The Great Honey Hunt
/The whole point of a random system is that you don’t have to choose—because you don’t get to choose—it’s like having a boss tell you what to do, and the freedom inherent in that. But I kept trying to pick my next, old, restaurant to write about, and I kept vetoing the random picks—for various reasons—didn’t appeal to me, in a city I have bad associations with, or the big one, the place no longer exists, and I can’t even find the address. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, anyway. Substack makes you look at your “stats”—when I started mine, with such optimism—thousands of views—which could only mean followers, likes, subscribers, a fast track to the paid version where I write about my sexual fantasies or something and the next thing you know, I’m on easy street. But this old restaurant business, no… By last week, I was down to ONE VIEW. Thank you, whoever. The reason I disabled any tracking on my website (well, besides, then, I don’t have to have that annoying message pop up that asks for permission to track you—because I don’t) is so that I can pretend that someone is actually reading stuff there.
Giving up momentarily on the random pick, I tried to watch TV, but the only two channels I get that show movies are playing a Western and a Biblical epic (because it’s Easter weekend, I guess), so I’m switching between the two in order to try to avoid that really long commercial where people have the giant blue plastic robot connected to their nose. It’s just desert and horses, in both of them, vaster and vaster desert, and more and more horses, grizzled, bearded guys, desert, and dust. Then a fight breaks out. Then more desert and horses. Bible movies and Westerns—same thing, I guess, with more interesting weapons in the Bible movies. The invention of guns was a real story-killer.
Walking around, earlier, I checked the menu at a place I used to eat, occasionally—years ago, to be fair, but still, it was kind of shocking—what I used to get for $6 is now $16. I let my appetite subside. Today (I’m writing this on Friday night) was the first day of summer, and everyone was out. People love sweating, I get it. There were some intriguing smells. So many little kids. The lockdown babies will be driving in a few short years. A 1960s Mustang with the top down drove by me, and I guess I was staring, a great looking car, and the driver acted like he was going to kick my ass—he just wanted to blend in, maybe? But it reminds me of a dream I had midweek where I was driving a convertible Mustang, like a madman, at dusk, lights on, trying to get to this public pool because someone had told me the bear I was taking care of had been acting up, so they gave it sedatives, and were now worried about the bear’s reaction to the drugs. Finally, I arrived, and there were lots of people around the pool, still, some still swimming. Beside the pool, near the deep end, there was the bear, reclining heavily but seeming to be okay. Relaxed from the drugs, I guess. No one was paying it any attention. I don’t know what kind of bear—black, brown? Anyway, huge, well over six feet when standing, four to five hundred pounds, a beautiful animal. But why was I in charge?
I woke that morning just glad that the dream meant I had fallen, at some point, not off the ship, but back to sleep. But what did it mean? I had not been thinking, reading, watching TV, or talking about bears, or convertible Mustangs, or swimming pools—there was no connection. Those are the best dreams, though, the ones that make you think you have actually traveled to different lands. There is a world beyond this one, and no one understands what it is! I mean, really, could there be anything more exciting than that?
Since I celebrated my 217th soap review, on my website, this week, I suppose it would be a good time to retrieve another from the archives (28 June 2017). Another mystery soap, enjoyed while cat sitting. I referred to it only as: Green Cube – “Hippie Legacy” – was baffled at the time, but in retrospect, I’m wondering if it wasn’t an olive oil soap with laurel oil. Regardless, here’s the review:
Another odd shape—square, brick-like—but it's huge and very rounded at the edges, suggesting that it might have once been so big that it took two people to carry it into the bathroom (and creates a whole different concern about dropping the soap in the shower). This one has a more discernible smell than the others; it's kind of mossy and plant-like and really brings to mind something that hippies would like because it's totally natural—pleasantness be damned—kind of like when vegetables have had too much time in your drain strainer. Is there a slight essence of patchouli?—or am I just imaging that because I'm thinking about hippies using this soap (but sparingly—somewhat in conflict about using soap at all). Maybe this soap cube has been passed down from one generation of hippies to the next, which would make it kind of old, and kind of neglected. —Soap Review No. 4
—Randy Russell 4.20.25