8:56 a.m., oh man, do I hate getting out of bed in the morning, especially when the sun isn’t up yet.
So I took my time, and I still wound up getting to work 20 minutes earlier than I needed to be. And again, I do not like being late.
So it’s Tuesday, January 6th.
5 years ago, rioters stormed the capital in Washington DC and got away with it. That should have been the end of l’orange merde, as we will know that is not the case
The turd floats.
I contacted Daisy yesterday, since it’s been a while since I heard from her, and since I do all the communication at least initially, I did it once again. She is still at Bratty McGrotty and more than likely almost 100% Filipino
Was just looking up my ex-boss online. He used to be listed here as Bobby Risotto, but that’s when I cared about what he thought, and he was still in the closet back then. Now I don’t care what he thinks; if he’s in the closet, he’s still a rotten person.
It’s another quiet day at the fruit stand. Went to bed earlier last night, and it seemed to have paid off with a good night’s sleep. It went so well that I intend to follow the same ritual tonight.
It is just another quiet day at the fruit stand. It’s going to be like this for the rest of the week, I believe, so I will be at the main food stand tomorrow…all day.
It is very warm in the office, which I suppose is a good thing, better than cold, better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, I think.
Bill is still on the road, Mike is chilling in my crib. I am at work.
I easily fall through rabbit holes. I looked up somebody with a similar name to someone I grew up with, but haven’t spoken to in over 50 years. Turns out his brother died 6 years ago, Jimmy Schumacher, brother of Johnny. They lived on Blue Ridge Road. I really should stop being so easily distracted he said while distracted from his job and dictated into his phone
I just remembered that I played the video of stop making sense by Talking Heads, and I don’t think Mike was into it very much at all. I watched the whole thing nonetheless.
I have just listened to Blondie’s greatest hits as well as their album Eat to the Beat. I really miss Clem Burke. Next time, the playlist is Elvis Costello’s Armed Forces.
Actually, it was the Cocteau Twins that were next. Head over Heels. Jet Watley played that record quite a bit. Fades memories.
I’ve read that there is a play, Robert Isacco vs Donald Putnam, in a wrestling match at the Maggie Alexandre arena, with Hal Liebes as the referee. Concessions were supposed to be handled by Louise Ulitto and Noel Guzman, but they were rumored to have been deported.
The whole feeling of melancholy following December 25th or January 1st usually involves the buildup to those dates, for everybody’s excited that things are going to go well; optimism is in the air generally for people. And then after January 1st, the balloon deflates.
Shiny things, Christmas trees, holiday lights get put away, plunging souls into darkness once more. True, the daylight lasts an extra minute with each passing day, but that’s not nearly enough to hang on to.
Once again, I had halal food for lunch, and once again, it was a bit lackluster. I figured after not eating it for 2 weeks, things might need returning to what they once were, but that does not seem to be the case.
Google Gemini rewrite as a Jim Thomson piece:
## The Fruit Stand Blues
The clock on the wall says 8:56. I hate the morning. I hate the way the sun creeps up like a witness who knows too much, and I hate getting out of bed even more. I took my time—shaving slow, moving like a man underwater—and I still ended up at the stand twenty minutes early. A man who’s early is a man with too much time to think, and a man who’s late is a man who’s asking for trouble. I don’t like being either.
It’s Tuesday, January 6th. Five years since the big blow-up in D.C. when the rubes stormed the Hill and walked away clean. You’d think that would’ve been the end of the orange stain on the rug, the *merde* that wouldn’t scrub out. But life doesn’t work like that. The turd always floats. It’s a law of nature, or maybe just a law of the gutter.
I put in a call to Daisy yesterday. It’s always me doing the reaching out, a one-way street paved with bad intentions. She’s still over at Bratty McGrotty’s. She’s Filipino, mostly. I think. In this town, you’re never quite sure what anyone is, including yourself.
I spent some time digging into my old boss. I used to call him Bobby Risotto back when I gave a damn what he thought of me, back when he was still hiding in the closet. Now? I don’t care if he’s in the closet or under the bed; he’s a rotten bastard either way. Some people are born with a hole where their soul should be, and no amount of hiding fixes the draft.
Business is quiet. Too quiet. I hit the sack early last night and actually caught some sleep—no dreams, just the big black nothing. I think I’ll try it again tonight. Keep the ritual, keep the demons at bay. It’ll be quiet like this all week until I have to pull a double at the main stand tomorrow.
The office is hot. Stifling. But I’m not complaining. Better to sweat than to freeze. Better to have the heat and not need it than to be shivering in the dark.
Bill’s out on the road, probably looking for something he won’t find. Mike’s back at my place, chilling. And here I am, standing guard over a pile of fruit.
I’ve got a mind that likes to wander into dark alleys. I looked up a name from fifty years ago—Jimmy Schumacher. Turns out his heart quit six years back. He had a brother, Johnny. They lived on Blue Ridge Road back when the world felt like it had a bottom to it. I ought to stop looking back. A man who looks back too much is liable to trip over what’s right in front of him. I’m dictating this into my phone, distracted from a job that doesn’t matter, in a life that’s mostly shadows.
Last night I put on *Stop Making Sense*. The Talking Heads. Mike didn’t seem to get it. He sat there like a statue while Byrne danced in that big suit. I watched it anyway. Then I moved on to Blondie. *Eat to the Beat*. I missed Clem Burke’s drumming—it felt like a heartbeat I used to have. Next was the Cocteau Twins. *Head over Heels*. Jet Watley used to spin that one until the grooves wore thin. Memories are like cheap film; they fade a little more every time you run them through the projector.
I heard a rumor about a match over at the Maggie Alexandre Arena. Robert Isacco versus Donald Putnam. Hal Liebes in the middle as the ref. They said Louise Ulitto and Noel Guzman were supposed to handle the concessions, but the word is they got deported. In this game, one day you’re selling popcorn, the next you’re a ghost on a bus headed south.
There’s a certain kind of misery that settles in after the New Year. People spend December building up a head of steam, convinced that things are going to be different, that the world is going to turn gold. Then January 1st hits and the balloon pops. The shiny baubles go back in the boxes. The trees go to the curb. The lights go out, and you’re left in the dark again. They say the days are getting longer, a minute at a time, but a minute of light isn’t enough to save a man who’s already underwater.
I had halal for lunch. Lackluster. I thought maybe after two weeks away, it would taste like something again. It didn’t. Nothing changes. The food stays bland, the sun stays cold, and the turd just keeps on floating.
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