June 19– Journallog, with Coffee and Commentary

6/19/2025

A boulder stands prominently at the entrance of Depew Park on Union Avenue

Egg prices continue to bob and weave here in Peekskill, but in the Pearson household, omelets remain non-negotiable. We've scaled back from two eggs to one, true, but that lone egg still holds the line in the budget, proudly anchoring breakfasts with quiet dignity and an occasional dash of salt.

Usually, I'm up early to write—except Sundays, when I sleep in and let my creativity hit the snooze button. But today, at a scandalous 9:41 a.m., I’m just getting started. The outdoor cats, Peshwari and Daisy, clearly noticed. They usually wait by the door like expectant doormen, but with the heat rising early, they took up shady residence in the courtyard. I spotted them from the bedroom window—tails flicking with the distinct feline expression of, “So… are you coming or…?”

Over coffee, my mind drifts to global affairs. I’d read an article in the New York Times just before pausing my subscription (we’re on a break until August 14). I love the Times, but lately it feels like it should be renamed the New York Trump Times. Every headline’s a rerun, and frankly, I can only take so much before reaching my personal gag limit. One day, I hope we’ll live in a world where the Trumps and their cronies are mere footnotes. And when Clarence Thomas retires or floats off into judicial obscurity, well… I’ll raise an egg toast to that too.

Yesterday’s workout was “late” by my standards—meaning after noon. I prefer my workouts like my coffee: early and with minimal heat advisories. But there I was, back at the old Nicholas Colao Field (or something that sounds like a pasta dish), just east of the newer Torphy Field—the same one where the Jets used to train before retreating to fancier turf.

At this time of day, the field becomes its own little theater. Baby carts get pushed, dogs get dragged, and teenagers in purple shorts and flip-flops escort their equally half-awake girlfriends around like sleepwalking ducklings. A woman in a cropped red top, headphones bobbing, smiled like a summer anthem. An older gentleman speed-walked by, meteorologically alarmed, and we agreed that if the mercury hit 90, we both had a date with air conditioning.

And then there was Buddy—a dog who might’ve been part bear. I asked the owner if Buddy was friendly, and he nodded. The second I called his name, Buddy launched himself toward me like joy on four legs. I nearly fell, but honestly? Totally worth it. I’ve always loved dogs. Always will.

As for Iran, the headlines churn in the background of my brain. My feelings twist between empathy and hard truths—how do you hold compassion for a country when it punishes love? Somewhere deep inside, I feel a fire of fury, tempered by the understanding that geopolitics, prophecy, and ethics rarely ride in the same cart. If Iran really is Elam in the Bible, as some say, then destiny might have plans we can’t decode—not with eggs, not with headlines, and certainly not before coffee.