Dog Days

I can't wait to hear how those who say that they didn't approve of Trump but couldn't vote for Biden will bend themselves into pretzels today.  They have been lying, by and large, to me but I think to themselves, too.  Now they will have to face themselves in the mirror and out themselves to themselves.  I want to hear their reasons for being anti-Harris. 

Not that Harris is a great candidate.  I think in the general election, odds are against her for a lot of reasons.  But she sure has a hell of a lot better chance of beating Trump than Biden did.  She needs to be calling on Trump to do the right thing.  His cognitive health is an issue.  He has made as many gaffs as Biden in the past year.  The only difference in the two, really, is Trump's use of TRT--testosterone replacement therapy.  I guarantee it.  His White House doctor, Ronny Jackson, was using it, too.  Trust me on this.  That's what gives Trump his greater energy.  But. . . it ain't doing shit for his brain.  

I voted against Trump last time.  I'll do it again.  

My reasons are purely ideological.  

And that is all I am going to say about it.  I am still sick of the entire affair.  I don't want to talk about politics.  But. . . I told you the day of the Full Buck Moon was sure to be a strange one, and it certainly was.  Biden couldn't have chosen a more apropos day to quit the presidential race.  

I received a postcard this week.  It is the third one this summer, one from C.C. and two from my friend who moved to the midwest.  It is so surprising, truly, to get handwritten things in the mail now, a throwback to "simpler" times.  They weren't actually "simpler."  It is much easier to send a text than it is to buy a postcard, sit someplace to write without the ability to digitally edit, buy a stamp, and find a mailbox.  But a postcard today is something special, so distinctive with the color of ink, the individual curve of letters, the permanency.  It is more a product of the people themselves.  

It is so oo-la-la.  

And, of course, no one expects an immediate response, nor even a response at all.  You don't have to ❤️ it.  A postcard makes you realize how truly impersonal texts can be.  

Can you imagine a handwritten letter?  OMG, as the kids used to say.  I have drawers full of old letters and even notes written on scraps of paper people have sent or left for me over the years.  Finding one in an old book I haven't looked at for years is always a thrill. 

Having said that, I confess that I was eager to send emails when that became a thing, for I have the most illegible, childish scrawl of anyone I have ever seen.  My handwriting shames me.  It is for the same reason as my inability to color well.  I am always rushing.  Same reason I do sloppy work on house projects.  

I should take my time, develop better penmanship (when was the last time you saw that word), and send letters to. . . .

To whom?  That's the real question.  I've become such an isolato.  

But this week my social life will be ticking up.  My mountain buddy from Yosemite is coming to town with his family.  They always come to see his parents for a week each July.  And I am going out with my old friend who got in contact this week about the waitress/diner pic and another friend I usually see once a year.  It will be good to re-establish contact with people from my past.  

And there may be a few other surprises, too.  Fingers crossed.  Some I can tell you about and some I won't.  But let's not put the cart before the horse here.  I simply have my fingers crossed.  

I ate dinner with my mother last night.  She cooked.  And I have to say the old gal did a hell of a job.  She is not always the best cook, but she has been learning a bit from her son, I think.  Once again, I'd been in the house all the live long day.  It was five when I took my first step outside.  

It is a good thing I have a social venue upcoming this week.

The Dog Days continue.  Sirius won't be budged.  

What we need is a snappy little tune.  I'm picking this one just for that reason.  I love the horn section.