Watery, itchy eyes; sinus drainage; sneezing/coughing. I either have the worst allergies of my life, or I have a cold. If I'm having bad allergies, how did they get this bad? Is it time for me to consider moving to the desert? If I have a cold, "Friend" Ken gave it to me. I told him two weeks ago when he was coughing in my car that if he got me sick I was going to be very angry at him, and I am a man of my word. Better hope it's allergies, Ken.

UPDATE: Good news! Ken has kindly apologized for any role he may have played in my illness. Better news! After adding parosmia to my list of symptoms, I gave myself an OTC COVID test, and it came out negative. So probably just run-of-the-mill sinusitis, then. Great. I feel better already.

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As a child of the 70s, I have long considered myself a Star Wars fan, which is why I impulsively decided to follow the link to "The Best Star Wars Trivia Quiz Questions to See How Much You Really Know" at Mental Floss dot com. The quiz has 100 questions, only the first 19 of which are in the category "Classic Trilogy (Episodes IV–VI)." But that's about where my fandom ends, so I figured I'd do pretty well. And I'm happy to report that I did know the name of Han Solo's ship and Luke Skywalker's trainer on Dagobah. But then I got to question 15.

15. What is the Emperor called in The Emperor Strikes Back?

I know I'm getting old, but I don't recall a movie named The Emperor Strikes Back in the "classic trilogy." And I certainly didn't know the answer.

Darth Sidious

Again, I'm old now, but I do remember a Darth Sidious who was the Sith Lord master of Darth Maul and later (after Maul gets cut in half) Darth Tyrannus and later (after Tyrannus gets decapitated) Darth Vader. (As Luke's trainer says of the Sith, "Always two there are. No more, no less." By which he clearly means a top half and a bottom half.) Darth Sidious was the evil alter ego of Sheev Palpatine, the representative of the planet Naboo in the Galactic Senate who manipulated events to rise to Supreme Chancellor before disbanding the Senate and ruling the galaxy as Emperor. So, yeah, Darth Sidious and the Emperor are the same person, but technically speaking, since Sidious wasn't introduced as a character until the fourth Star Wars movie, The Phantom Menace, no one called the Emperor that in any of the "classic trilogy" films, especially one that doesn't exist. (Point of fact: the prequels played so coy about Palpatine/Sidious's future as "The Emperor" that I have often wondered if Lucas expected contemporary audiences to be unaware they were all the same person.)

So I call bullshit. But what else should I expect from a piece of Internet clickbait in the post-truth culture in which we now live, where every major technology and media company has turned their content engines over to poorly curated supervised LLMs that "hallucinate" up to half their facts? The fault is clearly mine for expecting reality to live up to my fantasies of living in a more civilized age.

Happy May 4th to those who celebrate.

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Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part One: Last year the yard spigot I had installed a decade ago on the back of the house started leaking at the handle. Today, I finally got our regular plumber to come fix it. (Last year, he said he would get around to it. Last week, he said Monday. Monday, he said Tuesday. Yesterday I said now or never, and he showed up.) I could have tried to replace it myself, but I knew the connector was rusting and the copper pipe was crimped, meaning that I was just as likely to break it. Given how much work the professional had to put into it, I definitely made the right call.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Two: After hearing horror stories about the size of armadillo dens, Mom decided to run off an armadillo who had recently taken up residence under our front porch. Since she knew armadillos are un-poisonable, she had me throw some mothballs under the stairs in the hopes of killing off their food supply. What I didn't think about at the time was that I also live under our front porch. Paradichlorobenzene vapor is heavier than air, so it gradually settled down into the armadillo den... and then came through the concrete block walls into my bedroom. After three days I had stood all I could stand and had to crawl under the stairs and dig out the mothballs. I don't know if the armadillo learned anything, but I sure did.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Three: Still covered in dirt from the porch, I decided I would use some of the Ortho Poison Ivy poison that my aunt had brought over and left on my patio because she was tired of it being on her patio for a year. What I did not know was that the reason the poison had been sitting on her patio for a year was because one of her handymen had broken the sprayer. When I went to use it, I spilled poison all over my hand, and got none on the ivy that needed the poison. So poison ivy wins yet another round in our decades long war.

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Why is my Google News feed full of stores about how rampant commercialism and inept governments are leading to the impending collapse of Earth's ability to sustain life? Is this inspired by the current moon mission? Earth Day? AI data centers? War in the Middle East? Or just my particular doom scrolling preferences?

I'm a downer. I get it. But how about a nice link to dogs eating ice cream? Or Kpop Demon Hunter memes? Or news about cabinet members being fired for being terrible at their jobs? You know, the sorts of things that give hope that the universe isn't bent towards the worst possible outcomes.

Maybe if I just keep scrolling, I'll get to the good stuff....

Aw, geez. Now it's "I'd like to buy only America a Coke"? Fine, you win, universe.

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Today, while paying a visit to an ailing friend, I crossed paths with former bar trivia teammate Rachel, who I have known casually for many years, and Rachel said, "Whenever I see you, you don't look like you've aged. You look like you have been 35 for 15 years."

Which, I mean, she was lying. I'm bald. creaky, and look like an overfilled water balloon. Rachel was just saying something obsequiously flattering to fill the silence during an otherwise awkward social moment. Hollow and meaningless, it was manners as defense mechanism.

But now I'll take a bullet for that delightful woman.

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There is a restaurant a few miles from my house that is built in a literal pit. You can barely see the marquee sign from the road level, and, if you aren't already on the lookout for it, the building might as well be invisible. The property was built many years ago for a now-defunct family dining concept, and in the years since, one business after another has occupied the property for a brief couple of years, gone out of business, and been replaced by another business.

Driving past the building this weekend (and seeing only two cars in the parking lot), I caught myself wondering how much longer it could possibly stay open before it closes and the pattern repeats itself. Then I realized that the current business, a steakhouse, has been in place since 2020. That's six years, actually about average for the lifespan for a restaurant and even more impressive considering the Pandemic and malingering economic concerns.

Should I pretend that I didn't notice its longevity? When it does inevitably close, as all restaurants eventually must, should I still roll my eyes and quip that I was correct that their location doomed them to failure? Do I need to be right so badly that I'll ignore reality to salve my wounded ego? What would that sort of denial accomplish?

The restaurant is a success whether I want to admit it or not.

Let that be a lesson to myself: you need to recognize when you've allowed your biases to corrupt your thinking, because otherwise, in addition to the loneliness of living in your own alternate reality, you also just might stave to death.

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My latest painting:

I wanted a photo of me punching that Mystery Box, and I couldn't take it myself, so I enlisted Mom's help. She has never played Super Mario Bros., and she didn't quite understand what I was after or, apparently, that you can keep pressing the shutter button on my phone to capture a whole bunch of images (because, you know, there's not actually a roll of film inside the phone). And that is how you get an expression like that on my face.

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Over the weekend, a friend asked what I would do if I suddenly came into ten million dollars, no strings attached. My glib answer at the time was to refuse it. "What am I going to spend it on, art supplies?"

In hindsight I realize that when he asked the question, he knew something I didn't: a mutual friend had just received about the worst diagnosis a doctor can give. If there's anything money definitely can't buy, it's enough time.

As a wise general once said: "a death mark's not an easy thing to live with." But really, that's what we do every day. Life, by definition, is "the brief and futile struggle against inevitability." Not thinking about that truism is a psychological defense mechanism, a survival tactic. Skiing provides a good metaphor: look at the trees and you'll hit them, so we focus on the space in between instead. That's how we get by.

Being forced to look at the trees (memento mori as those pesky Romans say) is a good prompt to re-evaluate my current life choices. If I knew the end was near, would I be doing something differently? Are there experiences I'm missing? I have to say that even after some introspection, I can't really think of anything meaningful to me that I'm not already doing, that I've postponed, that I've sacrificed. I'm really lucky in that way, and I know it.

On the other other hand though, it's possible I'm wrong about why my friend was asking about the money. If he was actually thinking about giving me $10,000,000? Yes, please. I'll think of something to do with it. I'd hate for my obituary to say I passed up a fortune just because I aspire to nothing more than sitting with my dogs and playing video games.

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Mom shares her New York Times digital subscription with me, so I assumed that was why the algorithm thought I could use an ad linking me to this:

While my appreciation for spandex is well documented, what struck me about this particular advertisement was the obvious modesty-preserving panty liner the model was using. That crotch bulge seems so familiar....

Oh, right. It's how Dan Jurgens draws male superhero crotches.

Superman #123 limited edition "Glow-in-the-Dark" variant, May 1997

Maybe that ad was targeting me after all.

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The human brain is a strange thing. I was trying to take a shower, but I couldn't stop thinking about the handful of people in my life I know I treated very badly, by which I mean specifically the people I treated badly who didn't deserve it.

I know I'm a selfish asshole, always have been, and, frankly, I'm generally okay with that. Other people, even people I know quite well, often make me uncomfortable, and I self-defensively want to keep them at arms length. As any good dog will tell you, the best way to do that is to growl and bark at anyone on the other side of the fence. But in the past half century, there have been a few people, about five I can name easily, who did not earn the behavior I showed them.

I'm bothered by the lingering concern that that my actions likely caused them discomfort and lasting emotional damage. That sounds narcissistic, doesn't it? That I could have the power to so strongly influence their lives for the worse? I hope not. Obviously they should never have given me such power, but more importantly, if they did, I shouldn't have taken advantage of it. Shame on me. I wish I had the skill and emotional stability to have communicated better.

In the movie Billy Madison, an older, wiser Billy (played by Adam Sandler) calls his former bullying victim (played by Steve Buscemi) and apologizes for past actions. I'm not going to do that. While I regret my past behavior and those I have wronged probably deserve an apology, I don't think any good can come from my investigating old wounds. I'm not in any twelve-step program. (I know how those apologies typically go.) And, more importantly, I still don't have the skill and emotional stability to communicate better. If Steve Buscemi is going to shoot anyone, it might as well be me.

There. I feel better for having typed that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a shower to finish.

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