Change the world

Graham Nash’s “Chicago” has been in my head recently. He wrote it in response to the trial of the Chicago 7 (originally 8), but it seems so apt for what I’m seeing now. The emboldening of White racists, abandoning any kind of accountability for law enforcement thuggery, obliteration of regulations and dismissal of any pretense of the rule of law. And we can look forward to a whole lot more of binding and gagging.

Man—good times, eh?

Here’s Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young singing it. Crank up the volume.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Mad hatter

Quiz time: what are these memes from this week referencing?

Do you really need a hint? Okay:

Also:

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

White infrastructure

Oh, I forgot—in our first snow of 2025, a couple of weeks ago, we got enough for kids to make snowmen. And build a snow fort. Or whatever this is.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Weathering the day

It was a beautiful day yesterday in the People’s Republic. We got maybe one or two inches of snow on Sunday—not the big dump that was forecast. It was mixed with rain, and of course froze overnight, which made walking iffy. It was cold—no doubt about it, but not much wind here.

Also—my car battery wouldn’t start. But I have the key to Das Auto, which—as it happens—does have a new battery, so I was able to get around.

I shovel my patio so the birds don’t have to dig around in the snow for seeds. It got a little coating after I cleared it on Sunday; here are the designs left by little bird feet.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: No lie can live forever

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr., day in the United States. The third Monday in January has been a federal holiday since 1986; I suppose that’s another line item on the grievance list of White supremacists. Boo hoo.

In March of 1965, King was one of the thousands who marched from Selma to Montgomery; when they reached the Alabama capital, he gave an address that resonates with me particularly strongly today. He began:

“Last Sunday, more than eight thousand of us started on a mighty walk from Selma, Alabama. We have walked through desolate valleys and across the trying hills. We have walked on meandering highways and rested our bodies on rocky byways. Some of our faces are burned from the outpourings of the sweltering sun. Some have literally slept in the mud. We have been drenched by the rains. Our bodies are tired and our feet are somewhat sore.

“But today as I stand before you and think back over that great march, I can say, as Sister Pollard said—a seventy-year-old Negro woman who lived in this community during the bus boycott—and one day, she was asked while walking if she didn’t want to ride. And when she answered, ‘No,’ the person said, ‘Well, aren’t you tired?’ And with her ungrammatical profundity, she said, ‘My feets is tired, but my soul is rested.’ And in a real sense this afternoon, we can say that our feet are tired, but our souls are rested.

“They told us we wouldn’t get here. And there were those who said that we would get here only over their dead bodies, but all the world today knows that we are here and we are standing before the forces of power in the state of Alabama saying, ‘We ain’t goin’ let nobody turn us around.’’

King enumerated continuing goals for marchers—segregated housing, segregated schools, poverty and ballot boxes. The latter are mentioned several times, because they are the keys that unlock all the rest. Then he served notice to all the White folks calling for the 1965 version of “unity” that the kind of unity they want—Black folks kept in their place—is not in the cards.

“The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that recognizes the dignity and worth of all of God’s children. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that allows judgment to run down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy of brotherhood, the normalcy of true peace, the normalcy of justice.

“And so as we go away this afternoon, let us go away more than ever before committed to this struggle and committed to nonviolence. I must admit to you that there are still some difficult days ahead. We are still in for a season of suffering in many of the black belt counties of Alabama, many areas of Mississippi, many areas of Louisiana. I must admit to you that there are still jail cells waiting for us, and dark and difficult moments. But if we will go on with the faith that nonviolence and its power can transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows, we will be able to change all of these conditions.”

And here we get to the part that I take to heart:

“I know you are asking today, ‘How long will it take?’ Somebody’s asking, ‘How long will prejudice blind the visions of men, darken their understanding, and drive bright-eyed wisdom from her sacred throne?’ Somebody’s asking, ‘When will wounded justice, lying prostrate on the streets of Selma and Birmingham and communities all over the South, be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children of men?’ Somebody’s asking, ‘When will the radiant star of hope be plunged against the nocturnal bosom of this lonely night, plucked from weary souls with chains of fear and the manacles of death? How long will justice be crucified, and truth bear it?’

“I come to say to you this afternoon, however difficult the moment, however frustrating the hour, it will not be long, because ‘truth crushed to earth will rise again.’

“How long? Not long, because ‘no lie can live forever.’

How long? Not long, because ‘you shall reap what you sow.’’

William McCormick/Huntsville Times Archives/Alabama Department Of Archives And History

And this is what I’m holding on to today:

“How long? Not long, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

I am the most impatient person you will ever know. And seeing the events of the past eight years culminating in the return of the convicted felon to the White House, surrounded by sycophants and toadies has sent me up the walls. I’m infuriated by 95-year-old Nazis claiming the infirmities of age as a defense against standing trial for war crimes. I have been flipping out at the outrageously unqualified nominees for Executive Branch appointments. I scream knowing that Jack Smith had enough on the Kleptocrat to convict him for election interference, but prosecution was obviated by the election. And don’t get me started on Aileen Cannon and Samuel Alito. Having King remind me that—even if I do not live to see it—no lie lives forever and the arc of the moral universe will bend toward justice brings peace to my soul.

My soul needs that peace, and I am grateful for it today, this week and the coming four years. We definitely have difficult days ahead of us and we have many miles to go. Let us all keep our eyes on truth and justice as we march.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

Another perfect day

Seems to me that the only possibility for today’s earworm is Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.”. Released in 1983, this is the anthem to the city and culture of the protean community that’s been drawing in dreamers for two centuries. Newman—like myself—is a native and he knows how to celebrate and mock in the same breath.

One of the things he calls out is the Santa Ana winds, which are a major factor in the ferocity and uncontainable wildfires that have raged across the county for a week. If you’ve never experienced one of them, shut the fuck up about how if you were in charge, you’d have put out the flames in less than a day. (It amazes me not that Republicans are on the “we have to chastise Californians because their disaster is of their own making, while the disaster of two hurricanes in Florida and the Carolinas are completely different” wagon, but because Republicans from California are climbing on that wagon to score points with the Kleptocrat.) Santa Anas are dry and hot, and gust up to 100mph; not for nothing are they known as “devil winds”.

Here's Raymond Chandler on them, in the novella called “Red Wind”:

“There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.”

Well, possibly fewer cocktail lounges these days. And some of the settings for Newman’s video have been incinerated. But the city will reinvent itself. Again.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

On kings

As we approach the inauguration of a convicted felon, who—but for a slight majority of those who actually voted last year—would currently be either in court defending his criminal attempt to overturn the 2020 election, or in the process of appealing his conviction for that crime, I’ve been thinking a lot about Aesop’s fable about the frogs and their kings.

Here's the gist:

There was a pond with frogs who thought very highly of themselves. Very important frogs in what was most likely the most important pond in the universe. (Well—so, that made them the most important frogs in the universe, innit?) But they had no ruler worthy of this amazingness, so they petitioned Zeus to send them a king.

“O, mighty Zeus—give us a king to rule over us! Send us someone befitting our status in the world.”

The king of the gods then dropped a log in the pond, making a huge splash. Literally. It frightened the frogs, but after a while some of them noticed that King Log wasn’t engaging in kingly activities, or even, truth be told, any activities at all. Frogs started hopping on the king and mocking him.

“Yah—proper king you are, I don’t think!” they probably said.

Well, after a while, the frog chorus appealed to Zeus again—“This isn’t the kind of king we deserve! We’re very important frogs; send us a real king, who’ll do king things!”

And Zeus sent them a stork. Naturally, the stork started scarfing down frogs, because that’s what storks do.

The frogs were terrorized as their numbers were decimated. Those who escaped wept piteously and petitioned Zeus again to take away this terrible monster.

But Zeus replied, “Nah—you should have realized when you were well off instead of getting ideas above your station. You got what you asked for. Also—there’s this word, “hubris”. You should look it up.”

I can see how some of the frogs in this American pond might consider Joe Biden a do-nothing King Log. In contrast to the Kleptocrat, Biden is muted; his decency and competence guided us through the chaos left by the last Klepto administration. He controlled the pandemic; he brought down inflation and enacted policies that built up business, spawned jobs and invested in infrastructure. But he’s not a flashy guy and he didn’t shit-talk immigrants, allies, neighbors or people who disagreed with him. Republicans hopped all over him, deriding him as useless and unworthy to be our king.

The MAGA frogs, they want flash—they’re very important frogs who haven’t been properly appreciated! And they want a powerful king who’s going to hurt people, bigly! So they elected King Stork, who is now completely unfettered by virtue of the willingness of legislators, the federal judiciary and big corporations to prostrate themselves at his feet and let him do as he pleases.

There is going to be such a slaughter of the frogs as this country has never seen. In little clumps and great big swaths, he will gobble them down without bothering to chew. And they will not understand what has happened, and they’ll blame it on someone else.

Problem is, salamanders, newts, dragonflies and other pond creatures are going to go into the maw, too.

Zeus is laughing his ass off.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Paperwork

I was spitballing my estimated tax payment for 2024 yesterday. Since it’s due today, I was actually much earlier than I usually am about this. It’s a challenge because of the change in my earnings status; for the past two years I’ve gone down to the wire because I couldn’t predict what the total would be until I’d crossed the line. It should be steadier going forward.

That doesn’t make me happy about it. Paying taxes that are going to support a criminal regime with everyone in office skimming off it does not sit well with me. Sometimes not being a lawbreaker is a moral burden.

But what really got to me yesterday was that, in the process of verifying my retirement disbursement, I came to the beneficiaries page. And I had to remove my sister from the list.

I believe I’m done with this for a while.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

White out

A couple of mementos of the first real snow we’ve had for a while in the District They Call Columbia. It's been hanging around for a week on account of the sub-freezing temperatures.

Birds on the patio (before I shoveled it for their convenience):

Snow on a fence.

If it’s all the same to Nature, I’m ready to forego this kind of thing for a while. Kthxbai.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: even in the fire

Despite all the horrifying visuals coming out of the wildfires devastating LA County, there are still things to inspire gratitude.

First—my sister and her family in Pasadena are safe. They were evacuated in the early hours of Wednesday, but allowed to return later in the day. The Eaton fire is burning within blocks of their house, so the air quality is bad, but they’re okay.

Even though there are James Woodses, weeping on CNN about losing everything in the Palisades fire (and he later learned his house in fact survived, but he didn’t apologize for all the calumnies he managed to fling between tears), there were people like Steve Guttenberg, doing what they could to help first responders get to the fire sites. Guttenberg was interviewed by a local reporter—who did not recognize him as the smart ass Mahoney of the Police Academy franchise (fair enough; that reporter was probably not born until long after the sequels ran their course)—while he was trying to move abandoned cars that were blocking streets. Not an actor or star; just a guy trying to help out (and save people from having their Porsches and Teslas from being bulldozed aside).

Folks all over Southern California stepped up to the plate, donating food, clothing, toys and other supplies for the more than 100,000 people under evacuation orders. Animal shelters sprang up throughout the area for small to large critters displaced by the fires, and people donated food, toys and supplies to them, as well.

Relief organizations are also out in force—including World Central Kitchen, which I’ve been proud to support for years. By Friday, they had two meal service operations going in Pasadena, providing sustenance to first responders and comfort to people having the worst day of their lives. And that was just in Pasadena.

States and municipalities have sent firefighting teams to join the efforts to tame the multiple fires, driven by Santa Ana winds that at times have gusts topping 100mph. I want to point out in particular teams from Canada and Mexico, who’ve been in the air and on the ground for days, sent by their governments even as they have to bat away bullshit blustering from the Kleptocrat about how he’s going to fuck with them to show who’s boss when he takes over.

And, when handlers were trying to herd their flock of ground-managing goats out of danger as the Palisades fire approached Brentwood on Saturday, drivers—LA drivers—got out of their cars to help when some of the goats bolted.

I’m grateful for all of that.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu