-No I have no idea what this is, but if you like Harry..comment!-
The Mailmen waves and drives away. He's driving way too fast. His head is probably liable to fall off at the rate he is going. Not my problem. He's a good looking man, despite his sort of unfortunate ears. Not saying he looks like Dumbo, but he may be a distant cousin. He's approaching that stage in middle age where the guys get all ugly and weight starts to fluctuate. I feel bad for the wives then.I never had a wife to watch it happen to me, thank the dear Lord. Though come to think of it, she would probably be as ugly and old as me now. The Mailman's wife can at least take comfort in the fact her time will come too. Anyways I still have my eyes, most my teeth and a little hair, so I can't complain.But I bet he's got it coming.
I don't remember the mailman's name.I always was bad with names. Sometimes I like to get all philosophical about names. Like do names define us or do we define our names and lot's of junk like that. When you get old thinking seems to become like a champion sport. Or you just don't think at all. I do a lot of both. I just call people by whatever they remind me of now. So I just call the mailman, Letter. It amuses him, but it's reasonable and it works. I call him sometimes when I am expecting something and it doesn't get here. He always is all polite and explains some junk like "I just deliver mail, I don't effect when it gets here." I understand that, but he could drive a little faster, to me, rather then away from me.
I used to try to keep a phonebook with numbers and be all organized. Dear me, I still can't even remember to bring my groceries out of the car or where I keep my glasses. Now I just paint numbers all over the wall of my bedroom and little drawings of what the people remind me of now. The one next to me is of Ribbons, my neighbor and her number. She's a regular ol' good gal and she makes me food sometimes. She took me to her yoga class last week. It was boring. We all just sat on balls and hummed and did stupid moves like "Flying Dog On Water" or whatever. But the instructor was cute so I struggled through it. She said it might help the aches in my joints but so would eternal youth, you know. I like seeing all the phone numbers in my room because it makes me feel connected. Like all the numbers are symbols of connections I have made in my life and cocoon me, or something. Ha,next I will be saying I'm like a butterfly. If anything I am more of a grouchy old stink beetle.
All the mailman brought me was a newspaper and a little postcard from some relative I don't remember who probably wants to get into my will, which will not happen, so sucks for them. Not that it will be anything grand or colossal though. You don't get to pick your family but you can ignore them. Except when they are persistent and annoying, which they usually are. Then you just buy earplugs or move. I've done both. Oh,and I got some bills. People always want money. You give them a twenty and then they are all "Hey, so I know you gave me a twenty but I need a ten now because if I don't get it my children will starve and the world will explode..and oh, I will turn off your electricity." Darn them.I gave up cursing but some people need stronger words then darn.I'm going to have to get more imaginative.
I have a newspaper cave where I keep all my newspapers. You could say I am a pack rat but I'm hate vermin and I'm a more elegant person. That's a lie. Don't believe me. 'Cept I do hate rats. So I like to think of myself as more of a collecter of time or even a pack monkey. Monkeys are always good animals to be associated with. I have newspapers dating all the way back to the 40's. Yes, I was alive then. Yes, I could have beaten you up. I would like to mention as a young man I had the best abs in five counties. But you can ask around. I used to read the newspapers before they became about what dumb thing the president said now and how good Tiger Wolf, or whatever is at golf. You know back when people were interesting and stuff. Back when Superman was still dating that reporter girl. You know what I hate most about newspapers now? Those advice columns. People say stuff like "My life is a ruin! My boyfriend and I have been dating for eighteen years and it's been the best time of my life. We were together constantly and I used to call him every hour. And now he wants to break up and says I'm suffocating and my life is messed up!" And then some pompous person answers, who in my opinion probably still lives in their parent's basement, saying that its obviously that he is just questioning the relationship and maybe he's cheating on you and it has nothing to do with you. It's like, honey it's been eighteen years, he should have put a ring on it, you are a creep, let people breath and get a life. Now shut the hell up. You know what I mean?
But, I digress. I keep all my newspapers in this room. Whenever I am lonely because yes, I do get lonely, I go in there. I hate people who like "I DO POGO DANCING EVERY NIGHT AND I HAVE A MILLION FRIENDS AND I TEXT WHY I TALK TO YOU AND LIFE IS SO GRAND!" I'm human, I do get lonely and I don't think pogo dancing even exists. I sit with all the newspapers and let the years soak into me. I read little snippets and just sit with the history. It's like a pig sitting in mud.
I really don't flatter myself with these comparisons. But I am just sitting in my one mud. Sometimes I look at some of the newspapers and want to yell "HOLY CRAP, I'M OLD!" I can spend hours in there thinking about everything, or nothing. Don't matter. Some of the newspapers I read on past vacations or painted, accidentally, while I was in one of my painting fits. I get those. I just paint so much I don't stop and walk around with a paintbrush in my hand, or at my worst moments, hanging out of my mouth like a cig. I wonder if I put paintbrushes in my mouth because of some weird cigarette withdrawal I am still experiencing, 20 years after I quit. I still miss a cigarette after dinner. But I don't want to ruin my lungs and die coughing up cigarette butts. I may not be George Clooney but I still want to look okay when I die. I'm no ballerina or whatever a guy version is called (Ballerhino?),but dying with a cigarette shoved up my mouth, burning my lungs, makes it sound like I have no grace at all. But God has a sense of irony. Of course I'm going to like die the one day I forget to wear pants or while on the toilet. Not going to put that below God.
But I'm still blabbering like an old fool. Like an old fool, yeah, that would be the day. I can't believe I even made half a living as a poet. People are so dumb. I'm actually kind of eloquent in poetry. It makes me sound all smartified and like I'm not some old man living with his fat old dog that likes messing up Bob Dylan lyrics and can only cook chili, when he don't burnt it. Keats, I'm not. I wrote a total of three poetry books and a bunch of critics with airs said things like 'the crisp, almost homely beauty of the lines in this poetry book, are mesmerizing and yet radical in their simplicity. They read like a walk in a beautiful muddy park or crisp breeze heralding the scent of something else." BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. Like that makes sense. Using a bunch of metaphors and words no one understands somehow makes a critic smart and dignified and good. If you ask me, they are just spewing a bunch of sewer water while spraying perfume to mask up what they are really doing. They are just writing crappy reviews. Thankfully, I'm a better painter then poet and everyone agrees with that. And I can play a killer poker hand. If I didn't become a painter I would probably be the world's best poker player. But I haven't had enough time to you know, let that skill develop.
I don't really remember why I am writing this and my stupid dog is bursting my ear drums. She is howling at the moon. I named her Duke and that's her proper Christian name. She ought to be a Duchess, but I wanted to be all ironic because I am oh, so clever like that. Yeah, it sounded funnier then. She's pretty much the world's ugliest hound dog and I tell her that. But she don't care, though maybe it's why she isn't fond of me. We have a passing relation. I feed her, she doesn't bite my hand off. It works. It's not paradise, but you can't have a pleasant long term relationship with any female. They are all irrational, even the dogs. They do not getter better with age or chocolate or jewelry. That's why I joke the moon is my girlfriend. Everyone says it's a man on the moon, so why can't it be an ugly woman? She gives me light, I tell her she's pretty and we break up every day. She always come back every night though, just like a woman. She just can't stand being away from me. Can't blame her .So Duke is howling at my girlfriend because obviously Duke is jealous. Told you females are irrational. I ought to go yell at her and end right here before I drill your eyes off. I'm skilled like that.
So anyways. I'm Harry. But they all call me P.J. If you call me anything else I will slap your nose off. And if you call me Sir, I will call you a slew of colorful names. I'm old but I'm not dead, when I'm dead you can call me Sir.Good Night.