Under Pressure

Because I enjoy trying once in a while to stick it to The (pasty white but stupifyingly wealthy) Man, I am right now attempting to burn a copy of a Linux OS called Freespire. I’ve wanted to try a Linux distribution for some time but have always talked myself out of it; my inner geek only willingly comes out for Battlestar Galactica and movies made from comic books these days. This particular distro is allegedly easy for Windows thralls to use, so I’m gonna give it a shot. I should tell you that I have turned a computer or two into smoking rubble in the past, so if I’m not heard from for awhile (I mean longer than this time), you’ll know why.

It’s snowing. Excellent.

The missus and I watched Tropic Thunder last night. It was offensive AND funny as Hell, and about thirty minutes too long. Robert Downey Jr. received an Oscar nomination for his role, and he won’t win because the Academy doesn’t give major category awards for movies like that, else John Belushi would have won at least one Oscar before he “sniffed the long long line”. Be that as it may, Robert Downey Jr. is actually very convincing as a black man, albeit a black man stuck in 1975, like he’d just gone AWOL from the set of Starsky and Hutch.

I had an appointment with my doctor this last Friday. My blood pressure was 104/70! That was the second time; I asked the nurse (or the blood pressure technician, or the not-the-doctor — I never know) to take it a second time, from the other arm, because I didn’t believe 104/68. I had to ask if this was acceptable because I’d never heard of that first number ever being lower than 120-something unless it was on one of those hospital shows on The Learning Channel where the patient’s blood pressure was low because most of his or her blood was on the floor or on the doctors. I was assured that it was fine, which made me happy because that means I keep taking the hydrochlorothiazide instead of upgrading to one of those medications you see advertized on television where the disclaimer runs longer than the list of benefits for the product itself, and that’s with the voice-over guy talking reallyreallyreallyreallyFAST. (Is it my imagination, or is every other ad on television now for either pharmaceuticals or automobiles?) Anyway, I assume my increased physical activity of late is partially responsible for the decrease in blood pressure, so now I have to ramp up the exercise. I have another follow-up scheduled for May, and I seriously want to be as fit as possible by then.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but the missus just informed me that over half of charitable donations in this country are given by households earning an income of less than $100,000. I hear this kind of thing and just get all Trotsky up in here. It sort of makes me want to fill the first donation barrel I come across, and then pitch it through the windshield of the nearest luxury car. That’s not terribly mature (and I’m actually a big believer in civic order), but I can’t help the way I feel. Maybe there’s hope yet, though. The next eight years (yeah, I said eight) may see this country started on the road toward the revolution it needs.

(By the way, the missus told me this when I went to the kitchen for more coffee. She’s sitting at the dining room table reading the newspaper. She didn’t enter the room like a Valkyrie in an opera proclaiming this bit of information. She’s not given to impromptu announcements of nonsequiter and unsolicited factoids, like “Sixty-one percent of Albanians enjoy Barry Manilow” or “Mites live on eyelashes!”*. That’s usually my thing.)

*This apparently is true, AND, as offered on this website, you can shop for mites at Target!

I’m visiting the gym later this afternoon, where I’ll have to squeeze in with the New Year’s Resolution crowd. You can spot the members of this group easily; they’re the glum-looking ones sitting listlessly on the equipment between sets. Like TEN MINUTES between sets. When I go to the gym I’m a pretty focused guy; I go from machine to machine in one circuit and then go around again. Saves time and keeps me on the move. So when I come across one of these fleshy speed bumps idling on the next machine in my circuit I have to resist the urge to snap them with my towel, particularly if the individual also happens to be talking on a cell phone. What is it about people and these got-damn devices? Are people that afraid to be out of touch for a few freakin’ minutes? If we ever do get nuked I suspect the electro-magnetic pulse with kill half of these idiots due to withdrawal, long before the blast wave reaches them. “Hi, it’s me, did you see the pretty bright light just now? Hello? HELLO!!?? Oh, GOD!! *uurgk!!*”.

Oh my. The missus is offering me pancakes. You may go. *flapping a hand dismissively*


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