Cloister Commentary, Day 285: Futzin’

One thing we’ve started to do frequently at this stage in the pandemic is just sit at the kitchen table, listen to music, have beers and futz around (browsing the Internet, reading the paper, sharing opinions, and planning plans for when we can plan again). We did that for a few hours yesterday and I really enjoyed it. I must have had one beer too many, as, realizing my experiment in self-denial is about to begin and hearing Nicole’s words (“You do realize I’M not asking you to do this, right?”) pinging off the inner walls of my skull, I tipsy-bought, um, a few music items. I do not really need a “Gary Stewart King of the Honky Tonk” ballcap, but one’s on the way.

My long-time pal Kenny Wright was doing some cleaning yesterday and discovered that, over the years, I’d made him around 200 mixtapes (cassettes, that is). And those are just the ones I made him. I really, really miss the process of making those; I still have a working cassette deck and some blank tapes, so I thought I’d just make one for kicks. Then I had another beer instead.

Show Me a state that has a wilder, more avid predilection than Misery does for schmucky, supercilious, workout-obsessed white men who prove over and over that you can emerge from an Ivy League school (or the military) principle- and character-free, and I’ll…never mind, don’t.

Streaming for Survivors:

For Kenny, Nathan, and all other celebrants.

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