"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter." —Mark Twain
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!
Wasn’t OSHA supposed to put out COVID-19 guidance for employers back in April or something? Looks like President Biden finally forced the agency’s hand. Good. More leadership, please.
We plan to buy another American car before long. It may well be the last one we’ll ever buy. For that reason, it has to be a good one.