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Weak XXXV

28 August 2021

No. 9,722 (cartoon)

I’m killing time.

It’s the other way around.

29 August 2021

Barf Bag Banquet

I noticed something unusual on yesterday’s aeroplane flight. Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t notice something that used to be usual. And that’s more than enough buildup to announcing that I haven’t seen an airsick bag—more commonly known as a barf bag—on a flight in years.

This reminds me of a story Dr. Henry recounts that one of the Fugs—look it up in your music history library—told him. This may sound like a tall tale, but I’m fairly certain it’s merely a heightened perception story if not verifiably true.

The musician always carried a can of cream of mushroom soup on long flights. During periods of high turbulence or boredom, he surreptitiously poured the soup into his airsick bag. Later, when he was being observed by a flight attendant, he’d pull out a spoon and start eating the soup. I presume hilarity ensued; how could it not?

Deliberately upsetting people with such a disgusting juvenile prank is as obnoxious as it is repulsive. I loved it; what a great performance piece!

30 August 2021

The Deadening Grey Twilight Zone

I’m enjoying visiting my mother as well as the occasional flashback from my childhood. I’m thinking about one in particular at the moment, the small poster of Theodore Roosevelt on the side of the piano that featured one of his quotes.

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

Over the decades I’ve lived in all sorts of environments from the ridiculous to the sublime and back again, but I’ve always managed to steer clear of the grey twilight dead zone.

Damn good advice, Teddy; thanks!

31 August 2021

A Stupid Person’s Way of Trying to Appear Smart

Douglas Coupland wrote a nice essay addressing all the attacks on Elon Musk, who he praised as, “the smartest person in any room anywhere.” He admitted that some of the criticism was not unfounded (who’s not a jerk on occasion?), but most of it was bellyaching by frail idiots. I loved one of his observations: “Being negative is a stupid person’s way of trying to appear smart without actually being smart.”

I can’t summarize the engagingly engaging essay in eight words. But, if I had to: The guy’s a flawed genius; deal with it.

I’d love to read a similarly cogent commentary on great art produced by not-so-great and/or reprehensible people. I’m not going to write it, though; I have lesser things to do. (That sounds a lot better than admitting I’m incapable of penning that in this lifetime.)

1 September 2021

Appointment Television

There’s probably a name for everything. For instance, the fear of knowledge—more popular than ever these days!—is called epistemophobia.

I just learned there’s a name for the way people watched television in the last millennium before the Internetty thing obsoleted scheduled broadcasts. And even better, it’s only two simple words: appointment television.

Over forty years ago some kids burgled the house in which my girlfriend I were living. They stole our television and beer and left my cameras. The next day we were enjoying a sunny afternoon in the park when I said that it was time to go home and watch Walter Cronkite read the day’s headlines. She pointed out that we had no television, so we continued enjoying our evening outside.

(I never got another television after that. I wish I could find the thieves, thank them for liberating me from the tyranny of broadcasters, and break their fingers for robbing us.)

“Appointment television” is a fine example of how language shapes perception. I never thought about having appointments to watch broadcasts several times a week, but appointment television is the perfect, succinct description of those video shackles.

Today things are different: we now have the option of constant video bondage on demand; that’s progress! As Walter Leland Cronkite Junior used to say, “And that’s the way it is.”

2 September 2021

Motor City Italian Sausage

As I mentioned before, the late Red Lead Ed said he overheard some flavor of mobster confide that the deceased, er, “disappeared,” James Riddle “Jimmy” Hoffa was ground into sausage. I thought of the union leader when I saw a package of Motor City* Italian Sausage and checked out the label.

Ingredients: Pork, Water, Granulated Garlic, Dextrose, Spices, Paprika, Yeast Extract, Spice Extractives, Anise Oil

I complained to Carlos about the false advertising: neither Jimmy Hoffa nor any other gangster is listed as an ingredient. He responded with an obvious factor I’d foolishly overlooked: Hoffa wasn’t Italian.

Some mysteries are better unsolved, so I’m staying away from German and Irish sausages, which is a good idea for everyone all the time regardless of anthropophagososphobia.

*Explanation for readers in Guinea-Bissau and Kyrgyzstan: Hoffa vanished in Detroit, also known as The Motor City.

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©2021 David Glenn Rinehart