Where can I turn?

Well, this week we lost a musical giant from my youth. Beach Boys frontman Brian Wilson died Wednesday at age 82.

I confess that when I heard the news my brain was awash with “Little Deuce Coup”, and “Fun, Fun, Fun”, and “Good Vibrations” and “California Girls”—me being one. And I saw long board surfboards stuck in the sand at Huntington Beach, and Redondo, and Malibu, with the sun sinking into the Pacific behind them.

Well, that world is long gone. That was when you could drive your Woodie from the Valley to Santa Monica in half an hour, fil it up with gas for a fiver and leave it all day without having to take out a second mortgage to pay for the parking. Things seemed simpler—although, in retrospect, that was probably only if you were White and middle class and could get student deferments to keep you out of Vietnam.

The Beach Boys’ heyday also included the Watts and Newark Riots, growing anti-war protests, Civil Rights marches, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, the beginning of the United Farm Workers union, the surge of the feminist movement, the Weathermen and other domestic terrorists—in short, a whole lot of violent upheaval, right here in the White paradise of America.

Huh.

And here we are, in 2025, with a demented degenerate in the White House enabled by a Sonderkommando of White nationalist tools, both appointed and elected, turning back progress to the 60s (although it’s not clear whether their goal is the 1960s, the 1860s or the 1360s). Tomorrow there will be a parade of tanks down Constitution Avenue to amuse the five-time draft dodger, while he sics the National Guard and Marines on peaceful demonstrators protesting his Neronian immigration policy.

(Here’s the thing about dealing with armor columns: if you take out the lead tank, the rest of them can’t move. One Panzerfaust shot into the treads of that first one and there’s rain on the parade. Just sayin’.)

Well, in honor of Brian, the Beach Boys and the dream of this country, our earworm today is from their iconic 1968 album, Pet Sounds: “I Just Wasn’t Made for these Times”.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Camouflage

I occasionally see this guy along the W&OD Trail; always in the same area, so he may have a lair or a den or whatever rabbits have.

Of course, when I say “see”, I don’t really, because obvs he’s blending in with the grass very effectively.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Park it

There’s a Reddit sub titled Bad Parking. It has for me (as—I suppose—for many others) a horrid fascination, watching how people just park their vehicles wherever they like, without regard to law or civil society.

So far, I have not contributed, but last week I got two entries.

The first was in the Trader Joe’s parking lot:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any TJ parking lot in any state in the Union has a crappy, insufficient parking lot, and spaces are at a premium. Back in the last century, I lived within walking distance of the first Trader Joe’s, on Arroyo Parkway in Pasadena. At any time between early November and the week after New Year, fistfights were likely to break out when some Beamer pinched the space some Lexus was waiting to be vacated. I was glad I was on foot.

So this guy, effectively taking up two spaces, no doubt because “I’m in a hurry, okay?” was quite the prince.

(The "Baby on Board" sign is a tell. It always means "Baby Behind Wheel".)

Then there was this one, at the 10-space parking lot for the W&OD Trail by the old Reston Distillery:

I mean—no wonder his car is held together with duct tape.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Landshell

I met this guy on my walk last week. About a mile from my previous testudinal encounter last month.

He was actually in a mini-park down the street, and since he was not in danger of being run over by bicyclists, I did not move him.

Although he obviously found me sus, as he pulled in his head and tail when I fiddled around for my mobile.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: 25 years

Saturday was my friend MLD’s birthday. It was one of those auspicious birthdays—you know, the ones with a 0 or a 5 as the final digit.

As I was contemplating that, it occurred to me that we’ve been friends for…25 years. And I’ve been grateful for that every single day.

We were colleagues at a telecoms manufacturer’s European headquarters in Maidenhead, UK. She was personal assistant to the CEO and I did this and that. It was the that part that got me moved up to the third floor, where she worked, and we somehow just hit it off.

When the company terminated my contract in September 2001, I spent my last night in the country at MLD’s house. Since then we’ve exchanged daily weekday emails about life, love, cookery, work, bell ringing, travel, kids, health, pets, relocation and retirement. All the major food groups necessary for friendship. She knows all about my most whackjob and shady activities; I know one or two things that might possibly raise an eyebrow in the Holy Trinity Church parish council. But we will take this knowledge to our graves.

I’ve learned so much through our friendship—like the mechanics of church bells (MLD has been tower captain of her church’s ringers for quite a long time), ziplining, fiscal responsibility, recipes for mincemeat. (Also the politics of church organizations—man, that’s a thing!) It’s as though I can walk through a door and be across the ocean, living a life so different from mine; like an immersive TV program on PBS.

I love hearing about her “ringing weeks” in Scotland or Alderney, and Messy Church, and loft clearouts, and getting a new car (six speeds; I have such gear envy). MLD lives a whirlwind life compared to mine; I get all the benefit without any of the exhaustion.

The downside is that we haven’t been in the same time zone, much less the same room, for about 15 years. Google Meet is the best we can manage. But she has been over a couple of times, and I was able to introduce her to a genuine hamburger (which she ate with a knife and fork), and Costco (I may have broken her brain), and Mount Vernon.

We’ve encouraged, and comforted; laughed and wept; sent virtual hugs and very gentle nudges on the butt for all this time. As one does. She—having more juice in this arena than I—also puts in a word or two for me in her devotions, and I know I benefit from this.

I am deeply grateful for every grace of our friendship.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu