Old Woman Shouts at the Sky

Plant some damn trees, dammit!

Most folks don’t have a brill view so you’re doing the rest of the damn planet, BEES (we NEED bees!) and your goddamn home's resale value a big favor.

Even if you do have a brill view, you still have room on your lawn to plant a few motherfucking TREES!


These, at right, are some serious grown-ass trees at the side of our houses. n.b.–the view of the water isn’t fully obstructed in fact the trees are a gorgeous part of that view.

Also unless you’re a big Philip Johnson fan (and have the bucks to afford one of his works) you can plant trees in the spaces between your house’s windows. Everyone has enough room on their lawn to plant at least a couple of trees.

I don’t know what Bix’s repairs are gonna cost me yet but the electric MINI’s looking better and better. It’ll go about 145 miles before needing a recharge which is good enough for my needs and those of most commuters. STOP BURNING THE PLANET!

Will humans be left on the planet much longer given all the maskless twat brains infecting the rest of us with their disease. As of this month there have been 639,081 reported deaths from COVID. That’s just the reported cases. Nebraska quit reporting cases as of June and Florida notoriously under reports. He’s not called DeathSantis for nothing. Meanwhile, the clowns on the right are more interested in conspiracies, making money for the NRA and beating up dead trees.

AND Coco keeps losing weight. Goddammit, I NEED that cat!

Sky that old woman screams at

Coco snarfing treats

This and That

When our fierce yet tiny kitten came to live with us (lo these 15 years ago) she was afraid of everything and everyone, hiding under large, low furniture. She, very quickly, established TAB’s lap as her territory. Shortly thereafter she claimed his chair as her own, allowing TAB to sit there at her leisure.

At this point she’s only afraid of (more, she’s annoyed by and avoids) dogs, other cats and young children. What about the EMTs who make all too frequent appearances. She’s curious—who are these people and WHY aren’t they petting me or giving me treats. Last time or two they were here, she just ignored them. No treats, no cute attention.

From what I’ve read, the levees in Louisiana withstood Ida’s ferocity. Naturally, this tune comes to mind.

I love/hate subscription emails. Ya know, buy something at Pier One and all of a sudden you’re their best bud, getting at least one irritating sales mail a day. I have, HUZZAH, found one daily mailer that I don’t find bothersome at all—The Dodo. It’s all about pets and found animals—happy, fun stories and tales of cuties in need of a home. PLUS, I can watch on my cell because every tale comes with, YES, captioning! The ads don’t annoy me either—they’re for stuff my baby might actually need. All good, ya know?

I must be starting to heal. I want coffee at the start of the day again. Mmmmmm coffee. What’s next? Pinot noir? Malbec? Yeah, I know—given the blood thinners I’m on, I’ve got to go obscenely easy on the vino (a good idea anyway) BUT a wee espresso cup of the grape isn’t gonna hurt me. That is, it won’t hurt as longs I manage to stay upright. Falling’s a def no-no.
I’m now on my PT break. Meaning, the therapists won’t be in three times a week to torture me. So, I gotta do it myself. Joy. I can do this. Gotta mix it up though. Two rounds of the in-bed exercises and then time on the elliptical, a shower or walking laps (using my walker, with brace on) of the first floor. Out patient PT starts on September 17th.

Ever notice how great comedy/drama shows (like Buffy) go downhill after their fourth or fifth season but last a good three or four more? Specifically, they get all deep and serious. The humor aspect has taken a runner. I’m talking, now, about Lucifer. We’re in season six. Favorite characters are killed off. God’s retired and there’s a celestial war building to see which angel will inherit the god title. Humor has taken the last train for the coast. Everyone’s either diabolical or in tears. This NOT why I got hooked on the show. 

So, how's your Monday blooming?  

Rage Targets

Anybody can become angry—that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.
~ Aristotle

There isn’t a single person to whom I can focus my rage. I’m angry at the idiot anti-vaxxers. The bullies. The greedheaded, rich, corporate fuckwads. The clueless narcissists. The drool-brained, callous twats (I’m, quite possibly, getting all redundant here and shit). I’m angry at humanity. I’m angry at the universe.

Angry people are not always wise.
~ Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

It makes no sense to spend this wrath on rando targets. Fer instance, my fury with the fucking universe—what’s up with that? Most immediately—having neurofibromatosis type 2. NOT cool, not cool at all. While being a tumor factory blows elephantine chunks, it's not something I brought on myself OR something that I can totally control.

Uncaged, unconsidered anger is, as Ms. Austen put it (more or less), not so bright. Yes, I can expend the ire storm on narcissists, bullies, rando and greedbrained twat heads. They’re certainly deserving but is releasing some of my frenzy on them, like Coco toying with an invading, tiny mouse, gonna make nf2 POOF, disappear in a sparkly cloud of fairy dust?

Will taking apart some dimwitted narcissist chill me the fuck out? Maybe in the short term. Looking down the rode though,, will it get my hearing back? Return my walking NOW, baby, now? Unmöglich, mes amis, unmöglich.

So, I put those fury toys away, as much as possible. I try to keep the dogs of stupidity at bay— especially vis-à-vis Jen, Ten, Oni and Coco. Fer fucks sake, they’re keeping me alive and as happy as I get. I’m gonna kvetch that they’re not reading my mind fast enough? Yeah, no.These are NOT the targets I’m looking for.

So, the rage turns inward. Also not smart.

Where’s a good (bad? evil? despicable?) Death Star when you really need one? That’d be an ideal target, no?

I keep coming back to this song

I keep coming back to this song Cool Cool River by Paul Simon.

Who says: Hard times?
I'm used to them
The speeding planet burns
I'm used to that
My life's so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears

You can read the full lyrics here. Go—read. It’s worth it and I’ll be here when you get back.

I was complaining, to Ten, about how dull my life is, especially after falling three times in one week. I figure I’m boring the hell outta him. Still, I gotta take it easy—heal and shit. I am but this life is less than exhilarating.

My usual day? I read in this chair for a couple hours, read in another for awhile, read in bed for a couple more and nap. On a big day, with my three awesome spotters on the job—Jen, Ten and Oni—I shamble next door to watch teevee.

My life's so common it disappears

Given my current state of being, I’d think that my empath abilities would extend to the unvaxxed amongst us. Eh, not so much.

A radiation oncologist in Florida says his hospital is so overwhelmed with COVID patients that he was forced to turn away a cancer patient who needed to be transferred there — something he has never had to do in 60 years of treating patients. (source)

As of August 10th, 95% (Yes, you read that right. 95% ) of people hospitalized for the plague are unvaccinated. If they’d been jabbed, they wouldn’t be taking up beds and care that others—cancer, Nf2 and such other patients need. These barely sentient, beyond selfish, vaccine shunning imbeciles hold the bag for so damn many unnecessary deaths. I don’t rejoice in the horse dewormer ingesting people's deaths but I sure as fuck don’t shed any tears.

Yeah, in my state of Goldilocksness, where it seems I’m able to do too much exercising or not enough and rarely hit just right, I’m reading the news way too much. At least I’ve quit reading the opinion columns and blogs. I wanna know what is happening versus what might happen. I have enough of a bleak imagination as it is.

Ya know what I’d like? To drive up to Portland, Maine with Ten, take a boat over to St. John’s and then a slow meander home up through Newfoundland and Labrador, down through New Brunswick and Maine. Ten could tell me all about the geologic history of the areas as we pass through.

Yeah, not think about death, our overabundance of dimwits (some of whom I’m, sadly, related to) and my struggle to walk again. I like the way that sounds.

Friday Jumble

Taken by Ten yesterday morning

Stuck in my head yesterday—I’m Your Captain/I’m getting closer to home by Grand Funk Railroad. Why? I always remember the last stanza as, “I’m getting closer to the end.” Warum? Well, as you know, this has been one hell of a fucked up year. Shit's feeling a little apocalyptic.

• The Evil Orange Menace lost his job but the mentally diseased horde that he unleashed isn’t gonna go back into their box easily or quickly.
• I’ve had three neurosurgeries. The last being a real motherfucker from which I’ll be recovering for another six months to a year or more.
• Daddy had the cruel audacity to croak on me.
• Oh and we seem to be having a deadly pandemic which an unfortunate portion of the country view as a political sham. Now, I don’t wish death on anyone but it’s difficult to gin up empathy for idiots who ignore facts and reality.
  

On that note, I thought vaccination was required for ALL hospital, hospice AND nursing home employees. I assumed it was a necessary part of the gig. Get vaccinated or go elsewhere for employment. Considering how much time I spend in MGH and MEEI, imagine my surprise to read that employees only needed to ‘attest to their wellness.’ Lemme just say !!!!!!!! What what the absolute J&J fuck! What percentage of these folks at these world famous medic joints were vaxxed while I was in?

My view while reading

You all know that you can be a plague carrier for two days or more without showing symptoms, right?

As of June 24th, 85% of Mass General Brigham (MGH’s new name) employees had already been jabbed. Now that the FDA has approved Pfizer-BioNTech getting vaxxed will be required if you want to keep your job. Good!

From a June 28th WebMD post:

Vaccination rates range from a high of 99% at Houston Methodist Hospital, which was the first in the nation to mandate the shots for its workers, to a low between 30% and 40% at some hospitals in Florida.

Florida. No surprise there.

My father, in a rural Western Pennsylvania rehab/nursing home was infected by, probably, a well intentioned worker who felt fine but, unknowingly, carried in the virus. The joint was shut to all visitors, only opened to workers. Someone who worked there brought it in.

n.b., there are 11 states which ban COVID-19 vaccine mandates, even for health care workers. n.b. part two, the governors of all these states are republicans. Can you say, culling the herd? Sure you can! This is why republicans are keen on gerrymandering  and voter suppression. They can only win when they cheat.

The good news of the week. I haven’t fallen since Wednesday. Yea me! 

Oh, your word for the day is Orogeny—a noun meaning:

 the process of mountain formation especially by folding of the earth's crust.

The area was uplifted by the Laramide orogeny during latest Cretaceous.

Somehow I doubt I'll be fitting this into conversation anytime soon.  

Up and Down

I feel like I’m on a roller coaster (a ride I’ve always despised). One week, (or batch of days) is good. I walk farther than ever, am in no fucking pain and feel like tripping the light fantastic is within my almost immediate grasp. Then I wake with my brace feeling 500 pounds heavier than the night before—crossing my legs has, overnight, become an Olympic weightlifting event and all I really want is a good nap and some Indian food.

I’m thinking that much of this is tied to my emotional state. If I could’ve just remained bored on Monday all would be fine. Maybe.

Apparently, I’m blaming my poor dead father for croaking on me. What’s that you say? I’m being ridiculous, unfair AND have clearly slipped loose from the rock hard bonds of reality. Yeah, so? Also…fuck you! I’ll ditch reality if I wanna (petulant child much, D?). At least I’m not Ron Jeremy (of giant and violent custard chucker fame) or The Former Guy (known for his repulsive, grabby mini mushroom). Now, those two have serious real life evasion issues.

Having Bix break down, as though he was some common Donna doesn’t help. Hopefully, it’ll be a couple years before Bix gives his last gas economical breath. All the same, future cute cars are dancing in my bean.  

What do I want? First, it’s gotta be completely electric. Second, she needs to be adorably stylish. Third, inexpensive! This leaves one and only one choice but it’s a hunny. A two door MINI Cooper.

Conveniently, the joint where I bought Bix also sells electric two door MINIs. Yea! Possibly I can trade Bix in for a sweet discount on Zelda. Yes, I’ve already named her. Oh please, tell me, you  wouldn’t.

More good news on this roller coaster’s upswing, I’ve found another fine book—Early Riser by Jasper Fforde. This is the same dude who wrote the fabola Thursday Next series .

This one, Early Riser, is, from what I gleaned off the back cover, a mystery. A very strange one.

Every Winter, the human population hibernates.

During those bitterly cold four months, the nation is a snow-draped landscape of desolate loneliness, and devoid of human activity.

Well, not quite.
(source)

It’s not a comedy but it’s witty as hell and more than a little bit creepy. Fforde describes himself as an absurdist. True and it’s why I always pick up his books whenever I see them. Granted they’re rarely housed in Science Fiction and that’s the department where you’ll most often find me.

And he gave me a smile that looked as though it had come from a hastily-read handbook on cultivating personal charm.

Love this author's wit!

Last bit of upswing news, my back, arm and knee don’t hurt or hurt as much this morning. I’m gonna take it relatively easy today—attempt not to break anything else and shit. I’m definitely NOT keen on taking this ’58 Maderer back into the shop.

Bored Now

The Fates

Yesterday morning, until mid afternoon, this was my mantra.

Honestly, I’m sick and goddamn tired of these in bed exercises, reading in bed, writing in bed, spending too much bloody time on Twitter in bed and on and on IN BED. I was so restless and annoyed that even Coco had to get up and away.

I called for Ten just so I could piss and moan about my state of sick and tiredness (yes, I’m a real treat to shack up with). ‘Jesus cream cheese Christ,’ I sez, ‘I’m so bored I could just poop.’ After he stopped laughing, he took me to the can, man. Two exhilarating minutes later and back in bed, we discussed ways to de-dull my day.

• Walk to the seawall? After all it was gorgeous out. Nope. At least two spotters are needed to get me down the porch stairs Hmmph. I’d protest but see fall#1 and fall#2 of this past week.
• Nap? Nein. I’m bored not tired.
• More exercises? Not yet. I don’t want to overdo and then fail miserably in tomorrow’s (today’s) last home PT session (I start out patient PT in mid September)
• Lunch? Too early.
  

So, Ten set me up in the wheelchair by the window with my book (Jasper Fforde’s Early Riser—so far so good), sketch pad and crayons, cell phone and Coco. Sure, I could FINALLY do my 2020 tax prep BUT I’m not riding the Ennui Train THAT heavily…yet.
I think being bored is actually a good sign. Possibly my energy levels are on the upswing.

BUT ya know, once you give voice to feeling bored, the fates fly in to fuck you up. Straight up! Maybe that’s just me though.

What happened next?

• Bix shit the bed and had to be towed into the dealership. Luckily Ten wasn’t stranded in some far off locale when it happened. Getting fixed up is gonna cost some big benjamins. //sigh//
• My hematologist gave the AOK for dental surgery (to remove my shattered tooth). Joy. I think this can wait a few months. I’m all surgeried out for the year. YES, even minor-ish dental ops count.
• More stuff concerning Daddy’s death had to be dealt with. Every damn time something about Daddy’s exit stage left comes up, no matter how small, the flimsy bandaid over my grief is ripped clean off.
• And my back and left upper arm hurt. Doubtless one of my TWO falls from this past week are responsibile for this BUT why react when you can overreact. Am I having a stroke? A heart attack? No and no. Ten calmed me down. A little Tylenol and I’m fine.
  

Sheesh! That’ll teach me to keep my claims of tedium to myself.

What I Want NOW

Ya know what’d make this long goddamn recovery period feel less arduous? Music. That’s right—some motherfucking music. Oh to sit in bed doing my exercises to the hellaciously awesome tunes of Talking Heads as performed in the Stop Making Sense concert film.  I could live within every single damn tune—forever.

This brings to mind bands who have nonstandard instrumentation. i.e., beyond the two guitars, bass and drums lineup.

There’s The Ex, an always evolving experimental punk/post-punk/no wave band out of the Netherlands. On one tour the wild, avant-ågarde cellist Tom Cora sat in

An aside: Cora also played with the mind-blowing John Zorn. Jesus Improvisational Christ, that’d be fabola to do my rehab to!

Morphine—two-string bass slide guitar (strings usually tuned to a 5th or octave interval) tremendous sax (baritone, tenor and double) and drums.

The Iron Horse—a Scottish band, billed mostly as folk but when I saw them at the Orkney Folk Festival in the ‘90s they absolutely  killed it as a rock group with extras. There were bagpipes (small and traditional), fiddle, keyboards, accordion as well as the usual guitar, bass and drums. We were all pogoing away in the nosebleed section of the theater.

Concussion Ensemble—three drummers plus one percussionist playing found objects hanging from a clothing rack. The amazing Rich Gilbert was on lead guitar, there was another guitarist and a bass player. Daddy always said, ‘the best music is the kind you can feel in your sternum.’ Concussion Ensemble was the best.

This for some odd reason puts Dylan going electric at Newport in mind. There was such a fuss about this. Why? Music, like us humans, is meant to grow, to evolve and expand.

Another thing in Newport—there are tours of the mansions.

The mansions of Newport -- originally called "cottages" -- were built as summer homes in the 1850s to 1900 by wealthy tycoons of New York and Philadelphia. Now, these massive houses, including the spectacular Rosecliff, Marble House, the Breakers, the Elms, Rough Point, and more, are open to the public, offering fascinating and informative tours. (source)

Why would anyone tour rich people ‘cottages’ AKA ridiculous mansions. These obscene displays of wealth are an insult to us regular, normal working folk. And yet they’re a popular stop. It’s unclear to me where the admission ticket price goes beyond supporting the upkeep of these mansions which are no more than wealth porn.

Oops, I’m off topic (as usual). Emm, happy Tuesday and shit—I’ve gotta start my seemingly endless exercises now. 

Horror 101

I dreamed that TAB and I took a wrong turn getting home to Cambridge from Boston. We ended up at a big high rise construction site. The workers were still tearing down the old building so we were constantly looking up so’s we wouldn’t end up like the Roadrunner's Coyote.

We then noticed the gang of mechanical gargoyles and Terminator like men unfolding, standing up and stretching. Why were they at the site? They’d be ornamental roof fixtures for the new sky scraper. They'd also  act as roof gutters to redirect rainwater away from the new building’s walls so there’d be less damage to the masonry and mortar and shit. Yeah, mostly ornamental and scary as all hell. They were 12 feet tall with the men looking like AHnold in the first Terminator. The gargoyles? Those fuckers are, just generally, fearsome. Hell, these boys'd just scare the water away!

 So, TAB and I are totally lost now and the big bad, mechanical assholes have just noticed us. For some reason we’d gotten out of Bix and were trying to find our way out on foot. Yep, WRONG.

Rule number one from Scary Movie 101—NEVER get out of the car.

By the by, Horror Movie 101 also includes:

• NEVER wear high heels. Also, if you can, have short hair like Velma, NOT Daphne!
  
• Do NOT bring along clumsy chicks who are just gonna slow you down (see above, NO high heels).
  
• Do NOT go into rooms or houses at night when the electricity isn’t working.
• Don’t ignore scratching noises.

So yeah, we’d left the car behind. The huge nasty robots had found Bix and started playing soccer with it. Our future looked bleak. Then I woke up. Thank the little baby Bast. Fuck, that was a scary dream. It felt so damn real.

What’s this all mean? Possibly:

• I’m watching too many nerve crunching movies.
• The brace and walker are making me feel like I’m a mechanical man.
• I’m reading too many scary books.
• Like Blind Faith I can't find my way home.
  

//shrugs//  Who knows? I know, I know...only the shadow.

WTF!?

Yesterday afternoon, I fell again. This was my third, maybe fourth, fall since my mid-march surgery. I gotta ask, what the actual fuck is this all about? Yeah, I understand that I’ve got one leg that’s not functioning up to spec. but, fer reals now, I was using my walker and had my motherfucking brace on.

Not only did I fall to the floor, on the way down I smacked my head hard against the side (not the edge but the more flexible middle area) of Ten’s dresser. I haven’t fallen and conked my bean in almost 40 years. Why not? Dr. O (my daddy-figure first brain surgeon) warned me to avoid that (and pregnancy) at all costs. As you might have already sussed, ma tête is a fragile old thing.

Ten held me while he called the kids (Jen and Oni) for an assist. They got me up and back in bed with an ice pack. I hadn’t lost consciousness and wasn’t in pain but wondered if we should call in the EMTs. Mostly I was embarrassed and stunned (so we didn’t call 911 Klutz).

This was NOT the kind of falling I’m accustomed to. I generally do a slow slide to the floor or have a last minute, grab bar save, decelerating my fall. There’s a certain elegance to my downward splats. Serious and shit! Not this time.

This morning, my left elbow hurts the most, my left knee comes in second. My bean? No bump, no pain but it’s a teensy bit warm to the touch at the impact site. I’m glad I didn’t go into the ER. Not only would that have been annoying and tedious as fuck, it was probably completely unnecessary. I hope. Jen will call Plotkin’s office tomorrow and get his thoughts. I just need to avoid the fucking MRI (AKA the claustrophobia machine).

What caused the fall? I think my sneaker was loose—it slipped halfway off without me noticing and I tripped over my other foot. Yep, I’m a class act here.

Kvetch-a-thon

You've been warned!

 Woke up with In The Year 2525 in my head.

In the year 2525, if man is still alive
If woman can survive, they may find

In the year 3535
Ain't gonna need to tell the truth, tell no lie
Everything you think, do and say
Is in the pill you took today
Zager and Evans

What will I find if I survive another 504 years? Yeah, I know, that’s ridiculously unpossible. What if reincarnation’s a real deal though? Do I even want to come back and see what humanity has, by then, done to the planet?

What about the year 3535—1,514 years from now? I seriously doubt there will be any humans left. By then, some rich fool, with his own personal cache of portable plutonium, implosion-type bombs (AKA Fat Men and Little Boys) will have had a bad day, thrown a hissy fit and blown up the world. If the planet still exits, Earth will be populated by six foot cockroaches and 400 ton rats.  No people and that might well be an improvement.

Yeah, I didn’t wake up in a cheery mood this morning. Given this, I really shouldn’t have read Shower Cap's weekly post. The hell on earth review of the week is always framed in a snarkalicious manner BUT there’s only so much humor I can pull out of this post orange asshole hellscape.

Not to impugn the good faith of the military-industrial complex,but I’m starting to think that Afghan army we spent two decades building never quite became the elite peacekeeping force we were led to expect. I guess $83 billion doesn’t buy what it used to.

 Other than human tragedy on an unfathomable scale, of course.

And he hasn’t even started on the GOP Death Cult’s COVID Regeneron commercial and kill-a-thon.

I’m finally beginning to feel a little better after the fall I took on Wednesday night (my fuckin’ birthday). Is the slow recovery, from a minor fall, due to my current state of elderliness or is it that AND the fact I was already in Recovery Land. I’ll take Decrepit Old Fart for 500, Alex.

Speaking of Jeopardy—the show’s executive producer, who decided he needed fame in addition to the big bucks he was already making, seems to have forgotten that he’s an asshole—an asshole whose witnesses and victims have long memories and aren’t afraid to speak up.  So, the shitheel ‘stepped down’—AKA was fired. Can we get LaVar Burton in there now?

OK, I’m done pissing and moaning for the day. Thanks for listening.

Selfies Part Two

I’m talkin’ about self published books. I just KNEW they couldn’t all be heavily flawed, get-me-an-editor-who-wants-serious-OT-STAT tales. 

I’m now two for two in the self published book racket. On the good side, there was Kevin Tudish’s health, happiness, LOVE, longevity, peace, prosperity, SAFETY  and now David Bowen’s Hell On Earth.

I’m only halfway though chapter four and am totally  enjoying the fuck out of it.

What’s it about/
 In part:

When staunch trade unionist Reg Hallsworth gets relocated to Hell few can imagine the trouble it will cause. Certainly not Death Third Class number 221 of the Human Transition Department, who hides him there to cover up his own clerical error.

So, Hell’s on strike and there's a long queue of sinners—what to do, what to do?!

With a disaster of biblical proportions just around the corner it is up to these unlikely heroes to save the day and find a suitable location to build a new Hell... on Earth. (source)

Where’s a suitable Hell on Earth? Florida but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

09.32 Death had had a lie in. It’d been a late night, playing poker with the boys. The boys, in this case, were the Four Horsemen of Everyday Life, lower profile than their Apocalypse counterparts, but still very important in the regulations of the human population. They were Casual Violence (a lot more sensitive than the name implied and generally quite a nice guy), Suicide (the joker of the pack, he always had a good story to tell about work), Negligence (the Romeo of the group and also the outright winner of last night’s game, he cheated both with women and cards) and Accidental Misadventure (his friend usually referred to him by his nickname: Oops) He was in charge of accidents and always brought his work home with him.

Coco wants me to drop the book and
 pay more attention to her NOW!

Yes, the book’s highly irreverent. Not for everyone but's def for me.

Unlike D.M. Guay's unedited and wildly inconsistent Graveyard Shift and that forgettable other one (whose author and title I no longer remember), both of which went into the recycling bin, this one’s a keeper. I’ll probably pick up his second book, The Eleventh Plague. Seems timely, no?

My only wee quibbles with Hell On Earth are the occasional awkward word and ellipsis spacing (in order to achieve hard left to right justification) plus the double space after a period. These all seem intermittent and piddling, not egregiously distracting.

Is Bowen an, as yet, undiscovered Scalzi?

Mixed Bag

You know you're getting old when you stoop to tie your shoelaces and wonder what else you could do while you're down there.
~ George Burns

Yup—there now.

Life is so short, transient, and beautiful that there is not enough time to get old.
~ Debasish Mridha

Can life still be beautiful in these years of bullies unleashed to terrorize the rest of us? I live in Massachusetts where, to my mind, it would be unthinkable for me to to be refused service (or kicked out of church)  if I didn’t  remove my mask. More likely, a person who refused to wear a damn mask would, rightly, be refused service.

One thing you can't hide - is when you're crippled inside.
~ John Lennon

I KNOW not everyone in the South is crippled inside but it’s easy to forget when I read about all the anti-vaxxers who scream “Muh FREEDUMB” as long as it’s THEIR "freedom" to which we all adhere.

I'm too damn old and broken down to tolerate this smelly-ass, rabid weasel shit.

Oh youth, why did you leave me, to fend for myself against time?
~ Anthony Liccione

Youth hasn’t left me to fend for myself—I have friends, housemates who do so much for me. Fer instance, last night, I was sitting in a low chair, one that I knew was gonna be problematic to rise from. It was. I couldn’t get enough momentum going and my walker is too flimsy to pull myself up. Yup, I kinda fell, mostly just slid to the floor. Didn’t hurt myself really but I needed Jen and Oni (Ten was already home) to drag my none-too-bright self up to a standing position.

Yep, this morning I have aches, pains and feel like an idiot. I’ll still have PT though. Possibly it’ll help to work out some of my kinks (NO, not those sorts of kinks!).

Random aside—I’m 63 years old and it STILL feels weird to call my friends’ parents by their first names.
e.g., Jens’ father is Jack—I call him Pop. Jen’s mother is Donna— that’s what I call her. It feels ODD and somewhat disrespectful. But I’m 63!

Random aside #2: I dreamed that I was watching one of the original Star Treks except all the sets and costumes looked like they were constructed in the late ‘40s, early ‘50s. Bones was going out the airlock to save someone on another ship but he wasn’t wearing a helmet. I was panicking and worried about Bones.

As my late mother famously observed, the one thing to be said for growing old is that every year there are a few more things I don’t have to give a rat’s ass about.
~ Lawrence Block

In the seven years or so that had passed since I had last seen him, Sir Magnus Donners had grown not so much older in appearance, as less like a human being.
~ Anthony Powell, A Dance to the Music of Time: 3rd Movement

Well yes, while long ago, I quit giving a rat’s ass (or even a wee mousy’s butt) about a lot of things, I do want to appear human unless, of course, I could be Vulcan. That’s only logical, right?

They Say It’s My Birthday

Celeste, Daddy and Me (I musta been around 12)

I haven’t been as overweight as I am now EVAH. Not once in my life! More or less, I presently come in at 200,000 GT (gross tons—yes, I’m in QE II range now). I may’ve mentioned this already.  I, naturally, blame my surgery habit of this past year.

In any case, today is my birthday. There will be Mexican takeout (fish tacos for me) AND cake (of course). Cake, as you know, is just a delivery vehicle for frosting. Specifically BIG frosting flowers. I want a goddamn garden—roses, gardenias, tulips, dandelions and MORE.

Ten, (who is, at this very moment, making me birthday spinach quiche for brekkie) tells me that our theoretically evil kitten has tracked litter into the fridge. How is that even possible? I tell ya, she’s a creative and mega talented little devil.

Coffee—I LURV coffee. Want/NEED a cup NOW! dammit…Haven’t had any since the day before my latest brain job. Warum? Docs said it’d conflict with one of the bazillion meds I was on post surgery. Bastids! Can I have coffee now though? It’s five months post slice-up…please, please, please!? Jen must make phone calls to Brain Central (AKA MGH). It’ll be her b-day prezzie to yurs truly.

With human sponsored climate change/planet roasting, it won’t be long before coffee’s just a distant beautiful memory.

If Earth’s climate continues to warm over the coming decades, obstacles to coffee cultivation will multiply. Consider Arabica coffee (Coffee arabica), the species grown for roughly 70 percent of worldwide coffee production. Arabica coffee’s optimal temperature range is 64°–70°F (18°C–21°C). It can tolerate mean annual temperatures up to roughly 73°F (24°C).

Above those moderate temperatures, fruit development and ripening accelerate. (If you didn’t know, coffee “beans” are actually the pit, or seed, of the plant’s fruit.) Faster ripening might not sound bad, but it actually degrades coffee bean quality. Continuous exposure to temperatures up to and just over 86°F (30°C) can severely damage coffee plants, stunting growth, yellowing leaves, even spawning stem tumors. (source)

Climate change also affects chocolate. Can you say ‘THIS IS SO UNFAIR’—of course you can. What can we as individuals do to save coffee and chocolate?

• Drive electric (if you can’t, take the train)
• Eat less meat and dairy (or, better still, cut it out of your diet entirely)
• Fly less
• Turn the AC and heat down
• Recycle as much as you possibly can
• and PLANT MORE GODDAMN TREES

DO IT!

OK, that was my birthday rant. Yes, yur welcome.

Birthday—Beatles

All I've Got To Say

Trump struck a deal with the Taliban.

This is from a February 29, 2020 BBC article:

The US and the Taliban have signed an “agreement for bringing peace” to Afghanistan after more than 18 years of conflict.
The US and Nato allies have agreed to withdraw all troops within 14 months if the militants uphold the deal.
~~~
He (Trump) said US troops had been killing terrorists in Afghanistan “by the thousands” and now it was “time for someone else to do that work and it will be the Taliban and it could be surrounding countries”.

N.b.: Trump met with the Taliban, NOT the sitting Afghan government. He struck this deal with the Taliban, NOT the sitting Afghan government. 

 What was in that agreement that 45 made with the Taliban, NOT the sitting Afghan government?

Within the first 135 days of the deal the US will reduce its forces in Afghanistan to 8,600, with allies also drawing down their forces proportionately.

The move would allow US President Donald Trump to show that he has brought troops home ahead of the US presidential election in November.

The deal also provides for a prisoner swap. Some 5,000 Taliban prisoners and 1,000 Afghan security force prisoners would be exchanged by 10 March, when talks between the Taliban and the Afghan government are due to start.

Part of Mr. Idiot's deal was to remove all US troops by May of this year. Also, the Taliban had to ixnay their 'friends with benefits' relationship with Al Queda.

So then, Mr. Art of the Totally Fucked Deal met with the Taliban (NOT the sitting Afghan government) and made agreements, which Biden had to honor. He did. There are oodles of reasons why it’s good for us to be out of the 20 year war that Georgy boy kicked off. It’s just a bloody shame that the massively incompetent 45 and his inept, bungling, clown car administration made that deal.

Plus, didya notice that, after three years of doing nothing beyond destroying all the good that Obama accomplished, just as 45's reelection performance was gearing up, him and his idiot Klan decided to see foreign policy as a campaign booster. Granted, they totally fucked up but that could have been easily predicted. Additionally, it could be argued that his entire presidency was nothing more than a stage performance, an audition for reelection.

Has the Taliban kept up their end of the deal? Not according to the U.N.

"There is still clearly a close relationship between Al Qaeda and the Taliban," said Edmund Fitton-Brown, the coordinator of the U.N. panel responsible for tracking the Taliban and terrorist groups in Afghanistan. (source)

I’m glad we’re outta there and I don’t blame Biden for Dubya’s and 45’s botched bullshit. No, I don’t blame Obama either. The man had enough on his hands with cleaning up after Boy Blunder, the warmup act to Idiots R Us.

That’s all I have to say about this insane sitch. Honest!

Consider This

Regarding god(s) and what happens after we croak —maybe we get the god and afterlife we each deserve rather than the ones we want or imagine.

Here are some helpful examples:

Sick Dick Cheney
God? Hilary Clinton of course.

Afterlife? Cheney gets endless war but HE has to do the fighting—sunup to sundown every goddamn day. The day only ends early if he’s killed. He prays for death.

Proud Boys
God? Joan Baez, bien sûr.

Afterlife? In their Valhalla, they’re all 15 year old scared shitless white boys in a Jewish, Black neighborhood. They feel alone and afraid there’ll be payback for their ridiculous, bullshit, bullying opinions. In this world they MUST resolve all problems, imaginary and real, with peaceful, graceful diplomacy. If they fail, they’re locked alone in a small room where an endless loop of Joni Mitchell singing Lennon’s Imagine is played.
“Imagine all the people living life in peace.”
Yeah, there’s a lotta payback goin’ on.

Karens
God? A tall Black man who manages Saks, Bloomingdales, Neiman Marcus and any other store in which Karen consider shopping or just browsing.

Afterlife? Manager guy comes out of his office and follows her around the store. She complains and whines (as Karens do) but he doesn’t take an ounce of her crap. That AND he isn’t even vaguely diplomatic. Think Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction.

Alt Afterlife? She’s so poor (and obnoxious) that even her fellow residents in WhiteTrashLandia look down on her. She lives in a beat to shit trailer and is unable to get away with ANY snotty-ass, ridiculous bullshit.

Joel Osteen
God? Same as now but he/she holds Joel accountable for every damn time he fails to preach or follow the teachings in the New Testament. Think beatitudes plus easier for a camel…eye of a needle and all that.

Afterlife? Works in a down and out soup kitchen without the paparazzi giving him a bit of notice. He listens to everyone’s troubles and MUST be, or at least sound, genuinely empathetic—every minute of every day. Joel feeds the poor, destitute and desperate without a break. There’s no publicity or so much as a thank you. He lives in a small, run down studio apartment on the bad side of town which he shares with an unbathed meth addict.

The Former Guy
His god? Gloria Steinem who, of course, won’t give him the time of day except to lecture him on his shit behavior toward women. She also constantly reminds him that THIS is why he’s a 78 year old virgin.

TFG’s “reward?” He’s born into abject poverty. He’s friendless, without a single connection (good OR bad) and is a high school cafeteria worker, mocked endlessly by students. He has no hope of promotion because of his bad attitude.

Tucker Carlson
His Almighty? Jimmy Carter and Barack Obama—they trade days.

Afterlife? Having to attend press briefings every day. Jen Psaki laughs and fact checks each bizarre pile of shit out of his mouth and corrects him live, on camera. He MUST respond truthfully by telling her who’s paying him to lie or he dies painfully. This goes on daily. Some days he dies, some days he lives.

Inspired by Tom Holt’s book Valhalla.

Think Too Much

There are NO matters so small, so very tiny that I'm unable to blow up into a big fucking deal. Ya know, one which requires deep analysis. Something as relatively simple as, do Jen and I have weekend tea time here or at their place today (Saturday). This necessitates careful consideration and significant scrutiny. Expert advise (Ten) is required.

You’re, doubtless, thinking ‘the fuck?!’ or something along those très insightful lines. Yeah well, lemme just bullet point all that’s in play.

Pros of Going To Jen and Oni’s for tea:

• I get the exercise of walking down and up half a dozen steps, walkering across my living room and the breezeway between our houses, more steps, more walkering and other simple bits to get from my bed to their living room. These are simple and easy IF you have a pair of fully functioning legs.
• We’d get to watch Lucifer! We’re just at the start of the season where God, in total Dad garb, has come to L.A. to spend a few weeks with his sons!
  

Lucifer's Dad

Cons:

• It’s 90 bazillion degrees out today. Ten and Jen would have to carry my wheelchair (which I sit in while watching teevee) downstairs, tote it next door (IN THIS HEAT!) and then, after tea, bring it back here and upstairs (IN THIS HEAT!). I’m just NOT that much of a demanding demon (close though, close).
• But today was supposed to be my exercise day off! OK, I already blew that by taking a shower. YES, that totally counts as exercise!
• I don’t get to watch Star Trek: Discovery. EVERY damn episode ends on a cliffhanger, or so it seems, and I NEED to find out what happens next.
  

All of this needed to be carefully weighed out and discussed before I could make a decision. Eventually it all came down to Coco. She really enjoys it when just us three girls hang, nosh and roll over the minutiae of each episode. Yes, of course my kitten has opinions and needs to share them!

Coco's take on season three, episode two where Discovery has just come through wormhole and landed on a planet with rather unpleasant sorts? Georgiou should’ve been allowed to off that filthy dilithium thief. Our kitten could totally relate—the creep was the human equivalent of a vile mouse. Georgiou needed to have some fun toying with the little shit, then go in for the ‘bored-now’ kill.

Ultimately, we all decided that the smart bet was to stay in my air conditioned bunker watching Star Trek with Coco (she approved of our choice). Today won’t be so abysmally sweltering, I’ve had my exercise day off and Coco has, reluctantly, given me a hall pass for tea time. OK then, no further thought processing need today. Yea!

And in the night
My father came to me
And held me to his chest
He said there's not much more that you can do
Go on and get some rest
And I said yeah
Maybe I think too much
Maybe I think too much
   Paul Simon—Think Too Much