What's so great about America anyway?
It's not my aim to have a political posting of any sort but I think its an important question on a day like today. I won't pontificate on the answer although some trivia-absorbed part of me would like nothing better than to share some minutiae with my gentle readers and they should not doubt that I have them in copious supply or at least access to a search engine--whose very existence might serve as some small part of the answer to the above question--that can supply me with them.
To the point, I'm urged. Things are good, or even great, or whatever exaggeration we might back up with a wide smile and I think part of life is coming to terms with what it is, but things can always be better. I just can't tell you the draw to affix rhetorical phrasing to the end of that sentence. We could not be mired contentiously in a global conflict that claims what is presumably our nation's 17th most precious national resource, or we could not have an intractable, addlepated, self-delusional, mental lightweight as our leader. We could not be perpetually on the verge of global socio-economic collapse for a myriad of reasons. And frankly, summer television could be a hell of a lot better.
To the point, I tacitly promised. Maybe today should not be about the necessarily infinite ways we are not perfect, but the very few ways in which we are. Today, a friend shared with me a delectable chicken salad that alone made me desire some forum in which to talk trash to other, necessarily inferior, chicken salad producing nations. Perhaps though, nothing inherent in our nation led to its artistry. Perhaps I am just patriotic today. The tall--nearly everyone is to me--lanky, oddly speckled Mexican boy that waters the lawn in the afternoon nonchalantly suggested that the people who read this, even if they did know who he was, wouldn't stop to pick him up bleeding to death on the side of the road on the way to fetch me from the airport. I don't think I should have to tolerate him coming in and making comments like that even if they are so very, and rightly so, true.
I've just thought of a missed opportunity. An acquaintance: a pudgy, sweaty, hairy, disgusting little man--a self described contrarian--considers it endlessly humorous to the point of repeating it beyond acceptable taste that in the movie The Big Lebowski, the main character, The Dude without fail misidentifies every animal he comes in contact with. Perhaps I might share in his amusement if I incorrectly identified every animal, or rather human person, who appeared on this page.
Similarly I wonder if it is possible to have an ironic journal altogether. Careful, my inclination is to throw a question mark in there. I write every triviality that emerges during this brief exercise and simultaneously despise each and every one. That is quite enough nonsense for today. Yesterday I was just too tired to write anything truly insubstantial.
To the point, I'm urged. Things are good, or even great, or whatever exaggeration we might back up with a wide smile and I think part of life is coming to terms with what it is, but things can always be better. I just can't tell you the draw to affix rhetorical phrasing to the end of that sentence. We could not be mired contentiously in a global conflict that claims what is presumably our nation's 17th most precious national resource, or we could not have an intractable, addlepated, self-delusional, mental lightweight as our leader. We could not be perpetually on the verge of global socio-economic collapse for a myriad of reasons. And frankly, summer television could be a hell of a lot better.
To the point, I tacitly promised. Maybe today should not be about the necessarily infinite ways we are not perfect, but the very few ways in which we are. Today, a friend shared with me a delectable chicken salad that alone made me desire some forum in which to talk trash to other, necessarily inferior, chicken salad producing nations. Perhaps though, nothing inherent in our nation led to its artistry. Perhaps I am just patriotic today. The tall--nearly everyone is to me--lanky, oddly speckled Mexican boy that waters the lawn in the afternoon nonchalantly suggested that the people who read this, even if they did know who he was, wouldn't stop to pick him up bleeding to death on the side of the road on the way to fetch me from the airport. I don't think I should have to tolerate him coming in and making comments like that even if they are so very, and rightly so, true.
I've just thought of a missed opportunity. An acquaintance: a pudgy, sweaty, hairy, disgusting little man--a self described contrarian--considers it endlessly humorous to the point of repeating it beyond acceptable taste that in the movie The Big Lebowski, the main character, The Dude without fail misidentifies every animal he comes in contact with. Perhaps I might share in his amusement if I incorrectly identified every animal, or rather human person, who appeared on this page.
Similarly I wonder if it is possible to have an ironic journal altogether. Careful, my inclination is to throw a question mark in there. I write every triviality that emerges during this brief exercise and simultaneously despise each and every one. That is quite enough nonsense for today. Yesterday I was just too tired to write anything truly insubstantial.
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