Riders On The Storm: A Prep Talk

 

Another storm? Nope. Pretty much the same one. Photo by Joe

Remember the early days of 2021, when I was blathering on about THE STORM, and I basically predicted January 6th? I do. The post devolved into a bunch of half-hearted new year's resolutions, and we're not going to rehash them here, but that bit about trudging on through a Category 5 shitstorm merits a wee follow-up.

I won't go into the details about the continuing and regrouping and rebuilding storm that consumes our nation and much of the world - but you should. I know - it's exhausting and it feels utterly redundant and futile and all that - but trust me when I say that the bad guys are absolutely counting on us being too exhausted with the 24/7 casserole of nonsense to keep paying attention to what they're up to. Also, if I've learned anything since about 2015, it is this: even the most "liberal" news outlets on earth are scarcely scratching the surface, when it comes to reporting on and/or explaining what is happening - and what is in the works for 2024 and beyond. 

It's time to close the shutters, it's time to go inside... Photo by Joe

I have only one recommendation for mitigating that effect. Find yourself a historian who is well-versed in politics, and let them do the work for you. My go-to over these past few years is Professor Heather Cox Richardson, and her "Letters From An American" have been invaluable - for better informing me, for framing current developments within a historical context, and for doing so without sensationalism and hyperbole. I'm sure there are many others like her - probably even some on the conservative side, with a moderate, academic bent. Find yours. It's important.

BUT FIRST...

We're on the ride, clamped into our seats. We have no choice. Like it or not, we're taking a ride. So, if we're going to be riders, let's RIDE! 

Start with a drinking game, if that's your thing... Biden falls down, or confuses Kevin Hart for The Rock - DRINK! Ex-president says something overtly, shockingly racist and/or fascist (a dog whistle to his base, but also consciously designed to distract us) - DRINK! Some US state jerrymanders its congressional districts like an inkblot test in order to guarantee one party's dominance - DRINK! Putin dies like three months ago, but is still calling the shots in modern war crime - DRINK! A Kardashian says something - DRINK! Congratulations - everybody's drunk.

Riding on... I'm not officially advocating a complete tune-out, but hey - how about trying a complete tune-out! I know I'm constantly preaching cartoons and sports and bad movies - and COSMOS - as coping mechanisms, but there are SO MANY others. Knitting looks like a good one - concentrating and yet thinking about nothing. Cross-stitch. Painting. Writing inane little backstories for SEVEN HUNDRED ludicrously-named fictitious hoboes. Dancing. Exercise. Researching the origins of the best (and worst) dirty jokes. Or DAD JOKES! Jumping in puddles. Brushing your cat's teeth. As long as you're engaged in some sort of activity, you're most likely not watching The Storm. 

As Ren shrieks at Stimpy in the "Space Madness" episode, "We're not hitchhiking anymore - we're RIDING!"

Is it gonna get worse? Of COURSE it's gonna get worse, and probably in ways we can't predict. We all know it. I'm trying to treat it like the threat of terror attack (or, more likely, getting caught up in a mass shooting at a local shopping center) - yes, we should be vigilant, but we can't ruin our lives in service of those fears. We must walk on. Storms are storms. They can be spectacularly destructive, but they end. Even that giant red spot thing on Jupiter will eventually spin itself out. 

So here's to weirding it up and riding this thing out - through 2024 and beyond. We can have fun with it, and it's in our collective best interest to try. It's my prime directive, at this point...

A Beer Event

So, this is totally cheating, but it keeps my blog-post-a-day thing going.  I'll do some actual work tomorrow, maybe.  What follows was more typed than written.  It comes from a hurriedly-composed zombie novel, which I spewed forth this past summer during Camp NaNoWriMo.  Zombies are easy, so I get bored with them, and find myself focused on the interactions of my ensemble cast.  This excerpt comes from-- oh, just read it.  It's fun.  And please forgive these young men - they say some things they shouldn't say.

 

Miles was the second to arrive at the Inner Harbor Hotel, where Bruce Schwartzman had booked a suite for post-reunion partying and eventual crashing/DUI avoidance.  The original plan was for just one room, but when they learned that the girls - Phaedra McKinley and Colleen Horvath - would be joining them, Bruce decided that there should be two rooms, "in case the girls want their own space - or anyone hooks up."

"Miles!  You're just in time.  I was about to start pre-drinking, but I can't decide what to start with."  Bruce gave his best friend a crushing handshake, and pulled him in for a still-shaking-hands, one-armed, back-slapping man hug.  At five-ten, he was at least six inches shorter than Miles, and their hug ended with him looking up, and feigning a doe-eyed gaze.

 

Miles was tall, but slight, so pushing his stocky, muscular friend away required considerable effort.  "Get off me, you queer," he groaned.

"Hey - watch it, dude.  My aunt is a queer."

 

"I'm aware of that, Bruce.  She's also only three years older than us, and hot.  Also, I don't think they like to be called queer.  It's lesbian, I believe.  And how is Meg, by the way?"

Bruce shook his head.  "A - that's Aunt Meg, to you.  B - she prefers just 'gay,' these days.  C - she's doing great.  Just got her masters in English.  And D - yes, she's very hot, but she's totally gay.  And no, she's still not interested in screwing you, 'just to be sure,' so give it up, already."

"She's not my aunt," Miles said.  "Dude - let go of me!"

"I know, but I don't like that whole 'Miss Meg' thing.  It's too..."

"Alliterative?"  Miles suggested.

"What's 'alliterative?'"

"When things start with the same letter.  Peter Piper, Miss Meg, Mighty Mouse..."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Miles.  "Mighty Mouse?"

"Yeah.  Both start with M."

"I know both start with M.  I'm not retarded.  But why Mighty Mouse?"

"Why not Mighty Mouse?"  Miles shook his head, as if trying to free pool water from his ears.

"It's weird, that's why.  You could have gone with Mickey Mouse--"

"You owe Roy Disney a dollar fifty,"  Miles interrupted.

"Or Minnie Mouse--"

"That's three bucks."

"Or Donald Duck--"

"Four-fifty."

"Shut up!  I'm just saying, you've got like, tons of examples of names that start with the same letter, and you pull Mighty Mouse out of your ass.  It's weird."  Bruce gestured at the kitchen of the suite, where he had arrayed nearly a full bar's stock of liquor and mixers on the breakfast counter.  "Come on.  What's your poison?  Time's a-wastin'."

"You don't remember Mighty Mouse?"  Miles asked, sincerely and rather defensively.

"Nobody remembers Mighty Mouse, you freak!  Not even Mighty Mouse remembers Mighty Mouse!  Now, what are we drinking?"

"Liquor," Miles said.  "Something clear.  Gin and tonic, maybe.  Start slow.  And it was on right before the Little Rascals.  How can you not remember that?  Next, you'll try to tell me you don't remember Heckle and Jeckle."

Bruce stopped, jigger in one hand and Tanqueray bottle in the other.  "Heckle and who?  What is wrong with you?"

"Come on, Schwartz - you have to remember Heckle and Jeckle.  The talking magpies?  On channel 2 - part of the Mighty Mouse show that bridged the gap between Looney Toons and Little Rascals?  It wasn't that long ago, man..."

"Okay.  Right there.  You see, Miles?  This is why you don't have a girlfriend - why you never have a girlfriend - why you couldn't even get into the pants of the one girl who desperately wanted you to, for whatever reason..."

"Yeah, yeah.  Don't be a dick."

A knock rattled the door with an odd rockabilly rhythm.  Miles and Bruce looked at each other knowingly.  "Ray," they chorused.

"Beer man!" the door announced.  Bruce held it open to allow Raymond Christopher, laden with a duffel bag and two cases of Milwaukee's Best, to enter.  He crossed the room, found some open space on the kitchen counter, and dropped the beer.  "Whoa.  What's with all the liquor?  I thought this was gonna be a beer event."

"If it's a beer event, then what's with the Milwaukee's Beast, Ray?" Bruce asked, joining Ray in the kitchen to resume the gin and tonic project.  "That ain't beer."

There.  Interested?  Yeah, neither am I, but you'll love Colleen, if ever I should post an excerpt that includes her.  Thanks for coming.  Night!