Another Saturday morning. Mrs. M is off to the Y, and the Spawn will likely sleep til the crack of noon, as is her wont on days off. Me? I’m downstairs with the Hound, listening to Little Steven’s Underground Garage, so it must be time for a potpourri post.
Let’s go ahead and get l’affaire covfefe out of the way. I manage to find new ways to be appalled by both the current administration and its opposition each day, but sometimes things just reach a level where I have to shake my head at the level of lunacy.
A simple look at the context of the original post indicates that the word in question was likely supposed to be coverage. Anyone who tweets much is likely to have made a similar error, and I can even see compounding the matter by hitting “Send” instead of “Backspace.” This is one reason why I only rarely tweet from my phone, and why I don’t like to text — my fingers are too darned big (and square) for the keyboard on my phone’s screen. So I get it.
But when I got up a couple of days ago, I saw much of my Facebook feed cavorting in sack dancing glee about this literal nonsense — a typo. Again, I guess I understand; people loathe the Current Occupant so much that any stick will do if it lets them beat the dog. If it lets them lower their blood pressure a bit, OK (although I think it might be easier simply to walk away as much as possible. But I get worked up over Kentucky football and (especially) basketball — your obsessions are your own.)
But where we start to move into Platonic Forms of crazy is when the administration’s flack announced that the original typo (for which people were mocking the Prez) was in fact some inside joke and an example of Trumpian 8-Dimensional Chess. When I heard that, my first thought was:
The culture is in a full-bore sprint toward 24/7 simian shit-flinging. In his “Future History” stories, Robert Heinlein posited a period he called “The Crazy Years.” Like many other folks, I’m convinced that a) we’re in them, and b) they’ve gone on longer than the Wise Old Man predicted. Indeed, I no longer expect to outlive them.
My foot seems to be pretty well recovered, so I went walking earlier this week, only to discover that I managed to … well, do something. Specifically, I spent the second half of the week with a tearing sort of pain in my right anterior hip joint, lower right glute, and what my wife teaches her students to call the “bathing suit area.” I wonder if it’s connected to my sluefootedness, but I don’t really know. It seems to have receded in the last day or so, but was bad enough Wednesday night that it woke me up when I’d shift in my sleep. Still, I may try to get a little stroll in later today.
Given that Mrs. M and I are both in the teaching racket, people think we have endless vistas of time together in the summers. However, this isn’t exactly the case. Because I teach a course or two each June, and because she teaches through May and resumes in early August, July is our only real overlap. So like most folks, we have to fit vacation travel into a fairly tight window.
This year, for example, we’ll probably spend the first couple of days of July with the Mads in Knoxville, possibly hitting Asheville for a visit to Biltmore on the way back. Later in the month, we’re looking at taking the Spawn to her current first-choice grad school for a scouting trip, but those dates are not yet fixed. And on 29 Jul, I’ll be attending a writer’s class with Jeffrey Deaver in Real City, thanks to the Southeast regional chapter of the Mystery Writers of America.
In the meantime? The Spawn and I will make our annual pilgrimage to HeroesCon in a couple of weeks — I’ll do my usual reports, I’m sure (and I hope they bring back the arcade they had last year — dare I dream of a Crazy Climber machine? Dare! Dare!).
I mentioned SEMWA a couple of paragraphs ago, and a few days back, I had the pleasure of listening in on a live SEMWA podcast featuring Steven Womack, author of the Harry James Denton PI series, which was set in my original hometown of Nashville.
Mr. Womack had some nifty things to say about story construction, particularly on the scale of the novel, and he drew both on his experience in screenwriting (which he teaches at Watkins College) and mythopoetic theory (as represented by Joseph Campbell, although I remain a Frygean, m’self.) Afterward, I mentioned that my dad had taught printmaking at Watkins back in the 70s, and that we still had a few of those prints and plates here around the house.
Additionally, Womack mentioned that he hopes to put out the first new Denton novel in 16 years before too long. Nashville has changed in that time, and so has Harry’s life; I’m looking forward to seeing how Steven handles both.
And speaking of writing stuff, my friend and former office mate Chris McGinley has a new story at Out of the Gutter Online. It’s a Western, and it’s worth a look.
Me? I have a couple of titles and some fragments, but we’ll see if anything happens before too long.
On the musical front, the Berries are showing signs of emerging from a six-week slumber. We’d better, because we’re booked to do a show on Friday, 4 Aug at our Upstate pied a terre, Simpsonville’s Soundbox Tavern, and we’ll be the only band performing. So brace yourselves, kids — “An Evening with the Berries” will be coming your way!
And since we’re talking about music, I may as well wrap this installment up with a song. Graham Parker is recognized for being under-recognized, if you know what I mean. He’s respected by his peers, but isn’t as known (or presumably as wealthy) as say, an Elvis Costello (to whom he’s often compared.) But here’s a song from his 1980 breakout album, and underneath the punky sneer, I think there’s a message about vulnerability here. So here’s “Protection.”
See you soon!