It is hot here, already reaching the mid-90s in May. My own hometown is five degrees warmer than anywhere else in the state. That may be true. Afternoons on the deck are no longer comfortable, though. And the mosquitoes are horrific. Mosquitos kill more people than anything else on the planet. Little known fact. There are over 3,000 species of mosquitos, and they kill not quite one million people a year through transmitted diseases. It is a health issue, certainly, but my own hometown government has stopped doing anything about it. They have left the job to "Mosquito Mike" and other companies who will charge you well to treat your individual property. My own hometown is run by republicans, though, so that makes sense. And yet our taxes are among the highest in the state. Where does the money go? Beats me. But people have so much money in this town, nobody really notices or cares. So. . . I either spray myself with poisonous repellant and sit in the muggy heat or I take my cocktail inside where the a.c. keeps me cool and dry. What you see here is last night's choice. It just wasn't fun on the deck. Some days are like that.
That paragraph was meant to be about the larger issue, though. Issues. A spinoff of yesterday's post. I wasn't saying that things were better in the "olden days." Nor am I now. What I am saying is that the profit motive is killing us.
But, you know. . . we will die anyway, one way or another. It doesn't seem true, of course, but I've been informed it is. My doctor told me. She wanted a chunk of money for that insight, too.
Not everything is bleak, however. Some things are less bleak. I keep working on my knee, going further, doing more, and up to this point, it is working. Kind of. I mean, I still have pain, but I can go further than I have been. Yesterday, however, I was talking to Tennessee in the Physical Fitness Club's parking lot, and he gently poked me in the ribs. It felt as if I'd been shot. I cried out in pain. He looked surprised and horrified. I was embarrassed. I felt ashamed.
Yea. . . people don't know how broken up I am. I hide it pretty well. I don't like to show weakness. I've learned that it never endears people to you. So. . . I'm not weak. I'm tough. I swear.
Still, in the late afternoon, driven inside by the heat and the mosquitos, I want to share the cheese and olives and almonds and tasty little crackers over drinks in the crisp, cool air with. . . you know the rest.
While I was sipping my cocktail alone, I watched one of my YouTube camera porn things. The photographer had been paid by Adidas to take pictures at Cochella. He wore a GoPro for some of it to give the photographer's POV. Holy shit! What a horrible sight. Who are those people? Why? Even Dante couldn't have come up with a more hideous vision. It was a three day cliche, people imitating what they've seen before, I guess, looking like a crowd at one of the Hitler Youth rallies, all making the same raised hand 🤘🤘🤘sign to shitty music. . . .
I'm just saying. . . .
In the end, four days later, I don't think the fellow had any photos worth a damn.
Nothing like my wonderful cocktail picture, anyway. Jesus. . . I'm pathetic.
After the camera porn thing was over, YouTube recommended the home movies of Eva Braun. There must be a million of them. Those crazy, fun-loving Tyrolean gangsters frolicking in the Alps while Hitler walks around frowning, hands clasped behind his back. I sent a list of the videos to my conservative friend with the message "It looks like a Republican Party Picnic." He sent back a photo of Corey Booker wearing tennis shoes to a meeting at the White House.
There is no winning.
I'll get back to narratives soon. Opining like this is unbecoming. Nobody cares what other people think.
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