There's Good News too...REALLY!

There is something deeply hypocritical about praying for a problem you are unwilling to resolve.
~ Miroslav Volf

I’m out of reading matter again, dammit. What inevitably happens, if I can’t find something soon, is that I'll start doomscrolling. There’s no shortage of doom, destruction and hopelessness to read about. How awfully bloody cheery!
 

Oops, too late—the stroll through insanity and incompetent gaslighting has begun.

The House GUP (Greedheaded Unhinged Pestilence) is continuing to make utter fools of themselves (as usual).

Lauren three-time-GED-failer Boobert, has furiously and repeatedly demanded to know precisely when it became legal to pee in public in D.C.  (it isn’t). Apparently, this non-issue, for her teeny tiny non-functioning brain, is the most important problem we citizens collectively face.

Kevin Spineless McCarthy wants to meet with Biden to negotiate raising the debt ceiling. Spineless thinks he holds all the cards and made some HAH-HAH about how he’s willing to bring Biden a lunch of “soft food.” 

WHAT a complete imbecile. McCarthy’s like a doltish frat boy (redundant, I know) who’s drunkenly fallen on his head three too many times. Son, Biden could fillet and simmer you in a light sauce made from your own interstitial fluids before you could manage to tell him your first human rights assassinating point. Go back to cleaning Jewish Space Laser Greene’s spork toes with your tongue, you toad fucking dimwit.

And some idiot, House Rep. Clay Higgins to be precise, claimed that abortion kills more children annually than guns. Obviously this boy wasn’t paying attention in biology class. You get children AFTER the birth happens—before then you have a collection of cells, an embryo and then a fetus. Also, nice attempt to move the topic away from guns but NO.

Higgins also said:

"There's no such thing as gun violence. There's only human violence. It's intellectually unsound to state otherwise.”

Speaking of intellectually unsound, he’s part of the same damn party who won’t do a motherfucking thing about mental health issues (including his own obvious ones) either.

This shitshow started with Saint Ronnie the Stupid and Callous.

President Reagan never understood mental illness. Like Richard Nixon, he was a product of the Southern California culture that associated psychiatry with Communism. Two months after taking office, Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, a young man with untreated schizophrenia. Two years later, Reagan called Dr. Roger Peele, then director of St. Elizabeths Hospital, where Hinckley was being treated, and tried to arrange to meet with Hinckley, so that Reagan could forgive him. (cool photo op idea man!) Peele tactfully told the president that this was not a good idea. Reagan was also exposed to the consequences of untreated mental illness through the two sons of Roy Miller, his personal tax advisor. Both sons developed schizophrenia; one committed suicide in 1981, and the other killed his mother in 1983. Despite such personal exposure, Reagan never exhibited any interest in the need for research or better treatment for serious mental illness. (source)

Good news though—the tantruming orange idiot has been indicted. His daughter-wife has come out saying that she loves him but….what did you say was this criminal’s name is again? His coke addled son seems to be in hiding and the stupid one (okay, the MORE stupid one) is shunning the spotlight too.

I’ve read that the dictator wannabe will be tried as an adult too!

I Don't Get It

 This abstract painting hangs in the hallway right outside my cornea specialist’s exam room. It annoys me anew every damn time I see it.

Why? I don’t understand it. Now, you might be thinking, ‘what’s to understand? It’s an abstract.’

Fer fuck’s sake, a nonrepresentational piece can have depth, movement and big meaning whether its colors, lines and shapes mean anything to anyone else besides the artist or not. 

This particular work puzzles the shit outta me. I don’t feel a bit of rhythm or groove from the way the shapes are formed, tinted or placed. The blues, greens and rusts harmonize reasonably but what’s up with the big peach/yellow dick that’s front and center? What about the nausea-lemon frisbee with a grid pattern? Neither element makes a lick of sense (to me) within the whole.

If this were a piece of music it’d be Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun with a loud clown horn playing Wild Cherry over top.

It doesn’t work and I’m tired of looking at it. So there.

Things to Keep in Mind

Low tide—taken by Jen this morning

Now that it’s getting lighter earlier, I need to get my sluggish ass up and out of bed early to catch the dawn. That’s THE most beautiful time of the day and the best time to walk. There’s precious few, if any, folks out, we see the occasional coyote, bunny or stray cat AND, for Bast’s damn sake, just LOOK at the colors!

So, it’s time for me to ditch my lazy morning torpidity and seize the motherfucking dawn. Yeah babies, I can so do this.
~~~
Think wisely and look ahead when choosing baby names. After all, your wee bairn won’t be a helpless infant forever. At some point they will evolve into a, possibly sweet yet still annoying, hellion.

For dramatic purposes, specifically when you’re exacerbated with their nonsense du jour, your child should have a two syllable, minimum, first name.

e.g., you’ve asked them 98 times to pick up their toys with no results. You need to snap them out of their reverie. You sternly call their name.

Remember, heavy, serious emphasis on second syllable.

• Donna — Don-NA!
• Richard — Ri-CHARD!
• Linda — Lin-DA!!

The exception to this two syllable rule is on those times when you’re simply livid. This is more likely to happen their tween to teen years though. At that point you’re probably going to shout out their full names. The syllable load should be in the middle. 

e.g., 

• ANN MILLICENT CLARK, GET YOUR KEISTER IN HERE THIS INSTANT!
• JOHN JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT, I TOLD YOU TO SHOVEL THE WALK AN HOUR AGO!
• CHRISTOPHER MICHAEL ROBINSON, PUT THAT GAME BOY AWAY NOW!

The key is to find names which work for both age and annoyance levels. It’s all about the rhythm and balance of the sounds. Children’s names need to be versatile. They must be capable of sounding ominous when the occasion arises.

This is why, of course, I feel that Godzilla is the perfect name.
~~~
Word for the Day

 Gustave Doré — Les Fées

Feirie (pronounced feer-ee)
     adjective
healthy, strong

Feirie is a Scottish dialectal term that comes from Old English fēre, “able-bodied, fit,” from the noun fōr, “journey, act of going.” Fōr, in turn, is based on the verb faran, “to go on a journey,” meaning that feirie is closely related to English fare, farewell, and wayfarer. Feirie was first recorded in English around the turn of the 15th century. (source)

Fine, fine, that’s all well and good BUT the damn word looks much too much like the word faerie. And, as we all well know, fairies and faeries are very different beings.

Both refer to mythical creatures that have supernatural powers. However, 'fairies' are beautiful, kind, generous, and help human beings. 'Faeries', on the other hand, are evil and they cause trouble wherever they go. (source)

Of course this could be utter bollocks. In all dreary likelihood, faerie is just an archaic spelling of fairy. As long as I’m kvetching—why are fairies but not faeries always depicted as blondes? Does Laura Ingraham seem like some selfless, delicate, gracious, winged being to you?

Not if you’re sane. I want some damn fairie/faeries who look like me!

Narcissus

Narcissus— Caravaggio

 Is narcissism more prevalent now? Or are we only just now noticing the signs (billboards, blimps, building sized hoardings) of this in our acquaintances, friends and family?

Is it that we're now more aware of this behavior that we’ve been conscious of all along? Is this the only “good” thing that Agent Orange Id and his profoundly broken personality might have done—putting Narcissistic Personality Disorder on the world stage? Raising awareness is good—unveiling this level of vile, greedheaded, callous behavior and making it the topic of so many discussions was needed.

What are some symptoms of narcissism?

• Having an inflated sense of self-importance and entitlement.


• Needing constant admiration.


• Expecting special treatment.


• Exaggerating achievements and talents.


• Reacting negatively to criticism.


• Being preoccupied with fantasies about power, success, and beauty.


• Taking advantage of others.


• Having an inability or unwillingness to recognize the needs and feelings of others.


• Behaving in an arrogant manner. (source)
  

Narcissus on a fresco in Pompeia

That second to the last item—having an inability or unwillingness to recognize the needs and feelings of others—that's the one that most jumps out at me. When I witness that in a person, I know to keep a distance or, at the very least, always be watchful and wary when they're around.

The MAGAt morons seem horribly anesthetized to the needs and emotions of their fellow humans. At the same time they're stratospherically blind to the fact that they're no more than pathetic rubes and zombie tools for their soulless, gold painted carnival grifter god. The whacko enabling Republi/Fascist party, chockfull of rich fuckheads who feel the very earth and all us peasants owe them BIG for our very existence, are worse.

Narcissism? We’re soaking in it!

Narcissism exists on a spectrum. If you take accountability, have insight, and establish reciprocal relationships, you may have some narcissistic traits but not a personality disorder....

When narcissistic traits and behaviors span multiple areas of your life for an extended period of time, a therapist may formally diagnose narcissistic personality disorder (NPD). (source)

There may or may not be more profoundly self-obsessed, heartless nimrods in the world now than there were 50 years ago. How many of these glass zeros have full blown narcissistic personality disorder and how may have varying levels of these traits?

I'd love to see a study done of narcissism and the Republi/Fascist party. 

Monday, Monday

Cake and cake

Signs of spring—Dairy Freeze is open and the crocus are coming up. Soft serve might just edge out crocuses for total spring goodness.

I'm beat, discombobulated, achy and having chest pain. Do I have a cold, am I dying or did I doomscroll too much last night? (probably it's that last bit) Maybe I just need a nap or, better still, MORE Cake!

Silence

I've got nothing to say but it's OK
Good morning
Good morning
Good morning, ah
~ Beatles

Never miss a good chance to shut up.
~ Will Rogers

We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves.
~ Leonora Carrington

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
~ Wisława Szymborska, Poems New and Collected

My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.
~ Edith Sitwell

Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact.
~ George Eliot, Impressions of Theophrastus Such

Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing.
~ William S. Burroughs, The Job: Interviews with William S. Burroughs

Better living through chemistry (and books and cats)

Today is cold, grey, windy, utterly blah and it’s gonna rain. Yes, you are correct—this means I have less than zero amounts of motivation to do anything but read in bed. NOT good—the motivation dearth that is.

I am, however, reading a collection of essays by Margaret Atwood (Burning Questions) and, goddamn, she’s awesome—witty, informative, compelling, fun and more. I haven’t read any of her fiction in years. I believe I’ll put her new short story collection Old Babes in the Wood on my library hold list.

This is from a recent interview with the magazine, Wired:

Interviewer: That reminds me of one of the first questions I was going to ask you. 

Ms. Atwood: What’s it like to be really, really old? (she’s 83)

I: No!

MA: It’s more fun than you’d think.

I: Well, actually—expand on that. 

MA: As long as you’re not actually dying or having dementia, you just have a lot less to lose. You can color quite a lot further outside the lines, especially compared to young people these days, in an age of anxiety. People are afraid of being beaten up by their peers on social media. They haven’t been hardened in the fire. If you have been hardened, you can just let it rip.

Hardened in the fire? Yeah, that’s me mes amis and that’s how I feel about being older. I’m retired from the print/design fields. My ruthless taskmaster now is me and that rat bastard neurofibromatosis type 2.

On that note, Jen and I spent half the day yesterday at Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary getting my left eye checked out. This was just a four month scheduled follow up and I’m doing great. Unexpectedly awesome in fact.

Yesterday’s other Nf2 business was my pesky inflated blood pressure. I’m off the BP igniting chemo now and my blood pressure meds have been doubled. While we wait for my BP to come back down to cozy, safe levels, is my frontal lobe monster meningioma getting fat and happy? When will I resume chemo? WILL I resume chemo? Will I need to have the beast at the front of my brain cut out of me instead of chemically slimmed down?

Also, I only mention it but, my neuro-ophthalmologist/cornea specialist has posited that the chemo med might be part of why my eye is getting better. If the monster tumor is shedding some bulk, it’s putting less pressure on the orb. Less pressure is good. Not being on pressure reducing chemo bad. Astronomically high BP also bad. You can see my fucking quandary.

I’d worry, fuss and maybe even panic a bit but *yawn* I just can’t be arsed. I can’t heal/fix/cure myself with worry or stress—that’s a fact. So, I’m just gonna hop on the elliptical (strength building), climb the stairs a half dozen times (weight bearing exercise) and fold and put away laundry (balance ex) today. Sadly, napping with Cake does NOT count as rehab exercising.

It SHOULD!

Two Words

Cèilidh
[ kay-lee ]
     noun
a party, gathering, or the like, at which dancing, singing, and storytelling are the usual forms of entertainment.

Apart from parties that Jen, Oni and I held when we, (including TAB) lived in Cambridge (TAB and I on the 2nd floor of a triple decker, Jen and Oni on the 3rd), I’ve never cared much for big hullabaloos. I feel a ridiculous pressure to chat entertainingly—to be a regular Dorothy Parker or Fran Leibowitz.

Before TAB and I moved in together, I had a few themed gatherings in my tiny studio apartment—pumpkin carving, Easter egg painting, movie watching (on my microscopic black and white teevee)—activity focused events. If no one had anything to say, well, we could talk about what we were painting on our eggs or what expression, scenes or patterns should appear on our pumpkins. Watching a movie? No need to talk.

In my solo travels around Scotland and Ireland, I went to a few cèilidhs. The best one was in a small pub on the Aran island of Inis Mór. What made this one glorious was that everyone in the joint knew or knew of each other and they welcomed me to join in. They were buskers on holiday before the big tourist season kicked in. I didn’t need to start conversations, introduce myself, make awkward chit chat—the musicians, artists, storytellers, puppeteers and others were all already on it. I was subsumed by this happy party beast made up of so many fascinating people. We asked each other questions, told tales of our respective travels. I’d just met these folk but felt utterly comfortable. Singers would stand and sing a tune a capella. Someone would get up and spin a yarn or two. The whole crowd would break into song. Brilliant!

Deafness was years away at that point.

The Cambridge parties were always a gas with friends from all different corners of our lives. There was big (recorded) music, dancing, convos and wondrous eatable’s courtesy of Jen and Oni (Cook? Me? Oh my no, that’s inadvisable). These shindigs weren’t like the Inis Mór cèilidh—they held a different sort of unbridled joy.

TAB did NOT enjoy parties and that was okay. After coming up to greet guests he would saunter back downstairs to read, watch teevee and chat with friends who sought him out.

Quaere
[ kweer-ee ]
     verb
ask; inquire (an imperative used to introduce or suggest a question).

Used in a sentence?

Quaere, will the insanely negligent parents of the Michigan 15 year old (now 16) who shot and killed four of his fellow students (injuring six other kids and a teacher) with his daddy’s semi-automatic be held accountable for their role in the slaughter?

Used in another sentence?

My wonky left eye is red this morning; quaere, does this mean I'm now in for the orb shutting surgery I'd so narrowly escaped just four months ago?

Our Man Wolfie

The Queen of the Night aria (AKA, Der Hölle Rache—The Revenge of Hell), from Mozart’s Magic Flute—I can no longer hear it in my head and I'm mighty pissed off about that too.

I remember, back in my music major days, being introduced to what was, apparently, an hilarious voice major in-joke— a recording of the Queen of the Night aria warbled almost entirely off-key.

Just think of the bodacious pipes, control and absolute talent this coloratura soprano must have had in order to strategically sing these insanely high, difficult notes just a bit off-key but only in precise places. It was brilliant and totally cringe.

My fellow musicians found it highly amusing. Me? I understood the humor—I got the joke. But I just wanted to hear it sung perfectly again and again and again. The Queen of the Night was brandy new to my ears and spectacularly, motherfucking brilliant.

Ya see, I was a college freshman and had only just become a fan of our man Wolfie Amadeus. Before then, my fave 18th century composers were Händel, Bach, Telemann and, of course, Vivaldi. Mozart just wasn’t my bag before that year. The Queen of the Night changed that.

Did you know? Mozart had a pet starling who could sing the opening theme of the finale of Piano Concerto No. 17, K. 453.

By the by, for breakfast each morning, Mozart had:

• 2 cups of black coffee with a splash of goats milk
• 3 squares of milk chocolate
• an apple streusel
• a single wienerschnitzel
• Salzburger Nockerl (a sweet soufflé made from eggs)

I just knew you were rabidly curious about this so...yur welcome.

Two Years Later

On March 20th of 2021, two years ago Monday, I rolled into Mass General for the brain surgery which would steal all strength, most feeling and the vast majority of movement from my left leg and foot. Sure, the complete loss was temporary. I needed intense, long term physical therapy and even with that, no one in the med community was making any promises.

Here I am, two years on, in 2023:

• I can walk (freestyle—no walker, no brace or hand needing to be held) 10—20 feet at a go, without falling over.

• I can walk half to three quarters of a mile at one time with my rollator (again, NO toppling over).
  

• I can pump for 20 minutes straight on the recumbent elliptical now.

• I no longer need to use the walker to go across the hall to the can, man. I can get up to pee in the middle of the night without waking Ten to help me. I can stand while I brush my teeth too.

• I can go up and down the stairs on my own (though I appreciate Ten standing at the bottom of the stairs to break my fall if need be). The stair lift? It’s still here but, for now, folded up and unneeded.

• On five out of seven days a week, I’m doing a combo of one to 1.3 miles of walking and ellipticalling. I'd hoped to be much further along by now but winter was hard—all the cold and dark did a number on me. That shit’s a real energy and motivation depleter.

It’s hard to remember OR give myself the credit I deserve for how far I’ve come. I've GOT to keep in mind all the setbacks I’ve had since that melon surgery: 

• There was the giant hyper-delicate surgery to trim down the alien locked around my thoracic spine (I was in hospital and then rehab for more than a month).

• Two broken teeth (anesthesiologist's parting gifts)
  

• Proton radiation (to limit or halt further growth of the thoracic spine motherfucker).

• COVID (would’ve sucked giant stone gargoyle wang to have survived the surgeries only to die from Trump’s plague)

• My usual eye bullshit.

• Chemo (to, hopefully, stop the growth of the mondo meningioma on my bean’s frontal lobe)

And now?

Monday I went in for a quick check-in with Doc Plotkin’s nurse practitioner. My blood pressure was high—a common side effect of the chemo med I’m on. We, Ten and I, were told to keep a close watch on it. Yesterday morning as I was taking my morning crateful of pills, Ten took my BP. It was 230/120. Fucking YIKES! My first words to Ten? Is that number even possible?!

Just in case the home BP cuff, which is old, was outta whack and just in case I needed to get to the ER STAT, Jen called the EMTs. They came out and, yup, using their cuff, my BP was in fact 230/120. Jesus.

I felt totally, absolutely fine though. After some basic tests and a convo with the med crew, I said I wanted to stay home (versus zipping into the ER where I’d sit for three hours before a medic even looked at me) and email Plotkin’s office. The EMT’s felt this was safe and a good plan but told me they could be right back if I changed my mind. Really wonderful team.

Nurse Practitioner Christina called a ‘script into the pharmacy for me, Ten picked it up moments later. Boom—my numbers began their descent.

My other Monday appointment was a bone density test. Yes, I do indeed have bones. Just like the rest of me however, they’re old and fragile. I’m now the proud owner of a new little condition called osteoporosis. Yes, this on top of everything else. Am I special or am I fucking special?!

Here’s the other anniversary—four year ago yesterday, Ten and I jumped in his jam-packed pickup and drove cross country from Oregon’s high desert to Valhalla, Massachusetts. It’s been a hell of an action packed four years. I swear, the man's a fucking saint.

Orchestrated Hoopla

You realize of course that it’s the weasel king of liars himself who’s saying he’ll be arrested on Tuesday. No one else in office or in charge of the multiple investigations into his monster criminality, has stated or promised us this.

Even the Tangerine Twat’s own people are, basically, saying yeah, this is just more grifting wind he’s blowing out his ass shaped face.

Trump’s spokesperson told USA TODAY there has been “no notification” related to the timing of possible criminal charges. But the former president’s call for protests caused concern for law enforcement involved in preparing for such an event. (source)

So, pardon me if I see this as nothing more than his shiny new martyr shtick, engineered to own the news cycle.

He gets:

• the attention he craves like the blood a vampire thirsts after.
  

• the news orgs distracted, AGAIN, from talking about his bigger crimes (like selling the U.S. out to Putin).

AND

• his violent, whackaloon mob base get wood and their panties (plus guns) in a bunch to riot again. More yummy chaos.

Yam Tits is acting the role of an evil, corrupt, chicken-hearted version of Princess Leia messaging Obi-Wan. Help me MAGAts, you’re my only hope. He wants them to start a war to keep his ugly, viciously greedheaded, dim-fucking-witted ass out of jail. Good luck to the dopes who try to get out to Mar-A-Lago to rescue him—the joint’s on an island with only one road in. Plus, unlike craven Cancun Cruz, Donnie would never get in a truck with his fanbois.

I’d dearly love to see him perp walked for all his crimes, not just for paying hush money to a porn star. How about all the crimes he’s committed EVER or, at least, since he began his last campaign in 2015? Check out this lovely compendium by CREW (Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington).

No, I don’t think he’s going to be arrested tomorrow. Maybe soon, maybe never.

Reading Matter

What do I do when I’m between books and/or not sucked into the one I’ve got? Glad you asked.

I read the news but that disgusts me fairly quickly. I succumb to the internal battle between being well informed and remaining sane. Sanity generally wins. 

What else do I read? Lists, like:

• 50 Most Annoying Songs of All Time
• The Most Memorable and Iconic Moments in Late-Night Talk Show History
• Funny ‘Do You Know Who I Am’ Moments
• Cat Behaviors That Are Paw-sitively Perplexing & Curiously Odd
• 38 Accidental Texts Sent By Total Strangers And The Funny Responses Received
• 18+ Meet-Cute Stories to Bright the Day
• The Secret Life Of Cats: 40 Comics That Put The Cat In Catastrophe
• Snap Puppies: 50+Dogs That Made Us Giggle
• Brutal And Awkward Rejections Gone Wrong

There’s an infinite number of these posts. They promise to be entertaining BUT the copy is invariably unnecessary and execrably written. Plus, the pet posts have a lot of overlap—if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

The other bit is that the “writers” are clearly wholly unfamiliar with their subjects. I was reading one column plus pics about Johnny Carson (who was apparently kind of a dick) which talked about his dislike and nasty-ass words about Wayne “Newtown.” Yup, the scribbler obvs had no idea as to who Wayne Newton is. This wasn’t just a typo—the so-called journo consistently referred to Mr. Las Vegas as Wayne “Newtown” throughout.

Embarrassing. I take it that no one proofreads before hitting publish.

The other reason I’ll be avoiding these posts from now on? Pop-up ads. They’re ubiquitous.  So numerous that, when wasting time on my tiny phone, I can’t see the article for all the advertisements.

Yeah, I need to find new shit to distract and even inform my bean.

Reading the NASA site would work. There are tons of cool pics, thoroughly fascinating articles and endless sparks for my imagination.

Fer instance:

A team led by researchers at the University of Montreal has found evidence that two exoplanets orbiting a red dwarf star are "water worlds," where water makes up a large fraction of the entire planet. These worlds, located in a planetary system 218 light-years away in the constellation Lyra, are unlike any planet found in our solar system. (source)

Star-forming cluster

Also:

Using data from NASA’s Transiting Exoplanet Survey Satellite, scientists have identified an Earth-size world, called TOI 700 e, orbiting within the habitable zone of its star – the range of distances where liquid water could occur on a planet’s surface. The world is 95% Earth’s size and likely rocky. (source)

Awesome—way more interesting than reading abysmal, ad infested posts about late night teevee hosts, annoying pop songs and “meet-cute” stories.

Also, annoying is in the eye of the beholder. Just FYI and shit.

Words, Nimrods and Dipshits

Zabuton
     noun
a large, flat cushion, used in Japan for sitting or kneeling on the floor.

Nothing weird or terribly special here, I just like the way the word sounds in my head. Okay, it sounds a bit like the name for an alien species on Star Trek.

Oh wait, I’m thinking of Zebulon Pike and he was definitely not on Star Trek. Nope, he’s the failed explorer who got a mountain, which he’d unsuccessfully attempted to climb, named after him.

Gallinipper
     noun
any of various insects that sting or bite, especially a large American mosquito.

Fair enough but this name actually only refers to the female of the species. Males are called guyinippers.

Demonym
     noun
a noun used to denote the natives or inhabitants of a particular country, state, city, etc.

”he struggled for the correct demonym for the people of Manchester”

Nope. Clearly it’s the specific name of a demon as in:
Bloodsucking fiend = Vampire
Furry people eater = Werewolf
Violent and thoroughly moronic human = MAGAt, sucker, rube, etc.
~~~
The headlines at HuffPo yesterday were wildly annoying.

In the Who the Fuck Cares category:

Ben Affleck Reveals What Jennifer Lopez Actually Whispered To Him At Grammys

Luckily, I have NO idea who these two people are (and have zero  intentions of finding out):

Lil Nas X Has Perfect Response After Being Compared To Andrew Tate

I believe someone needs to explain to this fly commode that he’ll NEVER be president, no matter how much he tries to court 45’s nimrodian cult. Mother’s boy has all the charisma of a skimming stone. Wait, I take that back—skimming stones are useful, geologically interesting and just generally calming.

Mike Pence Doubles Down On Homophobic Joke About Pete Buttigieg

WHY do I turn to that site for news? It’s free. I’m not a bag ‘o’ dough here—I can’t get a subscription to every damn paywalled paper and/or magazine with an interesting article. I get most of my news from the Washington Post (my one subscription), NPR, the BBC and Al Jazeera (all free). Still, I’m in the habit of checking HuffPo once a day. MUST stop annoying myself this way!
~~~
I swear, I’ll never know how to pronounce Irish words. Fer instance:

The title for the head of the Irish Government is Taoiseach = TEE-shock
The name Siobhan = Shi-vonne
A simple good morning is Maidin mhaith = MA-jin Val
~~~
Tell me you’re a deranged little control freak with a peen so small that even the cryogenic electron microscope wouldn’t see it, without, ya know, using those exact words. Here, let’s ask South Carolina Republi/Fascist state Rep. Rob Harris. This human shaped, sentience-free, pile of poop is an expert on stratospherically cruel dipshittery.

Death Penalty For Abortions Is On The Table In South Carolina

In effect, the bill would make aborting a pregnancy a homicide — which is a crime punishable by death in South Carolina.
~~~
The bill, which allows few exceptions, garnered 23 co-sponsors in January and February — 20 of whom were men and all of whom were white. (source)

Way to demonstrate that you’re a “pro-life” dumbfuck, man. Ya know, Robbie boy was a nurse before he decided to crash the uterus of every woman in the state of South Carolina. I feel bad for the patients who suffered under his christofascist care.

Things I’m Just Now Noticing

1) The left side of my face appears to be a bit blotated and saggy. The right half is not. Also, the right side has very few wrinkles and a fine cheekbone. The left? I have wrinkles with Grand Canyon aspirations and only the slimmest suggestion of a cheekbone.

This is fucked up, mes amis!

How and when did my face come to be so horror-show-esque? Should I expect zombie Vincent Price to begin appearing beside me when I look in the mirror? I’d lay good money on all my damn brain surgeries having a major league hand in this lopsided face shit. The nerve bundles are kind of tightly packed, so much so that it’s nearly impossible NOT to nick the facial nerve or some other motherfucker when the surgeons are big tumor hunting in my bean.

2) I’m only now feeling a lessening of guilt over not being selflessly über-supportive of my perennially troubled friends, family and acquaintances (who can’t be arsed to return the care on any level). I’ve recognized the relationships' radical imbalance and done all I could to duck doormat-hood—to not be a martyr to another’s self-destruct obsession.

And yet, I feel guilt? What the social distancing fuck!?

I can now quickly id takers. I’m able to avoid being sucked into their drama. This useless guilt though, has been taking its goddamn time evacuating the premises.

3) Have you seen the funny memes about aging?

I have a zillion aches and pains but they all seem to be lovely parting gifts from my dearly departed tumor friends—not age related. This is good, right?

4) A deeply important conversation I was having yesterday. The subject? In a to-the-death battle, who would win—the Death Star or a Borg Cube. Nearly everyone said, understandably, the Death Star.

Oni, who totally knows about this sort of thing says:

Borg cubes measure 2.2 km to the edge, whereas the death star is the size of a small moon. It carries multiple fleets of fighters, cruisers and troopers. It can take out an entire PLANET in one shot.

It’s a no-brainer.

C’mon though, if a scrappy band of barely trained resistance fighters can take down the Death Star, SURELY the Borg cube (with advance warning) could take that motherfucker OUT!

Also, just FYI, there are approximately 20,000 Borg cubes. Get a fleet of those babies in place and they'd totally score.

Now that the Borg Queen has personally assimilated the wonderful and incredibly strong Doctor Agnes Jurati the Borg are good little fierce cyborgs. They no longer forcefully assimilate humans and they embrace the distinctiveness and individuality of all sentient life forms. Yep, the Borg are now woke. This is good...very good.

So then, the Death Star doesn’t stand a MAGAt’s chance in Cambridge. 

Speaking of MAGAts—could they please be assimilated into the new Borg collective? Now please. I know, the Borg no longer forcefully assimilate but these people are already drones. Wouldn’t it be a mitzvah to replace their hateful and disgusting leader with a sane and judicious queen?

Water

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.
~ Loren Eiseley

Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can't go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.
~ Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad

They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of perpetual Becoming.
~ Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

These things you keep
You'd better throw them away
You wanna turn your back
On your soulless days
Once you were tethered
Well now you are free
That was the river
This is the sea!
~ The Waterboys

High and fine literature is wine, and mine is only water; but everybody likes water.
~ Mark Twain

You'll have to pay if you want to argue...

Pi

In case you missed it, yesterday was Pi Day. The day, on the Bird app replacements, Post and Spoutible, was kind of amusing. Instead of rightwing douche buckets vomiting up Tucker C. turd bombs there were folks looking to start wars over pie. One claimed that apple pie is garbage (Oh…rilly!?!), another person pedantically pointed out that cheesecake is not cake but pie (yes, true) and someone else, a well-actually type, indicated that Boston cream pie is really cake (and that's a fact).

For those dogmatists who absolutely live for verbal brawls, specious arguments and pompous rows but are tired of Sisyphean rumbles with MAGAts on Twitter, Pi Day on the civilized apps was a gift.

Me? I’ll argue if I absolutely must—if it’s a matter of life and death and shit. Otherwise, no, nee, non, nein and please-fuck-all-the-way-off-NOW. You’ll have to pay (me) if you want to argue. Even then, I'll likely refuse.

~~~

I’m currently reading Tom Holt’s Blonde Bombshell. The most prominent blurb calls it “a  heart-warming tale of Armageddon.” I haven’t quite got to the heart-warming part yet but so far, it’s a cheery if confusing sci/fi tale about dogs, far away planets, mondo advanced technology and, of course, bombs.

Cake

At times like this René Descartes is not necessarily your friend. Descartes did say “I think, therefore I am.” Unfortunately, he left it at that. He didn’t specify what you are. I think, therefore I am a disembodied brain. I think, therefore I am at least marginally smarter than a lump of rock.

If Descartes was really on the ball, he would’ve given us a hand with that second bit. I am but WHAT am I? At the moment, I’m an old deaf broad with Neil Diamond stuck in my head.

Naturally, I blame Jen for this. Despite her love of bands like Screeching Weasel, Bad Brains  and Fugazi, Neil is her main man.

Back to Holt’s Blonde Bombshell though—so far the bomb (who has taken human form) is male and possesses a head of brown hair. I was deceived by the book’s title—I’d expected a tale about Marilyn Monroe. Possibly a romance between her and good ol' Bob Oppenheimer.

~~~

Finally, the word for this too-windy-to-walk-outside Wednesday is Futtock. It’s a noun meaning:

any of a number of timbers forming the lower, more curved portion of the frame in a wooden hull.

Why does this word sound vaguely vulgar to me? The dictionary’s sample sentence really only makes it worse:

The futtocks creaked and groaned as the boat was tossed about in the stormy sea.

No, sorry. THIS, if you ask me, is the proper usage:

The singer’s bodacious round futtocks shook and bopped to the abso-glorious baseline of Brick House. 

YEAH baby! Also, yur welcome.