Black Cat Month: Open Channel D

Columbus Day 2025

I changed, or rather Dear Husband changed, the Ring Tone on my me-Phone — Model 6. I recently learned that Tim Apple has just released Model 17!

With just one more NEW UPDATED version, my model will be 3-fold behind the Chinesium times.

What an inspirational thought!

I might almost be back/forward to the Aircraft Carrier device that first introduced me to cellular non-communications (see Rotary Dial Thinking).  I valiantly persist in my rotary-dial thinking.  It’s the wave of the cerebral future.

My previous ring tone was Liebestraüme, one of the three solo piano nocturnes by Franz Liszt.  The name, translated into English, is Dreams of Love.  I plowed through the latter half of the BidenRegime with that auditory sarcasm/irony on the Receiving Device to remind me that whoever, and whatever, are calling me ain’t for the most benevolent of reasons.

My ring tone for the first half of PrezEggplant/1970sRedux via Photoshop was the hilarious vocal impersonation of Der Donald Führer by Captain Deplorable:  The Car Warranty Scam Alert.  Not long after downloading that Recorded Message, I got car warranty offers galore on my cellphone!

No joke.  Not kidding.  For real.

What was even more real was the effect this priceless vocal styling had on The Intolerables in my vicinity when the me-Phone voice took off!

Shocked horror, gulp, how do I get away from Him, I can’t believe you have anything to do with Hitler, I think I’m gonna faint/throw up/freakout/panic attack — right here in public!

“He calls you?!!”

“Oh,” I said calmly, “I hear from him every once in a while.”

You people out there, who have dealt most dismally and dreadfully with the Saving-Democracy Demons, need to learn how to make TDS work to your advantage.  That ring tone was more effective for me than a skunk at a picnic!  It cleared out an entire group of people in a public park.  I was left, all alone, by myself, to appreciate the sublime wonders of nature — evergreens, sunlight, blue sky — all around me!

Moving on.

My New Ring Tone is the opening theme song, the rhythmically dynamic intro to the hit show, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.  Season One.

The music is so exhilarating that I forget that it’s alerting me to answer the phone.  Works like a charm.  I thereby happily miss the 4 following Callers of The Day:

Spam

Political Call

Unknown

Telemarketer.

I honestly do not know what I’d do if the me-Phone served as a conduit to someone I actually know, outside of The Home.  My dental appt. reminder doesn’t count, even though my new dentist is a fine fellow, courageously riding the waves of economic survival in Placer County.  He’s a pro surfer, riding through the dark forests of the Sierra Nevada and avoiding the tsunami of free-enterprise wipeouts in Gavinville CA.

That’s quite a mixed metaphor, or illogical imagery, but I like it!

Trying to make logic out of illogic has long been an instinctive and unavoidable quest of mine.  I, Debra of Channel D, attempt that feat every day, without knowing it.  That analytical activity takes place whenever I am sewing away, even more so, as I get ready to sew away.

I call it Squaring the Circle.

It turns out that I’m right on-the-money with my understanding of this idiom, which comes as a great surprise.  It perfectly describes my present conundrum with comprehending What The Heck is Going On Out There:

To square the circle is to solve a difficult or impossible problem.  It’s an attempt to construct or find a square equal in area to a given circle.  And it’s basically an insoluble problem in Euclidean geometry because the area of the Circle is an irrational number, based on the mathematical constant known as π.  The area of a square is typically considered a rational number.

Ergo, a person cannot, mathematically, create a rational entity from an irrational one.

I, however, or, My Muse, use that exercise in frustration in creative and imaginative ways.

For instance, I gain tremendous comedic insight from the illogic, lunacy, stupidity, and overall gargantuan greed of the California Political Overlords trying to force the Oil Company to bend to the will of the giant sucking machine called The State Capitol.  The latest absurdity is the Getty Oil Brat Guv, sucking his thumb in between shrill digital ring-tones to prove he is Relevant, and The Wave of the Future — because We the Citizen-Consumer in California have the highest gas prices in the nation, the world, the universe!

Why, we don’t just have gasoline in the Golden State!  What we have is a pure, unadulterated, pristine, and rarefied commodity.  Nectar of the Gods!  It’s a Noble Gas!  An Elite Gas!

Speaking of hot air, though, I must exhort any rational being to descry all of it on the Internet.  The Online Click-bait Agitators, known as news-aggregators, have spent a decade pumping out citations by the crabapple George Orwell, and his book, 1984, CAUSE WE ARE LIVING IT.

I get testy reading online about “doublespeak” as if the current crisis is the First Time Ever we’ve encountered it.  Growing up in a household based on fraud and deception teaches a person, real fast, about the blatant b.s. that a liar-in-charge spews, as if that sordid line of b.s. is an exquisite strand of finely spun silk.

Get real, people!

Orwell was a nasty curmudgeon, an ardent socialist who got burned, screwed if you will, by the very people he most ardently trusted.  1984 was his published hissy-fit tirade to get back at the unsavory people who did him wrong.  It’s not literature, and it’s certainly not good fiction.  It’s mordant bloviating, without a scintilla of hope, by a sour-grapes guy who didn’t exactly come out in favor of capitalism, or democracy, in the wake of his awakening to the reality that mugged him.

Awakening to reality comes more easily to certain individuals that it does to others.  You must weigh that human capacity whenever you set out to speak the truth.  People who live in bubbles, whether of gauzy, hope-filled illusions or smelly, bitter hatred, do not willingly or easily leave that cocoon that’s been built to shield them from the world.

And the world is dangerous, filled with evil people, but also filled with good people who outnumber the vicious malice-mongers.

This essay started out with my realization that, since this past June, I’ve been trying to square the circle of the inevitable consequences that are taking place because We the People, after decades of being deceived, are, at last, discovering the truth about so many things, too many things.  The truth can set you free, but it can also hurt.  It’s a double-edge sword, a weapon to be used judiciously.

Here, in California, the truth is an ominous stranger to the Idiots-in-Charge.  I live in a State of the Union that has a non-functioning GINO, Governor-in-Name-Only.  His first gig, decades ago, at the Public Trough was as a Meter Maid.

Now there’s a costume among his theme wardrobe that fits him like a macabre-glove.

I don’t worry and fret over the State of the State.  Sometimes the sheer weight of a corrupt and fiendish monstrosity is all it needs to collapse on itself.  The dust from that debris is gonna be toxic.

Since June, I’ve been busily lining up my ducks in a row, starting and finishing other projects, so that I can return to cutting out fabric for the quilt I intend to sew, called Lost Ships.

I am not one of those Lost Ships.  I didn’t give up the ship, and I don’t intend to.  I’m circling back to create that quilt, Lost Ships,.  The truly lost ships are rudderless, and they are running aground, experiencing the naufrage, as the French say — and as the current French non-government is doing.

Stay out of their way.  Gravity, physics, chemistry, karma and God’s will are happening, all at the same time.