A site of satirical musings, commentary and/or rhetorical criticism of the world at large.

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Location: Southeastern, Pennsylvania, United States

Sunday, May 19, 2019

Sunday Morning Post (V.1 #17) - Cats and Celebrities and a Celebrity Cat

I had a few ideas for this week’s post, but we should recount the events of the past week. 

First, we should note that it was a rough week for celebrities.

Doris Day passed away on Monday.

Comedian/comic actor Tim Conway died on Tuesday.

Thursday brought the news that Grumpy Cat had passed away, also on Tuesday.

I repeat the past week was a rough week for celebrities.

I enjoyed all three throughout my life.  Grumpy Cat was the most recent addition to our entertainment universe, having only become an Internet sensation in the last 7 years.  She rose quickly and burned out suddenly.  To be fair, Grumpy Cat’s presence has faded a bit with the rise of a newer Internet sensation, Cranky President.

So, who will assume Grumpy Cat’s place in our hearts and memes?  Angry Anteater?  Pissy Puma?  Garrulous Grackle?  Please, anyone step forward!  Cranky President has worn out his welcome.

Despite this bit of melancholy news, there was a feel-good story about cats this week, or, more specifically, kittens.

Recently, in San Diego CA, a group of construction workers were working on a new Kaiser Permanente building when they heard mewing coming from a steel column.  They tilted the post and five kittens slid out.  There was no sign of the mother cat and the kittens were quickly given to the local animal shelter for adoption.

The workers named the kittens Rebar, Piper, Crowbar, Chisel, and Jackhammer.

Moral #1: Don’t let construction workers name your kittens!

Moral #2: Never let bipolar, narcissistic New York real estate tycoons grow up to be President! 

(Thank you for reading.  RIP Ms. Day, Mr. Conway, and Tarder Sauce AKA Grumpy Cat.)

Sunday, May 12, 2019

Sunday Morning Post (V.1; #16) - Holy Leni Riefenstahl, Batman!

Why are we surprised at this news that the President Who Shall Not Be Named (PWSBN) wants to alter the traditional celebration of the nation’s founding - recognized with some grumblings from historians about date accuracy - on the Fourth of July?   His desire, according to administration officials, is to move the fireworks and he will address the nation from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The thinking among the liberals is that he wants to turn the Fourth from a party celebrating our patriotic selves to an event all about him and his cult followers.

The speculation from liberals could be off the mark and the PWSBN may very well have the best of sincerest intentions to mark our nation’s birthday.

Oh, who am I kidding!  We all know that it’s me, me, me with #45!

Can a royal coronation be too far behind?

The news has raised alarms with the local government in DC.  Ultimately, they could withdraw financial support for security in the environs of the National Mall where most of the celebration would occur. This could put a serious crimp into the President’s plans.  The backlash to the administration announcement has only begun; we may see the White House back down yet.

In the meantime, we can let this image sink into our heads:  the sight of #45, whose administration has emboldened racial animosity since it was inaugurated, giving a speech at the front door of a memorial to the Great Emancipator.  Really?   This image strains the limits of irony and crosses the boundary into total hypocrisy.

We can also shudder at the imaginary (for now) thoughts of a sea of red baseball MAGA caps moving back and forth, to and fro on the National Mall on the Fourth. It is interesting to note that such a picture would bear similarities to scenes from Leni Riefenstahl’s greatest claim to notoriety, Triumph of The Will.  The film preserved for all time the Nazi Party Congress at Nuremberg in September 1934.  This was a scant 21 months after the star of the congress, Adolf Hitler, became Chancellor of the German government.  

Okay, so the number of months from the President’s ascension to power to a possible event which could seal his absolute rule over the country doesn’t exactly match Hitler’s rise.

To be fair, Hitler had a much smaller geographic territory to work with, and he didn’t have a persnickety Nancy Pelosi nipping at his heels.  Still, I think my comparison is apt. 

To be clear, the President may have, at this point, as many followers as Hitler did in 1934.  Still, this does not represent the majority. Then, as now, both men have rabid and loyal followers who will obey no matter how morally corrupt the leaders are, while the rest of the world recoils in horror.

Perhaps the rest of us should stop recoiling and just strike in the name of democracy.

(Thank you for reading.  Happy Mother’s Day to all Moms!)

Sunday, May 05, 2019

Sunday Morning Post (V.1; #15) - Recovering from An Afternoon Party

As Berthe sang in Pippin:

“Give me a night that’s romantic and long/And give me a month to get ready”

I was reminded of these words this morning as we both awoke to sore knees, recovering from a great time in Center City Philadelphia yesterday.  The occasion was an alignment of the stars which found a few blogger friends* able to get together for drinks, a meal, and great conversation.  The challenge was getting there, but damn it was worth it!

Warrior Queen and I both have mobility issues due to arthritis.  We are both able to walk short distances without the aid of a cane, but we find the rod to be a good insurance against falls. 

This was complicated yesterday by platform construction at our nearest SEPTA train stop.   The train is not coming to this station (in reality a cement platform with a lean-to for a shelter) until the construction is completed. We had to drive to a station about a mile away which is currently serving as the last stop on the line.  

We parked, only to find the train starting not on our side of the station where it should have been for trains going into the city.  Thus, we had to reach the other side via an underpass: down three flights, walk through a short passage reeking of urine (an offensive aroma common to all SEPTA stations), and up three flights of steps at the other side of the platform.   We took a few breaks along the route, but we finally were able to board the train.

The part I had been dreading — the walk from the station platform to the hotel where we were to meet up — was actually much easier than I thought it would be.  We went up one escalator which was fortunately up and running (there is a God), across the station to an elevator where we ascended to the main grand hall of the Pennsylvania Convention Center.  I interrupt my narrative for this fun fact: the hall doubled as a Philadelphia International Airport terminal for the climatic scene in Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys. 
From here, it was a walk through a bridge to the Marriott Hotel where our friends awaited our arrival.  It had been a while since we’ve been downtown.  The largest change I noticed was a two-story high Times-Square-style video screen directly across the street from the Convention Center.  Whatever would William Penn think of such over-the-top consumerism?
We briefly met in the hotel lobby, quickly decided on lunch at Maggiano’s Little Italy across the street, and took a leisurely stroll to the restaurant. I think it is safe to say that a good time was had by all, although Warrior Queen did nurse her single gin and tonic for the entire meal.  We parted ways at the train station, virtually retraced our steps at our train station after a relaxing ride, and returned home exhausted from our adventure.

It was a good type of exhaustion to feel at the end of the day.  We had actually done something other than just go to work and come home just to watch life pass by our living room window.  As Pippin reminds us, the good times will pass in no time at all.  Best to grab every opportunity we can while we can, and I hope another opportunity to share with these friends comes again soon.

*Fearsome Beard and his husband Ken, Mistress Maddie, Warrior Queen, and myself. 

(Thank you for reading.  Berthe, we feel your pain.)