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Mist of glory

Monday 8/23/21

* One of the effects of Twitter is it makes you wonder if there are any people in the world having intelligent discussions.


* Another effect of Twitter is that it makes you wonder if there are any people in the world capable of having intelligent discussions, or just having a single one once. Or have ever had one.


* Then you hope--you hope so desperately--that what you're seeing doesn't represent anything but a sector of broken, empty, angry, simple-minded, arrogant, insecure people, and it's not indicative of--or proof--that there aren't better, smarter people in significant enough numbers in the "real world," only you don't see them as readily as you see these clowns because they have better things to do.


* People enjoy striking a pose as a sports expert. Their attitude reminds me somewhat of a fellow I saw the other day at the Government Center stairs. The sun was at that point where the light it threw had yet to crest above the top of Government Center itself, which means there were no shadows. Ordinarily those stairs are mostly in shadow. It's pretty over-bright at that point in the morning, though. This guy had a bike and he was 3/4 of the way up the stairs, where there's a thick stone railing, and a drop on the non-stairs side of about twenty feet. He's flexing his face as if he's in some movie and he's the hero, down but not out, ready to rally one more time, if that's what it took, really feeling how great he thinks he is. It was bizarre. Like he was looking at himself in a mirror without a mirror being there and getting aroused by his own image. I'm thinking, "Look at this tool." I must have gone up and down three times and he's still locked in place doing his weird posing thing. Then he must have gotten some chalk out of somewhere because he clapped his gloved hands together and the chalk dust goes up into the air and he strikes another pose of greatness, jutting his jaw out and I swear that he inhaled the dust like it was this mist of glory. I actually started laughing. Next thing I know, he's riding his bike down the railing, never mind that he could fall and cripple himself, and letting forth a roar of triumph at the bottom. And doing a wheelie. The would-be sports experts lose further credibility--when they're already starting with none--by saying "we" and "our" in regards to a sports team. Don't say "we" and "our." You're not on the team, Jack.


* There's this other guy who lives across the street from me who is standing outside on my side of the street pretty much every time I go out or come home. He's probably thirty-four but he looks fifty-one. He always wears a ball cap--the mesh kind--and has this huge pot belly, like he's holding a butterball turkey hostage between his shirt and his person. But the rest of him, apart from his double chin, is all spindle-y. Legs not much thicker than baseball bats. He's always smoking. And he has this hot girlfriend. She comes down, and he's terrible to her. He lectures her like she's some moron and he's this great dispenser of knowledge. Really talks down to this woman. One of those dumb guys who think they're smart and using "big words" because they say "therefore" a ton. But there they are together. Fighting as Sir Butterball smokes and lectures. It's gotten to the point where every time I leave and every time I come back, I look at this guy, laugh, shake my head, he sees me doing this, and then he stares at the ground. I'm tempted to say, "What? No lecture?"