A crooked line

 

Since we’re in LGBTQ+ Month, which Republicans are marking by ostentatiously passing/signing anti-LGBTQ+ laws, I thought I’d explore musical artists for my Friday Earworm.

First up: The Indigo Girls, with “Closer to Fine”.

 

 

June showers

Okay, we have to talk about one of the facts of life for cicadas. We all know that Brood X has been underground for 17 years, and only emerged to have sex. But it turns out that they—like the rest of us—get thirsty. And when they drink, they have to pee.

As one does.

The resident WaPo cicada correspondent wrote about this last week, and the videos in the story just fascinated me. They’re not of Brood X, but I reckon a cicada’s a cicada the whole world around, so I’m assuming this sort of thing happens here. I particularly thought about this yesterday on my walk, when I felt a few drops hit my head when I was under a tree. I looked around for signs of rain, didn’t see any and worried about a different kind of shower.

Ack.

So, here’s one of the videos; I’m disappointed that no TikTokker so far has set it to music. I’m thinking “Water Music”.

 

 

Clip this

Do y’all remember Clippy™? That “intelligent” office assistant that got up the noses of users around the world so badly that Microsoft killed him—twice?

Well, they’ve sneaked Clippy back in via Office365.

Here he is in Outlook:

Listen—I don’t need anyone to tell me I have a lot of meetings, thankyouverymuch.

And—as for this:

What does that even mean? Why are you telling me this? I only just this instant opened the meeting booking page—don’t you think I know I haven’t sent the invitation yet?

I can’t believe they got any customer feedback saying, “Hey—I want you to spend developer time building inane messaging to clutter up your apps.”

I just can’t.

 

 

 

We now resume scheduled programming

Climate change being a thing, we here in the environs of the District They Call Columbia got an unexpected cold spell over the weekend. How cold you ask? It was in the 50s Saturday and Sunday, and I turned the heat back on.

This threw a chill over Brood X, who must have found it quite the bummer: imagine being literally holed up under ground for 17 years; you emerge with love on your mind and all of a sudden it’s too cold for an arthropod to get it up. This meant that the cicadas just parked on trees for two days; silently.

However, I knew yesterday that it was going to be warmer because when I got up, they were already singing the song of their people.

So, here’s another system dump on the Brood in the ‘Hood, because they are back looking for love.

I noticed these cocoons some weeks ago. I don’t know if they were intended to keep cicadas off the leaves, but they didn’t stop them from hanging out on the cocoon and leaving their trash behind:

Here are some decorating hydrangeas:

And several piling on Saint Francis, which seems appropriate:

This one is showing off his wings; because he can:

Some neighbors chatting:

Upside down:

Climbing this yellow thing:

(It looks almost as though he’s blind and feeling his way.)

Some more hangers:

And one non-cicada:

 

 

Gratitude Monday: The nation's wounds

It seems appropriate that Memorial Day is a Monday holiday, because it’s the day we’re meant to reflect upon the sacrifices of the men and women who defend our country.

You know—to express gratitude in some way for their willingness to trade their lives for the security of our society.

I feel better about this than I have in four years, because we now have a president who isn’t hell-bent on screwing the armed services, stealing money meant for their housing and social welfare programs to build a pointless border wall, using them as background props for self-aggrandizing photo ops and dissing them as losers and suckers when required to visit a military cemetery.

As a military historian with a focus on the human element of conflict, it’s always been clear to me that the real cost of war isn’t the treasure, it’s the blood. It’s the sons and daughters who go into harm’s way and never return, or who return so altered as to never really find their way back. As we reflect upon those costs, we really ought to consider the suicide rate of combat veterans; per Department of Veterans Affairs figures, 17.6 veterans killed themselves every day in 2018. That’s 6500 per year. I’m not going to talk about drug and alcohol addiction or homeless rates resulting from PTSD; they’re line items on the butcher’s bill, too.

I wonder what that says about our society that we send these people out to do terrible things on our behalf and then essentially shrug our shoulders and avert our eyes when they come back not in bandbox tiptop condition? Kinda feels like a broken contract to me.

Memorial Day marks the “official” start of summer in the US; rather like acknowledging the dead who made possible the picnics and fireworks of Independence Day. I would like to hope that this year marks the beginning of a national recognition of the real—human—price of wars and a genuine movement to address that price. I have no expectations that Republicans will do this—not even eye-patched combat survivor glory hounds; homeless vets don’t make campaign contributions. (Not like aerospace corporations, anyhow.) But we’re better than Rs, aren’t we? A true expression of heartfelt gratitude ought to include what Abraham Lincoln referred to as work “to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him that shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan”.

At least, that’s what my gratitude means.

 

 

 

Some lovely day

Today’s earworm was written well over 60 years ago, but it’s spot on for right now.

And by “right now” I mean this decade, this year and this week.

Because in the past few days, Belarus has violated international law in order to silence a journalist; there’s been yet another mass shooting, this time in San José; the Israelis and the Palestinians have been bombing the crap out of each other...again; and Republicans are engaging in douchebaggery ranging from cutting off Federal unemployment benefits to millions of Americans to equating wearing a face mask with suffering under the Holocaust. And I am sick to the back teeth of it all.

Actually—them all. I am sick to the back teeth of humans.

So I’m giving you “The Merry Minuet”, which was written by Sheldon Harnick (who wrote the songs for Fiddler on the Roof, if you’re asking). And I'm giving you Harry Belafonte singing it. Guess which line encapsulates my feeling today?

The song actually starts at 1:23, but Blogger's craptastic new interface won't let me trim the video. I hate Google, too.

Brood in the 'hood

Welp, time for an update on Brood X. According to colleagues in Haymarket (Virginia) and Annapolis (Maryland), the swarm has not yet struck. But, whee-doggies, they’re certainly active here in the environs of the District They Call Columbia.

Today I have clips of them singing the song of their people. Here they are at a distance:

And here they are up close:

(Those are their exit holes from their 17-year hibernation. I give them major props for being able to burrow in and then climb out of the soil here in the People’s Republic, because it’s basically nothing but clay. These guys are tough little buggers.)

Yesterday on my walk, Brood X drowned out the sound of landscapers on their industrial-strength riding mowers.

This is a scene of mass shedding; you can tell it’s from a week ago, because you can hear the birds; the cicadas have not yet begun to clear their throats:

Again, from last week: newly emerged nymphs:

Here are some guys who've been roughed up some:

This one’s having a hard time:

(I turned him over. Whenever I find one that’s turtled, I turn it over; evidently they can’t right themselves on their own.)

Not sure about this one, with these wings:

And this is my avatar for O365 at work. It's quite the conversation starter on conference calls:

 

 

Personal assistant

I got this Stretch Armstrong, uh, figure for Christmas.

For a while, he lived on a bookshelf in the livingroom, but I recently brought him to my desk because video meetings.

Thing is—in my hands, he’s really more of a Squish Armstrong than a Stretch. I mean, he stretches just fine, but I find it more satisfying to squeeze than pull.

He’s going to have a challenging summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Street art

Last week the chalk people were out in the neighborhood. Here are a couple of their portraits:

Chalk guy is obviously not a fashionista; viz. the different colored footwear.

I think my favorite was the disembodied hand:

Glad I caught them all before yesterday’s hours o’ rain.

 

 

 

Gratitude Monday: peonies

We’re barreling into summer here in the People’s Republic. Early last week I had the heat on; Saturday I finally clicked over to A/C. The thermostat had reached 75F, which is somehow just lovely outdoors, but indoors it’s too damned hot.

Walks are becoming a bit more challenging—heat and humidity aren’t my thing. But seeing what Brood X is up too keeps me going out. And, of course, there’s the changing scenery in seasonal flora.

In particular, I’ve been observing the cycle of my neighbor’s peonies. Starting with the very tight bud, moving through early flowering, and on to full-blown glory.

But here’s what I noticed over the weekend: even as they’re in their last phase, they’re still so beautiful.

In fact: wherever they are in their journey, they're there wholeheartedly. 

So, today I’m grateful for the life and lessons of peonies.