cat on the garage roof

The veteran CBS newsman Walter Cronkite once observed, "News isn't about how many cats did not get up on the garage roof." News was coffins returning from the front and stick-ups and, during some pretty hard times, a brief or two about which housewife or out-of-work fellow was found with his head in the oven.

Of course there was the dog which found its way home from two states away after being dropped off, and there were tales of corruption, and the huzzahs accompanying a dizzying home run. But the slush and ick of personal improvement ... well, those were the cats that didn't get onto the garage roof.

I guess none of this makes much difference and it might be reasonable to argue that the news hasn't changed, but I have. I guess I just miss being concerned and involved and convinced that the news was worth lifting to the mental lips ... and masticating ... and swallowing ... and digesting.

Another recipe. Another physical ailment. Everyone's "challenged," and no one is "crippled." Another smile on one person's face pretending to redefine the precious grimaces of another. Another fucking salamander. Another 'hand-crafted' beer ... ah, go fuck yourself!.. and take your basil leaves and unexamined 'democracy' with you!

And perhaps all of this confused grumbling boils down to the fact that Donald Trump and his minions have won the day: It's all about me. Things fall apart because I fall apart and my falling apart is important to me ... another cat that didn't get up on the garage roof.