The day held another surprise. I received, via the U.S. Postal Service, a free sample issue of Rolling Stone. Under the paper cover informing me that I am eligible to receive four more free issues (which would cease to be free only if I consent to purchase a subscription at the regular price -- who ever thought up that brilliant marketing ploy?) there was the regular cover of the magazine with a picture of a hairy, tattooed Ben Affleck on it. Soft core gay porn! Free! It's been years since I've read a copy of Rolling Stone. When, in my happily misspent youth, I haunted the Free Press Bookstore in Pasadena's then un-gentrified West End, I used to pick up a copy of the then San Francisco based publication, printed on newsprint with ink that came off on your hands, filled with articles about Jefferson Airplane and Country Joe and the Fish and Tim Buckley and other icons of the soon-to-be-co-opted music revolution. I think it cost a quarter in those days. After they moved to New York, they began printing it on slick paper, putting staples in it and allowing movie stars on the covers. That was when I quit buying it. Just as well. Ben might actually be a nice guy, for all I know, but there's no way in Hell I'd pay $3.95 for a pop culture magazine, even if it has his picture on the cover.
Meanwhile, in the real world, Spring has fairly exploded into being. Oaks which scant days ago thrust bony, bare branches into overcast sky now flourish with an abundance of fresh green leaves, and the various flowering trees and bushes are bursting with color. Day hums with bees, and birds are nesting everywhere. The sexual riot is well under way, and the woodland is like nature's version of some Cecil B. DeMille production about Rome in its decadence, plunged into luxuriant indulgence, abandoned to lust. I don't want to miss a minute of it!
