Friday, May 6, 2022

Billy Goat Gruff

I forgot to tell you it was Cinco de Mayo, that faux-Mexican celebration of tequila and beer.  I made a shaker full for my mother and I.  Not quite a shaker.  She was mad that I only made enough for one.  Ha!  

Afterwards, I came home to a package from Amazon--new Chaco flip-flops, some negative holders, and a cigarette/cheroot holder.  Oh, yes, I've gone full Roosevelt.  I'm running with the iconic.  No more tobacco lips for me.  

I had my old pair of Chaco flip flops for decades.  They are the best flip flop ever made.  Forget about Tevas.  Chuck that silly pair you bought on spring break at the t-shirt shop.  Get yourself a pair of Chacos and save your soul.  

I meant back.  

It was 95 degrees here yesterday.  Everyone was talking about he weather.  "Too hot too early," people said. . . over and over and over.  I don't care anymore.  There is no use in it.  We are doomed.  If I could save the planet, I would. . . but I can't.  My Dixie neighbors and the politicians they vote for don't give a shit.  They just want to be able to open carry firearms.  And who can blame them?  History, both ancient and contemporary, teaches us that to the powerful go the spoils.  

Argue if you will, but European countries are now in a panic as they have no useful way of defending themselves against Russian invasions except prayer.  Their military forces and armament are dilapidated and useless except for throwing rocks at one another.  Here at home, we've invested in billion dollar boats that sink.  Really?  That's our idea of military power--things that can float on water?  You would think by now we would have Star Wars technology and just pick things off with lasers from outer space.  That's what all the kids think, anyway, having done nothing but play video games for most of their lives.  Which apparently is good training for everything from flying jets to remote drone control.  

But so much time is demanded by figuring out pronouns and identity politics. . . who's got time for war?

And anyway, the spoils don't last forever. 

Look what Russia will have when it moves into the Ukraine completely--a valley of ashes of their own making.  Brilliant. 

Of much more concern is what happens tomorrow.  I have to move that hideous pile of mulch.  My back is already a mess.  I have strained a tendon in my forearm.  I am fat and lazy.  And the temperature will be in the 90s.  

Sounds like fun.  

But it's Friday and tonight I am invited to a dinner outside at one of my favorite Italian restaurants.  I'll have to look presentable which I don't do much anymore.  I'm looking more and more like the Quasimodo who lives under the bridge.  

Or a fat retiree who sits on his deck with a drink and throws rocks at the passing cars.  

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