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

 

I'll always be in your way

You know—it’s so exhausting to listen to the Kleptocrat’s non-stop, 24x7x365 lying. His neverending firehose of falsehoods, dementia-driven hallucinations, contradictions, ignorant misstatements and just plain fucking lies.

Add in the fact that everyone in the administration and all card-carrying Republicans in both houses of Congress have to lie to reinforce his delusions, we’re just buried under a gigantic pile of fly-swarmed falsehood shit.

Not even thinking about any of the other five squillion topics he lied about this week, the unbelievable (literally) shite about what’s going on in Iran is enough to make a cat puke. And this is before yesterday evening’s “big announcement”.

So our earworm for today is kind of retro, but accurate: The Sex Pistols singing “Liar”.

©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

 

We've been traveling far

I’ve been thinking about it all week, and I just don’t know what to tell you on this, the 250^th anniversary of our national birthday.

Pretty sure the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence would side-eye each other and go down the tavern for a gill of brandy if they caught wind of how their bold gamble was turning out. They were ready to risk everything—“our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor”—to break away from Mother England; they were overwhelmingly men of property, so they had a lot to lose.

And the men who carefully put together the Constitution, with its first ten amendments, would be equally gobsmacked. Like the Declaration, the Constitution was a response to a failed government (in this case, the confederation) and it was constructed to “form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity”. (Liberty figured in both documents, but the concern was lawfulness as a basis for all government actions.) They crafted a form of government that they intended to live and grow; one that would be immune to feckless rulers, corrupt judges or petty legislators because of the built-in checks and balances.

They just didn’t anticipate a circumstance when we would have all three at the same time.

This administration has committed many of the crimes in the Declaration’s indictment of George III, in addition to many others no English king could have imagined. The Kleptocrat is manipulating global stock markets with his tariff declarations; building an armed secret police that can be turned against anyone in the country, citizen or not; declaring war on states, governors, mayors and anyone who doesn’t sufficiently bend the knee to him; breaking international treaties; desecrating national monuments; committing war crimes; violating constitutional provisions; ignoring actual laws; selling off national lands; enriching his family and friends; alienating our allies and squandering our soft power; and generally behaving more despotically than anyone since Ivan the Terrible.

Beyond that, he is visibly rotting both physically and mentally. We’ve all seen him falling asleep at official functions any time he’s not actually speaking. We’ve clocked him staggering and stumbling (on stairs and ramps particularly). We’ve noted his bruised and spackled hands, bloated face, swollen ankles. We’ve listened to him brag about taking repeated cognitive tests as though that’s an achievement, not a warning sign. And—more than anything else—we’ve watched as his speech increasingly slurs, animated only when he gets to grievances (of which he has legion), punctuated by the mangling of multisyllabic words. The guy is the picture of Dorian Gray.

Congress—more specifically, Republicans in Congress—have utterly abrogated their constitutional power because they’re terrified that TACOman will sic his followers on them either politically or physically. They’re willing to kiss the ring just to hold the title (and those sweet, sweet lobbying contributions and insider trading opportunities), as they tug their forelocks and murmur, “Yas, boss” whenever he makes another demand on them. They’ve taken away healthcare from millions of Americans, thrown billions of dollars at ICE, gutted environmental protections and given billionaires and corporations more billions, hustling to get the job done in time to get home for July 4^th fireworks and barbecues with the constituents they’re fucking over.

And the courts—God bless them, the frontline judges and even most of the Circuit judges are doing their damned jobs like Trojans, but the most corrupt SCOTUS in history is in hog heaven, using their court-of-last-appeal power to cut out the constitutional support for decades of progress on civil rights. They’re barely cloaking their intent (or their glee) in their rulings. I’m pretty sure they write “because we can” in all of them and some clerk removes it before they’re released.

So—that’s where we are.

But let me say a few words about what we could be—still.

Tomorrow is the 250^th anniversary of our founding. Which is to say—we’re celebrating the birth of our nation, dating from the day we drove a stake in the ground and said, “We declare ourselves independent,” and setting out the legal and moral case for the American colonies separating themselves from Mother England. I’ve written about this before, and it never grows stale.

The Founding Fathers weighed all their options and agreed that—much as they were sons of the Enlightenment hoping for a reasonable solution to all the tsuris they were getting from His Majesty’s Government—force of arms was going to be necessary to achieving and protecting those “certain unalienable Rights…Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” The price of freedom would include both blood and treasure, and toward that end, “we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

And when I think of the Founding Fathers and stunningly beautiful political documents (which you’d naturally think is an oxymoron of the first order, but it turns out you’d be wrong), I include the Constitution of the United States. Even though it came nine years and a war later, the Constitution demonstrates the mindset of the men who wrote it—devising an entirely new form of government of checks and balances, not easily susceptible to coups, which gave the people various guaranteed means of seeking redress.

And beyond that—it was what software product managers would call “a scalable platform”: it provided for growth and change as the nation did the same. Stuff happens; they wanted the government to be able to accommodate it, even though they understood they had no idea what form it might take.

(Yes, we are once again in what Abraham Lincoln referred to as a great test of “whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure.” See the opening paragraphs of this post.)

But here’s my point (finally) about what just makes me do the happy dance for our national holiday. Americans—the folks reviled pretty much everywhere at one time or another in the second half of the last century as being warmongering minions of the military-industrial complex—celebrate the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. Not the day shots were first fired; or the day of the final surrender.

It’s the day when the representatives of the people (not the generals) resolved that these colonies should be independent. And by resolving, they made it so.

Yeah—guff me no guff about them all being wealthy white males, or that they did not conceive of a time when non-white non-males might be represented in ruling bodies. (Guff me no guff and see above about the scalable governmental platform.) And pick me no nits about the actual date-stamp on the actual signing of the actual document. Sometimes you just have to drive a stake in the ground and work with it. July 4^th was, as they say, close enough for government work.

And what we work with is the fundamental idea that the thing to be commemorated—not with gigantic displays of military might, with tanks, self-propelled guns, marching divisions and fly-overs, but with homemade floats in community parades, picnics and barbecues, and children waving sparklers—is not a victory in battle, but the victory of an ideal.

The thing about this particular victory is that it’s not one-and-done. It has to be renewed every day, again and again. Signing the Declaration of Independence, defeating British armies, writing the Constitution—that was all just the beginning. The Founding Fathers did their jobs as best they could; we have to keep doing ours, as best we can. And we can start by celebrating this anniversary like we always do—with barbecues with our neighbors, town parades and local fireworks; not the money-laundering self-referential, tacky displays emanating like a miasma from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 

With all that said, what should be our earworm for today? I’m thinking something about how immigration not only enriches the American spirit, but makes it. So Neil Diamond it is.

©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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tryn' to fool the public

At time of writing, the Kleptocrat is in Beijing, having his ass handed to him by Xi Jinping, although it’s unlikely that fact will have penetrated to the porridge that sloshes inside his cranium. He’ll come back raving about “the deal” he made, when basically Xi gave him bupkis.

Cf. the big “summit” he held with Putin in August, when KGB Daddy left even before lunch.

Anyway, I think today’s earworm needs to be “Tears of a Clown”, so here are Smokey Robinson and The Miracles to sing it for you.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Long, cold, lonely winter

Yesterday was one of those overcast days that May has been interspersing with absolutely gorgeous, humidity-free sunshine. Just after noon, I was sitting at my computer, doing some things, when I looked up and the sun was out.

So—here’s Nina Simone singing about it.

You're welcome.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

Every frivolous whim

I’ve been thinking that we—meaning I—need something to start the new month off on a different note from most of my posts for National Poetry Month. May 1^st is May Day, which in European tradition celebrates the full blossoming of Spring. It’s also Beltane, in the Celtic calendar, marking the halfway point between the Spring Equinox and the Summer Solstice. It’s also International Workers Day, celebrating the strength and value of the laboring classes around the world. And it's a day beloved by dictators to show off their military prowess.

For all these reasons, today’s earworm should be exuberant, lively and danceable. So “The Lusty Month of May” has buzzing around my head for about a week and a half. It’s from the musical Camelot, with Queen Guenevere urging the Knights of the Round Table and the courtiers to cast off the gloom of winter, bust some moves and be fruitful.

Now, I’d been thinking about the song just because it’s such an animated piece. But this week I started considering the setting—the whole play; that made me sad. Because Camelot is about a king who wants to turn the notion of might makes right around and create a court where those with power don’t use it to oppress those without it, but instead deploy might for right.

In the end, it collapses not so much because Lancelot and Guenevere’s love betrays Arthur, but because that evil toad Mordred poisons the entire court, bringing it all down; all of it. The final scene is Arthur telling a young Tom of Warwick:

“Don’t let it be forgot
“That once there was a spot
“For one, brief shining moment
“That was known as Camelot.”

And this caused me to wonder if we in the United States are in that moment where everything is crashing down because an evil toad poisoned our society and we’re about to be consigned to the mists of history.

Well, anyway—“The Lusty Month of May”, from the original Broadway cast.

©2026 Bas Bleu

Don't give it up

Everything is not terrible. Tuesday Virginians voted to approve a plan to redraw congressional districts; this new map leans heavily Blue, which is enraging everyone with an (R) after their name.

I mean some clown car calling itself “Justice for Democracy PAC” has been sending out multiple variants of flyers that actually use photos of Barack Obama urging Virginia to “Protect minority representation” by voting against it. 

This in addition to other spurious claims like this is Governor Abigail Spanberger’s doing. (The referendum was on approving a bill from the state legislature, not a power-grab by Spanberger; she just signed it, allowing it to be voted on by us.) They were really counting on the stupidity and/or confusion by the voting public.

Yes, the new districts are drawn to favor Democrats, potentially flipping four seats to Blue. Yes, this is absolutely gerrymandering. But also yes, this undoes the last round of gerrymandering in 2010, which served up safely Republican Representatives for a decade and a half.

And again yes, this particular cycle of gerrymandering was started by Republicans in Texas (egged on by the Kleptocrat), when the lege mandated new district lines that disenfranchised heavily Latino areas—mandated, mind you, without any consultation from the voters. So the same people who lauded the Texas changes are currently hopping mad at the outrage of being served up what they dished out.

BTW: this is how the Washington Post's editorial board heralded the Texas change:

And here's how it covered Tuesday's vote in Virginia:

(Update: a Virginia GOP-appointed judge ruled Wednesday that the redistricting amendment is unconstitutional, that all votes are invalid and that the state is barred permanently from implementing the changes. Attorney General Jay Jones has said he'll appeal. My prediction if this goes to SCOTUS, they'll faff about until it's too late to change the districts for the mid-term elections in November. Nonetheless: the people voted.)

So my earworm for today is “Words of Wonder/Get Up, Stand Up”, by Playing for Change and featuring the immortal (truly) Keith Richards. (Richards wrote "Words of Wonder"; "Get Up, Stand Up" is from the also immortal Bob Marley.)

Make it so.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Thy pride of might shall be thy shame

For some reason, I’ve been thinking about “Pride of Man” for the past couple of weeks. Hamilton Camp wrote it in 1964, but its apocalyptic lyrics seem to be exactly spot on 62 years later.

There are a lot of covers out there—best known may be the one by Quicksilver Messenger Service. But I’m going with Gordon Lightfoot’s, as he gives it just the right amount of urgency for our times.

 

©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

 

The sun refused to shine

Today is Good Friday for Western Christians—commemorating the death on the cross of Jesus Christ. It is one of the most sacred days of the calendar, a time for reflection on the sacrifice made to wash away the sins of mankind.

So I don’t know what blasphemy the Kleptocrat will be committing, but I imagine he might revive hawking his “God Bless the USA” Bibles at $59.99 a pop (plush S&H). That was his contribution to the season two years ago, thus bringing the practice of simony into the 21^st Century.

This is a guy who cannot quote a single Bible verse; who only appears in churches for campaign photo opportunities and funerals, because services conflict with his own worship, on the golf course. (Although, okay, he has broken most of the Ten Commandments.) So it is seriously cherce to watch the video in which he proclaims multiple times that the Bible is his favorite book and that “religion and Christianity” are what’s missing from this country. (It’s still out there, but I’m not linking to it. It may even be on the White House site.)

This was a day after he wished everyone “Happy Holy Week,” and .shared something allegedly sent to him comparing his travails to the sufferings of Christ during this time. (People all over the Socials offered to give him a chance: die on the cross (or, TBH, just die) and if he rises after three days, okay. I myself would appoint multiple monitors to watch over him for the three days, sticking pins into random places every few minutes before I'd accept that he had actually died. This is not personal, I wanted to do it for Kenny Lay when he evaded prison for his Enron crimes by allegedly dying.)

Anyway, since the crucifixion of Good Friday is the setup for the resurrection of Easter, today we’re having the old spiritual “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord.” I can think of no one better to sing it than Mahalia Jackson.

©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

 

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