DAY SIX – Bloor can’t be summoned by telephone, by
housekeeping or by a loud rapping, a gentle tapping at his chamber door in Room
247. He’s got himself barricaded in there. I think he’s so drug and drink
addled out of his mind that he thinks they’re coming to evict him. The silly,
stupid but still-snoring (sleep apnea) bastard!
Bloor’s got the high definition TV on full blast so he must
be sleeping soundly or trying to cover up the sounds of some Gustav Klimt-like
escapades with stray cat blues nubiles The last I saw him he was grappling and
snappling with a bottle of Maker’s Mark neat with some good Netherlands gouda
cheese..
I’m just now reading what was written about “the haircut”
yesterday and it just won’t do. I can’t write one damn bit. It’s got me roundly
depressed. The writers I like are F. Scott, R. Duke and QT. But if you read
Zelda’s husband you’ll notice he’s got a lot of dialogue in there. Easy on the
eyes. Easy to read. Easy to follow. Especially Gatsby in the car accident
scene. Me. I don’t have a word of dialogue in the whole blog! It’s just this
long scrawl with no point at all.
Well, I’ve got to follow my own advice, the stuff I feed to
the boys, straighten up and fly right! No more downers: they came in with Nixon
and never left. If the Kennedy’s had lived, this would be a different country
now, better in fact. I’m not complaining, mind you. This is the best damn
country they got: I know: I tried ‘em all.
We got a little unfinished business here at the hotel, I’m a
little anxious about it. I like to plot out what I’m gonna do early in the
morning. Talk it over with Bloor. Then take a little Heineken nap about 11 a.m.
Then be “rejuvenated” about 1 p.m. Then another nap about 4 p.m. Then be
“resuscitated” and fully respirated, about 7 p.m. after the Sun is down etc.,
etc. I’ve got simple tastes like any other man of the people. Six Florida
grapefruit in the morning, two pots of Rukoki Gold Ugandan coffee with
condensed Pet milk and Domino’s sugar, four eggs benedict, eight crispy strips
of bacon, thirteen asparagus spears, three Maine lobsters, six English muffins
with two sticks of Irish butter and one jar of Chiver’s “sweet, smooth” orange
marmalade and one jar of Duerr’s blackcurrant preserve, a one-inch thick slice
of Black Forest ham, five Santo Domingo (green, unpainted) oranges, a plate of
organic green broccoli, Tazo Awake black tea and a little clear
Coca-Cola-distilled Dasani water – nothing fancy here, boys. Maybe a little
McIlhenny & Co. Tabasco Pepper sauce on the side. After all, I’m no
marshmallow! Of course, here at the hotel, they bring it to you on a little
white linen covered pushcart. The Chilean girl who brought it to me this
morning was quite well-spoken and nice. She let me practice my Spanish on her.
I said “good morning” (Buenos dias ), “how are you (polite)” (como esta usted)
and “nice to meet you” (y mucho gusto). A little small-talk malarkey went a
long way because she told me that her husband was American. Which I guess was
her way of saying: I UNDERSTAND YOUR KIND OF CRAZY. Apparently, my reputation
had preceded me. Once I had the food all out on the table, I signed for it on
the little white paper and gave her a thirty percent tip (I always tip well
because I know I can be difficult at times). She was a tall, pretty girl with
her auburn hair pulled back off of her forehead. Her gold name tag said her
name was “Isabella” (I hadn’t asked her “como te llamas”).
So I told Isabella “muchas gracias” and she pushed the cart
with the squeaky wheel out of the room with a smile on her face. After she had
left, I noticed that there was a single orange flower in a white spindly vase
with water in it. And it made me smile.
The boys is generally good to me but they got a lot to learn
about “real life.” I’m writing this here blog so’s when I’m dead and they lower
me into the bone orchard with a heavy duty crane my son or daughter will be
able to read it and glean a little bit about who I was and what I have to
impart to them.
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