Such a pointless time this is, a pointless meandering of body and mind.

I just sent my attorneys a strongly worded, highly detailed analysis of matters related to my dad’s estate. The more I dig into the details of the situation the more I see that this is a textbook example of real property being rendered essentially worthless by factors associated with the mortgage collapse: home equity lines of credit, increased insurance rates (specifically in hurricane-hungry Florida), property tax increases, and on and on.

This will all pass — eventually. If anything we’re lucky that the place is only worthless and not losing money. I think it was Donald Trump who, at the worst period of his business, said he envied the homeless because they had nothing. Trump, with all his debts, had less then that, and the weight of those debts was worse than just having zero.

Not to compare myself to that hairball, but I remember being surprised to read that he had apparently said something insightful like that.

I could make the property profitable. I’m smart like that. Maybe I’ll do that.

I’m sitting at a Starbucks, looking at the pretty girls and noticing that many of the people here are here every single time I stop in.

….

It is a couple of days later. Speaking of the nearly-worthless property in Florida, I spent part of this day watching tropical storm Fay avoid the area where my building is. It was sort of funny, even if it reminded me of the night I arrived in that town a few days after my father died. There was a category 1 hurricane lurking off the coast of Florida that night, and I sat on the balcony of the motel room feeling like the wind was pile-driving my face. I was next to a Radisson (I think) and it looked like only one or two of that hotel’s hundreds of rooms were occupied.

A wet, sand-blown, gusty ghost town, the biggest ghost of all lingering in a blood stain on the floor of that apartment building I could not stand to be in.

My brother in law thought it was strange that I made an effort to see that blood stain. I don’t know why he bothered to tell me where it was if he did not think I might want to see it. It was covered by a couple of pieces of carpet and a small table. I lifted the table and the carpets to see it. It was shockingly red, and it almost made me smile, in fact it did make me smile because it was the last I ever saw of my dad. Over time the stain assumed a comical presence in my life, as the management company and others called to tell me they couldn’t get the damn stain out.

Anyway, not to go off on that shit tonight. Just letting memories mingle among themselves. I am at a crowded bar on Broadway listening to Neil Young, Joe Cocker, Meatloaf, and others of that vintage on the jukebox — or the Rock-Ola, as it’s called.

I am listening to the sounds. Listening to everything. The bartender organizing the liquor bottles. The chairs dragging over the floor. Words and sentences surfacing among the dinful flow of conversation. “The weird thing about it is…” “He pitched well…” Well, the dinful wave is a litte too steady, and I am only hearing bits from the 2 people next to me. The uniformity of the level of sound is intereresting.

It is interersting to me latetly how memories surface at chaotic moments. Checking for mail at my 181 today I found myself remembering a jacket in my closet, a jacket whose front pocket contains a pin from a friend’s wedding in 1995 or 1996. The pin had a picture of the bride and groom, and the picture made me yelp a little bit when I found it 8 or 9 months ago. I’m not going to identify the people pictured on this pin, but the marriage was a mess and ended after about a year. The marriage was forgettable enough that to be reminded of it with such a thud was alarming to say the least.

Why was I reminded of that pin? Because my high school alumni group sent an invitation to some sort of alumni event, and the invitation said “JACKET REQUIRED.” I rarely wear jackets these days, but the last time I looked for one I found that damn pin from a friend’s wedding in the front pocket. I guess I wore that jacket to the wedding.

I had no reason to think about that incident except for the words JACKET REQUIRED on a high school alumni mailing — a mailing I promptly threw away.

The music here is getting louder. Recently played: Marshall Tucker Band, Allman Brothers, and Bob Dylan. I was proud to have introduced my father to Bob Dylan’s music. He knew of Bob Dylan name but had presumed him a hippie counterculture pot head. Dad really loved the sound of “Blowin’ in the Wind,” saying it sounded hillbilly. I also introduced dad to Crosby, Stills and Nash, one song in particular being the “Southern Cross” that I liked so much. I remember he especially loved the lines

“I have been around the world, Lookin’ for that woman, girl, Who knows love can endure, And you know it will.”

I don’t think dad had any romance in his heart regarding the “woman, girl” thing, I think he identified with having “been around the world” and maybe he identified with “looking for” something. I remember how he spun his chair around when I played that song for him.

You know, I really have nothing to say tonight, do I?