We got your disease

Man—every time we think the Kleptocrat has reached the absolute pinnacle of lawlessness, corruption and destruction, we discover that he’s only hit the base camp and has another 8500 meters to go. Between enabling Republicans vying for the 21^st Century role of Sergeant Schultz; ICE hires being unable to pass either the physical or written exams (with open books) of basic training; US forces using missile strikes to blow fishing boats out of international waters without warning because of “drugs by sea”; the Pentagon replacing actual journalists with RWNJ podcasters; the couch shagger in Israel; and the Kleptocrat responding to the No Kings rallies by releasing an AI-generated video of him wearing a crown, piloting a fighter jet over a US city and dumping clumps of shit on protestors in the streets PLUS literally tearing down the East Wing of the White House to build a ballroom—it’s been quite the week.

(I kind of get why he thinks he should repurpose the East Wing—that’s where the presidents’ wives have their offices, and obviously the First Tart isn’t going to be doing jack this term. But still—the photos and videos are appalling, even as they’re the perfect metaphor for this douchebag.)

So my earworm today is “Welcome to the Jungle”, by Guns N’ Roses. It was the opening track to their 1987 debut album (Appetite for Destruction, also a good descriptor of this administration). It’s about a newcomer to the city, overwhelmed by the filth, crime and poverty he encounters.

If you substitute “White House” for the original Hollywood, it’s spot on for this week. Crank up the volume and scream along with Axl.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Autumn raiment

Given the ugliness and destruction we’re seeing in places like Ukraine, Gaza and the White House, I thought maybe a couple of pix of trees in their autumn finery might be in order.

I was worried last month, because the trees were mostly turning brown, not going through the reds and golds. But a few have come through.

So let us rejoice in their glory.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

In your cup

My morning walk Monday took me past this recycling bin and I was struck by the Folgers container.

I was unaware that it was still in business.

Back in the last century, Folgers had quite the market share in the States, along with Maxwell House. Since that was also the era of pre-cable TV (much less internet streaming), their commercials were all over the airwaves. People made Folgers coffee in percolators, on their stoves. Yuban was considered upmarket.

(And I only knew this from the TV ads because my parents drank instant coffee and my mom bought whatever was on sale. Sadly, I can still recall the jingles for them.)

It wasn’t until I worked for the Army and was introduced to coffee made by grizzled staff sergeants (guys who didn’t judge java as brewed unless you could stand a spoon straight up in it) in industrial-sized urns that I came to appreciate the concoction. I started out with Mr. Coffee makers, dabbled in cone filters for single servings and then moved on to dual pot-plus-espresso machines.

My current setup is an espresso machine, a burr grinder and a couple of French presses for when I’m not drinking Italiano. I buy whole beans from Costco and they last me a good long while, because I’m happy with one cup per day. (I did stock up early this year in anticipation of the Kleptocrat's whack-job tariffs.)

I haven’t been down a beverages aisle in a supermarket since 2020 when Wegmans took out their bulk tea option, so I have no idea what’s on the shelves. But evidently Folgers is still on them.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

 

Driving back the darkness

We’re in an interesting corner of the calendar, where days grow shorter and people of various traditions celebrate the triumph of light over darkness, of good over evil and of life over death.

Last night marked the beginning of the Hindu festival of Diwali. I learned about Diwali when I moved to the Valley They Call Silicon. Since I was struggling with driving back the dark, I glommed onto it like limpets on a rock. Last night I again massed candles to drive back all manner of dark things. Not only do I like the soft light that groups of candles give off, the very act of lighting them one at a time and nursing along some of the ones at the end of their life slows me down. It calms me down.

Filling a room with candle light takes time; you can’t flip a switch and move on to the next task on your to-do list. And if you’re lighting those floating jobbers, you have to be very focused on not disturbing the water, because then it dowses the flames and you have to wipe them off and start over again.

It’s like the count-breaths-to-21 methodology of meditation: if you lose count because your monkey mind is distracted, you have to begin again from one.

There are some days I never make it into double digits.

But there’s something about knowing how happy the moving lights will make me that enables me to persevere with candles. I light them, sit back and watch; and for at least a few minutes the world around me is peaceful and full of hope. Light prevails over darkness, love conquers fear, and good triumphs over evil.

It’s something to hold onto in these dark, dark times.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: United we stand

I went to one of the nearly 3000 No Kings protests around the world on Saturday. Over the past few weeks as I’ve watched protesters and people just going about their lives, TBH, being assaulted and arrested by masked and armed federal thugs, the feeling that I can’t let others do this alone has built up inside me.

Also—listening to Republicans of every strip yowling about the paid America-hating radical left extremists planning insurrection on Saturday just frankly got up my nose.

I bought posterboard and markers from Dollar Tree, used a graphic an artist on Bluesky made available as visual interest and cobbled together a little homemade sign.

The local Indivisible org asked protestors to wear yellow, and I managed to find a tee-shirt from some tech company that filled the bill.

I removed the biometrics from my mobile phone and put ID and bail money in my pocket (Governor Fleeceweasel had announced he was calling up the Virginia National Guard to “keep peace” at the protests) and started walking to the nearest of four sites in the People’s Republic, about a mile away.

Along the way, I ran into one of my neighbors, who was carrying several signs—turns out he’s a cartoonist, and is really good at expressing ideas visually.

As we approached the site, I was relieved to see that there were already hundreds of people lining Reston Parkway—on both sides. (I’d been rather worried it might be five blokes and a dog.) As time passed, protestors spread out about half a mile. It wasn’t just the blue-haired set (as predicted by one of the yowling Republicans), although there were plenty of us who had experience protesting back in the 70s. One woman walked up and down the line with a bubble generator; there were plenty of cowbells. No inflatable frogs, but one squirrel, and my neighbor said he saw a rabbit, too.

Cars driving past honked, waved and flashed thumbs up. Some went back and forth several times. It was a festive atmosphere.

I did not get a lot of pix, because of having to hold up my sign. Did not get a shot of the beautiful banner proclaiming “We the People means all of us”, or of the squirrel. But here are a couple.

BTW—the response from the White House was to post an AI-generated video of the Kleptocrat in a fighter jet (wearing a crown and with his breathing apparatus below his nose) releasing clumps of liquid shit on protestors. No, I am not making this up.

My gratitude today is for participating in just one event of many that were held in Reston, which was one town in hundreds around the world. More than seven million, we are told. I'm grateful for every one of those seven million, for their determination, their creativity, their joy.  And no major incidents (outside of that one woman in Fairhope, Ala., who was arrested for “lewd conduct” for wearing an inflatable penis suit and a sign saying “No dick-tator”; it took three local cops to wrestle her to the ground and someone on Bluesky commented, “Four dicks.”. And there were a couple of attempts by MAGAts to stir up trouble, because fuckwits gotta fuck), despite all the federal forces standing at the ready with fingers twitching against their weapons.

I’m grateful for the reminder that—while I am but one, one plus one plus many more ones is power. And as a sign at one of the protests proclaims:

Power to the people.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

 

Standing right in front of me

I’ve got something today for everyone struggling. Whether it’s physical, mental or spiritual pain; the ungodly continuo of right-wing ratfuckery that permeates our lives like smog; direct, targeted terror; or anything else. We all need a bit of respite.

So here’s one of Paul McCartney’s best, recorded in 1970.

Breathe, y’all.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

 

Quick cuppa

I’ve grown accustomed to clocking human detritus on my morning walks: fast food wrappers; beer, soda and energy drink bottles and cans; way too many filled and discarded dog poop bags; the occasional article of clothing; a sodden bath towel.

But this one was a first:

Closer view:

It was in the cut-through from the third hole of the golf course to the W&OD Trail, and I’ve spent a lot of time since discovering it wondering about its back story.

Still haven’t come up with anything plausible.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

New neighbor in the 'hood

Meet the new patron of the Vulpine Snack Bar.

He's quite regular: nightly between around 1950 and 2020. He gets the same offerings—pizza bones, the occasional salmon skin, a bit of mozzarella that’s just about to turn. The difference is that he washes everything in the water bowl I keep out for the ground feeders.

Also, for some reason, he steps in the bowl and kind of wallows around.

I may need to set out a wider bowl.

And it's now the Vulpine and Procyon Snack Bar. 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Moving messages

Vanity plates, of course, are not the only way motorists can express their opinions. Bumper stickers and decals have been around a lot longer than state governments have used customized license plates as a revenue stream. Here are a few I’ve seen recently.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: This is what democracy looks like

I voted last Tuesday. This was early voting in an election for Virginia officeholders: governor, lieutenant governor, attorney general and delegates. We’ve had four years of Governor Fleecevest and his toadies trying to move us back to the good old days when Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy, so we’re ready for a change.

Youngkin can’t run for re-election because of term limits, but the current lieutenant governor is making her bid to move up, along with the incumbent AG and some new mook (who evidently has a penchant for SoMe porn selfies) for the number two. This was their sign at the polling place:

(Winsome is the LG’s first name; I assume “Earle-Sears” was deemed too long to fit on a standard-sized sign. I really get a kick out of their sense of irony with the completely fictional “good thing”.)

The right and the duty to cast my vote in all elections is my gratitude today. As a historian, I have always been mindful (although perhaps quite often in the back-of-mind) that there are tens of millions of people in the world today who do not have even a modest say in their government. This year I’m particularly and painfully aware how tenuous this right is in our own country as members of one of the two major political parties do their best to suppress, restrict and pervert the practice of free and open elections.

I got notification from the Commonwealth a while back that I could vote by mail if I wanted to. That’s a turnaround—as recently as 20 years ago you had to show up on Election Day if you wanted to cast your ballot. The only way you could vote early was to swear that you’d be out of the county on the day—you actually had to fill out a form declaring the precise nature of the impediment. Now they have voting for about six weeks before an election. And vote-by-mail? Dang.

I decided against that, though, because one Republican prong of voter suppression is to screech that mailed ballots are de facto fraudulent ballots, and I want my goddamn vote counted. I don’t trust a Republican-run state to not throw out mailed ballots for one cockamamy reason or another. So I went in person.

The polling station was quite busy—staffed by volunteers who make things work efficiently. Even with the line, I was out in maybe eight minutes, thanking all the workers. Eight minutes to have my say in who’s going to run the Commonwealth come January; that’s an amazing ROI.

I’m so grateful to have had this privilege my entire adult life, but particularly now when I don’t know whether it’ll still be in place a year from now. I’m grateful for everyone who has a part in it—the candidates, the elections staff, the volunteers, the people who’ve been sending me postcards.

I’m grateful that I did not have to pay a “poll tax” or pass a “civics test” (which would have been triggered by skin color) at the precinct. Nor did I walk a gauntlet of armed “watchers” (either government or self-appointed) or face any obstacle due to perceived otherness, and that all I had to do—at some point—was register, prove who I am and where I live to be able to vote in election after election.

(I do have to show ID, which was not a requirement in California or Washington, and that still gets up my nose. But I let it slide.)

Really—this is a tremendous thing and we should all give thanks for it, as well as work to ensure its continuation.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu