The day after Thanksgiving. Friday, November 25, 2022. As I awoke, I immediately made a decision to continue my sense of giving thanks, by ignoring reading the news on my telephone, opting instead to actually use the bathroom sans any electronic device. (I did amaze at just how much quicker I was able to partake in any and all flushing of bodily fluids.) I asked Siri to play the best of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, ignoring my iPhone for that request, as I brushed my teeth and washed my face to the songs, “Our House,” and “Teach Your Children.” I felt a pang of WHAT MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED gnawing in my gut but trying my best to pretend that if bad news happened, someone would have called me and told me to fill up our bathtub with water. (In most apocalyptic movies of the 80s and 90s whenever a nuclear bomb blasted, most characters filled their bathtubs for fear that the water might become contaminated.---Joe and do not have a bath tub---OY!)
I walked past our TV in the bedroom, raising my middle finger and as I passed by I said Screw You MSNBC, and you too CNN. Our pooch, Enzo, looked at me with concern on his face, as I suppose my statement of Screw You had been quite loud. Phew, I said walking into our living room and heading for the kitchen, so far I am awake for at least 35 minutes, and I can breathe freely, without the worries that Musk/West/Trump/Carlson and other 15-of-fame whores took over the world. Breakfast time and still I had no idea of how many times Boebert denied she was a homophobe, how often Putin-Greene lied about her homophobia, and how the murder of the LGBTQ community could be excused because they were homosexuals.
I made it past breakfast, but still no phone usage for me, or even acknowledgment I owned one. No watching the TV in the living room providing me with news channels acting more like infomercials for opinionated persons. Again, I inhaled, hoping that the pang of anxiety now lodged in my upper chest was just gas. I stretched for 5 minutes, thinking this bit of exercise would help me pass the gas. I asked our living room, Siri, to play Carol King's song “So Far Away,” and the rest of her songs from the Tapestry Album. I found some photo albums the older ones from decades gone by, and as Carol sang I turned each page and knew why I could and should and would give thanks.
And then it became darker outside as the rain increased, and the night was begging to arrive. I returned the Photo Albums to their shelves and said to no one but Enzo. It is time. And minus any quilt or trepidation, I read the news today, as the Beatles once sang. And I wrote my blog.
