The Old Man had a plan
The Old Man had a plan for this morning. Up by 7:00 (actual: 7:32). Brew the coffee. At his laptop by 7:10 (see actual awake time). Write until...this was left open, but 11:00 would have been the ideal. The reality: sometime after 9:00, perhaps even after 9:30. He can't recall.
Oatmeal while finishing coffee. Done.
Finish reading story by Flannery O'Conor in anticipation of The PBS American Master episode about her March 23rd. Done.
Drink as many glasses of water as possible before heading out to donate plasma. Two, so far. Slightly less, actually.
Shower first. Sing along to Tiffany's, I Think We're Alone Now, originaly by Tommy James and the Shondells. Twice. Okay, three times -- once while dressing. Imagine singing before an audience and calling out the hipster douchebag lead singer of The Killers, who calls out Tiffany for stealing the song from Toe Jam at Shoney's. Blah blah blah.
Read another story, this one by Pinckney Benedict, from his first collection, Town Smokes, which The Old Man picked off his shelf last night to read. He doesn't question his reading impulses. Just rides the tide. He has two copies of the collection, both signed. Author didn't sign to The Old Man, who was a young man ast the time, because book was supposedly worth about $300.00 not. But that was years ago. Still. You never know. Could come in handy. The cash.
But if The Old Man donates plasma he won't have to think too much about selling a copy of one his favorite collections. So why doesn't he? Why does he just sit on his courch, writing? Good question. He doesn't know. Or won't say. What difference does it make?
When the sun hides and the temperature drops, so does his mood, dragging his heart with it. Like that clever-ism, do ya? The Old Man did too, enough to post Twitter. It's his to repurpose. As soon as he did, he lost his joy over it. But he let it be.
They grey midwesternness of it all out there behind the drawn blinds, he could have been optimistic about it as a boy, but now? Now, it doesn't even remind him of the grim spectar of death.
Grey skies at noon!
Grey skies at noon!
Oh, oh!
Oh, oh!
Oh, oh, oh, I want some chicken noodle soup!
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