You Were Always on My Mind

Just shows how things change when you get old.  This Willie Nelson song used to make me furious.  So what if she was on your mind while you were boffing everything that came to a show.  Wanna come back to the bus?  But, yeah, uh, I was thinking of you all the time!

Now, however, after several decades more life experience, the song makes me cry.  Yeah, all those years you were on my mind.  Of course everything makes me cry.  Starlings at the feeder, sob.  Adorable puppy asleep five feet from me, fox-eared Shiba next to me on the couch, big poodle doing the head-hang out of a little dog bed, another big poodle stretched out on another chair, bb-b-b-b-b-bbbblubberrrrr.  John Mayer, oh yep.  He wants to run through the halls of his high school, what the fuck?  Tears.  Preposterous.

So I’m still kind of addicted to the SFShiba mystique, the suck-ups and the tongue-out Tuesdays and the 4295 likes for a picture of a dog.  Another picture of a dog.  The same dog, different angle.  The mini-lectures on San Francisco where he doesn’t live.  Still, close enough.  I’ve been past his house.  Actually his old house.  Anything looks good in that climate.  Sunshine.  I have a cousin whose son “takes care of rich people’s dogs” in Marin County, where the big guy lives.  She is contemptuous, since he was trained at Tufts to do serious work, like anesthetizing guinea pigs and sheep.

And what was it I thought when I saw the picture of BAF at a cult gathering?  Plump and pleasant and how does she have the cohones to show up out there?  It’s the old good girl thing.  No matter how hard I try I can’t figure out why the sixth-grade-girl analogy was so offensive.  It’s all like sixth grade, dude.  Any office, any classroom, any club or gathering.

I notice he’s posted an old picture of himself, during the happier days at LucasArts, in which he looks goofy and sweet and air-headed and buff around the neck and shoulders.  Now he’s bespeckled and I would have thought he’d prefer that image for the public one.  A student of the dog.  The doge.  Educating us about Japan and sharing the vacation photos.  Liking half of the 935 comments on every blasted picture.  How does he do it?

And the same people oohing and aahing and spewing life-sized emoticons.  Why does this still get under my skin?  BS, every time.  She once scolded me personally for intimating she shoved her way to the big guy’s side every time the cameras came out.  She does the same thing every time he posts a picture.  Does her computer send out some kind of alarm the minute he hits “return”?

My husband says if I write about this I “limit my audience.”  Well.  Not only do I limit my audience but I zone my audience, separating out all the people who don’t approve of me.  And this is what worries me, what I think about.  That and death.  SFShiba and death.  It was ever thus.

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