Let’s Try This Again!

Some weeks prior to Christmas I received a text from a friend of mine. It came through kinda late and said simply; “I need some Lonesome Laredo”. I didn’t respond and I have to admit my first thought was, you’re getting liquored up again aren’t you? Upon reflection, I began to realize that I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t respond because I couldn’t. And I am sorry for that. Funny how events can conspire against a man.

Since that text, more than one person has asked me why I stopped and not once did I have a worthy answer. They say shit happens but what really happens is life and they have no idea. Life is joyful and fearful all at the same time and a man has few if any choices, he must take it as it comes.

What the hell, let’s unfold the tired old Mac and see what happens. Time has no meaning for me now anyway.

So, Tugboat this one’s for you, my muse, my friend, my brother!

But what to say? 

I started doing these little interweb postings when 45 got into office, mainly because I wanted my kids to know that this was not normal. But despite my best efforts, 45 took a chainsaw to normal and what he didn’t massacre, the covid 19 sure as hell took care of. Anyway 45 got his ass whooped, got a big ole glass of shut up juice. You can’t hack it, get your jacket! Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!  

If we dig deep enough and truly look, even 45 has lessons to teach. He reminds us of those days long ago, when we were carefree toddlers and simply couldn’t, wouldn’t accept those things in life that were contrary to our immediate wants. I have had many a day lately when a good, long tantrum, complete with flailing legs, flapping arms and a well-timed high-pitched squeal seemed like the perfect prescription. I see screaming kids at the grocery store these days and my reaction is one of total envy. Well played young man, you will feel better shortly even if you don’t get what you want!

Old men aren’t supposed to throw tantrums. Somewhere along the way we learned that grace and dignity are defined by how one responds to life’s hardships and disappointments. They say when life hands you lemons, make lemonade; they have no idea. Sometimes the best a man can do is lock himself in room and have a private tantrum. It’s not dignified and its certainly not graceful but trust me it helps, if only a little.

Old men aren’t allowed to throw tantrums, unless I guess, you are the President of the United States and you just sharpened your chainsaw blade.

Won by a landslide. Massive fraud. I was robbed. A sore loser is still a loser!

We have known for decades not to expect any better from 45; he has always acted as if he were 4 or 5. What I don’t understand is why so many otherwise sensible Americans support this half-baked notion. But there is much I don’t grasp. 

For example, I never really understood how Dorothy got to Oz. Are there some Kansas farmhouse architectural techniques that the rest of us don’t know about? And what about that Tin Man. How is it even possible that whoever or whatever put him together forgot his heart? Seems more like a cruel joke than a mere oversight. “Oh, shit, here’s the heart still sitting on the work bench. Oh well he’s gone now, off chopping wood I guess. Let’s get lunch.”

So, yes there is much I don’t understand, and I have reached a point where I am fine with that. Perhaps wisdom is knowing what you don’t know. Still, there is one thing I am sure of; I am over 45. Nothing personal, it’s just business. Good luck in your future endeavors.

If I am going to resume these silly little webnet postings, they won’t be about 45. On that you can depend. What then shall we do? We might discuss the virus and how we can’t even have a decent pandemic in this country without it becoming a divisive political issue. No, too depressing. I’m going to follow 45 on this one and just ignore it. Damn, said I wasn’t going to talk about him anymore, sorry.

Grandson is bearing down on two years old. I could put up cute pictures of him accompanied by precious antidotes. Everybody loves kids, everybody that is except 45. Damn, did it again, sorry. 

I have heard that once you put something on the wideweb, you can’t get rid of it. Not sure it’s a great idea to put stuff on the worldnet about people without their consent and I am fairly certain a two-year-old can’t really consent. I better wait until I’m sure he is Ok with it.

What about food? Everybody loves food, 45 apparently really loves food. Last time, I promise. Have you ever looked up a recipe on line? It’s all food blogs out there; I quit counting at a gazillion. Not only are the recipes usually useless, you have to read through page after page of dribble before you can find the actual recipe. 

I want to know how to make Puttanesca, not how the memory of how your Grandma’s kitchen smells makes you all warm and fuzzy or how you scoured the globe in search of the perfect black olives.  Look, cooking is about three things. First, the difference between good food and great food is salt and pepper. Second, cooking is about ratios and thirdly, cooking is just controlling fire. You don’t need a recipe.

No way I’m doing a food blog so perhaps I’ll just use this space as an outlet for my cynicism and sarcasm; both of which seem recently to be growing faster than kudzu. Maybe then I won’t take it out on my dogs.

When ships returned to the Tuscan region of Italy, the ladies of the night, who lived near the docks would open their widows and cook a concoction of olive oil, tomatoes, capers, olives and whatever else they had in their pantry. They hoped the scent would lure the sailors to their doors; which it did, and the sailors began to refer to the dish as Puttanesca or “the scent of the whore.”

Titan Up!

R. I. P. T. N. L. J. 8119