Hey it’s September 11th and I for one am glad I’m not working for Bratty McGrotty and they’re 9/11 plans in Tribeca.
Yeah things are pretty rotten. The fruit stand has some rotten fruit in it. I have worked with people and explained my situation and all of a sudden 13 other people get involved because you can’t have too many cooks in the kitchen.
Tomorrow is my birthday and I have taken off from work. And I’m trying not to be like my father but I find myself getting the shirt end of the stick. In June I took Mike to see his first Broadway play Chicago a week later I replaced Bill’s Apple watch
With a new Apple watch that I was able to get at a tremendous discount since I have connections at the fruit stand and for me it doesn’t seem like I’m getting anything in return which is fine I’m going to be 63 years old and I should get over the fact that I’m not getting presents. Yet I was outstanding in the gifts that I have given.
Since Bill hadn’t been working steadily through July and August there is not a steady paycheck coming in although he did get paid for the play and was barely enough. Now a lot of things could be forgiven if it was a good play, but it was not a good play.
So Bill is beating himself up over his lack of funds. Perhaps he didn’t plan enough ahead to get something done. I was hoping to get out of town by renting a car and going to sit on the beach for the day but that cost too much money and I was willing to pay for the whole thing myself to treat myself.
I’m greatly disappointed and my disappointment borders on depression and depression is a way that I did not want to spend my birthday. But here I am. I should. Might as well come into work cuz I ain’t doing nothing at home and I ain’t going anywhere.
So Charlie Kirk was shot in the neck during one of his right-wing rallies. He did say that he thought it was worth to have the cost of some gun deaths that’s every single year so that we can have the second amendment it is a prudent deal and is rational and that’s how he died he was one of those deaths so that we could have the second amendment and no one was probably more surprised than him.
The current climate seems to point to a possibility that this is more of a distraction from the Epstein files that L’Orange Merde would rather not have us think about.
So Andrea Voto unfriended me and Dave Bell said I was better than this. With that at 9/11 and my broke ass birthday My mental state leaves a lot to be desired. The present plan in the back of my mind is to just take the light rail to Liberty State Park and hang out and have a picnic which would be fine I think…
Today seems to be the type of day where I am finding out about various coworkers at the fruit stand who are certifiably nuts. The bloom is coming off the fruited blossoms.
555 was the last word count for this; 555 is Bill’s signature of sorts. Now, having written that is more than 555, but you get the point, one would hope. It’s lunch time, I’m outside my building smoking my cigar larger than usual because it is my Friday, so it’s a Thursday and blah blah blah.
Spoke to Bill and recommended that he call 988, and he did, and the counselor at the other end of the line was able to be objective and talk to him and say things that made him feel somewhat better. I can hear him smile through the phone.
Now, the plan is for tomorrow, and going to Liberty State Park with Bill and Mike, perhaps wandering around and having sandwiches for a little while, and then coming back to Hoboken and going to Grimaldi’s for some pizza. It’s simple, we’re simple. Life is complicated, we don’t have to be.
I should write about 9/11 and the Algerians and Bratty McGrotty some day
A Google Gemini rewrite as a letter from Mark Twain:
My Dearest Livy,
The calendar marks this September 11th, a day for reflection, and I find myself ruminating on the general rottenness of things. A fellow who goes by Bratty McGrotty and his grand designs in Tribeca have been much on my mind, and I am glad to be neither a party to his schemes nor an employee under his thumb. This particular day, a Thursday and my last before I am to celebrate my sixty-third year, finds me out of sorts.
The world seems awash in a peculiar brand of misery. The fruit stand, you see, is full of rotten goods, and it is a mirror for the men I find myself amongst. I attempted to explain a simple matter to one man, and before long, a dozen others had swarmed the affair, each with a different notion of how to stir the pot, as if the whole world clamors for more cooks, even when the broth is already spoiled.
This morrow is my birthday, and I am a man of leisure, having taken leave from my toils. I try, with all my might, not to resemble my father—that vexing, principled man—yet here I am, finding myself on the short end of the stick. This past June, I took young Mike to see his first Broadway play, a wretched spectacle called *Chicago*. A week later, I replaced Bill’s Apple Watch with a new one I procured at a handsome discount, thanks to my connections at the aforementioned fruit stand. But, for all my efforts, I have received naught in return. At my age, I should be long past such concerns, yet here I am, lamenting the lack of gifts in light of my own bountiful generosity.
Bill has been in a sorry state, having had no steady work since July, and his purse is lighter than a ghost’s conscience. He was paid a paltry sum for that dreadful play, a sum hardly worth mentioning. He is a man who beats himself up, a common malady among those who do not plan for tomorrow. My heart was set on escaping the confines of this place, to hire a carriage and sit on the beach, but the cost of such a venture was too dear, even for a simple, solitary treat. The disappointment gnaws at me, and I confess it borders on a melancholia I did not wish to carry into my new year.
The news, always a fresh source of human folly, brings reports of a fellow named Charlie Kirk, shot in the neck at one of his rallies. A peculiar justice, as he once declared that a few deaths were a worthy price for our Second Amendment. I suppose he found out just how prudent a deal that truly was, and I have no doubt that no one was more surprised than he.
The entire climate, political and social, feels like a grand sideshow, perhaps designed to distract us from those unsettling Epstein files that the gentleman we shall call “L’Orange Merde” would rather we not think about.
Meanwhile, a fellow named Andrea Voto has unfriended me, and I am left with a sense of being better than this, as my friend Dave Bell assures me. My mental state, what with this 9/11 anniversary and my empty-handed birthday, leaves much to be desired. My present notion is to take the light rail to Liberty State Park, sit a spell, and have a quiet picnic.
The fruit stand, it seems, is a hive of madness, and I am daily discovering new forms of lunacy amongst my colleagues. It is said that the bloom is coming off the fruited blossoms, and I can attest to its truth.
At last word, my friend Bill has taken my advice and called 988, a grand new invention for the troubled mind. The counselor on the other end, an objective voice, has spoken words that have put a smile on Bill’s face, and I could hear it even through the wires. The plan for tomorrow has changed. We, that is Bill, Mike, and I, shall go to Liberty State Park after all. We will wander and have our sandwiches and then return to Hoboken for Grimaldi’s pizza. It is a simple plan for simple men in a complicated world. It is the sort of thing that soothes the spirit.
I shall write of 9/11 and the Algerians and that rascal Bratty McGrotty another time.
Yours ever,
Mark Twain