It's tough for me, blogging when I have no idea what I plan to blog ABOUT.
I sat down with the intention of blogging a bit, since I've been a shade lax here of late, and I realised I didn't have a title, didn't have an idea, had no real conception of what I was about. And still don't really.
I thought about shaking my fist at the sky, but that gets old for a lot of people, and a lot of my fist-shaking is based on personal stuff, so you guys can be perfectly honest with me and tell me that it sucks.
I thought about talking art, but that's for the other blog.
I even thought about blithering wildly about leaving my old job tomorrow (a final 8 hours in harness to office supplies and then freedom) and about the joys and nerves of starting a new job, but we've all been through that, so there's not a lot of unplumbed depths there.
So, let's talk about Papa. Hemingway, that is. I've read exactly one book of his, "Green Hills of Africa," I think it was, and saw the Thomasville Gallery commercial with the East African furniture collection, so let's go with that, shall we?
See, I was going to give you guys a link direct to the gazelle-horned tiger-striped-cloth seat chair, but I can't seem to do that since Thomasville has this mega-ultra Java-powered crazy site that has one address and exactly one address, and you have to go hunting for anything else you want to find, but if you click on Furniture, then Living Room Furniture, and then Gallery, you can get pretty close to it. I think.
My question is this--who in their right mind would want a chair with faux antelope horns? It can't be comfortable, there isn't a smooth surface on it to rest your elbows, and what happens in a year or so when you decide that decorating the den in Early Forties African Veldt isn't working for you anymore and you have to sell off the elephant's leg umbrella stand and the stuffed cheetahs and the Hemingway's Horns chair?
Now honestly, I'd be more than happy to have one or two of those ghastly things in my house, but I'm also a big fan of glass and steel bookcases and wingback chairs in the same room, and tables with the funny ball-and-claw feet, and Danish modern stuff, so my taste is, shall we say, "questionable." Ask anyone--I still think that dark green walls and burgundy trim is the cat's pyjamas, and a fedora is still the gentleman's ONLY real fashion accessory. Along with pocket watches, that is. And a fountain pen.
But I digress.
Ibex horn chair. Honestly. Even if you get the optional leather seat, in the "Rotting In The Sun For A Week Zebra Carcass Skin Green" which actually is the official HTML name of the current background colour for my blog, oddly enough. So what sort of maniac is going to order a room full of them? The sort of guy who owns a Steyr Manlicher Model SL Bolt Action Rifle in a caliber so big they have to make the rounds from old Ford 289 engine blocks, that's who. The sort of guy who has a huge white handlebar moustache that he spends more time on than he does making love to his wife, Bubinga. The sort of man who owns a pith helmet and knows how to use it.
In short, a man who has been touched by Papa. A guy who probably drinks gin. A guy who once spent a whole airplane flight reading "Green Hills of Africa," wondering just what the hell he was reading, why he was reading it, why he wasn't rereading some Kafka, and why he really couldn't STOP reading it even tho it was just a bunch of big sweaty guys with high powered rifles trying to kill fast brown animals in a near desert while The Wife sweated in a silk tent at base camp. The Hemingway that is, not the Kafka. The Kafka is more often about small burrowing animals or righteous big roaches.
And then there comes a time when I sort of run out of stuff to say, like now.