrote,

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The Next to Last Trumps

"Oh ain't there some kind of answer?
Yeah, but no question was posed"
--Steve Wynn, "Tell Me When It's Over"

Last night insomnia set in, unrelieved even by staunch Maeve Binchy reading. Then I got carried away playing with the sound of my two electric football fields. Later than I had hoped this morning, I grabbed several CDs and headed to the office a few moments behind. I listened to Chicago's Live in Japan, and thought about what it must be like to go from cutting-edge "jazz rock" to being played on stations with names like The Wave or the Seashell; I listened to Marshall Crenshaw's CD, and wondered again how a man could write something as wonderful as "Someday, Someway" and still not be in the pantheon of pop greats. Then I lost myself in several listens of the first Buggles album, and the refrain from "Living in the Plastic Age" resonated for me inexplicably when it talked about how the Thought Police would put me under "cardiac arrest", which is puzzling, because I really dislike Thought Police thinking except in fun, but really like the melody.

My law partner, our friend and fellow attorney, and I went to the nice Austrian cafe in our business locale of Garland (a.k.a. the "Arlen" in the TV show King of the Hill). We all had Hungarian goulash, but I longed for the bratwurst plate instead.
I hate being overfed and discontented about nothing.

On my way home, I tried to stop by to drop off a package to send to a postcardxer, but I missed the postal closing time by five minutes, and the package is bound overseas and requires the post office to be open (or me to understand the system better).
Then I drove home while the AM country radio station played "Delta Dawn" for the third time this week, and I thought to myself that
being 41 and still called "Baby" *is* a bit odd, but I remembered my friend who in personal settings is "Missy", and that's cool, because she prefers it. I wonder if the woman in the song went to the mansion in the sky, but I don't remember the conclusion.
Tanya Tucker is a metaphor for something, but I don't know what.

I passed two LDS missionaries biking the sidewalk, resplendent in their black slacks, white shirts, dark ties, and bicycle helmets.
They turned into a parking lot just before the lot marked "Freedom Plaza" and skirted right by the "Special Achievement Center".
I think the Book of Mormon is fascinating reading, but I do not much care for the storyboard presentation format of the missionaries. I'd much rather have either structured exegesis, or felt characters. I found as a child that Bible school in fundamentalist churches was often preferable, because felt for literal stories needs to look real.

I must unearth some of my books from the garage. Some need to be sold off, some shelved, and some given away. I am a book-hoarder, but enough is enough. I still haven't decided what to do with my one "precious" book--an autographed first edition of Fischer's 60 Memorable Games of Chess. Mr. Fischer's personal problems and anti-semitic and anti-US statements in recent years disquiet me.
At least nobody ever has to write a book or poem about chess, because the film "Searching for Bobby Fischer" pretty much hit the nail on the head. Perhaps I'll donate the book to the Cleveland Library Chess collection, or ebay it off, or try to put it in a conventional auction. What would I do with the proceeds, though?
I have enough things. I wonder if I still have that 100 dollar store credit when my wife turned in all those books to the cool used book place in Mesquite a decade ago. Maybe I could get MORE books with that.....

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