“We’re going to war.”
Or maybe, the bombs started raining down by the time this is posted. Yesterday took a turn for the better when I ran into Leslie the cross-dressing homeless mayoral candidate.
“Hey Leslie, that a beeper?”
“Just because I’m homeless doesn’t mean I don’t have to stay in touch, you know, my lawyers. Didn’t you see page 20 of the Chronicle?”
No, no I didn’t see it. But I did reiterate that a vote for Leslie is a vote for Austin.
Pa Wetzel was in town for the day, a meeting of some kind at UT. He cruised by the apartment complex and we stopped up the street for a quick cup of coffee plus a little bite of lunch.
I was trying to quiz him about organic chemistry. Presently, close to 50% of our “oil” comes from Arabia. I fingered a plastic cell phone holster, “So this is made from petrochemical stock, right?”
His command of organic chemistry isn’t what it used to be, but think about that. The plastic wrapper on the loaf of bread? Oil. The plastic in the keyboard you’re typing on? Long, gossamer threads of carbon chains, if I recall, which I don’t, but they all started as oil.
Old Dad had a small gift for me. Then he was off, driving back to Dallas. Hopefully, he just beat the rush hour traffic.
I hugged him before he hopped in his car and hit the road, “You make sure you call me when you get home.”
Times have changed. His little green Toyota Hybrid motored off.
A few hours later, I was on the bus, heading home myself, and I noticed fledgling stand of Blue Bonnets, late, but making a stand nonetheless. Just set things in a better perspective.
Which doesn’t address the question of war and politics, but at this point, I’m already burned out.
