Despite RWNJs assuring us that climate change is a hoax,
the National Weather Service assures us that we’re in for an exceptionally hot
summer. Deep joy.
For the past two days here in the environs of the District
They Call Columbia, we’ve had temperatures hovering around 90F, with humidity
at about the same percentage. It was already 75F and ghastly humidity when I
went out for my morning walks.
And they’re predicting a heat wave for the weekend.
Meaning: high 90s and “you need gills to absorb oxygen” to distinguish from the
past few days.
When I walked out of the house yesterday morning, it was
75F, but the humidity must have been about 90%. All the windows were fogged
over because of the condensation on the exterior, and my glasses fogged up the
instant I stepped over the threshold.
Big, big gratitude today for the millions of people in the
US (and around the world) who peacefully marched in the No Kings protests on
Saturday. There were gatherings in around 2000 communities across the nation, in
numbers even the completely Klepto-cowed media could not ignore.
In Minnesota, following the assassination of one Democratic
lawmaker and her husband, and the attempted assassination of another, protest
leaders called off the planned march, but people still showed up at the state
capitol in their thousands.
Estimates for the flagship march in Philadelphia put the
number of marchers at 80,000.
My hometown of Pasadena put on a parade of 20,000.
LA, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, Chicago, 60 cities in
Texas, Boston, NYC, West Palm Beach—all across the country, in Red and Blue
states and cities—people flooded the streets to declare their repugnance for
this administration and its enablers. Even on the streets of Washington, D.C.,
which pointedly had not scheduled a protest (because of Kleptocrat threats),
120,000 people showed up—without incident.
(Although the evening before, Capitol Police arrested about
60 veterans who’d parked themselves on the Supreme Court steps to protest cuts
to Veterans Administration services while hundreds of millions are being spent
on invading US cities and a pointless parade. This action provided visuals that
encapsulate the ethos of the regime: two cops handcuffing an 87-year-old vet
who uses a walker for ambulation.)
Except for the trigger-happy LA cops firing "less-than-lethal" rounds at a non-NK demonstration and a
couple of incidents involving people driving their cars into crowds of
protesters, the events of the day were peaceful, belying the Kleptocrat’s
rationale for nationalizing the militia to put down “insurrection” and “rebellion”
last week. It was delicious.
Meanwhile, his long-term wet-dream of a big military parade
that would put Macron’s Bastille Day effort in the shade and show his besties
Kim and Putin that he’s just as strong as them (and, NGL, one of the drivers
for “No Kings”), turned out to be…quite the damp squib. Putatively the
celebration of the US Army’s 250th anniversary, TACOman was ecstatic
that the day was also his 79th birthday, and what tinpot dictator
doesn’t love a lot of military hardware and big, manly men in uniforms marching
past—all for him?
The weather forecast had predicted the possibility of
thunderstorms, which would have probably ended with cancellation—rain okay, but
lightning is problematic for crowds. I confess I was praying for thunder,
lightning, tornados, frogs, locusts and possibly even a very localized
earthquake, but what we got was even better.
So much better.
Because it turns out that the big parade was pathetic in
every possible way. The systems set up to manage access and egress were amateur,
resulting in a huge bottleneck at one security point while another was utterly
empty. Fortunately, tho, not all that many people showed up. Maybe 20,000? A
far cry from the 250,000 confidently predicted. Those who actually showed up
were markedly listless; I suppose it could be the delta between what they’d
been led to expect and what they got. Turns out that Americans don’t get all
that revved up by military hardware and marching soldiers in cammies who don’t
appear to have mastered the basics of drill.
(Look—this is not representative on the US Army; we all
know they deliver the goods. But honestly—they’re going to be living this
fiasco down for generations, and it’s, sadly, a self-inflicted wound.)
If you think I’m exaggerating, watch this video; you can
hear the tank creaking because the onlookers are silent. No cheers, no oohs. If
the videographer had panned to the audience, you’d probably see them playing
Candy Crush on their phones.
It was so bad that even TACO and his inner circle were
dazed. I mean—look at these faces:
The contrast between the joy, energy and purpose of the No
Kings rallies everywhere and this limp, ideas-above-its-station, amateur-hour
narcissistic exercise is just stunning. And I’m grateful for it all.
Well, this week we lost a musical giant from my youth.
Beach Boys frontman Brian Wilson died Wednesday at age 82.
I confess that when I heard the news my brain was awash
with “Little Deuce Coup”, and “Fun, Fun, Fun”, and “Good Vibrations” and
“California Girls”—me being one. And I saw long board surfboards stuck in the
sand at Huntington Beach, and Redondo, and Malibu, with the sun sinking into
the Pacific behind them.
Well, that world is long gone. That was when you could
drive your Woodie from the Valley to Santa Monica in half an hour, fil it up
with gas for a fiver and leave it all day without having to take out a second
mortgage to pay for the parking. Things seemed simpler—although, in retrospect,
that was probably only if you were White and middle class and could get student
deferments to keep you out of Vietnam.
The Beach Boys’ heyday also included the Watts and Newark Riots,
growing anti-war protests, Civil Rights marches, the assassination of Martin
Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, the beginning of the United Farm
Workers union, the surge of the feminist movement, the Weathermen and other
domestic terrorists—in short, a whole lot of violent upheaval, right here in
the White paradise of America.
Huh.
And here we are, in 2025, with a demented degenerate in the
White House enabled by a Sonderkommando of White nationalist tools, both
appointed and elected, turning back progress to the 60s (although it’s not
clear whether their goal is the 1960s, the 1860s or the 1360s). Tomorrow there
will be a parade of tanks down Constitution Avenue to amuse the five-time draft
dodger, while he sics the National Guard and Marines on peaceful demonstrators
protesting his Neronian immigration policy.
(Here’s the thing about dealing with armor columns: if you
take out the lead tank, the rest of them can’t move. One Panzerfaust shot into
the treads of that first one and there’s rain on the parade. Just sayin’.)
Well, in honor of Brian, the Beach Boys and the dream of
this country, our earworm today is from their iconic 1968 album, Pet Sounds:
“I Just Wasn’t Made for these Times”.
There’s a Reddit sub titled Bad Parking. It has for me (as—I
suppose—for many others) a horrid fascination, watching how people just park
their vehicles wherever they like, without regard to law or civil society.
So far, I have not contributed, but last week I got two
entries.
The first was in the Trader Joe’s parking lot:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that any TJ parking
lot in any state in the Union has a crappy, insufficient parking lot, and spaces are at a
premium. Back in the last century, I lived within walking distance of the first
Trader Joe’s, on Arroyo Parkway in Pasadena. At any time between early November
and the week after New Year, fistfights were likely to break out when some
Beamer pinched the space some Lexus was waiting to be vacated. I was glad I was
on foot.
So this guy, effectively taking up two spaces, no doubt
because “I’m in a hurry, okay?” was quite the prince.
(The "Baby on Board" sign is a tell. It always means "Baby Behind Wheel".)
Then there was this one, at the 10-space parking lot for
the W&OD Trail by the old Reston Distillery:
I mean—no wonder his car is held together with duct tape.
Saturday was my friend MLD’s birthday. It was one of those auspicious
birthdays—you know, the ones with a 0 or a 5 as the final digit.
As I was contemplating that, it occurred to me that we’ve
been friends for…25 years. And I’ve been grateful for that every single day.
We were colleagues at a telecoms manufacturer’s European
headquarters in Maidenhead, UK. She was personal assistant to the CEO and I did
this and that. It was the that part that got me moved up to the third
floor, where she worked, and we somehow just hit it off.
When the company terminated my contract in September 2001,
I spent my last night in the country at MLD’s house. Since then we’ve exchanged
daily weekday emails about life, love, cookery, work, bell ringing, travel,
kids, health, pets, relocation and retirement. All the major food groups
necessary for friendship. She knows all about my most whackjob and shady
activities; I know one or two things that might possibly raise an eyebrow in
the Holy Trinity Church parish council. But we will take this knowledge to our
graves.
I’ve learned so much through our friendship—like the
mechanics of church bells (MLD has been tower captain of her church’s ringers
for quite a long time), ziplining, fiscal responsibility, recipes for
mincemeat. (Also the politics of church organizations—man, that’s a thing!)
It’s as though I can walk through a door and be across the ocean, living a life
so different from mine; like an immersive TV program on PBS.
I love hearing about her “ringing weeks” in Scotland or
Alderney, and Messy Church,
and loft clearouts, and getting a new car (six speeds; I have such gear
envy). MLD lives a whirlwind life compared to mine; I get all the benefit
without any of the exhaustion.
The downside is that we haven’t been in the same time zone,
much less the same room, for about 15 years. Google Meet is the best we can
manage. But she has been over a couple of times, and I was able to introduce
her to a genuine hamburger (which she ate with a knife and fork), and Costco (I
may have broken her brain), and Mount Vernon.
We’ve encouraged, and comforted; laughed and wept; sent
virtual hugs and very gentle nudges on the butt for all this time. As one does.
She—having more juice in this arena than I—also puts in a word or two for me in
her devotions, and I know I benefit from this.
I am deeply grateful for every grace of our friendship.
