Busyness; Upscale Laundry; Raindrops; "Stepford Children"

An uneventful weekend as usual. I'm always amazed at the number of activities some people manage to stuff into the period. As though every hour has to be scheduled.

There are several journals I read in which the writers are overly busy. In multiple paragraphs, they'll reveal all they've done. But it's interesting to note the absence of any mention of fulfillment or even enjoyment.

Several years ago, I read a discussion about the psychological problems of HBO's "The Sopranos." Everyone, especially Tony, is always doing something. The article went on to say that this busyness is a reflection of a form of depression.

These busy writers may be going through something similiar. Staying busy keeps the demons at bay.

I wondered to a friend at dinner if there was such a thing as an upscale laundry like the one in "My Beautiful Laundrette."

There are always some sturdy do-it-yourselfers there who are worth a causal glance or two. And not infrequently, there is someone I want to kidnap in a large garbage bag and rush home with.

As I meandered the aisles and shelves of WalMart I heard a thumping sound coming from the ceiling. Shortly, I was in a position where I could look out the doors. It was pouring! Visibility was down to a few yards. When I checked out, there was a mob of customers with bulging carts and screaming children waiting at the doors.

I hesitated for a few minutes, and then wheeled my cart into the downpour. The raindrops seemed to explode at they made contact. As though the drop were extraordinarily large or enhanced with something like depleted uranium.

By the time I reached the car, I was soaked. My shirt was drenched. The jeans were wet through and through. When I got home, the cats gave me their puzzled look. As if they were trying to decide who I was. My watery appearance was just enough at odds with their stored image of me to make them suspicious.

There was a black bound book on the table next to where I sat. I picked it up and discovered it was a catalog of portrait artists. Each page offered several samples from the artist's work. Oil on canvas, oil on linen, pastels, bronze.

All the grown-ups in the book appeared very distinguished. Portraits that you would hang over the 18th century mantle in your study in the summer home in the Hamptons.

Most of the subjects were kids under the age of ten. Lots and lots of kids. And in almost every photo, they were barefoot. As I turned the pages, the kids began to look the same, no matter which artist. After a point the words, "Stepford Children" popped up in my brain.

As I wrote this I thought of some lyrics from "South Pacific."

You've got to be taught,
before it's too late.
Before you're six or seven or eight,

to hate those whom your relatives hate.

Only one image from the book seemed true. It was of a teenager named Patrick. Causally dressed, hands in pockets, wearing an oversized maroon pullover. Totally unpretentious. I could almost hear him saying "Whatever!"

PAX!