20 from '21 (more or less)

To say that 2021 was one Hell of a year, is either an absurdly honeyed toad OR a tragic misunderstanding of Hell.

Let’s begin with last January, the first month of this liposuction clinic dumpster fire.

In one of a handful of political rants, I raged on the Out-of-Control Orange Id and his blindingly moronic renfields’s coup attempt. I also had one of my last seizures. Remember those?

I also wrote myself a list of ways I could, possibly, pull my mood out of this smelly swamp.

In February, the hardest month of any year, I kvetched but attempted to offset that with cat memes.

And there were dreams.

March brought surgery numero uno—the brain.

I came home in April with a rock solid understanding of what to do before I ever need another sub acute rehab facility—visit the joint, interview staff on all levels and NEVER believe the ‘star’ratings.

In May I thought about a few women I used to work with. which led me to, later, making friend definitions and categories.

Daddy let go of this mortal coil on the morning of June 19th. Between my OR addiction and COVID, I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Now it was too late—funerals are for the living.

July brought important questions such as, ‘do Chiclets still exist?’ I also waxed far less than poetically about my spazoid leanings, threw up my hands and posted pics

In August I absolutely had to sort out the very important differences between robots, androids and cyborgs. Hey, this shit’s important!

Included in September were, definitions, substandard coworker/‘friends’and more pics. Plus, my late arrival to the Vermeer Fan Club.

I went out for groceries in October and was stunned by a blue moon.

I also discovered the proper way to decorate a car for the holidays.

November, yes, just last month, brought yet another neurosurgery and my attempt to ease staff-to-deafie communication. It didn’t always go as planned or hoped.

This month, December, I looked at Latin phrases (fascinating shit!), and had some important questions about food.

Now we’re at the end of the year. I’ll refrain from further commentary and well wishes lest I jinx the motherfucker. Cheers!

 

More Lights

Magical Kindle World

Here in Kindleville I’ve stumbled across one thing that I miss about ink and paper books—skipping ahead to see how things turn out.

I know that sounds like a crime against storytelling. I'm cheating! Hear me out though—if I can jump ahead and see that my beloved characters survive, I can go back to where I left off and calmly enjoy reading through to the end. It’s a stress reduction scheme. Fer fuck’s sake, don’cha think I’ve got enough of that stress shit in my life already?

Another reason to skip forward—let’s say I’m not keen on the author’s way with words, their lexical brushstroke. I still might want to see how the tale plays out before putting the book in the ‘donate’ pile. Life’s short—why slog through a book that I find sloppily, boringly or masturbatorally written.

OK, there IS a way to skip ahead on the Kindle. At this early point in my e-readering, it feels cumbersome—not as simple as with a nice paperback.

Why’s this come up now? I’ve been reading Marie Lu’s Warcross. It’s a dystopian cyberpunk-ish/alt present/near future thriller where, Warcross, an online game, has become a way of life. Nearly everyone on the planet is plugged in. Hilarity, however, does NOT ensue. On the whole I’m finding the tale compelling enough if too Young Adult-ish (Lu is a YA author so I could’ve expected this). My meh-ness may just be the obvs-fictional romance crap and/or the gaps (chasms?) in verisimilitude. e.g. Don’t Em’s teammates become suspicious when she’s constantly missing or ducking out early from their tension-blow-off social times? Why doesn’t anyone notice when she’s picked up by those big, lux, black cars? Em is portrayed as the ultimate hacker and bounty hunter but has frequent, convenient lapses in her attention to detail? Huh?

Generally, there’s just too much that screams PLOT DEVICE. Still, I’m mostly enjoying the book. It helps to jump ahead, bounce back and then forward again.

The most interesting bit is that, spoiler alert, the creator of Warcross—Hideo Tanaka—is, with altruistic intent, trying to transform the world into a kind, safe, law abiding place. His scheme to do this is by unleashing a virus via the games access points—super-duperly enhanced contact lenses. OK great. I find myself struggling here—not with the technology (it’s all magical sci-fi to me) but, of course, with the ideals. Who's making the laws? Who decides what’s safe? Who defines kindness? Is this specifically and realistically addressed at all? So far, no. Maybe Lu covers these questions in her second and last book of the series?

I’m not sure I’m up for another round of hackers and improbable romance though. Also, I only mention it BUT didn't Philip Dick already cover this, sort of, in Minority Report. Maybe not but, all the same, the book comes to mind. Maybe that should be next on my reread list, eh?

Cats and Progress

Coco and I have come to an agreement—she’s allowed to sit on my lap anytime, anywhere she wants and for however long suits her. Negotiations were long and difficult but, in the end, I think we both won the the day.…sort of.

You may think Coco's spoiled but consider our dear Skitter. Now that the weather's definitively cold (and will be for wretched months, eons even), Jen's brought out Skitter's heating pad. Skitter whiles away the hours, when Jen and Oni are at work, soaking up the warmth whilst cuddling her stuffed animals. In contrast, Coco's practically living a life of desperate privation. Honestly.

Meanwhile, what was yesterday's big PT win? Glad you asked! Ten and Judy, my PT, wheeled me down to the seawall where I successfully walked, brace on with walker, 100 feet. I could have done more too. Why didn’t I? Emmm, something about not wanting to overdo (my favorite thing!), knock me out and incite pain. //shrugs//

I’m not yet free to go strolling on my own whenever I want. Something about taking it slow, first steps (no pun and shit) and needing two spotters for this endeavor. Sadly, this means I can only, for now, do the seawall walk with Ten (of course) and the PT or Ten and Jen when she’s home. I can walk up the stairs (first to second floor—13 steps) with just one spotter so that’s what’s on tap for today.

I imagine these sound like impossibly tiny points in the overall battle to regain as much mobility as possible but, for me, it’s significant. I’m now, more or less, back to the recovery/rehab level I was at before the goddamn thoracic spine monster took me out. I can see a glimmer of light on the horizon.

Having said that, I’m more than two months post back surgery and still have daily pain through my chest and under my upper arms. My neurologist says this is residual surgery shit. Huh, STILL? Me? I’m thinking it’s that plus all the daily upper body work needed to offset my weak-ass legs.

Are these obnoxiously pointy, lingering pangs all due to October’s slice up? Could the unending aches also have roots in being old now? OK, OK ‘old’ is in the abused musculature of the beholder. Granted, at 63, I think we can all agree that I’m well past my physically resilient kitten years. Right?

Hmmph!

Jesus-pectoralis major-christ, I’d sell my soul, (if there were any takers and I know there ain’t), for a little NON-chemical relief. A hot tub would come in handy about now. That or a nice float in my Icelandic silica heaven.

Randomosity

OK, a couple last Bill Bryson bits.

In his travel book Notes From a Small Island, he asks:

‘Do you know the difference between a village and a hamlet? It’s quite simple really: One is a place where people live and the other is a play by Shakespeare.’

Yup, you’ll find exactly that in Webster’s.

Elsewhere, he had an incredibly rude experience with a group of elderly retired military types on one of his train trips.

It was really just one clueless, entitled twatzilla of a couple. The wife couldn’t stop herself (nor did she try) from ranting about all the things she despised about America and Americans. Mind you, I could fill a book on that myself (who of us couldn’t?) but, like everywhere, there’s good to offset the narcissistic, Lilliputian brained, stupendously, willfully boorish and ignorant motherfuckers.

'The colonels were all shortish, round men with tweedy jackets, well-slicked silvery hair, an outwardly gruff manner that concealed within a heart of flint, and, when they walked, a rakish limp. Their wives, lavishly rouged and powdered, looked as if they had just come from a coffin fitting.'

Those are beautifully crafted descriptive sentences. This group is now wandering through my bean in sharp focus. Also, I’m reminded of a quip by Garrison Keillor—Never insult a writer. You may find yourself immortalized in ways you may not appreciate. Not that I imagine the offending, privileged couple would ever read anything that challenges their firmly held world views.
~~~

Enkindle
verb (used with or without object)
to kindle into flame, ardor, activity, etc.

n.b., this is NOT a verb referring to your new e-reader and how you now become utterly lost in thousands of books. It should be.

e.g., I enkindled three of Bryson’s offerings last week alone—barely came up for tea. This week, I believe I’ll enkindle Tom Holt.
~~~
I’ve probably already mentioned this BUT a sure way to know that a Tweeter is a truly sad, desperate for attention whore (not to diss whores!) is when they begin their twit with:

Who else thinks______
Who agrees______
Raise your hand if______
Retweet if______
Does anyone else______
I don’t know who needs to hear this but______

They're just begging for large numbers of likes and comments.

And then there are the folks who announce that:

It’s my birthday and I’m all alone (followed by a plea for bday wishes).

A) Maybe it really is this person’s bday, maybe they really are flying solo and sad.
B) Maybe I’m just cynical and always looking for the grift.

If A is the case—I’m sorry and want to advise the poor lonely soul to see a therapist and explore the possible reasons they’re an adult without friends. Also, I’d suggest they get a dog, join a book club, take belly dancing group lessons, take classes at the local adult learning center. Do something!
If B—get therapy to deal with this passive/aggressive desperate horseshit.

My father/mother/dog died and I’m all alone...

Wow! If true and not a manipulative I-need-cheap-attention-NOW schtick that’s some truly dismal reality action. Again, I’d recommend therapy to deal with the loss AND get to the bottom of the friendlessness. I know we’re locked into COVID World but there’s gotta be Zoomed adult classes, masked volunteer options.
~~~
Last night we watched the first ep of The Shannara Chronicles. While the sets and filming were astounding, the target audience is clearly junior high/middle school girls. Fairies, elves, trolls abound and everyone is beautiful (except the trolls) in a non-bleach blonde/Fox ‘news’ kind of way. It’s visually impressive. Very. The story line though? Not so much. One show in and it was obvious how everything was gonna turn out—the warrior-ish princess would end up with the not-terriby-bright-but-nontheless-good-looking-and-plucky-serf. They’d meet cute, go steady and fight evil demons together.

Adorable.

My only other complaint is that everyone, particularly the girls, were too thin. WAY! Alright, one more—where were the adult women? Are women forced to go all Logan’s Run at 30? No, we won't be watching this one again.

That's it for Monday. Hope your day is gorgeous!

Valhalla Festival of Lights

The bestest part of Christmas for me is how Jen decks out the inside of her house. It's a light (and ornament) extravaganza. I feel like a little kid, oohing and ahing. 

I asked her to snap some pics so I could share.

Here ya go. Enjoy!

And so this is Christmas

And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young
~ John Lennon   

Calvin: This whole Santa Claus thing just doesn't make sense. Why all the secrecy? Why all the mystery?

If the guy exists why doesn't he ever show himself and prove it?
And if he doesn't exist what's the meaning of all this?

Hobbes: I dunno. Isn't this a religious holiday? 

Calvin: Yeah, but actually, I've got the same questions about God.
~ Bill Watterson

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.
~ George Carlin

My idea of Christmas, whether old-fashioned or modern, is very simple: loving others. Come to think of it, why do we have to wait for Christmas to do that?
~ Bob Hope

Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.
~ G.K. Chesterton

If my Valentine you won't be,
I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree.
~ Ernest Hemingway, 88 Poems

“Santa Claus has nothing to do with it," the latke said. "Christmas and Hanukah are completely different things."

"But different things can often blend together," said the pine tree. "Let me tell you a funny story about pagan rituals.”
~ Lemony Snicket, The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming: A Christmas Story

What kind of Christmas present would Jesus ask Santa for?
~ Salman Rushdie, Fury

Everyone wants a Christmas tree. If you had a Christmas tree Santa would bring you stuff! Like hair curlers and slut shoes.
~ Janet Evanovich, Visions of Sugar Plums

At this time of year it's easy to forget the true meaning of Christianity - the lies, the corruption, the abuse.
~ Banksy

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies!
~ Francis P. Church

If this is your holiday, I hope it’s a good one—no stupid, death dealing COVID, no horrendously stinky bullshit from MAGAt family members, no interminable drives through snow and rain. I hope you’re spending the day doing exactly what you want. 

Eyeballs on Mission Hill

Jen took me in to my long awaited ophthalmology appointment yesterday morning. It was at the Mission Hill outpost of Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary. This is a part of town that I know almost nothing about. I had a vague sense that it was considered a ‘bad’ neighborhood and expected run down blocks of shabby apartments and totally unartistic graffiti. Either what I’d heard was outrageously inaccurate—the streets are full of lovely painted and kept up double and triple deckers plus delicious brownstones—OR, given Boston’s insane housing prices, gentrification hit the area hard. Whatever the case, I found myself wishing we’d considered the area when looking to buy.

Two things though:

1. It’s called Mission Hill for a reason. TAB couldn’t have walked to the corner store let alone descended to the trolley running along the main drag. I’d be the housebound one now. The streets are mondo steep!
2. If we’d been able to afford the ticket price on a double decker there, we’d never have found our happy home on the water. That would have blown seriously ugly chunks.
   

Back at my appointment though—the docs agreed with the ER crew at MEEI’s main branch. I needed a laser procedure to clean out the film that’d formed at the back of my peeper. OK, no biggie. I can do this.

Then the good doc tells me she has an opening that very day if I’d like to take it. Ummm... WHAT! My tendency, my history is to jump right in. When told I need surgery or a procedure done, my response is always, How soon can we do this? Tomorrow? Next week? This time though, I was unprepared and mega nervous. Near tears even.

Why?

After all, I’ve had this done before and it truly is no big. I think I’m just worn the fuck out. Too many surgeries, too many procedures over the last couple years. No this laser business isn’t big time surgery—just a wee procedure—but I’m still beat. Exhausted. I wanted more time to psych myself up.

Why didn’t I take it? No time like the present/dive in before I can build up a good freak out. Habit.

So, it’s done now and my vision’s already better. I’m, annoyingly, on steroid drops for the next couple of weeks. The first week it’s every six hours so poor Ten needs to set his alarm clock. Neither of us gets a full night’s sleep.

This is minimal and I’m glad the eyeball lasering done. I wish I could have been more Spock-stoic though. I waste too much energy in needless anxiety.

Think water flowing over rocks and shit. That’s what I want to be. That's what I've always wanted to be.

Today's News

Woke up with the distinct sense that, sometime during the night, I’d gargled with hamster turds. Yeah, not ideal or at all tasty. How is it that I can brush my teeth before bed, not wake and snarf during the night and still wake up with toxic-waste-dump mouth.

In other early morning news, Coco doesn’t understand that she’s a cat NOT a puppy on speed. When she sees that I’m beginning to wake up, she races down from her castle perch and starts jumping up and down on my chest. Coco then scent marks every thing in sight. I know she’s excitedly meowing ‘you’re up! you’re up!” I hate to disappoint her by rolling over and going back to sleep—not that I’m able to with all that jumping and shit.

Yesterday’s big accomplishment here in Recovery Land? I walked up the 13 steps from our first floor to the second. Yes, I will totally accept a full and hearty round of applause. I was winded and needed a rest afterwards but I did it. This was a solid morale booster.

Next goal—a walk along the seawall. Yes, I’ll need to be wheeled down there—brace on and walker in front of me for the stroll. That’s my new reality, at least for now. I need to push myself—stretch and move up to the next level. I can do this!

In a couple hours Jen and I will head into town for a visit with one of my neuro-ophthalmologists to see what’s up with my right eye. This is the eyeball who had the dastardly temerity to get stupid (take a few significant drops in vision) while I’ve been busy coping with a mess of other shit. Motherfucking asshole eyeball.

Did I mention? Doc Plotkin commented that I’m ‘resilient.’ OK that’s one way to put it—obscenely-pigheaded-beyond-belief is another. I’ll take either and feel flattered.

Stuff

Yesterday's appointments were a real mixed bag. My CT scan started two hours late. Annoying? Mais Oui! Worse yet, I had a panic attack when I laid down on the thin test platform. Not promising. I did manage to calm down and get through the scan.

From there we raced up to the ninth floor (from the sixth) for my meet up with my neurologist, Doc Plotkin. The fab news is that my bean’s cool. I won’t need more surgery anytime soon. The spine? Apparently I’ve reached the not-wise-to-open-up-the-back-again point. So I need an MRI (boo, hiss) and a meet up with the radiation folks to see if they can do anything for me. I don’t need something done right this minute (thank the little baby Bast). This rendezvous is to discuss whether I’ve a future in Diffraction Land.

No pressure, no pressure at all.

In other news, I’ve gotten to the place in Bryson’s, One Summer where he talks about eugenics.

The American eugenics movement embraced negative eugenics, with the goal to eliminate undesirable genetic traits in the human race through selective breeding. (source)

This applied particularly to Black and Brown people, poor Irish and Italians, Catholics, epileptic folk, the blind and/or deaf, etc., etc. If you weren’t of northern European heritage you were considered trash and should be sterilized to keep the country pure (gee, Nazi much?)

Apparently this was a big deal, that is it was something embraced not just by that eras idiot trumpers and the Klan (I’m being redundant here) but by ‘respectable’ scientists, academics and other folk who were mistakenly considered intelligent. 

I only mention it but sterilization was an accepted formal practice on Native Americans up until 1976.

What this brings to my mind are bits my Italian Catholic mother told me. Her family came here in the early ‘20s so she grew up with this prejudice. They lived in the Italian ghetto of New Haven (where I first lived in the late ‘50s). Her parents never learned English. Why bother when, in this time of Sacco and Vanzetti you were damned before you spoke.

When I said to her that I wanted to join the Girl Scouts, she told me not to bother as they didn’t accept Catholics. There was no formal Girl Scout policy but I guess that was the prejudice she experienced as a kid.

Weird shit. Mind you, I grew up in the peace-love-understanding-fest ‘60s. Hating someone because of their skin color or religion, was bizarre as all hell.

And yet here we are again.

Today

A few quick things before I head off to MGH for a CT scan and follow up appointment with my neurologist. Me nervous? No, not at all (lie alert). What makes you think that?

History in public schools would be greatly improved if Bill Bryson wrote all the textbooks. The man could make Cream of Wheat fascinating.

From One Summer: America 1927 (which encompasses much more than one summer of one year):

You don't have to know anything about baseball to respond to Babe Ruth because he's just this magnificent human being. And a really good story because he was this kid who grew up essentially as an orphan, you know, had a tough life, and then he became the most successful baseball player ever. But he was also a really good guy.

Even with the benefit of steroids most modern players still couldn't hit as many home runs as Babe Ruth hit on hotdogs.

He (Henry Ford) was defiantly narrow-minded, barely educated, and at least close to functionally illiterate. His beliefs were powerful but consistently dubious, and made him seem, in the words of The New Yorker, “mildly unbalanced.

Henry Ford had the additional distinction of being the only American mentioned favorably in Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler’s memoir of 1925.

Next, the Winter Solstice happens at precisely 10:58AM. After which the days slowly lengthen. SLOWLY. Hillel sent me an entirely up to date ritual for pagans and everyone else who wants to take part. Do read all the comments—I believe they’ll be totally helpful in your ritual prep.

Wish me luck in today’s MGH fun follow up time. I’m hoping, of course, for no new surgery news.

A Few Things

 On my mind:

Urban Renewal

 Babe Ruth’s childhood home is now shallow center field of Camden Yards.

Leonard Nimoy grew up in Boston’s West End, a diverse immigrant neighborhood. What’s there now? MGH and a bunch of fancy shmancy, tall apartment buildings.

Curtis Mayfield comes from Chicago’s infamous Cabrini-Green projects (its ‘renewal' into mostly posh apartment buildings hasn’t been completed yet). OK, that was just the last of the neighborhoods in which he lived as a child. 

By the by, Cabrini-Green is one of the Chicago neighborhoods I played with the carnival.

TeeVee

Yesterday we watched another ep of Wynnona Earp. This one featured the, not seen before, tip top bad guy. He’s so vile that even the other bad guys hate him (think Ben Chapman or anyone else in baseball with a bad rep versus Ty Cobb). Mr. Evil Dude, Lou, was identical to this weird-ass grad student (named Mark) who ‘taught’ one of my painting classes back in college.  

In one session grad Mark asked me, in a hushed, embarrassed kind of way, to button up my shirt. I said no. 

Two things:

• This was the late ‘70s fer fuck’s sake! Try to remember the fashions back then.
• I modeled for drawing classes (that and the carnival is how I worked my way through college). There wasn’t a student or prof who hadn’t seen me naked. For that matter, at one party, I was chatting with some guy—I recognized him but not vice versa. He remarked ‘oh, I’ve never seen you with your clothes on before.’ He wasn’t trying to be funny or flirty.

So, this grad assistant was just being an uptight skeeve. He went on to become a small box preacher. Not terribly surprising.

The great Big Bad Lou was the spitting image of painting class Mark. //shudder// WAY creepy.

Cold

It’s 22º out at the mo and I’ve the stone audacity to call that cold. Granted, I feel a right to bitch seeing as it’s a balmy 37º in fucking McMurdo, Antarctica. On the other hand in the Arctic Circle, specifically, Inuvik in the Northwest Territories of Canada it’s currently 7º. So, I need to just shut the hell up about it being cold out.

Right?

This and That

I’m disappointed that I’ve never been to London, Paris or Barcelona and, now that I’m less freaked out by crowds, I probably never will. Why?

I may be less freaked out but big clots of humans still give me the willes

I’d need to go in a wheelchair or walker. People are fucking rude motherfuckers—I’m not gonna risk being knocked over. That and Iceland is so damn comfortable. Next visit, Jen and I will rent a car and see more of the country than just our Silica Heaven. Or not. Little known fact (possibly little known), I’m actually a sloth. True!

Both of my parents are currently pushing up daisies. Given this, why am I having a lot of dreams (not unpleasant ones either) about them now? To the best of my recollection I never did when they were alive and kicking. Curious.

We’ve started watching Black Lightening. We’re two episodes in and I’m more interested in his daughter who’s showing superpower signs (super strength, maybe more). Black Lightening’s ex-wife seems to only be cool with him using his powers if he’s saving their daughters. Anyone else’s kids? Nope—not down with that. Selfish much? We’ll watch another ep or three to see if super daughter gets any more screen time.

I hear tell there’s a holiday this week. What is it now? Oh yeah—it’s the day ‘we’ bow down to our capitalist overlords and pretend to like our families. Sorry, I’ll have Chinese food, watch a movie and otherwise take a pass. OK, I like two things about this holiday—ornaments and cookies.

I just started reading Bill Bryson’s One Summer: America, 1927. Yes, it's, incredibly, not science fiction! My friend Michal recommended it and, so far, with all the talk of early flight history, I’m loving it.

This is Coco—you may’ve met her before. She likes to stay under the covers in cold weather. OK, all together now ‘awwww, how CUUUUUTE!’ Feel better now? I sure do.

Book Addiction

Now that I’ve figured out how to download books from the library onto my Kindle, I’m completely addicted.

I just finished The Martian by Andy Weir. It was, all in all, a ripping, edge of the seat yarn.

The protagonist, Mark Watney, had a fab sense of humor but the story was a bit too technical for me. A lot of it went clean over my head.

Also, realistically, it’s obscenely unlikely Mark would’ve survived his very first brush with death let alone the seemingly infinite series of ones to follow. Granted this is sci/fi NOT reality. Still, he’s thrown endless death defying situations and survives them all just barely. It’s a bit draining. Mind you, I want him to come out on top but couldn’t the author cut the guy a break—give Watney fewer hoops to jump through?

My last complaint? After one of his unending calamities, Mark makes a self deprecating remark that, once he made it through, he ‘‘cried like a little girl.’ Why is this still an accepted slam? I get that he’s using this phrase as self-mocking humor BUT what? Little boys don’t cry? They’re tough, manly, unfeeling, emotionally constipated men at the age of eight? There’s something wrong with tears when you’re hurt?

Now I’m reading Matt Haig’s The Humans. It’s about a superior race of aliens who send one of theirs to Earth to kill off a not nice but wildly intelligent math professor who’s found a way to significantly advance the human race. Why? Humans are too violent and assholic. Sure but don’t we have any good qualities to make up for that? Maybe but it’s not clear at this point.

Some awesome snippets:

One of the aliens wrote a book about us. It’s called,

The Fighting Idiots:
 My Time with the Humans of Water Planet 7,081.

Apt. Totally fucking apt. 

The superior book reading of aliens versus humans.

A human can’t just just swallow every book going, can’t chew different tomes simultaneously, or gulp down near-infinite knowledge in a matter of seconds. They can’t pop a word capsule in their mouth like we can. Imagine!
~~~~~
By the time they have read enough books to actually reach a state of knowledge where they can do anything with it, they are dead.

One comment on the books we humans read:

…is it one of those books they read to feel clever, or one of those they will pretend they never read in order to stay looking clever?

He then goes through a list of the various types of books people are drawn to, ending with:

Of course, there is the ultimate, all-important question: does it have a dog in it?

This book DOES have a dog in it which, naturally, makes the book exceptional—by human standards at any rate.

So far I’m totally loving my new addiction.

Thursday Tip

Pro tip to authors—don’t kill the dog. This goes double, maybe triple for pups who are much loved main characters.

I was reading a new-to-me author, Patrick Ness. The book? The Knife of Never Letting Go. It’s a decent enough, if depressing, tale. The best part is that the animals could talk. Granted, they could only speak at their respective intelligence levels e.g. the sheep could only drone on, repeating ‘sheep, sheep.’ Dogs could say a bit, though not a tremendous amount, more.

About halfway or more through the book the immensely heroic, wonderful pup is unavoidably abandoned, then murdered by the Freddy Krueger-esque villain Aaron.

It was like Bambi, if the authors had killed off Thumper. First Bambi lost his beloved mother to a cold-blooded hunter (just like both human protagonists in the book did), THEN Bambi loses Thumper in an horrifically obscene and gratuitous scene by a serial killer (in book’s case, Manchee the courageous doggy).

This, THIS was no more than a wholly unnecessary, grotesque and heartless plot device.   

Yeah, I flipped ahead (not as easy on a Kindle as it is with a paperback) and the pooch does not come back to life for some odd but wonderful reason. That was it for me. There was no good reason to off the pup. He was a good, fearless, effective character and didn’t deserve such a cheap, plot device-y death. It reeked of I-need-big-event-here-but-what-should-it-be. The author was stuck so he killed the dog thinking it’d move the plot along and it’d be better than killing a human. Fuck no, mes amis. Killing a human character would’ve been much less painful.

So yeah, I quit reading and won’t pick up another book by him again. This pro tip—don’t kill the dog—also includes cats, dolphins, goats, lamas, pigs and chickens.

Solstice

The Winter Solstice is sneaking up on us. What the fuck is it? The day the sun is farthest south. On this day the sun travels the shortest path through the sky which means Boston only gets 9 hours and 5 minutes of full sunshine. Compare this to:
Anchorage there’s 5 hours, 28 minutes
Reykjavik gets 4 hours, 8 minutes
In the northernmost town in Finland, Utsjoki, it’s basically dawn all day.

On the other end of the spectrum:
Miami, Florida gets 10 hours and 31 minutes
Mexico City has 10 hours, 58 minutes
In Quito, Ecuador, the town closest to the equator, there’s 12 hours, 6 minutes of sunlight on the Winter Solstice.

So then, things could be worse OR better.

 

Every mile is two in winter.

I like these cold, gray winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.

The Christians stole the Winter Solstice from the pagans, and capitalism stole it from the Christians.

Let's Look at Latin

Cogito ergo sum  
I think, therefore I am
OR  updated and specifically:

1. I think, therefore I have a wee ache in my right shoulder
2. I think, therefore I overthink AKA worry and fuss
3. I think therefore, at 4AM I wake up wondering how life would be different IF I didn’t have Nf2, hadn’t shacked up with Stan, etc., etc.
4. I’d think but why bother, the republicans are going to take over and turn the country into a squalid, vermin infested Hell where only the ultra rich survive on the backs of the healthy but poor until none of us are left to be enslaved—then we die (unhealthy are left to die in the fields or behind the counters at McDonalds). Handmaid’s Tale didn’t take the story to its natural end. 

Dies irae
The Day of Wrath
This has been musically tricked out as a Gregorian chant. It would be totally appropriate as the hold music for:

1. Union of Concerned Scientists
2. Natural Resources Defense Council
3. Environmental Working Group
4. Friends of the Earth
5. Rainforest Alliance
6. Earthjustice
7. Ocean Conservancy
8. Earth Island Institute
9. The Sierra Club Foundation
10. The Nature Conservancy

Conversely it would work well in a dentist or investment banker offices. 

Carpe diem
Seize the day
We all know this from what was quite possibly Mork’s best movie. I’ll tell you what, on the days that I’m not in blinding pain (and I have much fewer of those excruciating days now) I totally carpe that fucking diem!

Alea iacta est
The die is cast
It's a war cry—the Roman version of ‘it is a good day to die.’
Commonly used in Vegas too.

Non compos mentis
Of unsound mind
Unsurprisingly this describes every last member of the death cult party AKA The GOP.

Veni, vidi, vici
I came, I saw, I conquered
Don’t know about you but I can’t help but read this as I wine, I wine, I wine. Preferably a nice Malbec or a lovely Pinot Noir. That’s just me? OK, never mind.

Acta non verba
Deeds not words
AKA Walk it don’t talk it—sound advice for every republifacist and christianist.
 
Totally unrelated:
Has anyone else noticed that Kenny on South Park always wore a red sweatshirt and died in every episode. Also, the Enterprise crew members who wore red shirts never survived the away missions. Interesting eh? I think I need to toss all my red tops. I’d bring them to Goodwill but that feels heartless and flat out wrong.

Somedays

It’s all I can do to get out of bed. I'm having a day like that.

 Nine months post mobility stealing brain surgery and a little over a month after devastatingly painful spine surgery, I’m walking better (with brace and walker). Still I’m struggling massively with the upbeat joy-joy shit.

I know if I exercise more, my progress will increase. So will the pain.

I long for where I was two years, three or four surgeries ago. Jen and I walked a mile or two each morning, I could dash out to take my own dawn pics and go to the grocery without someone driving me and then rolling me along in a wheelchair.

Yeah, I’m fresh out of self cheerleadery energy this morning. Some of this has to do with the teevee shows that Jen, Oni and I watched last evening. In one, the main character was at severe risk of losing her legs. Fuck that shit, we moved on. In the next, a minor character was at similar risk. What the striped Christmas candy fuck?! Honestly, is this the new fashion in teevee horror? NO bloody thanks!

Where am I at this point? I still need dental surgery to remove two back teeth that broke off during this hellacious year (then posts in six months). I’ll have a no big deal eye procedure at some point if my eye surgeon ever fucking calls back.

These are minor in comparison to my usual scary shit—just annoying and time consuming. Here’s the thing—I’d like to walk into these procedures. I’d like to NOT need to put them off  again because, gee, gonna have more brain or spine surgery so I gotta reschedule.

I’m becoming a hypochondriac. That’s by the by, both irritating and flat out stupid. Aggravating too. I worry that every ache is a sign of a new meningioma that’s gotta be popped out pronto. Maybe so, Mayne not.

Average age of death for Nf2-ers is 65.  It’d be real sweet to make it past that age.

Gods

I’m reading another Tom Holt book and totally loving it. It’s called Ye Gods. It’s generally about a rebellious, pizza-eating kid (redundant), named Jason Derry. Phyllis is his suburban, not entirely clueless (but close to it) mother. Jupiter, god of the sky and king of all other gods is his father.

FYI, the old gods have been replaced by christianity and they’re none to happy about it. They want their jobs back. Dammit.

Phyllis was and is unaware that the man who is Jason’s daddy is a divinity. I’m unsure of all the details but Phyllis’s husband seems to understand that he’s not Jason’s biological father. The husband is generally, like Phyllis, not clue enhanced.

The kid is a capital h Hero, born to do the god’s biddings. Our Jason is not entirely happy about this to say the very least.

Then there’s Prometheus—out of favor with Jupiter, he’s chained to a large rock. An eagle eats his liver (which grows back) twice daily. Eeeeew! For starters, who the fuck likes liver? No one, that’s who. Secondly, this seems like a pretty severe punishment for giving fire to us sad human types.

In any case, Prometheus has a plan to get himself off the rock. Jason is at the center of said plan.

I totes enjoy comedic tales of the old gods. Hells bells, funny stories about the new god would be right up my alley too. I sincerely believe that taking god(s) too seriously is hell on the digestive track.

One amusing except:

A message cut into the stone lintel of the Athens treasury building:

“WISEACRES OF THE WORLD UNITE”, it said. “YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS.”

About thirty thousand years ago, when telepathy was the only accessible form of mass entertainment, there was a popular game-show on the main brainwave channel called Read My Mind. A panel of guest celebrities had to guess what each of the contestants did for a living, and if they failed they were torn apart by wild dogs. It was good middlebrow family entertainment.

The humor is absurd and dry—my brand of badinage and shit.

Minerva (goddess of music, poetry, medicine and wisdom) is included in the story as is Apollo (music, truth, et., etc.), Mars (god of war) and more.

Yeah, I fully recommend. That is, I do as long as you're not horrified by gods being mocked

Techno Hell And Other Bits

I can’t fucking figure out how to use my damn Kindle with the Boston Public Library site! Did you know—the fucking Kindle doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Sure, sure, most people wouldn’t bother to read it even if it did. They’d just endlessly call the Help line or get their kids to show them how to use it. In my case, I could get Jen’s father to walk me through it. The problem here is that neither of us are especially mobile and we live 60 miles apart.

I suppose it’d be easier if I was buying eBooks instead of using it with the library…MAYBE. Getting the two sites to talk to each other like nice children is a whole ‘nother slice of Hell that the imaginative and lovely Signore Dante Alighieri never thought of.
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Okay, I found SOME instructions on the damn device itself. That’s cool and all save-the-planet-by-not-wasting-paper-and-ink-ish (see above: no-one bothers to read anyway) but I didn’t see anything about downloading from your local friendly library. Having said that, Jen and I seem to have, maybe, figured it out. Happily since the book I’d managed to download earlier was some weepy, transparent “mystery.” Yeah, I knew whodunnit on page 10. No, I didn’t need to waste my time reading the rest of it.
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In other news, apparently Drunk Peggy Noonan is upset that VP Kamala Harris is smarter, more attractive and in possession of way higher and significantly greater value than, yes, you guessed it, Drunk Peggy Noonan. Also too, I believe Drunk Peg is pissed that VP Harris was allowed off the plantation.
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Sex and the City is being rebooted. Okay, will there be a more realistic job to apartment balance? Rents for a studio apartment run from mid $3 thousands through the upper $4 thousands. One bedrooms start at $4,500 minimum. Will the girls be older and earning big bucks as investment bankers, popular artists or Internet publishers? Will they go out every night to hip, swank cocktail bars, wearing the latest fashions and sky nigh heels?

I enjoyed the first couple seasons of the original show but, after that, the utter implausibility just got to me.
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Oh and this. It's a dark, morning yet beautiful. All the same, I can't shake off my wish to nap.

Jen's awesome morning pic