When Frankie Sings

With him and all that is associated with him, it's all about the cycle of cliches. I wake up every morning, and before I check the news I say to myself, "Shit couldn't get any worse." At the end of the day, just as I close my eyes, I think, "You can't make this shit up." I wake up. Repeat. I go to bed. Repeat. Seemingly, ad infinitum.

I just don't want to open my eyes on November 4, 2020 repeating for the 1461st time, "Shit couldn’t get any worse." Instead, I'd rather be humming, as Carolyn Leigh wrote and Frank Sinatra sang, "The best is yet to come."

It should be noted that Ol' Blue Eyes once told Ol' Jaundice Face, "Go fuck yourself!" after the latter failed to pay the former what he was contractually owed to play Atlantic City. Big surprise, right?

In the meantime, I'm trying to adjust my perspective to prepare for tomorrow's inevitability: "'It's a real good bet,' the WORST is yet to come." Still, tomorrow's worst may lead to the next day's even worse... and that shit you simply can't make up.

Autumn Shmautumn

Various degrees of self-immolation and a culinary example of “size doesn’t matter” — that little fruit with the nasty stinger on the upper right is the sweetest, spiciest, zestiest chili I’ve ever grown. Called the “Orange Teapot,” this tiny squib packs the taste of a clementine on fire. As far as flavor/fire profile, the Carolina Reaper ain’t got nuthin’ on it.