Friday, June 21, 2013

Smashing Day

 I started this post early in the morning, and then had to leave for the day, working. I was planning on saying something about the difference between Tony Soprano and James Gandolfini - especially this thing about everybody checking out his stool sample - but then I ran across The Idiotic Cleanse Craze and the Modern Theology of Juice Fasts and - struck dumb - I thought, what more is there to say, huh? 

 Can't a guy just die?


 No, of course he can't. Because everybody else is scared to die. Can't just live either. Paula Dean (is that her name?) got asked a direct question, gave a direct answer, and now she's gone from the fucking Food Network. Crazy.

What country do these people think we live in? She's supposed to get her own reality show.


 One thing about living in America, as opposed to other countries I've visited, it is a cauldron. Like, try as I might to avoid even thinking about race (because I know it's unimportance) I can't escape everybody else thinking about it, acting on it, whether pro or con. So there's an unavoidable undertow, no matter what I think. The numbers, who aren't here yet, are too vast. If you're Huck Finn and all the rubes are in class, what does that leave for you to deal with today? Hall monitors and thugs. 

 And a lot of strip mawls if you make it out.


 So nothing's surprising. Looking at things now, from my marriage falling apart to the Republicans running Romney, I'm STILL feeling (a little) like Bugs Bunny when he "stepped" out of that falling house, defying gravity as it's smashed to pieces. That's supposed to be our heritage - and instinct. 

You want to play this game? Go on, play it. Over there.

There's enough of everything to keep you busy.


But "Bugs" would outsmart 'em and "Tony" wouldn't do it.

  So get beat up if you want to (said the man with a stab wound in his back) I like it as it is:

TMR tip of my evening beer to "the pursuit of happiness,..."


  1. The pursuit of some bleeding happiness sounds good right about now.
    It's been a not so good day -- smashingly bad even, as in my work is going to naught due to things freaking breaking right and left (which never puts me in a good mood) -- and my blasted cat is acting very unwell (I'm not a cat person, in the truest sense; cats don't as a rule like me -- I've never had anything against them nor treated them poorly, but they don't like me even when I'm nice to them...except for this one, who decided that unlike the rest of his kind he very much did, even to the point of pointedly not acting like a cat and more like my favorite, long deceased, dog, just with me...with everybody else he acts like a typical, if good natured, cat). So in spite of all the other, bigger better, things going on in the world for me to think about, I'm thinking about my little furry buddy here (whose uncommon loyalty and regard for me I perhaps don't deserve and didn't ask for but got, deserves for itself a little heartfelt return from my evil old ass, which is a damn sight more noble than most people), and how this would have to happen after the vet's has closed up shop for the weekend.
    It hasn't been a good day -- happiness has not been on the menu -- the rest of the world can suck it. Sorry there Mr. Gandolfini, I liked you as an actor and all, too bad you died so soon, but I think Tony would understand.


  2. Thanks EBL, I needed that -- I'm in the mood for some Chicago dogs.
    The NSA will definitely pay attention to me after that!
    I should probably be very very afraid (of both probably).