Well, alrighty then—yesterday Sweden officially joined NATO, pissing off Vladimir Putin no end. (The walls of the Kremlin are no doubt covered in the Russian equivalent of ketchup. Which is probably blood.) To honor this, the 31st member of the alliance, we’re going to cruise to the Arctic Circle. It’s ABBA, singing “Waterloo”.
(And this brings me a disco nightmare.)
Well, alrighty then—the GOP has anointed its nominee for president. As if there was any doubt—because of course the law-and-order party of family values wants an adjudicated rapist struggling to hawk up half a billion dollars in bond money so he can appeal fraud and defamation convictions (what a great national security risk!); a serial adulterer; about to sit at the defense table in his first of four criminal trials; a thief; a dictator-manqué; an orator who stumbles over the words “reduce” and “Venezuela”; a father who still would like to hump his daughter.
Here's a photo of your average supporter of this paragon; I shot it on my way back from the polling station.
As you may be aware, presidential primary elections were held yesterday in a bunch of states. I commented about the difference between voter information provided by California and Virginia.
(Both parties actually blew me off—I got no flyers from either
of them or their respective candidates. And, as opposed to California, there
were only two party choices: Democrat or Republican.)
I’d missed the window for early voting, which is my preference,
so yesterday morning I walked over to the polling place in a local elementary
school. I was there around 0830 and let me say that there were about 10 or so
poll workers, but I was the only voter.
You could have held World War III there and no one would have
got hurt.
I suppose it’s because—with only two parties represented and an incumbent
(I was going to say “unopposed incumbent”, but then I remembered Marianne
Williamson and Dean Phillips; haaaaaaaaaaaaaa) for one and a right-wing,
twice-impeached, four-times indicted, 91 felony counts, insurrectionist, grifting, racist, misogynistic, authoritarian, word-slurring nut job for the other, well—obviously iacta alea
est.
As I was leaving, three more people pulled up to do their civic duty, and I say God bless ‘em.
Last month I got several packets of voting materials for today’s primaries.
They were all from Santa Clara County, not from Virginia.
(Evidently Fairfax County can’t be arsed to notify your former voting
jurisdiction when you register here.)
At first I was really excited, because it was the first time (I
thought) the Commonwealth had ever sent any materials to help me be efficient
at the voting booth. But no, it was California, which always sends out
frankly TMI about the referenda, initiatives and candidates so you can make an
informed choice before you cast your ballot.
From the former capital of the Confederacy I’ve received exactly
nothing; they prefer that you have as little information as possible. (TBH,
they’d prefer that you didn’t bother at all with making your voice heard,
unless you’re wearing a red hat made in China.)
No worries—I voted anyhow.
(Only once. In Virginia, not California.)
Today I’m grateful for March, the month when Mother Nature gets Winter out of her system.
You can have all four seasons in March; sometimes within a
24-hour period. But mostly, it’s green, with splashes of color as trees and
shrubs bud and bulbs thrust out of the ground preparing to display narcissi and
tulips later on.
March is a reminder and a promise. I’m grateful for both.
It has been a completely craptastic week, so today’s earworm is Bob Marley and the Wailers’ “Three Little Birds.”
I particularly like the cartoon rendition.
Next to actual bare feet or flip-flops, this is the worst thing you want to see in your seatmate for a transcontinental flight.
I had to turn up the air flow.
There were apparently a lot of people trying to get out of Arizona on Monday; the line of planes taxiing for takeoff was really long. But as we finally got to the runway and were powering up, I noticed this hybrid blast from the past:
What do you think it means when American Airlines can’t even be
bothered to repaint the tail logo?
Also—how old is this aircraft? TWA ceased operations in
December 2001.
When I said yesterday that Arizona sunrises are spectacular, I was not joking. Viz:
I spent the weekend in Sedona to spend time with my sister. Since I last visited her, in September 2022, her Alzheimer’s has seized hold of her and the prognosis is not good. I’ve basically been in the company of her shell, which absolutely breaks my heart.
Especially since there is really nothing I can do for her except
love her with all my heart.
So here’s my gratitude for today—aside with having been blessed
with her as my big sister.
When I got to the Phoenix airport (early, mirabile dictu,
considering it was United Airlines) I encountered the longest line I’ve ever
been in that didn’t involve an E-ticket ride at the car rental center. All the
other counters had a few customers; Budget had a couple of hundred. (Evidently
I wasn’t the only person who found a deal via Costco travel.) I was in that
line for 90 minutes before I got up to the counter.
(Woman in line behind me never drew breath for that entire time.
I heard all her plans for meals, how her husband “is not a closer”—he gets 90%
of the way and then stops (evidently WRT projects, not sex)—and a lot of stuff
about booze.)
But when I got there, the fella (Deviry, I think) and I chatted.
Turns out that Spring Training (a Thing for baseball) began the day before,
which might have accounted for some of the volume of car renters. He asked me
the purpose of my trip, and I said I was visiting my sister in Sedona.
“How is she doing?” he asked.
I hesitated and said, “Okay” just as he said, “She hanging on?”
Yeah.
“Give her a hug for me,” he said. Okay.
Then, when he handed me the rental sheet, he added, “This is to
remind you.”
Honestly, it was the kindest thing anyone could ever do. I
forgave Budget for the 90 minute line and for the 30 minute further wait in
line for the “Express Assignment” at the garage. (Evidently Budget, Avis and
Thrifty no longer assign you a car at the counter and you find the row and slot
where it’s waiting for you. All three of them use a pool of vehicles, which are
allocated to you by a guy at the head of that second line. The system sucks.)
And I am so grateful for his extra hugs for my sister.
On Saturday, after spending most of the day with my sister and
then getting an update from the two friends who have her medical power of
attorney (it’s grim), I walked over to a Mexican restaurant and told the waiter
I wanted their Grande Margarita.
“The fishbowl?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m walking, not driving.”
So he brought it.
(Two straws seem to indicate they expect two
people to be drinking it? Lightweights.) It was exactly what I needed that day—a
margarita I could swim laps in.
(Just after that arrived at my table, I got this text from a
friend, and I’m grateful for that, too.)
He checked on me frequently during my dinner, and when I was
done with my quesadilla, there was still about half of the margarita left. I
said I wanted to take it with me. He wanted to know where I was staying, and I
said just across the street.
Here’s the thing—I cannot think that Arizona has any laws on the
books holding a restaurant liable for anything untoward that happens to a
pedestrian after they’ve drunk half a fishbowl of margarita. He just wanted to
make sure I was okay. And I’m grateful for that.
(Took me three hours to finish it, but I drank it all.)
I’m also grateful for the Arizona sunrises. They are super.
