Distractification

Humans live through their myths and only endure their realities.
~ Robert Anton Wilson

Look, I’m just beyond tired, annoyed, angry and fucking sick of seeing that deranged orange rat bastard’s face. That goes for his yappy, insecure, woman-hating, weasely little veep choice too.

I’m not following the polls. I can’t see how they could be accurate given that they’re usually conducted by phone and most Americans don’t pick up if they don’t recognize the caller’s number. Hell’s bells, if I had hearing I certainly wouldn’t answer calls from random numbers.

Even with the inaccuracy, I’m tempted to peek at them. I want to see that Harris is ahead, that this isn’t a horserace, that we aren’t doomed. It’s 27 days until November fifth. Can I survive that long, sitting at the edge of my seat, waiting to see if democracy’s death is iimminent? I don’t know.

Meanwhile, in my attempts to distract myself, I just reread John Scalzi’s Android's Dream. It’s funny, I’d forgotten the storyline almost entirely.

A human diplomat creates an interstellar incident when he kills an alien diplomat in a most . . . unusual . . . way. To avoid war, Earth's government must find an equally unusual object: a type of sheep ("The Android's Dream"), used in the alien race's coronation ceremony. (source)

That most . . . unusual . . . way? Apparently, one of the ways the the aliens communicate is through smell—farts actually. I know, I know, we ALL can imagine death by fart but this shit’s way more subtle.

Dirk Moeller didn’t know if he could fart his way into a major diplomatic incident. But he was ready to find out.

The bulk of the book is deeper than this vaporous interplanetary episode implies. Naturally, I’d completely forgotten about all but the fart death incident so the story was almost entirely fresh and new.

In another diversion from reality, Jen, Oni and I have started watching Only Murders in the Building.

Three strangers share an obsession with true crime and suddenly find themselves wrapped up in one. (source) 

It stars Steve Martin, Martin Short and Selena Gomez—two old men whose careers are long past peak and a young, sharply intelligent, beautiful woman with a mysterious past. Question: they couldn’t find an actress of an age similar to Martin or Short? Were Lynda Carter, Phylicia Rashad or Sally Field unavailable or uninterested? Possibly they weren’t deemed eye candy-ish enough to draw in the key 18-49 boy demographic? So far that’s my only quibble with the show.

Anyway, it makes me wistful about New York. I used to take the train down fairly often—a few times a year. I’d visit friends, go to museums and galleries, hit some live music spots and just people watch in cool bars (Hello Dive 75 and White Horse Tavern). I really miss New York. Why haven’t I been there in forever? Eh…life. The Amazing Bob was sick for so long—I didn’t want to leave his side. After he died? Grief, COVID and my own ultra-crappy health made the trip unwise and/or impossible.
Back to Only Murders though, the building where the trio live, where most of the action occurs, is on the Upper West Side, right along Central Park. The pre-war architecture is tremendous with its divine spaciousness, hardwood floors and fireplaces. The apartment furnishings, in Short’s and Martin’s cribs, are a mix of new and antique. Reminds me of my late Aunt Mary Ann’s place (she lived in the Turtle Bay neighborhood though).

Jen, Oni and I are late to Only Murders viewing but, hell, this just means that we can binge-watch without fear of running out of episodes.