To Randy Newman, who says we’ve:
… got little baby legs
And they stand so low
You got to pick 'em up
Just to say hello
I say, best hide away at home today, big fella! Newman, by the by, is 6 foot.
~~~
My father was briefly into astrology and reading tarot cards. This was the late, late ‘60s. We were living in Bloomington, Indiana where he was studying for his doctorate. It wasn’t unusual to see him reading the cards (if that’s the correct term) for a student or fellow Ph.D candidate after dinner.
At right is the Three of Wands
The Three of Wands depicts a man who is standing on the edge of a cliff, looking over the ocean and the mountains. From the cliff edge, he sees everything that is ahead of him. The Wands are planted into the ground and surround the man as he grasps one in his hand. He seems to look forward and reflect on both the commitment that he has for his plans, as well as the method of execution in order to bring them to reality. (source)
I believe we could all do with some three of wands action right now. You know—look to see all we’re facing, think about our respective commitments, and act intelligently. i.e., VOTE!!!~~~
Last night I was reminded of why I love public libraries—even more so now that I use the Libby app.
Ya see, I picked up this memoir by an author I wasn’t familiar with. I love memoirs—okay, within reason I love them—Augusten Burroughs, Mary Karr, Trevor Noah, Lori Gottlieb, Carrie Fisher, and Patti Smith to name just a handful.
The author of the memoir I just started was, possibly still is, in marketing for a major record label. The synopsis and blurbs made it sound like it would be funny (and two weeks before this insane election, don’t we all need funny?) and relatable. Within the first few pages, it’s clear that the dude and I are from entirely different and distant worlds. He regularly shops at Saks Fifth Avenue, buys $675 windbreakers, and desperately wants to fit in with the corporate culture suits. Me? Not so much.
I only mention it BUT I’ve bought drivable cars for less than what his windbreaker cost. Does this light jacket protect him from monsoons? Does it have superpowers—maybe a cloak of invisibility tucked in a cleverly concealed pocket? Does it brew his morning coffee or mix the perfect post-work martini? $675 for a damn windbreaker? It fucking well better do more than just keep the wind and rain at bay. I checked the Saks site—they have windbreakers that go for OVER 2,000 buckos. WHAT a racket!
It became clear, before I was even a chapter in, that the memoirist is, in fact, NOT relatable. While he seems to be semi self-aware, he’s a bit of a dudebro. Maybe more than just a bit. Red flags are flying. The fact that he casually tosses out the crazy price he paid for a windbreaker (of all things) tells me that we have next to nothing in common.
Ya know, it’s one thing to have enough spare dosh to spend outrageous amounts on a light jacket and quite another to be so blasé about it. FFS, there are people here in the ninth richest country on the planet who are starving, going without lifesaving healthcare, who lack shelter and he’s not even slightly embarrassed to have spent 675 simoleons on a jacket? Hell’s bells, I can get a made in the U.S. windbreaker from L.L. Bean for $60.
Are silkworms and alpacas working through the night to craft Saks’s windbreakers?
Will I read more of this corporate climbers memoir. I kind of seriously doubt it. I’m trying to escape clueless fools lately (okay, I’m always trying to duck them).
No comments:
Post a Comment