1240

I need to clarify what I wrote in the last Tale. Given the assembled company, that Thursday luncheon was hardly an "ordinary social occasion", much more an "extraordinary" one. But what I meant was, the Sleeptalker needs more experience of sitting in a restaurant with intelligent people having conversation. At his age, I was doing that three or four times a week in London.

The morning of the Summer Solstice was marked by the final meeting with my French Reader before she undertook the long journey back to Paris. It has been most welcome to have someone sympathetic to hear me talk about the Sleeptalker ("he's a lovely young man," she wrote, after meeting him). Heaven knows, of course, I spend enough time talking about him in these Tales. The aftermath of that day with him is somewhat depressing. I know he'll have to wait until his guilt subsides, and until what he probably imagines as me being angry has weakened, before appearing again. The guilt, I am sure, is there (and should be) but there was certainly no anger on my part. I just feel sorry for him and saddened by what seems to be his increasing addiction to that wretched drug. And I wish he had been honest and asked me, please, to fill the pipe for him. I am sure I would have said yes, especially given the birthday. But on the other hand, it's probably foolish of me to fill it for him, or for us, no matter what the season or excuse.

I was walking toward the discount tobacco shop on Sunday when Rocky came along on a bicycle, the first time I've seen him in weeks. He gave me a big grin as he whizzed past, looking very good. So now the main missing person is Angelo (if he's in jail, it's not for anything serious enough to make the felony database). Joe Guam is not missing, at least not yet. He's still in the beach park. I wonder if he has weakened in his resolve to return to Guam.

My memory seems to be failing more and more rapidly. (I wish my sense of smell would do likewise.) My French Reader gave me a book written by a young Englishman novelizing his experience of working in Paris, so recently that Bush/Blair's Iraq war played a role. It was amusing but would have been moreso had he not tried so hard to be clever. I can't remember his name. She gave me another book and I wouldn't have remembered the author's name either, but made a note of it: Mikhail Bulgakov, a Russian author who died in 1940. The Master and Margarita. Extraordinary novel, much reminded me of Hesse's Steppenwolf.

After all those Bloody Mary's and Long Island Iced Teas my French Reader kindly provided, beer is rather boring. I wonder if I could get a job as a bartender?

1241

"It's always something."

I don't know if Gilda Radnor has a tombstone or not but if she does, those immortal words from her Roseanne Rosannadanna should be carved on it.

These clip-on-ear headphones cope with life in a bag better than the headband type but my four-or-five month old set finally perished. Well, at least the left ear one did, evidently wiring stressed to the breaking point. I might have just listened with one ear for a few weeks except for the Saturday broadcast of "The Pearlfishers". Instead, I bought a replacement. Not a welcome addition to a cycle which has already included the mailbox fee and the Sleeptalker birthday extravagance. I think those Cats of the Secluded Grove will be enduring some wretched human food before July's Third Wednesday arrives, especially since, once again, it is as late as it can be, and I'll probably be rolling my own cigarettes for awhile.

Live and not learn, that's my motto, just after it's always something.

1242

It's odd that a composer whose music I don't much like nevertheless composed my favorite musical moments. Not even Callas could persuade me to admire "Carmen", but "Au fond du temple saint" from Bizet's "Pearlfishers" will forever be Number One on my personal jukebox. If Someone-Up-There told me I could only listen to one recording for the rest of my days, I'd ask for the Bjoerling-Merrill version, please. The performers on the Saturday broadcast didn't come close, but even so, I took myself to the most secluded place I know on campus to listen to it, knowing I'd be a silly old man with tears rolling down his cheeks. But then, I've cried buckets of tears over that music.

When I was in the Army, late seventeens, I met a young man named Charles Floyd in a gay bar in Columbus, Georgia. A couple of years later, I met him again in Atlanta. His long-time lover was Cornelius Bonner, better known as Corky. Oh, my, I did fall for that one in a very big way. And the florist, Buddy Jones, who so kindly introduced me to Judy Garland, sat back and watched the drama unfold. Until, finally, one evening when I had been sobbing, yet again, over "Au fond du temple saint", Buddy slapped me hard against the head and broke my eardrum. And then kindly took me to the hospital to have it repaired.

Apologies to those who have written emails which I haven't responded to individually. I thought I'd wait and get the consensus and then write about it here. There was one dissenter, who wrote "he's a lovely young man", but most of the mails were on the subject "he's just using you" which I have been hearing for years.

Well, of course he is using me! To do otherwise would be stupid, and the Sleeptalker is definitely not stupid. Yes, as one reader pointed out, he knows your payday is Third Wednesday, so he showed up the Thursday afterwards, knowing you'd be happy to see him after his absence and knowing he'd have the birthday as extra leverage.

Well, of course.

I'm almost insulted that you think I could be so unaware, although I am grateful for your concern for my welfare.

Don't worry about it. I told him, earlier in the day, "everything I have is yours", and I meant it, even if he didn't understand the musical reference. As I told my French Reader, communication with the Sleeptalker is so hindered by the age/cultural gap. If I say to him, "you're no angel", he doesn't think of Mae West. Even with my French Reader, despite the language problems and the differences in our culture while children, there are more common cultural intersections than I have with the Sleeptalker.

Nonetheless, I love the man. Je ne regrette rien.

1243

According to the Sleeptalker, talking in the game, he stopped on the way to where we were to meet that Thursday and lit up the pipe, no doubt hoping to have a good portion of the goodies to himself. He got caught in the act, was forced to break the pipe and was arrested, has an upcoming date in court which may even result in 60-90 days in the county jail. I would have thought a first drug offense would merit community service or enforced attendance at some rehab program, but maybe not ... I don't actually know the drug laws in this State.

My first thought was "serves you right for being so greedy" but didn't say it. And don't really mean it. Poor fellow.

Poor me, too, if I have to go without seeing him for three months.

So much for the month of June. July gets off to a rather grim start with the three-day holiday weekend which will mean limited on-line time Saturday, none on Sunday and Monday. The Pollyanna side of the view is that it means having the secluded grove mostly to myself for those three days. Well, shared with six cats, of course. Those little ones are so sassy, have no hesitation in slapping their elder siblings for trying to nudge in on the food. One of them even slaps Mama. I'm amazed she doesn't slap it back, since she still does it to Thimble for meowing while I'm opening the cans.

It also means I'll definitely have to find a different Sunday evening spot to sit and read since the rainy day bench area at the mall will be awash in thousands of people for the pre-fireworks concert.

Oh well, I bitch if things are too routine and then I bitch if the routine gets disturbed. It's always something.

1243a

The Sleeptalker's story is, alas, true. (I may not have been the only one to have some doubts.) He arrived at the mall late afternoon on Wednesday, showed me his too-familiar papers. Court on the afternoon of August 16th. I shall have to go, see what happens, because if he does go to prison I shall have to send him money to make life in there a little more comfortable. Fifty dollars in prison is like five hundred outside.

If I had a bank account with a few thousand dollars in it, I would whisk him away to the mainland, even to foreign climes.

I do so hate this country's drug laws.

1244

Ringolevio by Emmett Grogan is the best book I have read about the Sixties, no contest. I'm only surprised it has taken me so long to discover it.

And then there were four ... Someone has apparently abducted two of the kittens. This often happens on campus when a student grabs a kitten, keeps it until it's beyond being a kitten or until the school term ends, then dumps it back on campus. I'm sad they took my favorite but hope it has a happy life, however temporarily.

A new law came into effect on July first, although neither local newspaper reports it. But according to a radio report I heard, the new law provides compulsory "re-hab" programs for first time, non-violent drug offenders. I hope this will benefit the Sleeptalker.

I seem to collect "old couples". The Very Old Couple has been back on campus. They must be in their nineties. He is so bent over that it's amazing he can still push her wheelchair, equally amazing they can manage the journey from the Marco Polo condo where I know they live to the UH-Manoa campus. Another one of my old couples walks their little white dog through the Secluded Grove every weekend morning. She ignores me, as does the dog, but the man always waves to me. They are fascinated by the cats, and the cats are fascinated by their dog. So we all look at each other. Another old couple, local Japanese, walk by the Rainy Day Bench at the mall every evening. He ignores me, she always says a few words in greeting, sometimes gives me little candies.

Someone offered me a bag of food at the mall on Friday morning so I must be looking destitute again.

1245

As I wrote on HawaiiThreads, about Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11:

I admire his good taste and style for leaving the screen black during the actual attack on the World Trade Center.

I admire his most convincing portrayal of Bush2 by just letting us watch that dreadful man, the worst president of my lifetime, before things went "live". A new visual definition of "shifty-eyed".

I thought he overdid the grieving mother and the stunt asking Congressmen if their children would enlist in the military.

All in all, as I told Helen after we'd seen the film, Moore was "preaching to the converted" in my case. But it was a mostly brilliant sermon.

Seeing Moore's film was the highlight of the three-day holiday, our annual patriotic orgy, in celebration of that wondrous man who wrote "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness". The present government is doing its best to deny us the latter two of that phrase, but nevertheless we set off fireworks, had picnics, and pretended all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.

Well, some of us did. Naughty Arianna Huffington, at the "Take America Back" conference, reminded us she was born in Greece, said something like "we gave you democracy and you've screwed it up." ["naughty" is just teasing, I couldn't agree more}

One more attractive aspect of the patriotic orgy was the chance to hear lots of American music on the radio. I am very, very sure Virgil T. would not be annoyed with me when I say Stephen Foster is my favorite American composer, and I was delighted to hear his music. I was annoyed by a "jazz arrangement" of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" (and I think the NPR announcer was not much pleased either, considering what he said after it had painfully played). But then Gershwin really got me later when they played that wonderful song with the line "to my heart you carry the key".

And I read an extraordinary novel, Galilee by Clive Barker.

1246

I failed to mention in the last Tale that the missing kittens returned, after a two-day absence. Puzzling, what might have happened in those two days. The Cat Lady stopped to chat the next morning, annoyed that she still hasn't yet seen the little ones, and giving me a (non-progress) report on her crusade to get an "official policy" about campus cats. The powers are, of course, giving her the run-around, "talk to the Chancellor", even "talk to the Governor". We shared some chuckles over the absurd stance of Governor Lingle in proclaiming her innocence in the dismissal of ex-President Dobelle. (Amazing how American politicians think they can blatantly lie and be believed, but I guess it does work sometimes or else Bush2 wouldn't have in excess of a hundred million dollars in his campaign-fund chest.)

Two novels I've recently read, I note, I called "extraordinary". Well, they were. I might have to use the term again for William Styron's Sophie's Choice, the current book-in-bag which I have somehow managed to miss all these years. The Fates in charge of cheap-book-shelves have had a fondness for Thomas Hardy this summer, and I went along with it, re-read Return of the Native. Pardon the language, but Hardy's characters are such fucked-up people. I am so far resisting the bait of Jude the Obscure.

Lasser's wonderful show this week included the classic Crosby recording of "Brother, can you spare a dime?". I did spare one, to read, yet again, Kipling's Kim, last mentioned in Tale 1159 which is certain proof of how often I enjoy re-reading that book.

1247

Time for my annual lecture to myself. It came very close to failing this time. "Albert, you are going to spend about 15-20 minutes being subservient, tugging your forelock (even if there isn't much of one), and acting very humble. Never mind you also have to fill out pages and pages of an idiotic government form, printing your name at least a dozen times. That will mean $66 a month in food for the next year. Okay, cold food, some that even cats will eat. Plus limited medical insurance."

I managed to convince myself, made it worse this time by deliberately not checking the mailbox until the 8th of July. An attempt to make the Fabled Pension Check last a little longer in this worst-of-all-possible x equals time. Oh woe! My interview with the Fabled Social Worker had been scheduled for June 30th. So I had to listen to a lecture about how I should check my mailbox more often. "It's the only way we have to get in touch with you," she said. (I didn't mention that space on their voluminous forms where it asked for my email address.)

But okay, I have foodstamps for another year.

Murder in the Secluded Grove, yet again. This time, Lady Grey, who killed one of the little zebra doves right beside the bench I was sitting on, then went rushing up the wall with the corpse in her mouth, Andrew gleefully chasing after her.

I was so annoyed I considered abandoning the whole family, eradicating the Secluded Grove from my life.

I won't be using "extraordinary" for Sophie's Choice. Styron is a direct descendant, speaking in literary terms, of Hardy.

the tales