So, Thanksgiving Day . . . I never quite know what to put up for Thanksgiving. I mean, I could make a joke; something like Look who’s coming to dinner!

Past years are of little help. In 2012 I did a summary of that year’s Flash Fiction. In 2013, I PUNNED. People liked the 2014 Thanksgiving post because it was short. In 2015, I was ankle-deep in NaNoWriMo and must have plain forgot. Last year saw a mishmash of stuff . . . and I have a feeling this year will be no different. 

I should be busy writing. It is, after all, NaNoWriMo month . . . wait, that’s redundant. 

Regardless, the point is that if I aim to do partake in the challenge, I should be writing. And yet, I’ve got exactly zero words of fiction written so far this month. I’m not worried, of course . . . if I get going, I’ll easily make up for the late start. But, stuff be going on and I’m otherwise occupied. Nothing anyone should worry about, just things that preoccupy me. 

Thing like, for instance, making French Toast. Them there be five slices of sweetbread from the Punaluʻu bakery.

I don’t follow a specific recipe; for the five slices, I take three whole eggs — I’ve tried taking six half eggs, but it gets messy really fast — and I wisk them until the yolk and the albumen are thoroughly emulsified. I then add Half & Half and some milk. I eye-ball it as opposed to measuring amounts. I judge the color and consistency based on how I feel at the moment.  I probably should have taken a photo of the batter . . . maybe next time. 

Depending on who you listen to, you have definite ideas as to what is wrong with health care in this country. Depending on who you listen to, you have definite ideas about who is to blame. Depending on who you listen to, you have definite ideas as to what should be done.

I’m tired of arguing with most people because most of these definite ideas — per everything I know — are myopic at best, could charitably be classified as misguided, and, if I’m brutally honest, I think are willfully dishonest and driven by partisanship.

Understand, I claim no special knowledge or insight. But I do claim we’re not having the right discussion.

In the words of one of our leaders, who knew health insurance was so complicated? Everybody. Everybody knows, but they still all want an easy answer, a silver bullet.

Before I tell you what I think, I’m going to give you some links. That’s right; you got a reading assignment.

There seems to be a lot of stuff about statues and whether they should be taken down or left up. So much so that it encroaches into my blog browsing, what with everyone having an opinion.

One of the blogs I read had a short editorial stating that Jefferson’s and Washington’s statues should be taken down along with the statues of everyone who was in some way associated with slavery. He was very forceful about it. 

I replied with a short comment:

“Obviously, there’s nothing to discuss here, so I look forward to watching the dynamiting of Mount Rushmore.”

Yes, I’m capable of short comments when I want to. It’s just that I often don’t want to. Anyway, he replied with more absolutism. I couldn’t very well let matters stand (I’m stupid that way). 

The following is the reply I left on the spur of the moment; I thought it might make for a decent Sunday post. So here goes (with minor corrections and a few extra words). 

So, I’ve had a comment regarding the poor choice of font for my posts. I don’t know if the guy was serious or not; he’s old, he’s a foreigner, and he lives at the bottom of the world. FSM knows what they do down there. I hear they have a thing for Barbie. Weird. 

Besides, he himself at one time had a yellow font on a brown background. He’s still playing around with themes and fonts, so who knows what he’ll come up with next.

Me? This is the original theme I picked and like a great pair of underwear, it’s only gotten more comfortable with age.

But, perhaps he has a point about the font. Font choice is often dictated by the type of reading that’s expected and the material that is presented. Words, lots of words, expressing ideas and concept generally require a font that’s easy on the eyes. It aids in word recognition and people won’t get tired reading it. Font color also matters. For instance, this is likely difficult to read regardless of the font. 

Note: this post is approximately 1,250 words with a 9th Grade readability index. Click HERE for complete statistics.

It may not seem like it, but I’ve mostly abstained from posting opinion pieces . . .

Because they are emotionally draining.

Because issues are more complicated than what you read or hear or see, and discussing them get’s messy.

Because I don’t even for a moment think my input will sway anyone’s opinion.

Because the majority of readers are uninterested in my opinion. Especially, opinions they might find challenging.

In real life, I don’t converse with anyone about any of the stuff that’s happening. Some friend might occasionally ask for my opinion, but the amount of time we spend on it is minuscule. Instead, what I like doing — what I enjoy — is reflecting on stuff. I’ve not named this practice, but if it were to demand a name, I’d call it having private thinking parties.

When I write a piece, it’s mostly to put my own thoughts in order.

This is only 1,200 words. Why, even some Australians should manage to stick around to the end of it. 

As I mentioned before, photos appearing on Sunday with my thoughts are gathered and presented in THIS SmugMug Gallery. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you can also click on the photos for a larger version or check out the gallery at the end of the post. This is another one of those where I post an original and then variations of the same, one or maybe more. Except for the above; that’s a straggler from another post.

It’s Sunday, so no exercising today. I’m still sweating, though, but with two fans on me, it’s somewhat under control. FYI, I find snacking is a good way to counter sweating.

Readers might have noticed that I’ve left my opinion posts slide a bit. Oh, sure, I’ve dropped comments here and there, but it’s been a while since I’ve had a dedicated post about “things.”

I like the word “stuff” . . . it offers an easy out when I can’t come up with a title for a post. It also sports a nonchalantness that speaks to confidence and aloofness while at the same time connects with the ordinariness of life, especially when referencing July 28th, a well known ordinary day. 

They call those “helmet urchins” and sometimes “shingle urchins” and they’re found at the boundary formed by immovable rocks clashing with dynamic oceans. These guys know something about holding on for dear life as powerful waves assault the shores of this island. 

. . . er . . . actually — at least on this side of the island — waves have been mighty scarce. We’re now on our sixth or seventh week without significant waves. No waves, no surfers . . . it’s been a long spell — a powerful long time — since I last snapped a photo of a surfer. Every day, the water sports a slight chop but is — for the most part — surprisingly calm. 

. . . so I can share more Deep Dream efforts. For instance . . . 

I also want to share a few observations. For instance . . . 

I read a lot of stuff like this. Apparently, many habits and activities will increase your risk of dying.

Let me set your mind at ease: there’s nothing that increases your risk of dying . . . it’s already 100% and it’s not going any higher.

. . . to facilitate hate, marginalize, oppress, and in general, make other people’s lives difficult if not unbearable.

I don’t have to be a member of any one group to do most things. I mean, yes, unless I’m a female — or my name is Trump — I can’t waltz into a women’s dressing room whenever I feel like it.

But I don’t have to be a member of any particular group to steal, lie, cheat, mistreat others, and bully people. As an individual, I can be cruel, disrespectful, odious, dishonest, and a poor excuse for the arrangement of organic material we typically classify as “human.”

I need not profess allegiance and loyalty to certain groups as an excuse for doing any or all of those things; I just have to be an asshole.

But, imagine I am an asshole — not much of a stretch of the imagination, some would say — and need to cover up the fact. More than that; imagine I need to absolve me of my assholeness.