Lately, of course, the news is distinctly more William Butler Yeatsish, with things falling apart, mere anarchy loosed on the world, and the worst filled with passionate intensity.
It all makes me wish I’d paid more (which is to say “some”) attention during my high-school English classes. And that some other, more prominent slackers had gotten more out of history and civics.
I knew my internal scribe was out walking a picket line with the Writers Guild of America when I considered titling a blog post “Maui wowie.”
Clever? Maybe. Funny? Most definitely not.
It’s been a bit of a rough patch for an old newsie who doesn’t give a fiddler’s fart about Barbie, the Iowa State Fair, Taylor Swift, a fish-slapping dance involving Zuck and Schmuck, Hunter Biden, or the latest freakout over artificial intelligence. (Texting Jesus?Seriously? Dude’s only been Holy Ghosting you people for a couple thousand years.)
We’re just 13 days into August and already I’m being served Halloween-related ads as I shamble around the Internets in search of inspiration.
But I’m having trouble envisioning anything more horrific than getting chased into the ocean by the deadliest American wildfire in more than a century and hearing later that some blogger made a lame joke about it.
Just a sec; gotta block this Jesus dude. He wants to know why the poor sods in Lahaina didn’t just walk to the mainland instead of jumping into the sea.
“That’s what I’da done,” he texts.
“Not with those holes in your feet,” I reply. “You’re not seaworthy anymore, skipper. More leaks than Ginger Hitler’s White House.”
The prez is coming to town today, but he hasn’t texted me, so I don’t suppose he wants to hang out, maybe go for a bike ride, drop a hint or two about the cell he’s having prepared for The Defendant on Gitmo.
His motorcade is likely to play hell with the already-chaotic Duck! City traffic, which resembles nothing so much as a fire-ant colony remodeled by M-80.
Maybe his SS detail can thin this perpetually stampeding herd of road-ragers during the presidential visit. They could probably use the target practice, and for sure we could use fewer hotheads with lead feet.
Don’t let the clouds fool you. It ain’t even cool around here.
Yesterday we roasted another record with 102°, the old mark of 98° having stood since 1952, two years before this old dawg was whelped.
Naturally, being an eejit, I was out for a ride. Nothing strenuous — not quite 30 miles, a couple of hours in the saddle, a couple thou’ of vertical gain.
Getting big air over I-25 (with the help of a bike-ped bridge).
But I confess I felt a tad toasted by the time I got home. I’m glad I didn’t go for the extra-credit mileage I’d been contemplating. I’d be a rank smear of B.O. and bad ideas in the valley some’eres. Even the coyotes would give me a miss.
“Sheeyit, homes, smells like sunscreen and chamois cream ladled over old scars and regrets. Let’s hit the Dumpster behind Golden Pride.”
Speaking of eats, it should go without saying that I’ve been rooting through my archives for recipes that require a minimum of cookery in this heat.
For breakfast, oatmeal is out, fruit smoothies are in. Lunch is something equally light, either sandwiches or leftovers from the previous night’s dinner.
Last night’s dinner was Martha Rose Shulman’s pasta with cherry tomatoes and arugula. I don’t object to boiling water for pasta; it helps humidify the house.
Night before last we had Melissa Clark’s shrimp salad, layering the shrimp and its sauce over a bed of arugula, red cabbage, red leaf lettuce, sliced grape tomatoes in a variety of hues, and various another crunchables from the fridge and pantry. I foreswore the diced red onion (Herself hates raw onion), but snuck in a few thin slices of scallion when she wasn’t looking.
Hetty Lui McKinnon’s tacos de papa require a little stove time, but not enough to have you sweating into your skillet, especially if there are some leftover taters on hand.
We’ll be revisiting Martha’s recipe this evening, with a side salad. Today’s record high of 100°, set in 1910, might be a goner, too, because by 3 p.m. it was already 100° at the airport.
The Defendant, the insult comic who talks more shit than Richard Pryor on the dumb dust, only without all the funny bits, says he’s facing a grand total of 561 years in the hoosegow.
Which is not nearly enough. But I’m a reasonable fellow. I’d settle for that.
Mad Blog Media 