I must be getting older, I’m starting to eat my vegetables

Music – Crowded House – Don’t Dream It’s Over

Winter descends on San Francisco with the grace and subtlety of a car accident.  Friday it was 85 degrees and beautiful.  This morning, Tuesday, my room was 48 degrees and I could see my breath as I lay shivering in bed.  I sat wrapped in a sleeping bag and my wool coat and cursed the shitbag flea-bitten pioneers that decided this stupid peninsula was a good place to build a town.  Our predecessors, savage native peoples who killed each other with rocks and who knew as much about agriculture as Jessica Simpson does about string theory, even they knew better than to live here.

Because the weather fucking sucks.

That’s the problem with our vaunted Indian Summer; April, June, July and August blow, then September gets a little warmer, then just when October’s sunshine starts to take hold, when you finally get the courage to leave the house without a parka and longjohns, WHAM, the fucker turns on you like an abused bear in some low-rent circus, mauling you brutally.  Other cities have this tasteful, gradual shift of seasons, with the turning of the leaves and the migrating of birds and all that Hallmark shit.

Not here.  Here winter waits for you like a rapist in a parking garage. It waits patiently until you finally find that pair of flipflops you thought you’d never need again, until you finally decide this isn’t such a terrible place to live after all, then it sneaks up behind you and hits you in the knees with an aluminum bat.  SURPRISE!

And now it’s upon us like locusts on a cornfield and I hate this shit city and my frigid meatlocker of an apartment and everything that walks or talks or breathes with a renewed vigor.

Fuck.

At least the Red Sox lost.

——-

These are troubled times.  Walk the streets and you can see it on the faces of everyone around you, a constant tension. A vertigo.

It’s as if we’re hurtling through the dark towards some invisible precipice.  We have no idea what awaits us, we simply feel the wind on our faces as we fly blindly towards the edge.

The economy is a smoking ruin, and the prospect of handing our besieged nation over to a half-dead warhawk and goddamn Caribou Barbie has everyone near panic.

I don’t care how valiantly John McCain served our fledgling nation during the War Between the States or whatever, he’s old and evil and needs to be put the fuck out to pasture.

Molly stalks our apartment in a state of near frenzy, her work on the hopeless and doomed No on 8 campaign driving her to depression and madness.  All the progressive thinking, rationality, and human fucking decency in the world can’t stand against the combined economic might of the Republican party, the Mormon Church, and Rush Limbaugh.  You can’t fight against the Axis of Ignorance and hope to come out on top; they’re too well-funded, too numerous.  They’re too powerful in today’s Amurrica, and we’ll all pay for it.

My friends call me a pessimist.  They forget where we live.  They forget that our city and its citizenry exist in a little bubble of hope and illusion, completely removed and uncomprehending of the magnitude of the ignorance and fuckery that exists beyond our borders.

Of course Obama will win, they say.  Of course Prop 8 and 4 will fail; they’re so obviously despicable and wrong.

No.

Look east, my friends.  Over those distant hills is a whole endless continent of stupid and fanatical fuckwits, of people who love Jesus and guns and bigotry, who live petty idiot lives filled with hate and fear.  The greedy and opportunistic can run them with ease, steering their idiot course like a fucking sheepdog.  And nipping at their stupid fucking hooves, they’ll lead them straight to the voting booth.

Never underestimate the power of retards and their manipulators.

No, I am no pessimist.  I am a realist.

And the distinction between the two, if there ever was one, no longer exists.

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One Response to “I must be getting older, I’m starting to eat my vegetables”

  1. What’s this changing of the seasons you speak of?

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