In my many years of predicting the future, I have never been so wrong as I have about the period in which we currently live. I thought I had it nailed!
That we’re not flying personal blimps to and from work by now I find very odd. I had long thought personal blimps were the transportation of the future, but other (lesser) futurists have thrown cold water on my ideas by claiming that once a lot of people start flying personal blimps to work, well, you’d start to need blimp traffic signals. Which implied blimp accidents, and blimp rollovers, and blimp traffic jams. Which implied not much better than what we currently have. I was sure we were on the precipice of a great blimp movement, but people got so freaked out by this misinformation campaign that no one would get behind the blimp idea, and it petered out.
Alas! And now it turns out there isn’t even much road traffic. Do you realize that I drove from West Roxbury to Cambridge and never once touched my brakes? Slight exaggeration: there were some geese that wouldn’t get out of the way, but after that it was just give it gas and turn the wheel.
My personal opinion, It’s important to get into your car now, while gas prices are low and you are actually allowed to go to the ski slopes.
Wait a minute: can we still ski?
I’m not much of a folk singer, but if I were one I’d be writing folk songs like “Blowin’ a Whistle.” My songs of rebellion would be aimed squarely at “The Man”. Troubadours would be singing my songs in subway stations, with their guitar cases laid open and piles of CDs put out for people to buy, filled with folk numbers by Seeger, Guthrie, Dylan, and me.
Wake Up, For Cryin’ Out Loud! would be my first, breakout album. Songs like “You Can’t Possibly be Serious,” and “It’s no Longer Funny, People”, would start to appear on critics’ lists of top hits, and everyone would marvel at my ability to be both humble and kind, and yet have an attitude. Sounds impossible, but the magic of my folk song art is my humility/attitude continuum. My song “Ramblin’ Tweet” would crack the top ten, and “If I had a handgun (I’d shoot it in the morning)” would get to number three.
Of course, half the country will hate my records, either because they dislike hearing whistles blown, or because they happen to be “The Man,” or because they think handguns are for wimps.
What songs would you sing if you were a folk song artist?
The number of blog posts I should have but didn’t enter in the past month is astonishing. Did you know that I saw Titus Andronicus in Chicago? And no, I don’t mean the Shakespeare play.
I’ll save that for a different date, as I have photos to share.
What about the “caravan” of Latin-American “invaders” (i.e. poor people)? What about the latest mass murder via military-style weaponry, this one involving a deranged anti-Semitic psychopath? And, oh yeah, what’s the status of my home addition?
Sorry, not blogging about that today. Instead, today is all about the Boston Red Sox, who took the World Series again, beating first the hated Yankees (the only playoff series I really cared about), then the “best team in baseball” – the Astros, then dear old Dad’s Dodgers.
I blame my lack of posts on the late nights watching 18 inning games and enduring Craig Kimbrell’s myocardial infarction-inducing ninth-inning “relief” pitching as he tried and mostly succeeded in saving games. But not before making me dread the appearance of his Whoville beard.
The good news is that baseball is now over. Ergo, I get my life back.
A friendly heads-up.
In the mind of the average stable genius, mollusks consist of clams, mussels, oysters, and scallops, but you’re not an average genius, and word is you’re not even stable, so you don’t know that you didn’t know for the longest time that most people don’t know that they weren’t aware that in the greatest country in the free world there are several billion species of bivavles.
And more in the greatest country in the enslaved world.
I’m exaggerating. There are only 20,000 bivavle species in the whole universe, give or take, according to the fake encyclopedia media (so who really knows?). And most of them are concentrated here in southwest Florida, from what I can tell from walking the beach on Marco Island.
So now you now: I’m vacationing in warm and sunny gun country. While here, I’ve been feeling out my family’s interest in visiting an alligator farm, where the kids can watch their dad wrestle an animal determined to pull him into the water and drown him. But what a rush it is for dad, I’m told: the primal battle; the prehistoric nature of the animal that has sunk its teeth into your abdomen; the feeling of desperation as you realize that the ‘gator has squeezed the air out of you and has probably already won the battle.
Once rescued from certain death by the 7th-generation swamp dweller running the farm, I challenge the kids to memorize the shells we’ll be encountering. They totally ignore me at first, assuming I’m performing my usual leg-pulling nonsense, until I jump up, all excited. “Make a chart,” I say. They look up from their devices just long enough to scowl. I explain: “You can note the shells you collect, the dates and times and where you found them. You can connect with other children your age doing the very same thing! Imagine how jealous your friends back home will be to know that you’re making charts and filling in data, while they’re spending endless hours staring at their boring devices. Heh, heh.”
They’ve stopped listening. They care as much about finding a Scotch Bonnet on their morning walk as they do about discovering Van Hyning’s Cockle in the bottom of a bucket.
Slinking off to eat some conch fritters and gator-tail while cleaning out my AR-15.
J'Biden Era Haikuage
People's Arms. That's right!
200 million shots
In 100 days
We are good people
But we still have far to go
Repair. Restore. Heal.
There's nothing new here
The Affordable Care Act
We're restoring it
Democracy is fragile
The world is watching
Strategy is based
On Science, not politics
Truth, not denial
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