I won't live in fear

A couple of weeks ago I was leaving the tavern of the private golf club in the People’s Republic after having dinner with a friend. Four paunchy, aging White guys were at another table and one of them was regaling his mates with his contempt for a holiday called Juneteenth.

“It’s a federal holiday!” he bellowed, being met with disbelief. “About Emancipation!” brought guffaws.

I quickstepped out of there, because I’m not a member and I don’t have time to bring out sock puppets every bloody time ignorant racists plump up their privilege. That would be a more-than-fulltime job. But imagine thinking it silly to celebrate the news that slavery was outlawed (especially since the United States got around to it years after the other White empires, including the Russian one).

We have so many miles to go.

So let’s get moving for Juneteenth (19 June), with Our Native Daughters singing “I Knew I Could Fly”.

 

Sssss

Some months ago I noticed that my espresso machine leaves interesting designs in the shot glass I use when making my morning latte. So I’ve taken a series of photos of them.

I call it “Coffee Viper”.

 

Pork of the sea?

I cooked some bacon last week for a spinach salad; I cook bacon in my toaster oven rather than frying it. Anyway, when it came out, it looked to me like fish.

What do you think?

 

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Old glory

Today is Flag Day. You may not know this if you are on the sunny side of 50, but it used to be a day for hanging out the old Star Spangled Banner.

But I realized that every time I see a photo of the flag, or hear it mentioned, I wonder what fuckery the latest mob of right-wing whackadoodles are up to. Because that’s where we are: the national symbol has been coopted by the racist ammosexual MEAL Team 6 crowd, cosplaying with their long rifles and grievances, engaging in metaphorical willie-waving on behalf of an orange-sprayed conman who literally humps the flag. And it makes me sick.

So, that’s all I got for today.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: Roll down like waters

I suppose it’s a commentary on the sad state of affairs in this country that my gratitude for today is about the House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6^th Attack on the United States Capitol. That barely 50 years after Watergate we need another congressional investigation into the corruption of a Republican administration that basically told Richard Nixon, “Hold my beer” is unfuckingbelievable. But here we are.

And—being here—I’m grateful that there are some politicians who are willing to follow the evidence and expose the truth to the world, despite the very best (if wildly incompetent) efforts of Republicans to deny, deflect and demean the proceedings.

Two lone Rs joined the committee out of a sense of duty (as opposed to the reps proposed by Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy in an attempt to turn it into a circus). They’ll probably be voted out of office in November for that.

Because that’s where we are, too.

The first hearing, held in prime time Thursday night, was quite the revelation. Second one is today. May their work be thorough, clearly stated and utterly irrefutable. And may the Department of Justice follow up accordingly.

 

 

Growing waters

Given the hellscape of the past few years that’s currently manifesting itself in a war of aggression in Ukraine; third cycle of a global pandemic; the ongoing destruction of our planet at the hands of human depredation; worldwide inflation driven in no small part by corporate greed capitalizing (ha!) on supply-chain issues; and our own homegrown horrors of Republican assaults on reproductive and gender rights, voter rights, civil rights and the rights of people to go about their daily lives without having to worry about being ripped apart by some maladjusted White male with shitload of grievances and an AR-15—given all that and an ongoing coup attempt, I’m thinking today’s earworm needs to be something from Bob Dylan.

I’m talking about early, angry young man, burn it down, call it like it is Bob Dylan.

Because lately I’ve been finding myself singing “The Times They Are a-Changin’” with some frequency. Sometimes in rage; sometimes in hope. It’s that kind of song.

There are a lot of versions of this American anthem—including one by The Boss at the 1997 Kennedy Center Honors, Richie Havens back in the 70s and Keb’ Mo’. But I keep coming back to Tracy Chapman’s performance at Dylan’s 50^th Anniversary Concert as having the right balance of rage and hope for these times.

And let me just say that this aging Boomer hopes with all her heart that Millennials and Gen-Zers take up the banner and the battle cry and do whatever it takes on the streets, in the schools and at the voting booth to change all of this. As disgusted as I am at everything I see around me, the wheel is definitely still in spin.

 

 

Street gangs

Welp, the nice little goose family I encountered a few days ago has morphed into a gang. They hang out in this one spot along the W&OD Trail in the morning. I’ve seen them twice since my earlier post and the goslings are noticeably larger than they were then.

They’re placed on either side of the trail, so you have to pass between the phalanxes. It’s pretty harrowing because geese are the Crips of the avian world.

Yesterday I walked the gauntlet again; had to give them all my loose change just to make it to the other side. The only reason I escaped with my mobile phone was because I promised to Venmo them $20 for gourmet snails. (Also, it was too big to fit in the gang leader’s beak.)

Moreover—you have to walk very carefully when you go where geese have gone before. If you catch my drift.

 

Riding for Jesus

So, there’s clearly a lot going on with this car:

I mean—I hope Jesus is looking out for them, because I don’t know how they can see out their rear window with all the decals on it.

By comparison, this guy looks like a Jesus piker:

 

 

Home improvement

Guess who has to buy a new sliding screen door. And guess why.

I came back from my morning walk on Saturday to find one of the little furry toerags on the wrong side of the door. I think he’d only just got through, because he hadn’t yet reached the cup of birdseed I keep nearby to toss out for the ground feeders. (I know this because there was no mess around the cup.) He bopped out through the hole he’d chewed when he saw me.

I patched it with duct tape, but about 30 minutes later I was upstairs and heard a weird noise and came down to find he was enlarging the hole, so I patched it horizontally.

Throughout the day Saturday and Sunday, as I had the door open for the good weather, he periodically sidled up to the screen, looking for an opportunity to do more damage, but I foiled him.

Man—it’s always something.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: just a break

We’ve had a break in the weather for a few days. From early morning temps in the mid-70s that climb to over 90 by afternoon we’ve gone to 50s-60 and up to 80. That means I can do my morning 3.5 miles without carrying a towel, and enjoy a shorter afternoon walk.

Because of that, I can truly enjoy the beauty around me; nothing spectacular, just the birds, the greenery and the air. (I’m also seeing a bumper crop of chipmunks all over the place; I’ve never encountered so many.) It’s a joy to have the patio door open and listen to the sounds of early summer.

We’ve got another day or so of it; then it’s back to Summer in the District and a bad hair day that lasts through September. So I’m grateful for this while it lasts.