Why do I do these things to myself? I signed up to take the training that certifies one to teach swimming, thereby condemning myself to another month of training that will involve one or two evenings a week, in the pool. Yesterday I fulfilled my daily exercise goal (40 minutes) by 300 percent. Got home, ate like a teenager, went to bed with wet hair. You should see it today.
Ah well, it’s just another month. And I’m not even sure I want to teach swimming. I’m not that good with children, but who knows, soon maybe we’ll need another $19/hour household income. I think I’d rather work in a weed store. Not as hard on the hair.
Anyway, one of the things we did last night was observe/participate in the pool’s weekly special-needs swim, in which children and young adults with various disabilities get wet and work on whatever. Most of them have some form of autism, and when I say “some form” I’m talking about the whole spectrum. I spotted one of my favorites from the classes I lifeguard, a gangly young man who’s making steady progress. This year he learned to dive, and believe me, that was a milestone. Anyway, he’s bright, chatty — last night he was asking his swim buddy where he went to college, high school, middle school, elementary school and preschool — and I feel very optimistic that, contrary to the remarks yesterday by Croaky, the Health and Human Services secretary who’s doing his best to ruin both, this kid will grow up to go on dates and definitely pay taxes.
I was reading about that press conference yesterday. One thin shred of hope I might have in the future recovery of this country lies in the fact these people are so goddamn bad at what they do. I know a few people with children on the spectrum, and judging from their social-media venting, they’re incensed by Croaky’s improv yesterday. One signed off on a wrenching Facebook post with, I can’t wait for this asshole to die so I can piss on his grave. How in the world did he, or anyone else, think it was a good idea for him to not just promise to find the causes of autism by the end of the summer, but freestyle about the terrible burden these people are to society? Pro tip, Bobby: When you climb in bed with actual Nazis, maybe save that for after the third cocktail at a dinner with excellent security and not in a restaurant. (Roy, as usual, finds the grim humor within.)
Throw in the secretary of education talking about “A1,” the attorney general lying through her teeth, the “gold guy” turning the people’s house into Mar-a-Lago (read that, it’s a trip; gift link) and various other fuckups we’ve seen so far, and it’s possible to think it’s only a matter of time, but who knows?
This is likely to be the last post of the week, because tonight? The Derringers and a friend are driving to Toledo to see Bob Dylan. I’ve seen him before, in Indianapolis sometime in the ’80s, and the show was terrible. Tom Petty was the opener and his band remained onstage to play with Bob, and it was one of those shows where I felt…assaulted by the sound. It was loud, it was distorted, it was painful. Today it’s a smaller venue, and I’m hoping 83-year-old Bob is in good voice and has a far quieter band. As always, we’ll see. The point of this evening is the outing and spending time with good people.
So have a great rest of the week, and we’ll see you again sometime Sunday, most likely.