Fifth day into the new year, though there’s not much new in it. Still avoiding watching news, confining information to articles. Best bet: Truthout, CounterPunch, some NYT and Post. In a way, events lead to the feeling of moving to a new country. Gutless, a crude but accurate word to describe our Democratic leaders, wring their hands and spew a plethora of upsetting warnings about probable takeover by the Republican cult come November. We are aboard a ship of fools captained by aging officers who, despite their moral protests, are more worried about re-election than holding on to democracy. The attorney general sits in a little cottage with a white picket fence to protect him from negative throwback. He and the administration are fearful of reprisals when the other party assumes dictatorial control in a matter of months. I am sick of the whole mess, the idea that voting will change anything at all. Even if our aging chief is re-elected, we can expect little, and so I don’t. The whole scenario is something out of a late night coffee binge by high school students sitting in naugahyde booths, leaning over half-empty cups on the Formica table of a well-lit chain restaurant. Let’s get crazy, ramble, and do some what-if’s.
Wrote this to Mike. His response? “Somewhat sad that you are such a dyed in the wool pessimist.” Aha! Forbes Magazine special. So, looks like it’s back to feeding squirrels, watching birds, and music as the de riguer topics. Well, we’ve been friends since high school, so I’ll trudge the less controversial path.
Continuing buckling to the cats’ addiction to Greenies and Temptations. Not sure. Is it like greasy, salty hamburger to them? Cats don’t have a sweet sensor. Must be a disgusting appetite for stinky, off, meat.
Depressing realization about Facebook Messenger, a downgraded successor to Yahoo IM. Women in my age group, or a decade younger, don’t demonstrate any appetite for intimacy. It’s like a subdued, passionless taste for kindness and platitudinous sentimentality. Shit. Sandi and I share a taste for sex; the days of acute need in the IM arena are gone. Que paso’?
The bane of cigarettes have been converted into self-destructive friends. I don’t worry much about lung cancer any longer. They’re here to stay. Hey, when your time’s up, it’s up — one of the most shallow, existential philosophical statements ever, just as “existential” is one of the most overused, pseudo-hip words I hear, one gaining in use and lessening in meaning. Sartre, where are you?
And this is only January 5th.
Film noir continues to intrigue and entertain. And, Sandi can actually watch 60’s French movies. Reason for optimism in 2022.
