Really wrong list

I do not know what mailing list I got on, or how, but in addition to the “help my dad” solicitation from Mattie (Paxton) Hayworth, a couple of times this year I’ve been sent the Ronald Reagan Ranch calendar for 2027.

Along with an invitation to make a donation to “help save the ranch”.

I’ve loathed Reagan and his brand of politics since he was governor of California. The day I voluntarily give money to any cause with even a whiff of Reagan about it is the day giant cracks appear in the earth’s surface and the sun does not appear in the sky.

So—no.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

What a load of

Welp, this arrived the other day:

Four pages of probably AI-generated drivel about what a great father Ken Paxton was. Ken Paxton, Republican Attorney General of Texas impeached on corruption charges that really never plumbed the depths of his crookedness. An AG who brokered a plea bargain deal with a (white, Republican Christian) facing charges of repeatedly raping a boy, which saw the accused serve 30 days in jail and returning to the practice of law. Divorced by his wife of decades on “biblical grounds”. World traveler with his mistress and owner of properties in the double digits in multiple states (including a “vacation lodge” in Oklahoma, which I frankly do not get because who vacations in Oklahoma?). Who stole another man’s $1000 Mont Blanc pen from a security bin and only returned it when the theft became public.

In short, an all-around holder of true Republican values, and therefore of course endorsed by the Kleptocrat.

But Mattie (Paxton) Hayworth assures me that Paxton showed her “what faith looks like when it’s actually lived out”, because he read the Bible every morning and prayed with her. (That image frankly gives me the jim-jams.) She says that when she “went looking for a husband” she “found a man just like him” and that really creeps me out. She points out that as AG Paxton sued the Biden administration more than 100 times and defended Texas’ anti-abortion laws up to SCOTUS. She doesn’t point out that his success put hundreds of Texas women at medical risk because medical providers are afraid to deal with life-threatening complications of pregnancy in the face of being sued and shut down.

And of course she asks for money, to help Paxton face those mean, radical Democrats who want to give Texans and everyone healthcare, a solid education, a good quality of life and a secure environment maintained by the rule of law. (I paraphrase—she left off the last part.)

Well, all I have to say is: boy, did you get the wrong mailing list, hon.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Spreading the word

Okay, I’m not saying that there’s a movement afoot, but I found a second sign for a jumped-up townhouse development in The People’s Republic defaced. And in pretty much the same way that the first one was:

I don’t think the developers much care, so I’d be surprised if they replace the signs. I mean—by the time they notice, they’ll have sold all the units and be moving on to their next cookie-cutter “luxury” project.

Still—I kinda admire the commitment of the graffiti artists.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Failure to communicate

Yesterday I made an emergency run to Trader Joe’s after my PT session and getting my Covid shot. I don’t like to go after around 1030 because just the parking lot becomes a war zone the closer you get to noon, but I had absolutely nothing on hand to use to make a salad, so I bit the bullet.

The bag I pulled out of the pile in the car to hold my groceries happened to be one I got from a community-building group I belong to. Here are the two sides:

It was interesting to watch the TJ crew member at the cash register process the text message. Sadly (and I could tell because he was literally moving his lips), he seemed to have trouble with “dismantle”, but I didn’t say anything.

 I mean, he scanned my groceries, packed the bag and wished me a great rest of the day. He did his job.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

It's easy

The People’s Republic was founded as a planned community, with a focus on “community” and a respect for its natural surroundings. However, we are in the 21^st Century, and the Fairfax County Board of Supervisors never met an upscale development plan it didn’t love, so the natural surroundings are retreating under the onslaught of “luxury” townhouses at a rate of knots.

What once was a community swimming pool across the street from a friend of mine is currently being converted to 28 cookie-cutter townhouses jammed together, with no yards and tight turn ratios to get your two SUVs into the garages. Here’s one of the road signs touting it:

I noticed last Sunday that someone had defaced it—just the black spray paint. But a couple of days ago someone (else?) had added a message:

So, of course “All You Need Is Love” has been caroming around my head ever since. So, of course, I’m sharing it with you today. We do know that love is, in fact, not all you need. But it's a good start.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Written on the wall

Last week I went to a new medical provider and so entered the building’s elevator for the first time.

Let me just say: wut?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: A duty and a privilege

Early voting for this year’s midterm elections started in Virginia on the 18^th. That in itself is a source of gratitude for me because up until about 20 years ago, the Old Dominion was absolutely dug in on the hill of Vote Only on Election Day. If you wanted an absentee ballot, or to vote early, you had to hawk up a valid reason why you could not show up on Election Day and wait a few hours in a line extending into the neighborhood like the Baptist God intended.

But ever since I moved back from The Valley They Call Silicon (where I used to walk half a block to the fire station and didn’t have to show ID; they just marked my name off a paper register), I’ve been so grateful that we’ve moved into the late 20^th Century.

Having flexibility in how and when you cast your ballot literally means more people can exercise their constitutional right to vote. Many citizens work at places that don’t give you time off to vote; fulfilling your civic obligation can literally cost you money if you have to take time off from work. Even at places that do, the two hours might not be enough when your precinct has heavy turnout and the line is long.

(Interestingly, when I worked at an association in D.C. that did allow two hours on Election Day, one year the head of HR sent round an email advising employees—we had a greater concentration of Ph.D. scientists than some mid-sized universities—that the organization knew that polls in Maryland, D.C. and Virginia opened at 0700 and stayed open until 1900, so they would view it as taking the piss (I paraphrase) if people availed themselves of the time off as stated in the manual. That went over well.)

This year voting is especially fraught. Republicans all up and down the line are frantically trying to restrict who votes. State legislatures are gerrymandering districts to skew right. Where that doesn’t go far enough, they’re closing polling stations in Democratic districts and removing ballot drop boxes to make it more difficult for people there to vote. Many states (mostly South of the Mason-Dixon Line) have made it illegal to provide food or water for people waiting in line to vote in hopes that will discourage the elderly and infirm from showing up.

The Kleptocrat has demanded that states turn over voting rolls (so far every one has been quashed in the courts) and that the USPS dick with ballots sent out and returned by mail. (So far it seems like that also has been stymied by the courts.) He’s proclaimed that he’s going to send federal troops and ICE to (Democratic) polling stations on Election Day to “police” them. Meaning: intimidate and even abduct anyone who doesn’t look white enough.

There are even reports that he’s going to declare martial law in an attempt to cancel the elections altogether. This, of course, would be met with a tsunami of law suits and provoke a constitutional crisis. (For one thing, the 119^th Congress expires on 3 January 2027 and without duly-elected Representatives, there’s no House. Now, some might say that such a thing would be an improvement, or at least that no one would notice any difference in productivity, but this would still be a crisis.)

For the record, the United States of America has held elections through every crisis in our history, including two world wars and a civil war when armed enemy territory began at the Potomac River, a couple of miles from the US Capitol. Having a corrupt dementia-rotted sitting president, a spineless Congress and an ideology-driven SCOTUS is indeed disastrous, but that’s no reason to cancel elections.

In fact, elections are the start of the solution to this dumpster fire. Which every Republican understands; that’s why they’re so desperate to restrict and repress voting.

Anyway—I voted last week. As I cast my ballot (not a whole lot of choice, really; the Democratic incumbents for Senator and Representative essentially have a sinecure in my district, which is better than saying the same for Republicans, but I’d still prefer that they have a lean and hungry look), I thought about the millions of people around the world who would marvel at such a thing. Walked up, handed over my ID (which I understand from Republicans I have to do when I buy groceries?), got my ballot and registered my opinion on candidates and state and county measures.

That, dear reader, is a miracle that generations of our forebears have wrought with their blood and treasure. That it is under threat from the highest office holders in the land is despicable. But I’m grateful for the privilege.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

The road rushing under my wheels

Considering the state of fossil fuels this past week, courtesy of the War to Entertain the Narcissistic Kleptocrat that’s been over-in-two-weeks since it started in February (and now predicted by his sphincter to be ending “after the elections”), I’ve been thinking about a song from my college years.

There was a video on the socials of a trucker not filling the tank of his semi with diesel, but stopping the flow when the total hit $1000. “That’s a first for me,” he commented.

(I topped up the tank of my Saab at Costco yesterday. For the first time not-in-California, regular was $4.10/gallon. I paid $42 for half a tank.)

So here’s Jackson Browne singing the newly apt “Running on Empty”.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Roadside commerce

On one of my walks last week, I noticed this setup between a townhouse cluster and the local private golf course.

(Interestingly, this course is owned by developers who’ve been trying for about a decade to fill all the space with townhouses. Same thing’s happening with the public course on the other side of the People’s Republic. Watching the furor on both sides of the fight has been interesting.)

So I walked over to see what it was. It was American Free Enterprise at work.

This is located on the second hole of the course, so I don’t know how many golfers will feel the need of extra balls that early in a round. I also know nothing about the economics of golf, so I have no earthly notion whether $2 per ball is an attractive price.

I did find it interesting that there’s a quasi-honor system: up to you whether you pay, but if you do, once your money’s in the slot, it’s secure.

Unless someone wants to take the whole thing.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Merciful Jesu

Lord, is it 25 years already? A quarter of a century since the world changed utterly with the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, ushering in an age of insecurity in the West, multiple wars in the Middle East and Afghanistan and (in hindsight) US policies that made a flurry of performative activities around the top-level symptoms while never actually addressing any root causes.

And it led us to the current administration, the most ignorant, cruel, feckless, incompetent pack of grifters ever assembled in one place and handed the biggest economy, the most powerful military and (apparently) the most spiteful electorate in history.

I’ve been wondering what the Kleptocrat would have done had his arse been spreading in the Oval Office in 2001. I imagine him issuing fatwahs for everyone who ever set foot in a mosque, immediate missile strikes on…well, not Saudi Arabia, the point of origin for the core of the 9/11 perps, because “ally”, but maybe Syria, Iraq and Mozambique, just because he could. He couldn’t have done a better job than Bush 43 at hunkering down on fossil fuels (thus keeping us tied to Middle East supply sources), but he could probably have raked in a lot more bribes from the sheikhs and emirs.

I started down the road of picturing Hegseth as SecDef, but that was too farcically apocalyptic even for me.

Oh—and as for NATO invoking Article V—the only time in its existence—spilling its blood and treasure in defense of the United States…I wonder.

Twenty-five years, and how far have we progressed, really? Thirteen years of Republican presidents; twelve of Democratic ones, with a good chunk of the first years of the latter spent cleaning up the economic mess left by the former. Eighty years of post-World War II international goodwill and soft power gone like our stock of munitions. It’s going to take us longer than Germany to rebuild global trust, if we work diligently and humbly.

Wellbut, today’s a time for commemorating the more than 3000 people—mostly Americans, but (this being America) people from multiple countries—who went about their business on a sunny day in New York City and Washington, D.C., 25 years ago and never came home.

So my earworm is the “Recorare” from Mozart’s Requiem. The prayer begins:

“Remember, merciful Jesu,
“that I am the cause of thy coming,
“and cast me not away on that day.”

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Mobile truth

Another vehicular special edition today—not vanity plates, but the bumper stickers.

All I’ve got to say is: they are correct.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

The power of "free"

Saw this collation alongside the road Monday morning:

It was gone yesterday.

Either person or persons unknown found them of sufficient value to take them all or the original owner just finally chucked everything in the bin.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

Down in the weeds

I tuned in to my HOA’s landscaping committee meeting earlier that month, which is 70 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.

I attended because I wanted clarification on what our landscape maintenance contractor is supposed to be doing about back yards. We’ve had three companies in the past four years; the previous one was only contracted to come into our back yards twice, during late fall, to blow leaves. By the time they got to mine for the first round, there were foot-high drifts of leaves and sycamore bark. I’m not sure whether they did the second pass at all.

But this crowd hasn’t been in my back yard all year. They’re here weekly during growing season, but they only mow and blow in the front yards and the common areas.

So I asked—when can I expect someone to attend to the growing piles of leaves in the back yard?

The hand-flapping chair of the committee asked me if I was leaving my gate open? No—because I have no back fence, therefore no gate. It's wide open. As they'd know if they ever walked behind my block of townhouses. Which they have not.

Well, the HOA president (who has ubiquitous tendencies) butted in to inform us that the workers are supposed to mow, trim and blow in open back yards every other week. Which they have obviously not been doing.

Yay.

However, in the course of the meeting for as long as I stuck it out, someone commented on the need for the contractors to address the weeds—which they obviously are also not doing. And I was reminded of this last week when I noticed this weed:

I mean—no banana for scale, but that’s a weed of substance, right there.

I have no weeds, because the leaves act like mulch to suppress anything that's even thinking of growing. 

(Contractors were out yesterday and back yard still ankle high in leaves. I’ll have to put in a ticket in the property management portal.)

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Not aroma therapy

Some months ago—don’t know when, precisely, but apparently it was pre-Christmas (as will become clear)—I saw a four-pack of Meyer hand soap on sale at Costco. I like their product, although I’d only ever had the lemon-scented stuff, so—without really looking at the package—I popped it in my cart.

When, some time in April or May, I pulled one of the bottles out and started using it in my kitchen, it smelled to me like celery. I thought celery was an odd take on hand soap, and when I actually looked at the label, it said it was pine.

Well, I’m here to tell you that only by stretching my imagination to its outer limits could I connect that scent to pine. It actually smelled manufactured and chemical and it was weird the entire life of its contents.

Then this week, it finally ran out, so I went to the package. The remaining choices were “Gingerbread”, “Peppermint” and “Snowdrop”. Obviously some kind of holiday promotion, and I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it.

With some trepidation, I pulled out the gingerbread.

I cannot describe to you how nasty this is, and how awful it smells on your hands. Because I use it in the kitchen, it stays on my hands while I’m prepping meals and still befouls them when I sit down to eat. I’ve taken to finishing off a hand wash with a swipe of dish washing liquid.

I may end up sending this wholesale down the drain and hope that it doesn’t form some kind of clog.

And I’m really afraid of the “Snowdrop”.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Turning away our yield

A friend and I went to lunch at a diner yesterday because she had a hankering for a BLT. I didn’t want to tell her, but what with the (fatal) cyclospora outbreak, recalls of pork products and salmonella being found on tomatoes, her sandwich might just be a couple of slices of bread with a pickle on the side.

Unless there’ve been issues with pickles lately.

(In the end, she had the brownie sundae. Good choice.)

Between the tariffs and insane Iran war driving up costs, mass deportations of migrants depleting the workforce in the fields and processing plants, and tossing away regulations and oversight on safety standards, our once-vaunted food supply chain has seen some things. That’s on top of human-induced climate change playing havoc with agricultural cycles.

Yay, us.

So today’s earworm is Nanci Griffith’s “Trouble in the Fields”. She's more optimistic about the outcome, but then she wrote it in the 90s. Bon appétit.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Well, hello, August

If you want to know how the weather’s going, here are a couple of pix of the view through my back windows:

In a word: ugh.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Sigh...

This popped into my queue yesterday.

It’s like the phishers aren’t even trying any more.

But they’ll probably catch someone.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Flowing water

A week ago Friday, around 1645, I ran the garbage disposer; it regurgitated water back up into the sink, which drained only very slowly. Naturally this was on the cusp of the weekend, where calling out any tradesman would involve an out-of-hours surcharge.

I consulted the Duck (Duck-duck-go) and performed some of the recommendations. Following the use of a plunger, the drainage seemed to improve. But on Sunday, when I ran the dishwasher, it didn’t drain properly.

I first tried calling my appliance repair guy, primarily because I know him and I don’t know any plumbers, and also because I didn’t want it to be what it was, which was a clogged drain. On Tuesday, Alan confirmed that. He knew no plumbers to recommend, but he did have the name of a drain clearing service, so I called them.

The technician came out Wednesday morning. By that time I was bugging pretty badly. Not so much about the slow drain or the garbage disposer (which I rarely use, since vegetable scraps get composted, non-poultry bones go to the fox and everything else gets binned); it was not having the use of the dishwasher that drove me up the wall. I’d be standing in the kitchen with a dirty dish in my hand at an absolute loss as to what to do with it. (Listen—I spent three years in the UK without a dishwasher and thought myself very ill used the whole time.)

It took two snakings to clear the drain, but clear it he did. As he was checking various things (no backup in the utility room, yay!) he let the water run for a good five minutes. Drained like a pro. Absolutely worth the $$$.

(Bonus: I asked him what the weirdest clog he ever cleared was. That stopped him, but then he said, “Rats in the drain. But that’s only in Arlington.”)

So my gratitude today is for having a kitchen drain that runs free, a garbage disposer that doesn’t spit water back at me and a working, draining dishwasher. Viz:

P.S. I also have my calendar marked to flush baking soda, then white vinegar and then kettle-hot water down the drain the first Sunday of every quarter. Just in case.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Suck it up

As you can see, there’s been a changing of the guard for vacuum cleaning chez moi. 

My Kenmore cannister vac, which I bought about 25 years ago when the previous, 30-year-old Kenmore vac died, finally gave up the ghost.

I took it to the local vacuum repair and sales shop, where the proprietor told me that while it was manufactured in the US, its heirs are made in China, as are all parts. He said that replacing the motor wouldn’t be a good investment. I went home to do some research.

Turns out a whole lot of vacuum cleaners are manufactured in China, with somewhat middling reviews. The best ones come from Germany, but they are also pricey.

Well, after mulling it over, I bit the bullet and bought the SEBO from the local guy. With an extra box of bags, it was over $1000.

It’s smaller than the old one, and lighter. But it better outlast me.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: just an anomaly

I knew that the environs of The District They Call Columbia was in the path of the smoke from Canadian wildfires, but Friday morning, when I stuck my head out of the back door to toss out birdseed, I’d forgot about that. Because my yard is closed in by trees and shrubs, I couldn’t see the haze, but I reacted to the smell and taste of the air.

“Is-is someone barbecuing at this hour? Burning leaves?”

Then I remembered.

I had to go out a couple of times, once in the morning and once in mid-afternoon. Both times my eyes burned and by late afternoon I felt that painful catch in my lungs as they notified me that they were full of particulates and I should cool it.

Here’s the thing—I grew up in Los Angeles before anyone gave a damn about air quality. I must have spent half my childhood and youth never being able to actually fill my lungs with air because of smog. Only rarely could I see the sky without the pollution blocking the view (usually after rain), and never in the summer months. It got so that schools throughout the Basin couldn’t let kids out for recess or physical education for weeks at a time. It wasn’t until I moved away and then returned after some years of lung-clearing that I realized what I’d been ingesting all that time.

LA cleaned up its act—well, California did. It took decades and caused much squawk from industries—including auto manufacturers—and consumers. But they cleaned the air, and that’s my gratitude for today. It’s been decades since I experienced what I did this past weekend—I’ve taken it so for granted that I forgot all about it. But what a gift to live in a functioning advanced society with clean air!

I say this recognizing that even as the words flow from my keyboard this administration is doing everything it can to send us back to Smog Alertville. That just makes me all the more grateful that something like this weekend is an anomaly, and it should be so. We may have to do it all over again when these kleptocrats are driven from office, but it’s a worthwhile endeavor.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu