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The further adventures of George Soros, part 617

It is a common enough occurrence, so far as occurrences go. No doubt it has happened to you as well. It’s bad judgment by which we arrive here, always. So having determined, amidst the throes of bad judgment, to compose and, what’s more, to post a comment on an internet news article, it was then I heard a pop and smelled the smell of burnt matches, whatever you call it, and I saw, right there in my bedroom, an old man with a wheelbarrow filled with cash.
“Hey, aren’t you George Soros?” I said as the fellow set about handing me a pile of bills. His pointy tail swatted the horseflies away.
This manifestation, if that be what it was, appeared premature to me, for honestly, at that moment I had hardly typed “Actually, I’m an attorney, and you’re wrong” and was at what might charitably be deemed an impasse as to where I might go from there.
Astro hid beneath the bed, distantly hissing.
“You know,” he said and he shook his wattled jowls, “You could double your money if you wrote that on a po…

What I did on my summer vacation

Everyone said I should take a vacation and so I took a vacation.
It was just me and my brother, Jeff, and we walked around New York City. We looked up at the buildings and at restaurants that sold pizza by the slice, and we looked at many people who were looking up at the buildings and restaurants that sold pizza by the slice.
We looked at the building where Lou Reed met John Cale…
…and the one where William S. Burroughs lived in the Seventies and Eighties:

We looked at the Chelsea Hotel, where Mark Twain and Allen Ginsberg stayed and where Sid killed Nancy and where Dylan Thomas died.
We looked at Central Park, which is a sort of enormous green hole punched into the middle of all of those buildings on Manhattan Island. In Central Park, we sat on a bench.

I showed my brother a picture of Genesis from 1972 and said, “Can we find this rock?” Sheepishly. I asked him sheepishly. And naively, too. As questions go, it was a pretty dumb question. Central Park is 6.1 miles around. One-point-three m…

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Astro is still here

It was not expected. It was something unexpected. I went to New York City and when I got back, home to Houston you know, Astro was here waiting for me. This was unexpected because I’d convinced myself, nearly to the point of acceptance convinced myself, that he was going to be gone.
And though how he might ever get out and away I do not know, I half-expect him gone each and every day upon my getting home from work. This day will be the day at last, yes. I close my eyes, always closing my eyes, and I picture in my mind behind closed eyes my house with all its assorted vulnerabilities. A broken front window, something breaking a front window and out he goes, or a person kicking in the back door for what could only be a disappointing robbery for the robber, or the landlord coming in unannounced for o I don’t know, decades-overdue maintenance on my townhouse, maybe.
It could happen.
I worry about these things, all of these things and more, and my worrying makes no sense, you would agree it…

Another hole in my head

I wish there were a way and probably there is, to quickly and simply zap it out of my mind. Out of memory Bzzz! Perhaps one even imagines a little electrode, of some sort, focused in upon my wrinkly wrinkly brain and burning away this precise memory and not one more, so that I, like you, simply do not know.

You will walk up to me then, anytime thereafter, I can see you, and you’ll say, “Hey, Harry, who did you vote for in 2016?” and I’ll show you my trepanning scar and say, “I don’t know” and you’ll believe me!
I don’t do that, no I don’t set out on the road to trepanation yet, for the very good reason of I don’t know that it would help, in the end. The next question – the very next question – in that scenario just laid out for you, it would be something like: “But you know who you probably voted for, right? It was [Insert Name Here], right? I mean, you know…”
You might see this as a problem only imagined and not real at all. You might say, “No one really cares, Harry,” but you’d be wro…

For those of us left behind

I remember the way I felt the day Astra Navigo murdered his blog. The day Squatlo killed his. The A Beer for the Shower guys theirs.
We found them in the dumpster, starved and strangled. Not even any blood. Discarded like leftovers. (The blogs, I mean.)
I felt. Betrayed.
This was a wrong, taken against me. Each one, each time. All this senseless killing. Blogicide, and it is not too much a thing to call it that, what it is, blogicide, is always a selfish act, you see, you know, because what about the ones, like us, who are the ones left behind? Left to pick up the pieces after? Left to carry on?
I remember. I remember those cowards. Those bastards. Those burn-outs. I do not forgive.
Now listen to me: I do not know who I am without a blog, not now, or, to be more specific, without planning my next blog post. Endless walks taken to find, hopefully, those perfect introductory words. This time, a relatable title. A repeatable catch phrase. And again and again, like Sisyphus, really, until i…

Something about sublimity, I suppose

Do not laugh at me please when you know I am right. It is a door – it is! – right into your unconscious. Into eternity. Yes. It is magic. Real magic. Each note is.
But then all the studies keep telling me we close the, well, to go on with my metaphor, I suppose, we close the door, sort of at 14 but definitely by 30. Studies, studies, studies.
The music stops. Then we’ll listen to the same music or else we’ll listen to music that sounds like the same music but I don’t want that. I do not want to listen to the same music as before. I do not want to listen to music that sounds like the same music as before. It’s more though, it’s even that I don’t want to find new music that makes me feel as I felt the first time I heard the music from before.
I want to find new music making me feel new things. New wonder, new anger, new love, everything new. I am old but the door is open. These are my new favorite magicians.
10. Juan Wauters They tell me he came from Uruguay, and he sings songs that sound s…

Maybe it will be dragons

Tonight it is quiet and calm. I’m trying not to worry. We’re here, right now, at this anniversary of everything, and if it should seem that I am more anxious than usual, it’s only because I am more anxious than usual. For good reason. I’m really trying, but anything could happen. Maybe it will be dragons this time this time. Or a storm again. Or the end of the old days. There’s no way to know, really.
This week is my annual near death experience.
Jamie left. You know this. It’s been six years today. I almost died, five years next Monday. And it’s hurricane season in Houston.
In my life where nothing ever happens, everything that happens happens this week. There was the year when my car blew up. Yes, that one. I remember. I said, “Of course it did,” and all my co-workers laughed. At me. They said, “You’re superstitious after all, Harry.” That night, our server room exploded and the firemen ran up twenty-seven flights of stairs, each one wearing a hundred pounds of equipment and nothing w…

Breakfast with Buck

I already started telling you this. Here. Catch up, catch up. -----------------------------------
Hard to watch, hardest to listen to, so it has always been for me. The tearing, the chewing and ingesting, right out in plain view, too – in public! – whereas it seemed to me such activity should be confined strictly to the private sphere, like in using the toilet or pleasuring oneself. Ah, it was a lost cause. Thoroughly established in the culture.
Still the relief I felt as Buck paused in feasting to pick up with his story was not a thing of insignificance. He said,
“Dear Saint Christopher, protect me today in all my travels along the road’s way. Give your warning sign if danger is near so that I may stop while the path is clear. Be at my window and direct me through When the vision blurs rom out of the blue. Carry me safely to my destined place, like you carried Christ in your close embrace.”
Buck said, “Yes, that was the ticket. Those were the magic words.” His sales went up and then no more fl…

Hang on, Saint Christopher

It is the eyeliner, is how you know. More than the famous discolorations on the skin, liver spots shall we call them, more than the sense of shrunkenness. And not the eyes themselves, no not that, they can remain as before for all I care of them, and not the eyelids, either, but a red line around the eyes, as though bright red eyeliner has been applied. It happens in the very old, consistently too, at some point of aging, and so it was with my breakfast partner, Buck.
Breakfast partner, pfshaw. The hardest thing was to look, the eating was reprehensible, what with the essentially raw eggs supposedly scrambled, he might as well have drunk them.
“Missouri… and Iowa… and Kansas… and Missouri... and Nebraska,” he said. This was the first thing he’d said to me ever during these our daily silent breakfasts at the West Gray CafĂ©. I was dumbfounded, it is not too much to say dumbfounded.
For lack of a better response, I said this: “Wh-wh-what?” and I set down my fork in order better to listen t…

Origins 2

This one is all about me.
I’m Harry and I was born in Omaha, which is in Nebraska, which turn and turn about is in America and I’d wager you have heard of that, America, probably, so I refuse to take this description any wider. If I wished to be all dramatic and literary and pretentious about it, then I’d say something like this: “I came into this world in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Seventy-Three.” But I do not wish to be all dramatic and literary and pretentious about it, so I’ll just say I was born in 1973. That’s hardly a year one is likely to associate with God much anyway.
Let’s get on with this.
To locate Omaha on a map, first you get a map and then you point to the very center of it. Look at where you’ve pointed. Your finger is somewhere around Omaha. To be honest, your finger is probably in the middle of a cornfield, but the cornfield is not far from Omaha. Back then, I mean in the Seventies and not when you pointed, the city was made up of stockyards and…

President Trump is missing!!!

There are many people, so many they can almost not be avoided and sometimes not at all and a few of these people I cannot avoid mentioning when I write. However, there exists one person, a person in particular, I have avoided, mostly, mentioning when I write until today.

I mention him here and now and I am sorry for that. And that person’s name is:
PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP.
I know I know but the thing is, what you should understand is I enjoy talking of politics as I enjoy other things in my life too, say, scratching rashy skin or picking the tiniest of hangnails or waiting about to vomit when nauseous.
There are friends, bloggers, and other people as well who say this to me: “Harry, why don’t you ever write about President Donald Trump in your blog?” They deserve an answer, I believe, and so this is it. If you choose to continue reading and why not, then you may notice my answer comes in three parts.
First, I have nothing to add to the discussion. I lack what might be called a novel angle.…

I kind of know how it feels

Obviously, it all brings back many memories for me. All of the people phone me, or a lot of people phone me, anyway, and they ask me what I think of the boys. All I can say is all there is to be said and all there is to be said is that I am glad it looks as though they’re getting out of there.
A cave is not a tree, how true that is – although I suppose, if pressed, one could do a rough list of similarities – and twelve Thai boys are not the one boy which was me, Harry.
As for words of advice, what good are they? Keep away from endorsements, maybe. I believe I’d tell the boys that. Yes. To sell one’s name and likeness as I did for a cheap knock-off version of Stretch Armstrong dolls was a mistake and my appearance on “Webster” a disaster, and “well-documented,” too, as they say.
Even now, even today, there are some times, not a lot of times but some times, when I get recognized as Harry the little boy in the tree from 1981. How many people are there who can say they’ve seen the top of N…