I wrote yesterday about a ramp up in positive Coof tests. My friends, the gayest chest cold of the century has a new variant and it’s called… ready for it?… BA.5. I’m not sure if that’s pronounced Bee-Ayy Dot Five or if the dot is silent and it’s pronounced like I thought – Fagatron.
I heard from my source in law enforcement, a beat cop in a large northeastern city, that several of his colleagues have also tested positive in the past week. Still think I’m grasping at straws? Think again.
My day was thoroughly amazing in the best way possible. I began with 6:45 AM Latin Mass. On that note I must make somewhat of a correction to something I said yesterday. I wrote “Go to Mass. The Roman Mass.” A friend reached out to me within minutes to ask why I was “hating” on him and his Byzantine confrères. First, my audience is mostly TLM Roman Catholic. Also, the point was more about adhering to tradition and not Bugnini. If you are Byzantine and you can get to a daily Divine Liturgy, do it. I had wanted to include a quote from Robert Hugh Benson’s Lord of the World. I cannot find the actual quote but it regarded the abolition of the Eastern Churches and it made me chuckle when I first read it.
I spent many hours on a beach today. Southwestern Florida’s Gulf Coast is stunning. Before I headed out I received an email from a fellow blogger. I had initiated the conversation by thanking him for listing me in his blogroll. Please visit his blog by clicking here. Seems he and I have a common interest in advocating that men dress like real men. Toward that end, I stepped onto the beach today like a man would’ve looked on Coney Island in 1910. Don’t laugh. Blue and white striped tank and navy trunks. I’ve never been one to want to bare all on the beach but I think this look adds an element of class to the whole “skinshow” that is modern American beach attire. If I’d had my dad’s old boater hat and a ukulele with me, well, I’m glad I didn’t.
Side note: I met an Irishman today who told me that I’d never be mistaken for having Irish ancestors. Apparently, the fact I tan better than George Hamilton and have blonde hair means I have something other than Irish in me (despite my thoroughly Celtic pedigree). I blame it on the Vikings.
And speaking of stepping onto the beach, the environmentalist whackos (God, I miss Rush Limbaugh) have succeeded in ruining a beach outing. Large signs in the parking lot warned that this was a “no smoking beach” because there were sea turtles nesting or some such nonsense. This from the same people who push a theory of evolution predicated on survival of the fittest. In this case, I am fitter and therefore I should win. If my cigarette butts disturb your nesting perhaps you should evolve harder.
I did strike up a conversation with two lovely women seated next to us. I connected my Bluetooth speaker to my phone and began to play my merengue playlist. I grew up in Jersey and this is South Florida after all. It turns out these two women were from North Bergen, NJ. We have mutual friends. They appreciated the bronzed white boy from 1910 playing their Cuban jam on the beach in Florida. They gave us recommendations for beaches tomorrow.
You see, friends, there really are no strangers, only Cubans we haven’t met yet.
Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre, pray for us!