Question for the readers:

At what point does ‘ideation’ become ‘premeditation’?

I’m asking for a friend.

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To the dude at Circle K this morning –

If you come into a convenience store at 8:35 AM on a Wednesday when the lottery prize is over $1 billion and buy several dozen lottery tickets and scratchers, you forfeit any rights you had to get pissy with the clerk. If you want to do numerical combinations that require an abacus and hardware from Cray to figure out, bring some patience with you. The folks who just want to pay for their gas and snacks will thank you.

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When having the first fire in the firepit of the year, now that the summer burn ban has lapsed, it is nice to imbibe a little. A beer or two, followed up with a few fingers of good bourbon, are fine.

However, if the beers are hitting you just a little hard, and you tell your wife to ‘leave the bottle’ when she brings out the bourbon and a glass, a little self-control will save you from much suffering.

If said self-control does not materialize, the clue that you’ve overserved yourself is when you figure out that moonlight looks really cool when filtered through a glass of bourbon. Recreating this phenomenon four or five more times over the course of several hours only enhances the hangover the next day. And the day after that.

There’s just something satisfying about using a propane torch to burn weeds growing up through the cracks and seams in the concrete.

I may have to explain my methods to the neighbors, though.

To them, I was a 50-something year old schlub wandering around his driveway with a propane tank and a wand with a bell-shaped end on it, muttering to himself.

To me, I was going from bunker to bunker in Normandy, giving the Huns exactly five seconds to throw their hands up and surrender before I burned them out.

I may or may not have stated, at medium volume, on several occasions – “Any plant that runs is a weed. Any plant that doesn’t run is a well disciplined weed.”

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Note to self – read the label of the dog shampoo before using it.

Ancillary note – when the ‘shampoo’ doesn’t foam up while bathing the shaggy, 85 pound Labrador, don’t just add more ‘shampoo’ in a vain attempt to get the dog clean

Tertiary note – if, after all that work, the dog looks like the bass singer in ShaNaNa, it’s time to just rinse him as well as you can and go to the store for more real shampoo. You’ve used half a bottle of conditioner, so hes just going to be extra shiny and slick for a while

Poor Moonshine is going to look like the Maybelline model’s little sister who got into her big sister’s hair goop for a few days.

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The other day, I advised my wife to acquiesce her decolatage.

She was not impressed. This may be my last transmission.

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The other morning, I drove into downtown Louisville for a doctor appointment. It was like Day 2 of the zombie apocalypse down there, but without the John Williams soundtrack playing in the background.

It was 6:30 am and still dark out. Random folks who were definitely not using 10% of available CPU were shambling around in no particular direction. There were more than a few whose cheese was definitely on a sideways trajectory from their cracker.

Two junkies were having a dance off on the corner right after I got off the highway. Everybody was kung-fu fighting, and it looked quite exciting.

How did I know they were junkies, you ask? Well, they were screaming at each other about a stolen needle loud enough that I could hear it over my podcast.

Two blocks down, some poor soul was doing the one leg still, one leg doing the jig/watusi, while he waved around his blankie at traffic. I actually felt bad for this guy. He obviously needed somebody to come get him before he got hit in traffic.

I really hope that the multiple people I saw laying down under blankets on the sidewalks were asleep. Thank goodness the weather has been rather mild, because being that deeply unconscious when exposed to the elements, hot or cold, is not good for you.

Somebody either put out some stuff thats too pure, or it’s adulterated with something really nasty.

It’s wasn’t as bad as Oakland in ‘89, but it’s not far off. No comment as to why I know how bad Oakland was at the height of the crack epidemic.

I finished my business, programmed the mobile magic elf box to direct me to my fast food breakfast of choice (a habit I picked up as a child. I was good at the doctor, so I deserved a treat), and got the heck out of Louisville.

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Maggie, the little black pup that isn’t so little anymore, is settling in quite nicely. She is now taller, but not quite as long, as Sophie the Faux Dachshund, and is quickly closing in on Ellie, the American DerpHound.

Both of her sisters seem to have accepted her, and play “I chase you, now you chase me” in the yard, the living room, and the basement. They especially like playing in the basement, as it’s one big room with stairs forming an island in the center. It makes the best canine track in the county.

Moonshine, the hound emeritus, has not accepted the puppy as much. Maggie has learned to just leave him be, stay the heck away from his food, and to not chase her sisters over the top of him while he’s trying to nap.

Maggie enjoys going for rides in the car, mostly because there may be french fries on the agenda. She has a perfect record of looking dangerously cute and starving every time we go through any drive-up window.

I swear, every woman we meet, and a few of the men, gets all squeaky and baby-talky when they see her. She is always gentle and loving when given a treat, making sure to give kisses on command to anyone with a biscuit or pup cup. When I give her a treat, I risk having my fingers degloved, but when the teenager working at the Circle K does it, she gets her hand kissed.

One of the roles I play in my marriage is to be the voice of reality when I feel it’s needed.

Irish Woman, being the sensible lady she is, has really gotten into the whole disaster preparedness thing. She’s not hoarding ammo (that’s my job), but she has really gotten into gardening and food preservation, as well as basic first aid and things like that.

Somehow, she’s also gotten onto some rather odd mailing lists. She gets some… interesting articles about health, food, and other subjects every so often.

So, it wasn’t that suprising when she sent me a link to an article about preparedness for nuclear fallout.

Being the loving husband I am, I sent her a gentle reminder that there are some disasters that just aren’t worth worrying about, given our circumstances.

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My sweet wife,

In the event of a general nuclear war, fallout is the least of your worries.

We live less than 50 miles from Fort Knox, 60 miles from Cincinnati, 30 miles from SDF, and less than 10 miles from major crossing points on the Ohio River.

Fort Knox, Louisville, and Cincinnati are all first or second strike targets.  We’re within the area where badly aimed Russian, Korean, or Chinese warheads would hit.  If the unthinkable happens, we will likely either die in the initial attack or soon after from radiation.  

https://nuclearsecrecy.com/nukemap/

On a happy note, when that “Head to the local defense shelter we stopped taking care of 30 years ago” message comes across, we can finally pop the cork on that bottle of champagne I saved at the wedding.  Might as well live a little, you know.

Happily yours,

Your darling husband

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No offense to her, but someone who literally grew up in the middle of a Minuteman missile field really doesn’t get all jumpy about what’s going to happen in the weeks following a nuclear war.

The puppy continues to grow at a heretofore unseen rate.

This morning, she took a calculated risk and tried to wrestle her full-grown brother, Moonshine.

Man, is she bad at math. She has gone back to the minor leagues for a little more seasoning, and is currently playing ‘catch me, catch you’ with her smaller sisters.

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The septic system service company I called this morning uses tango as their hold music.

For some reason, that made me happy.

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25 Boy Scouts, with about the same number of family and guests, when split between two sheet cakes, three fruit trays, two vegetable trays, four sandwich trays, two gallons each of lemonade and iced tea, and a large tray of chicken fingers, leaves one fruit tray, a quarter of a vegetable tray, one quarter of a sheet cake, and three sandwiches as leftovers.

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We are well into the first false fall of the year. We had lows in the 60’s last night, and it was cool enough that I put on a long-sleeved shirt when I had my coffee on the deck this morning. Already, I have witnessed hoodies, sweaters, and lattes in the crowds that meander down my street every morning.

But fear not, dear reader. In a couple of weeks, we shall have the inevitable warm-up. Hordes of sweater-wearing, cappuccino slurping women shall melt into puddles of foundation and silicone on the very sidewalks of Louisville. Only the tags on their hair extensions and the DNA stuck in the glue of their fake eyelashes will mark who they were, causing a backup at the local forensic cosmetology labs.

The more short-sighted of these creatures will instantly revert to bikini tops and ripped jeans. These pour souls will be devestated when the weather flips again, going from sunny and warm to oh-my-Lord-where-did-I-put-that-poofy-parka overnight. The local news will be chock full of breathless reports of half-naked popsicles being found flash frozen to the sidewalks outside of wine bars and tattoo parlors.

In the end, only those who moderate their fashion swings will survive. Soon, it will be true spooky sweater season, when all of those napkins we’ve all be saying are dresses will go either into the closet for the winter or into the landfill for the remainder of the planet’s life.

In the meantime, I shall be sitting on my deck, sipping hot coffee or cold tea, depending on the weather, and enjoying watching the world go by.