SCOTUS

I was actually, physically, in San Francisco (2008) when Proposition 8 came to a vote.  I was so confident it would fail that when it didn’t it was a heart breaking, stomach churning sensation.  Prop. 8 was supposed to be the next small step in the path to equality.  At least my basic cynicism served me well at the time and I was able to shake it off over a huge Giant’s Burger at Bill’s Place (the burger is named after the SF baseball team and includes avocado).  Oh, well, thinks I at the time; this issue will never be settled to my satisfaction in my lifetime.  So, today, I was prepared to seek out the nearest greasy-spoon burger-joint to drown my woes, pending the outcome of the SCOTUS ruling on same sex marriage.

Five to four in favor!  WooHOO!  Super-size the fries!

However, I feel like I have to call out the dissenters:   Alito, Kennedy, Scalia, and Thomas.  Now and forever their legacies will reflect their path on the wrong side of history and the extent of their hypocrisy, cold-heartedness and, yes, plain old stupidity.  I’ve listed them alphabetically but, putting them in reverse order, I want to especially call out Justice Thomas to look at himself in the mirror.   Yes, I’m probably being a tad racist here but I think he is a disgrace to his.

Minions!

Yesterday I bought a mirror and a shower-curtain liner at Bed Bath & Beyond (using a 20%-off coupon) and, upon checkout, was confronted by an impulse-buy display of the new Minions tic tacs.  Of course I had to buy all three to the extravagant tune of $2.99 each (minus 20%).  The clerk said, “These are just flying off the shelves.”  Little wonder:   I went to Google to steal this photo of them and discovered they are already collector’s items and are being offered for a starting bid of $25.99 on eBay (Rare!).  Another marketing phenomenon in the making.  The set of three are named Bob, Stuart and Kevin and they are adorable.  I do not plan on collecting them.  In fact, as we speak, I’m deciding on which one to suck.

Hold your hand my lord!

Back in the mists of time when I was not aware of my acting limitations I auditioned for a production of King Lear at the Marin Shakespeare Festival in California.  I had the ambition to play either Edmund or Edgar and prepared accordingly.  I thought my audition went well but my hopes came crashing down (probably a good thing) when the roles went to other, probably more qualified, Shakespearean actors.  I was, however, offered the role of the servant who objects vociferously when the Duke of Cornwall (Lear’s daughter Regan’s spouse) attacks the venerable Gloucester with the intention of blinding the poor old Earl.  Some rousing swordplay ensues and the servant succeeds in mortally wounding the Duke but makes the bad mistake of turning his back on Regan, who viciously stabs the poor wretch in the back, dispatching him forthwith.  So what do I do?

I accepted the part because it is meaty and action-filled, albeit small and short lived (literally) and I got to murder a major character and then get murdered in turn by yet another major player, but this time by the hand of a hysterical, venomous woman.  As directed there was lots of screaming and screeching Hitchcockian sound effects because the Duke, before he dies of the wounds I inflicted upon him (despite my best efforts), completes his goal of gouging out Gloucester’s eyes.   Sturm und Drang!  I did this 45 (or so) times that summer and loved it every time despite the fact that the actress playing Regan got more and more out of control and my poor back and shoulder paid the price for her brand of “method” acting.  Black and Blue!  And then there were torn tights from being dragged off-stage with unseemingly alacrity because the bodies and the gore had to be cleaned up during a 15-second blackout.  I’m getting stimulated just thinking about it.

This core memory is brought to you by “Station Eleven” by Emily St. John Mandel, a novel that kicks off almost immediately with the death of a world-renowned actor on stage during a performance of King Lear.  From there the plot goes post-apocalyptic and a traveling theater group called the Traveling Symphony is performing Shakespeare in the country side around Toronto and points south across the Canadian border around Lake Michigan.  The plot jumps back and forth in time (over a 20 year period) and pulls together the stories of several survivors against the backdrop of Shakespeare and classical music.  It’s whiz bang mostly with, of course, a major villain whose story is also tied into the final denouement.

By sheer coincidence the next book in line was “The Millionaire and the Bard,” by Andrea Mays, which is biographical and tells the story of oil baron Henry Folger and his quest to collect as many of Shakespeare’s First Folios as possible.  The first four chapters are sort of a Cliff Notes version of Shakespeare’s life and times and what was going on historically during the years of his prominence in theatrical environs of London and the subsequent gathering (several years after his death) of his written word(s) which made up what eventually became the first folios.  It was a miracle, really, that it ever happened.  The personal history of Folger and, finally, his obsession with collecting (hoarding?) the folios make up the rest of the book.

During the reading of both of these books I was pleased to have at hand my own personal copy of the collected works of WS.  Because of my early connection to King Lear in particular and Shakespeare’s other work in general it was cool to be able to refer to the original text.  Dare I admit that this evening before bed I murmured Edmund’s “letter” speech to the echoing tiles in my bathroom?

Strike 3

Chris Christie is a horrible person.  He is a bully and a hypocrite and he shouldn't be governor of anything, even one of the most politically corrupt states in the union, New Jersey.   Consequently, I feel no guilt for reprinting this photo.  This person should not run for POTUS.  Not because he is willing to look ridiculous for a charity event but he should at least have some respect for the office to which he aspires.

Polly

This is Polly.  Polly is man-sitting me while her normal human slave is out of town for a few days.  Polly and I have become good chums; she takes me for nice walks and insists on sleeping in her own bunk.  I think, if I play my cards right, she will file for divorce and come live with me soon.  This would probably not work out (for me) because Polly has a private pool in her back yard, a large hot tub and an outdoor shower.   I have none of these things.

Marlin Salad Sandwich

I am well aware that my waist size has blossomed a bit with the passing years and, of course, my ass has followed suit.  Not that I’m particularly upset by this but it has become an issue in that I’m now aware of the pros and cons of seating offered in both public and private venues.  Through a combination of peer pressure, a desire for some compatible camaraderie, and some intellectual and/or architectural curiosity I agreed to attend a Miami Marlins baseball game so I could give their brand new stadium a gander.

The camaraderie was good, it was fun being in a jock-strewn environment and, finally, once I was able to scare up a decent brand of beer (Heineken) instead of the swill (Bud Lite) that pervades the hawkers of that time honored beverage, it (the game) was an enjoyable couple of hours.  The Marlins won and I actually enjoyed seeing the better known athletes of the Chicago Cubs in the flesh.  Also the Marlins have a brilliant young phenom in their young second baseman Dee Gordon and it was great to see him blossoming.  Since the roof is retractable and it was closed, we were snug and dry in our seats.  What we were not was comfortable.

The new stadium came in at a mind-boggling cost of $550 million.  It is an interesting building but I think they spent $549 of all of those zeroes on that spectacular retractable roof.  But, hey, what happened to the other million?  Who is responsible for how cheesy the interior looks?  The choice of colors for the outfield walls (puke green)…really?

That weird “sculpture” in center field that mechanically acknowledges Marlins home runs is so kitschy your eyes water.  Most importantly, whose idea was it to chop two or three inches off every seat width?  The stadium has a capacity of 37,544 but not for any “semi-normal” butt size.  We were lucky the joint was way less than half full (I guess I should mention here that the Marlins are not a very good team so the attendance figures are pretty grim).  So the seven of us were able to spread out over the nearest seats as whim drove us.  I don’t recall ever feeling like a sardine at any other sports venue I’ve ever been to; and I’ve been in lots of them around the globe.  The seats are some sort of dark-ish blue plastic resin and are already starting to show some wear and tear.

So, as I said, it was a nice evening but you can bet your ass it’s not likely I will be clenching my buttocks together anytime soon at Marlins Stadium.