Hello Darkness My Old Friend

The calm in the streets last night was deafening. Not a horn honk, a note from a drunken frat boy tenor, nor the bloodcurdling shrill of a Latina “forty fucking niners!” could be heard. They’d won the NFC championship but you’d never know it from the groundswell.

Gone are the days of bon fires in the streets and the (alleged) high jacking of Muni buses. When I went for a walk last evening the town was like a morgue. I did run into one tranny in a fake fur Politburo ear flapped hat who showed signs of exhilaration. “We’re back in the Super Bowl!”

I asked her if she didn’t think the street reaction seemed muted compared to celebrations in the past. She didn’t care. She’d been down at the adult bookstore on Mission Street giving blow jobs and business was booming. Thank god for at least one strand of continuity.

I’m guessing there may be new ways to measure fan response that I’m not privy to. Possibly the keyboard clacking of “likes,” “faves” or customized emoji brought cellular service in the Bay Area to a standstill. Or maybe there’s a cloud community where today’s youth go to feel as one.

I’m not letting this cultural disconnect get me down, however. I’ve got my Aunt knitting away on special edition 49er dog sweaters that are available for a limited time only at $49 each. We’re practically giving them away! Practically.

If anyone is interested please contact my puppy needs a pullover. And there’s no team loyalty here. If you’d prefer them in other colors we can accommodate. I’ve threatened my Aunt that if she can’t keep up with demand I won’t hesitate to bring in the Burmese children who have served me so well in the past.

Since the Yorks took over the Forty Niners and moved them to Santa Clara I’ve lost all interest in the team. I don’t even know the names of the new players. But I do know that as long as Montana is at quarterback, they’ve got a chance.

Go Niners! (Ka-ching!)



$12 Million in Today’s Currency

Received a message today from a disinterested third party (which pretty much describes any friend or acquaintance I’ve ever had) asking if the check I’d written them was any good. I said it has as good a chance of clearing as any other I’ve ever written. You just got to get on that pony and ride, see what happens.

Carbon dating the accompanying note of such thoughtfulness, this would have been issued in the Spring of 1975. Less than a month after Aristotle Onassis’ passing on the Ides of March.

I have a sneaking suspicion this financial institution no longer exists. I believe they were felled by excessive Federal Reserve sanctions for issuing such overtly feminine checks to a male customer.

Nance, You is My Woman

My Congresswoman that is.

What a brilliant move to delay the trial. My choice would be until October when the whole electorate will be watching.

The jaw drop was palpable.
The jaw drop was palpable.

Senate Majority Leader Doody awaits words from his puppateers, big oil, big tobacco and big Wall Street. Not to mention his wife’s big fat heroin smuggling family owned shipping line.

Retelling that beloved Chinese fable, The Puppet and the Beard

God Bless

Last weekend my laptop was stolen from my Avis rental in the parking lot of Fort Wayne’s Target. Merry Christmas to me.

Trying to churn out a post via all thumbs typing on my phone is so Neanderthal. It severely curtails verbiage which is driving me up the wall. Merry Christmas to you.

But there are moments I feel compelled to communicate so I soldier on. Like in this message of yuletide love.

We’ve had some fine bitches as First Lady through the years—Dolly, Eleanor, Jackie—but none whose ass has been tapped more than the current occupant’s. Damn, fellas, you digging that Darth Vader Shield covering the pudenda? Looks like an extra large. Must be a helluva rain forest sprouting down there. And here I thought Agent Orange liked a clean workspace.

May your holidays be filled with the comfort only right wing Christian value$ can provide.

Unsung Woman Sings

I once wrote a joke I never got to use on stage. Or give to my hero Joan Rivers. It involves the longevity of one’s career:

I’m so old. It’s a little-known fact but I’ve been around so long, I’m the one who originally gave St. John his wart.

Technically it should be wort, but aurally it works. Who me? A killjoy?

I’m also so old I can remember when search engines actually worked. Optimization simply means all search results are now bought and paid for. It doesn’t matter how well-crafted your query is. Type in “eukyarotic cell formation” and the first few hits will probably be Target or Amazon.

I think I’ve found a work-around for this pay-for-display fraud. It’s my new, patent-pending imag-i-search technique. After pulling up results, instead of scrolling through pages of paid-for verbiage hit the images tab. Then find the picture that best fits and clique to view the article.

I found Ann Behringer by using the search “Jerry Hall Tina Turner backup dancer 1980s.” I’ve always considered it a masterstroke of PR genius for Tina to hire a backup singer who was a dead ringer for Mick Jagger’s girlfriend at the time. Mick and Tina have been trading on gender/identity confusion since he took the name “Turner” in the 1969 film Performance. To make her early 80’s comeback she showed him who’s boss.

I rarely reread what I’ve published because these blog posts are like my children. Memories of childbirth pain come flooding back.

But Mark Zuckerberg recently reminded me of my Tina Turner piece of a year ago. I think it was one of his favorites. I looked at it again this morning and it wasn’t half-bad. Thank God for epidurals.

I wrote it because my sources told me last November she was near death.  I thought I should get a leg up on memorializing her.

As I started to work on it, however, I realized I’m not a professional obituary writer. I should do something positive. My words of admiration could have been written or spoken on any day of the last fifty years.

The aforementioned sources have since been fired. As of today (one more again!), Proud Mary keep on burnin’.

Live Updates from the Ghetto

When Dale and David visited last March I had a punch list of about five projects I wanted to finish the week before they arrived. As we approach the year anniversary I’m still working on them. My new motto is “everything takes forever.” Which I believe was a 1940’s B movie starring Linda Darnell.

Case in point is the kitchen table cum island (not to be confused with other cum islands in the apartment.) Readers will remember how proud I was when I figured out how to build a table two years ago. Equally as memorable was the mediocre result. So the first of October I went to Ikea to purchase a cabinet base to begin a rebuild of my fantasy island.

The project was intended to take a week. We’re now at six and counting. This week alone I’ve spent three days trying to affix grosgrain ribbon onto half-round molding. Will it ever end, Linda?

I think it will, the finish line is in sight. With every project I complete another pile disappears and the place becomes more navigable. After three years I’m ready for this to be over. And maybe finally have friends here to see it. It’s been so isolating. I am a rock, I am an island.

Under construction

Consumed with home decor lately I’ve let other facets of life slide. Like blogging. But when I read this morning about the President condemning Nancy Pelosi’s district as a dangerous and disgusting slum, I felt I must lay down the three-in-one trowel and dust off the keyboard. You just don’t talk about my Congresswoman that way, Agent Orange.

Forgive me if I’m repeating myself but I live in a senior community where that is considered a prized characteristic. Ms. Pelosi has always been good to me.

The first time I contacted her office was regarding the abominable postal service on Jones Street. Things like the postman returning a flat rate envelope I was sending for more postage. When I asked why it would cost more if it’s flat rate, he motioned his hand over the tyvek envelope that, admittedly was bulging at the seams with a sweater inside, and said “it’s not flat.”

Pelosi’s Office put me in touch with a specialist at my local station and I had a private line to USPS innards. I contacted her a couple of more times and then there was nothing for a few years. What sealed the deal was that during that lapse I received an email from her office stating “we haven’t heard from you in awhile, remember we’re here to help.” Someone proactively interested in my problems? She’s got my vote.

Junkyard find meets mother of the bride.

Although the President’s slum smack is intended to conjure up images of hallway rat traps and stray gun shots, we must update the stereotype for the Trumpian Era. I am on the lowest rung of income when you consider a liveable salary in the City is considered to be $150K. And by virtue of lottery luck I do live in subsidized housing whose architectural heritage protected 15 foot wide halls are kept pristine and sparkling. But in a City where there’s something in the air keeping the birth rate down (men’s legs), I never have and probably never will feel threatened.

Slum life is not without its hardships, however. No one will ever know the sacrifices I made to scrimp and save for a $50 piece of fabric to line the $10 lamp hood fixture I found at the junkyard. (The fabric, by the way, is a baby blue shot with silver Italian bubble wrap organza.)

Finally, I must admire how the Speaker remained patient throughout the impeachment frenzy. She waited until she got her smoking you-know-what. When it comes to politics, anything he can do she can do better.

Forever Linda