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From Douglas Adams, author of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:

    1. Anything this is in the world when you’re born is normal and ordinary and is just a natural part of the way the world works.
    2. Anything that’s invented you’re between fifteen and thirty-five is new and exciting and revolutionary and you can probably get a career in it.
    3. Anything invented after you’re 35 is against the natural order of things.

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It’s Not Over Yet. Not by a Long Shot.

Please wear a mask: So the CDC wanted local jurisdictions to make their own call about mask mandates, but local jurisdictions have thrown their hands up and decided that since the CDC doesn’t have any firm rules, they won’t take a stand. But even in the wild, wild west that is pandemic summer #3, health experts urge you to mask up.

Why wear a mask? Because we are fucked if we do not. Everyone and their mother caught one of those pesky subvariants, and, according to the LA Times, we are looking at a “mass disabling event”—and we all know how the bosses treat people with disabilities under capitalism. Now (and always) is a good time to read up on disability activism before we all have to fight the capitalists to let us survive even if we cannot work in the ways society sees as most valuable.

The other plague: The feds are giving the whole country 786,000 more Monkeypox vaccines. Not to undersell the severity of the Monkeypox situation, but it does give me comfort that we already have a vaccine for this shit. Like, with COVID-19, we just raw-dogged for a year, and honestly when I think of how much painful, unnecessary death the state sanctioned, I want to vomit.

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I Sometimes Really Miss Living in the Bay Area

From Diary of a Fat Slob:

…In the late afternoon, there was BS from a different direction. Four Jesus freaks started working the pedestrians at my corner, sharing their tall tales of what wretched sinners they’d been before Jesus H Christ made them such swell people. They didn’t just stand at the corner, they wandered around, preaching at people near the corner, which included me. One of them leaned over my table to complain about the sacrilegious fish, and added that Jesus loves me anyway.

“I love Him too,” I said. “Why, I’ve been a Christian for twenty years, and I teach Sunday School at the Nazarene Church two blocks thataway.” A 24-carat lie, of course, but it was the best line I could think of to bluff his bluster, and it seemed to work. He looked at the JR ‘Bob’ Dobbs fish I was wearing on my hat, couldn’t reconcile it with what I’d just told him, and walked away confused, to bother other people instead.

The four of them took turns standing on a milk crate, preaching to the heathens of downtown Berkeley, but we heathens weren’t very interested, and I don’t think they made any sales or conversions.

There was a great moment that started when a panhandler in rags flashed them the Satan sign (index and pinky fingers up, which I wouldn’t have known if Sarah-Katherine hadn’t shown me (and thank you, dear)). The Christians saw the sign of Satan, were greatly offended, and one of them started screaming at the panhandler, so he stood on a very sturdy trash can and started counter-preaching their preaching.

“The Bible is full of lies,” he hollered, “and Christians have killed more people than Hitler.” Probably true, though I haven’t seen the stats.

One of the Christians started screaming at the homeless guy, “You don’t deserve His love, but God loves you!”

And this shaggy, skinny, bearded man — in sandals, yet — screamed right back, “Don’t listen to them! They’re Christians, and Christians are fools!”

“Oh yeah, listen to a homeless wino instead,” one of the Christians screamed back.

The wino hoisted his paper-bag-wrapped bottle above his head and whooped, “At least this is something real! Maybe I worship a bottle but you fuckers worship thin air!”

“We worship the one true God!” one or two of them shouted back.

“I’ll drink to that,” said the bum, and he did.

“He’ll drink to that,” said one of the Jesus Freaks derisively, and another said, “The only thing you believe in is that bottle!”

The bum lowered the bottle, looked at it lovingly, shook his head and said, “Praise the Lord.”

All this quickly devolved into so many shouts — “Worship the whiskey” and “May God forgive you” and “He’ll forgive me as he’s licking my ass” — I couldn’t take notes quickly enough. Four street preachers against one unbelieving bum, and after a few minutes the bum mellowed and went back to panhandling. Gotta make a living.

“I’m going to Hell,” he said, “so I’m gonna be thirsty. Spare change for a beer?”

The witch vendor next to me said something disparaging about the guy, so I gave him five bucks, a cookie from my lunch bag, and a pat on the back. He said thanks and vanished.

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