MID TWACO

I KNEW I’D spoken too soon when I wished everyone a Happy New Year in the last blog entry. I sensed it was entirely too premature, yet I went ahead with it anyway, which, in retrospect, was a foolish thing to do. 

Silly me. 

I should’ve waited till at least July, or maybe I should’ve even held off until the end of the year to wish everyone good tidings for 2021. At that point, the popular salutation would have to be modified somewhat, from “Happy New Year” to, perhaps, “Made it! Damn, that was a close one.” 

It’s clear now that we’ve been going about it all wrong for centuries. The practice of expecting the best year ever on December 31st while having no real plan to combat a host of potential disasters is the worst way to brace for the future. The proverb, “Expect nothing and be prepared for everything,” is turned on its head every winter solstice and the eager mob goes rushing—in general—headlong into the future or—specifically—into the U.S. Capitol, with no real plan on what to do when they get there. 

A year is a year is a year. Usually, the resolutions fade away by the end of January, things that don’t pay attention to calendars like weather and germs will wreak their havoc, monthly bills come due and surprising displays of idiocy will rear their silly heads. Drivers will fall asleep at the wheel, fights will break out at Walmart over fudge, and cracker-head Royalists will storm Congress to steal mail, create fecal art and hang the Vice President who, because of his white hair and pale skin, was luckily mistaken for a statue of Warren G. Harding as the demented crowd ran right past him. At that point, “Happy New Year” would be the last thing on Mike Pence’s mind. Instead I’m sure he thought, “Made it! Damn, that was a close one.” And, because time was of the essence to hustle the Vice President to safety, he could spare himself valuable seconds by collapsing the whole sentiment into its very usable acronym: M.I.D. T.W.A.C.O. 

Language itself is constantly evolving. Certain phrases go out of style, and for very good reason. Sentiments like, “May the great pestilence spare all but your most onerous of sister-wives,” and “Lo, the giant serpent who devours the sun every night has seen fit to burp it back up this beautiful morning,” are not in heavy rotation anymore, thankfully. It’s a sign that things are evolving in the right direction. I mean right as in proper, and not right as in right-wing fascism, because the sight of a half-baked militia swarming over the National Mall like ants on a half-eaten corn-dog is also a sign that things are evolving in the right direction, right as in radical right, which is the wrong right, and a wrong that needs to be righted. 

If nothing else, the mob, any mob, may find it useful to disabuse itself of mob mentality. It’s never a healthy practice to willfully abandon one’s reason in favor of a blind and deaf allegiance that somehow convinces a raft of voluntary invalids that their personal freedoms will be greatly enhanced if only they perform the selfish bidding of stubborn despots. In most games of chess the pawns are generally sacrificed because the strategy is so effective. Rarely in an endgame is there one king on the board with all his pawns around him, reveling in their new status as blue-collar royalty. They’re usually in a pile next to the time clock.  

“Here’s a quarter. Call somebody who cares,” is another saying that has lost its luster, since phone booths are extinct and nobody needs a coin to place a call. Seems quite ridiculous now. Needing a quarter to make a phone call would be like needing a set of gills to swim in a public pool. However, that phrase may be making a temporary comeback, as it seems to be the outgoing presidential administration’s attitude toward the very people, now in jail, who were impelled to ransack the Capitol in the first place. 

January, for me, is Bob Marley month, if for no other reason than the sound of insouciant reggae can transport me, mentally, to a place that isn’t freezing and gray. Reggae is the soundtrack of palm trees, white sands, warm water. Bob Marley, by the way, survived a hail of automatic gunfire, performing a few nights later with a bullet lodged in him. I’m sure he smoked a fat joint after that little episode, remarking to himself, MID TWACO! 

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery…” 

Fortunately for us, Bob wrote that line. Unfortunately for us, we still need it. 

More Alembics…

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