Updates from the life of a pickle stain, a lowly idiopathic pickle stain.

Bullocks.

I had caught Bruton Parker defacing my truck, just whipped it out and peed on the fender, like he was baby Jesus, peed on the fender, the rear fender, the bed, and I watched it for a second, my rage growing, the yellow filth dribbling down the fender, around my Luxury Coach ground effects, going on the tire and rim.

I watched him, and it was like De Niro in Goodfellas when he was at the bar after Luftansa, that little smile that said, "I'm about to kill you."  Yeah, Morris, you engineered the hit, and all, but you blowing our cover.  So there.

From the mortal coil, flung off, Morris, with his fur coat wife and his late-model Cadillac Eldorado.

"Don't make any big ticket purchases" and here he was, spending like an ass, such that we couldn't or wouldn't split a hare over those particular sploppy seconds.  He was gonna bring heat on the whole crew, doing that mess.

So there's De Niro laughing with his friends at the bar, then cut to the freezer scene with Derek and the Dominoes playing in the background.

"He's tying-up loose ends."

Souped his ass.

And there was Bolduan Jones from the 15th squad Magnum "T.A." Wagnon, and some other.  The officious little show, "George Goes To The Mayor", and all that stuff, Bolduan Jones explaining how he got his name, James Baldwin namesake, "Go Tell It On The Mountain", a man fighting his urges and instincts, taken up beyond sexuality or lack off, swishing pants legs, into a religious ecstasy, and his old fat mother knowing all the while he was as genuine as a three dollar bill.

And others, disparate characters, chanting, "I make water with my peepee" and so forth, the clarion call that stretches valiantly forth across generations of time unknown, people and places of the generations, curses and faiths and things, everybody with a little spirit wire taken up behind the ear, and all that, and inevitably, I take up the familiar refrain and chant along, "It make water, my peepee."

I mark every trick, but some only after the fact, some when I've gotten eggs tossed on my lap, and maybe I feel beaten, but that stupid optimism, that all dissipation and concession is cause for learnings, and learnings chalk-up to future victories, a sort of human capacity that evolves over time, like the Olympic records getting broken now and then, and few old records standing in modernity, a kind of progress and improvement that catches so many very regular and joy-worthy people under its boot-heel.

And Fardnoy's Complaint had got good.  It was a mother and son romance scene, that brooked partly looking like romance, but could be lenses as Platonism, proper, as it were, upright, and the father had come in and said, "You're at this, again, I see."  But I was rather jarred by the thing, the unfamiliar characters of it, and it was taken ambiguously as it was written; these men dubiously shill for the antagonist in any of their works, because somehow has to defend them, and the whole thing just makes it more or less unsatisfying, hugs that choke the air off and all.

Meanwhile, other people, away from employment binging on sex and drugs and chocolate milk and streaming video.

It used to be R&B or Rock'n'roll, I note, but now, obscure streaming shows, maybe, and things that were meant to scream for attention, things that might be good, but are totally crowded around in the market to make the whole protoplasm of usage diluted, and people only come together now for things like my blog and the Superbowl, in that very same sequence.

De Niro had put Bruton Parker in the freezer, and Morris, and Stax, and the others.  "Loose ends."  It was, and from the mortal coil, somewhat separated.