It’s dawn on Monday, August 29th, 2022, as I laboriously peck out this post on an Android phone in the lovely town of Bronxville, NY — only 30 minutes from Grand Central! as the local real estate pimps like to crow.
I’ve been going to one AA meeting a day in the area for the last 4 days, one of which allowed disembodied drunks from all over to zoom in.
This has helped me combat social isolation — always potentially dangerous for an alkie! — and stay out of whisky trouble, as I take care of family business relating to my late mother’s estate, for which I play the role of reluctant executor.
On Wednesday, I’ll be flying back to my beautiful wife — whom I first met in Bronxville moons ago — in Florida to take care of some necessary business, before returning in a week to finish getting Mum’s house, which I inherited, ready for an early Fall sale.
Meanwhile, Jonathan Lemere has just come on Way Too Early. Trumpie Trump and his execrable minions are still trying to muddy the “raid” haul waters with all kinds of endlessly contorted, specious claims, tacit threats, as some Columbian (born in Cali, yo), Trump-appointed judgette in Port St Lucie (a couple of towns up from where my wife & I reside in Fla) appears to be giving life to the orange grifter’s latest tactics, and America, a year and a half out of supposedly getting rid of this vile cocksucker, is still twitching like a helpless, Stockholm Syndrome marionette controlled by graduates of Roy Cohn’s deny, delay, obfuscate madrassa.
It’d be entertaining, if it weren’t so pathetic — particularly if you have some long simmering beef against Uncle Sam, and who doesn’t?
Me, I don’t really give a shit about Uncle Sam, or Trump, or if Serena is going to equal the racist Margaret Court’s win record before retiring , or if Lebel’s “Poison Soluble” installation should be on display at the Berlin Biennale, or if the UAE camel jockeys are having trouble seeding clouds for rain, or if Mick and Keith have become a fucking embarrassment, or if Andrew Holleran’s The Kingdom of Sand is actually a novel, let alone a good one, or more simply the autobiographical last gasp of an aging queen in self imposed Florida exile.
No matter what happens, the US is going to continue meddling in the Arab world, bombing sand niggers it doesn’t like — or more exactly, towel heads the Hymies fear — and very little is going to change anywhere in the world because fundamentally human nature is never going to change until it must, by which time I’ll be dead, so who the fuck cares.
On a lighter note, the just-released Kleo on Netflix is screamingly funny, IMHO, though it does sorta give one pause when we have to rely on ze Germans for camp fun to alleviate the horrors of living in the early part of the 21st century.
Who’s zoomin’ who, yo?