The Storefront That Was Sometimes a Porn Shop and Sometimes the International Driving School

[mallorys_camera]

Dreamed that my dear pal Ed L___ – whom I lost touch with a decade or so ago – had married predatory Facebook gazillionaire Chris Hughes. Hughes had just bought the old apartment building in Oakland that I used to live in as a UCB undergraduate, the one with the storefront that was sometimes a porn shop and sometimes the International Driving School. In my dream, the place was more of a souk than a building with all sorts of strange and wondrous emporiums, magical creatures, and oddities, and Hughes proposed to evict us all.

I was Walking and Talking (Aaron Sorkin ™) with Ed, doing my very, very best to persuade him not to evict me. Denouncements and associated hijinx ensued, which vanished like dew drops in the first morning light the moment I opened my eyes. But in the very last scene, I was looking at a swimming pool – ostensibly at UCB – and thinking, My goodness that’s a really small swimming pool. You couldn’t really do laps in that!

And then I awoke.

Classic Jungian subtext, no? Facebook and similar social media banalities taking over my creative imagination.

There’s a Max subtext, too. Chris Hughes’ real life husband, Sean Eldrich, went to Deep Springs. Max knew him there.

Plus, Max has torn his meniscus yet again, which will require surgery yet again – why, oh why, did I ever let him talk me into letting him play on his high school football team? – and Max is one of those human beings who has to work out vigerously for an hour every day or he falls into the most debilitating depressions. His father is exactly the same way. So, I’ve been upset thinking of Max being immobilized. And then, I thought: Swimming. Perfect exercise for Max. And UCB has such a great pool.

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Once upon a time, I had some measure of control over my dreams – meaning that I could dream about whatever I wanted to dream about although I couldn’t necessarily control the action in what I wanted to dream about. There was a point, in fact, where I used to dream that I could see my slumbering body beneath me and that I could zip around spying on various people, which was all I ever wanted to do. Harriet the Spy is my role model in all things!

###

Ed L___ was my dear chum throughout the ICM-Breakpoint years. I doubt very much I would have survived them without him. I very much regret the severed bond. But he has such a common last name that it’s well nigh impossible to track him down. I do hope he’s well. His erotic appetites back then ran to rough trade and Algerian porn stars. I still worry for him.

Comments

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

Both D and Kidling1 have torn their meniscus-ii and after much research learned that those who opt for surgery have the same if worse recovery than those who opt out. It's worth looking into, imo.

But just like politics, folks rarely want to talk medical intervention. ;)

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

I'm not a fan of unnecessary surgeries but the appropriateness of the surgery depends very much upon where the tear is, actually, as some parts of the knee cartilage have a better blood supply than others. Without adequate blood supply, it could take years to recover from a a torn meniscus.

This will be Max's third knee operation. :-( Arthroscopy, so minor. Still.

When he tore it for the very first time -- as a teenager still living under my roof -- I absolutely refused to give the surgeon permission to take cartilage out. You can only stitch the tear, said Mommy.

Max makes his own medical decisions now, of course, but if the surgeon tries to talk him into that, I'll try to talk him out of it. Much faster recovery time but much more risk that he'll be walking on an artificial knee in 20 years time.

I think he needs to find a really effective physical therapy program. He's a jock; if he's gonna put stresses on that knee, he needs to build up auxiliary musculature.

[immemor.livejournal.com]

There’s a story in severed bonds, a story that perhaps only our two generations will understand. Or, more accurately, our generations will experience it like no others. To begin with, we have the story of a friendship lost in the fog of personal history, a friendship that – for one reason or another – cannot be resurrected via facebook. And yet, to counterpoint, it’s as if Zuckerburg is a Christ figure who has filled our lives with one disappointing Lazarus after another. At least that’s how I see it.

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

one disappointing Lazarus after another

SUCH a lovely phrase, I'm shivering with delight! And will probably steal it. :-)

Yeah, my youngest son, Mister Extrovert, is still Facebook "friends" with just about every kid he went to pre-school with. It boggles my mind!

[immemor.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Your accolades mean so much, especially during this blah time.

probably steal it Think of it more as being on permanent loan. Besides, I enjoy entertaining the fantasy that we will all one day become famous novelists who inspire hard-working graduate students of the future to stand up in the library and shout, “By George! They were all in cahoots!”

Your son and his friends are exactly what I mean. Do they know what it’s like to just lose someone slowly over time or multiple moves or where did I put that slip of paper with her name on it? But I also have uneasiness with the tactile way friendships must end now. Oh, this person again…. [right click]. It's the same physical action taken to control a predator drone.

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

You're very talented. Since you don't actually know me, you can picture the Universe using me as its ventriloquist dummy to deliver that message.

You and I have the same habit of going for giggles at times when it might better serve us to cut out the laugh track. That one's a really delicate balance.

It's the same physical action taken to control a predator drone.

Again! A really brilliant observation.

[immemor.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Now I’m completely motivated to work on that (hopefully final) draft.

For sure my stuff is joke heavy. I’m probably guiltier of that than most. The way I designed the book you read was for it to have rapid fire jokes for seven chapters and then no jokes in the last chapter. Since it was a book about nihilism, the idea was that the jokes were God or the mother’s presence. The last chapter would read differently since the thing that gave you comfort, i.e. God or the jokes, was now missing. I utterly failed at conveying nihilism, but I’m still pretty happy with how most of it turned out.