Like a Rolling Stone

That's my head this morning – a rolling stone. So, hey, let's just leap in feet first, huh?

In the line at the grocery I spotted this here Elvis mag. Elvis Presley? A current, NOT vintage, mag?  'the hell? I totes get that he was a giant fucking deal in life – though possibly more so since croakage. But, honestly now, the man was born in 1935 – 81 years ago! He shot to fame in the early ‘50s – ya know, before yurs truly was even born. Oh yeah and his ignoble death, at 42 (from a heart attack likely brought on by overdoing ten different prescription meds and being Jabba huh-YUGE) was in 1977 – the year after I graduated from high school (and remember folks – I'm a late middle aged babe).

What I’m saying here is this – dude was the King of Pop for his generation. My parent’s generation (not that they were all into him. Nope, they were into folk, classical and Tom Jones – mia madre anyway).

And now there’s a brand-y new, fresh mag out with him looking all fresh, young, healthy and trim with wife and bairn? What’s this all about? Nostalgia trips for 80 year old fans? That can’t be a big, money making demographic – can it?

And then there was this Enquirer cover. Elton John – older than me by 11 years but still very much my generation. Apparently he’s headed for divorce – according to them anyway. Mind you, the Enquirer’s not always full of shit so this could be true. Yes, it’s quite possible I’ll be heading back to the grocery to pick up this rag. And yes, this is embarrassing and I’ll likely wear dark glasses, a big hat, use the self checkout lane and hope I don’t run into anyone I know.

Woman’s World ballyhoos How the Cupcake Queens (are they referring to Heather Hepler?) Walked off 100 lbs! and You can walk off 7 lbs a week! The BUY-ME! BUY-ME! BUY-ME! screaming banner leaves out, of course, that in addition to walking (fast walks, not strolls), one must also consume nothing but iceberg lettuce, water and air. Cupcakes? French fries? Bread? Phbbt – MEMories light the corners of my mind. Misty water-colored memories of the food we used to love!

Seen in the window of a party store in a pricey section of town. They sell supplies (streamers, balloons, confetti, banners, wrapping paper, stationery, place cards, greeting cards, invitations, etc.). Additionally, you can order any sort of fancy cake you can imagine from them. They even host private events (at $50 per person with a two hour minimum). Aaaand refugees are welcome. Cool but how many refugees, like the ones depicted, can afford big, poshly done up parties? 

The sign struck, at first, as well meaning but jarring. Then it occurred to me – the placard’s not up there for the recent arrivals, poor folks escaping mondo strife. Nope. Possibly, the shop’s just ham-handedly virtue signaling. They’re appealing to the wealthy, connected neighborhood resident’s good hearts. Interesting marketing ploy.

I get it and it's jarring.

Lastly, Jen and I met for a post work bev the other night. A couple across the bar from us were having martinis. I wistfully looked on, wishing that I could order one too. Why can’t I? Me and my beloved, desert dry (just wave the Vermouth bottle in the general direction of my glass, tx) Sapphire martinis are no longer are speaking terms. Just one transports me to Soused Land and that’s def not my goal or desire. That and they’ve got too many of those pesky calorie thingies. Which reminds me – I gotta go for a walk now.

*SOB*
Like a Rolling Stone – Dylan