Poop

Okay, well—this week we learned that staffers for The Former Guy depended on one aide who could apparently play an instrument (??this is unclear at the moment; it may be that he was just playing from Spotify) to soothe the savage beast. By playing show tunes.

Yes, Max Miller, heretofore notable primarily for his long string of arrests for assault, disorderly behavior and DUI, was known as the “Music Man” in the White House. When TFG flew into one of his frequent rages, aides sent for Miller to play show tunes, which actually calmed the schmuck (who also spent time assuring another aide that his actual schmuck is not shaped like a mushroom). His favorite, apparently, was "Memory", from Cats.

Guys—the most powerful head of state in the world needed a tuneful toady to keep him from ordering missile strikes on Portland. We were that close to utter destruction for the past four years, and were only saved by a tinhorn bullying jackass with a talent for music.

Gawd.

Well, in recognition of this gobsmackery, I’m sharing a number from the actual Music Man musical, because “Shipoopi” kind of describes the last administration.

 

 

Another's treasure

A phenomenon that I noticed in both Seattle and the Valley They Call Silicon is that you can put junk you no longer want (the larger, the better) out on the sidewalk, slap a sign proclaiming “free” on it, and someone will take it away.

I saw it in action in my cluster here in the People’s Republic, but on a much smaller scale:

I was not tempted, but someone else must have been. And it wasn’t the trash service, either, because later on I saw this left over:

Art, man—something for everyone, I guess.

 

 

Chipping away at cherries

A few nights ago I tossed some cherries that were past their use by date out onto the patio. The next day this guy discovered them and I cannot stop watching the videos.

 

Word salad

My friend CA and I used to have breakfast together a couple of Sundays a month in the Before Times. The pandemic slowed that down, and it’s been a number of months now since we last met up before noon. So on Friday I texted her in an exchange that turned out rather like a French farce. When we finally got it sorted, I told her, “We have to stop texting each other like we’re the Cool Kids, because we’re not.”

Here’s what I mean:

 

For the translation:

BB: Wanna do brunch on Sunday at Café Montmartre to enjoy the weather?

CA: Yes.

Then we go off the rails.

CA: Wish we could do it tomorrow.

BB: Not tomorrow, because the Farmers Market fills up the whole plaza and you can’t get a place to park. I'm from LA; parking is a BFD.

CA: No, can’t do the Farmers Market tomorrow because Saturday chores.

BB: Well, poop—we’ll shoot for another weekend.

Which we found out at 1009, when I got a text from her saying she was at Café M, and had we miscommunicated?

Well, within ten minutes I was there and we had a lovely brunch and chat. But—as I said—we need to communicate in full sentences and not cryptic shorthand.

 

 

 

Gratitude Monday: being last

A couple of weeks ago, some folks on infosec Twitter challenged each other over running a virtual 5k race to raise money for Innocent Lives, an organization dedicated to bringing anonymous child predators to justice. I said that my running days are over, but I could walk 5k, so I was in.

Saturday was the day, and here’s my time:

(Yeah, I have not figured out how to get Google Fit to speak to me in Ks instead of Ms, so I just turned in my closest conversion.)

TBF, that 60 minutes includes stopping to take pix, to watch chipmunks and to listen to birds, so I suppose I could have turned in a better time. But this is how I roll.

So, I’m grateful for being able to walk for a good cause. Also, because I made it possible for everyone else in the race to not be last.