Wonkers, We're Gonna Do It!
Happy Fourth to all the haters and losers wait no that's not us!
No tabs today, no tabs today, it was hot and gross and yelly yesterday when I would have been writing tabs and decided on this instead. This post consists of:
WE’RE GOING TO MAKE IT. STOP YELLING (at us, and more importantly each other).
WE AIN’T DO KINGS HERE, SCOTUS CAN GOOOOO FUUUUUUCKKKKK.
WE WILL BE FINE. PROBABLY!
And lastly of all, or lastly for today until your 4 p.m. holiday Wonkette Movie Matinee of Jaws, come see us in MILWAUKEE, Sunday, July 14, 5-9 p.m. on the lawn at the South Shore Terrace (thank you for the rec, commenter I forget!). Drinks and snacks are on your Wonkompatriots, via me. (Always feel free to give me money.)
In Milwaukee, we shall drink beers and eat food and dance and kiss each other on our faces and look at the water and feel the breeze and be alive together, good people in a good world, giving fuck you jazzhands to the shitnado!
And then we’ll do it again in Chicago! (Presumably less shitnado.)
Happy Fourth, fuckers. I love you.
Hahahaha.
My BFF has a new boytoy. She's been playing with him for a few months. He's older than her by a decade and a dude. Before she took up with the current BT, she hadn't dated a guy since high school, and hadn't slept with one since college. But he's a sweet older guy who teaches poetry at the local college and who lost his wife to cancer a couple years ago. They met their church when BFF decided to get back involved in churchy things for the first time in maybe 30 years. (I think because of unresolved feelings about her mother's death 2 years back. Her mom was a far-left commie teacher and activist liberal church lady all my BFF's life.)
He was, in a word, harmless.
Which, you know, explained how it was possible to get close to him, but not why she felt an attraction. So now she's going through BT's extensive book collection. Many were purchased by his wife, he's a lefty poetry teacher so he read everything, even if he was more likely to remember the name of Elizabeth Browning, Joan Larkin or May Swenson than the Kimberlé Crenshaw or Susan Stryker that his wife bought and taught. Even recognizing that it was probably purchased by his late wife, it was in some small way funny, touching, and revealing (the combination reminiscent of a Swenson poem) that she found on a shelf a book that anthologized me.
I doubt anyone remembers my writing work from the 90s, but it's out there -- on the shelves of widows and widowers, retirees and reflective rabbis who still comfort themselves with the feeling of memory if not memory itself.
Lenny and Squiggy say “hellloooooo.”
Have a nice 4th, gang.