CSotD: Humpday Happens
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This would have been a great bit of timing if Blazek had scheduled it for yesterday instead of last Saturday. For my part, if I were going to have a press conference about a particular drug, I’d make sure I could pronounce it before I made an ass of myself in front of the whole world.
However, I had already laughed at this cartoon because I take an assortment of pharmaceuticals — all of them prescribed, none of them any fun — and we confirm each one at each visit. However, the dialogue goes a little differently, because the attendant names each drug and for several of them, I ask, “Which one is that?”
It’s usually confusion over the generic name and the brand name, but at least I don’t have to come up with them on my own.
Dunno if yesterday’s strip is a coincidence or a good guess at how Trump’s antidrug announcement would go, but it worked either way. I’m not sure bringing along Little Bobby was an improvement over citing “everybody” as the source, but that would have raised questions about whether the everybody who knows Tylenol causes autism is the same everybody who thinks Trump should receive the Nobel Peace Prize.
Enough current events. This is Humpday, consarn it!
I’ve reached the stage where, when I have a flying dream, I say “Wow! It’s really happening this time!”
Which makes for disappointment when I wake up, but that’s still a softer landing than Spud’s about to experience.
One of the great things about this strip is that we all want to be Wallace, but we’re really all Spud.
They’ve got the best teacher ever. Her willingness to wait before jerking the leash is the sort of thing that can’t be taught.
This raises the question of whether commandos go commando. I don’t know, but I know enough about the SAS that I’m not about to ask them.
I get the joke here, but having spent a couple of decades hanging out in schools, “So, what else you got?” strikes me as an excellent question we should be asking early and often.
I took a tour of the excellent Board of Cooperative Educational Services complex in Saratoga Springs once, and the young fellow showing me around — president of his class — was polite and very knowledgeable about the Voc Tech programs, particularly the auto body shop, since that was his specialty. He was about to graduate and head to Texas for additional training.
As we chatted later, it turned out he wasn’t there as a Voc Tech student but because he was ED — Emotionally Disabled — and his home school hadn’t been able to handle him. He took all his courses, not just the Voc Tech part, at the BOCES.
Finding how much he loved working with cars had been a godsend, but more important was finding a place where it was okay to be ED.
We could do this for all our kids, if we wanted to.
Two memories: One is an elementary school career day where my booth was next to the booth with the drug-sniffing dog. I had no chance of holding anyone’s attention, because they all wanted me to shut up so they could go meet him.
A related flashback: My ridgebacks loved kids so much that I would bring them to trade shows, because the parents would have to stop and hear my spiel while their little ones climbed all over the delighted dogs.
However, in deference to Ostow’s cartoon, my current dog would be horrified by the experience.
Juxtaposition of the Day
I still prefer a real camera to a phone, and one of the things that puzzles me is selfies that reverse the image. Well, shots in general that reverse the image, because while I know next to nothing about phone-cameras, I find it very hard to believe you couldn’t flip the image horizontally or hit a setting where it happened naturally.
But, yeah, thus was it always. I used to advise my young reporters to take a million shots so they could get one that worked, but they’d be freaks if they really did delete all the ones that were cut off or out of focus or too dark or too backlit, because nobody else does.
When I see some of the photos people post, it makes me wonder what they chose not to. And as long as I’m griping about things that will never change …
I used my horn the other day because some guy was merging into my lane while I was in it, but most times I’m a firm believer that, if you can reach the horn, you can reach the brakes and that you should probably get over yourself.
Maybe it’s a country/city thing, but out here most folks figure that, if traffic is stopped, there’s likely a reason and they should just chill out and let things resolve themselves.
OTOH, I’ve been in NYC enough to appreciate Hoffman’s classic “I’m walkin’ here!” ad lib from Midnight Cowboy. The trick to surviving in Gotham is to blow off your anger and then instantly forget it.
The alternative is to live in a state of constant fury.
I hear people talk about the gossip issue in small towns, but there’s gossip everywhere and the only difference is that it seems to get back to you sooner in a small town. The compensation for that — and it’s huge — is that in a small town, everyone knows who the gossips and liars are.
Toxic people are mostly ignored. There are, naturally, genuinely scandalous things going on, but everybody knows about them, so there’s no need to discuss them.
I decided in my adolescence that I wasn’t going to pile up a lot of woulda coulda shoulda, maybe as a result of a spate of movies like Carnal Knowledge and Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice that got a lot of praise but struck me as more vain regret than I wanted.
Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death! — Auntie Mame
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