crowdedonavelvetcushion.wordpress.com

It’s Never Easy.

I see that I had no visitors to my site this month. I thought, “GOOD.” I don’t need no fucking visitors.

I started this blog (or whatever it’s called) mostly just to talk to myself…but in a kind of formal format which I could come back and visit from time to time to see what I had been thinking. I don’t really care what most other people are thinking.

I don’t know everything, but I know a heck of a lot more than 95% of the people on this planet know…and that’s a low estimate. It’s probably about 98%.

I certainly know more than Trump knows (even though I voted for the guy twice) but I don’t want to get into politics right now (or maybe ever.)

Then I realized it’s only June 2nd. So I had no visitors to my site in 2 days. Big deal! I get no comfort from that information.

Back in the day, I used to have a website (or blog or whatever) of the same name…”Crowdedonavelvetcushion.com) (see Henry David Thoreau for clarification) but my website got grabbed by a furniture company or whatever, that sold velvet cushions. It turned out I had not bought the “rights” to the name of my blog.

Then I bought the name of my blog back, and here I am.

In my old blog I used to give ‘Book of the Year’ awards…(generally $100.00). I don’t think I’ll do that again because modern books are mostly crap about transexuals and people having their feelings hurt or whatever. I’m mostly reading old books these days. Lately, I’ve been reading Boccaccio’s Decameron (it’s been fun, but it’s becoming repetitive) and Dante’s Divine Comedy…(Interesting, but too easy to put down and neglect to come back to).

I keep getting interrupted by the government (I overpay my taxes, and that makes them write me letters) or by today’s soft Communists (my Homeowners’ Association).

Speaking of my HOA, let me tell you the latest…

I was issued a Violation. (OMG!) it turns out that some shrubberies in my front yard were being “stressed.” (I kid you not.). (Call out the Monty Python crew immediately!)

After passing out, and coming to my senses, I drank a glass of cold water and gathered my wits about me. And I went to my laptop to learn about stressed shrubberies…

It turns out that some ‘scientists’ had come up with this brilliant idea of putting special microphones next to plants to see if plants could talk. (I pray that Musk didn’t defund this important work)…and lo & behold…Yes, plants talk! Of particular importance, they discovered that plants ‘cry’ when they are distressed.

I didn’t want to make anyone cry…not even my shrubberies. So I investigated to see what I could do.

It turns out you can buy stuff to spray on your plants to keep them happy. You have to spray beneath the leaves as well as on top of the leaves. Also spray the earth at the base of the plants just to be sure.

So I right away went to my Amazon page and I read about the various sprays. Some are made of fish poop. I wasted no time. I bought the fish poop stuff and a spray bottle. First I ordered some alternative stuff, but the delivery date was too far into the future…I needed to help my shrubberies a.s.a.p.

More…Later.

I fully expect to be found lying dead at the base of my cluster mailbox one day soon. I collect my mail at the rise of dawn, and the temperature will be under 100 degrees for a few minutes. (I’m writing this in August)

I have no idea of what time of day the USPS truck will show up to collect the outgoing mail, but since I’ll be dead it won’t really matter.

My neighbors won’t notice me lying here. They will remain safely hidden in their air-conditioned homes. Coyotes have been spotted on our streets, but it will probably be too hot for those guys to come sniffing around. Requiescat in pace, Michael.

When I was in High School, our Principle, Brother Raymond, once showed us pictures of the bodies of his co-freres, lying dead on the floor of a church in the Philippeans. The heat in the church had built up over the days while Brother Raymond had hidden from the Japanese soldiers beneath the main altar in the church. The bodies of the dead Christian Brothers had swollen up and had burst through their cassocks in spots. It scared the shit out of us postulants.

If I were designing the cover of a paperback murder mystery novel describing my death by mailbox, it would picture an old guy in short pants (tan) and a white T-shirt, lying face up, sprawled out on the sidewalk.

My mailbox key would lie by my right hand. My left hand might be clutching my cellphone which I had just used to call 911 for an ambulance after having suffered a possible stroke. My shopping cart would be at my feet.

My life has been good. But my cluster mailbox finally did me in.