Thoughts Before Flying My Boston Bruins Flag Upside-down
I can’t decide if New York had it right in not broadcasting Trump’s election interference trial. As one who watched too many hours of Johnny Cochrane square off against Marcia Clark in the infamous criminal OJ Simpson trial, in retrospect, perhaps that time spent is akin to falling down the rabbit-hole of game improvement golf videos on YouTube, or scouring the internet for the “best” chicken recipes. Yes, it could be argued that the public has a “right” to see that which goes on within our system of justice. But to what end? As it is now, the major news outlets offer coverage by reporters imbedded within the courtroom, providing minute-by-minute updates on Trump’s tendencies to sleep and pass gas. Do I really need to see him do a “one cheek sneak” on a televised broadcast. The answer is “no.” (Parenthetically, I remain grateful that Sony hasn’t perfected the high-definition television featuring “smell-o-vision.”)
It has been stated that mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. A kid will eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you? The answer is an emphatic “no.” Kale is as far as I’ll go with the leafy stuff…
Will hand sanitizer and face masks be items of nostalgia in 50 years the way “Pet Rocks” are today? Should I save an unopened three-pack of Purell, as I have with my coin collection from 1975?
Am I the only one who doesn’t “get” the music of Taylor Swift? I appreciate the role model she has become to a large cross-section of predominantly young women, but can’t understand the acclaim. I also like that she’s fighting against the LiveNation/Ticket Master monolith, and that she broadcasts concerts in movie theaters to provide better access. But I am – no doubt - showing (yet again) my age (as if the “mares eat oats” reference wasn’t enough!), when I tell you that I honestly couldn’t tell you the name of one of her songs. Who’s she’s dating (Travis Kelce) or who’s she’s named after (James Taylor) – yes. But not one single song…
I travel every once in a while, and came across a guy who told me that his wife had just been rushed to the hospital, and need money for cab fare. My gut instinct was it was a ploy to part me from my money, but I didn’t want to take the karma risk to turn him down because of my suspicions. (I initially wanted to drive him to the “hospital,” but thought the better of it for fear of possibly being carjacked.) So, I gave him a few dollars and told him that karma would indeed be a bitch to him if he were lying. He didn’t seem to care, except to look at me a little askance. I wondered then if he didn’t get the concept, or was pissed-off for being revealed. Then again, because I need my fractured faith in humanity restored, I going with that he was telling the truth, and that my donation got him closer to his sick wife.
Finally, I had somehow imagined that retirement would look like me sipping lemonade while reading on a fan-swept screened in porch. While the porch part exists (mostly for Abigail’s benefit), I find myself happily running errands, caring for the yard, and going to more doctor’s appointment than I though was humanly possible. Thanks both to the pandemonic (RIP) and retirement, my cooking skills have gotten better. (People only now seldomly gag when eating my creations.) And I have not yet been lured into the realm of “day drinking,” playing chess in a lonely park, or habitually taking afternoon naps. I do, however, start planning what we’re having for dinner around this time every day (7:42am), thus proving that just because a concept or phrase is overused doesn't mean it's a cliché, and because a phrase is a cliché doesn't mean it isn't true. (Grilled scallops, rice and a salad, by the way…)
Happy Friday, y'all...
