Monday, November 18, 2024

Sun’s out. It rained last night, contrary to expectation. Still avoiding network news except for Lawrence. Kimmel is good. Bluesky now getting a stampede from Twitter. I finally X’d X. Sleep is erratic, my scalp itches, my gut hurts. The clock ticks. Finn sleeps. I cleaned mold off some of the deck railings. You could make a real project out of that. I don’t feel like it. Tatjana asked for coffee December 6 — yay! Archive appointment in Dedham, December 11! Yay! Ortho doc, November 22. Rheumatologist December 4. Another day in December, another ortho doc.

The clock ticks. The sun is out. I bought two fake arborvitae to block the view of our neighbor’s driveway. You can’t say “suicide” now. Is this for real? “Unalived” is about as likely to enter my vocabulary as “pregnant persons.” Shoot me.

A figure in a red coat passes on the other side of the rock wall and lilac hedge. I’m reading Huck Finn. I don’t read enough. I eat too much chocolate. My hair is shaggy and unattractive. Heck — I’m unattractive. It’s a fact — these manly glasses, this bad hair, my droopy clothes (no need to comment, please). At least I have two front teeth! And a molar implant: also done.

I truly hope that’s it with the dentist for a while, but that’s like hoping that the Senate won’t roll over and give Trump recess appointments. It’s bad. It’s worse, even, than perhaps we imagined. But we do know how that fucker loves to shove norms aside with his tiny, sadistic paws. To own the libs? To see how much power he can consolidate in the executive branch immediately? What a dick! I’ve taken to calling him “Id in a skin suit.” No restraint. All impulse. Dumb as a box of rocks.

Here’s where we are. Pod Save America guy says: maybe we’ll be spared some of his evil agenda because of his incompetence. The Guardian says: maybe we can steer him toward rational, non-destructive international policy by appealing to his vanity. Legacy this legacy that. Do you hear this? How hard do we have to lean, exactly, into his incompetence and vanity?

Meanwhile Joe and Mika, after a crawl to Mar-a-Lago say, “It’s good to talk, isn’t it?” Not if it normalizes the antichrist, dickwad.

It was unbearable to watch Trump and Biden in front of the fire. Trump didn’t manage one of his aggressive yanking handshakes, but his mere presence in the White House and being accorded courtesy were sickening enough. What could Biden have done? Refused to meet with him? Well, yeah. You’ll notice the slanty-eyed Slovenian escort wasn’t there, citing a scheduling conflict. Oh please. They’re not even trying.

Did Trump meet with Biden in 2020? I don’t remember. I do remember Trump‘s administration denying Biden space and funds and briefings typical of a transition. So let’s shake hands. What the fuck?

I will not criticize Harris for running a bad campaign except to say she missed a step with Palestine and maybe spent too much time with Liz Cheney. OK, maybe. But Bernie Sanders can fuck all the way off with his tired “she didn’t address the workers” crap. Did he even LISTEN to her?

No more men in diners interviews please!

The point is, though, let’s move on to the real and present danger that confronts us. 

I will rip our team on Capitol Hill new assholes if they don’t stand up to tyranny. THE OLD RULES DO NOT APPLY guys. Get with it. And it’s not like any of this is a surprise. For instance, and this is a real no-brainer, leak the goddamn ethics report on Gaetz — and not to the new GOP majority leader and not to a fucking Woodward who would cherry-pick revelations saving the juicy, more damaging tidbits for his next book in EIGHT MONTHS. To whom then? The Guardian? PBS NewsHour? Maybe. Certainly not The Washington Post, the LA Times or The New York Times. Jesus no. 

Heads up NYTimes: being a “vaccine skeptic” is worlds away from being a “vaccine denier.” Do better, headline writers — unless you like polio?

This is me not paying attention to politics, by the way.

The clock ticks. The dog sleeps, waiting for his walk. I’ll make chickpea curry for dinner, if I have the energy. I’ll take a bath later with rose-scented Epsom salts, those salts being a huge treat to myself.

A small plane passes. Those fake arborvitae will not die — not like the last two I planted. Blueberries for breakfast. A fire engine honk overlaid with sirens from town center. It’s the middle of November, 2024. 

PS please make a habit of signing your comments unless you want to be anonymous.

Here is Roxane Gay opinion piece many are talking about.

I believe it is a gift article so no paywall.