Ad from What’s My Line. We think "ahh, what kind of news could they have had in those carefree days of 1956, that they were so keen to take a break from the ways of the world?” Oh, the H-bomb was tested, Puerto Rican terrorists shot up the House of Representatives, coup of Guatemala, all that fodder for a Billy Joel sing-along lyric.
Went in to the office to check out our new seating assignments. As I noted before, I intended to be very petty about this, insisting on a window seat. I was also sure I will not get one. I’ve no idea why I think this way, except that it would fit the general theme of cumulative indignities. Right now I’m half-packed, with all the books and papers in boxes that could be burned for all I care. There is a minor amount of desk flair.
Yes, I have a Funco, but I am not a Funco collector.
I have a few pieces of plastic-pieces-ironed-into-a-particular-and-meaningful-shape Daughter made for me. Our dog, and a Mondrian. (Composition #2, reversed.)
There is an American flag. There is this fellow, who’s been looking out at the hallway since we got here:
I wonder what people think, if anything.
Aside from Daughter’s items and an inspirational quote on a repurposed vintage baggage tag, given to me on my birthday from my wife, referring alas to something I was going to do, but didn’t. And that was “theater.” There was a brief time when pressure from wife and daughter forced me to attempt to do something in theater, just give me new purpose and opportunity. I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to do it - if I do want to do something, I usually do. The idea of one performance is appealing. The idea of many performances is not. And I have a fear, to be frank, of losing my place. That horrible moment when self-awareness floods over everything and you’re yanked out of the moment and you’re stuck. You’ve gone up. It’s not that I think that would happen. It’s the crippling possibility of could that colors the whole thing.
Now, I did that show in Walbers before a packed house without any script, although I knew there was a script nearby, and I was utterly comfortable doing it all.
But, as I said, it was a single performance.
So I look at this bookmark and sigh and think maaaaybe it won’t make the trip to the new place. Agent Cooper will, though. But not Space Ghost. He just died.
UPDATE: packed and ready to move. End of an era. I've been here for most of my stay at the paper, and this was where I sat alone, day after day after day, in the COVID and post-COVID emptiness.
Walking an unruly dog. We came across an amusingly miniature man in a suit and hat, walking a commensurately smaller dog, and I was terrified the dog I was walking would eat them both. He didn’t, but he wanted to play, and the tiny man was annoyed at us for getting so close. I apologized but also thought dude, you’re a foot tall, you have to expect this.
