The Dog Daze of Summer

There’s a lot to talk about this week, from the president’s hallucinogenic speech to the nation about the 2020 election being stolen, to his fumbling about on the World Cup stage, to the condescending theater of the Acting AG “meeting” with Epstein survivors wherein he told them there was nothing actionable in the Epstein files, to the Iran War starting up again after they were already “defeated” several times, and so on. There’s so much, in fact, that it’s overwhelming, which I agree is the very strategy this Administration uses to protect themselves. There are literally too many atrocities going on at one time to effectively weaponize any of them. So instead I’m going to talk about dogs.

We’re usually a one-dog household. When I met Sweetpea, she had a 4-year-old yellow lab, who was in his prime. He is now a senior dog at the ripe old age of 13 and a half. We realize, given the traditional 9-12 year lifespan of labs, that we’re on “gravy time.” He’s slowed way down from his young adult activities to the point where he won’t walk much farther than a couple of blocks anymore. He mostly sleeps and asks for food. (His “feed me now” obsession continues unabated by time or creakiness.)

He still remains wildly photogenic.

This week, we’ve added a couple of beagles to the mix. We’re on a reciprocal dog-watching system with Sweetpea’s sister. When we go on vacation, she takes our lab. When she goes, we take her two beagles, Arthur and Minty. We’ve been doing this for as long as Sweetpea and I have been together.

Meet the Beagles: Arthur (front) and Minty (rear).

I never understood why Arthur was so unusually named. My first impulse was always to call him “Eddie.” But then I was told he is so named because he resembles Ron Weasley’s father in the Harry Potter movies. That made perfect sense to me, so now I get his name right on the first try a little more often.

His “sister” beagle (housemate, not litter mate) is named after Harriet Tubman, whose real name was “Araminta” or “Minty” for short.

Arthur is mostly reddish-brown, with more of a “hound dog” nose. Minty is the more traditional look with a black back-saddle, white chest, and tan all over, with a thinner nose. Both have long, velvety ears that dip into the water bowl every time they drink.

These two arriving in the house is like the circus coming to town. Once they hit the door, they fly into action, sniffing the perimeter of every room and hoovering up any stray bits of kibble leftover from The Lab’s food-dispensing rolly ball. (With his old age and failing eyesight, he sometimes misses them.) But the beagles find every last molecule of kibble, whether it’s behind the TV or under the sofa. The beagle nose is something amazing to behold. (More on that later.)

The dogs love attention, especially Arthur. Both will let you pet them until your arm falls off. But if you pet Minty first, Arthur, who is always more desperate for attention, will immediately jam himself in between you and his sister.

Minty is the diva of the two. She often holds herself aloof, and when she comes to you for a scritch, it’s not really a request. Back when I was working from home during Beagle Week, she’d stroll into the office and tap my leg with her paw. I’d lean over and give her pets and scritches, to which she would sink lower and lower before rolling on her back to present her tummy for rubs. Once I stopped, she’d stroll back out of the room, for at least three minutes before coming back to repeat the procedure for the next hour. Eventually she’d tire of it or amuse herself elsewhere.

I call her the Diva because once I was done for the day, dinner eaten, and took my place on the couch for the night, ready to pet her into a coma, she wouldn’t come near me. She’d stay on the other end of the couch. She only wanted my attention when it was going someplace else. She wants what she wants, on her terms, always.

“Like I have time for you peasants.”

Arthur, on the other hand, loves to jump up and snuggle in with you, and lick your face or whatever he can reach, until his tongue falls out. I don’t really want him licking on me, though, because he has a distinct predilection for eating his own doots, or any others, whenever he can. That leaves his dog-breath smelling like you would imagine. Eww. It’s nothing you want being applied to your face, trust me. But he’s such a charming little devil, so desperate for affection, that you can’t help love the little shit.

Feeding time is another story… It’s like a three-ring circus in the kitchen. When there is food in the air, the lab is always there underfoot, taking up a lot of space. Now when you add in two more slurping mouths dancing around on the tiles, you have to watch every step or else you’re going down hard.

Sweetpea already makes homemade food for our dog; our guests come with a laundry list of preparations… raw hamburger, veggies, vitamins, meds, it’s a whole ordeal. But then when it’s time to drop the food, it’s like when you see those tame carp at amusement parks, who all crowd the surface with their mouths opening and closing like machines. Minty tracks the bowl like a hawk, while Arthur spins around like the Tasmanian Devil, until the bowls are set down. You have to step on Arthur’s bowl because he noses in there so hard he pushes it around the room, often right into the other dogs. Ten seconds later, it’s gone; all gone. Nary a molecule left over.

The other thing about the beagles is the noise. The Lab is relatively quiet, especially in his old age. Even his barks, that used to rattle my brain as they echoed throughout the house, are more like raspy woofs now. The other two, however, sound like jet airliners landing. Any sound picked up from outside, from the mailman to the garbage truck to a plastic bag blowing by, warrants a full-throated howl that can be heard on Venus. Loud, shrill, non-stopping… Oh god, kill me now. Even when we’re asleep and something stirs outside, Arthur sends up the alarm, jolting me six inches out of bed. It takes some getting used to. I’ll let you know if that ever happens.

The other thing is when we let them outside. Sometimes, there’s a bunny in the yard. We have those around. If the beagles see one, it’s like their life depends on hunting it down. Both will run about the yard, nose to the grass, snuffling and baying, retracing everywhere the bun has been. Arthur is especially aggressive, snorting up the yard as if each blade of grass is covered with cocaine and he’s the dog-reincarnation of Charlie Sheen. It’s a trip.

They’re used to having a dog door at home, so they can go in and out at will. But they’re also trained to ring a bell hanging from the door, to signal their intentions.

This is a good thing, for the most part. It’s a clear signal for when they want out. It’s much less good when they ring it five minutes after coming back in, over and over. And you don’t want to refuse to open the door for them because you never know if it’s a potty request or just to go out and sniff things. You don’t want to risk an indoor accident.

Sweetpea had to deal with the other “outside” problem, wherein she let them out in the middle of the night and then had to wait around until they felt like coming back in. The Lab spoils us. When he wants out at night, he goes out, does his business, and trots right back in. He may sniff the air for a second or five, which I call “checking his email,” but he doesn’t prolong it. The beagles are not so inclined; being used to having their own late-night adventures.

So, we’re one night down, five more to go. As I tell them every day, “It’s a damned good thing you’re cute.”

A Message From Beyond

I mentioned, back in April, that my mom passed last September. Before that happened, there was a spooky little occurrence that I’d like to tell you about. (I’ll come back to current events and the latest political atrocities next week.)

In the weeks before passing, she’d been bedridden, either asleep or highly medicated. When awake, she didn’t always make a lot of sense, but would have occasional bouts of lucidity, holding conversation as if it were just another Wednesday in the parlor.

About three days before she passed, my brother was sitting beside her bed as she slept. On his cell phone, he received a text from his son, Sam, then a sophomore at Penn State, saying that he had been turned down for the fraternity he’d been trying to join. My brother never said a word, nor was his phone within Mom’s view.

Then suddenly, and quite clearly, Mom said, “I wonder how he’s going to handle the rejection,” before resuming her sleep.

My brother said he got chills up and down his body. He was astounded, as was I, when he told me about it. But that was completely in character for Mom. She always was a little “mystical.” She loved her crystals, horoscopes, lunar calendars, and such. So this didn’t exactly come out of left field.

I guess moms really do know everything their kids are up to. That “third eye” is real! Perhaps the door to the otherworld really does open a bit when one is at the end.

Mom at her 75^th birthday party, making good use of her magic wand.

Mom

I lost my mother last September. She was 86. She was also a teacher, poet, and whiskey drinker.

When I lost my dad, back in September of 2021, it was a much different situation. He was hit by a stroke, out of the blue, and then he was gone. He was almost 83, and I was sure he’d be around well into his 90s because he had been in great shape.

Mom had a much tougher path. She’d taken a couple of falls since Dad passed, and they really messed her up. By the end, she was in chronic pain and had to be heavily medicated. She spent her last two months with home hospice care, dependent on others to get to the bathroom and move from chair to bed. It was an undignified life, and she hated that; hated being a bother to anyone. So when she passed, it was really a blessing because her suffering was over.

So now my brother, sister, and I are 60-year-old orphans.

I can’t complain because we’ve had a good run. So many people lose one or more parents early in life, so we made out. I hope my retirement is half as good as theirs was. But still, over the last several months, things would happen in my life, and I’d itch to tell Mom about them, and it would come back to me that she was gone, leaving me nothing to do with my news. She loved to hear stories about the latest thing the dog did, or how our kitchen renovation was going. I guess I never outgrew the phase where I want to tell my parents about something I did and get their approval.

Anyway, we had her Celebration of Life last Saturday, and a slew of relatives came to Baltimore from Pittsburgh, Wisconsin, California, and North Carolina to enjoy lunch, some drinks, and tell stories and remembrances about Mom.

2016

This was my presentation:

Once upon a time, a traveling entertainer was on the road and came across a beautiful kingdom. He asked the first person he saw to direct him to the palace, so he could request an audience with the king and ask about landing a performing gig there.

Eventually, he was shown to an ornate chamber where the king and queen sat high on their thrones. Brought before the royal couple, he realized that the spotty road food he’d eaten earlier had left him uncontrollably gassy, and he loudly passed some of it before he could even begin.

The king was greatly offended and thundered, “How dare you fart before my queen?”

To which, the entertainer replied, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t know it was her turn!”

 

That was one of the first jokes my mom ever taught me. She knew that potty jokes always landed with grade-school boys. So she provided me enough material to kill on the playground for years to come. That was helpful because when you’re always the new kid and you’re not the biggest or toughest, it’s good to be funny. She also inspired in me a love of wordplay, which I’ve used to torment my friends and family ever since.

I’ve always said that I’m a combination of both my parents. Some things I got from Dad were the need for things to make sense and call Bullshit when it doesn’t, the will to mess with people just for fun, and an enhanced sense of practicality.

From Mom, I inherited much different set of personality traits.

The first was a need to create via writing. I never had Mom’s gift for poetry, but I picked up journaling from her, which fed my need to chronicle and catalog everything in my life, like a born scorekeeper. Like, it’s not worth doing if you can’t record it and tell someone about it later.

And with writing came her family’s knack for storytelling. Her father and brother were two of the masters, and Mom carried on the tradition, regaling us with the family stories from her childhood and on. Modern life doesn’t provide us with as many one-on-one storytelling opportunities as it used to, so I turned to writing and eventually blogging to tell my stories.

Mom was my first editor, from book reports to research papers, and all I ever wanted to hear was, “That’s fine, turn it in as is.”

Now, I never, EVER, heard that. And remember that all of this was back before the internet or even onscreen word processing. I had to use a manual typewriter, and it wasn’t until college that I got to use a fancy electric one. So, anything more than a small misspelling meant that I’d have to type the whole damned thing over again. Sometimes we’d go round and round about a correction. It took a while before I realized that she was always right about those things, and it would have been easier on me if I had just gotten started on the retyping.

I remember once I mailed Mom a short story I’d written up, and that Sunday when I called for feedback, Dad answered the phone. I asked where Mom was, and he told me she was out, shopping for more red pens.

That was probably just Dad messing with me, but I couldn’t be certain.

Another gift from Mom was that of political activism, idealism, and the pursuit of social justice. I learned empathy from her and to try to leave the world better than I found it. Again, that’s another thing that surfaced in my more recent writing. Mom was my biggest fan and usually the first commenter, right up until she could no longer use an iPad.

Sometimes, still, in these last few months, I’d do up an essay and think, “Mom will really like this one… oh yeah...shit.”

Not only was she our mom, but she often acted as a backup, auxiliary Mom to the rest of the Neighborhood. All of my closest friends knew that when they were having troubles at home, they could come by for some comfort and a hot meal. Especially on Friday nights, when everyone knew they could find a crockpot full of mac n cheese. That was Mom’s specialty. My buddies would go on about its savory qualities, describing everything from the aroma to the ~pfffft~ sound it made when you broke the top layer.

And then there were the Morning-After-Barn-Party detox sessions. I’d crawl down from my room and survey all the human wreckage sitting around the kitchen table… blankets around their shoulders, hair all messed up, and Mom plying them with coffee and hot homemade cinnamon rolls. We’d reconstruct the night by playing another game of I Did What? Mom would just be over there shaking her head in exasperation.

Sadly, the Crock Pot Mac n Cheese came to an end during the time Mom was staying with us. Mom was always saying, “What can I do? What can I do?” Mostly it was just “Get out of the way, get out of the way,” but sometimes Sweetpea would ask her to make a batch of mac n cheese, which Mom was only too happy to do.

Then one night, as I dug into a big helping, it tasted a bit off. I couldn’t quite place the ingredient, so I tried some more. Still not right. Then Sweetpea took a bite, scrunched up her face, and asked Mom, “What did you put in this?”

Mom said, “Just some olive oil,” and pointed to the bottle of dish soap on the counter.

Meanwhile, I was still poking around my plate, trying to find a place that didn’t have as much soap in it. I just couldn’t stand having to dump the whole batch, but it had to be done. And that’s when we figured it was time to retire Mom’s wooden spoon, which as my brother and I fully remember, she could wield like a ninja when we needed our foolishness to end.

At my parents’ 50^th anniversary event, Dad explained that there were two reasons they’d been married for so long. For one, he traveled a lot. And the other was that he married an angel. When it was Mom’s turn, she stood and said, “Everything he said is true,” then sat back down.

I think she might well have been an angel, or at least as close as we humans get. We're fortunate that we’ve been able to stand in her light as long as we have. I know we’re all better people for having had her in our lives. May her spirit live on through us.

2013

Doing the Passport Boogie

The thing to remember about the SAVE Act is that it’s not tied to the current president. This was something dreamed up in Project 2025, meaning it comes from the Heritage Foundation, the architects of Republican plans and strategy. So even if it doesn’t pass soon, in its current form, we may well see it surface again.

With that in mind, Sweetpea and I took steps last week to obtain passports, which seem to be the silver bullet to getting registered to vote. Both of us have expired passports. Hers is recent, but not recent enough to just get it renewed. Plus, she underwent a name change when we got married, meaning if the SAVE Act ever goes through, she’d be affected by the new registration requirements.

My passport was laughably old; I got it in 8^th grade to take a spring break school trip to Paris and London. But still, the passport directions said that it could be used to provide proof of citizenship for a new one. I don’t necessarily need a passport to vote, but I figured, for one, you never know what new voter suppression wrinkle they’ll come up with next, so it’s best to be prepared. Also, we may want to go someplace exotic once Sweetpea finally retires from teaching. So why rush later when I can just go through the process with Sweetpea, at our leisure? She was on spring break last week, so it provided the perfect opportunity.

I could have used my official birth certificate copy, but the directions gave me pause. They said it had to look like “this,” showing a certificate-looking, generic document. My copy looks like a DMV application, not “certificate-like” at all. My dad obtained the copy in 1975 from the state of Pennsylvania, and that’s how they came. He needed it to get social security numbers assigned for his three kids, to present each of them with 10 shares of stock, as Christmas presents. The copy should have been enough, but I didn’t trust that it would, in this day and age of agencies adhering to every iota of a rule. Just to be safe, I applied online for a new copy. It still hasn’t arrived, so I don’t know what it will look like. I figured, if I end up needing it, I’d rather it already be on the way. But that was a $15 charge.

I looked up the government website that covered passports and found the form they require. There was nothing complicated about it, but it required that you supply the city and county in which your parents were born. I knew, but that could be a stumbling block for others. You could fill out the form online and then print it, so I did that, rather than risking a data mistake due to my atrocious handwriting, should I complete the form by hand.

I’d been in a drug store about a month ago and noted that they did passport pictures, so we went there for ours. They charged $16.99 per shot. I suppose we could have taken them ourselves, but it seemed to be an intricate process to make sure you were lined up correctly. I figured we’d leave it to the professionals. We don’t know what we don’t know.

Then, photos in hand, I went back to the computer and looked up where we could submit our applications. Our local post office was our best bet, so we set up an appointment for last Tuesday. I thought there would be some kind of back room they’d take you to for going over the paperwork, but they did it right there at the window. We also saw that they take passport photos as well, and we probably should have used them because theirs were only $15. Furthermore, we learned that the drug store missed that Sweetpea had her glasses pushed up on her head. Directions stated that no one may wear hats or glasses for their picture, and that includes glasses on the head. So we had to pop for another photo.

After chuckling about my junior high passport photo no longer resembling my old, grizzled ass, the clerk took in our documents and got us settled quickly. The charges were $35 for the Post Office fee and $130 for the passport fee. The $130 had to be cash or check, no credit cards. So the total for each of us was $181.99, plus the $15 for the extra photo and birth certificate, which brought it to $196. Can you say “poll tax?”

We were in a position to handle the cost, but do you think many people working for an hourly wage are going to cough that up for a passport they wouldn’t otherwise need, just to cast a vote? That’s the exact result expected by those who dreamed up the SAVE Act. It was designed to be a deterrent, so only the well-to-do (who traditionally skew conservative) would vote. It should have been called the SAVE our GOP Asses Act. And that’s not just me blowing smoke. Republicans are saying the same thing:

This is why it angers me so much, and why I keep beating this dead horse. The Republicans know that their true goals play very poorly with the average citizen, basically anyone who’s not filthy rich. That’s why they campaign by fearmongering on religious and social issues, which don’t cost them anything. They don’t have anything tangible to offer towards the economy or environment, to draw people in. They want to cut the programs millions of people rely on, like Social Security, Medicare, libraries, the postal service, FEMA, SNAP, WIC, etc. If it’s money going to common people, they want it cut. So they literally have nothing left to attract the people they’re financially harming; all they have left is rigging the voting system. They close election stations, reduce the number of voting machines, coerce Red states to gerrymander to pick up districts any way they can (thus triggering Blue states to do the same in response), limit early voting, curtail or eliminate mail-in ballots, and add onerous and expensive voter registration requirements.

They do all this so that rich people can get richer by rigging the tax system and business regulations, obtaining sweetheart government deals, and ensuring their grip never weakens. They don’t give a shit about you or anyone else. All we are to them is a resource to be exploited.

Let There Be Light

A lot went on last week. The Iran War dragged on, with various accounts of whether there was a win, talks were going on, talks were never going on, the “decimated” Iran air defenses were active enough to shoot down two of our jets, we successfully retrieved the pilots, the Attorney General was fired, and the president sent out a profane Easter message to all, with a shout out to Allah. Just another week in the life. But what’s really important is that I fixed something around the house. Now that I’m retired, I’m going to have to do a lot more of that.

My dad wasn’t much of a “fix-it” guy. He could do some basic stuff, but was never one of those toolbox and workshop types. So I never inherited the home repair gene. Granted, I’ve spent most of my adult life as an apartment dweller, so there wasn’t much I ever needed to do, aside from changing bulbs, hanging a few pictures, or hooking up TV cable and stereo equipment. I can also build the occasional piece of furniture from a kit, like end tables or dressers. I assembled our giant entertainment center some 30-odd years ago, which took me two days. But for stuff like plumbing, painting, or electrical, I always stand aside and let the professionals take over.

My oldest buddies are most definitely certified DIYers, but they live a couple of states away. They’re not much practical use, but I do get to regale them with my tales of Bluz the Incompetent Handyman. I should have probably kept my yap shut about it over the years, but I trade the teasing for the priceless look on their faces when I tell them of the latest thing I fucked up.

Like the time I was trying to hang curtain rods in a new apartment. I had just moved out after separating from my first wife, back in the late 90s. I borrowed her electric screwdriver and was desperately trying to sink a couple of screws into a window frame. The frame was soft pine, but no matter how hard I grunted and pressed, the screw would not bite. After about 20 minutes or so, I examined the electric screwdriver a little more closely and noticed it was set to retract, so no matter how hard I pressed, it wouldn’t sink because it was turning the wrong way. (D’oh!)

I didn’t set it that way, but my mistake was assuming that it was set correctly when the Ex gave it to me. Once I flipped the switch, I was done with the curtains in about ten minutes. I had to call my buddies that night to tell them the story; it was just too good to keep to myself.

Now, to the most recent endeavor, the on/off switch to the bathroom light broke Saturday night. We figured it should be a simple matter of buying a new switch and swapping it out. I was also keen to replace the electrical outlet beside it, which was still the original piece from when the house was built in 1959. It looked like this:

The problem was that it’s not wired for modern 3-prong plugs. And unfortunately, three-prong outlets are all we could find at the local hardware store. I was pretty sure I could handle swapping out the on/off switch, but I didn’t want to start messing around with more in-depth wiring issues, so we decided to table that part and just ride with the plugs as is, because they at least still work.

Now, I haven’t worked with electrical wiring since I was a junior high student, and built a hot dog cooker by banging two nails through a piece of wood, splitting a cord from an old iron, and wiring one side to each nail. (Put the hot dog on the nails, and the part between the nails will cook in a matter of seconds. Try that at your kid’s science fair!) So the fact that I was even attempting something like this was daunting. But I figured, I’d open up the panel, take a look around, and if it was any more than taking wires off one thing and putting them on another identical thing, I’d bail and call the experts. Otherwise, I’d take a shot.

So, the first order of business was to find the circuit breaker to shut off the power to the bathroom. That took a little trial and error because while our fuse box had labels for each breaker, none of them said “bathroom.” But we found it.

I swear, even though I KNEW there was no juice, it was still nerve-wracking poking around in there. I knew that any minute, I'd get a big shock and Sweetpea would be able to see my entire skeletal system. (OK, maybe I should have watched more YouTube tutorials and fewer cartoons.)

Ultimately, it looked like something I could handle. I only needed to disconnect the two black wires from the screws (on each side) and reattach them to a new switch capsule, then screw the whole unit back into the wall and replace the cover plate.

And that’s what I did. It took about 15 minutes in full. Sweetpea ran downstairs to turn the breaker back on, and when tested, both switches worked as they should.

Then it was time for celebration. We threw our hands up, and she said, “You have created light!”

I said, “Now bring me your finest meats and cheeses!”

With that, I reviewed my mental checklist for the event:

Replace the switch capsule          ☑

Don’t black out the house         ☑

Don’t start a fire                       ☑

Don’t electrocute yourself        ☑

Don’t fuck it up                         ☑

Meats and cheeses                         ☑

 

Paying Them to Mislead Us

I just got my bill for my daily newspaper, and it seems they removed the discount for which I bargained with them last fall. They did say that it was a six-month deal, but I was hoping they’d forget. They charge $215 a month now for home delivery, which I find to be insane. When I started with the paper, it was about $35. I’ve got to call into the circulation department tomorrow and get my “haggle” on.

I swear, if it wasn’t for the comics and puzzles, I’d chuck it all. I get my significant news online, so I don’t really need that. The paper does keep me up on what’s going on locally, though, and lets me keep track on how the rich are attacking city and state government (both of which are run by the Dems). And due to a press time of around 6-7 PM, most important stories are a day late. Forget about sports game coverage, it’s always from two days prior. Their hockey coverage is abysmal. Last week, they used the previous day’s game results grid, so even two days later, there was still no information.

The problems started when the paper, the Baltimore Sun, was bought by the owner of the conservative news outlet, Sinclair Broadcasting. Now, instead of a reliable stable of in-house reporters, most news articles are farmed out to Sinclair national desks, and often run transcripts of what their Fox “News” affiliates ran on-air.

The old paper definitely had a liberal leaning, reflecting the prevailing views of Marylanders, but they kept it to the Op-Ed pages. The current version splashes its bias across every page, and it is especially obvious if you know how to spot it. Here’s one from last Friday:

With all the ways TFG, his family, and minions have been skimming money from the Federal till, they’re still carrying on about Hunter freakin’ Biden. They rarely even mention all the ways the president is raking in illegal dollars from overseas governments and influencers, let alone outright theft from other countries.

Also note that it comes down to “the whistleblowers say they’ve been vindicated.” Right. Trump said he was vindicated by the Mueller Report, too, remember? (Obviously, TFG doesn’t really remember it that way or he’d have provided a more gracious condolence than he did.) Nowhere else in the article does it say that anyone in authority has “vindicated” anyone. This is a nothing-burger article, meant to reflect negative attention onto Democrats at a time when the president is swimming in bad news and controversy.

They’ve been working hard at that, as evidenced by this article:

My take is that they got some bad polling news, showing that people were unhappy with Republicans on the war, the Epstein Files, the price of gas and groceries, the tanking stock market, etc. But the Sinclair National Desk couldn’t just run the story; they had to drag the Dems along, too. So the article is more about the classic “Dems in disarray” story than about how people are souring on Republicans. And notice how at the end, they talk about “threats against lawmakers and their families,” but they don’t mention where 99% of those threats come from.

Here’s another assassination by headline regarding the funding of the DHS:

They make it plain that those Commie Democrats are holding up funding for the DHS, but never mention that they’ve introduced seven (as of now) bills to pay the TSA agents and all department workers except for ICE, which they will pay if they agree to obey the same laws that local police do. Republicans voted no and killed the bill every time. They’d rather continue the illegal war on brown people than pay workers whose job actions are perfectly above board and not in question, essentially holding them hostage until ICE gets to keep free rein to kidnap anyone with an accent and send them off to detention camps unknown. Also note that female minors in custody are coming up pregnant, which they were not before entering custody. Perhaps this is another reason Republicans are fighting birthright citizenship.

None of that is in the article, just the skewed look at Dems holding up the works and Republicans excoriating them for it, taken from interviews that ran on Hannity.

Adding to their penchant for guiding readers to conclusions while omitting essential facts, we have this one from last month:

Yes, those stupid, socialist, Democrat, commie, liberals want ID from people just to shovel snow! Haw haw haw, they’re so dum!

But one simple line nullifies the whole perception.

The snow shoveling was a paying job with the city. Therefore, if people want to be paid, they must provide documentation! Do you remember all the documentation Republicans insist we provide to prospective employers, to show we’re not illegal aliens? That’s what they’re ridiculing. In actuality, the whole snow shoveling thing worked like a charm. The sidewalks and streets were cleared in a day, and people got paid for doing it. Running an article like this goes against every journalistic principle. It does, though, fit right in with being a shill.

And speaking of unforgivable newspaper sins, wouldn’t you think the paper might have kept an editor or two? JFC, how incompetent does one have to be to include a typo in a headline? Doesn’t anyone over there read?

Lastly, and this has nothing to do with the fast-fading newspaper industry, have you seen the design for the new 250-Year Anniversary coin, bearing the stern visage of our malevolent president?

Anyone alive and going to the movies in the early 80s remembers this famous pose. I think somebody owes Steve McCroskey a percentage.

Looks like he picked the wrong week to quit smokin’.

 

Super Bowling 2026

Welp, there’s another Super Bowl in the books. Might as well talk about it. (The viewing experience, not the actual game. There are sports pages for that.)

I don’t like either team, so I didn’t have much of a stake in the game. I no longer hate the Patriots like I used to when they had coach Belichick and Tom Brady. And I’m still annoyed about how the Seahawks fans bellyached about the officials for the next 20 years after the Super Bowl they lost to my Pittsburgh Steelers in 2006. Nevertheless, my self-interest won out over the other concerns.

I rooted for the Seahawks solely because I didn’t want the Patriots to win their 7th Super Bowl, which would surpass the number of wins by the Steelers.

My family and I actually attended that Super Bowl in Detroit; it was a lifetime dream, but one I wouldn’t care to repeat. It was insanely expensive then; end-zone tickets with a $600 face value cost us $2600 via ticket brokers. It’s more than double that now and basically cost-prohibitive for the average fan, which is a cryin’ shame but a sign of our modern times. And it’s a big risk too. It’s worth every penny when your team wins, but to spend that kind of dough to see your guys lose? That’s a real kick in the gut that I was lucky to avoid.

But I digress.

Most of the attention for this year’s game was about the halftime show, which featured a Puerto Rican artist named Bad Bunny. This distressed the president so much that his people created an alternate halftime show, because, you know, maybe speaking Spanish is contagious? The alternate show featured washed-up white rap guy Kid Rock and some other irrelevant white country singers.

After the show, TFG started putting out his numerous complaints about the original halftime show via Truth Social, which just goes to show that he didn’t want to watch Kid Rock either. He’d rather complain about foreigners than watch something he’s supposed to enjoy.

Before this halftime act was announced, I had never even heard of the headliner. The only Bad Bunny I knew was this one:

Run away! Run away!

Now, Bad Bunny wasn’t the halftime act I wanted to see either. But the cold, hard fact is that none of the acts in the past 10-15 years have been ones I’d pick. And that’s because I’m an old white guy who loves rock n roll, and I’m no longer the prime demographic for these things. I’m still upset that AC/DC has never done a halftime show, despite the fact that their music is played during games at every stadium across the country. Granted, they’re even older than I am, so their opportunity for that has passed. But I think George Thorogood could still put on a great halftime show. That’s football music! And when the Super Bowl was in Texas, they should have booked ZZ Top. They would have rocked the house for sure.

But the modern halftime shows are more about spectacle than the music. The dance routines are complicated, and the sets are elaborate. There are always a few random celebrities who pop up out of nowhere. Even if I’m not thrilled with the music, I enjoy watching the choreography and intricacy of the staging. A lot goes into it.

When I went to my Super Bowl, the Rolling Stones were the act. They basically rolled out a big stage in the shape of their logo, played three songs, and were done. It was like an extended appearance on SNL.

The stage, from our end-zone vantage point.

It was still impressive to see all the work that went into setting up that stage on the field and then getting rid of it just as quickly. I can only imagine how tough it was to put up yesterday’s stage with the tall sugar cane and all the levels.

The rehearsals must have been extensive as well. Did you notice that it was mostly filmed by a single camera, which had to move backwards throughout the entire set to allow the star to be filmed head-on as he walked about the stage? That takes some practice for all involved. I was impressed.

One thing I wished they would have done is identify the people who made cameos. When Lady Gaga came on, I thought it might be her, but I wasn’t sure. I had no idea who the guy was (who turned out to be Ricky Martin), but I figured he was somebody. He just wasn’t someone I knew on sight. Would it be so bad to flash their names on the screen for a second or two?

But as for getting so butt-stung over a halftime show that you need to find an alternate show? That’s insane. Jesus H. Christ, just go to the can or get some snacks or something. It’s just not that big of a deal. Life goes on despite its little irritations. Maybe if some of us weren’t so used to getting our way on everything, we’d be better at coping with disappointment.

I think the president has his minions so programmed to feel they are obligated to be given whatever they desire that they don’t even see how unusual that is. So now it’s “Immigrants have deprived me of the halftime show I want to see!” From there, they get to claim “victimhood,” which is a basic tenet of being MAGA. Every controversy is a race to claim injury and demand retribution. It’s a tailor-made distraction from the ongoing Epstein whitewashing saga.

Also, if Puerto Rico is an American territory, can there really be Puerto Rican immigrants? Um, no. But they’re brown and speak another language, so MAGA can conveniently label them as “other,” and therefore a threat.

So, we survived another national event. Apparently, there wasn’t an onslaught of ICEholes at the stadium after all, so we were spared having to watch people being dragged off to parts unknown. Maybe the Administration figured that if they could afford the massive cost of the tickets, they must have money, which makes them HIS people. He’s probably looking into giving them tax cuts right now.

You Want Fries With That Cover-Up

I don’t mean to gloat, but I totally called it. I’ve been saying for months, and most recently two weeks ago, that this Administration will never willingly release anything that incriminates DJT. And with Friday's first installment (of what was supposed to be 100% of everything on hand), there is nary a whisper of TFG and lots of intentionally placed mentions of other prominent people/Democrats, namely Bill Clinton. So far, there’s been little that we didn’t already know.

Among the documents they released, several items were over 100 pages long, and every scrap of them was blacked out. Obviously, these docs must be doozies. They’re only supposed to conceal the identity of victims, and at most that should mean blacking out some names. (And if they wanted to be helpful, for context, they could replace the names with something, like “16-year-old girl.” But they don’t really want to be helpful, do they? They want the waters as muddy as possible.

And also, why even include huge documents that are completely redacted? Why not just omit them? But no, they want to make a mockery of these proceedings. They want to say, “I bet you wish you knew what this is, don’t you?” They want to rub our noses in the fact that we can’t make them play nice. Because when they flout the law, who are we going to complain to? Congress? Can’t do it without the Republicans, and they don’t have the spine to stand up to their feckless leader. The courts? We may get a lower court ruling here and there, but as long as they can appeal to the stacked SCOTUS, we’re SOL on the justice front.

And not only are they redacting themselves out of the pokey, but they’re also fudging what they do release. Did you see that picture with Michael Jackson, Diana Ross, and Bill Clinton? They are shown with three blacked-out faces. The clear inference is that they were at “the Island” with Epstein, and these are three of the victims. But in comparing the pic to another publicly released shot, it’s clear that the blacked-out faces belong to Jackson’s and Ross’s own children.

The shot was from a fundraiser that had nothing to do with Epstein and his enterprises. It was included there among the evidence to cast aspersions on Clinton. Don’t you think that if they really had something on him, it would have been in the first batch of evidence released? It would have been framed on the cover of the folder and sent to every news outlet.

So just like everything else this administration does, it’s shrouded in lies and chock-full of hidden agendas. Just wait until they roll out this alibi: “The law said we had to protect the victims. President Trump is a victim here.” And therein lies the cover-up. That’s all politics seems to be anymore: a race to claim victimhood and then demand rewards and reparations.

In fact, there was another example in the paper last week:

The MAGA Civil Rights Department is looking for white guys to represent as having been discriminated against. As I’ve long said, the only discrimination recognized by the Right is “reverse discrimination.” They believe the advantages White people enjoy are just the way things should be. The plight of mediocre White men is real, folks! They should never have to suffer the indignity of coming in second place to a more qualified female or brown person. I’m sure they’ll come up with a very nice package to alleviate the suffering of all those poor, damaged White egos. That’ll be just the thing to help eliminate the last 60 years’ worth of civil rights progress.

We are going to have to codify some serious shit, should rational people ever come back into meaningful power.

 

As this is the last post before Christmas, let me take this opportunity to wish you and yours a happy Christmas (or whatever you celebrate) and a peaceful New Year. The House of Bluz will be packed to the rafters on Christmas morning, entertaining our combined family and friends with a festive brunch. It’s always exhausting, but great fun. We always need the following year to rest up for the next one.

Cheers!

I Thank You

I’d like to take this opportunity during this Thanksgiving Week to give thanks for things that make my life better.

First, I want to thank whoever is tracking everything TFG has done since January of 2025, so that it can be reversed once sanity returns to the office. (Assuming the current discontent carries over to next November and the Current Occupant is unable to postpone/cancel the election, spike the results, or overthrow the whole thing.) 

Never has someone been so destructive in so many areas in such a short amount of time. The List will be immense, so the task is daunting. I think it would be easier to obtain all the Infinity Stones, put them into the gauntlet, and snap your fingers for a complete reset than to fix each abomination one by one. We truly have our work cut out for us, but that depends on people keeping copious notes. (Don’t look at me, I have important Retired Guy things to do, like figure out how Medicare works.)

Speaking of retirement, I give thanks that I had the means to step away from the corporate world rather than submit to their insanity, and then survive their final retribution of canning my ass. If I hadn’t been socking money away like a demented hoarder for the last 15 years, I’d be screwed. As I’ve mentioned before, if that had happened to me ten years earlier, I’d have been in dire straits. (That money is NOT for nothing.)

I’m immensely thankful for my wife, Sweetpea, without whom I wouldn’t have survived the COVID Era, let alone the Laid Off Era. When we got together, she brought as much to the table as I did, and has been a steadfast partner through thick and thin. Without her, I’d have spent three years alone in my apartment going stir-crazy. Not that I like being around crowds of people, but it’s good to talk to somebody once in a while. If not for her, I’d have probably caught an early version of COVID from going out to bars, movies, and sports events, before it was really safe to do so. In fact, my liver thanks her as well because I would have become an everyday regular down at the local bar, which would have been my only human contact.

She was the reason I was able to take my mom in for nine months after Dad passed. Even working from home, I could not have done that myself. Our world was tossed upside-down because of my side of the family, a mere three years after getting married, so her understanding made the whole situation possible.

Lastly, I’m thankful to you for stopping by to read my brain droppings. There aren’t many of you left, so I appreciate every click you give me. I think I’m getting more bots than eyeballs anymore. I don’t know if they’re government spook-bots looking for dissention, or AI skimmers wanting to refine their snarky writing capabilities, or just web crawlers looking to monetize, digitize, and serve with fries. I’m thankful for every human who stops by, especially if they have something to add.

I hope you have a safe and peaceful Thanksgiving. See you next week, for the onset of…DAH DAH DAHHHHH… Christmas Season!

(I put the over/under on how many times I hear that plinky-plinky Nutcracker theme in commercials at 350,000.)

 

Director's DVD Commentary: One last thanks to Sam and Dave, and ZZ Top for the post title.

No Jokers Either

Like 6,999,998 other Americans, my wife and I went to a No Kings rally last Saturday. Ours was just a small one, a few blocks from our house. As an exercise in good karma, it was on the corner of “Liberty Rd” and “Washington St.” I counted around 70 attendees, and like all other accounts I’ve read, ours crossed demographics and generations. Needless to say, it was 100% peaceful.

This was early on, about a half hour before peak attendance.

This was my first “protest” of any kind. Sweetpea has been to several, usually involving her teacher’s union. She kept asking me about what signs to make. I wasn’t even going to take one. I expected we’d be standing around a parking lot, listening to rah-rah speeches. But she’d already gone out and gotten supplies.

“As soon as you’re up tomorrow, we’re making signs.”

Well, I lucked out; she had the signs done, based on online suggestions, before I was even out of bed. And it’s just as well, because they looked great. My writing resembles half-assed hieroglyphics more than any recognizable human language. I agreed to use the simple “No Kings” logo, with the X’ed-out crown.

When we got to the rally, I realized I should have listened to Sweetpea all along. The functional purpose of this gathering was to line the busy 4-lane road and get passing drivers to honk or otherwise provide supporting gestures. I’d have looked like a dodo standing out there with my hands in my pockets.

So, you were right, baby. You were right.

Not having any clothes designed for this or any other protest, I wore a Roberto Clemente T-shirt.

Director’s DVD commentary: Non-sports fans, Roberto was a Black Puerto Rican who played right field for the Pittsburgh Pirates from the mid-50s to the early 70s, and was one of the best to ever play. In 1972, he was killed in a plane crash trying to personally deliver earthquake relief supplies to families in Nicaragua, because he heard that previous shipments were being commandeered by the Nicaraguan regime.

I figured that would provide visual evidence of my support for Latin Americans, and at minimum, be a conversation starter because Roberto almost singlehandedly crucified the Baltimore Orioles in the 1971 World Series. And wouldn’t you know, that was the first thing anyone said to us upon our arrival… “Hey, Roberto!”

Baltimore’s traffic did not disappoint. We were honked at for the full hour and a quarter we were out there, with lots more signaling in solidarity. Sweetpea said she saw one old white guy flip the finger, but I saw nothing but support.

It was nice that they had chairs there, for anyone to use if their knees started to bark after all the standing. They also had water and snacks. It's a good thing this wasn't a voting line in Georgia, or we really would have been doing something illegal.

There was a PA system playing music —power-to-the-people kinds of songs —and the organizer gave a few short words of encouragement. There was no commotion or any sort of violence, although I bet the people living in the nearby houses got irritated at the honking after a while.

And try as I may, I couldn’t find any kiosks where I could get my Antifa paycheck from George Soros. All I can conclude about that is that every Republican claiming the protesters are paid actors is full of shit.

The fact is, I, and many more like me, would have paid admission to such an event if the money was going toward fighting these fascists.

And given the lengths they’re going to characterize these protests, even before they happened, as somehow terror-related or anti-American, just shows how scared they are of the will of the people. They can’t make any claims that hold up to scrutiny, so there’s nothing left for them to do but make stuff up that sounds scary to the uninformed. (In other words, your average Fox “News” broadcast.)

I was thrilled to read the news coverage later, which confirmed the total lack of violence or arrests, other than those of assorted MAGA types there to stir up trouble. Although I really had to search through Sunday’s Baltimore Sun to find their coverage, buried deep in the second news section, primarily covering what Republicans had to say about it. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t question those characterizations, as is the custom of Sinclair news outlets.

We're There

 I don’t see how anyone with eyes can miss that we have arrived at a fully Fascist state of federal government. All the pieces keep piling up, and the conditions are getting checked off one by one.

Authoritarian rule. We see this in every aspect of TFG’s actions, from the obligatory adulation required of his cabinet meeting attendees, to the massive banners with his face on them, to placing toadies in leadership positions in the military, Justice Department, and even the Supreme Court, whose only required qualification is loyalty to him, to assuming control of even the entertainment venues like the Kennedy Center so none of his critics have a platform in town, and much more.

Extreme nationalism. We see the blatant “Christian” nationalism all over his immigration policies, namely, conducting large sweeps to round up all the brown people who speak with an accent and send them to foreign black sites for the kind of systematic torture we once used only on known terrorists. And while they SAID they were going after criminals, their actions have shown that breaking the law is a secondary concern compared to getting rid of foreigners. This also includes foreigners from allied countries who are here to spend money training Americans to work in the factory they are building. That project is now like those foreigners: gone. This administration revels in cutting off its nose to spite its face if it means they get to make their projected numbers of deportations.

Suppression of dissent. They just showed their hand in the last two weeks, didn’t they, with the demanded firing of Steven Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel. Additionally, there are lawsuits against the New York Times and other outlets that publish content displeasing to the Orange King. Now they’re coming for the comedians. There’s nothing fascists like less than being mocked. The mockers are still out there (for the time being). We’ll see how long it is before they start picking up the individuals rather than merely stealing their microphones. The death of Charlie Kirk thrust into the spotlight the raging double standard between when one of their guys kills someone and they mock the deceased, versus when one of their guys gets killed and they demand blind tribute. It’s truly staggering lack of self-awareness when they celebrate the hateful words of one of their heroes, but then, when an adversary merely quotes what their hero said, they get fired.

Also note that when what appears as “dissension” bubbles up from within, in the form of research studies that conclude something that makes them look bad, they don’t fix their actions; they change or bury the report.

This works with economic news as well as investigations into the world’s largest pedophile ring.

Glorification of violence. TFG has his own loyal army now, each soldier with no identity, no official orders, and no oversight. All they have to do is be loyal, instill fear, and kidnap some people from public streets, schools, churches, courthouses, and Home Depot parking lots, for delivery to dungeonesque holding sites. The private army is how he gets around the Posse Comitatus Act (wherein the US Military is forbidden to be used on American soil against its people). Meanwhile, on-air personnel for the favored State-Run Broadcasting company espouse the random execution of homeless people, which causes zero “official” backlash. The terror and violence are the point. It allows them to make even bolder moves with impunity. Many of us are against such Fascism. Not as many are willing to take a bullet to the head over it.

Scapegoating. This has always been a main part of the Republican Playbook. Whatever happens, they blame someone else. It’s Black people, or Muslims, Latinos, or gang-bangers, liberal professors, gay people, trans people, and most of all, Democrats. It’s never the fault of the white, male, conservative, even when the most damning of evidence is clear to see. A guy in a MAGA hat with a Trump sticker on his AR-15 and a “Fuck their Feelings” bumper sticker on his Ford F-350, with Fox News blasting from external speakers, could shoot up a parking lot filled with nuns, and Republicans would blame a gay classmate he had 15 years ago. That’s the Republican Way. Nothing is their fault; everything is their opponent’s fault. Repeat indefinitely.

There are also some hallmarks we’ve passed that weren’t on the first graphic, like:

Openly grifting. It’s "hands out" for everyone on the team. Just like with the Mob, bring in any scam you can think of, as long as the Boss gets a taste.

And then the hand-picked lackey running Justice has no other priority than to do the president’s bidding, which is prosecuting anyone who ever made him look bad. It doesn’t matter if there’s ever been a crime committed or if there’s any evidence. What matters is getting the case in front of the public, preferably before a Trump-associated judge who will give the prosecution every advantage. Making life tough for one’s enemies makes others think twice before becoming one of them.

But only they get to receive such largesse.

They’re happy to dismiss a resolved suit when military veterans were due to receive compensation from the credit union that screwed them out of millions. Big corporations and their executives are the only ones allowed to receive such a windfall. The rest of us are merely here to be used as natural resources.

Secrecy

It’s ironic that their use of non-secure public chat applications is what keeps their evil machinations secret from the public.

Presidential administrations are required to keep records of all conversations, emails, and texts for the permanent historical record. That’s the last thing they want, so they use “disappearing” text apps so their words only appear temporarily, and there’s no record that can be used later to jam them up in court. And the only reason we even know about it is that they’re too stupid to use it properly. Remember when someone from the DoD (sorry, I mean the DoW) accidentally sent their battle plans to a reporter? That was a firestorm for about ten minutes. I’m sure they’re back to doing the same thing now, only someone probably had their teenage son set up a distribution list for them.

The Department of War has also just instituted a required oath from beat reporters that they swear they won’t report anything that’s not cleared by the brass for release, which means nothing useful whatsoever. Just the company line. That’s not how Freedom of the Press works. But they don’t care about the First Amendment outside of how they wave it overhead to cover their own calls to violence, and disregard it when a comedian gets under their skin.

So, to sum up:

Whatever you wish the Germans did in 1933, it’s time to do that here, now.

 

Completely Unrelated Note

Lastly, to pull out of this dive-bomb of a bummer post, let me wish a Happy 67^th Birthday to my forever Queen of Rock' n Roll, Joan Jett. I got to meet her several times, and she was always a real joy and super kind to her fans, even if she didn’t know what to do with the birthday card I handed her, moments before she took the stage in Cleveland.

Dipping My Toes Into Retirement

I’ve been retired for a week and a half now. What’s it been like? It’s played out in two different scenarios so far: before our kitchen and bathroom remodel started, and after. The work started last Wednesday, one week after the day I got let go.

For that first week, it was just strange, bumping around at home, alone, without any particular thing to anchor me. Because I’m such a creature of habit and routine, I realized that I’d have to create some new ones; I just don’t know yet what they should be.

For example, weekday routine used to be easy… wake up at 7:00, listen to the radio to get news and weather until 7:30, get up and shower, pour my iced tea, get my peanut butter crackers, and log onto my work website. Then work until 11:30 (unless some dipshit schedules another lunchtime meeting because they’re on Central time), eat lunch, read the newspaper, do my crossword puzzles, and go back to work for the rest of the day.

Upon retirement, I can get up when I like (but have still been close to my usual time, between 7 and 8). But then, do I shower right away? Should I have my tea and crackers first over the newspaper? If I do the crosswords then, what will I do at lunch? (I’ve been doing crossword puzzles at lunch every day since 2005.)

I’ve given myself at least one job to do each day, so I’d have at least some sense of purpose and usefulness. In fact, when Sweetpea left a note asking me to go get her some gas in the gas can, I was like, “A quest! The Fair Maiden needs my help!  I shall go forth and return with a tankard of liquid fire!”

So I’ve had some things to do, I just haven’t worked out the order in which I should do them. I guess the shower time can float; if my Job of the Day involves yard work, it’s better to shower later. But I think it’s best if I start the day clean, lest I start to forget about it and degenerate into an unshaven, slovenly mess.

It’s also been very nice to reacquaint myself with the 3:00 nap! That’s always when the head bobs and mental fuzziness would kick in when I was working, so I’d have to fight off the temptation to sneak one in. And with Sweetpea coming home each day between 4:00 and 4:30, I’m guaranteed not to oversleep.

Once the work started on the renovation, it’s been a different kind of strange. I have to ensure I’m up and ready by the time the workers arrive, usually between 8:00 and 8:30. Then the rest of my day is mostly answering their occasional questions and staying out of their way. It’s always stressful when they want a decision on something, and I can’t collaborate with Sweetpea. As a schoolteacher, she never even looks at her phone at work, other than occasionally at lunch, so I know she’s out of reach. So I’ve had to make some decisions on the fly and then hope I guessed right.

The biggest problem is that with the sink and counters gone, there’s nowhere to prepare food or clean up afterward, other than the bathroom sink, which is woefully inadequate. So we’ve been relying on takeout, grilling, and microwaveable dishes. Eventually, they put the counters in, but without the countertop, which is a separate operation. So the space is blocked in, but still of no practical use.

As long as my brother remains retired, I hope we can start meeting up regularly for lunch. It’s good to be able to pick his brain about financial matters. He’s the CPA and MBA. I’m the one with the Bachelor of Arts in Communications.

My old friend “Sitcom” Kelly asked if I was interested in seeing the Orioles/Pirates game here in town next week, and I’m like, “Hell yeah! Got nothing but time on my hands!” Of course, it’s an evening game so I could have gone anyway. And I may still go to the Thursday game, which is at 1:30. I always like to go to one day game a year, or as I call them, “Ferris Bueller” games. Last time I went to one, I even caught a foul ball. Danke Shoen!

So I have to wait until all the work on the house is done and things settle down before I can feel like a retiree. Oh, and speaking of, if you’re 50+, have you joined AARP? They’ve been chasing me for almost 14 years now, and I’ve never joined. I’m just not sure I see the benefit. Yes, they offer discounts, but many places also offer senior discounts. And they lobby for seniors, but I’ll reap the benefit of that whether I join or not. So for $50 a year, I’ve been putting it off. How about you?

I also won’t be able to rest easy until my severance is in the bank and I have new medical coverage. Sweetpea should be able to put me on her plan, which is through Kaiser Permanente. It’s a good plan, but it means that I’ll have to give up all my current doctors, because they’re a self-contained unit with their own staff and facilities. That means a new PCP, cardiologist, and eye doctor for me. And lots of introductory appointments where they want tests I’ve already done and draw conclusions I already know. And don’t even get me started on Medicare, which I’ll have to engage next year around this time. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

But that’s life, I suppose. No one promised us an easy path. Life is more like a zig-a-zag.*

 

 

*That’s a reference to an old story my mom tells about my dad’s Italian grandfather, who was a tiny little man and already ancient back when I was a child. He was telling Mom about how he can’t go out anymore because all the ladies are after him.

Mom: How do you get away from them, Grandpa?

Grandpa: I run away.

Mom: But you can’t run very fast.

Grandpa: I zig-a-zag.