My head is throbbing like a supercharged Hemi V8 revving at a Deer Park* tree light. Walking around the house requires a GPS and anti-wobble struts. Jane suggested I needed to relieve my congestion, so I shot my schnoz up with an anti-histamine that has my nose running faster than that Hemi. Yeah, it’s only a head cold, but I’m a wimp and proud of it.
So, despite a brain challenged to weave a rational thought even more than usually, I’m feeling this major obligation not to disappoint my hordes of avid readers, who huddle in agonizing anticipation waiting for their weekly dose of wisdom—which, when I’m your dealer, is like Jonesing for a hit of liquefied bananas.
Any social issue I could address here just makes my head hurt more. I don’t give a shit today about which of the less than stellar candidates we elect as president a year from now. Just thinking of music sings my brain into discord and, although I’m really enjoying a biography of Johnny Cash by Robert Hilburn,** I couldn’t begin to craft a semi-cogent review.
Posting pics or fawning over Jane, the boys, the daughters(-in-law), Jake or Wicket came to mind, but that would be the easy way out, a cheap ploy guaranteed to gain likes and oohs and aahs. Hhm, on second thought, maybe I should have gone that route. Otherwise, I got nothing.
* A little inside reference for my Spokane friends and family.
** Hilburn, LA Times critic and music editor from 1970 to 2005, ranks as one of my favorite journalists.