Snowy day reflections

Marching headlong into March

Writing my newsletter has been intoxicating, a word this Irishman uses with caution. I am descended from a tribe of intoxicated Irishmen and their lasses. Did I tell ye of me uncle who was killed by a flask of lightning? Another danced a jig right off the skyscraper he was bolting, 30-stories up over Manhattan. His bottle hit the ground before he did. How about the drunken lighthouse keeper who toasted each shipwreck with a “Slainte!”? So many family stories, so much dysfunctional DNA.

I’ve been binge writing. Fueled by the intoxicating effect of free expression I wake up thinking about writing every day. For my subscribers.

You!

Every day. I never imagined having “subscribers”. Let alone over 2000 subscribers.

I intend for this newsletter to remain free to subscribers.

To my donors, I am humbled by your support and encouragement. Every time I get notified a subscriber is paying for my newsletter I revel in the idea my work is valued.

Ellen says I have the self-esteem of a pincushion cactus. I have no clue what that means.

I may have more than 2000 subscribers but I only have one heart so I walk. On my walk this morning I could see Pima Canyon. In my layered orange-as-a-road-cone parka , which I wear so I’m easy for the medi-vac copter team to spot, and full of oatmeal, I felt warm and fortunate and happy to see my neighborhood come to life. On my walk back to our hacienda I encountered a neighbor walking her Yeti.

Later I saw a flock of blue haired snowbirds flying south to a warm casino. Nearly home I saw a pair of friendly bipolar bears and an abominable snowman.

I think he moved in last night. We talked. His politics are abominable. I’m afraid if he runs for office he’ll win in this district.

My retirement ended when I gave up my news fast and surrendered to my news addiction. It started innocently. Old men would hand me newspaper clippings, the entryway drug for ancient boomer news junkies.

Then I started scrolling news apps.

“I know when to stop.” Lie.

“Just one more news story. I know when I’ve had enough.” Lie.

“Doesn’t affect my blood pressure one bit.” That’s the lie I’ll tell the EMT when I’m found clutching my phone with my Flipboard news app open to the latest idiocy.

I have got to stop checking the news apps on my phone before the rooster wakes up to check his news apps. What better way to get your heart rate up to 140 BPM by reminding yourself daily that your beloved Arizona is a horrifying seedbed for terrifying lunatics?

I’m waiting for their tweets. “That’s not snow you see out your window! That’s Chinese weather balloon debris. Thanks, Hunter Biden. Look to the sky, my Posse Commitatus Q-Anon Klan patriots, locked and loaded!”

On this morning’s Iditarod walk, sans sled and huskies, I heard the rooster crow. Which startled the javelina that bumped into a cholla. Which scattered the quail which made a pack of coyotes yip that made a bobcat stalking a kangaroo rat jump which moved the hawk sitting on the wire over my head to spring into the sky, off the wire, which, shaken like a strummed jews harp, dropped its thin line of cold melting snow across my old head.

Didn’t cool this hothead heading for his therapeutic keyboard to blow off cranial steam.

I have chosen to return to slinging satirical ink, slogging into political trench warfare once, or twice a week, armed only with humor and fueled by the sustaining delusion we will endure. Because I have grandchildren inheriting this world. I must find the path. We must repair our world.

The beautiful, strange world in which one can wake up on the snowy set of Holiday Inn in Tucson on a Thursday and by Sunday it’s 70-degrees.

For balance I retreat to my garden where I delude myself into believing I am the master of our desert Eden. The captivating snow is a reminder that change is constant in this place where you can fool yourself into believing time stands as still as a bobcat eyeing a kill.

With balance in mind I must confess to you I fell off the cardio wagon. I was eating right, controlling stress and exercising every day. Oh, what a life it was. And then I found Substack. And you! And writing took over. I’m going to attempt to restore balance for my health’s sake. I am going to attempt a schedule of twice a week: A weekly column and a Friday Fitz Fix.

And the occasional piffle like this post.

Whut TyPOs? I saw noo typose.

Oh, the typos! Yikes. I saw them too late.

The compulsion to write coupled with my desire to post as often as humanly possible made me blind to the typos.

My good friends Tom Christensen, John Wilkes Booth and Jerry Wilkerson are now proofing my piffle as needed .

Thank you To, John and Jerry for attempting to save me from myself.

Some posts will be serious rants but most will be humorous ramblings on life in Arizona. I may even visit the Arroyo Cafe.

And I will watch what I eat.

And I will get back to exercising daily. Deep breath. Blood pressure down. Spirit up!

My spirit is up. I have a rehearsal today at the Student Union Ballroom.

Tomorrow night at the Tucson Festival of Books Authors Table Banquet I’m doing 5-minutes of comedy. I’ll publish my remarks after I deliver them.

Linda Ronstadt will be in my audience. O what to say!

And I have subscribers to write for. What will I write?