Well, that, as they say, is that. Comrade Eeyore is hanging up his hammer and sickle.
Quick, somebody tell me why I should be thrilled that Daffy Uncle Joe is going to be our nominee.
As The New York Times notes: “Mr. Sanders, 78, leaves the campaign having almost single-handedly moved the Democratic Party to the left. … But Mr. Sanders stirred deep unease among party leaders, and as he ascended to the top of the field in February, establishment Democrats scrambled to block his path, convinced his far-reaching proposals would alienate great swaths of the electorate and make him an easy target for Mr. Trump.”
Thank God for that, eh? Because the party leaders and establishment Democrats got it so right the last time around.
That Next World Orchestra just keeps getting bigger and better.
I met John Prine once, at the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s 20th-anniversary show at Denver McNichols Arena in 1986, and don’t I wish I could have a do-over for those few moments.
My guitar and I were butchering a few choice selections from his first, self-titled album and “Sweet Revenge” just this afternoon.
Well, mostly it was me. Wasn’t the guitar’s fault. Sure as shit wasn’t John Prine’s fault. Plenty of people — poets, musicians, authors, and journalists — would call it a career after writing a line as good as “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes.” He wrote whole albums that good and just kept on writing them.
How to earn big money through social distancing in your spare time.
As ridiculous as it may seem, yes, I do have a bike to review for Adventure Cyclist, and si, I have been out riding it.
Not with authority, élan, and grace, mind you. But still. A man must earn.
I slapped some cheapo bear-trap pedals on this one, to accommodate the ankle and its brace, and somehow I managed to spaz myself into a nice nick on the shin.
I had forgotten this characteristic of the old-school pedal, and may go to Eighties-era cyclocross pedals with toeclips and straps or even have a go at clipless pedals, just for the sake of science.
Speaking of science and the fiction thereof, I guess Marcus Weebles, O.D., has been cutting his Adderall with hydroxychloroquine. He apparently digs the high, and is recommending it to everyone, probably not because “several pharmaceutical companies stand to profit, including shareholders and senior executives with connections to the president,” according to The New York Times.
Add a little hydroxychloroquine, m’boy, and you’ll be as right as rain.
Adds the Times:
“Mr. Trump himself has a small personal financial interest in Sanofi, the French drugmaker that makes Plaquenil, the brand-name version of hydroxychloroquine.”
Zut alors! Say it is not so!
The search for salable snake-oil recipes made at home in your spare time reminds me of “Burned Again,” a tale from the seventh collection of “The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers” comics.
Fat Freddy finds a “neat container” in the street and he and Freewheelin’ Franklin try prying it open to see what’s inside. Phineas recognizes the radiation symbol on the thing and — using a Geiger counter he built from plans in “Popular Atomics” magazine — determines that it is not leaking. Yet.
Nevertheless, Fat Freddy “freaks” and draws himself a bath of Chinese mustard and Clorox, explaining, “It’s a remedy for radiation poisoning I read about in ‘Amateur Doctor’ magazine!”
Hm. Fat. Stupid. Ridiculous blond hair. Zero impulse control. Doper. Say, you don’t suppose Fat Freddy grew up to become … nahhhhh.
Spring keeps on a-springin’ in these parts, and maybe where you are, too.
If it’s not, well … I probably shouldn’t tell you that today’s high in the Duke City is expected to hit 72 degrees, with abundant sunshine. And it might be a week before we see any precipitation.
The downside of all this explosive warmth and growth is, of course, pollen.
Mullberry, cottonwood, ash, juniper, maple … seems damn’ near everything is making whoopee. Except for those of us with (snork) allergies.
This is no time to have allergies and voices in your head, believe you me. Every tickle in the throat, every sneeze, every bout of fatigue sets ’em to yelling like talking heads on cable TV.
“Can you make a biohazard suit out of an old shower curtain, duct tape, and a goldfish bowl?”
“Where are my oven mitts and barbecue tongs? I want to fetch the mail, see if my Plague Check is here yet.”
“I don’t care if we are out of toilet paper, quit wiping your butt with my Kleenex!”
Mad Blog Media 