The Inflatable Flailing Tube Man

I ran across a Father’s Day post on Twitter. This woman’s father created the inflatable flailing tube man. Idiosynchratic at car dealerships, tax return offices, even Margaritaville at Universal. My daughters and I loved them. The woman actually had pix of prototypes, and gaiety in the creation. It was beautiful.

Cold Turkey

Laying off social media is a bit harder than I imagined. I like instant gratification. You do, too. But I must balance that with embarrassing my children with my ravings, there for all to see. My lunacy, served upon a platter. I’m not even sure I like blogging anymore. I have nothing pertinent to say. I should probably just keep a diary. No readers, instructions to my kids to burn upon reading.

The Fugitives

Allen Tate was a founding member of The Fugitives, a collection of poets and scholars at Vanderbilt University, 1920. They felt the new paradigm of mass production, Detroit, wage slaves was dehumanizing, and sought an agrarian alternative. Robert Penn Warren and John Crowe Ransom were likewise founders. I’m ambivalent on the agrarian side of it, because the mechanized side of the world was going to rule.  Look at them foundling Soviets! Labor, prole! They were also pretty segregationist. Wonderful writers, though. The opening stanza of Tate’s Ode to the Confederate Dead: Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection; In the riven troughs the splayed leaves Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament To the seasonal eternity of death; Then driven by the fierce scrutiny Of heaven to their election in the vast breath, They sough the rumour of mortality. That’s pretty fucking strong.
It was with great dismay that I realized I’d been wearing a Texas Longhorns tee all day. Well, you can’t unzip that zipper, as they say, and it is quite soft and comfy. Like Bevo. Alas and alack, said those prophets.
I sometimes feel guilty about my displeasure at the hordes of Central Americans who want to walk and crawl 1,500 miles just for the opportunity to wash my soiled underwear for slave wages. And I have a pile. I assume 90-95% are nice folk who merely want to break our immigration laws. The other 5%? Thems trouble. Human traffickers, drug dealers, child exploiters. They want to prey upon your family. Kill you if necessary. But damn, I have a pile of dirty underwear, and no one named Consuela to do my dirty work. The job I theoretically won’t do. Do you mind if they crash with you?
Ah. Time to crack the knuckles and get back to the actual work of writing, not scrawling pusillanimous shit on Facebook. I hate writing. It’s real work, and I am averse to that. Indolent, lazy, self-aggrandizing, these describe me well. I do, however, owe you something. Perhaps the Great Meldrim Train Wreck. 1959. A Seaboard Coastline train derailed, with liquified natural gas. Spread across the river. Boom! 23 people enjoying the Ogeechee River, torched. Tragedy. On the upside this film I’m watching just went unexpectedly soft core porn. I’m happy. Are you happy? I expect not. Send me pictures. I need to fluff this page up. Thankee!
“The horror... the horror...” That could be Colonel Kurtz, or me looking at my unshaven chest. Eye of the beholder, and all. No more social media. It was not my milieu. I’m a bit more strident. Hide the kids. There are some idiots attempting to skew your views. This is not conspiracle theory. Just some idiots attempting to sway the discourse. Mostly on social media, but elsewhere. Yes, the world is round. Gene Cernan walked on the fucking moon. But those idiots are out there. I’ll need pics to beef up this blog. Something in lingerie is always appreciated.