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Had a blast with C & A, instant feeling of kinship, four hour talk fest. We drank wine and gabbed in their Econo-lodgings for a couple of hours, thence to Doug’s Fish Fry in Courtland where we all three ordered the same meal and gabbed some more. Drove back down to Triphammer Road -- the GPS in C’s car pronounced it “Triff-hammer” -- hugged goodbye, I got in my car. Turned the ignition key, engine turned over and the fucking thing would not start.
Oh, dear.
Sigh…
A thought it might be the fuel pump and after spending the night reading up on the care and feeding of sick Vdubs, I think it probably is. Not a hard fix, if that indeed is what it is, though it comes at an extremely inconvenient time. But is there ever a good time for a car to break down?
What bothered me was my reaction to it. I came home and I couldn’t sleep. And I needed to sleep, and no earthly good could come of my not sleeping. Anxiety is such an odd, maladaptive behavioral mechanism.
Some time around 2 in the morning, I started reading Ryan O’Neal’s memoir of l’affaire grande de coeur with the fabulous Farrah. Farrah was the first celebrity I ever had a real crush on. I look now at those pix of her from the 1980s and she seems hard-edged, like a business-minded hooker, all big hair and big teeth and prognathian jawline. At the time, though, she struck me as the most luminous creature in the world, petite, blonde, and that bright, eager, hopeful smile.
Ryan and Farrah beat each other up routinely, but that does not mean they had a dysfunctional relationship! Got that? Good!
Also they took a lot of drugs.
They do sound like Craig and Janis, kind of, I thought before finally drifting off to sleep.
Oh, dear.
Sigh…
A thought it might be the fuel pump and after spending the night reading up on the care and feeding of sick Vdubs, I think it probably is. Not a hard fix, if that indeed is what it is, though it comes at an extremely inconvenient time. But is there ever a good time for a car to break down?
What bothered me was my reaction to it. I came home and I couldn’t sleep. And I needed to sleep, and no earthly good could come of my not sleeping. Anxiety is such an odd, maladaptive behavioral mechanism.
Some time around 2 in the morning, I started reading Ryan O’Neal’s memoir of l’affaire grande de coeur with the fabulous Farrah. Farrah was the first celebrity I ever had a real crush on. I look now at those pix of her from the 1980s and she seems hard-edged, like a business-minded hooker, all big hair and big teeth and prognathian jawline. At the time, though, she struck me as the most luminous creature in the world, petite, blonde, and that bright, eager, hopeful smile.
Ryan and Farrah beat each other up routinely, but that does not mean they had a dysfunctional relationship! Got that? Good!
Also they took a lot of drugs.
They do sound like Craig and Janis, kind of, I thought before finally drifting off to sleep.
