Now that we’ve covered the weather, let’s move on to other subjects. Thank you. Live and be well.
Where Fentanyl is concerned, just ¼-milligram can kill you dead. And to understand how teeny that measurement really is ... a standard, teeny low-dose aspirin is 81mg, and if you cut that tablet into 324 pieces, one of those nearly-microscopic pieces would equal ¼-milligram. HOLY SHIT.
I know I occasionally joke that I’m a “one-woman opioid epidemic” — I’ve been taking Hydrocodone for chronic pain for almost 10 years — but I’m not an addict, my pain is real, and I’ve never asked anybody for a dose stronger than 20mg three times a day. I LOVE MY OPIOIDS. But while I’m on the subject, I wish the Texas legislature would stop fucking around with legitimate prescriptions and put an end to their odious laws that treat Hydrocodone like I’m begging for heroin. You’d think somebody would cut hospice patients a break now and then … particularly senior citizens like yours truly who can’t stand up any more and certainly don’t have the energy (or leverage) to go to war for desperately-needed pain drugs. (It’s happened, trust me. And it’s happened more than once.)
I managed to snag a used copy of Fear ($6.95, free Prime shipping) because, well, why not? McCabe’s book was considerably more than that ($17.99, also with free Prime shipping) because it’s only been on the market for a week, but that’s still a lot cheaper than full retail at $29.99. So I’m excited and anxious to read some worthwhile and well-written non-fiction.
I told Sam he should read one book while I’m reading the other. We’ll see.
Have you seen the news lately? PETER TORK, 77, the bassist for the 1960s pop group The Monkees, died two days ago from a rare form of cancer (adenoid cystic carcinoma). He is survived by a new wife and four old children.
Tork played bass and keyboard for the popular band known for hits like “The Last Train to Clarksville” and “Daydream Believer,” both released in 1966 and both spending several weeks at #1 on Billboard’s Hot 100. He also starred in the band’s popular late-60s TV series on NBC, combining vaudeville-style slapstick vignettes and Marx Brothers screwball comedy. After three years everybody pretty much had enough of their fake Marx Brothers shtick, although the show actually was pretty funny at times. Unfortunately, by the late-1960s I was a little too old for their “teenybopper” demographic. I was getting ready for college and listening to Simon and Garfunkel.
Gable was an actor, model and host of the TV reality show “Cheaters” (2012 to 2015). He was also an entrepreneur and businessman, ran an electronics website called ClarkGableSpygear.com and owned his own line of men’s fashions, surfing sportswear and accessories. Woo-hoo!
Apparently Gable was also a genuine idiot, because he was arrested in 2011 for shining a laser pointer at a police helicopter in Los Angeles. Jesus. He was sentenced to 10 days in jail and three years of probation. A good-looking kid … but what an Einstein.
You get two mini (meatloafs? meatloaves?) wads of meat, a decent-sized section full of nicely-mashed potatoes, and a wonderful “homemade” sauce. Everything is nicely seasoned but not salty at all, which is a huge plus for a senior citizen like yours truly who has a flurry of medical problems with kidney disease, congestive heart failure and sodium in general. (When did life get so complicated?) I would like to award Stouffer’s Meatloaf with Mashed Potatoes and Very Good Sauce with our five-chopper rating, so please buy this product as soon as possible and let me know what you think, okay?
I think I’d better publish this post now. It’s 8:30 p.m. Sunday night, and Sam and I are watching At War with the Army (1950) starring Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis … their first star billing in a feature-length film. (It’s hilarious, in case you’ve never seen it.) And I also want to work on some mug designs for The Howdygram Store, as I haven’t had any creative time today due to sleeping a lot more than usual. I feel like a zombie.
Thank you for reading this, and thank you for not going out of your way to throw the Alamo in my face.
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