I feel like freedom

Juneteenth has been a federal holiday since 2021; forward-thinking organizations began marking it in the wake of the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis cops. One, Derek Chauvin, shoved his knee to Floyd’s throat for nearly 10 minutes, while his colleagues watched.

(Chauvin was subsequently tried for the murder—after considerable shenanigans by the Minneapolis police department and massive nationwide protests. He’s currently serving his sentence of 22.5 years. Even SCOTUS denied his appeal. However, last week Minneapolis Republicans observed a “moment of silence” for him at their state convention. He could still get a pardon or commutation via pressure from the White House, just as Colorado governor Jared Polis pardoned Tina Peters. Justice, man…)

If you’re unclear about Juneteenth, it commemorates the day in 1865 when news arrived in Galveston with Union troops that the end of the War Between the States meant emancipation for slaves across the country. The Emancipation Proclamation, which the victory at Antietam in September of 1862 made possible, outlawed slavery in all territories then in rebellion against the United States. However, as you might imagine, the Confederates basically said, “Yeah, and?” and got on with their slaving business for another two years. Two months after the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House, the “and” question was answered in Texas.

We all know that we have yet to fulfill the promise of emancipation; for that matter, we have yet to fulfill the ideals of a more perfect union, equal justice, domestic tranquility, general welfare and the blessings of liberty. But Juneteenth reminds us that, even when we can’t see the full arc of the moral universe, we feel it in our consciences and we are obligated to do our part to ensure that it bends toward justice.

For that reason, Republicans up and down the spectrum are grumbling and scuffing their toes in the dirt (as they do on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day), pissed off at the reminder that they actually lost that war and that the Thirteenth, Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments to the Constitution exist. (Even if SCOTUS can’t seem to find them.)

However, those of us with a working conscience and a moral compass that isn’t permanently stuck on terror-fueled racism can take a few moments today to consider how emancipation enriches everyone, because humanity is not actually a zero-sum game.

In honor of Juneteenth, here’s musical prodigy Jon Batiste performing “Freedom”. Both your eyes as well as your ears are in for a treat. 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Family issues

I have to say that I don’t normally pay any attention to the notifications I get from Paris Baguette. I just scan the app to accumulate points whenever I go in for a latte and then redeem the points when they are enough to get something free.

But this one kind of surprised me a couple of weeks ago:

Yes, I suppose that some percentage of people might not be celebrating Father’s Day, for any number of reasons. So, okay.

But I don’t recall a similar notification for Mother’s Day last month, when I’d imagine there are at least as many people who ditto.

Maybe I just didn’t notice it.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Fast food for the feathered set

On one of my recent walks on the W&OD Trail, I noticed a woman spreading what looked like seed from a pouch she was carrying onto the base of an electricity pole.

I asked, “Are you feeding the birds?”

She said she always carries food for them and went on her way.

Well, when I saw it was raw rice, I was a little dubious. But it turns out that birds can indeed digest uncooked rice, so some of our feathered friends got quite the feast.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Political commentary

I actually had a couple of other contenders for my Gratitude Monday post yesterday. One was the African elephant that Texas GOPs trotted out over the weekend for some convention they were holding.

The elephant peed on the venue floor. And—let me say this—evidently elephants have capacious bladders.

It was magnificent.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Off the wall

My gratitude for today is that the Kleptocrat’s name has been removed from the Kennedy Center—including from the wall of the building itself.

A federal judge, Christopher Cooper, ruled last month, in a suit brought by ex-officio Kennedy Center board member, Rep. Joyce Beatty (D-OH), that the center was given its name by Congress and only Congress can change the name. (It was his handpicked stooge board that renamed the center in December. A day later, he declared himself surprised, even as workers installed the clearly planned letters on the wall.) He set 2359 on Friday as the deadline for the name being off everything—the website, marketing materials, employee email signature blocks and the building. The Kleptocrat’s KC stooges dithered around for a couple of weeks, then filed a motion to stay, which the judge denied.

So I joined tens of thousands of online viewers Friday, (as well as scores on site) watching as workers erected scaffolding for the deed. 

Credit: Rahmat Gul, AP

There was a break late afternoon as a storm moved through the city, right around the time the stooges filed an appeal, claiming for the first time that amended center bylaws now state that the center only receives funds if the Kleptocrat’s name remains; if it’s ever removed, the money stops.

Well, that didn’t hold, but they still missed the midnight deadline. So they filed another motion requesting a 24-hour stay, because the dog ate their homework. The judge granted them until noon on Saturday to get ‘er done.

Around 0330, the workers completed the scaffolding, but then spent time pulling up gigantic tarps to completely shield them from view. 

Credit: Tasos Katopodis, Getty

Word on the street is that the delay to the wee small hours, and the tarps, were solely to spare the Kleptocrat the humiliation of having the world rejoice at seeing his name come off, letter by letter. But Cliff Owen of AP got this shot of the P popping out:

And Joyce Beatty stayed throughout the night to witness.

Credit: Cliff Owen, AP

The tarps are still up. It’s more than possible that the Kleptocrat is hoping for more court filings to overturn the decision—that it’ll go to SCOTUS, and they may find some way to twist “Congress gave it the name, only Congress can change the name” into “yeah, it’s okay.” And, of course, there was the birthday circus yesterday at the Building Formerly Known as The White House.

Credit: Alex Wrobiewski, AFP via Getty

UPDATE: Per @MusicologyDuck on Bluesky, those door-like indentations have been formalized:

Credit: Musicology Duck

But for now, I’m grateful for Rep. Beatty, for Judge Cooper, for those workers (who I hope got overtime for working through the night), for everyone involved in this exquisite rebuke to the Kleptocrat’s imperial ambitions. And on his birthday weekend.

Many happy returns.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Our pockets full of nothing

Somewhat hidden in this week’s headlines about the Kleptocrat being roundly booed (and falling asleep) at Game 3 of the NBA finals, him declaring that he “love[s] the inflation” and him getting pissed off that Iran’s not behaving like Republicans in Congress and therefore resuming war crimes was news that America’s farmers are struggling.

He flew to Wisconsin last Friday to rally the racists, where he had to mock up a “panel” of others so he could sit instead of stand at a podium. Then he threw a hissy fit when sitting in a mocked-up barn being interviewed Meet the Press; Kristen Welker kept asking for evidence of his insane claims about rigged elections past and present, so he ripped off his mic, stomped on it and then stormed out with a parting, “Thank you, darling.”

During the “panel”, he announced that he’s going to hawk up another few billions of taxpayer money to help farmers over “the bump” of tariff-tanked soybean sales to China, climate-change-induced drought and escalating fuel prices and fertilizer shortages due to the Iran war. He’ll probably eventually come through with it because the mid-term election is in five months.

Even so—farm bankruptcies are skyrocketing and so are food costs for us, the consumers. It’s not a pretty picture.

So my earworm for today is Nanci Griffith’s “Trouble in the Fields”. Sadly, it’s as true today as it was when she wrote it during the farm crisis in 1987. 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

New neighbor just hopped

I was out in the back yard the other day and realized to my horror that I had left a stack of empty planters right side up. That meant that it was full of soupy, fetid water and probably about 12 squillion mosquito larvae.

I upended them & unhoused three slugs and this guy:

I dispatched the slugs and set the amphibian on some leaves. Much healthier environment for him.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Milk money

A couple of months ago, I noted in passing that LIDL had the lowest price on milk (of three grocery chains), by a dollar. It was $1.67 per half gallon.

A week or so ago, I noticed that they’d raised the price to $1.87.

(Yeah—you do have to watch out for cartons damaged in shipping.)

Huh, I thought. But inflation, fuel cost increases—I guess 11% is…well, it just is.

So I checked out the other three stores.

Trader Joe’s; actually, no change from March:

But Wegmans is charging almost as much for a half gallon as they are for a full gallon:

They’re now up there with Giant:

(Giant was ahead of the game--$3.29 back in March.)

Folks, I do not know what’s going on, but that delta between LIDL and the other is eye-watering.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Someone else can take care of it

Came across this on my walk the other morning—one of the benches along the W&OD Trail, which overlook the Hidden Creek golf course.

Two different branches of the entitled, littering asshole species.

There’s actually a trash bin in the Asplundh parking lot about 20 yards across the trail.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Polonius and Sinatra

The chalk artists in the ‘hood are out again. Well, really—the chalk philosophers.

I came round the final stretch of my morning walk last week to find this on the path past the tot lot:

Here’s the expansion:

And, finally, this, echoing Polonius:

I have to say that I don’t believe the artist is some random 10-year-old. Not quoting a song that’s been covered by Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra.

Then, yesterday, there was this on the path by the neighboring apartment complex’s playground:

With this addition.

Clearly, the Advice from the Universe is to have integrity, practice love and spread joy. I’m grateful for the reminder.

  

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

The lantern gleams

Around the early part of June, my mind turns to one of the more momentous events of the 20^th Century: the invasion of Normandy beaches. D-Day. It was an extraordinary endeavor of infinite complexity, both militarily and logistically. And before the day of computers and networking.

Take that, AI.

In terms of human costs, about 4400 Allied soldiers died on 6 June 1944; German deaths are estimated between 4000 and 9000. You can get a glimpse of that at the three military cemeteries within a few kilometers of one another near Omaha Beach: Colleville-sur-mer, American; Bayeux, British; and La Cambe, German. I’ve walked them all, several times.

The American cemetery is situated on the bluff above Omaha Beach. You can stand at the edge and look down on the scene of the slaughter. And wonder how the hell they ever made it up to where you are. The graves are marked with white marble crosses, with the occasional Star of David interspersed. It’s quiet, usually, except for the wind. More than 9300 men lie there—not all fallen at Normandy, but congregated there in the fellowship of death.

The British cemetery, run by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, is in the heart of Bayeux, the town they took on 7 June. The headstones are like those at all CWGC graveyards—identically-sized slabs of white marble engraved with the soldier’s name, regiment and date of death (if known; otherwise a cross and “known but to God” inscribed); a centrally-located Cross of Sacrifice (tall marble cross with a sword inset), and a Stone of Remembrance, inscribed “Their Name Liveth Forevermore”. More than 4000 Brits, Commonwealth, Poles, French and others lie there.

La Cambe is outside Bayeux; you get to it down a quiet road that seems to have no other purpose but to lead you to the dead. The cemetery is maintained by the Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, the German counterpart to the CWGC. It’s not as large space-wise as the two Allied graveyards. That’s because when you look at the inscriptions on the black metal markers set into the earth, you see there are often two to five men buried in a single spot. Plus, there are the nearly 300 known and unknown under the central mound. More than 21,000 men lie there.

(I need to digitize the photos I took of Bayeux and La Cambe; apologies.)

The thing that struck me almost from the first in these three cemeteries was the ages on the markers—you almost never see anyone who’d reached 24. Most were in the 19-22-year age range. When you’d expect them to be in college, or working their first jobs.

I’ve often wondered what the world lost through those early deaths. What music never was composed? What scientific breakthroughs never made? What civic gains, feats of sportsmanship, family enrichment just disappeared from the future in June 1944?

That, of course, is in addition to the anguish and sorrow that engulfed their families. Parents, siblings, wives, children—bereft and left alone to sort out a world gone mad. No one to repair the gutter or fix the bike; to guide a grandchild’s hands tying a bow knot; to comfort a friend; to surprise a lover with flowers.

It had to be done—it always seems to need doing. Especially since we see the resurgence of fascism and totalitarianism all around us. But take a few moments this week to think on those lives cut short in Normandy 75 years ago. The boys of D-Day who put their lives on the line for their generation and those that followed.

And so, for today’s earworm we’re having something that soldiers on both sides would have been listening to.

The song we know as “Lili Marlene” originated as a poem in the First World War (the one that was supposed to end all wars), written by a Hamburg schoolteacher conscripted into the German army, Hans Leip. It was set to music by Norbert Schultze in 1938 and recorded by a German singer, Lale Andersen, in 1939.

The gist of the piece is a lonely soldier on watch, missing his girlfriend. Pretty universal—I expect there was some Greek song around 520 BCE that expresses the same thoughts.

The song pretty much went nowhere until in 1941 German troops occupied Belgrade, in Yugoslavia, and needed recordings to broadcast over Radio Belgrade. Andersen’s “Lili Marlene” was one of the few discs the station had, so it got played a lot. And soldiers loved it.

But Reich propaganda minister Josef Goebbels loathed it. It wasn’t sufficiently martial—no proper German soldiers had time to miss their girlfriends or be anything but aggressively victorious. (He'd get along so well with Kegsbreath.) Besides, Andersen hung around with Jewish artists, which was not the done thing.

Still—soldiers within range of Radio Belgrade demanded more “Lili Marlene”. It expanded coverage to North Africa, where the British Eighth Army took it up. By the time Allied forces landed on the Normandy beaches in 1944, it was on everyone’s playlist, and a standard for Marlene Dietrich’s USO performances. Vera Lynn also covered it.

(It's kind of interesting that a song with a male soldier's narrative seems only to have been covered by female singers.)

Here’s Dietrich singing it.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

On the Trail

So, there I was, walking down the W&OD Trail, minding my own business, when I saw this coming at me:

It would just be Tuesday pretty much anywhere in California, but a bit unusual for The People’s Republic.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

State of confusion

Filed under the conundrum that is the healthcare system in America:

A couple of weeks ago, CenterWell, which is the mail order prescription subsidiary of Humana’s pharmacy benefit management (PBM) operation, emailed me that they were processing autorefills of three prescriptions. Fine.

A few days later, I got a message from my PCP indicating that she’d received the request for refill, but that it’s good practice to check in periodically with patients on maintenance meds, so would I make an appointment? Only—she’s not the prescriber for these particular drugs. I replied asking if she wanted me to transfer the management from my other provider to her; she declined for [reasons]. Fine.

(Well, actually, not entirely fine. Seems to me that she could have looked at my history and realized that she is not, in fact, the prescriber, and maybe reached out to me for clarification. I mean—the meds are listed in my portal records; you knew there was a portal, right?—but there’s clearly no record that she or any other provider in the practice prescribed them. I know things get muddled when Amazon takes over, but still.)

So I called CenterWell to find out why this practice and not my actual prescriber got the refill request and got through to a representative who identified herself thus: “This is Betty [I’ll say], your pharmacy advocate.”

I explained the situation—for some reason CenterWell contacted my PCP and not the (sole-practitioner) specialist for the refill; what gives? Well, Betty, my pharmacy advocate, put me on hold for a while and then came back to say, no, they’d sent the fax request (they only do fax) to [specialist’s] fax, so everything was as it should be. I asked why, then, did it show up at PCP and not [specialist]. Well, she couldn’t say, because that’s the fax number they have, so…

I replied that whatever number they have is clearly not his, because it ended up at PCP. Betty, my pharmacy advocate, asked if [specialist] isn’t part of that practice. No—he’s a sole practitioner and in fact operates in a different state.

To give her credit, Betty, my pharmacy advocate, did try calling him to find out what gives, but she got no response, as I knew she would. He’s a sole practitioner and has appointments and no receptionist. She returned to the line and reported her lack of success, and I explained why that would be. I said that if she left a voicemail, he’d get back with her, but she’s not allowed to get callbacks.

Again, she asked if I was sure that [specialist] isn’t part of the (admittedly huge, found in many states) practice. I said no—the specific PCP is in Virginia; [specialist] is in DC. Betty, my pharmacy advocate, didn’t quite get that—what state? The District of Columbia.

“He’s in the state of Columbia?”

“No—he’s in the District of Columbia; our nation’s capital.”

Well—in the end, I could see that I was not going to get anywhere with Betty, my pharmacy advocate, so I said I’d just contact [specialist] and have him submit new prescriptions every three months, instead of one 90-day script with a refill; would that work? Yes, she said (probably relieved); that will work.

So I thanked Betty, my pharmacy advocate for her time and emailed [specialist]. He called me back and we had a good laugh about it. I knew he had, in fact, once worked for the gigantic PCP—like 10-12 years ago; evidently that fax number (which is in the 617 area code, not 202 for DC or 703 for this part of Virginia) still appears in databases and the effort to correct it is more than your life is worth. We agreed on the every-three-months plan and there it is.

The thing about this encounter is that these gigantic companies give their frontline customer service/pharmacy advocate people a script and no agency so that they are not really able to provide service or advocate. Betty, my pharmacy advocate, and her colleagues have no ability to do anything that can’t be realized in real time—no voice mails, no emails, no call backs; only what they can do while the customer is actually on the line with them. She tried, within the strictures Humana/CenterWell placed on her, to help, but she had no ability to move outside a very small box. It took two individuals—me and [specialist] to work out a solution, which places the burden on getting the products/services for which I pay Humana (market cap: $36.7B) delivered. Me, a retired person, and [specialist], a sole practitioner.

Seems to me that this is kind of backwards, but they make it so exhausting to even get what you’re paying for that trying to get them to fix their system is just beyond the beyond.

You know—a conundrum.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Fan mail from some flounder

I don’t know what list I’m on that resulted in Erika Kirk sending me junk mail, but imagine my words when I saw this envelop in my mailbox:

Yes—the level of narcissism to just have your name as the complete return address is stunning.

The pitch was what you’d expect:

(The “personal reply” I was to send was framed in $25 increments.) As was my response: “Oh, hon—no.”

Ripped it all up and tossed it in the recycling bin.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: calm before the inferno

Both April and May this year were absolute yo-yos, weatherwise. We’d go from 90+ to low 60s in 48 hours, then back up to the 80s. I switched between heat and air conditioning in my house at least seven times. The Memorial Day weekend was four days of overcast and rain, so I was kind of surprised to see the sun peep out late last week.

And then Saturday and yesterday were absolutely pristine, clear, sunny days with highs in the low 70s. Zero (or at least, very low) humidity. Just beautiful. Patio door and windows open beautiful.

This being the environs of The District They Call Columbia, I know we’re headed for at least three months of bad hair day—temps in the 90s, with humidity right up there, when walking out of an air conditioned building fogs your glasses. So my gratitude today is for these two lovely, clear-the-air days.

Here’s a family that also enjoyed the respite.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

I am dangerous

So, the Kleptocrat & Co. are taking over the National Mall to perpetrate something they’re calling the Great American State Fair as part of his notion of a 250^th birthday celebration of US independence. It runs from 25 June to 10 July (following the 14 June UFC match taking place at the White Trash House, to celebrate his 80^th birthday. You may recall that last year he commandeered the US Army to stage a military parade down Pennsylvania Avenue for the occasion; it did not whelm).

I don’t know exactly what this particular clown show is about; their PR says something about “the future of AI” and a 110ft ferris wheel. It’s meant to be an extravaganza with all 56 states and territories represented, but I’m imagining it hasn’t been especially well organized.

Viz: this is the stated lineup of performers, as released Wednesday:

I mean—it’s kind of a second-chance for a lot of these 20^th Century performers, but half of Milli Vanilli is dead, so maybe there will be some kind of séance element?

As of yesterday, Morris Day and the Time, Young MC, The Commodores and C+C Music Factory have announced they are not, in fact, going to perform. Oh—and Milli Vanilli (Millo Vanillo?) claim they were never contacted about the gig. (And, Martina—girl, run!)

So our earworm for today is Morris Day and The Time, performing “Jungle Love” from Purple Rain.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Among us

We here in the environs of the District They Call Columbia have been in a Seattle weather pattern for nearly a week. It’s been completely overcast since last Friday; Friday and Saturday it rained all day; every day since has seen at least some sprinkles.

(The rotting Kleptocrat cited "bad weather" when he moved yesterday's Cabinet meeting from Camp David to the White House. Right after returning from Walter Reed, where he got his third "annual" medical check-up since taking office 15 months ago. I mean...)

So of course the mushrooms are loving it. This crop is just from yesterday morning, when the weather was 71F and soupy at 0800.

I did not harvest any. I just let them live their best lives.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Prime seating

I came across this on my walk Monday morning:

It was alongside the W&OD Trail, near absolutely nothing; closest office building 100 yards across Sunset Hills and closest residential enclave beyond the third hole of the golf course. So I don’t know whether this is some kind of statement, or a prank, or what.

But it was gone yesterday morning.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Waiting for me

I noticed this after one of our recent rain storms. It seemed beautiful to me, so I took the photo.

It’s all around us, if we look.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Full measure

It seems appropriate that Memorial Day is a Monday holiday, because it’s the day we’re meant to reflect upon the sacrifices of the men and women who defend our country.

You know—to express gratitude in some way for their willingness to trade their lives for the security of our society.

As a military historian with a focus on the human element of conflict, it’s always been clear to me that the real cost of war isn’t the treasure, it’s the blood. It’s the sons and daughters who go into harm’s way and never return, or who return so altered as to never really find their way back. As we reflect upon those costs, we really ought to consider the suicide rate of combat veterans; per Department of Veterans Affairs figures, 17.5 veterans killed themselves every day in 2025. That’s 6500 per year. I’m not going to talk about drug and alcohol addiction or homeless rates resulting from PTSD; they’re line items on the butcher’s bill, too.

I wonder what that says about our society that we send these people out to do terrible things on our behalf and then essentially shrug our shoulders and avert our eyes when they come back not in bandbox tiptop condition? Kinda feels like a broken contract to me.

Memorial Day marks the “official” start of summer in the US; rather like acknowledging the dead who made possible the picnics and fireworks of Independence Day. I kind of shudder to think what Cadet Bonespurs will do to mark the occasion, in this, our 250^th anniversary of nationhood. He’s certainly been doing his part to increase the population at military cemeteries, although of course that’s just a collateral part of his primary goal, which has always been self-aggrandizement and -enrichment.

But it’s Memorial Day and Gratitude Monday. I’m grateful to my brothers and sisters who, through the generations, have given, as Lincoln said, “the last full measure of devotion.” I take it personally.

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

It's a crime

In honor of the Kleptocrat’s latest massive theft from the US treasury—the “settlement” his acting Attorney General handed him of $1.8B to disburse as he sees fit to his minions, today’s earworm is Pink Floyd’s “Money”.

Thanks, Republicans—we are so fucked.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

No matter where you go...

I’ve noticed in my walks around The People’s Republic that street signs at intersections sometimes seem to get turned around. But this one:

I mean—okay?

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Moving messages

It’s been a while since I’ve don an installment of vanity plates, and boy-howdy, they do pile up. So here’s a batch for you:

Um...

Often parked in the lot next to the W&OD Trail.

On a Volvo:

Presumably Seahawks fans.

Not sure about this. I'd have read it as Raider Family (I've long since lost track of where the Raiders play; they're absolute whores); the logo is for the Washington Capitals (ice hockey); and the frame is Team USA. I just dunno.

An alum, I presume:

I was shooting this one in the Trader Joe parking lot when the M of this plate came out. Her name is Muriel, her husband's David, Gray is the surname and she's a retired nurse.

Not sure at all:

Nice use of the local sportsball logo:

©2026 Bas Bleu