Frustrated

This is one of those mornings when nothing is right, and I can’t put my finger on what it is that is wrong; I looked at this site and became more frustrated, it didn’t  represent who I am, so I changed the design and the header color, changed it again, and again. Then I looked at what I hope will be the best stuff I will write, ‘everyman’s theology’, and it is disjointed, unfinished, obviously the result of little thought and effort; it is something that should be torn apart and put together in a way that invites and challenges, that asks the reader to examine his inner nature, with profit. Instead the thing repels in its awkwardness.

What better thing to do on a cold morning, 8 F, a morning when there are no other chores or errands that need doing? Or can I find a way to procrastinate and so feel frustrated again?

Approaching an intersection

This street ahead changes and is no longer the one I should be on, I see the caution light where a number of alternates branch away; I can’t see any highway or street signs or speed limits, if I look over my shoulder I can see that all the streets behind me have names, but knowing the names of streets passed doesn’t help my drive this morning.

I could pull over and stop, like the idling cars I have been passing, but I have too much momentum, I have never driven in the curb lane, I need to make a decision without losing speed; where do I look and who do I ask?

There is a fellow who became famous for touting that he went down the less busy fork, and that was fine for him, but choosing a route based upon who else goes down it or not doesn’t make much sense to me.

What I do know is that I have become a pretty good driver, and that whatever route I travel I’ll probably not run off the road and into the ditch.

It is the day after.

I found it a challenge to come up with anything to put down here on this day after; yesterday was easy because there was that challenge of handling what can be a difficult day, but today has no challenge, not even the weather.

I haven’t written much about being a chauffeur,  so here is a story:

I am driving this guy in from O’Hare, in a Town Car, coming in through heavy traffic on the JFK he is talking on his cell phone. This guy is an actor, you can see him on Letterman and Leno when he is promoting a move, on the cover of the trash mags at the checkout counter when he is changing girlfriends.

He is talking to his live-in girlfriend, I can tell that she lives with him because they are talking about the electrician coming to fix something or other, and whether it is time to replace whatever it was that was to be repaired. There were a couple of other housekeeping items, but I am not purposely listening even though he is three feet away from where I sit. My listening does become purposeful when this guy starts whining that the night before he had to ask the woman who came to his hotel room to leave, she was deficient in a certain sexual skill, so he finally asked her to go. Who can ignore this conversation now?

He goes on to give the details of his visitor’s lack of technique and enthusiasm, remember that this is a conversation he is having with his live-in girlfriend. I, from my pedestrian experience, am expecting the cell phone to explode, that the girlfriend is going to suggest that he attempt that sexual act that we all know is physically impossible, but she doesn’t. I can tell, I am actively listening, tell that she is commiserating with him, supporting him on this, re-enforcing the idea that a man of his stature should not have to put up with mediocre fellatio.

Who knew? Who knew that there were standards, that one could refuse, who has ever heard of refusing a blow-job? Who knew that there were girlfriends with whom one could discuss this without risking homicide? Who knew these things?

After he finished that phone call he made one to a male friend of his, his buddy. He went over the same ground with this guy, and in detail. With men I have always found that a word, a euphemism, a nod and a wink were about all that was necessary and allowed by the guys’ code. Guys don’t have minute discussions about subjects like this, I was careful to only use the word blow-job once while writing this, but here he is writing a term paper on his hotel room experience.

That is about all I am going to say about that story, except to ask the question that I have not answered for myself:-Do I envy this guy?

Today is that featureless day after Christmas, nothing much going on, what kind of day does he face? I ain’t expecting to be in this guy’s position today, there ain’t no woman coming round to do to me what I always took with a form of grateful thanks, that isn’t in the cards. Maybe I will buy a new pair of slacks for work today, gray flannels to wear with a blue blazer, that is about the highest level of anticipation that I can generate. The bar of his anticipation is higher, and probably won’t be lowered without a fair amount of anger.

I do have one other short story along the same lines, no, not sex lines, the other thing.

Yesterday I picked a woman up at her apartment on the Gold Coast, drove her in a stretch limousine two blocks for lunch at one of our best hotels, then drove her to another hotel where she could get out and look at the lights, then I drove her home. The trip was a total of six blocks, took four hours, cost $400; and she bitched all the time about how badly she felt, and that she wasn’t able to find a good man to be her husband. I leave that story right there without comment.

The sun is about to come up over the apartment building to the south and east of me, the sky is clear, the temperature a few degrees below freezing, a moderate and dry day. I am not scheduled to work , did so yesterday only because there were more orders than usual for a Christmas,  not much business for the rest of the week.

For truthfulness’ sake I should say that I may buy a television today,my 16 inch Sony is old, still works fine, but I am tired of the wood grained vinyl; it has a remote control in that if I take my sock off I can push the individual buttons for channels and sound with my big toe. It is time to say goodbye. Or not, I may procrastinate yet another month.

Renewing my taxi & chauffeur’s license

I look forward with dread the annual task of renewing my taxi & chauffeur’s license.

It has to do with being completely at the mercy of people who are bureaucratic bound,

it is clear that almost everything they say and do comes from a book of instruction,

it is also clear that they strain against these instructions, their real nature trying to be out there; and that everything I do while there comes from that same volume.

I don’t feel good about this even though it comes only annually.

But today was a change from previous years: There is a drug and medical inspection clinic just around the corner, results are available within minutes; somehow they have winnowed extraneous stuff from the renewal process, each step is shorter. My time there was about an hour and a half, total, this compares with three or four days previously.

And so a bureaucracy evolves, thank you Mayor Daley.