It's A Slippery Slope

Last night, before the latest cold front rolled in, I was feeling rather tired but instead of lying down I hopped on my bike and did a quick 10 mile ride in the park. It worked wonders, got me completely out of funk city.
     I'm going to miss it when the days become short in the Fall and I won't be able to use this therapy. Walking doesn't do it. I'm sure there's some advantage but it's not stressful enough to get the heart pumping and the endorphins going.
     Yesterday I bought a new helmet and a pair of bike gloves. The old ones I hadn't replaced in years and they were getting pretty funky. The gloves stunk to high heaven and my old helmet looked like something a street person in Chicago would wear. Today I'll work out with weights in the gym for an hour and then do another ride tonight.
     Had a close call this morning I was backing out of my drive-way when I suddenly remembered I needed gas, which caused me to stop for a split second. Just then a car whizzed past going at least 40 miles an hour. If I hadn't stopped I'd probably be a dead man. Moments like that make you think and come up with old cliches like "I guess it wasn't my time."
     Speaking of death I'm currently reading "It's a Slippery Slope." by the late monologist Spalding Gray. I picked the book up two years ago because of the title before I ever heard of Gray. I had a little intrigue with one of my muses on her front porch one night and she warned me "We are approaching a slippery slope!"
So, when I saw the title on the remainder table at Hawley Cooke I bought it to give her. Luckily I didn't so, two years later I discover it's by Spalding Gray, who I just learned of after his suicide earlier this year. Gray's mother committed suicide in her early 50s and he seems to have a morbid wish to join her. Early in the book he quotes from Becker's "Denial of Death."
     "The irony of man's condition is that the deepest need is to be free of the anxiety of death and annihilation--but it is life itself that awakens this anxiety, and so we shrink from being fully alive."
     BIRDS DO IT, BEES DO IT, EVEN EDUCATED FLEAS TO DO IT. LET'S DO IT, LET'S BE ALIVE!
     Being fully alive is something you have to work on every day.
     I keep waking up about 3 a.m. every morning with mini-panic attacks. Not fully blown, I don't have to jump in the car and drive around town in the middle of the night like a maniac trying to out run my angst. I just turn the tv on and let its babble wash over me. I don't really watch it of course, too inane. But this morning I turned it on and there was Little Joe Cartwright with a full head of hair and Dean Martin on his old tv variety show. It was an advertisement for a DVD that featured Martin and his show from the 1960s. Later clips showed him with Ethel Merman, Frank Sinatra and all these other dead stars. They all looked so alive and healthy. Boy, if they'd only known what was waiting in the wings. luv, yardhog

Summer Musings

I'm starting to enjoy the benefits of 14 months of house renovation. Last night I was sitting at my new granite breakfast bar, when I realized the two rooms together have an altogether different acoustic balance. By sitting further away from the speakers you get the effect of being in an actual nightclub sitting at the bar facing the bandstand. The sensation is exquisite.
     At the same time I could look out into the yard and see at the birdfeeders - Get This - black-caped chickadees, tufted tit mice, cardinals, doves, robins, woodpeckers and an occassional hummingbird.  Plus squirrels and chipmunks feeding on the ground. A much better show than "Thunder Over Louisville."
     These are re-cyclable natural pets. They don't cost anything. You don't have to walk them in the morning, take them to the vet and if they die they're immediately replaced. COOL! D said it would be a good thing if husbands were like that.
     Pianist Pete Peterson is playing at the Jazz Factory downtown tonight and tomorrow. I was reading an article in New Orlean's "OffBeat" magazine yesterday that mentioned Pete. The piano player being profiled, a fellow named Hood, I forgot his first name, said the only piano lesson he had ever taken was from a guy named Pete Petterson at Mom's Music in Louisville.

Prison All The Time

ADDENDUM:

     I've always thought that working for state government and the prison system had a lot of similarities. Like every morning I have to unlock three large doors to gain access to my office. And there are always several prisoners from the state rehabilitation center working on the grounds in their distinctive brown prison garb.
     Today I had a further confirmation. I was driving through the guard shack at the base. Each time I pass through there I have to show my picture I.D. to a female soldier dressed in camouflage, despite the fact I drive the only blue sports car in the agency, wear three ear rings and always wear a loud Hawaiian shirt. Today when I was asked for my i.d. I gave her the one I use at the prison that has a photo of the Kentucky State Reformatory prison tower coming out of the back of my head. "JCC Professor" it says officially. Although the prison secretary that made it for me three years ago wasn't really concerned. "What do you want on your I.D. Sir? "Oh, JCC Clown," I might have told her. Anyway, when I showed the guard my card she smiled broadly and said " How about that, I'm a security guard at Luther Luckett Prison. Been there nine years. It's a small world."  I thought I recognized that lady!

Destiny

The other day I was having lunch at my favorite, next door Mexican eatery and I couldn't help but notice that everyone in the room must have been over 70. The fellow sitting with his aged wife across from me had something wrong with his throat (probably from smoking) and everytime he spoke he would emit a low gurgle. One lady sitting with her friends at a table was so bent that her face was practically  lying in her plate. I felt like I was in a nursing home. What bothered me most though, was the fact that this was all rather up-setting to me, almost ruined my meal.

Blogging Along

Long time no blog... Too many distractions, mainly preparation for last night's open house, which was a resounding success. Among the exalted guests were singers Gayle Wynters, Vickie True, poets Bill Smith, Ron Whitehead and Elizabeth, photographer John Hill and pianist Pete Peterson. Not bad considering it was really D's soiree, celebrating the completion of a project that she fully orchestrated and paid for. (My own "Mid-Summer's Night Dream will be coming up in a couple of weeks.) It's been a trying 14 months. What I really enjoyed last night were the reactions of everyone as they took in all the photos, paintings, books, music, sculptures, etc, etc. As I said last night, you can not look in any direction in any room of the house that there isn't a story. But where oh, where was the Guru of Bardstown Road. Missing in action?