Presents
I think I’ve made mention before of how The Powers That Be always seem to conspire to present me with gifts timed to appear for my birthday.
Yes, it’s my birthday. Today. 54. I feel like hell.
I have before. I will again. We have people working on it.
Now there is, naturally enough, a deluge of products every fall that seem to have been saved up over the summer, the idea being that the haze of the vacation months has finally burnt off and it will now be easier to lay claim to a consumer’s attention.
I prefer the more romantic idea that the world revolves around me.
What proof do I have this year? Well, it was an impressive display:
Yet another posthumous collection of poems from Charles Bukowski, although judging from the slightness of this latest volume the bottom of the barrel is in sight.
Henry Threadgill contributed his first CD in 8 years.
Clive Barker wasn’t able to oblige me with a book, although he did release his first original comic book work for many years this week, which we’ll certainly accept.
There was the pile of punk rock oral histories I had delayed reading until John Robb’s Death To Trad Rock volume appeared. And appear it did, recounting the heyday of the last group of bands to truly excite me.
A new coffee table book about The Stooges which nearly had me making a trip to New York to attend a book signing by Iggy Pop. I almost went through with it, too, even though I felt like hell (see above) and even though it meant showing up at 9 am for a wristband that would allow me to attend the 7 pm signing. I had images of getting my Complete Fun House Sessions boxset signed (bookstore said no, but, you know…) or getting a picture with him (bookstore said no, but, c’mon…).
In the end it was Sheva who said, “Why don’t you just call them and see if they’ll do a mail order?” So I did. I was apparently the first to ask. And it got here today. Signed.
Much, much better than being in New York all day with nothing to do and feeling like hell.
Then the other night we had the pleasure of seeing a brand new Coen Brothers picture, A Serious Man. I’d tried to stay away from the reviews so that I could be surprised by it and I was very glad I did. We were both knocked out by it and I think it immediately shot up into my personal Coens Top Five. The glow it left behind has yet to evaporate.
It felt like the highlight of the week.
This is one day a year, of course.
Most of the others I sit in my living room and think how remarkable it is that I have just about everything I could possibly want. And I can turn my head ever so slightly and know that I’ll see Sheva there.
It all makes the idea of presents seem nonsensical and superfluous.
I’d rather not feel like hell, of course, but they’re working on it.
That’s all you can ask for, really.
Yes, it’s my birthday. Today. 54. I feel like hell.
I have before. I will again. We have people working on it.
Now there is, naturally enough, a deluge of products every fall that seem to have been saved up over the summer, the idea being that the haze of the vacation months has finally burnt off and it will now be easier to lay claim to a consumer’s attention.
I prefer the more romantic idea that the world revolves around me.
What proof do I have this year? Well, it was an impressive display:
Yet another posthumous collection of poems from Charles Bukowski, although judging from the slightness of this latest volume the bottom of the barrel is in sight.
Henry Threadgill contributed his first CD in 8 years.
Clive Barker wasn’t able to oblige me with a book, although he did release his first original comic book work for many years this week, which we’ll certainly accept.
There was the pile of punk rock oral histories I had delayed reading until John Robb’s Death To Trad Rock volume appeared. And appear it did, recounting the heyday of the last group of bands to truly excite me.
A new coffee table book about The Stooges which nearly had me making a trip to New York to attend a book signing by Iggy Pop. I almost went through with it, too, even though I felt like hell (see above) and even though it meant showing up at 9 am for a wristband that would allow me to attend the 7 pm signing. I had images of getting my Complete Fun House Sessions boxset signed (bookstore said no, but, you know…) or getting a picture with him (bookstore said no, but, c’mon…).
In the end it was Sheva who said, “Why don’t you just call them and see if they’ll do a mail order?” So I did. I was apparently the first to ask. And it got here today. Signed.
Much, much better than being in New York all day with nothing to do and feeling like hell.
Then the other night we had the pleasure of seeing a brand new Coen Brothers picture, A Serious Man. I’d tried to stay away from the reviews so that I could be surprised by it and I was very glad I did. We were both knocked out by it and I think it immediately shot up into my personal Coens Top Five. The glow it left behind has yet to evaporate.
It felt like the highlight of the week.
This is one day a year, of course.
Most of the others I sit in my living room and think how remarkable it is that I have just about everything I could possibly want. And I can turn my head ever so slightly and know that I’ll see Sheva there.
It all makes the idea of presents seem nonsensical and superfluous.
I’d rather not feel like hell, of course, but they’re working on it.
That’s all you can ask for, really.
posted by Count Screwloose at 1:10 AM
1 Comments:
I know middle age is hell, but we do get wiser. When younger I wanted the whole world, now I realize I have the whole world.
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