Eighty degrees out there and I have not yet run.

Eating cheese and crackers instead. Drinking coffee all day. I’ll go out in an hour or two. I don’t think the cheese and crackers will cause a problem unless I shit in my drawers. Prone to a lot of leakage these days. I’m going to have to go to the disposable diapers I bought for Moki a couple weeks before he died. Never used them.

This morning was back at rearranging the books. I decided to put the Brian/DJT picture and his big green books on the upper right shelf on the south side of the living room. I had all the banking and financial books there. Moved them to the north side. Miscellaneous books on bottom shelves from now on.

Back in 2012 Grimm arranged one narrow red shelf of mine as a display of Telegraph obituary books, adored by ceramic sheep and a Dresden tableau of 18th century billiard players. That is gone now, full of finance and business books.

A discovery I made while clearing out some shelves: the C. Brown book, paperback memoir, A Life in T—. Not a good book at all, but it was not available on Kindle and I was curious how she presented her apologia. I don’t think she got many buyers. I bought it last year (June 19, Amazon says) and wrote a vague review. Mine was the only one. A month or so ago I took it down. Did not want my name associated with a thing like that. And it’s a bad book. Amazing how ham-handed most people are when giving their life stories. They begin by relating the versions they habitually tell others, and fill up the gaps with rationalizations.

A question came up with comments on my Tom Wolfe piece, relating to Jerzy Kosinski. I excitedly wrote a long shaggy-dog answer about my own slight run-ins with him. This morning I thought better of it and struck out half of what I wrote.

I have not picked up the mail in 3 or 4 days. I’m always dreading something. I see the London Review of Books is in the pigeonhold. That’s not what I dread. I dread something legal about that judgment. Seizing all my bank funds, pitiable as they are. How could they find them all anyway?

Voicemail from Paul B. this morning, which I returned. Somebody from the Marc J. Bern office, that colored girl I spoke to last week, is contacting him to verify what I told her, and to let him know that he’ll be getting abbreviated transcripts to sign and return. I remarked that no one has ever used me as a referent for one of these things, at least no VCF claim attorneys have contacted me. Paul said Woodley might have. Woodley’s claim has been held up because he was treated (prostate) at St. Vincent’s Hospital, which no longer exists. The records are locked up in an Iron Mountain facility in New Paltz.

Finished listening to Shelby Foote’s The Civil War, Volume III, this morning. Need something new.

Blair Sabol makes me think of New York magazine. I once did a typing test typing up a nearly unintelligible draft by her. I read only one real article by her, a terrible thing uncharacteristically appearing in Esquire, in which she did a stint as an Ikette in the Ike and Tina Turner Revue. A few years ago the New York Social Diary guy got her together with photographer Harry Benson. She’s older. She was 18 in the Courreges dress and boots.

Was looking through my brother’s FB page last night. First time I’ve done that. His current profile pic isn’t bad. Some group shots are surprising. He’s got one from about 2010 or 2012 with his three sons, wife or ex-, and my sister, who really looked prematurely decayed. I shall have to download that and make a copy for my albums.

Oops, it’s dated Christmas 2019. McSorley’s. Still my sister looks terribly dessicated. How does that happen? Bonnie looks good. And who is this Avital? I think perhaps Avital took the shot.

Drink a lot of that amino shit, take some B complex, D3 and mag orotate, slip on harness and 410 watch, and go out in the heat, preferably in something tech and sleeveless.