Team spirit

I’m in the process of Kondoing my PC—I’ve got so many duplicate files and folders I may never get everything sorted. (And activities like this are when I really miss having two monitors to compare files. A laptop screen just does not feed the bulldog.)

Anyway, I came across these pix I shot of my former colleague’s office. LW is apparently a fan of the Washington Nationals. (Yeah, I don't know what the helmet is; pretty sure it's not a baseball thing, but I could be wrong.)

I don’t know how many of these little dolls he has, but they must have accounted for at least two cartons when we all had to move office a couple of months ago. (The latest being my sixth office in 3.5 years, I had a grand total of 1.5 cartons of stuff to move.)

In this he reminded me of another ex-colleague, the World’s Greatest Expert. Little pisher with compensation issues.

Anyway, now that I’ve shared LW’s idea of office décor, I’m tossing the files. Only about fifteen squillion left to check.

The scent of summer

We didn’t have air conditioning when I grew up in Los Angeles County. It was around, but our house didn’t have it. My mother would close all the windows during the summer days, and as long as you stayed downstairs it was relatively cool. Then we’d open the windows in the evening; temps fall off at night in California, not like here in the District They Call Columbia, so it was comfortable.

One of my most evocative memories of those summer nights is the scent of gardenia wafting up from the bushes in the back yard to my bedroom. So when I moved into my house in the People’s Republic, I got a gardenia bush, which I take inside in the winter and then put on the patio for spring through fall.

To tell you the truth, having to use AC here kind of vitiates that whole olfactory experience, but a couple of weeks ago I noticed the bush had sprung blooms, so I went out to take some pix.

It’s doing better than the dwarf lemon tree that hasn’t produced one single lemon in the two years I’ve had it. (In fact, it may be dying.) That’s very disappointing, because we also had a lemon tree in the back yard, and I never bought a lemon until I’d moved away from home and was appalled by how much they cost.

I’m probably going to have to replace the lemon tree, but I am glad the gardenia’s doing its bit.

Check your speed

You know, we are awash with individual and collective criminality, incompetence and downright dumbfuckery in our government, and I just can’t with it. So I’m digging into my archives and sharing a story told by Brian Shul, Maj. USAF (Ret), of his days as a pilot of the world’s fastest jet, the SR-71.

Shul flew 212 missions during the Vietnam War. He was shot down and crash-landed in the jungle, hid for days before he was rescued and suffered such severe burns that he was first told he wouldn’t survive, and then that he’d never fly again. After months in hospital, he passed his flight qualification and went on to fly a variety of aircraft until he retired in 1990.

Among those craft was the SR-71 Blackbird, which was in service from the 60s through the 80s; it was retired and briefly reactivated in the 90s. The SR stood for strategic reconnaissance, and the Blackbird was outfitted with a shedload of cool tech to accomplish that. In addition, it flew at speeds exceeding Mach 3, and could outrun just about everything, including missiles.

Shul’s story isn’t really about any of that, except for the speed. What it is about is that fighter-pilot willie-waving that I saw a lot of on the fringes of an F-14 Tomcat fighter squadron. It’s a great story, and Shul does it justice. Settle back and crank up the volume.

You’re welcome.

Sheltering in place

We had quite the deluge yesterday in the District They Call Columbia. It started in the People’s Republic around maybe 0630ish, and it went on for about four hours. It did not dropeth as the gentle rain from heaven, it poured steadily for all that time. It was like California during an El Niño year.

Moreover, it was so dark right until mid-morning that I had to turn on lights. In July, man.

We’ve been having afternoon-evening thunderstorms and showers for days now, but this was impressive. I saw a juvenile cardinal that was so soaked, I wanted to take him in and dry him off. I have never seen a bird look so miserably wet.

There were floods all over the region (including at the White House) and the morning commute was dreadful for both motorists and Metro riders. The parking lot I used every single day near the Wiehle station was under eight inches of water, which built up after people had left their cars there in the morning. So I was really happy that I was not among them.

Gratitude Monday: debugged

Today I’m grateful that last year I heeded the advice of Rodolfo, the guy who cuts my hair, and bought a bug zapper. Before I got it, every time I went out on my patio between mid-May and mid-September, I suffered multiple mosquito bites. Every. Single. Time.

Even in the time it took to dash out, grab the bird feeder and run back into the house to refill it—a matter of seconds—I was chewed on.

The first year I resorted to long sleeves and insect repellant, but that required washing it off again when I got back. Not a really elegant solution.

But the bug zapper—man, that’s Nobel-worthy technological advancement. This year I put it out before Memorial Day and it’s been working like a Trojan ever since. So much that I spent quite some time this weekend messing about in the garden (including scrupulously overturning every container that might catch and retain water), and returned indoors unscathed.

Trust me—this is huge. And I’m truly grateful for it.

Of thee I sing

I did not see the self-fluffery at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday and I don’t care about it. But NPR asked people for their personal anthems this week, so I’m going to give you a few of mine. These are songs I believe are representative of the United States, both good and bad.

You decide for yourself which is which.

  

Two songs related to the Woodstock happening, which took place 50 years ago (next month). This one, by Country Joe and the Fish, comes to my mind much more often than I’d really like. That’s because it’s still so relevant. All of it.

And here’s Eva Cassidy singing Joni Mitchell’s account of the festival.

I just love everything Sweet Honey in the Rock does. Here they are singing “We Are Climbing Jacob’s Ladder”, a recording made for Ken Burns’ game-changing series, The Civil War.

I ask you, where would we be without The Village People? Or the “YMCA”?

It was apparently a Thing at weddings in Kentucky in the 90s.

People usually think of Billie Holiday when they hear “Strange Fruit”, but for me, it’s Nina Simone.

This is a somewhat different take on “We Shall Overcome”. I can remember driving to a record shop in Vienna about 25 years ago to buy Dr. Loco’s Rockin’ Jalapeño Band’s CD when I heard one of the cuts on the radio. This is stellar, but you have to ignore the visuals.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about CSN&Y’s “Find the Cost of Freedom”. Not so much an anthem as a sad fact. I heard them do this at a concert back in the last century and it’s stuck with me ever since.

But finally—Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land”. I saw Arlo and Pete at the Greek Theatre back in the 80s; this isn’t that performance, but it brings back memories.

Crank up the volume and let these songs speak to you about America.

Tanks for the memories

The Twitters-dot-com have been on #TankWatch2019 ever since Il Douche announced (too late for cooler heads to gainsay him, as they did last year) that he’ll have “Abram [sic] tanks” and “the brand-new Sherman tanks”, “the best tanks ever” (even though Shermans haven’t been in use for more than 60 years, and they weren’t even the best tanks of WWII) at his ego-stroking rally today.

It’s not quite as good as #UnwantedIvanka, although she actually made an appearance in the current hashtag:

However, for my money, this video totally wins the Interwebz:

Exclusive video of Sherman tank practicing for the Fourth of July parade #TankWatch2019 pic.twitter.com/gF8PGGW4TY

— Terry Moonrocklicker (@terry_go_online) July 2, 2019

I myself have watched it about 20 times, and it cracks me up again and again.

The entire thread is good, too. E.g.:

Also, the suggestion that [General] Sherman should ride one of the Shermans was extra primo good.

Happy Independence Day, folks.

Military madness

Right, Imma try to get this out of my system before tomorrow. First #UnwantedIvanka and now the latest shenanigans out of the White House as Il Douche—unrestrained by congressional Repugs and lusting after a military parade ever since Bastille Day 2017—co-opts Independence Day as a “Celebration of Me-Me-Me”.

Taking over the Lincoln Memorial to stage his rally isn’t enough. He’s adding “Abram [sic] tanks” and “the new Sherman tanks” (which haven’t been in use since the 1950s); military flyovers; reserved seating for toadies and donors; and now silent but uniformed stage appearances by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to show how his military loves him.

I’m expecting Katyusha rocket launchers to be announced momentarily.

Anyway, one of my colleagues DM’d me on Monday to say he was hearing really loud music—the office is pretty close to both the National Mall and the White House. He wondered if it was prep for the rally. I immediately replied, “Is this it?”

(I hope this converts—YouTube has flagged it as being questionable.)

I was so fast, he wondered if I just have it on the web version of speed-dial. I told him, “It’s my jam.”

Well, it isn’t, really. But I’m wondering if some of the military bands dragooned into spending tomorrow performing for a Nazi rally aren’t practicing it. Just in case.

Unwanted

With nothing but the cachet of her daddy’s position, the unelected “special advisor” to the Chaos Monkey tagged along on the series of photo-ops that was the G20 meeting last week. The First Airhead, dressed like a refugee from Laura Ashley, inserted herself into meetings and photographs as though she was an actual contributor. Basically, she was at a battle of wits only partially armed.

The expressions of gobsmacked disbelief on the faces of people who are actual statesmen and diplomats told the whole story. The quintessential moment may have been the conversation among Justin Trudeau, Theresa May, Emmanuel Macron and Christine Lagarde, into which Her Vapidness tried desperately to insert herself, with eyes on the camera all the time.

This pretty much defines cringeworthy.

Then there was this actual photo, that pretty much looks like a nightmare version of Take Your Idiot Daughter to Work. The side-eyes are cherce:

Well, the call went out over Twitter under the hashtag #UnwantedIvanka to find us more instances where she might have showed up to flog her brand, and the Twitterati responded like troupers. Just as they did four years ago with Nicolas Sarkozy. Viz:

  

In many cases, given Il Douche’s utter disregard for standards of government and his core purpose to amass wealth for the kleptocracy, it was hard to know whether the pictures were real or photoshopped.

This one, for example, is an actual shot from the op at the top, with individual facial expressions called out:

You’ll note that Bonespurs is looking at the airhead’s butt. That’s the level of our leadership.

I confess that when I saw coverage of G20, this is what I thought was going on:

Also, given the performance at Osan Air Base in Korea, the actuality of this may not be far off.

There are probably many, many more #UnwantedIvanka memes by now. Take a look for yourself.

Gratitude Monday: in the kitchen

Since I no longer come home from work pissed off and exhausted from collegial shenanigans, and I now have time during the day, I’ve embarked on culinary experimentation.

It has become my custom since early in the year to have homemade pizza on Friday night. I’ll make a batch of dough that’s supposed to produce two pizzas, divide it into six balls and freeze five. Then on Thursday, I put one of the balls into the fridge to thaw overnight, and it’s all ready for my Friday night yum-fest.

Usually I use the master bathroom counter as my proofing oven—it can get to 85°F there, which is absolutely perfect for raising dough. Not so much when the AC is on. So two Fridays ago when I needed a new batch, I wrapped the daylights out of the bowl and set it out on the patio. Whoo—that worked a treat. Highest, fluffiest, most elastic pizza dough yet. Yay!

So last Thursday I thought I might try another yeasty thing. I made cinnamon rolls:

The patio was my proofing oven, and it worked fine. I kept a close eye on a visiting squirrel, but it didn’t seem at all interested.

The result was okay—the bread part seemed a little tasteless, so I’ll have to experiment. But definitely edible, and my breakfasts for the next many days are now sorted.

So I decided to tackle pavlovas with passionfruit curd. I’ve been lusting after passionfruit anything since that heavenly passionfruit soufflé I had in Dublin in May. And since I found where grocery stores hide frozen passionfruit purée, I had some on hand. I still have on hand some lemon curd from the last time I made pavlovas, so I reckoned if the passionfruit stuff didn’t come out well, I could fall back on that.

Well, readers, it came out well:

And with a splodge of whipped cream (which I may have whipped just a skosh too long):

The curd isn’t as delicate as that soufflé was, but it was grand all the same. Pavlovas are super summertime desserts, and I have five more and a half-pint of curd to get me through the current heatwave here in the District They Call Columbia.

This is what I’m grateful for today: exploring what I can do with a few ingredients, and boldly going where I have not ventured before. I'm thinking sourdough rolls are on the horizon.