LARGETONY Blog

I know about painting of a certain type, but I don’t know much about art. I just know what I like.

I like this painting. It’s by an artist named Jack Vettriano.

I first became aware of him about a few years ago when I saw a painting of his called “Elegy For A Dead Admiral“. i was completely taken over by the colors and the mood. I bought a copy of the print but I decided to tuck away and wait until the day comes that I am in a house that is all my own. I’m going to hang it in the dining room.

Later, I got one of those coffee table books of his works and loved just about everything I saw. He is apparently a Scottish painter (despite his name) but all his paintings have this sort of richness that makes me think of photos and old movies that feature Italy in the 1950’s and 60’s: sensual, soulful, maybe sometimes even a little perverted.

Maybe that’s why I like his stuff. I’m a little soulful and perverted.

Anyway, something always drew me to the painting above, my second favorite of his. I speaks to me and I’m not sure why. Who are those guys and what are they doing? The painting is titled “On the Border.” What are they on the border of?

I sometimes think maybe it’s me and the Attorney. Two guys who are definitely connected in some way. One a little older, but not a father. One a little taller, but not a brother. Both kind of lanky and goose-necked. If they had sattelite dish ears, I’d be sure it was us.

I knew the painting before I knew the Attorney. But maybe the painting was put there to help guide me when the time came.

We’re on the border, ourselves. Or on the verge.

On the verge of the next level.

Like the guys in the painting, the sunset illuminates us on the horizon.

Ready to walk into it.

Together.

I bought a print of this one recently.  I’m going to give it to the Attorney.

Tomorrow.

It’s his birthday.

Overheard in line at a gas station market:

Young Woman with Meth Mouth: Hey there, darling!

Old Woman with TB Cough: Hey, Girl!

YWWMM: When’d you get out?

OWWTBC: I been out since February.

YWWMM: I just got out today.

OWWTBC: Congratulations, honey…

YWWMM: Had to get me a Slurpy. Ain’t had one in a long time.

OWWTBC: I guess not.

YWWMM: I love them Slurpies. Hey, give me a ride back to back up to Donnie’s momma’s. You going that way? Gas done got so high since I been in I had to walk down.

OWWTBC: You still with Donnie?

YWWMM: Donnie’s locked up to. But his check still comes to his momma’s. I told her she need to break off most of it to me to help pay for my baby.

OWWTBC: You carrying?

YWWMM: No. But she don’t know that.

OWWTBC: I never heard of such. What are you gonna do when times comes you should be showing.

YWWMM: (with blind confidence) Slip in the shower and miscarry.

The 500th post.

It’s about 2 AM. I can’t sleep. I don’t sleep. If it weren’t for the fact that I love garlic, I would wonder if I had some vampire in my blood.

I just came in from the screen porch. It’s such a great night out. About 65 degrees. Just cool enough to firm up your nipples, but not enough to give you the chills.

Sitting in my underpants, a gentle breeze licked across my torso and legs and brought with it a cocktail of Spring scents: the sweet of honeysuckle; the savory of fresh cut grass; and the bitter of Bradford Pear trees.

If the smell is not the Bradford Pears then somebody downwind just got a facial from an entire football team. (In case you don’t know, the blossoms smell like cum.)

The nearly full waning moon filtered through the trees and highlighted the white of my undies, as well as my untanned pastiness where I’m covered by a shirt and shorts at work. Astrologists say that a waning moon is the time to wind down and bring things to completion.

So, was the moon a sign telling me to work my semi up and add to the stench of the Bradfords? I am a Cancer and we are ruled by the moon. (And the astrologers never specified the kind of completion.)

Or maybe the moon was just saying “relax and get that 500th post over with.”

I never thought I would make it to 500. Not at the rate I post, anyway. Some bloggers hit 500 in their first year. Yet, here I am closing in on the end of year four and just getting around to it.

A few weeks ago, when I saw number 500 on the horizon, I got it into my head that it would have to be something special. A great post. Maybe even the best post ever.

I thought I would shit my britches.

And I probably would have if I wasn’t so constipated with self-induced writer’s block.

It’s funny how we do this to ourselves. How we will go out of our way to give significance to the things that are already significant on their own. It’s like we put ourselves through an endless cycle of “My Super Sweet 16.”

We get so focused on our grand entrance (you have to watch the show) and the Mercedes that we lose sight of the really significant things like loving parents, good friends, a roof over our heads, and all the other things that made it such a super journey to sixteen.

My journey to the 500th post has been about just spitting out whatever is rolling around in my head on any given day. Even the “planned” posts like Hump Day and HNT are still subject to what’s going on in the moment. Some of it good. Some of it not so good.

And if it ever on occasion was great, it was purely by coincidence. Just another spit.

And so is number 500.

T.G.I.H.N.T.

Thank God it’s Half-Nekkid Thursday. Other wise, I might not have posted anything at all.

And I hate it when I leave you guys SOL.

BTW, my next post will be #500,

That’s an important one.  So, I’ll try to make it something that A-OK.

I got an e-mail this evening from another blogger who was curious about the theme template for this blog. That was a surprise to me because I think my blog is so Plain Jane, I never imagined someone would be looking for something similar.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the look of my blog. It’s very orderly. Maybe he has COD, like I do.

Anyway, he introduced himself in the e-mail, so I thought I would tromp over and check out his blog, WELCOME TO EARTH DAVID.

The first post I came across was a video of him dancing. It reminded me of the Jiggy Dances, first made popular by BrettCajun, and picked up by others like Kelly.

I have been challenged to take part in the Jiggy Dance Off, but I would just be terrible. Besides, I have to laugh every time I hear about it, because “Jigging” has a whole different meaning to me from childhood. Now, some of you might like a video or two of that.

David is pretty good at it. So, it seems like BrettCajun and other Jiggers might have a new Jigger to contend with. And you Jigger lovers will have an addition to your viewing schedule.

Hopefully, Brett can handle the competition. I’d hate to see his Jiggy Dancing career go into a downward spiral like I’ve heard his tennis career has.

Allegedly, of course. I don’t know that from Brett. He doesn’t say much when things are not going well. And his blog has been awfully devoid of news from the courts, lately…hmmmmm.

May Day can mean different things, depending on who you are. For some it’s a time to dance around a pole with ribbons (I never understood why). For some it’s a cry of distress. In old Russia, it was a time to celebrate. It still is for the Klan.

I called the Attorney on the way down to Knoxville.

“I’m coming to town.”

He wasn’t expecting it. So. he asked if everything is okay.

“Fine. I’m going to see my mama.”

May Day is the anniversary of my mother’s death. Eighteen years ago, today. I have not had a mother four years more than I had one.

“Do you need some company or is it something private,” he asked me.

“I always go by myself.”

“Oh.” I sensed a little bit of disappointment in his response.

“But, if you want to…” I offered.

He got there much later than I did. I figured it was because he was coming from work. But he said he just wanted to give me some alone time. Plus, it turns out, he stopped on the way to get a little potted plant to leave for mama.

He handed me his jacket and squatted on the balls of his feet, careful to not let the knees of his suit pants hit the grass. He clawed at the ground with his bare hands and used his long fingers to dig out a 2-inch square spot. He plugged the flower into the little hole and mashed the earth around it with the flat of his big hands.

I questioned whether it was allowed that we plant our own things.

His knees popped as he stood up and brushed off his fingertips. “I don’t know. But the plot is paid for, right? Seems to me you can do what you want.”

He made a good point. Plus, it made my mother’s simple little grave seem a little less lonely.

She’s there all by herself. My father was buried someplace else. (Not sure why.) But my granddaddy is someplace else, too. And Granny will joining him when the time comes. There’s room for me. But, I want to be set on fire instead of decaying in the ground.

It makes me worry that I don’t visit more than once a year.

The Attorney says that once a year is acceptable. I don’t know. Acceptable doesn’t mean right.

It was awfully quiet out there on a Thursday evening. About the only sound was the breeze that was bringing the clouds threatening rain.

So we stood there in silence.

I never talk out loud to mama. I always feel a little silly when I do. Because she doesn’t answer back out loud.

Eventually the Attorney came up and bumped his shoulder against mine. It’s his version of PDA. I slipped my arm around his lower back and pulled him a little closer.

“This is him,” I said out loud.

And it didn’t feel silly.

May Day is the day that I introduced the Attorney to my mother.

If i had a hammer…I’d be like the dude on the baking soda box.  Sort of.  I don’t bulge as much, though. Not in the bicep. I’m more suited for Charm & Rammer.