So, it appears that I've been more than a little remiss in keeping up with this blog. I notice my last post occurred more than a year ago. Ye gods, time flies when you're..... Well, never mind. We all know what kind of year 2020 has been, although I really don't have an excuse for being MIA any time before March of this year. I fell down on the job. Let's leave it at that. Thankfully, as of this writing, neither C nor myself have come down with COVID-19, nor have any of our immediate families. While I can't say that all our friends have been so lucky, so far they're managing to hang in there. But, what a cluster fuck this has been! From the government's abject failure to adequately respond to this pandemic to the unspeakable selfishness of some Americans refusing to wear a mask to Trump's hourly assaults on democratic institutions, the news has been bleak. Adding fuel to the fire are the ongoing murders of unarmed civilians by police officers, and the large-scale protests that justifiably followed. Now that Trump, William Barr and Chad Wolf have installed DHS officers in American cities to quell the alleged "rioting", it feels more than ever like we're heading down an Orwellian rabbit hole of authoritarianism. The 2020 election is down to 100 days away, more or less, but I dread to think of what kind of Trump-divined shithole we may be inhabiting by then. Oh, and to top it off, Olivia de Havilland died in Paris yesterday and she was 104 years old, a great actress and one of the last survivors of Hollywood's Golden Age (although, truthfully, there have been several). Jesus H. Christ, a person could get depressed with all this going on. I only wish I'd opted to buy a travel trailer and pickup truck when I was thinking about it last year. At least we'd be parked in some shady oasis next to a lake in rural New England. Instead, we're hunkered down in our small condo, surrounded on every side by the masses of Broward County and a lurking, invisible virus that was allowed to spread unchecked by a greedy pig of a governor whose only real agenda has been to see how far he can crawl up Donald Trump's ass without losing focus on "the base". Well, you know what? Fuck the base! And fuck the maskholes! Fuck Donald J. Trump and his entire administration, and fuck Florida Governor Ron DeSantis! And while I'm at it, fuck the DHS for acting like a modern-day Gestapo sent out from the fires of hell to wreak havoc on their FELLOW AMERICANS! Oh, and still yet, fuck the fucking bad cops, and the indifferent cops who stood by doing nothing while their colleagues murdered, abused and violated the very people they were sworn to protect; without you, the situations in Portland, Seattle, Minneapolis, and countless other American cities and towns would not have been possible. Or necessary, you heartless, spineless fucks.
Okay, now that we've covered the state of the nation and those who are ruining it, let me segue to a different topic that will eventually segue back here. Actually, I'll have to think awhile on this one, so preoccupied have I been for months and months on end with, well, all that pus and blood oozing from the festering wound that is modern-day America. No recent travel stories to dazzle my throngs of fans (all 2 of you) since we haven't been out of the county since early March. Hell, we've barely been out of the house. It was fortuitous that we were able to make our nearly-yearly pilgrimage to Savannah last Christmas. I am not big on religion but we make it a point to attend Midnight Mass at Savannah's venerable, 100+ year old Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in the historic district whenever we are there. Something about the incense and the songs and the Catholic mass always soothes my spirit, steering my entire being towards a state of sweet-smelling Nirvana. That is, until the spell is inevitably broken by the unfolding of the kneeling benches, and the subsequent torture that follows. It's hell on the knees.
However, if I'd known on Christmas Eve what the near-future had in store, I'd have certainly said a few more Hail Mary's during the service. As it turns out, it couldn't have hurt. There was actually an omen of impending disaster that presented itself as we walked through the foggy Savannah streets towards the cathedral that evening. Our hotel, an overpriced "historic" affair that needed both updating and a thorough cleaning (and probably an exorcism), was located some distance from the church and we'd decided to walk to Midnight Mass rather than deal with parking the car, and all that ensuing drama. A block from the hotel we saw barely discernible figures moving furtively in front of us; the glow from the street lamps made the forms seem like phantasms darting to and fro in the mist. For those who don't know, Savannah is considered to be the most haunted city in America and even if you don't believe in the existence of ghosts, the atmosphere there presents a convincing enough case. Ahead of us, a man's voice could be heard shouting about demons in the pit. He said the voices inside his head had informed him that it wouldn't be long before the demons were unleashed upon the world and that they had to be killed. The nearer we got, the louder the man railed. By the time we saw him standing on the corner near a former movie theater, it was clear that he was playing to an audience of one--himself. He did not appear to be an old man but he was undoubtedly off his meds (so we thought), and with his flattened out cardboard box spread across the sidewalk, he was presumably homeless. More than anything, the man, with his consistently frantic bellowing, projected an aura of immediate danger. I was thankful that he was on the opposite side of the street and, as we passed, he kept a baleful watch on us, even as the rant continued.
I was reminded of a time when we were in Barcelona, a couple of years earlier. It was June and already very hot. The throngs of tourists and the close proximity of the buildings in the Gotico Barrio precluded any opportunity of an errant breeze wafting inland from the bay. Hoping to find some shade and, possibly, a cool drink, C and I darted through an archway between two imposing edifices and came upon a large plaza filled with tables of people and an open cafe. We immediately attracted the attention of a thirtyish, very handsome man wearing a tricorn hat, of all things. His sleeveless shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a muscular, tanned torso covered in black hair. As we moved to look at some of the wares displayed in booths scattered along the plaza's perimeter, the man began to toss little pieces of wrapped candy at us. Somehow he must have deduced that we were "family" and was making an awkward ploy to get our attention: most likely, I thought, he was a colorful gigolo who made his living from the attention of the plentiful male tourists in the area. His appearance over-emphasized a macho quality that has become an outdated stereotype these days; he gave an even stronger impression of not being quite all there. The more we moved away from him, the more items he tossed at us, and the larger they became. When a full can of Sprite landed a couple of feet away, my mood turned from bemusement to irritation. He got our attention but, perhaps, not the kind he wanted. I scowled back at him and a look of absolute fury darkened his face while he began moving towards us. Steering C in the other direction, I kept a close watch to make sure the man didn't get too close. After all, who was to say if he had a large knife underneath his ridiculous hat, or stuffed down one of his boots (his black pants, already generously packed, were way too tight to fit anything else into them). Prodding C to move faster and stop dilly-dallying at various booths, I remained vigilant, constantly looking over my shoulder to see that the man wasn't behind us. When I finally looked back and saw that he was nowhere in sight, I breathed a sigh of relief. C had stopped to look at a tub of drinks by this time. Just then, I happened to glance behind me and there was the man in the tricorn hat, literally right on my heels. He had materialized out of nowhere and there was a look of madness in his eyes. Was he some crazed Spanish homophobe who just happened to be decked out in sexy pirate regalia? Who knew? But he was obviously not trying to hustle us, he meant to hurt us, of that I was certain, and now he was practically on top of me. So, not knowing what else to do, I puffed up my chest, doubled my fists and yelled at him at the top of my lungs. Stop following us! The man's swift approach had also apparently caught C's attention because, at the same time, C shouted No! Immediately, the malice left the man's face and he suddenly looked hurt and pitiful. Turning, he hurried off in the other direction and disappeared from the plaza. But, something in his manner, and the look in his eyes, had genuinely disturbed me, and that Christmas in Savannah reminded me of it only because, even after we passed the madman shouting at the demons, I kept looking behind us to make sure he hadn't mistaken us for the awful things he was screaming about.
Now that I think about it, maybe more than anything, he reminds me of The Monster Shouter, a minor (but memorable) character in Stephen King's epic apocalyptic novel, The Stand. Of course, it turned out that the Monster Shouter of Savannah wasn't wrong. There had been evil unleashed, demons who are among us right now. They aren't supernatural entities, at least these aren't, but flesh and blood men and women. A few of their names have already been mentioned in this post, and elsewhere on a more continuous basis. I wonder if there are enough Hail Mary's or backward glances to stem the tide of their apocalypse? I don't know about that. People used to learn lessons by looking back at history. Now, it seems many are incapable of looking outside their own bubbles. As the odious orange turd in the White House would say: sad.
After Midnight Mass, we took the same route as before when we walked back to our hotel. It was nearly 2 a.m. and the fog had mostly cleared. When we got to the Monster Shouter's corner, we saw that he was gone. The local police had probably picked him up, we figured, or else he'd wandered off into someone else's nightmare. The comforting memory of incense still hung in my nostrils when we drove out to Bonaventure Cemetery the next morning. It was a bright Christmas Day, clear and warm, and we felt snug in the golden sunlight as we wandered through the elaborate mazes of statuary, monuments to a civilization that was apparently not, as Margaret Mitchell once wrote, gone with the wind. Later, we stood on the edge of the bluffs watching the Savannah River below as it scrambled towards the sea.
Okay, now that we've covered the state of the nation and those who are ruining it, let me segue to a different topic that will eventually segue back here. Actually, I'll have to think awhile on this one, so preoccupied have I been for months and months on end with, well, all that pus and blood oozing from the festering wound that is modern-day America. No recent travel stories to dazzle my throngs of fans (all 2 of you) since we haven't been out of the county since early March. Hell, we've barely been out of the house. It was fortuitous that we were able to make our nearly-yearly pilgrimage to Savannah last Christmas. I am not big on religion but we make it a point to attend Midnight Mass at Savannah's venerable, 100+ year old Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in the historic district whenever we are there. Something about the incense and the songs and the Catholic mass always soothes my spirit, steering my entire being towards a state of sweet-smelling Nirvana. That is, until the spell is inevitably broken by the unfolding of the kneeling benches, and the subsequent torture that follows. It's hell on the knees.
However, if I'd known on Christmas Eve what the near-future had in store, I'd have certainly said a few more Hail Mary's during the service. As it turns out, it couldn't have hurt. There was actually an omen of impending disaster that presented itself as we walked through the foggy Savannah streets towards the cathedral that evening. Our hotel, an overpriced "historic" affair that needed both updating and a thorough cleaning (and probably an exorcism), was located some distance from the church and we'd decided to walk to Midnight Mass rather than deal with parking the car, and all that ensuing drama. A block from the hotel we saw barely discernible figures moving furtively in front of us; the glow from the street lamps made the forms seem like phantasms darting to and fro in the mist. For those who don't know, Savannah is considered to be the most haunted city in America and even if you don't believe in the existence of ghosts, the atmosphere there presents a convincing enough case. Ahead of us, a man's voice could be heard shouting about demons in the pit. He said the voices inside his head had informed him that it wouldn't be long before the demons were unleashed upon the world and that they had to be killed. The nearer we got, the louder the man railed. By the time we saw him standing on the corner near a former movie theater, it was clear that he was playing to an audience of one--himself. He did not appear to be an old man but he was undoubtedly off his meds (so we thought), and with his flattened out cardboard box spread across the sidewalk, he was presumably homeless. More than anything, the man, with his consistently frantic bellowing, projected an aura of immediate danger. I was thankful that he was on the opposite side of the street and, as we passed, he kept a baleful watch on us, even as the rant continued.
I was reminded of a time when we were in Barcelona, a couple of years earlier. It was June and already very hot. The throngs of tourists and the close proximity of the buildings in the Gotico Barrio precluded any opportunity of an errant breeze wafting inland from the bay. Hoping to find some shade and, possibly, a cool drink, C and I darted through an archway between two imposing edifices and came upon a large plaza filled with tables of people and an open cafe. We immediately attracted the attention of a thirtyish, very handsome man wearing a tricorn hat, of all things. His sleeveless shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a muscular, tanned torso covered in black hair. As we moved to look at some of the wares displayed in booths scattered along the plaza's perimeter, the man began to toss little pieces of wrapped candy at us. Somehow he must have deduced that we were "family" and was making an awkward ploy to get our attention: most likely, I thought, he was a colorful gigolo who made his living from the attention of the plentiful male tourists in the area. His appearance over-emphasized a macho quality that has become an outdated stereotype these days; he gave an even stronger impression of not being quite all there. The more we moved away from him, the more items he tossed at us, and the larger they became. When a full can of Sprite landed a couple of feet away, my mood turned from bemusement to irritation. He got our attention but, perhaps, not the kind he wanted. I scowled back at him and a look of absolute fury darkened his face while he began moving towards us. Steering C in the other direction, I kept a close watch to make sure the man didn't get too close. After all, who was to say if he had a large knife underneath his ridiculous hat, or stuffed down one of his boots (his black pants, already generously packed, were way too tight to fit anything else into them). Prodding C to move faster and stop dilly-dallying at various booths, I remained vigilant, constantly looking over my shoulder to see that the man wasn't behind us. When I finally looked back and saw that he was nowhere in sight, I breathed a sigh of relief. C had stopped to look at a tub of drinks by this time. Just then, I happened to glance behind me and there was the man in the tricorn hat, literally right on my heels. He had materialized out of nowhere and there was a look of madness in his eyes. Was he some crazed Spanish homophobe who just happened to be decked out in sexy pirate regalia? Who knew? But he was obviously not trying to hustle us, he meant to hurt us, of that I was certain, and now he was practically on top of me. So, not knowing what else to do, I puffed up my chest, doubled my fists and yelled at him at the top of my lungs. Stop following us! The man's swift approach had also apparently caught C's attention because, at the same time, C shouted No! Immediately, the malice left the man's face and he suddenly looked hurt and pitiful. Turning, he hurried off in the other direction and disappeared from the plaza. But, something in his manner, and the look in his eyes, had genuinely disturbed me, and that Christmas in Savannah reminded me of it only because, even after we passed the madman shouting at the demons, I kept looking behind us to make sure he hadn't mistaken us for the awful things he was screaming about.
Now that I think about it, maybe more than anything, he reminds me of The Monster Shouter, a minor (but memorable) character in Stephen King's epic apocalyptic novel, The Stand. Of course, it turned out that the Monster Shouter of Savannah wasn't wrong. There had been evil unleashed, demons who are among us right now. They aren't supernatural entities, at least these aren't, but flesh and blood men and women. A few of their names have already been mentioned in this post, and elsewhere on a more continuous basis. I wonder if there are enough Hail Mary's or backward glances to stem the tide of their apocalypse? I don't know about that. People used to learn lessons by looking back at history. Now, it seems many are incapable of looking outside their own bubbles. As the odious orange turd in the White House would say: sad.
After Midnight Mass, we took the same route as before when we walked back to our hotel. It was nearly 2 a.m. and the fog had mostly cleared. When we got to the Monster Shouter's corner, we saw that he was gone. The local police had probably picked him up, we figured, or else he'd wandered off into someone else's nightmare. The comforting memory of incense still hung in my nostrils when we drove out to Bonaventure Cemetery the next morning. It was a bright Christmas Day, clear and warm, and we felt snug in the golden sunlight as we wandered through the elaborate mazes of statuary, monuments to a civilization that was apparently not, as Margaret Mitchell once wrote, gone with the wind. Later, we stood on the edge of the bluffs watching the Savannah River below as it scrambled towards the sea.
Oh my God. Reminded me of the movieRaw Meat we saw in Buffalo many eones ago. But with fortune striking I possess no buttered delicious popcorn to throw on you when the evil monster pounces on you thereby maintaining my dignity without popcorn strewn everywhere. Lol
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