311
I write this story under the dark cloud of a hangover. Was it worth it? Definitely. I was home by midnight. In preparation of paying the price the next day, I took two Excedrin and a Xanax. You can lessen the length of a hangover by sleeping late. Then you let the day dictate the next moves. You are too incapacitated to be in the driver's seat as a cop might have told me if I had been stopped last night behind the wheel, but I don't drive.
I wake at noon and turn on the radio. The Cowboys are playing the Giants. If Dallas wins and Washington loses tonight, the Pokes, with a 7-9 record, advanced to the playoffs. The noise fills my blurry head.
Eating is the next step in climbing out of the hole you have dug for yourself. I toast two pieces of bread and drink a glass of orange juice. I'm not hungry. I boil hot water for Valerian tea. It's all about tranquilizing the nerves. In common parlance it might be called shaking the shakes. I forgot to add that in the early morning I stumbled to the medicine cabinet for a second round of Excedrin and Xanax.
What will the rest of the day bring? I will not be leaving the apartment. When hunger strikes, I have a slab of ham, two ears of corn and potato salad. Besides my daily scribblings, my only goal is completing my Yankee Yoga. I need to feel the strength returning and coursing through my body.
There may be a tentative outing. If Dallas wins, Mick will urge me to take him for wings and watch the Washington game. He hasn't had time for me lately. He will be 17 this year so I continue to plummet on his list of priorities. He is involved in a Romeo and Julieta relationship and there are his football buddies with whom he gathers to run patterns. He suffers from an empty stomach and he knows the old man will take him wherever he wants. These days it's about quality over quantity.
I have not reported the good news. No, it's not that in 17 days Trump's presidency ends although a handful of Senators and several scores of Congressmen are going to make a last stand in their homage to their golden calf Wednesday. Their message is clear: Democracy is dead! Long live Trump! It would be nice if God resorted to opening the earth and swallowing these infidels as he did with 20,000 recalcitrant Jews who worshipped false gods during their wanderings through the Sinai Desert.
I have found my wallet. After discovering that somebody had found my wallet and was relating the information through Facebook, I communicated with a middle-aged woman who said she was leaving the HEB parking lot when she noticed the wallet lying on the sidewalk. She collected it, but didn't return to the store because she had food cooking on her stove and needed to return home posthaste. She gave me her address and I received my wallet. All my ID cards were in place as well as a $200 check, but the cash had disappeared.
I apologized that I had no money to reward her good intentions and she replied it wasn't necessary. I went to an ATM machine and returned to her house and slipped her $40. She gamely protested, but I insisted that she had saved me headaches and deserved the money. My hangover could have been much worse.
How do I interpret this woman's positive actions? Are we beginning the transition from Trump's selfishness to Biden's selflessness? Is she one of the 81 million sane Americans who voted against the 74 million insane Americans for Trump?
The bad have not surrendered. We can only hope that the good will rise to the occasion and commit the country on a road of no-return by certifying Joe Biden and Kamala Harris president and vice president. I don't think the Republicans have any options after the certification and there appears to be unanimous agreement among the experts that this ploy will not bring the South African Apartheid Republican Party any joy.
That's right--The South African Apartheid Republican Party!!! It's a racist white power cult controlled by Trump billionaires who add to their financial fortunes by exploiting the haters and their hopeless wives who obviously didn't make laudable decision when choosing good ol' boys.
I'm accepting that I'm 70. My initial reaction to this new stage in my life sent me into a downward spiral. A sore throat, heartburn and cold sores worened my depression, but five days later, discounting this hangover, I'm not ill and I'm feeling no differently than when I was 69.
At 70 you earn certain privileges. Young punks who disagree with your political opinions generally aren't going to thrash a 70-year-old man. You have a carte blanche--as in South African Apartheid Republican Party--to express your views even if they are flying beyond the envelope. As we learned from Grecian times, we have to be cautious that we don't fly too close to the sun. Those who lose their good sense find themselves plunging back to earth.
I'm sure Icarus was disappointed by his brave endeavor, but I'm even more disappointed. The Cowboys lost and there will be no dinner date with my baby boy.
Comments
Post a Comment