March 4, 2015

Last night was the rehearsal where I got the rhythm, felt I knew the oily Count, felt secure. There is typically one day when this comes, and I am glad this time that it was not later.

Poking around on the real estate pages, I discover that my house was built in 1923, that it is officially a 3 bedroom house in which four unrelated people were living previously, and that Stewart sold it to me for a $100,000 more than he bought it for. His improvements are pretty spectacular, so I do not begrudge that. 62 is listed as a “four bedroom apartment,” which is the last thing I would have thought of. One page emphasizes that it has the lowest evaluation in the neighborhood, though I think that was severe. I made $100,000 on that sale, too, though I will probably never actually see the money.

I’m going on about the high philosophies and benefits of the Enlightenment and Romanticism, and one girl raises her hand and says, “Yes, but only if you’re a white male.” I know she felt compelled to do it. I know she has a women’s studies teacher who admonishes her that this observation must be made in every class. I know that she was serious as cancer, but I can barely get past my initial response, which is to smile and say “there, there.’ She did open the door to my lecture on the differences between precept and practice, all practice being flawed.

The Ferguson cops were punks. We knew it; now it’s official. The homeless man murdered by police in Los Angeles (who was down on the ground and outnumbered 6 to 1) “reached for an officer’s gun.” We know that is a coward’s lie. How long will this go on?