The above picture was chosen for its superficial resemblance to the cover of a favorite Blue Oyster Cult album, Tyranny and Mutation.
And speaking of which, let’s add to the Radical Centrist Manifesto:
–You are not entitled to free healthcare.
–You are, however, entitled to affordable healthcare.
“Radical Centrism–Our Motto: ‘See How Easy That Was?'”
VOTE FOR ME! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, BUT NEITHER DOES ANYONE ELSE!
SOCIAL PAGE: PARTY AT NICK’S PLACE
Nick had a birthday party for his two youngest cubs, who turned six and one respectively, on adjacent days. It featured the usual elements:
–Me Bringing My Own medication, a can of which will make me actually engage in conversation eventually,
–two palatial inflatable structures, with your choice of Water or Not
–a child getting on top of one structure, endangering his companions within
–a small child refusing to get out of the bottom of the water slide, annoying his companions at the top who now can’t slide down
–Nick engaging in reckless adrenaline-fueled activity in spite of a recent injury
–me going inside to decompress, only to be cornered by a dog and a small child
–adults discussing whatever surgery they’ve recently received
–Nick and his mate wrestling on the ground, trying to smear cake on each other. I was told this courtship ritual occurs at every birthday party, but I had not been privileged to see it previously. Actually, I didn’t see it this time, either, since the table was in the way. I only witnessed the combatants arising, duly covered with cake. I think Nick ended up taking several showers that day, for one reason or another.
–Cheetos! And cake, which I cut the frosting off of. I ate too much of both. But it was my first meal of the day, after all.
Speaking of Cheetos (that should have been my post title right there), I’ve noticed a cultural oddity: In my youth, the standard Cheeto type was those puffy styrofoam-like cylinders. Then they introduced an option: “Baked to a delicate crunch, or quick-fried to a crackly crunch!” (Or “indelicate crunch,” if you will.) It took a long time for the latter to catch on–my preference for them was considered a bit eccentric–but now they are the default Cheeto. (Disclaimer: My market research for this consists mainly in noting which kind is the standard-issue at Subway, which may not be a representative sampling, but probably is.)
Good thing I didn’t become a college professor (which I considered becoming until my Great American Novel was published), or the world would have been treated to “Cultural Shifts in Cheeto Consumption Over Time.” Publish or perish!