Friday, September 4, 2015

"I even like the cork!"

Well September is here.  The ninth month with the seventh name.  Now if we make it to October, yours truly will be mighty pleased and we can wax philosophique.  "I use to own a wax philosophique, but burning it at both ends, I was forced to taper off."

Hermits & Virgins, praise be to an Autumnal Shift.  "My first car had an Autumnal Shift.  So did my second and third."  I'm sorry, where was I?

It's this blasted heat, damn it.  What a trying Summer.  "I was trying Summer, but she left the encampment before I, ah...Well, if any of you see Angela,, would you...?"  ZZZZZZZZ!  (*sounds of siesta, East India Company style*)

The humidity this year has displaced my antenna.  I seem to be tuned in to scenes from White Mischief.  But not quite.  The lethargy inflicted by Barometric Frankenstein prevented me from buying a complete white linen suit.  Like something you would see in a Mr. Moto or Charlie Chan film.  Came close.  Fortunately or unfortunately, my energies to complete the task failed me.  And where would I find a white Panama hat.  Certainly not at Ross.  The wife rolled her eyes in horror when the purchase seemed in the realm of true possibility.  True, how do you keep the damn things clean?  I mean, riding on the train?  More than likely, one could never make it to Oxnard without having the Shroud of Turin appearing on one's buttocks.

Still, the image intrigues.  Half out of an Agatha Christie TV movie, with walking stick for added emphasis.  At this age, I must embrace the George Zucco, the Lionel Atwell.  David Suchet meets Tom Stoppard without (hopefully) looking like an assified Tom Woolfe.  Time to become the Humbert Humbert version of Tennessee Williams, without the ciggies and eye shadow.

Shopping helps.  America's Amnesia.  Stocking up the wine racks with purchases from BevGarland.  The only wine, spirits and beverage chain named after the actress from IT CONQUERED THE WORLD and THE ALLIGATOR PEOPLE.  Formerly, BevShemp, named after the Fourth Stooge.  Anyway, the chain, chain, chain, store appeases my quiet alcoholism, as well as the fetish for odd soda drinks.  After that, it's next door to Trader Horny's.

West India Company, indeed!  Trader Horny's satisfies the true Colonial desire in food shopping frenzy.  Where else can one buy an infinite variety of questionable food products from exotic food locales as Calcutta to Compton?  Henry Miller's After the Falafel Wraps or The Rise and Fall of the Romaine Lettuce.  Boba Fetta cheese.  Brad Pitted olives.  Unpredictable produce from Peru or Pacoima.  It's an Epicurean Adventure.  As exciting as an overpaid dentist's trophy hunting safari.  And as close as we urban explorers will get to travelling the Silk Road, arguing in the markets of Morocco, trading black tea for opium and vice versa, watching animals run over by pushcarts in Bombay, or swapping Western electronics for underage sex in Bangkok.  And with the ease and comfort of our shopping cart, the SUV parked just past the speed bumps.  Ecstasy!
Well, the capriciousness of my Virgo month becomes apparent.  And the humidity is now in shifts, rather than full time.  This is good.  Better, not yet best.  I can come down the stairs with more regularity and less Audrey Hepburn in that movie with Alan Arkin (I was in a movie with Alan Arkin, but that's another story.  "The House of the Seven Gables" by Nathaniel Hawthorne... Well, that's another story too).  And I'm not a constant Inspector Morose.
Still attracted to that white linen suit.  If I can't pretend to be Peter Lorre in Cairo because the weather will change, maybe I could be Alec Guinness on an Ealing Studios soundstage.