Finished Out With "Fish"

 

We turned right up onto the approach to the Mid-Hudson Bridge and it was my  turn and I asked for The Damned.  Spelled it out and asked her to look for “Damned, Damned, Damned”, “Neat, Neat, Neat” to start please.  And with that I was trying to explain how it was the New York scene had become the London scene and who Captain Sensible and Rat Scabies were.  “Fan Club” followed, staring down at the Hudson.  I think we finished out with “Fish” by the we turned left into Oakwood.  I don't believe she's been converted, but certainly she has been exposed to one more piece of the “Class of ’77” puzzle.  You don't know.  It might prove critical someday.  

Back home in time to change, pen an email or two and head on out for Westchester.  I drove down to Armonk to see my orthopedist again.  Last time he’d asked me to get a back x-ray and to visit a podiatrist.  Having done all that this was the follow-up.  I asked the secretary the day before if a physical visit was really necessary.  This was a seventy-minute drive down and she predictably said it was.  Five minutes in the Doc was done.  Consider the same physical therapy the other doctor had mentioned.  And, after I looked incredulous, yes, sure, let’s try a pad (which you can procure in Walgreens) in one shoe first.  I asked which one and was somewhat relieved to see he knew without checking. 

 

All the way down I spoke with my little sister.  She told me about her driving through the south.  (We’re considering heading to Dallas for a visit to my younge daughter’s pal, who relocated from Beijing out there.)  My sister’s been to Nashville.  She’s been to Memphis and Little Rock too.  But she couldn’t recall Cleveland.  I told her the Cleveland Museum of Art sure did look remarkable online.  But it was mostly about listening to her and her animated memories from what she had seen of the South.   But driving is taxing, certainly and if we drive eight hours to get somewhere, I doubt we’re gonna want to do much besides eat and go to sleep. 

On the way home I chatted with my high school pal who’s there in Oakland.  He and his wife’s adopted son must be about four years old now.  A lovely young gent, they had been convinced he hailed from India and my friend had fanned his natural fascination for India with a steeping of complementary reads, preparing for the day when he might need to talk intelligently about the place with his son.  But a genetic test suggested his ancestry was Ethio-Tigrayan and his reading had veered accordingly.  We talked Wilfred Thessinger and Elvyn Waugh as I drove along 52 in an attempt to steer around a jam on 84’. 

 

 

 

Thursday, 06/03/21