All morning long, while fertilizing the veggies in the hoophouse, I pondered Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert’s Rally To Restore Sanity (and/or Fear). Why were so many commentators so moved by Stewart’s closer? It sounded to me like a longer version of Rodney King’s “can’t we all just get along?”.
And Stewart’s shopworn mantra that the mainstream media distract us from crafting real solutions by relentless fearmongering not only wears thin but it’s wrong.
We should be scared. The world is going to hell in a uranium-tipped handbasket of trillion-dollar wars, escalating greenhouse gases and a financial system riddled with more holes than someone who mistakenly crosses Blackwater’s path.
As soon as I finish watering the lettuce, I will hunker down at the computer to vent my spleen.
After all, it’s the weekend, so I can take the time to polish my prose and come up with zingers like Hunter S. Thompson (Buy the ticket; take the ride — A word to the wise is infuriating.) or Matt Taibbi (Being a wiseass in a groupthink environment is like throwing an egg at a bulldozer).
But first, I promised Drew I’d clean my closet.
While sorting piles of mismatched shoes (has a one-legged female thief been stealing from me?), I began thinking about writing a piece on the new Rick Snyder administration. Ricky, we hardly know ye. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Get a jump on Wednesday morning commentators by having my analysis ready
Do some research on Snyder’s time at Dell. Remind people that he’s pro-life. Explain why moderate Rick may be unwilling to veto some of his Tea Party/Militia minions craziest new proposals.
Spend the time it takes to nail Snyder before anyone else can . . . but now it’s time to make dinner. (Walnut and brown rice burgers, hoophouse spinach salad with bananas and pineapple-sesame oil dressing.)
OK, so immediately after dinner, I can hit the keyboard hard . . . but wait, what’s that squishy green stuff in the back of the fridge? Am I growing my own bumper crop of salmonella with an e coli appetizer?
It is now after 11 p.m.. The garden is tended, the closet is tidy, dinner is over, the dishes are done and the fridge is clean. And neither of those two great articles has been written.
Maybe next week? But only if I can ignore how sticky my kitchen floor is getting. Will the cats get stuck?
And people wonder why women have never produced as much great literature as men. We’re lucky we can find the time to write anything other than our names on the checks to pay bills.