The Legend of the Great Bootsock is a sorry homily for the rest of us who have talent, but zero gumption to keep fighting the hard fight against time and condition and geography.
The Great Bootsock got his name as the star of his small-town high school football team. As the true freshman quarterback of his team, he won the first game he ever played by diving over a goal line scrum — even though one of the opposing players had grabbed his sock and was pulling him back from the score.
When the sock pulled away from the aggressor’s grasp, it wrapped around the heel of the great Bootsock’s cleats, sticking there like a flag of immediate infamy and respect, and the Legend of the Great Bootsock was born.
Ella was born rich — if you consider a revocable living trust an exploitable financial asset — into a family of a self-made lawyer father, who was rumored to be a Midwestern consigliere for the East Coast mafia, and a mother who bred racing horses in the backyard of their remote, and expansive, farm. Her mediating older brother was a template of his harsh father. Ella was a meek mimeo of her mother.
I have a rather darling friend who prefers to remain nameless for the endurance of this story. I reluctantly agreed to protect the identity of the innocent.
The other day, my lovely friend was walking in the Woodside, Queens area of New York City when a small woman approached and told my friend she was seeing “The Letter J” swirling around her. Startled, and a little unsettled, my good friend — FOR SOME REASON! — confirmed to the tiny stranger that her name did, in fact, begin with “J” and the street scam was on!
It seemed a little sacrilegious to actually walk up the steps painted with Monet’s water lilies. There is a lift which provides wheelchair/disabled access as well should this be needed and an excellent cafe at street level.
When you get to the top of the steps you are greeted by this statue and a view over the streets around you.
I have never been a fan of Twitter or Facebook or the other social nooses that now pass for content creation, and I’m glad when I read — every so often — that I am not alone in my disdain for the lonesomeness of a hooligan world gone viral:
It’s toast. Over. Done. History. Soon to be as behind the curve as Facebook, someday completely forgotten like Friendster.
It’s the cacophony.
You see there are too many people on the service. As a result, very few are heard. It’s happened over the past six months, tweeting is like a stone in a waterfall, or more accurately, pissing in the wind. In other words, if you tweet and nobody reads it have you wasted your time?
Today Rick Warren tweeted something I wrote. He’s got in excess of a million followers. The fact that I can reach him stuns me. But despite his only tweeting twice since then, the retweets have not gone nuclear. Oh, there are plenty, a double digit number, nineteen to be exact, but if it had been six months ago, I’d be a hero at the Saddleback Church.
Morning fog, cool and thick, hovered just above the churning peaks of the water that enveloped the grey Kerry Coast. The spot was hundreds of miles away from land, and despite its loud, sloshing waves, the word that a witness would use to describe the scene would probably be “dead.”
The wind was at a standstill, and there were no sea hawks or gulls unleashing proud squawks, nor any eager creatures jumping out of the sea for a gulp of air. The spot seemed frozen and untouched, and when a dark, looming shape began to emerge from the east, its presence was so startling that it seemed to crash loudly through the fog.