Tonight Donald Trump reversed himself on dumb (video link). He came up with dumocrat all on his own, and since he can never be seen to be wrong, dumb shall no longer have a b. Hey, if Noah Webster, a commoner, could Americanize flavour and colour by dumping the u, King Donnie can damn well un-b dum. Look for dum to become another MAGA litmus test, like Gulf of America and the Trump landslide of 2020.
My self-maintenance schedule: haircuts every fifth Tuesday at ten, pedicures every eighth Friday at nine-thirty. As an official oldster with typical oldster issues, I see my doctor, my cardiologist, and my dermatologist every six months, and then there’s the annual eye check I wrote about in my previous post. All my appointments are within a six-mile radius of home, as is the Starbucks I stop at afterward for a take-home frappuccino reward.
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Here’s my haircut before and after. You may find it hard to tell much difference between these selfies, but there’s always a pile of gray trimmings under the chair when Jason’s done with me. Sorry for the intrusive wristwatch in the before photo — I thought I might post it to WatchCrunch later but decided they’d seen more than enough of me and my watches. Side note: I have a hard time telling my dark blue shirt from the black one, but the photo tells me I got it right for once, because I meant to wear blue that day.
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And here are a couple of shots of vaguely-treatening monsoon skies over Tucson Monday evening. Donna and I were watching Rachel on MS-Now when our iPhones went off with loud weather watch alerts: a haboob was on its way, threatening zero visibility in blowing dust. The warning was premature — Phoenix did get blanketed in a dust storm, but not until Tuesday night; we didn’t get anything down in Tucson.
Do I enjoy saying haboob? You bet, because it annoys the dum-dums.
Stay fresh, cheese bags.