Milk money

Back in the Before Times, it didn’t matter where I bought milk for my lattes; it was $1.99 per half gallon. So I bought it wherever I happened to be shopping when I ran low—mostly either Trader Joe or Wegmans.

Then, maybe two years ago, I noticed that Wegmans had raised the price to $2.69—okay, but TJ was $2.49. Why was that, I wondered. I checked Giant (a regional biggie); they were charging $2.79. What the hell? The milk basically comes from the same cows.

So I limited my milk purchases to TJ. Annoying because it meant in some weeks going to multiple stores to complete my grocery shopping, but I found this discrepancy annoying.

Then, in the past couple of months, I went to a Lidl for the first time. Just for ducks, I checked their milk price: $1.63. This made me feel like the other concerns—especially Giant—were just taking the piss. (It may be a loss leader for Lidl, but more than a dollar delta between them and the next cheapest price seems pretty bold.)

What with tariffs and war in Iran, this past week, they raised their price to $1.67.

Here’s Trader Joe:

And Wegmans:

But looky here at Giant:

I mean—Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: A little light protest

Me and 7,999,999 of my closest friends turned out on Saturday at more than 3300 locations across the country to reiterate our refusal to submit to the Kleptocrat’s attempts to become king-dictator. Additionally, thousands more showed up in cities and towns around the world to stand with us.

He didn’t hear us, because he was in Florida golfing and grifting, but Republicans in general did. They are getting nervous. I hope this develops into ulcers.

This time round I did not get any photos of my fellow protesters in The People’s Republic. Given the rotting that’s taken place in the Kleptocrat’s brain since the last No Kings in October, I added a new message to the back of the poster I made before:

I know it’s a pipe dream; the toadies and lickspittles in the Cabinet will never invoke the 25^th Amendment, no matter now much he drools, slurs and meanders. But it’s still worth reminding Republicans that we know what’s going on.

Ran into my neighbor again. He carried several signs with his political cartoons, and saw some other protestors across the parkway who also had them. Viz:

At one point, when people were changing call-and-response “Tell me what democracy looks like/This is what democracy looks like,” he commented, “If this is what democracy looks like, it’s aging.” Well, yes—there were a lot of people who looked like they might have marched in the 70s, and 2010, and 2017. But there were also many youngs, including families with small children and dogs.

The passing motorists also showed support, honking and waving American flags. Some even had their own No Kings signs against the windows. (There was that one jackass in an SUV who flashed thumbs down; there’s always that one jackass.)

Fairfax County’s finest were out in force as well—one of their SUVs (why are they all in SUVs?) parked on the median and at one time four more hovering in an adjacent parking lot, I suppose to ensure that the people carrying signs didn’t suddenly pull out assault rifles or something. It would have been a good time to knock over an ABC store, what with half the force on riot control duty.

On the whole, a good way to spend 90 minutes being counted as opposed to this administration and every criminal, corrupt, contaminated thing it does. And it’s my gratitude for today.

 

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Bring me something I can use

Whee, doggies—another whirlwind week in global geopolitics, brought to us by the worst, dumbest, most corrupt and incompetent administration in US history. Just a few highlights:

The kind of messaging you never want to see regarding any war (much less an illegal war of aggression) from the brain-rotted asshole driving the show:

Then we find out that said asshole—the one whose Daily Presidential Briefing on intelligence has been reduced to three bullet points in crayon accompanied by some swell GIFs—can’t take anything more complicated by way of reports on the war from the military chiefs than a two-minute video compilation of (as one aide described it) “things going boom”. He only wants to see “successful” operations before he gets his little container of pudding.

And finally, House Republicans announced on Wednesday that they’ve created an “America First” prize, and the first recipient is…the asshole who still doesn’t have a Nobel Peace Prize. I am unable to find any images, but it is indubitably gold-plated. Possibly in the form of a calf. It may be that Republican ladies have contributed their gold jewelry to be melted down for the purpose.

Seriously—this timeline sucks.

So our earworm for today is “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News”, from The Wiz. It just has to be.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

New civic art

In all the years (nine, to be precise) that I’ve been walking this stretch of the W&OD Trail, this is a first:

Someone has tagged the wall under the American Dream Way* bridge.

*That street was the drive up to the headquarters of Fannie Mae, the government-backed corporation founded in 1938 to help Americans finance house purchases. It is now the site of a butt-ugly development of 82 three- and four-story townhouses costing more than $1M, crammed onto five acres of what used to be a parklike setting. The developers are currently razing the actual Fannie Mae building and parking garage to make way for a zillion more townhouses. So the street name has become ironic in the extreme.

Wonder how long it’ll stay up?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

The importance of use case scenarios

I was in Paris Baguette the other day, waiting for my latte (I don’t know what it is, but their lattes are infinitely better than the ones I make; their milk must be from exceptionally happy cows), when I noticed that I was next to the shop’s thermostat.

Which was encased in a locked plastic box:

I’m thinking that it was an unfortunate and thoughtless placement of a device that controls the space’s temperature; ergo the after-market security feature.

I wonder how long it took after opening to encase it? 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Stewards of the land

Long ago, in the Before Times, when the developers of the corporate campus behind my house were still trying to get planning permission to turn five acres of parkland into 82 four-story townhouses, I had an email exchange with a lawyer fronting the project about many of the scores of mature trees they’d destroy.

He assured me that “the canopy will not be affected,” which meant that they’d rip out/cut down all the trees they could and eventually plant an approximately equivalent number of saplings. For dealing with county agencies, that amounts to “the canopy won’t be affected”.

Well, they’ve got eight units completed of their 82, with framing done on another five or six. All the parkland has literally been paved and plumbed for the remaining units, and they’re working on the landscaping. Two months ago I wrote about their allée of hollies that look fine now, but will never again bear berries unless they stick a male plant in the vicinity.

And as I was making a tour on Sunday morning (the only day of the week they don’t have crews out violating the start times), I noticed that three shrubs right next to the model unit do not have long for this world.

Wonder how long it’ll take them to replace them?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: movement restored

My gratitude for today is, in the global scheme of things, miniscule. But for me, it’s big. I’m grateful that my sacroiliac joint is almost back to normal.

Can’t recall if I wrote about it when the issue first arose—about two years ago. It was agonizing and required weeks of PT to beat it back. (Let me just say: you may not realize it, but just about every movement you make makes a transit point past the SI joint. If all the muscles are fine, you don’t notice it. If not, you do. You really do.)

So, of course, when I got back to normal, I stopped doing the exercises. A few months ago, it flared up somewhat, but I dragged out the PT and it subsided.

Then, during the Big Freeze in January, I slipped on ice; I landed on my left hip (which was the problematic one), but clearly knocked something awry in my right. I tried walking it out, to no avail, so back with the exercises. It receded, but then kicked back in, right around the time I was helping with the monthly food pantry at a local church. (For that, I bag produce on the Wednesday and on Thursday push carts for my neighbors who collect food at the church.) I observed A Pattern: on the Friday after the pantry, big flare up; impacts everything, including yoga.

Like I said—everything you do passes across your SI joint.

But this past week, after steadfastly doing my exercises, I’ve finally corralled the pain to mild discomfort, so that about a half-mile into my morning walk, I don’t notice the muscles complaining. I also pinpointed the triggering event: bagging sweet potatoes, onions and cabbage last Wednesday, I realized that the bag was heavy enough to feel in my butt. (Those heads of cabbage can weigh upwards of 10 lbs alone.) It’s not the cart pushing, it’s the produce schlepping. I can continue helping with food distribution, but I’ll back off the bagging.

This is a lot of verbiage to get to the point: being cognizant that at a certain age we cannot assume full functionality in our musculoskeletal system, I am grateful that I am still able to command mobility and that my muscles are responding to proper exercise. I suppose I have to be more aware of what I’m doing, which is kind of a bummer, but given the alternatives, I give thanks for what I have.

Also—the magnolia trees are awakening.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Cut him a slice

In 2022, deputies from the Adams County, Ohio, sheriff’s department raided the home of Joseph Foreman, apparently looking for evidence related to kidnapping and drug trafficking. They found no such evidence and filed no charges against Foreman, a rapper with the stage name Afroman. But they did break in his door and cause other damage.

Adams County—population 28,000—is 97% white; Afroman is Black. I sort of feel these are relevant facts.

Afroman’s then-wife recorded the raid on video, which he has used in videos of his own. Let me just say that Adams County’s finest do not come off looking quite so fine, so of course seven of them sued him, claiming his videos, “Help Me Repair My Door” and “Lemon Pound Cake”, subjected them to ridicule, emotional distress and threats. They put the price of assuaging their feelings at $4M.

Afroman claimed his First Amendment right, along with artistic expression. He also pointed out in court earlier this week that the videos raised funds needed to repair the property damage the deputies caused. If they hadn’t barged into his house, he wouldn’t have needed to tell the story to make money.

Here’s a photo of him (by Paul Weeden/WCPO) testifying:

It took the jury a few hours (including electing a foreperson, ordering lunch and filling out the forms for all 13 counts) about half a day to rule in the rapper’s favor. His response: “We did it, America. Freedom of speech. It’s still for the people, by the people.”

So our earworm today is “Lemon Pound Cake”. ‘Nuff said.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Joe on the job

Unless you’re Italian or trying to sell a house, you may not be aware that today is Saint Joseph’s Day.

You remember Joseph? Husband of Mary? Taught Jesus everything he knew about carpentry and joinery?

Yeah, that’s the sad tale. Poor guy is always losing out: in the Nativity, it’s all the Madonna and the kid; in cursing it’s always Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph; in March it’s always Saint Patrick.

Joseph is the patron of, among others, the Church Universal, workers, families, engineers, the dying, Canada, confectioners, travelers, those in doubt, cabinetmakers, Korea and Vatican II. Also of house sellers and hunters, which should make him a pretty busy fellow these days.

Today is his official feast day—celebrated widely in Italian communities around the world with altars decorated with flowers, limes, candles, wine, breads, cookies, pastries and other symbols of the good life. This is of particular importance when you consider that Saint Joseph’s Day usually falls in Lent, when consumption is constricted.

(There’s another day, 1 May, dedicated to Saint Joseph the Worker; but that was invented in 1955 by Pope Pius XII to counter the godless communist/union/laborer May Day holiday, so you can fuggedaboutit.)

What I remember about Saint Joseph’s Day is that it’s when the swallows come back to Capistrano—that’s the Mission of San Juan Capistrano, in the eponymous town in Orange County, California. Turns out that the swallows usually show up a couple of days on one side or another of 19 March, but everyone turns a blind eye to those little discrepancies and enjoys the hell out of the miracle of the swallows.

There are decades of stories about how Saint Joe helps the desperate sell their homes: you bury a (plastic/stone/wooden) statue of the saint (head up/head/down/horizontal) in your (front/back/side) yard and Bob’s your uncle—the house is sold.

You can buy purpose-made statues for precisely this use from a variety of sources both on and off line, including from some realtors. Viz:

No clue as to how the saint may help home buyers, unless there’s some karmic connection that his statue in your yard attracts exactly the right buyers for this house.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Marching along

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. I have to say that this time around I’m looking forward to the lamb. Or at least sticking to something—it’s been quite the yo-yo.

Viz: last week.

Monday and Tuesday was in the 70s; Wednesday we hit above 80°F in The People’s Republic. A couple of my neighbors had their AC on; I opened my patio door and was grateful for ceiling fans in all the rooms I used.

Thursday started out with rain, which then morphed into this:

Fortunately, it did not stick.

Monday of this week we were forecast a squall line that was said to include the prospect of tornadoes. Mercifully, we dodged them, but had a few bouts of exceptionally heavy rain.

Temperature was 63°F when I went on my morning walk, so I was not at all surprised when yesterday it was 30°F. But not without it's charms.

There may be a hurricane today, followed by a blizzard and a downpour of frogs and locusts. I mean—March, man.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Jingle jangle

As you know, I am of the opinion that Saint Patrick’s Day is largely an Irish-American construct—the kind of thing an under-appreciated minority puts on to cock a snook at the majority. After all, you don’t really need to celebrate being Irish in Ireland because you’re in, well, you know, Ireland. (Although about 30 years ago they wised up to the potential tourist bonanza it could be and have been raking in the readies ever since.)

You do need to celebrate it in a culture that looks down on you as a jumped-up ignorant bunch of dirt-encrusted, drink-swilling lowlifes who take orders directly from the Pope and lower property values wherever you go.

So not surprising that someone decided to declare Saint Patrick’s Day an occasion for pretending to be Irish by going pub crawling, drinking green beer and singing rebel songs.

Whatever.

I myself don’t venture into bars or taverns on Saint Patrick’s Day because I don’t like mixing with all those amateur drinkers. But I can still express the sentiment with a song or two. 

Here’s one of my all-time favorites, which goes well with a slurp of Cooper’s Croze—“The Auld Triangle”. Written by Dick Shannon in 1952, it became famous when it was featured in Brendan Behan’s 1956 play, The Quare Fella. The play is set in Dublin’s Montjoy Prison, where he was the guest of the Irish government in his youth and where a triangle signaled shifts in the prison’s daily routine.

I once walked along the Royal Canal, singing it to myself. As one does.

Here are The Dubliners singing it. Lift a glass for all enclosed by walls not of their choosing.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: One side of clouds

I try to be aware of my environment when I walk. I listen to the sounds around me and look side to side. Sometimes I remember to look up, too.

Yesterday morning, that’s when I saw this cloud activity, driven by wind high up that we earthbounders did not experience:

I’m grateful for that ephemeral beauty and that I caught it in transit.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Don't ask me

We lost one of the icons of my youth earlier this week. Country Joe McDonald died from complications of Parkinson’s Disease in his hometown of Berkeley, Calif. He was 84.

McDonald—with and without his band, The Fish—was anti-war all his life. His big Woodstock moment started with him shouting, “Gimme an F,” and exhorting the audience to fill the somewhat weedy air with “FUCK!” Then he segued into the “I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag”.

This song is particularly apt this week, as it turns out. You could substitute “Tehran” for “Vietnam”, while the “be the first one on the block to have your boy come home in a box” line is as true as it was in 1969.

This makes me very tired, that nearly 60 years after Joe asked for that F, we’ve still got leaders who think that a “short, victorious war” is what will settle domestic unrest. Only this time it's so much more unhinged.

Crank up the volume.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Civic duty

Yesterday I cast my early vote in the April special election here in the Old Dominion. The only thing on the ballot is a measure to redraw the state’s congressional districts. The new lines leave Republicans with only one “safe” seat, a strip along the south-western border of the state.

This is largely in response to Texas redrawing its districts last year to dilute Democratic votes to send more RWNJs to the House.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Rs are real het up about this—they went to court to cancel the election but a judge ruled it can go ahead. (They did the same when California redrew its districts so that Republican safe zones lie largely in the eastern desert and east-of-the-Sierras, along with lizards and wood rot.)

Here’s a sample:

Opposing voices:

But I say they can piss up a rope. They fucked around; every time they do that they forget about the second part of that expression. 

Here’s the find out.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Weather whiplash

 March is such a schizophrenic, ADHD month. I mean—the saying is that it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, and it’s known for its windiness. But this year it just seems unable to make up its mind.

Technically, I suppose we’re in the “lion” phase, and we certainly started out with snow flurries and snowcrete on the ground from February that wouldn’t melt because we were still facing sub-freezing temperatures. But, starting Sunday, we here in the environs of The District They Call Columbia have had daytime temps in the 70s; yesterday Google told me it hit 83F. Aaand…on Tuesday they expect the highs in the 30s.

Meanwhile, I’m reverting to my summertime diet of dinner salads—Greek, Niçoise, primavera, etc.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Seraph

Here’s a motorist who has opinions.

I’m guessing that there have been incidents with other drivers regarding using turn signals and adherence to traffic lights.

I dunno about the horse thing.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: No longer dancing damply with death

A week ago I was doing my laundry on Saturday when I realized that the load seemed to be taking…hours. When I looked at the minutes-remaining readout, I realized it actually was taking hours. Every time it got down to the point where the final spin should kick it, it looped back to the beginning of the wash cycle.

Consulting Google, I did what I could—the appliance version of the three fingered salute (unplugging, waiting five minutes, plugging in, restarting), but same thing.

Even when I set it to Spin Only, it jumped back to wash and started adding water.

Disconsolately I wrung out the clothes, hung them on the drying rack until they were in a state that I could toss them in the dryer. On Monday I called the appliance repair guy and he came out on Tuesday.

Understand that this machine—bought three years ago when my old, mechanical-only washer finally expired—is packed with electronics. As it is, I had to look really hard to find one that isn’t “smart”, but it’s still computerized and I was envisioning having to replace something expensive.

Well, Alan posited that the machine—like a lot of modern, agitator-free top-loaders—is very sensitive to load imbalance, and was probably trying to reset the load. I couldn’t think that what I had in that particular collection of clothes was markedly different from the hundreds of others I have run since it arrived. A few times, when I was washing mattress pads, the machine would go ballistic and I’d have to turn it off, adjust the placement and then start again. (These modern jobbers don’t have knobs you can pull out to continue where you left off.) He then had me run through a load on speed wash, just to see how it went.

Well, we chatted around the machine for about 20 minutes, and sure enough, it worked just fine. He charged me a call-out fee, and as he was leaving, he noticed a bird’s nest in my dryer vent, next to the front door. He checked for eggs—none—and then brought out a kind of mini-chimney sweep device, with long poles connecting to a drill, and cleaned out what must have been 20 years of lint from that dryer conduit.

It’s a miracle that I haven’t had a fire in the nine years I’ve been here.

Well, Saturday, I filled the washer with my colored clothes and turned the machine on. Let me tell you: then I saw it click over into the spin cycle I was filled with such gratitude. You cannot believe how wonderful it is to have a washing machine that works.

And then, when I dumped the clothes in the dryer, it was wonderful again, knowing I wasn’t risking conflagration.

Life is good.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Not a man at all

In the early days of this century, the Brits used to refer to Prime Minister Tony Blair as “Bush’s Poodle”, because he heeled perfectly in step with the American president’s war(s) in the Middle East.

These days, the occupant of the Oval Office can accurately be termed “Bibi’s Bitch”, since the Israeli PM so easily induced him to pour a coat of legitimacy on his attacks on Iran. In fact, one of the many, many “reasons” the White House has given for the war, uh, “special military operation”, is that Israel was going to attack, so we had to get in their with them.

Sigh.

So, I’ve been hearing that old Everly Brothers standard, “Cathy’s Clown” all week. Seems appropriate.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Icing

Okay—a couple more shots from Monday’s snow. I just like the way it collected on the leaves..

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Sugar dusting

We got a dusting of snow from the latest passing storm on Monday night. Not enough to stick to the pavement, but enough to create beautiful sights.

And we need beautiful sights in the first week of the latest war started by the guy who's still tossing his toys out the pram for not being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Tree decorations

On one of my walks last week, I noticed a lot of branches and limbs down. We hadn’t had high winds, but maybe the snow and snowcrete have affected the trees.

Anyway, this particular one interested me.

With the price of mushrooms being what it is, I considered harvesting them, but I contented myself with just photographing them.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: Resilient beauty

After three weeks of a four-inch crust of snowcrete on my back yard, the thing that gave me the most joy was seeing my winter aconite peeping up from the last blanket of white.

These sturdy little stalwarts never fail to raise my spirits. They only make an appearance for a few weeks, then subside back into the clay. But, oh, what a gift they are.

 

Forget the groundhog, Spring is on its way.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu