REJOICING OVER CLEVELAND'S TRIUMPH

Yesterday evening would probably have been perfect for heading out to a nearby bar to enjoy a cocktail, about half an hour or so after the game ended. Everybody else would have already gone home to lick their wounds, disconsolate that the most important team in basket ball history had lost their epic battle, and possibly weeping with frustration.

Me, I had no dog in this fight.

Civic pride is fine and all that, and pulls strangers together marvelously.
Oh, the camaraderie, oh the shared emotion! Hugs and high fives!


I do not want closeness with strangers, and have no consideration at all for Oakland. Which is where all that sweaty civic pride belongs. Or Cleveland.
Screaming at the screen is a repulsive group activity.
I can be repulsive entirely on my own.
No crowd required.


So anyhow, the Golden State Warriors lost, and for a brief shining moment all social environments will be free of the droning and repetitive utterances of a fevered fanbase.


Huzzah.


No, I didn't go out. The only reason to visit bars in the past was that one could smoke there in good company, and discuss politics, philosophy, and cooking. Or stuff. But that was then. Politics have become contentious, the philosophy department now contains mostly woolly airheads and new-age morons, and unlike Flemings and Brabanders, people in this neck of the woods are not culinarily inspired. Or not nearly as much.
Many can't boil an egg.

And lighting up a pipe in the presence of modern Californians is right out. Doing so proves that you are a baby-eating dolphin killing shill for big pharma and the gmo industry. You murderer!
Unless it's pot; pot is therapeutic.
And green, dude, totally.


Most Californians are dingos.




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