Thoughts from the ammo line

We have passed “Positively Fourth Street.” Danger up ahead. We are arriving POSITIVELY BEYOND PARODY! Ammo Grrrll writes:

About a week ago now – a once-a-week columnist can NEVER be “current” – the Honorable Mayor of Los Angeles, Karen Bass, gave a news conference to address her whereabouts during the devastating wildfires in Palisades and elsewhere.

Let’s recall just for starters that one of her election promises was that she would not travel abroad on the taxpayers’ many dimes during her reign. But, hey, whatcha gonna do when circumstances change? I mean, Africa was right there – Ghana this time, it turned out – and there were parties at which to be feted and fed, so she had to break her promise. But, as we shall see in a minute, she doesn’t even know HOW it happened.

“Obviously, I hated the fact that I was out of the city when the city needed me the most,” Bass said in an interview Tuesday. “And frankly, when my family needed me the most — because I was impacted, my family was impacted by the fires as well. It is a horrible feeling to know that it took a long time to come back because of how far away I was.”

Oh. My. God! I guess she didn’t even buy a ticket! There must have been some great “mistake” in the Universe that caused her suddenly to find herself shanghaied out a trapdoor like a drunk in a bar in mid-19th Century San Francisco. Somehow, she found herself on a plane to a place “far away.” Who knew Africa was far from Los Angeles? I mean, it’s not like Geography is taught any more, right?

She also had no idea that the combo plate of Santa Ana winds, drought, irresponsible homeless lunatics, and generalized sloth and incompetence could cause a catastrophe. What were the odds? The Santa Ana winds had never appeared before in the history of California! Except for those times when they did.

“It was a mistake to travel, but I will tell you that we need to evaluate everything,” Bass said. “Because, honest and truly, if I had all of the information that I needed to have, the last thing I would have done was to be out of town.”

In one of our favorite Simpson’s episodes Homer believes he is going to die soon and endeavors to impart to his son, Bart, all his knowledge on how to get along in life. Mayor Bass had clearly memorized the episode. Homer said you need three phrases that cover every exigency: “Good idea, Boss!” (or Bass!) “It’s not my job!” and “It was like that when I found it.”

Okay, there was also a pudgy platoon of incompetent DEI hires at every managerial level – fire chiefs who won’t rescue your husband because he has no business being where there’s a fire, people who can’t guarantee there will be actual WATER in the bleeping hydrants which, in case you missed it, are the vehicles meant to transport WATER to the fire hoses.

Mayor Bass did not choose the occasion of this particular press conference to address the issues of personnel and water, but only to share her pain and confusion that she was partying in Ghana instead of minding the store.

“When I say it was a mistake, absolutely, the idea that I was not present was very painful.”

Not ONLY was she not at fault. Not ONLY was it like that when she found it. The thing to remember here is that SHE was the real victim. She was in pain, yes “very” much pain, at the “idea” that she was “not present.”

And I, for one, FEEL her pain. Because just last summer I experienced a similar “horrible feeling” when I realized that I was up in Prescott, AZ, which, while not as far away as Africa, is up the infamous Highway 17, winner almost every year of the Wrong-Way Driver Demolition Derby.

Prescott is home to about a gazillion great restaurants and bars and somehow the “idea” that I was supposed to exercise some minimal caloric restraint just escaped me. And I gained seven pounds, which on a 4’11.8” frame looks like seventeen. So the “idea” that I could not be disciplined is very painful.

Not the fact that I actually DID overeat and over-imbibe and enjoyed every minute of it and had a terrific time, no! But just the “idea” of it is what bothers me the most. Well, that and having to dig out my old jeans, which seem to be made of disgustingly reality-based denim and not impressed at all by mere “ideas.” But it gets worse in my reality-adjacent life.

Because just last night I had the idea that I would clean up the supper dishes and then work on some writing and then lift my puny little weights and do yoga and get ready to watch a movie with my husband and neighbor.

Those were all good ideas. And yet, somehow, not even one of those things “happened.” I wanted them to happen. I hoped that they would happen. I had, as I said, the IDEA that they would happen. Heck, when I turned on the faucet to fill the sink, there was even WATER that came out of the faucet, so that’s the good news. And still the dishes did not get done.

Because it turns out that what matters in the dish-washing game – and so many others — is not an idea but a considerable amount of tedious, time-consuming activity. And I preferred to surf the columns and blogs I enjoy instead. (For those who are devotees of the electric dishwasher, I hear you, but it’s just not how I roll. I cannot stand how long it takes and how noisy it is. Call me Backwoods Barbie McLuddite – this week! – I don’t care. Not a big fan of most “advancements” to civilization to be honest, Facebook first among them.)

Hey, give me a break, beloved readers. It’s not like several million square miles of my state burned down or anything. And the dishes and my little atrophied muscles were still waiting for me in the morning when I got up. I have the idea that I should throw them all out and buy new ones. The dirty dishes. Not the little muscles.