Smokingboot

I would have voted for Cuomo.

Cuomo is an old-school Democrat and a loathsome human being by all accounts, but Cuomo is also an able administrator—and a city the size of NYC needs able administration. Weren't DiBlasio's two terms in office enough?

But hey! Maybe I would have been wrong.

Cuomo did kill a lot of old people who would have voted for him because they remember his father.

Plus, Zohran Mamdani is incredibly appealing, and I'd like to ride city buses for free-eee-eeee! Galvanizing 50,000 volunteer canvassers—Cuomo had to pay his—is no mean feat. Mamdani is like a male AOC or a younger, mega-photogenic Bernie Sanders. Mississippi Marsala is a lovely little movie. And I think it may be true that Mamdani is Trump's worst nightmare.

So, yeah: Zohran Mamdani.



The oil change yesterday went on forever, because I asked them to check the brakes and the suspension. The Prius is 14 years old & runs like a dream, but the roads in Ulster County are like one long Tourney of Potholes. If I don't rejuvenate my car's suspension system every year, one day it's gonna go over a bump and the wheels are gonna fly off.

Plus my mechanic stripped a gasket as he was finishing up, so all the new oil he'd just put into the Prius spilled all over the garage floor.

Even though I knew exactly what was happening—gasket! not a biggie—I could feel myself edging into a massive panic attack. I wanted to start sobbing. Like so many women of my age, I have Fear of the Big Box—basically because I wasn't taught about tools & engines & machinery growing up. Things with engines operate through a kind of magic that I am ignorant about! I was at the mercy of these alien priests in their grease-stained denim jumpsuits! All I could do was tremble in awe and fear—

Thankfully, I managed to talk myself out of the panic attack—because really, who wants to see an elderly lady get hysterics?

The verdict on the car: Back wheels need new shocks; car needs four new tires.

Cost will be about a grand.

Of course, I'd far rather spend $1,000 on hazelnut truffles and subscriptions to generative AI video services, but I must have a safe vehicle—my own driving abilities are wildcard factor enough on the roads.
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My mechanic was horribly apologetic about the gasket when he brought the car out to me. He was an elderly gentleman with a very thick accent. I imagined him as a refugee from one of those countries in Africa beseiged by a gruesome civil war, Sierra Leone or Uganda or someplace.

"You know, stuff happens," I assured him. "You did a great job. Thank you so much!"

And I wrote him a five-star review, singling him out by the name embroidered over the breast pocket of his grease-stained denim jumpsuit.

Because I didn't want him to get fired over a gasket.

The whole Israel/Iran 12-Day War thing is such a blatant piece of political theater.

When the dust settles, we will all find out that Bibi & the Khomini were burning up those back-channel phone lines, maneuvering to get Trump that Nobel Peace Prize he so covets.

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Meanwhile, yesterday was fairly productive, although it was really fuckin' hot and cat ownership disqualified me from a potential housing situation—to be honest, I know the housing situation owner through the Shawanagunk Dems, and he is kinda weird, so maybe the cats saved me.

Did the rest of the trip-related errands, had an unsatisfactory phone conversation with RTT, and shortly will be taking the car in for its oil change. I am on that conveyor belt! And it is just possible I will hit my Remuneration quota before I leave on the trip.

I have been bemoaning my own lack of agency: Why don't I have more control over my life?

But, of course, agency is a relative thing. However aggrieved I may feel about my own, I still probably have more of it than 85% of the people who live—or have ever lived—upon this planet.

Forward, little conveyor belt!