Rusticating

I was supposed to be babysitting the dog in the country, but I got snowed in (we all did) and wound up babysitting Mom instead.  Between setting up her iPod and tying her shoes (oh don’t ask), while subsisting on a diet of oatmeal and peanut butter crackers (Mom doesn’t really understand the concept of groceries, or the difference between a grown man’s metabolism and her own), it was enough to drive me crazy.  Not to mention the steady braindrip of impossible-to-drown-out broadcast tv:  by the time the Stevie Wonder special got around to declaring Stevie “the greatest musician of all time” I was about ready to declare for the Neo-Confederacy.  I mean, he’s a talented guy, but talk about black bravado.   And all that “clap ya hans!” gospel spiel: can’t we just admit that whites and blacks have innate, genetic differences in orientation towards noise and display, black people having the default setting for the annoying side of those equations?  I mean,  where the hell is all the hip-hopping in hip-hop anyway?  All I ever see is black beardos smoking blunts and nodding they heads and hoochies sprawled out on the hoods of BMWs, also nodding they heads.  Why not just call it “head-nod”?  Are black people even funky?  Or was that just another big media lie?

–Speaking of overrated black people:  who’s that clean and articulate fellow who hosts Let’s Make a Deal?  Because there’s another black dude who sounds to white people like some kind of “genius” just because he’s glib. Sadly, it does make sense:  with a mean of 85 and a standard deviation of 12, the black righthand curve equivalent of a Physics PhD is, basically, a smalltown country lawyer or a used car salesman.  Dude reminded me of Obama trying to explain foreign policy:  he always sounds like an Aspie child reading out loud from a Tolkien glossary.  Is Ukraine any more real to Obama than, say, planet Ovaltine?  Just listen to the way he has to pause before he drops some Prime Minister’s name.  It’s like watching a PTA program, with a nervous child constantly silently congratulating himself for not screwing up his lines.

Anyway, I had to get back to civilization, or what’s left of it.  Truly, it’s quite cold.  Yet it’s bracing and pleasant, and thankfully the power never went out and no pipes went bust.  For now, the city lies awake around me, albeit encrusted in snow, and the hot young women with their Jane Austen paperbacks and their tight leather pants are baying outside my door.

Or maybe not.  Maybe I have to go look for them.  We’ll see how it goes.

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