Unpaid Product Placement AGAIN!

Andy Rooney is dead.
I'm sorry. That just doesn't affect my life at all. Old garrulous man. Old curmudgeon. Old bitchy dude. I'm sorry for his family. I'm sure he had a charming side which he didn't share with most of us. Wonder how much money he made being an old bitchy dude?

I've reinstated the verification word. Sorry but that's it. It's done. I'm done going through e-mails notifying me of spam. Fuck it. I do not want to see any more shit about fake Uggs or how to get more readers to my blog. I have the readers I have. They make me happy. We do not want fake Uggs and if we do, we can go find them ourselves.

So, Ms. Moon, have you heard about Keith Richards' autobiography winning the Norman Mailer Center Prize for biography?
Yes. Yes I have.
Ms. Moon, are you still obsessed with Keith Richards?
Yes. Yes I am.

You see this picture?

It makes me fucking happy. You hear that? FUCKING HAPPY!

Would reading Andy Rooney's biography make me happy? I doubt it. What would it say? "I was a bitchy old young dude and it worked so well that I became a bitchy old OLD dude."

Maybe I just don't know the half of it. I would not be surprised.

So Bill Clinton is going to give Keith and his co-writer, James Fox, the award. I love Bill Clinton. And anyone who is trying to compare Herman Cain's sexual harassment issues to Bill Clinton's affair issues needs to be educated. Bill's sexual adventures were between himself and consenting women, as far as has ever been reported. They were his business and the business of the women and of his wife.
But Herman Cain sexually harassed women. Reportedly. To the point where they were paid off and signed agreements not to talk about it. Ever been sexually harassed? It ain't nothing like having a consenting sexual experience with someone you desire, even if it's someone you should NOT be having a sexual experience with. It's scary and it's wicked and it's having your back up against a wall and your whole nervous system screaming Danger! Danger! Get me out of here! and it's your mind reminding you that this man could fire you and how will you pay the damn rent? It's about power and it's about control and it's awful and the men who do it or who have done it are fucking evil.
I may be old but I remember.

Okay. I'm rambling again. It's a beautiful morning in Lloyd. God, it's beautiful. Mr. Moon and I walked around the yard and looked at the garden and I showed him where Owen likes to explore in the "jungle" which is a piece of overgrown property. That boy is obsessed with the jungle. When he woke up from his nap yesterday he sat up straight, lifted both hands in the air, pumped his arms up and down and said, "Yoo-hoo!" as if he was aware that he had indeed successfully napped and woken up and now it was time to play again.

I think I am going to go visit the new library today. I hear that the grand opening was so grand that they had to get police to direct traffic. That's so encouraging to me- that over a thousand people would show up at four-o'clock on a weekday afternoon to go visit a new library. Maybe there is hope for us after all. Maybe. I mean, that many people wouldn't show up just for the free snacks, would they? I don't think so.
So yes, I want to go to the new library. And I will. And to the grocery store to get something (WHAT?) to cook for our supper tonight. I sure wish I could make Madame Radish King's recipe for macaroni and cheese but my arteries can't take it. Just reading the recipe got me in trouble and I had to go heat up some of last Sunday's pancakes and put maple syrup on them for my breakfast. They were damn good for week-old pancakes reheated in the microwave.
I am trying to be sweet with myself today, having slept through another night of dreams that put me in another world of busyness for hours last night. Nothing terrible, just way too busy. It was odd though, every time I got to a place in my dreams where disaster was about to occur, it was averted. I find this strangely cheerful, as if my mind is telling me that the sky is NOT falling, look, here is your wallet, here is your purse, and there are kindly people who will help you.

I guess.

When I got up this morning I found the dining room table tipped over on its side. One of the legs is in serious need of repair and I suppose the dog jumped on it. No big deal except that every night before I go to bed I lovingly set my MacBook in the center of that table to protect it from harm and there it was, lying on its face, having slid off the tipped table.
I panicked a little, but as you can see, it is fine.

Everything is fine. Andy Rooney is dead but he was very old. I wonder if Sixty Minutes needs a new curmudgeon. I sort of fit that bill, don't I? But I am not negative about everything. I promise you. Didn't I just tell you that the picture of Keith Richards makes me fucking happy? Lots of things make me happy including the fact that although I just washed a load of clothes that held a pen stashed somewhere in its bosom, they were white clothes means that with the POWER OF OXY-CLEAN AND CLOROX BLEACH they are almost as good as new. I am washing them once more with that magical formula and am hoping for a complete white-recovery.
That is not racist. That is just laundry-talk. The sooner that everyone in the world is at least a shade darker than I am, the better in my opinion.

The well-built MacBook I write on makes me happy. This day with its bleach-pure light makes me happy.
Elvis crowing in the yard makes me happy. The thought of going to a brand-new library makes me happy. Green things growing in my laundry room window make me happy.

My babies make me happy. The fact that Keith Richards is alive makes me happy.

I wonder what made Andy Rooney happy? All that money he made from being a bitchy boy?

Who knows? Not me. But how ironic it would be to be made happy by the fact of being chronically unhappy.

But I'll tell you this- if left untended my eyebrows could look just like Andy Rooney's eyebrows looked.

And if paid enough, I could become as curmudgeonly as he was.

But I'd rather just be me. Happy and unhappy, bitchy and tender. Profane and holy.

Just like most of us.

Amen. Rock and Roll. Etc.