The Shit Has Hit the Fan

Friends, I had so much fun stuff I'd planned to write this morning, but when I got up at five, I was confronted with the New Reality--War with Iran.  

It's not officially a war, yet.  That takes an act of Congress, but what won't those folks give the Supreme Leader?  

I'm not that worried, really.  Trump has some of the best minds on television advising him.  And of course, with Hegseth at the helm. . . . 

FUCK!

But at least Trump has kept our allies close.  They will certainly be eager to help when we are fighting fifteen different enemies.  

"Sir, I'd like to be deployed to the war in California. . . sir!"

Don't get me wrong.  I DO blame Iran for this.  I am not friends with people who chant "Death to America" and consider me less than human because I am an "infidel."  And as I've said all along, sooner or later, somebody is going to use a nuke.  I think it is inevitable.  We are all living in the Land of Strangelove now.  Quit worrying and learn to love the bomb!

Let's face it--we're Little People.  We live in a democracy that chose the Supreme Idiot to lead us into the future.  One person, one vote.  

What more can I say right now?  I don't even have cable.  I can't watch this play out in real time.  I'm not glued to the set waiting for the next expert analysis.  And none of my considerable number of problems have disappeared.  So. . . .

Saturday was alright.  I've decided to take action, in a manner of speaking, to clean up some messes both around the house and in my life.  I have been, I think, downtrodden too long.  Put out.  Etc.  Action is the enemy of something, they say, and so, even though I can't remember the saying, I have been putting myself to work.  Just a little.  Not too much.  I don't want to burn myself out.  Yesterday, I washed the windows.  Not all of them.  Lord no.  My house is more window than wall.  But I began with the kitchen.  Inside and out.  Windex and paper towels.  In a little over an hour, my windows were. . . kind of streaky.  Yea, I'll probably have to try that again.  Still. . . idle hands are the devil's tool.  

I think I fucked that one up, too.  

Later that day, having had so much fun letting ChatGPT emulate my writing style and that of Q, too, I decided to take on the image maker.  I gave it a simple prompt: create a photo of a boy on a bike on a suburban street in the manner of the photographer Mark Cohen.   Within seconds. . . voila!

WTF, right!!!  You see the little ai symbol in the bottom right hand corner?  I could get rid of that in Photoshop in a second.  

It's a New World, folks, and I am going in balls deep.  

The old road is rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'

 Later, Tennessee called.  He wanted to come over for some camera lessons.  I think I was a great teacher, but I think I am a lousy tutor.  I was hired once by a company to tutor a jr. high school boy.  All I did was joke around, I think.  I learned quickly that one on one instruction was not my forte.  Give me a stage, and I'll work some magic, but I'm too easily distracted otherwise.  

Still, I think T got some lessons learned.  Digital photography is so very technical and complicated.  In a course, I would have people start with film.  Film photography, for all its complexity, was in many ways much simpler.  Once you learn those basics--iso, aperture, shutter speed, focal length--you are ready to control your medium at a basic level.  There is still a lot more to learn.  How film stocks vary, how over and under exposing effect what you do in processing, etc.  But learning the basics first will make the digital stuff more understandable.  

By six, I told him I needed to go see my mother and cousin.  When he left, I called my mother but got no answer on either her landline or cell phone.  I was hungry, so this was enough excuse for me to go to the good Mexican place down the street.  I wanted a skinny, spicy Margarita.  

And a Carne Asada.  

The interior bar was full, but the late afternoon air had turned sweet and gentle, so I found a seat at the open air bar outside.  

"Hello, mi amor," greeted the little Columbian bartender.  "Are you alone?"

"So it seems."

I sat with my marg and pretended for the moment that I was free, that I hadn't the obligations I must attend to.  I was just floating.  Life could be fine. . . my love.  

I was ready for more today, more home chores, more fun. . . until I opened the papers.  

Say you are not a big guy.  You're a middleweight.  You are a good middleweight, but one day, the big heavyweight picks a fight with you in front of everyone, and he hits you many times and leaves you bloodied and bruised.  You know you can't beat him in the schoolyard, so what do you do?  Fuck with his car?  Kill his pets?  Kidnap his children?  It's called "terrorism."  

Yup.  The shit has hit the fan, kids.  We're all in for it now.