Tag: Me Myself I

Personal stuff

Banished

House & Home

…or at least locked out of my own house.

New Wife does not want me to be present today at the moving of our stuff from the garage back into the apartment because reasons.  (Mostly because I fly into frequent rages at the recalcitrance of furniture to fit through doors etc. and am likely to break things when it doesn’t.  Also, I hate packing stuff away, and she absolutely loves doing it.)

So I’ve supplied the movers (strong young backs) from a company that I’ve used many times before, and that’s all there is to it.

And no, she’s not going to rearrange our stuff so that I’ll never find it again — she is actually more a creature of habit than I am, so when I’m eventually allowed back in, sometime this afternoon, I should find the place almost ready for human habitation.

My sole responsibility is the packing away of guns into safes, and buying the groceries we’ll be needing to resume our former life, such as it was.  And that’s only scheduled for tomorrow (Sunday).

It could be worse.  Like it was back in mid-February.

Disturbing Juxtapositions

Entertainment, Music

Sometimes I wonder if I’m going crazy or if I just see things that aren’t there.

Here’s one example.  I woke up the other day with a song glued into my brain — you know what I mean, right?  Anyway, the song was Pink Floyd at their most wonderfully obscure, i.e.  See Emily Play.

So of course I went onto Ewwwtchoob and watched the thing.  All the way through, though, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the video was reminiscent of another piece of surreal moviemaking — and then I remembered the final scene  from Antonioni’s Blow Up.

The two scenes are in no way alike, cinematically speaking — one is in black & white and is essentially a music video, while the other is deathly silence played in color.  But both are mimes, and wonderfully executed.  Was it the mimes, or the similar locations in a park which triggered the association?

Or maybe it was just Syd Barrett and Michelangelo Antonionini who were crazy.

Afterthought:  I think Blow-Up was created (1965-66) before See Emily Play was filmed (1967).

And just to drive everybody else crazy (why should I be the only one), Blow Up featured the Yardbirds in the famous (and disturbing) night club scene.  Which is why I sometimes associate Jimmy Page with Antonionini.

Here’s Why

Health

For all those folks who have given me guff about having the Chinkvirus vaccine, here’s the deal:

I want to travel again, and soon.  If having the fucking jab means I get to travel again without having to “self-isolate” or any of that nonsense upon arrival, here’s my arm.  Ditto New Wife, who feels as I do.
Corollary #1:  New Wife is suffering from Extreme Grandchild Deprivation.  By the time she can travel to see and hold them (all for the first time), it will be in June.  Rule #1:  never get in Nana’s way when it comes to grandkids.
Corollary #2:  Somehow, some way, I want to get Over There so I can shoot birds with my friend Mr. Free Market later this year / before I die (whichever is appropriate).  As Britishland is in the grips of profound Chinkvirus hysteria, a vaccination certificate may alleviate their silliness and give me a fighting chance.

I’m sick and tired of having to wear a stupid, ineffective face condom.  Anything that allows me to tell the Mask Stasi Karens to fuck off is welcome in my body.

Given my lifestyle and health, the odds of me dying from Chinkvirus anyway have always been breathtakingly slim.  The vaccine isn’t for me;  it’s for everybody else.

I don’t give any credence to how the vaccination program is just another government trap to do something or other to me.  I heard all those whines when they decided to put fluoride into the public water supply .  Not one of those fears proved to be worth a damn back then, and this one is going to be the same.

All of which says one simple thing:  I’m not telling everyone to get the Chinkvirus shot;  nor am I telling anyone not to get the poxy [sic]  jab.  I’m letting everyone make their own decision, for their own reasons and their own purposes.

Kindly allow me to do the same.  I’ve taken far greater risks with my life before.

And if it ends up killing me rather than saving me, them’s the breaks.

Apologia

Bad News

In everyday terms, it’s called “stupidity”, “absentmindedness” or “careless”.

For all the Readers who emailed me to ask if I was okay, following the weekend’s late / non-existent posts, let me reassure you that I’m fine, just an idiot.

You see, the post that appeared on Sunday was actually supposed to appear on Saturday, only Idiot Kim scheduled the wrong date for it — hence the radio silence on Saturday — and yesterday’s post about… well, never mind, it’s too late now and will appear next Sunday.

And today’s New Roundup wasn’t completed, either — it sat completed, but Idiot Kim Pt. II hadn’t hit the “Update” button.   Please go back and see the completed version, which has a bikini pic.

This time, it’s not Hosting Matters’ fault, but mine all mine, I tell ya.

Personally, I blame the Democrats.

Normal blogging service will resume after a gallon of coffee.

Two Down, Lots To Go

Friends and Family

Just thought I’d point out that today is New Wife’s second (!) wedding anniversary with Yours Truly.  All commentary about the burden she has to bear and her saintlike patience will be passed on.  (She doesn’t visit this place more than once or so a week, because she’s not interested in guns or politics.)

I am a lucky man.

Worse Than Californians

Hunting, Nature

Yeah, they’re a pestilence too:

It’s open season year-round on feral pigs, whose population in Texas has grown to nearly 3 million. Hunters are not required to retrieve carcasses, although there’s an incentive to do so: “wild boar” sells for up to 60 cents a pound.

If anyone’s organizing one of these hunts in the near future, let me know.  I have a new rifle that needs blooding.