Life As A Twilight Zone Episode

Put yourself in my big power brown leather American-made recliner.  Watching the news.  Teenage analysts are explaining the import of world affairs and how nothing like this has ever happened before.  Nobody saw it coming.  Turn to the other channel.  Better-looking youths seem unaware of what the hell is going on.

Imagine you are old and been rode hard and put away wet.  More than a couple times.  Bought the ticket, took the ride, have the t-shirt.  Always the same damn story.  The townies don’t like the college kids.

My aunt has issues with Orthodox Jews.  Upset about the kosher kitchens, whatever.  In the early Nineties, the nation were worried about the Japanese, who had finally conquered Waikiki.

I left Rosaria because I wanted to see the country for myself. I recommend it to others. Of course, I haven’t made it back home safely yet.

I’ll leave you with the words of Theodore Roosevelt.

“It’s not the critic that counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or whether the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs, and often comes up short again and again. Who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause. And who, if at best in the end, knows the triumph of higher treatment and high achievement. And who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly so that his soul shall never be with those cold and timid ones who neither victory nor defeat.”

Women, too.

When – as the average guy on the streets – we open the paper, how do we know the election results are right? Logically speaking, in a democracy, it makes no sense at all for George Herbert Hoover Bush to get re-elected. Yet….

Show me a CEO who’d be retained with this level of performance.  Hmmm, I guess a publicly owned corporation isn’t really a democracy.

Nobody ever said anything when we were importing all those English cars with the bad electrical systems. Jaguars, MGs, Austin Healeys, Sprites, Triumphs, Lotus, Morris Minor, Sunbeam, Rolls-Royce, Bentley.

We seem uniquely forgiving of white people.

You remember the British.  Like the Rising Sun of the East, the original Anglos were once our bitter enemies.

Like Iraq, Great Britain was severely reprimanded by our patriotic forefathers.

We can forgive one, but not another.  Racism?  Perhaps. Foreigners (Canadians) already own major league baseball teams.

The British probably own more of the United States now than they did before the American Revolution.  But back then they bought places like Schenectady and Altoona.  New England.

They weren’t buying Hawaii and Pebble Beach and the Statue of Liberty.  Not to mention Hollywood.  And the best lobbyists in Washington.

Not to mention old growth timber.

I am not a racist. I don’t care what color of skin my enemies are.  If someone is trying to harm me or mine, he can count on my aggressive opposition.  If some nation is causing injury to my home and my country, then it’s war.

And I’m not talking a charade like The Desert Storm Show.  Talk about your basic marketing cartoon.  Would’ve looked better on Saturday mornings than during prime time.  Hosted by the kindly Uncle Schwarzkopf.  Starring Wilford Brimley.

“Today’s show welcomes the A-Team with Colin Powell as Mr. T.  Now, heeerrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeees Stormin’ Norman.”  Honest Injun.

But, we’re getting off track a bit.

So, you will understand why the old man might be a little worn down by the idea that hating others will make you a happier person. Or you can help the poor by giving the rich more money.  Or corporations are people.  Or money is speech.

The problem is not fake news, the problem is a fake democracy.  Republican Health Care Bill, life’s latest oxymoron.  Don’t get me started.

He had an epiphany this morning.  Epiphanies apparently almost a daily occurrence, now that it’s pretty much too late.

He could slow down.

He weighed the same as the morning of his marathon personal record thirty-eight years solongago.  Been hammering the roads for six months.  Ever since the herniated gonad – hereafter known as “Lefty” – pushed him off his bike.  Hammering.  Minimum of an hour.  Longer.  Hot.  Hotter.  Hammering.

Tired.  Couldn’t take a day off.  That would be wrong.  Not him.  But he could slow down.  Hadn’t thought of that.

Felt so good.  For one thing, he didn’t have to hear all that harsh breathing.  Another thing, hurts less.  Just because you can handle the pain, doesn’t mean the pain is all that much fun.

Again!  His first Caucasian Ovcharka – “The Dude” was an huge independent-thinking mountain creature – didn’t much take to Florida’s heat.  Boy liked his air-conditioning.  Perfectly understandable.  So, we would zag and zig back and forth from one side of the street to the opposite, wherever foliage blocked the light.  Must be seven degrees cooler.

The old man wanted to trim his new beard but he didn’t want to spend any money or leave the house.

Epiphany!  Young redhead used to have a little dog – “Chelsea The Sweetest Schnauzer” – got shaved every summer.

Way back under the hall bathroom sink.  Had to blow off a bunch of grey hairs, but the Oster “Home-Animal” Detachable Blade Clipper worked fine.

Looks just like a puppy’s fuzzy tummy.  Won’t she be surprised.