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Aphorisms for Booboosoo (click)
Peace is the beauty of life. It is sunshine. It is the smile of a child, the love of a mother, the joy of a father, the togetherness of a family. It is the advancement of man, the victory of a just cause, the triumph of truth.
Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.
Some days you just got to walk slowly and drink lots of ice water
~Dell Heckendorff, mentor, oft married ex-jock, low rent sage
Yeah, we’ll get it fixed, but first we are going to screw with you
~My Insurance Agent
Some upbeat mystical music on the puck this morning fires up the bird, but me, not so much. I don’t wanna be fired up before breakfast, and especially on Shabbat morning. I think this is also going to be an ibuprofen day before I start breakfast. I am hankering for creamy scrambled eggs this morning, but it is always a one in five chance that they will come out soft and creamy. More likely they’ll come out as salted yellow rubber chunks as I have never mastered the theory of heat on an electric range. But I try.
Other than crowing from the press over a rabid President hater who talked a judge into ordering the Whitehouse to admit the oafish boor into the press room. I can think of half a dozen ways the Whitehouse can turn this ‘victory’ into gravel. One would be to just revoke all press passes and convert the press room into an aviary.
So the day begins. Coffee, music, roughhousing dogs, and braying reportage. Still, it is a holy day. God rests while creation plays out over the æons and we barely comprehend it. Still we try.
It has warmed up to 35° while I was sipping on my coffee, and may get up to 65° later today. We have had our bug killing freeze now, so I am hoping for a warming trend. Predictions are for a low 70’s by Saturday. Not that it matters much now. I sit behind my double-paned, thermal-insulated windows in a nice semi-tropical 74° setting regardless of what is going on the other side of them.
It’s the same with my electronic window. Nice orderly 5-bedroom house on this side of the window, and on the other side, California is burning … or experiencing extreme global warming if you go by California’s premier climatologist, Governor Brown. According to him, the fires are the new normal and you need to adjust to it. But whatever you do, don’t clear the underbrush or remove any vegetation. That would damage woodpecker habitat, or something. And my friends in Northern Texas and Alabama are slip-sliding around on black ice. Can’t say I envy them … but then, when we get our once a decade ¼” skiff of snow, it is a disaster on the interstate.
And for good or evil, the elections are almost over. Except for Florida, of course. The “count every vote when the votes don’t go Democrat” state. But it is nice to get up and not see some damned politicians face on the news-feeds. That will probably end as that other unblinking golem from California, Adam Schiff, warms up to his new status in the House as Grand Inquisitor.
And so the world rotates another 360° 59’ and some odd seconds and I chronicle it, albeit briefly.
Gorgeous sunrise today. Gave up on ever returning to a muscled truck jockey and gentleman farmer and started tossing the old wardrobe this week … now waiting for new offerings to arrive via the big brown van. The new me: unkempt geezer in corduroy shoes and gray jerseys. There is something freeing about surrendering to old Gere, the god of gentle aging.
Unfortunately, the first command to be fruitful doesn’t release its grip on me, however, and visions of slaying dragons mounted from the back of a white mobility scooter interrupt my reverie from time to time. The urge to impregnate anything resembling femininity doesn’t go away with geezerhood. I was hoping it would. The desire to breed has been the cause of much turmoil in my life, and I suspect that I’ll be entertaining thoughts of taking a turn in the cabbage patch on my deathbed.
Arabs are still up and about killing Jews in Israel today even though a cease-fire has been declared. No one wants to talk about the solution, however. One side or the other must lose utterly. There is no negotiated peace that will be lasting. So, the Arabs try this. And the Arabs try that. And the Arabs try the other thing. And the results are always the same. They lose, then cry for a cease fire so that they can rearm.
“I am tired of living among people who hate peace. I search for peace; but when I speak of peace, they want war!”
And so war it is … all while day follows day, and night follows night, and I sip my coffee and watch it go by.
… and it’s back to Sunday in my weekly Rota of days. The First day in my tradition. It is cloudy, 49° and a gentle breeze. Guess that I had best drain the hoses and disconnect them from the hydrants sometime today. I like to save that for last because Snookums fills the birdbath each morning, and that saves her from lugging water from the house. We get a lot of enjoyment from its location just outside the kitchen window.
[Delete snarky political commentary]
And waffles today. Maybe for a change I’ll just make plain old waffles … no pecans, no blueberries … and maybe a couple of sausage links if I still have some.
It looks like a very short missive today without the usual political rant. I need to work on that more. But Snook needs her breakfast today, so perhaps I should just do that.
The temperatures went down to 40° last night, making for a cool gray dawn with a gentle breeze adding to the chill. But inside, it is always a tropical 72°, and the coffee maker was wheezing and growling as it strained out its rich, dark brew. I’ll have to wait for it to finish, so I padded down to my ‘studio’ for a glimpse into the world.
Seems that most of my contacts are subdued after the rancorous election. And I have become just as intolerant of the left as they have of the right, so the dividers of people have won me over. But it doesn’t matter. I am just an old fart out in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. A crank. A curmudgeon scanning the newsfeeds and scowling at the stupidity of people who regard themselves as wise. There is no cure for that, it seems.
So I sip and watch a world that is so different than when I was a young man, and marvel. I don’t know what is in store for the next generation, but I am glad I will miss it. It aint gonna be pretty.
So with these crummy Shabbat predictions, the prophet takes another pull on his coffee and wishes you a blessed day of rest
“And it was evening, and it was morning, a sixth day”
Well, Frigga’s Day has rolled around again, according to some. And some call it the first day of the week, and some call it the fifth day of the week. And more than a few call it the sixth day. I prefer Preparation Day, for this is the day we prepare.
Normally, Snook does most of the meal preparations for the upcoming holy day. I have been hankering for beef stew however, and spent the week marshaling the ingredients. We try to have a one pot meal prepared for that day which starts this night. Yeah, it is a bit confusing. But the idea is that if everything is prepared, the wimmen folk get sort of a break on the day of rest. But wimmen seem to have perfected the art of working at resting, so many of the preparations are a bust. But we try.
Annoying music blares from the puck to cheer up the budgie and aggravate the old fart. A brisk overcast norther shakes the trees bringing a chill around the windows with it, so I drag the little space heater over to warm my tootsies.
And so another morning unfolds in my little corner of cactus paradise …