My Musings
On this blustery day of crazy winds in Boston, I find myself contemplating the B.S. that’s blowing a gale from the mouths of our Republican friends, who continue to bellow loudly of stolen elections. Do these friends believe we fell asleep amid all this wild and windy ruckus?
No chance. The howling winds have kept us awake and alert. We’re watching all the fast ones you’re trying to blow past us, and the umpires are watching as well, informing us that all those fastballs are way out of the strike zone.
In my dreams, the gusts that are about to knock down my house’s chimney (what the hell is going out there?!) blow into town and sweep away all the lies and nonsense that the opposition is attempting to build its comeback on, leaving us with nothing but facts.
And beer, of course. My homebrew is way too heavy to be carried away by even the mightiest of winds.
You’d think that in this era of fan-free sporting events, I’d finally be able to hear the game announcers consistently.
In pre-COVID days, when fans could cram into arenas and drink beer until they couldn’t participate in a standing ovation, there were times when the ambient noise from the rowdy hometown partisans was more than able sound technicians could eliminate, such that hearing the play-by-play and color commentary was confounding for people who had listened to too much loud music as young drummers (not me). But it didn’t happen often, and when it did it was with actual full houses.
These crazy days stadiums and arenas are sparsely populated with fans, if populated at all. So to give the impression of impassioned fans possibly unable to stand for an ovation due to beer drinking, tipsy crowd noise is piped in, and I can’t hear the announcers again.
I’d ask if it’s just me and my bad hearing or if everyone is experiencing this annoying trend, but to be honest I’m afraid of the answer.
If I were a Senator in a presidential impeachment trial, I would try to look like a person who’s completely uninterested in the proceedings. Feet up, reading a book. Maybe opening bills and junk mail and separating the wheat from the chaff.
Did the Red Sox trade Andrew Benintendi?!
I haven’t smoked a cigarette in a couple of decades, but I’m suddenly emboldened. Maybe a cigarette on the end of a long, black, wooden holder. And I’m wearing a top hat or something.
If I had a toaster with me, this would be a great time to be making toast. I like my toast to be ever so, made of freshly baked bread so that toasting it brings out the yeasty aroma and creates hot craters for butter to melt into, with only the very ends of the puffed wheat actually browning.
How can I be expected to listen to a case of inciting an insurrection by a sitting president if I’m trying to make the perfect slice of toast?
Another thing I like to do during impeachment trials is learn how to tie a new knot. As a knot aficionado, having another knot in my arsenal can’t hurt. There is certain to come a time when the knots I’m currently able to tie don’t serve my purposes, and… shoot, is that a roll call? Wait, when are we supposed to be voting?!
…Oh, phew, ok false alarm!
Vote is later today. (Isn’t it?)