Stare.
 
2009 Notebook: Weak XLII
 
   
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15 October 2009
No. 6,167 (cartoon)
Our relationship is over.

No. Our loathing and disgust for each other is eternal.

16 October 2009
GBH Kebab Sauce?
German reunification remains something of an oxymoron; the Teutonic monolith doesn’t metamorphose easily. The most recent report of Germanic friction comes from a kebab stand in Bremen. A patron, upset at the lack of a napkin, wiped his greasy hands on the merchant’s tablecloth. The kebab maker responded by flinging chili sauce in the customer’s face.

Bring on the polizei!

The authorities confiscated a sample of the sauce, and are investigating whether it was spicy enough to cause grievous bodily harm.

I feel sorry for the kebab merchant; he’s in a hopeless situation. If his sauce is capable of seriously hurting someone, he may face criminal charges. If the sauce isn’t that strong, then who’s going to buy kebabs from someone who serves them with bland sauce?

I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with the public.

17 October 2009
The Game of Life
“Being in politics is like being a football coach,” Eugene McCarthy claimed. “You have to be smart enough to understand the game and dumb enough to think it’s important.”

That’s not a bad quote, but it’s really not about politics per se; the same could be said about any pursuit, perhaps even life itself. I’m not smart enough to understand the game of life, but dumb enough to believe that it beats the alternatives.

18 October 2009
Thinking about Veronica in the Shower
I’ve been thinking about Veronica in the shower, but not in a lascivious way.

Veronica told me that she has a hard time waking up in the morning, and that she has to stand in the shower for five minutes, “until she becomes human.”

When I visualize Veronica in the shower, I imagine a scene from a Cocteau film he never got around to making. I see a marble statue of Veronica in the shower; the hot water and steam eventually turn the stone to living, breathing flesh. Nice!

I’m not going to mention this vision to Veronica; it would be just like her to get the wrong idea.

19 October 2009
Cancer Dogs
There’s a man in the park selling hot dogs, ostensibly to raise money to fight cancer. I wonder if he’s aware of how many carcinogens there are in his chemical-filled tubes of meat byproducts?

I love the irony! In the unlikely event humans ever win the war on cancer, he won’t have any hot dogs to sell.

20 October 2009
Alcoholics and Drunks
Brandon showed up at Anita’s party last night in a predictable state: drunk. And that led to a predictable argument.

“Why can’t you arrive sober for once?” she asked. “You really need to acknowledge that you’re an alcoholic.”

“No, you need to acknowledge that I’m a drunk,” Brandon replied. “Alcoholics go to meetings. And this ain’t a meeting; it’s a party and I’m thirsty.”

Anita ended up getting drunk as well. And, if the gossip is to be believed, she spent the night with Brandon.

Alcohol is a drug that’s both mysterious and quite predictable.

21 October 2009
That’s When He Reached for His Revolver
I ran across a curious story in the newspaper. An eighty-three year old man in San Antonio shot his son in the head when he refused to stop drumming. The fifty-something year old victim wasn’t seriously hurt.

I’m not surprised one Texan shot another; that’s the way those folks communicate down there. The story left a lot unexplained, however. Did the father finally lose his patience after listening to his son drumming for decades, or were the drums a recent acquisition? How could the father only inflict a skin wound when firing at close range? And why didn’t the son return fire? And why don’t I read several stories a day about people shooting drummers? It must happen all the time.

I’m reminded of Oscar Wilde’s visit to Leadville, Colorado. That’s where he spotted the sign in a bar, “Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best.” Wilde opined that was, “the only rational method of art criticism I have ever come across.”

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©2009 David Glenn Rinehart