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As my birthdays go, yesterday was about as good as it ever gets. That makes two pleasant birthdays in a row, and for that I have Spooky to thank. And I am also grateful to everyone who wished me well via Facebook and LiveJournal and Twitter and email yesterday. Spooky cooked a marvelous lasagna, and she game me a cool Deinochierus figurine, a cryptozoology merit badge (!), and what might be the most wonderful Blade Runner-related gift ever (see photo below). And then, last night, we watched John Nguyen's 2016 documentary, David Lynch: The Art Life. If I had to suffer the indignity of turning 53, at least all these things eased the jolt. So, why do I love Kathryn? She makes me birthday lasagna, that's why. Oh, and because she was only ten the first time she read The Haunting of Hill House. That, too.

Unfortunately, today has sucked mightily, pretty much stem to stern, as if the universe feels I was given a little too much slack yesterday and it must now double down and make up for the oversight. And so it goes.

Today is Harlan Ellison's 83rd birthday. My Grandmother Ramey would have been 103 today. And Spooky brother, Fred, turned 39.

I see people online saying shit like "We don't have to accept the presidential line of succession. We could call for new elections. It's not a foregone conclusion." Yes, it is, you stupid, bleating assholes, and yes, we do have to accept the line of succession. That's the law. It's in the Constitution. In the US presidential election, you don't get do-overs. Ever. No, not even when the Republican candidate is guilty of collusion with Putin and Russian hackers and Wikileaks. We have to accept the line of succession, and we have to pray the damage that has been done to the system is not irreparable. You just know these are the assholes who refused to "participate in a corrupt system" and so helped land us in this present shitstorm. The most laughable thing about those fuckers is they believe there can ever be a system free of corruption, though one has never yet existed in all of human history.

Four posts from Facebook yesterday:

~ What is this race to be defined, to be boxed in? I am not defined by my sexuality, or by my gender, or my race, or my mental illness, or by my physical disabilities, or my bad teeth, or my insomnia, or my addiction, or my hillbilly childhood, or my atheism, or my generation, or my belief in the Democratic Party, or the pronouns that are used to describe me. None of these things are sufficient, but only possessed of a certain fluctuating piecemeal relevance. I am not a bisexual writer or a transsexual writer or white writer or a liberal writer or a schizophrenic writer or a Southern writer or a female writer or an atheist writer or a boomer writer or an evolutionist writer or an impoverished writer, though I am, to whatever degree, surely all of those things. But you choose one, and you hang it on me, and you are inevitably telling a lie by omission.

~ A 53rd birthday wish: I sincerely hope to live long enough to see American conservative thought evolve once again into something more sophisticated than "Spank the libtards and make them cry."

~ One of the few upsides to getting older is that I find I care less and less whom I piss off and why. If I am becoming a curmudgeon, so be it. I've damn well earned the epithet.

~ Here on my 53rd birthday, I am profoundly grateful to have been born when I was, in 1964, and to have had the food fortune of a childhood free of computers and the internet and video games and social media, grateful not to be a "digital native," not to have grown up "plugged in." God, I miss that world. Call it nostalgia if you wish, but it's something far deeper.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast

5:28 p.m.


( 4 comments — Have your say! )
May. 28th, 2017 03:57 am (UTC)
My birthdate. Growing up in Ohio we played outside, climbed trees and built forts, rode bikes, got hurt, caught newts (back when there were newts- they seem to be gone now), built exquisite model cars then blew them up with firecrackers. I read Jules Verne and Sir A.C. Doyle. Of course there were dinosaurs- family was from PA, so the Carnegie. I started wearing glasses at age 10. Happy birthday my dear!
May. 28th, 2017 03:59 am (UTC)
Re: 1961

Mark Orr
May. 28th, 2017 08:37 pm (UTC)
Born 1958. When I was a kid, if you didn't have at least one skinned knee a week, you weren't doing childhood correctly. We explored in the woods between school and home, zoomed down hills on bikes or sleds or skateboards, caught crawdads in the creeks around our neighborhood, climbed trees and rock faces, built twig forts for our G.I. Joes. We had three channels plus PBS, until Nashville got its first UHF station in 1967. Comic books were twelve cents, cokes a dime, baseball cards a nickel a pack. I'd cheerfully give up my computer to just once race home after school again to watch Dark Shadows, followed by The Creature from the Black Lagoon on The Big Show on Channel 5.
May. 29th, 2017 06:23 am (UTC)
Mark/1971 Chevy Kingswood Estate Station Wagon
For commenter Mark- You, Sir, are apparently my bruthah from anothah mothah. God I am a dork. Absolutely spot on childhood- unless you are pulling splinters from somewhere you are not doing it right...?! It's a miracle we're alive. Should realistically have made some kind of fatal error in my teen years. Nearly died at 14 when my older brother, 16, got his license. Took out the old Chevy Station Wagon, got it up to 90 mph, lost control, skidded to a smoking stop 4 feet from a fucking telephone pole. Passenger side- my side. Well. Yes, I am stoned as fuck on Hashish.
( 4 comments — Have your say! )