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Weak XXXIX

24 September 2020

No. 3,541 (cartoon)

You can’t go on living like that.

I wasn’t planning on it.

25 September 2020

The Practical Person’s Equinox

I’m confused. The equinox was three days ago, but it’s only today that the sun is above and below the horizon for exactly the same amount of time. I’m confused; that makes me doubly confused.

I’m sure the universe is not out of whack. My astrophysicist friends assure me that whack is virtually infinite, although some of them argue that’s probably not technically true. (Helpful hint: never ask an astrophysicist about whack, or anything else.)

I’m grateful that I am unencumbered by too much knowledge. I recognize today for what it is: the practical person’s equinox. It’s going to be six months before there’s more daylight than there is today. Simple, no? (And what role Uranus plays, this I do not want to know.)

And that’s more than enough about sunshine since I spend most of my time in a dark, windowless room illuminated by several computer monitors. That’s my favorite flavor of enlightenment; sunlight is too damn bright, carcinogenic, and hot to boot.

26 September 2020

How Humans Become Texans

The British Broadcasting Corporation reports that Texans are under attack from “deadly brain-eating microbes.”

This is news?!

Brain-eating microbes are the state’s official microorganism; you can see ’em on the Texas flag if you look closely. The little buggers are ubiquitous there; that’s how a human being is transformed into a Texan. It’s an evolution thing. Everyone knows that, except for some poor British blighter sent into exile there.

“Something’s chewing everything in my cranium!” was probably the unfortunate correspondent’s last report before s/he started addressing the London editors as, “all y’all.”

Nothin’ to see here folks; move along ...

27 September 2020

High Desert Sunset Spirit

I had a nice time visiting Stephano née Stevie Boy at his little distillery in Taos today. It’s not really a proper distillery at all; it’s pretty much the same moonshine contraption his pappy back in the Ozarks still uses to distill flaked maize—more commonly known as plain ol’ corn—into his notorious Hillbilly Hooch.

He uses the same potent formula, tosses in some yucca scraps a local gardener sells him for a dollar a kilo, and markets it as “High Desert Sunset, an Authentic New Mexico Heritage Spirit,” from “a registered artisanal distillery.” (The last bit is not only good hype, but it also allows him to avoid taxes. Legally, even!)

Yep; he’s all legit with no problems with the revenuers. Stephano’s a right proper moonshiner, he is.

“This is some right righteous firewater!” I declared after the first glass.

I may or may not said something equally insightful after that; I can’t exactly recall ...

28 September 2020

One Last Thing

I had a nice chat with Shirin late last night after not talking with her for far too long. I could tell she was getting increasingly tired after lots of chin-wagging, so I unconsciously started to preface everything I said with, “Just one last thing before you go ...”

She politely played along until enough was more than enough.

“David,” she interrupted, “I’m not going to believe you when you promise ‘one last thing’ until you’re on life support in the hospital and you see the doctor pulling the plug.”

We giggled and laughed; that’s always a great way to say goodnight.

29 September 2020

Greasicles

A restaurant's fetid grease dump reminded me of Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 film, Blowup. (Or perhaps Blow-Up or Blow Up; it may or may not have more than one title.) That non sequitur needs an explanation, so here we go ...

I haven’t seen the flick in decades, but remember it involved a photographer discovering something in one of his images that he didn’t notice when he exposed the film. (Historical note: photographers only used film in the sixties, mostly.)

I thought of that plot when I looked at a photo I made whilst walking through the deserted streets in Taos. I took a few shots of a filthy industrial receptacle covered in grease; who could resist? I didn’t realize until now that I completely overlooked the most interesting visual aspect: the greasicles hanging off the side of the lid.

I don’t feel bad about the oversight at all; it’s not like I missed anything close to a decisive moment. I realize I’m rationalizing my poor perceptions, but I bet the greasicles will be even more photogenic in another year or two.

30 September 2020

The Insufferable Debate

“What’s worse than living with a maniac?” Benedict asked. “Living with two, that’s what.”

“Sounds like you’re on the verge of another rant about Fenton,” I replied.

It was a safe bet. Benedict can’t afford a flat of his own, so he shares an apartment with Fenton. The predictable roommate frictions have been greatly exacerbated by the virtual lockdown during Coronarama.

Yesterday was Fenton’s turn to choose what was on the telly. That usually makes for a horrible evening, but last night was much worse than usual: he invited a raving lunatic to join him, a barbarous con man from Queens. The two got into a livid shouting match that went on for over an hour.

The low-class shyster was belligerent and went on a nonstop tirade spewing venomous hatred and increasingly outrageous lies. Fenton was outraged and started screaming back at him with all the invective he could muster with the help of a couple of bottles of cheap port.

Benedict tried to be patient, but he finally snapped after an hour of the inane aural brawling. He stormed into the living room and turned off the television. And with that, the psychotic grafter dba the pResident of the United Snakes disappeared when the screen went dark. Fenton had no one with whom to argue, and the insufferable debate was over.

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©2020 David Glenn Rinehart