I found a half-bag stash of regular sugar above stove top. It should have been in the pantry or freezer, which is why I thought I was out.

In celebration, I broke out my Yeti pitcher Christmas present. I was uncertain if it was the correct capacity to make a full packet of Kool-Aid. Last time I tried to verify, the lighting was too dim for me to read the tiny print on the bottom indicating fluid capacity. This time I was able to decipher that wonderfully perfect All-American amount of 64 oz. 64 oz is a 7-11 Double Big Gulp of my youth. Ah, the memories of picking up a Peach and Dew or Punch and Dew en route to High School. It was a good omen if Beast could shoot the loop on the way.

But now, I needed to confer with my Kool-Aid packaging. Nothing on the back except "large plastic or glass pitcher" was advised by the instructions. All this writing crammed onto this tiny rectangle of packaging. I mean, who the fuck needs to be informed that Kool-Aid powder is "Gluten Free"? Idiots, that's who. But where or where can I find a hint of optimum water measure? Ah, right down there at the bottom corner of the front: 2 qts. I am not going to lie, I withheld my percolating enthusiasm, until I double-checked the equality of those measures. America! Fuck ya! Well almost. The Yeti pitcher was designed in Texas, but made in China. At least I avoided an import tariff.

P.S. Powdered sugar isn't optimal for use in Kool-Aid. But hell if I didn't want to make some frosting while I was looking at it.

P.P.S. I don't have existential dread.

I no longer do self-checkout. It is for the same reason that I rarely rack my shopping cart in the parking lot collection spaces. Fuck them for making me do what they are already charging me to be done.

There is an increasing amount of gas stations and grocery stores that go beyond asking to see ID to purchase alcohol. Now, they think they are entitled to scan the strip on (capturing the additional information and tying it to your name) the state issued ID for their database and information selling endeavors. I am already pissed that some twenty-something asshole is looking at my white beard and demanding ID to sell me booze. Then, those jackasses try to take physical custody of my ID, without even asking if they have my permission. My local grocery is the worst.

"Do you think I am 19 or 20?!"

"I have to swipe the ID, sir."

"No you don't. You have to deny teenagers trying to purchase hooch. Do I look like a teenager to you?"

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On Wednesdays, this same bullshit, on the verge of failure, suburban equivalent to a bodega without any charm or charisma or decent homemade food, wants to boost their action by offering the 55+ crowd a percentage off the final purchase price.

"Are you 55 or older, sir?"

"You think I might be at least 55 years old?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there any chance that I am under 25?"

No response, but I didn't pause long.

"But if I walk over to the booze aisle, retrieve a beer, and try to buy it, you're going to ask my ID aren't you?"

"Well, I am asking about you age because we give a--"

"I am well aware of your discount. What I am trying to determine is the level of IQ it takes to ask if I am in my mid-fifties, but then deny my purchase of alcohol that would only be illegal if I were under 21 years of age."

[Insert Dumb Stare]

I didn't press it, since a poor lady was waiting in line behind me. I left with an over-the-should comment about cognitive dissonance. Fuck people, generally. Fuck those kind of people extra hard, right in the ear.

At times like this, I think of childhood pranks. Ice cream in the bottom middle of the cart, then fill the rest with bottled booze and single beers that they will not let me purchase. I abandon the full cart, knowing they will just roll it into the back to address later. But later is when their lazy asses get to wonder why it is dripping strawberry ice cream.

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I estimate that I would rank around the 65 percentile of all Wheel of Fortune contestants.

Vanna holds onto that paycheck like a dangling backpacker grips the frayed remnants of a gorge-crossing rope bridge after sudden failure.

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I was told about a dog trainer who fed his dogs steak supplemented with a few other natural foods. No dog food. I might feed the dog venison out of the freezer if I am maxing out on the deer harvest, but to buy beef, even if it is by the quarter or half, to feed to dogs is outright insane. It makes me giggle to think of stealing those dogs and selling them to a restaurant in Vietnam to feed people.

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As a life-long connoisseur of Kool-Aid, I had never bought the plastic containers with pre-mix sugar and Kool-Aid. I was always a packet guy. Seeing an enticing sale price on the pre-mix combined with my intrigue regarding this alternate method of enjoying a favorite beverage, my buying impulse was triggered. I was not disappointed, but I don't believe that there is real value in buying up-priced sugar under the Kool-Aid brand umbrella. I will stick to the packets. I bought packets this week. Of course, I am out of sugar. Fuckin' sugar-hungry Cheerios, I blame you!

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I am taking this six-week season off from my regular poker game. I need to break it up a bit to keep it fresh. Plus it will be much warmer weather when I rejoin.

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It might be something that has seen its day, but I still think about the lifestyle of carrying a flask. I don't really drink that regularly, but it feels like something a guy who has reached a certain age might turn into a way of life. Then, I remember that I am carrying a firearm, and I don't need the bullshit from law enforcement. But if I ever get to the goal of traveling only by train and ship, I am going flask + firearm. Are there metal detectors on cruise ships? Amtrack? Of course, that is not what is truly meant by train and ship traveling. I will travel by boat, canoe, and kayak for shorter legs of a journey.

I assume that a flask needs to be filled with a whiskey of some form. Rum is rarely a sipping beverage. Clear stuff can go in a shot glass, but I feel like more substance is needed. What about schnapps or brandy? Problem of low proof. If I found out a guy was tugging on a flask of Jagermeister, I might give him a little extra berth.