Tough Times

It's very difficult to maintain a comfortable level of curmudgeonly displeasure at this time of year. When the hellish heat of summer gives way to the mild days of autumn, it's hard to bitch about the weather. When the rain comes down in buckets after so long and unremitting a drought, it's hard to gripe about the leak in the living room ceiling. When the parched dead earth springs at last into its jungle mode, it's difficult to acheive the proper degree of irritation about yard work. When the English Premier League season is in full swing, it's hard to be upset about every game Liverpool loses. When the few television shows we find worth watching start their new seasons, it's hard to focus on the near-total dearth of intelligent writing coming out of Hollywood. (Or London; we like British mysteries too.) And when it's cool and clear and beautiful like today and yesterday and the day before, it's hard to be too upset about the fact that I really have nowhere to go with the top down.

Yes, autumn in South Texas is a difficult time for curmudgeons. I grouse about having to replace some damn sensor in the Jaguar's engine, but my heart isn't in it. Liverpool loses to Sunderland -- Sunderland! -- and I can't really hold the requisite grudge. I make an effort to be unhappy about the weeds in the front garden, and the amazing fungi that sprout so suddenly, but I just can't sustain it. A mediocre episode of The Big Bang Theory fails to support my unhappiness, and even the ceaseless farce of Legislative, Executive and Judicial branches can only momentarily infest my psyche.

O! how I long for the winter! The short, dark days, when it seems no pleasant thing can take place. Those are the times when my cold curmudgeonly heart can truly come alive!