Travel notes

 I'm buying tickets here and there, almost frantically, flights and lodging, theater and museum. It is my respite from the ennui of Winter, my rejection of social media - well, Twitter, anyway - the few days this year that I am sober. Old habits die hard.

So at the end of this month is NYC, then Denver to Ess Eff in March, followed (not finally, I trust) a trip from Regensberg to Budapest on the Danube in April. Along the way irritants arise - some carriers will not let us select our seats, hotel rooms overpriced, rental cars in short supply. My life is so hard. 

I have no plan to slacken the pace. The best cure for that sense of being trapped and wriggling on the wall ("to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways," thank you Dr. Eliot) is mania. Run away fast and don't look back, run until it's safe again. Run in circles if you must - measure out your life in Apple watch activities. Whatever works, when the world is closing in and breathing down your neck.

Pronouns

 George Santos has disappeared again - not from the House, this time, but from the news cycle. We've moved on to voting on the new House rules, e.g., {Pronoun} Who Smelt It, Dealt It, that sort of thing. Except there's a raging argument over the use of {Pronoun}, with the 20-or-so Freedom Caucus members - an Orwellian designation, to say the least - in unison complaining that it's obviously "He," it's always "He." Anyhow, I think it's a mistake to let G. Santos slip from our focus, next thing you know he be swinging with Sean Spicer, dressed up in a tutu and dancing with the stars.

Who is George Santos, really? That's the question on the mind of every New York Post aficionado. It would probably be best if we find out before he runs for President, although it would be fun to see him and Donald Trump in a debate.

Donald: I am the greatest!

George: I am the best greatest!

Donald: I am rich beyond imagination!

George: I'll buy your imagination for 44 Billion dollars!

And so on.

On a mostly unrelated note, I am dazzled by what I assume to be the storyline of Jurassic World Dominion. Of course, I've only watched about 5 minutes of it, but here's my hypothetical synopsis:

        Dinosaurs, escaping from captivity in the previous iteration of the franchise, begin to breed in the wild, and eventually become so commonplace as to be something of an occasionally fatal nuisance, at which point we hunt them into extinction once again.

What terrific high concept. It has all the trappings of anthropocentrism, genetic engineering and just a soupçon of master race. Brilliant! I can't wait to see George Santos in his tragic role as "the last T-Rex."

Choices

 I see that law enforcement up in Iredell County has arrested 22 people for drug crimes over the weekend; a sweep, a roundup, an excuse to bust down doors and drag people out by their hair, a long awaited cleansing breath that will end drug use in Statesville for, what, a day? Maybe two? Less than a week, certainly. Drug dealers deplore a vacuum. 

I've stopped believing in crime. At least, I don't believe in the kind of crime that puts most people in prison. I don't think desperation is a crime, and don't give me all that sanctimonious bullshit about choices. Choices are for people who still think they have something to lose. Choices are for people who have a position from which to negotiate. Choices. Sure. But whether they had a choice or not, for most people incarceration is not the optimal outcome - for them or us.

After 50 years in the business I have a lot to say on this topic. I am not going to say it all today. Let me just start with this. We used to house crazy people in "mental hospitals," mostly whether they liked it or not. There wasn't much treatment involved, unless you could afford a private facility. Well, old Ronnie Reagan came along and said "this is wrong, it shouldn't be so." He rightly concluded that people should receive treatment in their own communities, among their friends and neighbours, and not hauled off to some state-run facility to be dropped on a locked ward and forgotten. Reagan proposed closing those mental hospitals and sending the mentally ill to community mental health centers. Everyone nodded and agreed and shouted "Huzzah," and it was done. Well, part of it was done. They closed the mental hospitals. But there was never any federal funding for community mental health centers and the states were not about to foot the bill. 

Upshot? We now house our mentally ill in jails and prisons. They are a significant chunk of the population. Don't tell me about choices.

Survival

 I just received word from my second oldest friend (we go back around 56-57 years) that my oldest friend (~60 years) is doing better in in care, and is being made comfortable with the terminal illness she has stood up to for longer than anyone expected - particularly the medicos, and particularly because she elected to forgo the usual round of crap that accompanies acute intervention. My mother had the same ailment and opted for the intervention - she lasted 10 years, a feat that my friend may have already surpassed. My second oldest friend - himself an MD, among other more sterling qualities - is lamenting the fact that he now has to deal with cardiologists (whom he doesn't like, much) to deal with an arrhythmia that he is convinced will kill him sooner than later.

I confess here that I am somewhat a fan of modern medicine, because, unlike my old pal, I've not so much seen how it's practiced as I have had it practiced on me. The sausage is always tastier when you don't have to see how it's made. I started with Type II diabetes and an arrhythmia of my own, leading to the prescription of various blood glucose meds and, eventually, a pacemaker. More recently, I had open heart surgery to replace two valves. Along the way I picked up a couple of lens to replace the ones that had cataracts, and a new right knee. 

I imagine that if you don't know me, you'd guess that I'm totally an invalid at this point. Au contraire. I play one or another racket sport two or three times a week, I shop, I cook, I travel, I take out the recycle, I clean the pool. I hate cleaning the pool. Anyhow, I'm the fucking million dollar man (thank you, Medicare) and the only part that's obvious are some scars and the thing I share with everyone else my age: we're all pretty damned old.

Flip-Flop Follies

 Today is January 7th, 2023. It is the two-year and one-day anniversary of Kevin McCarthy voting to overturn the 2020 election results, and exactly two years minus 6 days when the same Representative went on TV to fault Donald Trump for the January 6th insurrection (albeit he did not call for Trump's impeachment). McCarthy's incredible progress as a chameleon, championing any platform on which he happens to be standing at the moment, has led, finally, after 15 votes plus some pushing and shoving, to McCarthy being elected Speaker of the House, not to mention Flip-Flopper in Chief. He has demonstrated for all the world to watch how a terrible negotiator can give away everything and still get little in return. I say this because McCarthy now rules from a vastly weakened position, and we don't expect to see him long in the role. It depends, mostly, on how willing he is to be Lauren Boebert's bitch. From all appearances, he is eager to strap on the ball-gag and bend to the whip.

We opted for pizza last night, for those of you breathlessly awaiting that decision.

Pizza Friday

 Not to sound like some middle-aged Karen with two kids and a husband in finance ("Well, we're comfortable. We have some little indulgences - the Maserati and Lake Como in the Spring - really,  though, we're just regular folk. . .") but the hardest thing I do on a daily basis is try to decide what to have for dinner. Shmandie, quire reasonably, doesn't want everything to be beef sautéed in pork fat, and I get that. On the other hand, did you read the article about how vegans have more depression than meat eaters? No doy! Anyway, Wednesday when it rained it was beef stew, and yesterday was chicken Tiki Masala - from a jar, what am I, Chef Bhatia? - and Aloo Gobi. Yes, I can follow a simple recipe. Today I'm going to mix it up again (more Beef with Veg), in this case Porterhouse steak, salad, and maybe a side of pesto pasta. Or pizza and save the steak for another day. I remain undecided.

Still no Speaker of the House, and still on the wagon. Do you think there's a connection?

Profiles in Ignorance

 The title of this post is the title of a book by Andy Borowitz, in which he traces the decay of the US Presidency from Dan Quayle onward to Donald Trump. It's a book that is as distressing as it is amusing. In the epilogue, Borowitz offers the recommendation that criticising politics is a mere spectator sport, and is of little intrinsic value, because - oh, I dunno, because everyone has an opinion, I suppose. He cautions that if you really want to have a effect on politics you must get "involved" and engage is such things as deep canvassing, so you and your neighbours can hone a more finely developed hatred of one another - kidding, of course, sort of. I have two non-exclusive responses to Borowitz's suggestion:

1. Borowitz has made a healthy living off of criticising politicians, and in squarely in the circle-jerk of political fundraising, in which he plays a part by selling books to those of us who want to be amused by what assholes the Republicans are in their day-to-day lives.

2. I don't want to be "involved." I have NEVER wanted to be involved. I would have stopped voting a long time ago except that friends and loved ones hectored me into it. I would no more knock on someone's door to advance a political cause that I would pass out "Lighthouse" tracts.

Just sayin'.

Day 3 - No Speaker of the House in sight. Send water and provisions.