Blogging is risky business. My last post — about the possibility of an afterlife — was suddenly slapped with a ‘This post is bullshit’ tag. By what or by whom I don’t know. It’s disconcerting to say the least, you feel like you’re walking — or typing — on eggshells.
There’s a lot worse than walking on eggshells, of course. Like walking barefoot on hot coals, which I think is practiced by certain religions. Or walking barefoot on broken glass. There was quite a bit of walking on broken glass in those old cowboy movie barroom brawls but they were never barefoot. I never saw one cowboy movie where a dude walked barefoot into a barroom brawl. Most of them even died with their boots on. That’s what I’d like to do — it’s more manly than dying in bedroom slippers, or what would be worse, those slip-proof socks they give you in hospital.
I saw a barefoot barroom fight in Florida. One of those coastal town bars where no shoes are required. I remember a Snowbird from Montreal who came down to Florida just to get his feet warm ended up with bloody feet. Nasty business.
That was Florida in the Miami Vice 1980s — great and grisly. My wife had a high paying job as a risk analyst for multi-national companies doing business in dangerous countries, and I was a lowly writer for the Miami Herald.
I was a pretty good reporter, but a classic example of Hunter S. Thompson’s definition of a journalist — a “fuckoff and a misfit.” That fit the Bill all right. It’s a miracle to me that my wife stayed with me for thirty years. Until she left the planet to be with the Silver Surfer.
Which explains why I now live alone on a meager fixed income in a hovel in the Lower Hudson Valley with a cat and half a dozen ghosts, not to mention half a dozen spirits contained in bottles labeled gin, rum, vodka, scotch, bourbon, cognac and a couple of others I can’t remember. All of which are getting more expensive every day.
But I manage to get by. I have enough money left over for French baguettes, Brie cheese and caviar. Brie spread on crunchy French bread topped with caviar and accompanied by a vodka martini with green olives. Delicious. And a Brandy Alexander for desert.
When I want a real meal I go to McDonalds and get a Big Mac and those skinny extra salty French fries — still the best fast food meal in the business.
But I digress, where was I? Oh, yes, the risks of blogging and — holy crap! There it is. See what I mean! Right out of the blue like that. This is diabolical. I must get to the bottom of it. This evening I will convene a meeting of the six ghosts and seek their advice on this matter. Five o’clock sharp. A wide variety of beverages will be served. Proper attire required. No shoes, no service.