2021 Silver Linings . . .

 

Dear you,

2021, just hours away and I am experiencing a dental drama.  Oh, the pain. This forced me out of my condo and into the masses, the mob scene of Publix down the road.  I am in serious need of mushy foods, beer, and Advil.  The mob scene is happening because New Year’s Eve celebrations in this area are proceeding as scheduled, like any other year.  Just like last year, but EVEN MORE CROWDED.  Evidence suggests, based on the visitor’s pouring in (just like summer, endless summer apparently), there is no pandemic and people aren’t dying every day. Quoting The Red Bar’s ad for their event:

“Ringing in the New Year at The Red Bar is a SoWal tradition for many locals and SoWal beach lovers.  You just gotta do it at least once in your life and party to Red Bar Jazz Band and then DJ dance music blaring from the bar for hours on end.  Party Favors, noise makers, balloons, hats and tiaras provided at no charge . . . Walk-ins Welcome . . .”

Tiaras.

Other bars and party venues have similar invitations. All options sound tacky as hell, but some people “just gotta do it” at least once in their life.  No occupancy limits, no safety requirements, no nothing but contagion.  As for the “locals” going to The Red Bar, they voted for Matt Gaetz, so, you know. But I do wonder what those party favors will be.  Free Covid-19 test-kits?  Tickets for the “front of the line” to get a vaccine?  Used MAGA hats?

Oh, the pain.

I need some kind of mental Advil.  I do not want to enter 2021 pissed off.  So, in pursuit of a not-pissed-off-state-of-mind, I turned on NPR during the drive home from the store.  I wanted something very not “local”.  Fresh Air (I think that was the show, unsure) was on, paying tribute to a Broadway singer-actress, Rebecca Luker.  She died in 2020; she died young.  And she was a friend of my NYC buddy, James. (The source of the “wherever you go, there you are” mantra).  One of the songs they played was “Look for the Silver Lining”, featuring Ms. Luker, of course.  It was impossibly sweet.  Pure.

I hear you, Ms. Luker.  I can do this.  Even in the mundane now.  Yes, my old root canal is going bad.  Whatever, I’m alive. And yes, I look like I have a tennis ball stuffed in my face from the swelling.  I look ridiculous.  Is this important?  Is there a silver lining?  Silver lining, anyone?  Where is it? There it is on my dresser.  The 2020 MASK!  The accessory of the year will not only hide the tennis ball swelling, but it will also protect those around me who are prepping for their “gotta do it” night at the Red Bar.  It’s a win-win situation.

Thank you for singing to me, Rebecca.   Your voice was the silver lining of my day.

Tributes to all those we lost in 2020.  We remember you, going into 2021. Silver linings, everywhere.

Love,

Joyce

 

 

Pardon me!

 

Dear you,

Enjoying the holiday Pardonpalooza?  Not a single surprise on the President’s list of forgiven deplorables.  Accustomed to his vile choices, we expected him to pardon people like, oh, you know, war criminals.  Just in time for Christmas! Donald is the ultimate Bad Santa. And he still has four more weeks to forgive anyone for anything.  Do you need a pardon?  Act now!

Recall previous crimes. Which ones would you like erased? Don’t blame yourself for crimes of the heart or “I should have” omissions.  Try to remember those seemingly justified social contract felonies that, in retrospect, feel pretty ikky now.  Here’s a short list of my mea culpas for Don’s consideration:

When I was about ten years old, the very religious boy next door (Greg) told me I was going to hell.  I replied, “see you there”.  He burst into tears.

At Auburn U, I had absolutely zero qualms about breaking the girl code when it came to my sorority sisters' boyfriends.

My first year in NYC, I sold the supposedly sacred sorority pin (pearls and rubies) to some shady guy in the Diamond District.  I had no qualms about that either.

During a summer stock gig in the early eighties, I was oblivious to the concept of sharing-space-in-a cast-house when it came to MY BATHROOM, MY BATHTUB, and MY BATHING TIME!

When I taught aerobics in the nineties, I betrayed the trust of three clients.  I called them Hitler, The Big Stink, and Helmet-Head behind their backs.  (You know why they earned those names; don’t play innocent.)

I stole a stapler from one of my past-life temp jobs.  I still have that stapler.  It’s really good.

This week I verbally abused yet another mask-less, MAGA cap wearing teenage boy in Publix; this time I kept it simple: “You look like a total asshole in that hat”.  (Good lord, I said this to a kid.  Talk about punching down.)

Whenever I see members of my condo HOA board lurking about, I pretend I don’t see them.  Or I flip them off.

I could go on, but I think this is a good start.  Hopefully, Donald will add my offences to his list. He’s making a list, checking it twice, forgiving the naughty and harming the nice.   Send Bad Santa Trump your list of pardonables ASAP!  His time is running out . . .

Good night and good luck,

Your Inexcusable Joyce

PS – I do wish everyone well this Christmas Eve.  I am hanging on to the words of Captain Lee from Bravo channel’s unpardonable but fabulous Below Deck: “No sailor learns anything in calm seas.”  Stay afloat.

Mirror Fraud!

 Dear you,

I am worried about this guy, the owner of the Trump house down the road:

Yes, the banner is still belligerently there. Even now.  After all the bogus lawsuits, all the debunked voter fraud claims, and all the very very verified final vote tallies, this dude still loves his Donald. He can’t grasp the fact that he has lost something.  Face it, dear neighbor.  Some things just end.  Some things just disappear.  Like my butt!

Yesterday, I shopped for some wintry fashion at the Old Navy Outlet in Sandestin.  I carried an armload of options into the dressing room, undeterred by the unflattering lighting and brutally truthful mirrors, things that might bother peers my age.  Me, why worry?  I am in good shape.  I exercise, moisturize, and keep it simple.  Everything appears to be as it should, time marching on in a not too depressing way.  Until this:  the wraparound brutally truthful mirror informed me during one costume change that MY BUTT IS DISAPPEARING!  What????  I knew my J-Lo days were over, but this?  I do squats!  With weights!  This cannot be!  It must be mirror fraud!

No.  It wasn’t mirror fraud.  It was mirror truth.  My butt is disappearing. Well, compared to what it used to be.  Sigh.  Carry on.  Add gluteal bridges and ridiculous fire hydrant exercises to the daily workout.  But accept the fact, Joyce, you have lost something. 

The Trump house dude needs to experience a similar political mirror moment.

This revelation might be too much for him since he is probably in the butt-loss stage of life too.  We can’t handle too much simultaneous losing.  Nevertheless, he and his fellow Trump lovers need to let it the hell go!  Darlings, you have lost something.

Some things just end.

Some things just disappear.

Like my butt!

Deal with it.

Love,

Joyce

Parler games . . .

 Dear you,

Did your grandparents’ have a parlor?  My grands, on my Mom’s side, did.  The room fascinated me, plush oriental rug, ebony furniture, oil paintings of famous women from the Bible (no, not creepy paintings, these were warm and romantic in style, the femmes were gorgeous and appealing), and felt-covered game tables.  This was the room for chats with guests and family card games, and when guests were gone and games over, it was the perfect place to revel in solitude.  Part casino, part temple, the parlor appealed to my pagan nature, mixing the sacred and the profane in such an obvious and slightly erotic way.  I hadn’t thought about that room in years, until now.

Meet Parler, a riff on the French “to speak”. (Parlar, I believe.)  Everyone is yakking about Parler, a very Trumpy version of Twitter.  Since Twitter has been placing alerts on lies, this is where the MAGAs now meet and P-tweet.  Curious, I searched Twitter for posts that hash-tagged this new site; I wanted to see if the rumors were true, see if the Parler people were as insane as I’ve heard, beyond red, beyond Trumpy, actually kind of Hitlery.  The Parler related tweeters I scanned were busy ALL CAPS yelling about the usual topics, the “stolen election”, “liberal takeovers”, and of course the “civil war” which, by the way, they seem to be really looking forward too.  And oh my god, their profiles.  Across the board, they love “god”, kids, country, guns, hunting, Donald, and whiteness!  I was fascinated, experiencing that can’t-not-look-at-the-car-crash thing.  I spent at least thirty minutes going down this rabbit hole and emerged slightly exhausted.

It was noisy down there.  Lots of screaming.  Lots of rage. 

I wanted to be anywhere but there.   I wanted to return to my memorable, actual parlor, listen to civilized people speak, play games that don’t require bullets (or animal targets), and revel in solitude.  Then, I looked for advice, the kind only poets can give.  And I found this; the poet Ha Jin, “A Center”:

You must hold your quiet center,

Where you do what only you can do.

If others call you a maniac or a fool,

Just let them wag their tongues.

If some praise your perseverance,

Don’t feel too happy about it ---

Only solitude is a lasting friend.

You must hold your distant center.

Don’t move even if earth and heaven

Quake.

If others think you are insignificant,

That’s because you haven’t held on long

Enough.

As long as you stay put year after year,

Eventually you will find a world

Beginning to revolve around you.

I hope during this noisy time, you are all holding on to your center.   Return to your parlor (not Parler).  Revel in solitude.

Love,

Joyce

Don't rat out an animal lover . . .

 

Dear you,

Some good news about the 2021 White House.  President Biden will bring his dog Major with him and he will also bring a new CAT!  Details about the cat are TBD. Another point of happy contrast, then and soon to be now. POTUS 45 has zero pets. I really don’t know the man, the Donald, but I am probably not alone in feeling there is something about his aversion to animals that mirrors his aversion to anything flesh and blood and wild . . . like us.  However, I think he is going to need a pet friend during his Florida exile.  A cat or dog wouldn’t work; they require love and attention.  What type of pet would work for our Donald?  What would he look for and like in a companion creature?

I recommend:  a fish (cold and untouchable), a tarantula (the power to kill), a roach (they won’t die), a snake (he loves that stupid 5^th grade poem), a parrot (the ability to echo his words like a Fox News employee), or a pet rock with a photo of Don’s face taped to the front (no explanation needed).

Okay, none of those choices would transform Trump into a true animal lover.  A baby step, warm-up pet wouldn’t change a thing about him.  I think feeling for animals is something that’s just in a person, or not.  I tend to have a bias in favor of animal lovers, not “pet keepers” per se, but those who respect and adore them.  Which brings me to the local here and now.

Last night, a random loud truck pulled up and started unloading for a December stay in the condo two floors down.  (Thank goddess they aren’t directly under me.)  Anyway, the truck owner couple and child seemed to bring EVERYTHING they own with them.  Including their dog. 

The dilemma:  There is a no pet rule for all renters; only owners can have them on the property.  These people either lied or didn’t read their contract.

Should I rat them out to management?  After all, they are a hot mess and it appears that the couple and child have now been joined by an endless stream of relatives/friends, also against management rental booking rules.  It would be beyond easy to get them tossed out with just a word to the management office.  But . . .

They have a dog. It’s an adorable Pug thing.  And from what I’ve seen, they love the animal.  They are animal lovers.  I am not ratting them out.

They stay.

So welcome, renter Pug pet, to the Villas!

And welcome back to the White House, POTUS pets -- Major and TBD CAT!

Love,

Joyce

First world problems and Thanksgiving . . .

 

Dear you,

Yes, the condo complex is loaded with visitors and most of the owners who live here have escaped.  However, the scene is not typically 30A obnoxious and even the visiting children are in chill mode.  You would think I would be thankful for that.  But oh no.  I lapsed into spoiled mode today and had to work my way out of the pouty zone; I dealt with first world problems like this:

    The Publix New York Cheesecake looked dry and dated, an insult to that great state.

    Some idiot parked his massive truck in MY favorite parking spot here at condo world.

    The lawn care workers are using those loud blower things again and annoying me.

    The owner of the unit downstairs has still not replaced his filthy “welcome” door rug.

    The Danskin brand yoga pants I love are no longer available.

    The expiration date on my lunch yogurt was yesterday.

    Trump is still tweeting.

Tough stuff, right?  Flipping the view of the above complaints:

    I can afford food.

    I own a car.

    Human beings take care of my property.

    The downstairs owner’s rug says “welcome” instead of “fuck off”.

    I still look good in yoga pants.

    I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch anyway.

    Trump lost; democracy is holding.

All that.  Amazing.  And so much more.  I am grateful X 1,000 for so many simply pleasures:  deep breathing, morning pushups, tossing yarn balls to the feline, eating Progresso soup loaded with hot sauce while watching Friends reruns, roaming the beach during low-visitor phases, smoking on the balcony at dusk, sipping cervezas during NFL viewings, splashing cold water on my face in the morning, re-reading Gore Vidal books, stretching, and just . . . being.

Happy Gratitude Day.

Enjoy everything.

Love,

Joyce

43% "believe" in Santa . . .

 Dear you,

Remember the good old days when we argued about Santa Claus?  Is he for real or just fake news?  Is he white or “other”?  Ah yes, the good old days.  Flashback to a piece by Andrew Kaczynski, BuzzFeed, December 2013.  Public Policy Polling results were shown as follows:

Do you believe in Santa Claus?

Yes 43%

No 50%

Unsure 7%

Agree or disagree:  It’s a verifiable fact that Santa Claus was white.

Agree 32%

Disagree 36%

Unsure 32%

Oh god.  Look at those numbers.  Close to half of us, grown ass adults at that, believe in Santa.  Worse still, we have the ever-present race-claimers!  Nearly a third asserted S.C. was white, as a verifiable fact.  How the hell are they going to verify that?  What are they using as evidence?  Do they know what evidence is?   

Ah, the good old days, a time when wacky beliefs wouldn’t bring down a democracy.

Now, we argue about empirical realities like math.  We argue about who won the election.  And for those of us who do not buy the lie of voter-fraud-everywhere!!!!!!, it feels like arguing with morons who believe in Santa Claus.  I cannot believe we are even doing this. However, here it is, according to numerous sources and polls:

Almost 50% of voting Republicans believe Trump’s claim that he won the election

I am pretty sure they believe in Santa Claus too, a white Santa who by virtue of his race is free to break and enter, consume your snacks, and leave junk all over the living room floor.   

Then and now, there is always a big chunk of American peeps who BELIEVE whatever they are told.  Fine.  Believe away.  Just don’t fuck around with my democracy.  Or my holiday retail excursions.  In those hallowed (and hopefully masked and distanced) aisles, I get to study the various forms of Santa iconography, critique his expressions, couture, and level of creepiness. [See the above photo of Santa at the local Wally.  On a scale of 1 to 10, how creepy do you think he is?  I say about 8.  Something about that hand gesture and lacy suit trim. Highly problematic.]  So, yeah, in a way I enjoy Santa.  I just don’t BELIEVE in him.

So, to close, I am just saying I wish we were arguing about The Man With The Bag instead of . . . you know who.

Just do the math.

Love,

Joyce

This Freedom Thing . . .

Dear you,

Today is Veteran’s Day.  Thank you, Veterans, for fighting tyranny and defending beloved ideals.  XO to our warriors, here or gone.  My Dad was a warrior. He earned a bronze star in World War II.  He is gone but kind of hanging around, commenting on my behavior.  At least in my head.  I am glad he hasn't been literally around to experience the Trump reign; it would have broken his good Republican heart.  But in many ways, I wish he was here now to feel what I have been calling the exhilaration of . . . clarity.  No more fairy tales.  No more scripted happy endings.  Case in point, our transition of power to President Elect, Joe Biden and Vice President Elect, Kamala Harris.  Donald is doing his best obstruction dance, but he just cannot bother me because I have learned to let go of other people’s stories, especially his.  This isn’t nihilism or postmodern erasure of all meanings I am talking about.  It is simply and finally getting it, this freedom thing.  Listen, please, to the narrator of Salman Rushdie’s The Ground Beneath Her Feet; he and Rushdie can say it straight:

“What if the whole deal – orientation, knowing where you are, and so on – what if it’s all a scam?  What if all of it – home, kinship, the whole enchilada – is just the biggest, most truly global, and centuries-oldest piece of brainwashing?  Suppose that it’s only when you dare to let go that your real life begins?  When you’re whirling free of the mother ship, when you cut your ropes, slip your chain, step off the map, go absent without leave, scram, vamoose, whatever; suppose that it’s then, and only then, that you’re actually free to act!  To lead the life nobody tells you how to live, or when, or why. In which nobody orders you to go forth and die for them, or for god, or comes to get you because you broke one of the rules, or because you’re one of those people who are, for reasons which unfortunately you can’t be given, simply not allowed.  Suppose you’ve got to go through the feeling of being lost, into chaos and beyond; you’ve got to accept the loneliness, the wild panic of losing your moorings, the vertiginous terror of the horizon spinning round and round and round like the edge of a coin tossed in the air . . . But just imagine you did it.  You stepped off the edge of the earth, or through the fatal waterfall, and there it was:  the magic valley at the end of the universe, the blessed kingdom of the air.  Great music everywhere.  You breathe the music, in and out, it’s your element now.  It feels better than “belonging” in your lungs.”

This is how I feel.  It feels good.  Others are not feeling so good.  Millions who believed Donald would help them slip their chains are feeling lost. Perhaps it is disorienting to discover the other half of the human race isn't interested in your version of "America". Orientation is always illusory. The smooth transition and happy ending are too. If these others were listening, I would say this:

"Step off the edge of Earth 2 with me and free-fall back to the unscripted spin of Earth 1.  Enjoy the wild panic of losing your moorings, and put not your trust in princes. I can’t say it’s going to be okay.  I can’t say it’s going to blow either. I can say that whatever this exhilaration is I am feeling now, it feels better than “belonging”.  It feels like free-fall freedom. Enjoy!"

My Dad would appreciate that suggestion.

Thanks for this freedom-thing, Dad.

Love,

Joyce

Throw it out!

Dear you,

It is the day after the day after the last voting day in America. We wait for results. Patience is required. In my case, I am impatiently waiting to accomplish something, the firing of a man who should not be president for another term.  

He has been (and still is) the equivalent of the behemoth couch that came with my condo.  That couch, a big grey Pottery Barn monster, never suited my taste.  I dismantled it slowly by first removing the grey covering, then moving one section into my cat’s room for her napping pleasure, and finally disposing of the remaining chunk on Election Day Eve.  (Thank you, Tanner, member of the Impeccable Roofing Crew, for making that thing go away.)

Now, my living area is wide open.  I can dance around the space or just sprawl on the floor, playing catch-the-yarn-ball with the feline.  The zone is clear and airy, free of a piece of furniture most people don’t want anyway.  Why “couch it” when you can roll around on a soft beige throw rug?  Why “sit” when you can luxuriate, all stretchy and unrestrained?

I tossed the purposeless couch.

It was the perfect time to throw the thing away.

Just like @realDonaldTrump.

I know getting rid of Mr. Trump will be much harder than getting rid of a couch.  Couches typically don’t have lawyers.  But since POTUS’s most notable legal advice comes from the sadly fading Rudy G., I think it is safe to anticipate Don's exit.

When he is gone, we can live in a head-space and real-space that is clear and airy.  We can luxuriate, all stretchy and unrestrained.  And then . . .

We can get back to work and learn from what we have experienced.  No more careless presidents.  No more pointless couches.

Happy day after the day after the day . . .

Love,

Joyce

Election Stress Disorder

Dear you,

I hear there is something called Election Stress Disorder (ESD) and the American Psychological Association claims 52% of us see the election as a source of stress. What is wrong with us? The last four years of botched leadership, a pandemic, and a rising tide of fascism, now those things are stressful.  But an opportunity to fire @realDonaldTrump, the ultimate stressor, is here.  The election is happening.  It is finally happening, and this is a cause for relief, not stress.  Granted, the relief is edgy. (Yes, prepare for challenges from the Orange One.)  However, that what-if-he-does-whatever edginess is a first world problem.  Most of us are not literally living on the edge, like this:

Those small figures on the roof are people.  These men, referred to as peripatetic roofing acrobats in my last post praising professionals, are on actual edges and working fiercely.  They are doing this . . .        Without union protection. Without safety harnesses. Without health insurance benefits. Without (for most I am sure) the protections of citizenship or the right to vote and bitch about Election Stress Disorder.

I watch these men focus and get stuff done.

I study the artfulness of their movements.

I talk to them with my goofy Spanish, Beyond the Basics! book in hand.

And on October 24, this past Saturday, I voted for them. 

#BidenHarris2020

Happy election time!

Screw ESD.

XO

Joyce

 

I miss plumber's crack . . .

Dear you, I really miss the classic “plumber’s crack”.   Here’s why . . .

Covid-caution has prompted a rise in self-reliance, or so I hear.  People are mastering all kinds of skills because they are wary of contact.  Facing a necessary repair today (replacement of a totally blown out kitchen faucet), I was encouraged to join this new-skill-mastery club.  The optimistic suggestion came from a receptionist at a local and very busy plumbing company (they are all busy, plumber shortage).   She told me “you can do it!”  I replied, “so not happening!”  However, I promised to purchase the replacement product and give it a go.

Hours later, after a long consultation with an Ace Helpful Hardware Man (they are helpful), I selected the Moen “one handle pullout kitchen faucet”; the box declares that when you “Buy it for looks” you “Buy it for life”! (OK, as noted previously, I am wary of commitment so this potentially lifelong relationship with a faucet freaked me out.  But whatever.)  I returned to the condo, a new level of war-zone noisy due to roof replacement, and opened the box, spread out the contents and studied the directions.  Immediate halt.  While the brochure instructed me to shut off the hot and cold water valves before installing the new faucet, it did not tell me how to remove the old faucet.  And I couldn’t figure out how to shut those valves off anyway. Then there was the parts list:

Installation tool, deck gasket, outlet hose, supply line hot, mounting bracket, mounting nut, hose protector, hose weight, faucet body, O-ring and screen, spray wand, pullout hose, supply line cold, deck plate, deck plate gasket.

I could only identify three of those things with absolute certainty, the faucet body, spray wand, and the O-ring, because it was the only thing shaped like an O.

Indeed, this was not happening!

Surrender.  Seek professional help. I did and called the busy plumbing company once again.  Results: the perky receptionist said “he” was out handling a toilet emergency.  And the other “he’s or she's"?  All booked too.  Surrender again.  Seek any kind of help you can get.  So, I called the totally uncredentialed handyman who works around the condo complex. He also lurks around the condo complex more than he should, but again, whatever. Result of this call: “he” MIGHT be able to help tonight. Oh joy.

Having failed the self-reliance test, I have come to this; I am waiting ever so hopefully for a confirmation call from a lurking, uncredentialed handyman.

And this is why I miss “plumber’s crack”, the professional kind.

Kisses and appreciation to all professionals; plumbers, ethical politicians, poets, peripatetic acrobats on my roof, et al.  Your ranks are dwindling, and I hate to see you go.

XO

Joyce

VOTE or get Amy and Mr. Cornman . . . .

The above is my “I Voted” sticker from the 2016 election. As noted, “I made freedom count in Walton County”.  Well, my vote may have counted but it didn’t help win the electoral college for my candidate.   So here we are, four lovely years later and I am watching the consequences of other people’s votes, the confirmation hearings for future SCOTUS judge Amy Coney Barrett.

While viewing, I thought about what it would be like if we voted for these justices.  I would not vote for Barrett for many reasons, notably her kind of textual interpretation of the Constitution as inspired by Scalia.  That “whatever is on the page, literally” thing is just not going to make sense to anyone who is aware of history, semantics/semiotics/lit-crit 101 or human nature for that matter.   And while her professional cred is beyond impressive, I am not moved by the hymns of praise about her motherhood.  I think I heard the word Mom mentioned 2,399 times today.  What if she was childless and single?  What if she was a live-on-her-own kinda gal?  Who cares?  I know, the conservatives love the nuclear family thing and the Kids R Us culture, but Barrett’s serial Mom-ness doesn’t move me to vote for her.

Oh, wait.  I don’t get to vote for her.

I also don’t get to vote for virtually anything here on the Beaches of South Walton, a strip of unincorporated space.  I do get to vote for school board folks, the mosquito control dude, and whatever a county commissioner is.  But how about other public service positions?  Take the current County Code Compliance Director.  Did I vote for him?  Was he on our little local ballots?  If he was, I have forgotten the experience.  Here is a bit of news related to that position:

There are currently only 10 beach code officers.  Walton County announces they will be hiring more soon.  Code compliance will be interviewing for “more” officers Monday.  These workers are supposed to keep residents and visitors safe.  According to the current Director, “the first step is getting radios”.

“The radios will give us more communication,” said Cornman (the director).  “Anytime you got more communications, you got a better operation.  So that will also have us better communicate with the sheriff’s office with water rescues so that when something is going on.  At the same time, the code officers might not be trained in the water rescues; if we get there before the water rescue professionals, we can get to the area clear.”  (quoted material from mypanhandle.com)

What did he say?  Seriously, read that aloud and see if you can make sense of those words.  Break it down . . .

Okay.  Yes, radios will provide “more” communication if you’ve got zero now.  But I do not get the odd fragment “so that when something is going on”.  If something is going on, they can do what? Order pizza, have a beer, call MOM?? Finally, the water rescue points are head-spinning.  If the code officers get there before trained rescue professionals, why does it matter that the officers get there “clear”?  What does that mean?  Arriving clear as opposed to fuzzy?  And why even show up if they can’t execute a rescue?  What is the point? 

What is he saying?????

I did not vote for Cornman (his real name, by the way).

I am not "voting" for Judge Barrett.

But I am voting for a few people on 10/24, the first day of early in-person in Walton County. I do have the power to pick the people who pick the people who pick the other people who pick the other people who hopefully pick people who aren’t incoherent . . . or MOM obsessed.

Please VOTE; make your MOM proud.

XO

Joyce

WTF is going on? Reality up for grabs.

Dear you,

Reality – the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

Is anything real-ly happening?  Trump caught the big C.   Some Trumpers theorize POTUS was purposely infected with Covid-19 by the left.  Some lefties (including me) suggest he wasn’t infected, just faking it for sympathy or to “disprove” the danger of the virus.  Back to confusion and absolutely no certainty about what is and what isn’t.

Here in Seagrove Beach, Earth 2, the show goes on with more mass invasions of huge families and kids on school break(s) that seem to be endless.  Update on distancing:  non-existent here.  Update on masking:  as before, “you decide!”  According to one anonymous invader not-chilling on his balcony perpendicular to mine:  “I love being in a place where I’m free.”  Yes, darling, feel free to inject disinfectant too.  As you wish. I wonder what this gentleman's Trump-Covid theories are? They might be valid.  Why not?  Who the hell knows?

So once again let’s look at some headlines. Which are from the fabulous satirical site The Onion and which are from “real” news sites?

 Rudy Giuliani Tests Positive For Slew Of Obscure Bat Diseases Unrelated To Covid-19

The Key To Running Fast?  A Big Butt, According To New Research

Kamala Harris Admits She Only Supports Biden Because She Hates Trump

Out Of This World:  24 Planets May Be More “habitable” Than Earth, Astronomers Say

Man Standing Outside Polls With AK-47 Just There To Protect People From Voting

Drunk Student Gets Stuck In Dryer, Has To Be Rescued By Firefighters

I am not even going to say which are true and which are false.  Why bother?  Everyone is believing whatever they choose, because, you know, that is what being free is all about.

Now I am going to work on expanding my butt size so I can run to the polls to vote for Biden who I kinda am voting for because I hate Trump and dodge the gun-carrying Trump army poll watchers, one of which is the mom of that drunk student who got stuck in a dryer because he heard time in the fluff cycle would kill bat disease germs, and then I am going to book a non-return flight to one of those 24 more habitable planets, preferably KOI 5715.01 which is 5.5 billion years old and whose average temperature is a “crisp 53.3 degrees”.  And it’s just 2,964 light-years away. 

Not nearly far enough away from Earth 2, but it’s a start.

Cheers to reality, wherever you may find it.

(And thanks, James Clow, for the meme-photo above.)

Love,

Joyce

Hail to thee, Ms. Kitty! Too many 2020 goodbyes . . .

Dear you,

This weekend, Ms. Kitty died.  Look  at the ebony, sassy beauty she was:  

My friend Eric buried this precious feline beneath lilacs in Massachusetts.  She had lived twenty or so years with her mistress, Eric’s mother.  Eric said Ms. Kitty kept her cool.  She withdrew under a bed and then . . .  just left.

Just like that.

We are spending a lot of time grieving these days.  Beautiful creatures leaving us behind.  Some leave like Ms. Kitty, letting go after a longish life and a good fight.  Some are taken by violence and stupidity.  In either circumstance, we cry.  I know I have cried cliché rivers in 2020 and I am not a crier by nature. 

But after I cry, I know I must move on and act, like the noble cat described by inspirechange.org:

“The cat shows up for courage to act, and in essence shows up at a time when action needs to be taken.  Those who have the cat as their spirit animal might want to start developing a strong balance between independence and togetherness.  The meanings behind the Cat spirit animal:  patience, independence, curiosity, adventure.”

So, to honor every beautiful creature/person who has left us behind this awful year, I will do my very best to act.  To show up at a time when action needs to be taken.

Rest in peace, vanished beautiful people and wild things.

We say all your names, every day.

XO

Joyce

Silver Lining Sally

Dear you,

Hurricane Sally has meandered her way across the Gulf Coast and continues towards Georgia and the East.  Heavy, heavy rains produced floods; the wind gusts are still fierce.  Some gusts prompt flashbacks of Hurricane Michael, the storm I did not run from.  I got lucky, unharmed and somewhat stunned after that one.  As for Sally, the same applies (for me and Seagrove Beach).  I got lucky, unharmed and somewhat stunned once again.

The “stun” I am experiencing now is not the "glad that's over; that was scary" rush. Today's stun is aesthetic, visceral. (Is that what church is supposed to feel like?)

Now, with the obliterating rain over, I see a gorgeous dove grey sky.  I hear the wind singing.  It is singing!  This, all this, so beautiful. Ah, the silver lining.  That old saying, every cloud has a silver lining?  I don’t know what that means, really, but I get this:  we will find beautiful stuff inside the not so beautiful, or after the not so beautiful event.  For example:

That is the scene at the Bramble Grove beach entrance this afternoon.   Rolling waters, frothy and delicious.  Purity.  Nature.  Rolling in and on . . .

AND NO PEOPLE ON THE BEACH!

Inhale, exhale, and enjoy the reprieve before the next wave of “guests”.

For now, for this fragile moment, there is peace in Seagrove Beach.  Miss Sally's silver lining.  Thank you, sister.

XO

Joyce

Wherever I Go, There I am . . .

Dear you,

An old friend of mine (well, he isn’t that old, but we go back forty years) once told me “wherever you go, there you are.”  I smile remembering the circumstances.  James said this to me in the plaza of Lincoln Center in New York.  I was prepping to move to Chicago to pursue a master’s degree and “new things”.  Yes, I had goals, I had reasons.  But I think his words were meant to caution me about expectations of blissful change.  The geography would change.  However, this would not guarantee an erasure of any existential Joyce thing I was dealing with.  Right.  I am, anywhere and everywhere:

Restless.

A seeker of a not bland utopia.

So, restless me needed a change of geography this past Labor Day weekend.  I journeyed to Tallahassee, our Florida capitol, for that change.  It is, after all, a city with colleges, a diverse population, and green, green, green spaces everywhere.  The hilly landscape surprised me after years of living on the flat coast.  Despite random hotel noise (god, everywhere people are door slammers and stompers), I enjoyed my time in a cat friendly site.

But then there was this on Saturday afternoon:

A caravan of Trump trucks headed into downtown to counter #BLM marchers.

I saw about twenty vehicles with the ubiquitous Trump flags, a few featuring the very special Trump-photoshopped-to-look-muscular-while-holding-machine-gun picture.  I just slowed down and sighed.  This was a scene I had hoped to leave behind for a few days.  Tallahassee is supposed to be a liberal town, right?  Right.  But still not homogenous in terms of political ideology.  Wherever I go, there they are too.  And wherever I go, there I am, accompanied by my current political discomforts.

Back at the hotel, I relaxed with a cold cerveza and cigarette by their little lake, surrounded by oaks draped in Spanish Moss:

After twenty minutes, I got bored with the lake.  I realized it was probably just a man-made retention pond. And I also realized the Trump caravan sighting, while annoying, was stimulating!  I was chasing new geography and the geography was certainly different, but the people weren’t.  And neither was I. 

While my intention was to get away to a green and peaceful place, away from the tourists packing into my condo for the holiday, I could not get away from myself.  I am, anywhere and everywhere, restless and seeking a not bland utopia.

Damn. Drama, drama, drama.

Wherever I go, there I am. 

James, you got that right!

XO

Joyce

Bread & circuses . . .

Dear you,

Bread and Circuses:  a diet of entertainment or political policies on which the masses are fed to keep them happy and docile.

I applaud the NBA players who refuse to be a part of the strategic circus. They are resisting, speaking, and fueling for a fight. Meanwhile, the current administration is pushing to get citizens back into a cycle of watching, ingesting, embracing distraction.  I recycle the cycle myself now and then, escaping into entire weekends of Sex and the City reruns. But while I am sleeping in distraction cycle, more literal shit is going down.  The latest:

Jacob Blake was shot in the back by law enforcement.  He may be paralyzed for life.

His name has not been mentioned during the circus called the Republican National Convention.  I hear clips from speakers describing a world that does not exist, a Camelot-like fabulousness that Donald has created.  And if we do not reelect this man?  No one will be safe.

Really?

We aren’t all “safe” now.  Those of us who have the luxury of interacting with law enforcement without getting shot in the back need to be resisting, speaking, and fueling for a fight.  The watching, ingesting, and distraction days are done.

We aren’t playing.

Love,

Joyce

Q who?

Dear you:

“Where we go one we go all.”

This is the QAnon motto.  The syntax is awkward as hell.  But it does have that fifth grade-secret-society kind of ring to it.  Donald Trump likes it because they like him.  Yes, it has come to this.  Another bad motto and another misinterpretation of V for Vendetta. 

But what does this motto mean????

Does it justify the Qs lust for attending packed rallies, even during a pandemic?

Does it mean the blob is all and the individual must be absorbed? 

Does it mean the Qs are like lemmings running off a cliff? What if “one” decides to drink the disinfectant Donald was talking about months ago?  Does that mean they all then belly up to the “We Go Lysol Cocktail Bar”?

My Q research to answer those questions revealed that these morons are embracing a contradiction.  And not the good kind associated with complexity or depth. Consider one of Q's merch-shirts and that motto again:

Think.  Who needs to think if “where we go one we go all”? Follow the Q.  Well, you know the cliché, liberals fall in love, but conservatives fall in line.  And they are falling in line, I hear, by the millions.  Apparently, I am no longer just a terrorist, I am now a cannibal who eats and/or sells children.   They know this to be true, I guess, because Q says it is.  They don’t need to think.  They just need to “we go all” in for the titillating mystery of Q. 

But who is Q?  I think it's this guy:

Where he goes, I am NOT going at all.   Because I actually do think instead of wearing the word on a t-shirt.

And I would so much rather fall in love than fall in line.

Come on Qs.  Think.  If you dare.

XO

Joyce

Lost Things . . .

Dear you,

Saint Anthony is the Catholic Saint of lost things.  Perhaps you know the common people’s prayer to him:

Dear St. Anthony, please come around.  Something is lost and it cannot be found.

Very 2020 relevant.

What have we lost?

What cannot be found?

What will never come back, no matter how much we pray?

Someone lost their mask in the Publix parking lot this week:

This is a new form of litter/garbage we see on the streets these days, and the lost (or abandoned) mask reminds me how often we dispose of good, helpful things . . .  and people.  I like the photo, my shadow self looming over the heroic little accessory.

What have we lost?

What cannot be found?

What will never come back, no matter how much we pray?

What we have found, if lucky, is resilience and possibly revolution.  And even a parking lot phone-photo can be viewed through an interpretive lens of the new, things as they are, the way we never expected them to be.

I hope you are seeing what is new.  And I hope you are finding things too, things you did not expect to discover.  It can only get better.

Love,

Joyce

Defiance?

Dear you,

Stop the spread.  Well, this won’t help:

The student who snapped the picture, Ms. Waters, was suspended by the Georgia school in question.  Later, she was un-suspended.  Thank you, goddess of justice.  However, the image is still ridiculous and alarming.  What are these young people thinking?  What are they not thinking?  I do see one teen in a mask. I am sure he was not alone. But why not require masks for all, especially when crowded together in hallways or gyms?  Is it that hard? 

The superintendent for that school thinks it is hard.  His words, as published by CNN.com:

“There is no question that the photo does not look good . . . Wearing a mask is a personal choice, and there is no practical way to enforce a mandate to wear them.”

Really?  How about PANTS.  I promise you, if a student showed up for class pants-less, he/she would be forced to don the britches or exit the facility.

How about BELLY SHIRTS?  The requirement to wear a full shirt is probably enforceable.

How about SHOES?  Barefoot in Art History 101 may look cool, but I am pretty sure that is forbidden too.  And enforceable.

I am so tired of these weaklings backing down about masking.

In closed public spaces, put one on.  Data shows they help limit the spread. So, why reject easy masking?

I keep hearing it is all about defiance.  “Don’t tell me what to do!”  I also know the science about young, undeveloped brains tending to embrace risk.  But why place others at risk?

Such cowardly defiance, darling.  “I have a right to spread the virus.  I have a right to kill you.”

That is what they are saying.  And as Trump would say, “it is what it is.”  And what it is, is bloody cruel.

Happy Friday to all, and good luck.

Love,

Joyce

Am I Drunk or Is This Really Happening?

Dear you,

Earth 2 existence continues to be a shock and not so awesome experience.  Muddle headed, I needed to blog something, having missed last week's entry due to constant tourist nonsense.  I certainly have my pick of topics from the (surreal) headlines, confirming my suspicion that Earth 2 craziness has gone global.  Is what I am reading/hearing real or have I mistakenly clicked on www.theonion.com, our favorite satirical news source?  What the hell is going on? 

Examine the following headlines.  Tell me which is real and which is Onion fare.

1. “Animal Rights Group Offers $5,000 Reward for Information on Who Put ‘Trump 2020’ Sticker on a Bear”

2. “Federal Agents Drive 3 Hours Away from Portland Before Realizing Abducted Protester Still in Backseat”

3. “The FDA’s List of Dangerous Hand Sanitizers Has Now Grown to More than 100”

4. “Ron DeSantis Cuts Phone Line Outside Nursing Home So No One Can Report Coronavirus Data”

5. “Man Loses Penis to Infection, Doctor Builds New One on Arm”

6. “Federal Troops Tear-Gas Yankees Off Field So Trump Can Throw Out First Pitch”

7. “Forget the Friendly Skies, Fight Breaks Out on Flight Between Drunk and Maskless Passengers”

8. “Knowledge That It Could Kill Him Actually Making Man Appreciate Day at Disney World A Lot More”

                                                                *****************

How did you do on the TRUE/FALSE test?

Yes, headlines 1, 3, 5 and 7 are TRUE.  Headlines 2, 4, 6, and 8 are FALSE.  And every single one of them is possible.  Hence, my muddled head.

Meanwhile, as I type, Trump is giving a word-salad news conference.  (“The China Virus” . . . “Governor DeSantis is great” . . . “telehealth is incredible”), the “guests” downstairs seem to be body slamming the walls, and MY HAND SANITIZER IS GOING TO KILL ME!

It’s all breaking news in a broken world . . .

Inhale, exhale, and carry on 😊

Love, Joyce

Beautiful individual in my pool . . .

Dear you,

I have been thinking about the pandemic’s effect on us as social beings, especially its effects on the individual.  The individual I am talking about is not exhausted by social distancing.  He/she is exhausted by the absorption into “safe” groups, the clans judged as not hazardous or contagious. This person likes to go his/her own way.  Not a hermit or misanthrope, he/she simply enjoys being.  Simply that.  Being, acting, doing whatever, on his/her own.

Let’s call this universal individual Smith.

This is Smith’s scenario:

During the pandemic, travel has been constrained so families are clumping into cars and driving to places that are wide-open like Seagrove Beach, FL.  The clan Smith belongs to did this.  Smith endured the loud journey, the arguments about snacks, the tension between Mom and Dad who are ten inches from divorce.  Upon arrival, to the condo complex I live in, the clan unpacks frantically, fueled by a drive for dominance:

 “We’ve got to get to the beach and claim a big spot.”

 “We’ve got to take over the pool.”

“We’ve got to fill up these coolers before the Tom Thumb runs out of ice and BEER!”

“We’ve got to make memories together.”

It is all about the big WE.

Now, back to Smith.

During the chaos and settling in, Smith goes to the pool beneath my balcony.  Strangely enough, it is empty and quiet down there.  He takes off his shirt and shoes and dives in.  He doesn’t “CANNONBALL” in and cry for the clan to join him.  He just dives in.  An individual in a pool.  A beautiful dive at that.  And then he swims, he really swims.  Perfect backstrokes, breaststrokes, standard crawl, and these lovely dolphin arcs in and out of the water.

I am mesmerized.  I am not accustomed to seeing actual swimming going on in our swimming pool.  And I rarely see artful swimming executed by an individual.

Smith is happy.

Smith is Smith after a long drive with the memory makers.

He is an individual.

This is troubling to the clan.  A man who appears to be the patriarch steps out on his balcony and asks Smith what he is doing down there ALL BY HIMSELF?  “Come back up; we’re having FUN.”

Smith keeps swimming.

Patriarch shakes his head and goes back inside.

                                                                    ******

There are a lot of Smiths out there, distanced, and yet submerged into a “safe” group.   This year, the groups are getting bigger.  And I am not sure this is good for the individual.

Here’s to Smith.

Keep swimming solo.

Love,
Joyce

Tuberville, really??

Dear you,

Above, on the left, is the man who won the Republican Primary for Alabama senator, the man who intends to oust Doug Jones. Senator Jones has a resume of social justice accomplishments that makes former Coach Tuberville’s look like fluff.  However, Mr. T. will be a formidable adversary since he has Donald’s blessing in a state saturated with Trumpism (and bad MAGA headgear + t-shirts, extra-large).

But here are some facts about Tommy T:

He is NOT an Auburn University Alum.  He was an EMPLOYEE. Many are making a sentimental connection between the school and the man.  They shouldn’t.  Again, he was an EMPLOYEE.  He did not earn the degree or embody the Auburn Creed (Google that).  He is a graduate of Southern Arkansas University, not that this is a discrediting factor, but you know.  Tommy is not Auburn. Yes, he led the Tigers to football victories over the in-state rival, University of Alabama, but what does that have to do with legislative skill . . . or anything?

He is also on the record for stating the following, “God sent us Donald Trump because God knew we were in trouble.”  Former Coach Tuberville presumes to know the intentions of “God”.  And as for the trouble Donald was meant to save us from?  Well, please observe the chaos of our nation as of this moment, the Trump Carnage Show.

Those are just facts.  These are the questions:

Will Alabama citizens vote for Tommy simply because of his War Eagle connection? Will his assumption of God knowledge also lure voters his way?  Will rabid Roll Tide fans be able to check the box for a former Auburn employee because Donald orders them to do so?  Will the huge amount of Doug Jones supporters be able to stop what many predict to be an inevitable loss?

I cannot answer those questions.

Ask Tommy.  Maybe he can use his oracular powers and god-connection to respond to those queries.

But here is another fact:

Right now, current Auburn students and many Alum are supporting Jones and heartily embarrassed by Tommy and his bromance with Donald.   And I just wanted that on the record.

War Eagle, baby.

Love,

Joyce