I don’t know where we are in this pandemic, so we took a break and went out to dinner with our friends Ed and Sue.
Every year during Banned Books Week, conservative pundits line up to tell us Banned Books Week is a liberal hoax and that books aren’t banned in the USA.
I feel it’s my duty to point out that as a military veteran I’ve had a hell of a lot of shots and can remember only one time I ever had a reaction of any kind, and that was a bit of achiness and a slight fever after an anthrax vaccination, lasting less than a day.
Seventy-five feels like one of those demarcation ages — like 21, 30, and 65 — though I’m fuzzy on what it demarks. Really old, as opposed to just old? Elderly with a capital E? The onset of dotage? Ice floe time? But, but … we don’t feel 75!
Am I the only person in the world who worries about shit like this? Probably.
Now that intelligent and considerate people are masking again, I had a choice to make yesterday: whether to go to the monthly book club meeting in person or attend by Zoom. I chose wisely.
I made one of my periodic treks to Pima Air and Space Museum this morning, wanting to see if anything’s changed. The answer: not much.
See? We don’t always have to choose the stupid thing!