We preempt tonight’s post…

… for Castle and crochet. Back later.

An edict from My Holiness

So I’ve been thinking with increasing irritation about that perennial conundrum-within-an-enigma-which-actually-isn’t-that-difficult-at-all: the separation of church and state, this time in the context of gay marriage. And it just gets more annoying the more headspace I give it.

Look, I firmly believe that the followers of any given religion have the perfect right to include, exclude and/or vilify anyone they choose. I further believe that their right to express their group disapproval stops absolutely short of causing their chosen bugaboo any actual harm… as in, breaking the laws enacted by the larger secular state in order to protect all its citizens.  Those laws, we hope, evolve in specificity and efficacy as our understanding of what constitutes demonstrable societal or individual harm evolves as well.

Movies, movies everywhere

and not one damn thing I truly want to see. A few possibilities, minus the ones we’ll never agree on. Let’s see. Top ten at the box office this week…

Michael Jackson’s This Is It: aging drugged-out pedophile rehearses for concert that never happened. From all reports, his nose does not fall off. Nothing to see there.

A lexicon of beaglery.

Today my Facebook friend Deanna posted a link to this article in the NYT: “Good Dog, Smart Dog,” a look at changing ideas about the cognitive abilities of the canine set, the point being that, hey, they might be smarter than those brainiac science-types thought.  My layperson reaction? “Finally, some scientists who actually live with dogs.”

A beagle I once knew and still love (not a breed that ever makes the “smartest” list, by the way) would purposely sit and stare intently at our French doors, squeak to go outside, let the younger male mutt assert his dominance by rushing out first as the door opened… and then drop to the ground to indicate that she wanted to stay in, thank you. As soon as the door closed, she would hop to her feet, head to the middle of the rug and do the rolling, squirming dance of beagle joy as the mutt stared bleakly inside through the glass, gaslighted yet again into losing possession of the indoor realm.

Do dogs think? Of course they do, about dog things and in dog ways. That beagle changed my ideas of the capabilities of canine manipulation and the effects of sheer doggie force of personality. We developed an entirely new vocabulary to describe the machinations of The Beagle Known as Alice.

Ague and goiters and boils, oh my.

One thing I knew about walking pneumonia:

• You can sing it to the tune of “Waltzing Mathilda.” Similarly, “diverticulitis” scans beautifully to “Gary, Indiana” from The Music Man.

Two things I didn’t know about walking pneumonia:

• It is not merely a vernacular reference to an undefined group of diseases; it is in fact a generally accepted name for a specific atypical pneumococcal virus.
• I have it.

Which gives me medically-sanctioned and spousally-enforced time to rest, recover and ponder other things, like: what about all those other folksy disease names? The ones from Chaucer through Shakespeare and well into Wodehouse, a vast array with which I am casually acquainted but not intimately familiar? “Chilblains,” said the husband, and I replied, “Frostbite… maybe? Hmmm.”

A poem, by me.

nil desperandum

if legitimate news only gives you the blues
and to cogitate causes distress
if crazed peroration fills you with elation
and bile never fails to impress

if your pupils dilate during civil debate
as you long for a rushian screed
and the times and the post and the bleeding heart host
are far too much trouble to read

no need to be glum, simply wriggle your thumb
as you point at the idiot box
let the clicking device transport you in a trice
to the magical land of the fox

where a mad hatter shrewd comes adroitly unglued
(though he’s trapped in falafel fixation)
while a sweaty white rabbit of opioid habit
weeps loud at the fate of the nation

where a grin and good hair keep a cat on the air
long after his claws have worn thin
where evangelic glee plus a jesus degree
will soothe your election chagrin

ah, that land of ideals where the women wear heels
and no one that you know is gay
and the problems you face disappear without trace
if to the right godhead you pray

so be of good cheer, have a (domestic) beer
as polemic lulls worry away
for the evil and lazy and thriftless and crazy
must be kept well in hand and at bay

your job may be shaky, your pulse a bit quaky
your child to the left might still stray
but if you take care to sound like papa bear
you are not one of them.
for today.

Countdown/countup: 13 to 39.

Look. No, watch – closely and with attention. A wig, colored mud and oil, a pair of gloves… a different person. Anyone you choose. What power.

And possibly within reach. But not yet. Not at 13.

Little did I know. Fast forward…

Still considering NaBloPoMoooo…

Commitment? Meh.

Commitment? Good for me.

Commitment? Probably inevitable at some point.

Cogitating.

Still here.

So is my favorite song. So is my favorite songwriter. That has to be good, right?

Armadillo armadillo.

Named for the biggest fan I know of all things Texan. And the pattern’s on Etsy.