Is your money that good?

Dunno why, but I’ve been thinking a lot recently of Dylan’s “Masters of War”.

He wrote it over 1962-63 and has gone on the record as saying that the vehemence of the song surprised him. But it’s every bit as relevant in 2026 as it was 64 years ago. Particularly the final verse.

You’d think we might have learnt something in the intervening time. But no.

Here’s Eddie Vedder and Mike McCready of Pearl Jam singing it at the Bob Dylan 30^th anniversary concert in 1992.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Zeliging

Entirely unsurprisingly, the Kleptocrat inserted himself into the official photo of World Cup winners, Spain, Sunday afternoon. He was only at the match because he was awarding the trophy and medals; if not for that, he undoubtedly would have left before it was over, since it was hard for him to sleep on those uncomfortable chairs.

I fully expected him to hold on to the trophy and take it home with him. But instead, he just planted himself on the dais for the official video/photo, despite even Gianni Infantino trying to pull him away.

The dementia is strong with this one.

Anyway, hardly had the video been taken when the memes began. Mostly to do with sporting themes, but, really, the opportunities are endless. (Reminds me of the time Nicolas Sarkozy inserted himself into the Paris unity march in 2015 and the memers were off to the races.)

The Close Encounters one was kind of hopeful, although I’m pretty sure that the aliens wouldn’t have him.

And Spain had the final word:

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

No power to reason away

You know, every time—every single time—the Kleptocrat gets up on his hind legs on the international stage, he showers himself (and our nation) with embarrassment. Not that he, in his molding cottage cheese brain has any notion of it. But his performance at the NATO summit this week in Ankara was no exception.

Every time he opened his mouth, he spewed incoherent, rambling, inapt, ignorant, bloviating lies and bullshit. I’m not going to detail them, because I do not fancy six hours of documenting his crap. But there was one thing that just captured my attention. He had, of course, slagged off NATO individually and collectively throughout the meetings, but on Wednesday, he hallucinated an incident—in private, of course; behind closed doors where no cameras captured the moment—where the leaders assured him, “’Sir, we love you.’ These are grown people saying that. Isn’t that nice?”

I’m not linking to the video, but what interested me was that when he said, “Sir, we love you,” there was a wistfulness in his voice, as though on some level he knew that of all the things that never happened, this never happened the most, but he so very much wanted it to happen. It was quintessential wishcasting.

So for our earworm today, we’re having The Doobie Brothers singing “What a Fool Believes”.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Happy birthday, eh

It’s Canada Day—the Canadian national holiday, equivalent to our Independence Day—and it seems only right and proper to consider what good neighbors Canadians are—to us and the entire world. 

I could get silly and talk about Leslie Nielsen or one of my favorite TV shows of all time, Due South. But I’ve already done that.

And Canadians are way more than wacky comedians and upright Mounties in a cynical American city. They’re even more than mail-order pharmacies and refuges for cabernet-toting discontents fleeing whichever administration gets into office down here.

They are pretty much in every way the kind of neighbor you’d like to have on your street. They don’t throw loud parties, or park huge SUVs in their driveway, or toss their clapped-out washing machines in their weed-infested front yard.

They quietly go about their lives as conscientious citizens of the world, picking up the trash they find (and disposing of it responsibly) and pitching in whenever asked to help set the worst things to rights. They define the term “stand-up guys”.

Three things in particular I’m thinking about:

Teheran, 1979. In the midst of the chaos of the overthrow of the Shah, six American diplomats were given shelter in the Canadian embassy for 79 days, until they could be extracted by a joint Canadian-CIA mission. It was an act of both neighborly kindness and extreme courage for the Canadians to hide the Americans, especially at a time when it was clear that “diplomatic courtesies” didn’t rate high on the Iranian revolutionary priority list.

The Canadians risked personal safety and national policy to help out six Americans, who’d probably been trash-talking hockey teams right up until the embassy takeover. They didn’t hesitate and they didn’t flinch.

My second example of Canadian rectitude is Lt. Gen. Roméo A. Dallaire. Dallaire had just about the worst job of the 1990s: Force Commander of United Nations Assistance Mission Rwanda (UNAMIR), from 1993 to 1996. During the worst genocide of the second half of the 20^th Century, Dallaire commanded forces without resources, with limited remit and  no backing from his political masters. I cannot believe the fortitude of a man who still managed to save thousands of the people under his care.

Although at a terrible, terrible cost. Washington Post reporter Ken Ringle told the story much better than I could, so I’ll let him do it. It was an impossible command, an impossible remit and an impossible expectation. But Dallaire took it on.

I can just picture most American generals after that posting—speaking engagements, management consulting, appearances on talk shows, joining a racist régime and presiding over the destruction of American values. Dallaire went back to Canada, where PTSD led him to a suicide attempt. His big public outing has been to testify at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda against Colonel Théoneste Bagosora, who was subsequently convicted of war crimes. He also advocated for children affected by war—something he’s an expert in.

Third, Canadians at every level have consistently shown their decency and humanity and neighborliness. On September 11^th 2001, ordinary citizens of the small Newfoundland town of Gander opened their homes and their hearts to more than 7000 air passengers and crew whose planes had been diverted to their airport following the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, D.C. They fed, housed and cared for the sojourners—as, frankly, they’ve done for more than 150 years.

Canada, after all, was the last stop on the Underground Railroad, where escaping slaves could find the guarantee of freedom and safety that wasn’t available to them in the United States.

In the musical world, Canada has given us Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Sarah McLachlan. Imma let Justin Bieber, Celine Dion and Nickelback slide. Their writers include Margaret Atwood (whose The Handmaid’s Tale has taken on new elements of horror as it turned out to be more prescient than we though when she first published it), Michael Ondaatje, Louise Penny, Robertson Davies, Alice Munro.

The entertainment industry has been enriched by (for instance) directors Arthur Hiller, David Cronenberg, Atom Egoyan, Paul Haggis, Ivan Reitman; and actors Nathan Fillion, Nick Mancuso, Genviève Bujold, Dan Ackroyd, Anna Paquin, John Candy, Sandra Oh, Rick Moranis, Raymond Burr, Donald Sutherland, Jim Carrey, Graham Greene, Paul Gross… Canada is where American production companies go to film movies and TV shows that look like the States, but don’t cost like the States. Where would Star Trek: TOS be without William Shatner and James Doohan?

Also, I got two words for you: Tommy Chong.

I cannot express my admiration for the country that produced people like this. You don’t think of them a lot, because good neighbors don’t get in your face. But you’re always really, really glad they’re there.

Also—Canada will never, ever be the 51^st state of the US.

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Like flashy sparkles in the water

Given the whole saga of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool—the graft that keeps on grifting; the $15M "improvement" job that lasted less than a tenth of a Scaramucci before it began to sprout algae bloom—I think the only possible earworm for today has to be “Bein’ Green”. And who else to sing it but the OG, Kermit the Frog.

©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

 

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

 

Melt this ICE

I found today’s poem for National Poetry Month on the socials; most likely on Bluesky. So short, so intense; a shiv between the ribs, straight to the heart.

The poet, Rick Lupert, is from Los Angeles and very active in the poetry scene there.

“poem”

America,
so Pretti.
America,
so Good.
Oh, sun,
melt this ICE
until we are

America
again.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

As a pilgrim

Today at sundown, Yom Hashoah begins. This is the day commemorating the Holocaust. And in a time where RWNJs around the world are attempting to enucleate anything and everything from the past that does not comport with what passes for their worldview, it’s more important than ever to remember history, lest we be doomed to repeat it.

It's also Gratitude Monday, and my selection for National Poetry Month is therefore Avrom Sutzkever’s “1980”. Sutzkever was born in what is now Belarus; raised first in Siberia, then in in Vilna, Lithuania, and began his literary career at the age of 17, in 1930. Following the German invasion of the Soviet Union, he and his family were moved to the Vilnius Ghetto; he and other writers hid works by Herzl, Chagall and others behind walls, saving them for the future. Following the Germans murdering his mother and his newborn son, Sultzkever and his wife escaped from the ghetto, and he fought as a partisan against the Nazis. After the war, he testified in Nuremberg at the trial of the man who murdered his mother and son; he and his wife lived for a while in Poland and then Paris, before moving to Palestine (as it was then).

Sultzkever wrote first in Hebrew but shifted to Yiddish.

During an Aktion in 1941, Sutzkever escaped to the countryside and was hidden by a peasant woman named Yanova Bertushevitz; she and her husband kept the poet in their cellar and managed to smuggle food into the ghetto to his family. (I must insert a note here: last week Israel issued a threat to any Christians or Druze in Lebanon who might consider sheltering Muslims/Arabs from invading IDF forces.) Eventually his worry about the danger to his protectors and his family led him to return to Vilna, but he did not forget her gift to him.

“1980” expresses Sutzkever’s gratitude for her courage, kindness and humanity. It’s therefore the right poem for today—eve of Yom Hashoah and Gratitude Monday—and also for the times: we all need to be reminded that, even in a hateful and violent environment, we can choose to be human, kind and courageous.

Because whoever saves one life saves the world entire.

“1980” 

And when I go up as a pilgrim in winter, to recover
the place I was born, and the twin to self I am in my mind,
then I'll go in black snow as a pilgrim to find
the grave of my savior, Yanova.
She'll hear what I whisper, under my breath:
Thank you. You saved my tears from the flame.
Thank you. Children and grandchildren you rescued from death.
I planted a sapling (it doesn't suffice) in your name.
Time in its gyre spins back down the flue
faster than nightmares of nooses can ride,
quicker than nails. And you, my savior, in your cellar you'll hide
me, ascending in dreams as a pilgrim to you.
You'll come from the yard in your slippers, crunching the snow
so I'll know. Again I'm there in the cellar, degraded and low,
you're bringing me milk and bread sliced thick at the edge.
You're making the sign of the cross, I'm making my pencil its pledge.

                                                    Translated by Cynthia Ozick

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

I keep this from my children

Today’s entry for National Poetry Month comes from a woman who was trying to find words to explain the dangers of the world to her young children, and to give them hope, as well.

In the summer of 2016, a writer named Maggie Smith sat down at a coffee shop in Ohio and wrote “Good Bones” on a yellow legal pad. Three days after the mass murders at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, it was published in the literary journal Waxwing, and went viral (not something that often happens to things published in literary journals), because it expressed the pain and bewilderment of the world—in 2016 and since.

So much more now to keep from our children.

I think we should hold this one close, during these times.

“Good Bones”

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Come celebrate dictatorships and bolster the regime

Our earworm for National Poetry Month today is from the Irish-American Celtic punk band Dropkick Murphys. Now in their third decade, the Quincy, Mass.-based Murphys are still living their principles: pro-union, anti-fascism, community building.

For 2026, they reworked their “Citizen C.I.A” into “Citizen I.C.E”, so here it is.

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Hold your babies tight

Something contemporaneous for today’s National Poetry Month entry.

I know nothing about the poet—I found it yesterday on Bluesky. He may be this Michael F. DuBois, writer/artist/filmmaker/poet. But I do know: this is the power of poetry.

 

©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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Constabulary duty

Well, alrighty then—big interesting news out of Blighty: the Andrew formerly known as prince has been arrested “on suspicion of misconduct in office”. Thames Valley Police (TVP) yesterday announced the arrest of “a man in his sixties from Norfolk on suspicion of misconduct in public office and are carrying out searches at addresses in Berkshire and Norfolk”.

TVP holds jurisdiction for Windsor, the former residence of the former prince (who lost all his titles and his rent-free house last month and is now known as Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor), in Berkshire. Norfolk includes Sandringham, the estate owned by Charles III, the ex-Duke of York’s brother. So everyone in Briton understood who was being nicked.

The charge is believed to be related to information in the latest tranche of Epstein Files, which included emails that looked a whole lot like Mountbatten-Windsor was sending disgraced (and currently dead) financier and trafficker of minors for sex Jeffrey Epstein confidential information related to M-W’s work when he was a trade envoy for Britain.

A few years ago M-W settled a lawsuit by Virginia Roberts Giuffre, who reported that he had sexually abused her when she was 17 years old, under the auspices of Epstein and his procuress, Ghislaine Maxwell. (Maxwell is currently serving a federal sentence for some of her work with Epstein, although the Kleptocrat last year had her moved from a high security prison—in line with the crimes for which she was convicted—to a low security one, where she enjoys yoga lessons and puppy visits. Her condition for testifying before Congress is a presidential pardon. Gawd, this timeline.) The settlement was in the millions, although M-W has denied all accusations. It is believed that his mother, the late Queen, provided some to all of the money to settle, because Andrew has never had that kind of dosh.

(You will note that M-W has not been charged with anything related to sex trafficking; it's about financial malfeasance in connection with official duties. However, there's still time to add charges. Please God.)

Well—I mean, it’s exhausting just to write that much.

Charles issued a statement supporting the arrest and “the full, fair and proper process by which this issue is investigated in the appropriate manner and by the appropriate authorities.” Which is putting the best face possible on the matter, as—Lord knows, the royal family has tried to paper Andrew’s peccadillos over for decades. Pretty sure they knew he was taking backhanders from countries he was trade envoying to, and he and Fergie have not exactly been the best face of the monarchy with their feckless lifestyle in general. But email evidence, man—too much at a time when the royals are trying to justify their existence.

Anyway—I’m thinking about the police officers who passed through security at Sandringham, knocked on the ex-prince’s door, showed their warrant cards and politely intoned the British equivalent of the Miranda warning: “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

I mean—when word came down there must have been a mad scramble to be on the deputation. And on the search parties at Sandringham and Windsor. Jeez—these people will be dining out (discreetly) on this event for decades.

So here’s “The Policeman’s Song” from Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. Every once in a while, something arises to make the daily grind worthwhile. Slapping metaphorical cuffs on someone who was for a long time third in line to the throne would qualify.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Neighbors

In the past three or four weeks, we here in the environs of The District They Call Columbia have been freezing. No, seriously—temperatures have only once or twice risen above the freezing point, and that for only a few hours.

Saturday morning, I checked the weather before going on my walk; Android said 17F, and I thought, "Okay--I've gone out in 12F, this’ll be okay.”

And then I got outside and heard this roaring sound. Which turned out to be the wind. I barely got 20 yards along before I realized I was not going to make my full snow-curtailed circuit, because that wind was absolutely shredding me. I checked Android again: Oh—"Feels like 1". Right. 

As someone posted in the r/nova sub:

So I am filled with greater and abject awe and gratitude for the people in Minneapolis who for months—come day, go day; in fact day and night—continue to fill the sub-zero streets with whistles and jeers to protect and witness for their neighbors, who are being targeted by our own government. They suit up (in many layers), charge up their phones and put themselves in harm’s and cold’s way as testament to decency and humanity.

God bless them all.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu