The Writer's Life 2/2 - Right On, Python

In an op-ed piece in today's NY Post Salena Zito writes: "... liberals still believe they’re the side with the most power and influence because of their cultural dominance. The arts and entertainment world confirms their prejudices daily. The real world, however, does not." To coin a phrase used in '60's and '70's: "Right on!" The Post also had the following three juicy tidbits, edited by yours truly: An 11-year-old New Jersey girl is having phenomenal success selling Girl Scout cookies. She's sold more than 16,000, incorporating email and a refreshingly honest approach. She has evaluated each of the products on a scale of ten. None has been given the maximum. Her favorite is the Samoa, which she rates "...nine for its amazing flavor." She describes the Tofee-tastic as: "...bleak, flavorless, gluten-free wasteland... as dirt." And rates it one. Kudos, kid... Cat Marnell, a young woman who covered the fashion industry for various publications, has written a book about her experiences: How to Murder Your Life: A Memoir. I bet it sells millions. People prefer non-fiction when it comes to glimpses into the celebrity world, as opposed to a novel that isn't a roman a clef, such as Rising Star by yt. C'est la vie. Good luck, young lady, especially with maintaining sobriety...  And from the Weird But True column: a 23-year-old Oregon woman's pet python slithered its way into her pierced ear, which a doctor numbed so that it could be extracted. How odd that the only picture I found of it is posted at metro.co.uk:

Dreams are fascinating and puzzling. I always resort to Freud's thesis of their being wish fulfillment to try to figure them out, and it works occasionally. I had two vivid ones this AM. In the first I was playing golf with a friend. I was unable to find a comfortable spot on the tee box, and kept changing spots, to the consternation of my buddy Cuz. I was edgy because I'd launched 20 good drives in a row. It is so like me to believe the percentages will turn around and find a realistic level. I doubt the
most successful players suffer such nonsense. I see them as perpetually confident and positive. Anyway, I dilly-dallied so long, the group behind us caught up. And soon one of the course managers drove up in a cart and took the pin from a nearby green. Cuz obviously didn't like the guy. The place was getting ready to close, prematurely it seemed. I haven't played in more than three years, so the dream may reflect nothing more than a desire to get back on the links. Perhaps I long even for the days when we used to rush to Forest Park after work, tee up about 4 PM, and hurry to complete 18 holes. Two aspects are odd. The number 20, for one, as there are only 18 holes, and driver isn't used on several. And Cuz's dislike of the manager - we got along well with all of them... The second dream was completely bizarre. Brad Pitt was driving a mid-sized truck. He went into the back of it and placed a long thin strand across the width of a cot. In the middle of Bay 37th Street, the block I grew up on, stood a big tree, blocking the way. The truck mounted the curb and was driven in reverse down the length of the sidewalk. It then crashed into the vegetable garden in the vacant lot across Bath Avenue, which has been gone for decades, replaced by a center for the handicapped, I believe. The truck sped away with greenery on each side of it. The tree may represent the difficulty parking seems to have become. Does the long thin strand also represent the lack of space? The truck mounting the sidewalk may represent the only way out when a double-parked car blocks egress to the street. Parking is frequently a colossal pain in the butt in Brooklyn, so the enigma may simply represent a desire to be free of it.

My thanks to the woman who purchased The Dhammapada: Verses on the Way by Buddha and Glenn Wallis and Your Inner Beauty by Jill Freeman, and to the sweet, elderly Russian woman who bought Temperatures Rising by Sandra Brown, and to Ira, a retired tailor, who bought Jeans of the Old West, a pictorial by Michael Harris, which the Fed-Ex guy had donated yesterday, believing no one would buy it. I told him Ira might. My thanks also to the gentleman who donated three John Grisham
hardcovers, which his fuss budget daughter had discarded because they were bought used by a friend who wanted to help her replace the books she'd lost to Hurricane Sandy. They are in good condition.

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