TOBY PETZOLD

On two separate occasions today, I was essentially coerced into eating when I did not want to. A soft coercion, you may be sure —delivered by two of the women in my life— but bullysome, anyhow.

The first woman is a lady I know from work who very much wanted me to go get her lunch from a nearby hamburger joint. She had a two-for-one coupon and didn’t flinch when I reminded her of the wonderfulness of their onion rings. But it was early yet and I hadn’t really been done with my breakfast all that long before. I didn’t want to go, but what the hell? She could go and get it herself, but we’re already clear on the fact that I am Her Sap and have been for some time. Who knows why such soft sadism and somewhat harder masochism is the coin of our silly realm?

So I go and get the burgers. And the onion rings. It was her birthday yesterday, see.

The second woman is my mother. She wanted to meet for dinner after I got off work. But I had literally just finished eating my lunch when she called to make that plan and I didn’t want to think about food at just that moment. Amazing for a great big fat man, but it is so! And, really, I was thinking I might eat later on in the evening after a certain project around here got worked on. One way or the other, though, we were going to eat, even if we hadn’t yet settled on a restaurant.

And why was it so important for her to have dinner with her son? Just so she could share her generosity, even refusing to let me touch the bill! But I had already repaid her by interrogating her over a particular point and probably angering her a little bit. Not for long, though. I love my mother and I just want her to be happy. In fact, she gets a residual check every time that sentiment gets expressed to or for any of her boys, so I may as well get in on the racket, too.

As my Daddy used to say, some of us just can’t stand the prosperity.

It’s almost beyond belief, but there’s a report going around that

Dozens of Syrian military officers and Iranian engineers were killed about two months ago in an a chemical weapons accident, Jane’s Magazine reported Monday, revealing new details on the incident which took place in a secret weapons facility.

According to the report by the British magazine, the explosion occurred early in the morning on July 26, in a factory in the city of Halab, as the officers were attempting to mount a chemical warhead with mustard gas on a Scud-C missile.

A fire which started in the missile’s engine led to an explosion near a storage location of chemical substances. The blast spread lethal chemical agents, including mustard gas, VX gas and sarin nerve gas, which are considered extremely toxic and are banned for use according to international treaties.

If true, it will be necessary in the very near future for Nancy Pelosi’s friend to see his capital reduced to rubble.

It’s over, Assad. Know that, if this report is confirmed, it’s over for you. 

The Devil was beating his wife today while I was at work. That’s always a very strange —and somehow counterintuitive— sight to behold.

“The summer of aught-seven was the damnedest one I ever saw,” they’ll say.

“I reckon so,” I’ll say.

(Last night was a farmer’s moon, my marmoset.)

Just got back from visiting with my Great Aunt Lescia up in Georgetown. She’ll be 89 Tuesday, but since I can’t be around for anything she might be doing then, I had to get my time in with her today. She’s a great old gal in the West Texas fashion and still going strong.

If I weren’t a fool, I’d get myself up there some day when it’s just me and her and chat her up about the old days with pen and paper. She’s always telling me to, but that’s one of the curses of relative youth: a tendency to invincible procrastination.

If only there were some consequence!

Went and stood by Mrs. Johnson’s coffin for a moment very early this morning.

Her attendants from the entrance on up were preternaturally gentle and calm, which made an impression on me. As did the dawning light and the orange glow of the Tower.

That’s hers and mine, see.

Thank you for adding to the beauty of Texas in the springtime, madame.

And you remain the essence of elegance, kindness, and charm. 

Good night, Mrs. Johnson.

Setting: Me and another semi-country boy. Earlier this evening. In the parking lot at Target. Stopping in my tracks to look up into a beautiful Texas sky and behold a fantastic storm migrating to the northwest. The whole, sobering grey and blue palette.

Pardner, passing by: Don’t look good.

Me: Purdy, though.

I didn’t get to watch The Sopranos series finale on Sunday with the rest of the country because I was watching Game Two of the NBA Finals, but I lucked out and caught a repeat last night.

I’m not upset —or passionate in any way— about the sudden cut-to-black-and-silence ending of this great show because I stopped being passionate about The Sopranos a long time ago. When it did occur to me to catch an episode, it was mostly to catch up with them as a family and to respect the totality of David Chase’s vision. Whatever else there is to say about his show, one must say it was damned good television.

Anyhow, the best thing about the whole episode is Paulie’s relationship with the cat that comes to live with them when they go to the mattresses. Paulie stays permanently freaked out by the cat because of its bizarre obsession with Christopher’s portrait. And with Paulie himself. The shot of this beautiful orange tabby’s almost-human expression as it gazes on the portrait —followed by Paulie’s entrance and ridiculous overreaction to him— is a total riot. I was practically breathless with laughter.

Oh, well. The show’s over. But at least there’s all those fond memories of Lorraine Bracco’s fantastic legs.

Thanks to the equally indispensable Charles Johnson, have a listen to our former ambassador to the United Nations (at this link at Little Green Footballs).

It is nine or so minutes of John Bolton utterly, unambiguously, and remorselessly kicking the ass of some neo-hippie BBC Radio reporter. Bolton is almost literary in his succinction.

You cannot miss this.

The Kentucky Derby means nothing to me. I think I’m glad that it exists as an event in American cultural and historical tradition, and that it gives people who are interested in it pleasure and employment, but watching horses race is something so alien to my own experience that I cannot make myself care about it whatsoever.

I love horses, though. I rode a few back in probably the summer of 1979. They are beautiful animals and they have played such a crucial role in the past half-millennium of Western —and certainly American— history that our lives are inconceivable without them.

But to watch horses race on the TV? No, thanks.