Sixty-three years ago yesterday, a chartered plane crashed near Clear Lake, Iowa. All four on board were killed: pilot Roger Peterson, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and J.P. Richardson, AKA The Big Bopper.
So it seems to me that a recording of Don McLean’s “American Pie” is in order.
We finally got into the 40s yesterday, so a good lot of the snow around the People’s Republic has finally started to melt.
But earlier this week, folks were clearly looking into alternative modes of transportation.
We’ll see what the next storm brings.
Monday I had my semi-annual dental appointment. Though the dentist’s office is in Vienna, he lives in the People’s Republic of Reston and it occurs to me that if you’re ever in search of a topic guaranteed to raise the temperature of a conversation without trace of animosity, the Reston Association is the way to go.
Although it’s long since been taken over by untrammeled developers (looking at you, Boston Properties), Reston began life as a planned community, where people of all income levels would live communally—clusters of characterful townhouses or low-rise apartments—and be able to walk to shops and restaurants along tree-lined paths. That idyll didn’t last even about 30 years; by the time I first moved here in the 90s, with the exception of two shopping centers, all restaurants within the People’s Republic are part of chains, and you have your choice of Giant, Safeway or Harris Teeter for your groceries. (Okay—Trader Joe’s, as well.) So much for supporting local businesses.
But the Reston Association—which guided us into the portals of this brave new world—is a special kind of universally hated overlord. Think of the RA as an HOA with ideas way above its station, as incompetence on steroids, as bureaucrats without portfolios, existing to scoop up homeowner dues (which residents pay on top of county taxes) solely for the purpose of keeping their papers pushed.
If they made everyone within the rather loose confines of the People’s Republic pay these fees, which they don’t—only those who fall within the original RA’s grasp have to pony up—I would be less outraged. But no, the assessment on my 52-year-old house subsidizes all the amenities for the $3500/month apartment dwellers who walk their designer dogs on the paths that were meant to guide you to local shops.
Anyway—bringing up RA kept my dentist in narratives for the time it took him to check me out and clean my teeth. We parted agreeing that RA sucks eggs and is an abomination to God and mankind. We’ll reconvene in August.
British Prime Minister Boris Johnson has got himself into a bit of a pickle.
Well—again. He’s in a (self-inflicted) predicament again. This time over holding a string of boozy parties at No. 10 Downing Street—the PM office and residence—during periods in the pandemic when his own government was imposing draconian restrictions on how many Brits could gather for any occasion. Those restrictions put paid to christenings, bar mitzvahs, weddings and even funerals. Thousands of Britons died without the presence of loved ones in compliance with these lockdowns.
Apparently starting in May 2020, No. 10 was the scene of more social gatherings than an Olive Garden event space. Birthdays, leavings, Christmas, the premises indoors and out flowed with gaiety and pinot grigio; at least several with BoJo himself in attendance. (He does love a good piss-up.) According to reports, staff installed a 34-bottle wine fridge and took turns on Fridays wheeling a suitcase down to the Tesco Express to load up with wine.
The afternoon before Queen Elizabeth II sat alone in Saint George’s Chapel at Windsor at the funeral of her husband last year, Prince Philip (in full compliance with lockdown regs), there were actually two bust-ups at No. 10, celebrating the departure of staff members; evidently, it’s not the done thing to have a single party when there are two honorees.
BoJo, a narcissistic blowhard who has built a career out of lying and buffoonery, at first denied there were any such parties. Then, in the time-honored manner of pols the world over, he claimed to have been unaware that his worker bees were violating the regulations and of course he wasn’t there, but gave assurances that [worker bee] heads would roll. When photographic evidence emerged that he, in fact, was in attendance (one of them, FFS, was a surprise birthday party for him, held in the Cabinet Room at the conclusion of a cabinet meeting, organized by his wife), he sputtered that he “honestly” thought they were work meetings.
That’s actually almost believable (except for the “honestly” part), since BoJo pretty much feels like life’s a ball for the likes of him, so why shouldn’t work meetings legit involve canapés and claret?
Look—here’s what I keep wondering: leaving aside the flaunting of policies his own government enacted, the continuous flow of booze and pub quizzes at No. 10 may explain the preponderance of Tory policies. Man—they’re all always three sheets to the wind; no wonder the nation is a shadow of its former self.
Well, the perpetual opportunist has had to answer some pointed questions in both the press and Parliament about the parties, although he’s doing his best impression of an overstuffed eel in his responses. Seems that the country that was okay with committing economic suicide with Brexit as long as it kept all the wogs out sticks at the double standard of lockdowns for the hoi polloi while the Oxbridge set party like it’s 1999.
A heavily-redacted version of an inquiry by a high-ranking civil servant into "partygate" was released yesterday; even the expurgated version says there's no defense for the activities at No. 10. There's an ongoing criminal investigation by the Metropolitan Police into same. We may never get the full report from Sue Gray, because it's within BoJo's gift to withhold it. But it’s got to the point that former (Conservative) PM Theresa May (a woman of whom I would be hard-pressed to say anything positive) got up on her hind legs yesterday, jammed a shiv between BoJo’s ribs and twisted it.
Yep. A bit of a pickle.
