Happy Birthday, Barry

August 4, 1961

Witness

It was a dark and stormy night, one for the record books, wave after wave of teeth-rattling thunderstorms, rain Noah could write home about, lightning bright as a Walmart parking lot, all of it directly over my bed thanks to a couple of skylights installed half a lifetime ago by previous owners, a couple of stoners who took it upon themselves to do a bit of remodeling on this ancient old lady, the house, that is, not me.

I cling to Wunderground radar like an altar, until lightning strikes a nearby transformer in the wee hours and euthanizes all things electronic within a half-mile radius, meanwhile ozone permeates the atmosphere like egg salad sandwiches in a church basement, so I stagger down to the second floor to escape the onslaught and step on a headless mouse, somehow a perfect metaphor for it all, for all of it.

The mouse owes its headlessness to the cat, the country owes its to the Republicans, I owe mine to the resident 15-year-old, who this morning is borderline civil because she's lost a couple of pounds and is lobbying heavily for a belly button ring, meanwhile we've all had a bellyful of that gang of Tea Partiers, "gang" being the operative word.

In the backyard I am witness to the devastation Mother Nature has wreaked upon the bedding plants, yesterday the pride of my green green thumbs, but today the likeness of drowned rats, or headless mice, or mothers of teenagers, or the President of the United States, who turns 50 on Thursday and not a moment too soon, bless his beleaguered belobbied soul.

There's a heatwave on the North Shore, the dewpoint is at 79, my daughter cleans her room voluntarily, someone from the Far Right represents the Eighth Congressional District (my backyard!) for the first time in recorded history, it's the end of the world, the beginning of the End Times, one for the record books, time for a (birthday!) party.

"Tighten that screw all the way to the right, boys!"
(Carpetbagger CravAACK!)