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    Blabbering On Idol, Art, And Survival

    I’m ashamed to admit it, but-

    I’m not too ashamed. I’m a pig. But I do admit that when watching “American Idol”, I root for the hot chicks. Are they talented? Maybe. My ears all but stop working; the blood in my body has begun flowing to the part of my brain that causes me to drool over attractive women. Unavailable women. I mean, I’m- I- It’s not like they’ll appreciate my drool. They’re on the TV. In it. They’re thousands of miles away. Pre-recorded. Perhaps recorded years or decades before. It’s like with Tina Louise on “Gilligan’s Island”. She’s nearly eighty in reality, you know. I don’t care. In my head, she’s occupying the mid-1960s. Oh, Ginger; I love you so.

    "I’M NOT ‘GINGER’!"

    No. She’s not. Nor are any of the other performers we see before us on any show. That is, they’re not who we perceive them to be. The pretty woman singing her heart out on some television competion is just that to us in reality. In that same reality, her life is invisible to the rest of us, except for what may be filtered out through self-initiated social media and other accounts — and even then, it’s filtered through the person’s own ideas of herself, who and what she is and is about. She’s not our eyecandy. She’s not a possible upcoming girlfriend. She’s a performer, there to perform her heart out, hoping catch a break. Still, I often fall a little “in love” with one of these ladies. Or a couple. Is that so wrong?

    "I guess not. As long as you keep your distance. Don’t make me have to get a restraining order…"

    Deal. I suppose.

    I’ve had more time to sit around, oogling gals through the TV set since I left work, two-and-a-half years ago. Gals on “Bonanza”, gals on any show. Being ill has seen to that. But- I’m- Though still not “there”… A “hundred-percent”… I want to return to the workforce. I need it. Having liquid finances does a life good. Since moving to the Boise area immediately after resigning my last job, I’ve fallen in love with the place. I like it a lot, anyway. It’s a great place. Being stuck at home in front of the tube dulls sensations such as love of a place. I’ve been hoping for re-employment for a long time, hoping to get back onto me feet, so that I could properly take advantage of what the area has to offer.

    Yesterday, that chance may have begun to come.

    I may have a job coming.

    I won’t know until next week, when interviews are called. I had to go in for testing, yesterday afternoon, following an application the week before. The crew, there, are fantastic people and couldn’t have done more to make me feel at ease. There’s a great positive vibration about the the place; I’m-

    I’m keeping positive myself. Though there’s no guarantee I’ll get the job, nor even be called in to interview.

    I hate interviews. I get so nervous. Tongue-tied. My brain decides to take a holiday. I’ve torpedoed myself in the past with interview-related anxiety.

    Be cool, I’m telling myself. Everything’ll turn out alright.

    I’m watching old “Perry Mason” episodes. In “black-and-white”. That era. That early ’60s era. I love that style. I love “black-and-white”. The design of the cars. The style men and women espoused, back then. Those women.

    They’re elderly, now. If even still among us. Children of that era — those television children — are old-enough to be my parents. And I’m old-enough to be a grand-dad.

    How did I get to be this old? I thought I’d be- I didn’t think I’d be here — in this situation — when I was a kid. When I was a young adult. I thought I’d have it all figured out, all settled and in play. I had dreams. Like those women I mentioned, earlier, performing on the TV singing competition. I had a dream: to create. To perform. As a writer. A writer, a singer — it’s all art, it’s all creation. It’s purpose is to enrich the minds and lives of others. Of ourselves.

    If I can get back to work… If I can earn enough to live and fund myself, once again… I can get back to writing. Living. Rather than just surviving. Although there’s a lot to being that, a survivor. Surviving to compete, to perhaps win, another day.

    It’s sad. I know some of those beautiful women I’ve been watching on “American Idol” won’t make it. On the show. But they’ll go back to wherever they’d come from and continue performing. One has done that, performing on another show, failing to progress into further rounds, going on to do her thing elsewhere, and she’s back this year to play and sing for us on “American Idol”.

    I adore her. I’m also inspired by her. I think she’ll make it, even if she doesn’t make it through the show.

    The show’s not the dream; the dream is what’s applied to the show. The dream lives in spite of the show, goes on when the show’s over, when the performer leaves the show or the show leaves the performer. That’s survival. And success. Though that prize — the prize at the end — sure would come in handy.

    This entry is sorely in need of an editor. I’ve just been sitting here, freely writing for the past hour-and-a-half, taking from what’s on my mind.

    It all started with my attraction to a New England Patriots cheerleader.

    She reminds me of someone who was once dear to me. I can’t even remember what she sang or how well she did, except for that Harry Connick, Jr., wasn’t as keen on her as I was.

    I didn’t recognize him. He’s changed, somehow. He’s still a good-looking guy… He just looks- Different, somehow.

    He’s gotten older. But aged well. Sigh. If only I could say the same of myself.

    The need to write comes from the need to make sense of one’s life and discover one’s usefulness.

    John Cheever

    I never type in the morning. I don’t get up in the morning. I drink at night. I try to stay in bed until twelve o’clock, that’s noon. Usually, if I have to get up earlier, I don’t feel good all day. I look, if it says twelve, then I get up and my day begins. I eat something, and then I usually run right up to the race track after I wake up. I bet the horses, then I come back and Linda cooks something and we talk awhile, we eat, and we have a few drinks, and then I go upstairs with a couple of bottles and I type — starting around nine-thirty and going until one-thirty, to, two-thirty at night. And that’s it.

    Charles Bukowski's daily routine and wisdom on writing – a fine addition to the daily routines and peculiar rituals of famous writers. (via explore-blog)

    (via explore-blog)

    (via sitting-on-a-cornflake-with-john)

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