We were all in a state of shock and disbelief 17 years ago, especially when it became clear that the first plane hitting the World Trade Center wasn’t an accident. But even then, as the rubble still smoldered in NYC and DC (and PA), I knew that one day America would rise from the ashes and elect (so to speak) a president that would make George W. Bush look like a stable genius and elder statesman. It took us a while, but in less than 20 years, we’ve gone from a nation that the entire world stood with to the biggest fucking joke in the history of the planet (bit of a sick joke, to be sure, but an impressive one nonetheless). So congratulations to us, and don’t forget to run out and do some shopping. You know, for old times’ sake.

Things are fairly quiet this morning, but not nearly as quiet as they were on Labor Day 20 years ago (although it’s just as hot and humid). That’s because, in the wee hours of Labor Day morning 1998, something called a derecho came through this area. I’d never heard of it before, but a derecho is basically a wall of wind (and thunderstorms) and this one blew through at 115 mph at around 1:15 AM. We woke up because it was suddenly very warm in the house, thanks to the power (and a/c) being off. We stepped out onto the porch to see the tree in the front yard bent more or less in half, and the sky was a very strange color (which was odd, since it was the middle of the night and there wasn’t any power anywhere, though we didn’t know that at the time).

The final day of the NYS Fair was canceled (and only 16,000 or so away from an all-time attendance record), and we began what would be two weeks of cooking on a camp stove and listening to a battery-powered by the glow of Coleman lanterns (good thing I had a lot of camping shit back then). Using a mortar and pestle to grind coffee gets to be a real drag after a few days, let me tell ya. Also, did I mention it was hot? ‘Cuz it was fucking hot.

We’d only gone from dial-up Internet to cable a couple weeks before (pretty sure we were the first kids on the block to get it), and now we were shit outta luck. Actually, the Internet was still working, I think – just wasn’t much good w/o electricity. And it’s not like everybody had a laptop or a tablet or a phone back then. I mean, yeah, I guess there were cell phones – I might have had my good old StarTac back then; I’m not sure – but not phones in the sense that there are phones today.

Our landline was still working, though, so that was a good thing. I guess. The line was pulled off the house and hanging low across the street, but it continued to work for the next two weeks until the power finally came back on, at which point a repair truck went down the street and snagged it, ripping it all the way down.

But, hey, who needs a phone when you’ve got electricity?

It was at this point that my stepdaughter and I began the rather disgusting process of opening and emptying the refrigerator – which was pretty bad. Never could get the stink out of it – not enough baking soda in the world for that – and I wound up buying a new one. It was pretty old anyway.

Syracuse looked like a war zone for quite a while that fall, and the area lost a lot of really great trees. Very sad, and two weeks without power sucked (good think it wasn’t winter) but since there was actual President back then (no matter what you thought of his politics, or his other, um, peccadilloes) and we aren’t Puerto Rico or New Orleans (I don’t call us the Great White North for nothin’), things got back to normal pretty quickly.

I didn’t have a chainsaw that was up to the task back then, but I bought a new one (me and pretty much everybody else around here), and I’ve certainly gotten a lot of use out of it over the years, though I think I cut up more wood in those two weeks in all the rest of my life combined.

So, twenty years later and we’re on the cusp of yet another record-setting State Fair (this is something that we, for some reason, give a shit about around here – and I’m no exception. Must be genetic), with only another 8,000 or so required. It apparently rained a bit last night but no earth-shattering storms, and while it’s once again hotter than hell already this morning, the power – and the air conditioning – are still on, thankfully.

And, just in case, I now have a generator.

But let’s hope I don’t need it.

I was watching Bill Mahardy-Har-Har yesterday, and there was some British-sounding dude on (a reporter from – or for – Atrios, I guess). He was trying to explain to the choir that the Mueller investigation may not actually turn out the way we normal humans would like. Which you would think would make for a “duh” kinda moment, but neither Bill nor Jennifer Granholm were having any of that, thank you very much. The Atrios dude (and, to some extent, some other dude from the Weekly Standard, who has apparently seen the light – at least on Trump – who was saying something to the effect of “don’t underestimate this asshole’s ability to obstruct the investigation” to which I would add, “especially since he is in control of all three official branches of the government, the military, and is in the process of creating his own private army”) was saying, more or less, that we may not see any conclusive proof of anything out of this, and Bill and Jen were strongly protesting that “we all already know” this, that, and the other thing and by golly it’s obvious and yada-yada-yada.

And then Jen went on to say that Senator Warner will be introducing legislation on Monday to make it illegal for a President to revoke the security clearances of people who say mean things about the President and the other dude said “how many Republicans do you think will support that” (general consensus seemed to be “zero”) and she said “that’ll show everybody!”

Yep, as if the Democrats would be able to use that as a cudgel to force the Trumpists to see the light and, um, whatever. I guess go out and vote for Democrats or something. Or maybe it would incentivize Democrats to vote in such large numbers that they’ll be able to overcome the gerrymandering, voter suppression, Russian hacking, and outright thievery that we all know damn well is gonna occur in November.

Oh, and of course there’s also the small problem of the fact that a large number of Democrats are useless at best, and just as bad as their Republican counterparts at worst. Except you’re not supposed to say that because if you prefer a candidate in a Democratic primary who walks and talks like a Democrat then you’re part of the problem, damnit!

We all know that Democrats who act like Democrats can’t get elected – which is why things are so great now.

Never mind that this is how the Republican Party got to where it is today. Hey, the guy’s an asshole, but you have to vote for him because he’s “our” asshole.

Not that I’m suggesting you don’t vote for whatever Democrat there is to vote for on your ballot in November – asshole or not – (or don’t vote at all, which is just as bad). “Our” assholes are way better than their assholes, and it would be nice if the Republicans didn’t have the ability to install any more anti-union, anti-woman, anti-minority, anti-democracy, anti-American judges. Even if impeachment is already “off the table.”

Once we get the KKK out of power, then we can work on getting real Democrats back in. One step at a time.

Barry Crimmins made his debut at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival last year, and as you probably know, he, unfortunately, died of cancer this year. In celebration of his life, a number of comedians will be performing a benefit show in his honor at the New Town Theatre in Edinburgh on Thursday, 8/16. Proceeds are being donated to Helen Crimmins (Barry’s widow) to cover the costs of her cancer treatment. Sadly, tickets are apparently not selling well. So if you’re going to be in Edinburgh this week, you can book tickets for the show – a bargain at £10, which is like $13 – here. I can’t make it to Scotland, but I booked a ticket anyway. So, you know, you could so that if you wanted. Though it’d be better to have a full house rather than a bunch of empty seats. I only have two regrets – first, that it isn’t like the “old days” when lots of people from all over the world came and at least lurked here (probably would have been able to drum up a few ticket sales), and second, that Barry is gone while Henry Kissinger still draws breath. If that’s not a clear sign that there either is no god or that if there is, god’s a prick, I don’t know what is.

Today is National Orgasm Day. At least in the US, UK, Australia, and perhaps others. According to Wikipedia, it was (not surprisingly) started in Brazil, where it’s celebrated on August 8th, and it’s also apparently celebrated on November 18th (though it doesn’t say where, exactly). I’m just happy to learn that there are multiple Orgasm Days (though multiple-orgasm days would be even better). Some fun facts (according to this story over at Glamour) include…

1. People who smoke weed have more orgasms. Like, way more. Pot smokers surveyed were 109 percent more likely to have multiple orgasms.

2. Being politically active pays off. People who are more passionate about politics have more multiple orgasms and more orgasms in general.

Presumably because if you’re paying attention to politics, you realize just how fucked you are.

4. Our parents are getting off more than us. Millennials have 12 percent fewer orgasms than boomers. Womp-womp.

Apparently Glamour is staffed by (or at least read by) a bunch of sexually frustrated kids.

And of course…

7. Tech nerds are doing something right. Despite what stereotypes might lead you to believe, people working in computers and electronics have more orgasms than any other profession.

Of course they tend to be alone with their electronic, um, equipment while having them but, hey, an O’s an O, right?

Anyhow, enjoy the day, and, however you manage it, I encourage you to celebrate over and over again.

Our nesting Robins (both the “east” – located above our kitchen window – and “west” – located on the downspout by the garage – pairs) are now on their third set of babies. Or eggs – I don’t think either of these batches has hatched yet. Being ignorant in the way of Robins, I was surprised when the second bunch appeared a while back so I looked it up and, by golly, apparently as soon as the first bunch hatches the dad escorts them to another nest and the mom gets busy on the next batch. And once the new ones are hatched, dad helps feed the young until they fledge (Robins are clearly not Republicans). According to the Internet, they can have two or three sets in a season (Robins, that is, not Republicans – though of course “pro-life” Republicans just force the females involved to get abortions). It’s not quite August, so I’m wondering if we might get four broods out of these. I have to admit, I’m a little tired of getting the stink-eye every time I walk past but I obviously don’t have the heart to wipe out the nests until I’m sure they’re done for the year.

What they do after they’re done breeding, I’m not sure. I always thought Robins went south for the winter. A first Robin sighting was supposedly a sure sign of spring (though around here, it was usually a sign of a soon to be hungry, shivering, and pissed-off Robin). But my recent Ornithological research informs me that, among other things (such as the controversy – or debate, at least – over whether or not to capitalize the word “Robin” and other bird species names; does everything have to be so fucking complicated?). Robins supposedly don’t go anywhere for the winter (well, except for the Canadian ones – though our President will no doubt put an end to that – I’ll miss the Hummingbirds once he cracks down on illegal migration from Mexico and South America). They just flit about, switching from the summer fare of worms and insects to their winter diet of fruit. Where, exactly, they get fruit in the winter up here is beyond me (also, I don’t recall seeing Robins in January around here, though I’ll be keeping my eyes open this year), but the Internet doesn’t lie so it must be true.

I only hope they weren’t nesting in the rather large tree that came crashing down in my backyard the other day. Though it probably didn’t really “crash” but more slowly keeled over until my fence stopped it. Otherwise, the fence would be toast. After a few weeks of hot, dry weather around here, we’ve had several days of hard rain. This not only contributed to my damp (and by damp, I mean “wet”) basement but apparently softened the ground enough to have this poor tree give up the ghost.

So it was time to drag out the chainsaw. Unfortunately, the oiler doesn’t work (stupid “auto” oiler – give me a manual button to push once in a while). So I tried to take it apart to see if the pickup tube was clogged or something, but I don’t have the tool to take the clutch assembly off (turns out, you need one of those), so I ordered that and a new oiler and managed to put the chain back on bass-ackwards (really doesn’t cut very well that way) and chopped the thing up enough for now, though I’m gonna have to work around it while I cut the grass.

And then I put my fancy new LED work lights on the tractor (the old ones stuck up like Mickey Mouse ears, and I kept bashing ’em on tree branches), but they don’t seem to work (did I mention that everything seems to be a pain in the ass these days?) so I said “fuck it” and decided to go and sit under a different tree and not drink beer. I haven’t had a beer in two years now, and, frankly, it sucks. Sitting outside and not drinking beer is really quite boring. And the bugs are a lot more annoying, too. If it weren’t for Wi-Fi, I don’t know what I’d do.

How the hell did people live before the Internet?

Heh. Somewhere in here, there’s a setting about closing comments on a post after a certain length of time. I’m not sure what length of time that is, or even where the setting is. But apparently that limit has been reached, which only goes to show that I’ve been extremely lacking in writing posts. And thanks to Vernon for the head’s up. Anyhow, I will attempt to be more prolific in the future. Like, more than once a month. Or at least find and change that setting. Ah, found it!

Hey, Happy Father’s Day to all you fathers out there. And those of you who have fathers. And those of you who have been torn away from your fathers and stuck in a tent city concentration camp, and may never see your fathers again. And also the father of the fledgling robins who have left the nest over our kitchen window (mom still lives there, but I think its a deadbeat dad situation. Or maybe it’s a deadbeat mom situation – I don’t know how to tell, but I never see more than one there at a time), and the father of the hatchling robins in the nest on the downspout by the back of our garage. Got a tip for you prospective nest builders out there – if you’re gonna freak out every time I go in or out the door, you should really think about building your nest someplace else. This is our first spring in over 20 years without a cat, so I guess that explains the sudden surge in nesting around here. Anyhow, to all you dads, I hope things are going as well as they can be. Except that fat incestuous ferret-festooned piece of shit in the White House that’s caused so much pain for so many other fathers, mothers, and children. You, I only wish I believed there was a god so I could know you’ve got a eternity of suffering to look forward to. But, hey, I guess you can’t have everything.

I’ve started to write something about the state of the union over the past couple of weeks, and haven’t been able to continue. I’m torn between despair and disbelief at the way things are, and every day seems to bring some new fresh hell. We’re beyond the point at which we can snicker and poke fun at the moron in chief – it just aint funny anymore. I don’t claim to be well versed in world history (I am an American, after all), but I think this is how things went with Hitler. At first he was just a joke, then a useful tool, and then all of a sudden, well, I guess we all know what happened next (even though most Americans still alive and kicking today – only some 558,000 of the 16 million or so US WWII vets were still alive in 2017 – had nothing to do with it, we still take credit for winning the war and all the things “we” had to sacrifice to keep the world safe for Truth, Justice, and the American Way). And now we seem to be on the same path (the hypothetical question of what would have happened if Hitler had gotten the atomic bomb is starting to seem a lot less hypothetical right about now).

As with anybody over the age of 40 or so, I grew up in the era of the Soviet Union, East Germany, and the Warsaw Pact. If you’d told me that some day we’d have a sitting president who would sing the praises of the leader of Russia, China, and North Korea while vilifying Canada and Western Europe, I’d have thought you were referring to the plot of the sequel to Dr. Strangelove. Yet, here we are, and I think we’re beyond the point where cleverly pointing out what an idiot Trump – and, by extension, his supporters and enablers – is amusing, let alone satisfying.

Using facts and logic to make these Trumpsters see the light is about as likely as facts changing the opinions the climate deniers, flat Earthers, or moon landing conspiracy theorists. And the really depressing fact is that this isn’t just some annoying but tiny fringe group of idiots parading around with “Keep the Government Away From My Social Security” signs. These are roughly half the people that actually bother to vote – at least in the way our system is set up. And a majority of the people who run all three branches of the Federal government. Oh, sure maybe – MAYBE – the Democrats will win a majority of seats in the Senate (which by no means equates to “control” – ever notice that Democrats need a filibuster-proof majority at the very least, while Republicans can ram through whatever they want – mostly – with just a simple majority?). We’ll see – I’m not particularly hopeful, but we’ll see.

But, anyway, in order to keep from throwing myself off the roof – which with my luck would just hurt and not even kill me – I’m trying not to obsess on all this. Fortunately I’m an old white guy so hopefully I can just hang on and run out the clock (though they’re probably gonna fuck up my retirement). Heaven help the younger folks and the brown people though.

So instead I’m doing a little housekeeping around here. Even though the time for this place to exist is probably pretty short (probably should have killed it a long time ago, really), I figured I ought to bring it up to code, so to speak. So, in order to comply with the GDPR (not that I need it here in the US where we don’t give a rat’s ass about privacy), I’ve added a privacy policy, for whatever that’s worth.

And because web browsers are about to start bitching about any websites that don’t use SSL, I’ve added that (I think I’ve got it all working, but let me know if you see something that aint right).

Now that that’s done, I guess I can go back to watching old British TV shows and past episodes of This Old House.

I tried to write something yesterday, but my eyes were filled with tears of joy from that beautiful wedding. Some people might not give a shit (cold, heartless people), but for me, hey, it’s not every day that complete strangers get married, is it? OK, well, yeah, I guess it is. But this was a special day for a kid who dressed up like a Nazi for a costume party 13 years ago (hey, kids do dumb shit – I think we can let him off the hook for that one; I only thank sweet baby Jeebus nobody was following me around with cameras when I was 20 years old. Or yesterday, for that matter. It’s not as if I feel sorry for the uber-privileged aristocracy, but it still must have sucked to grow up with photographers up your ass. Speaking of cameras up your ass….

Friday was my much anticipated colonoscopy day, and while I’m not really one to expect the best out of life (some might say I’m pessimistic, I prefer to think of it as being realistic – and not stupid), I have to say that it was even worse than I expected. Not the thing itself, that was fine (as far as I know). I mean, they gave me some milk of the poppy and I had about enough time to realize the light were going out and the next thing I knew I woke up feeling like somebody’s prison bitch.

No, the part that I think I’m justified in describing as “horrible” was the “bowel prep.” I don’t eat a whole lot these days to begin with and on Thursday I wasn’t supposed to eat anything. Anything resembling food, that it. So I drank clear liquids (ironically, beer would have qualified had I not given that up, though I’m pretty glad I didn’t start Friday off with a hangover). After a day of nothing but liquid (and lime Jello), I was pretty much clean a whistle (really – I was whistling as I walked, and I wasn’t even wearing corduroys) already. I didn’t want to ingest any processed sugar so I stuck with all sugar free substances (not crazy about eating whatever chemical it is they put in sugar free shit these days either but you gotta pick your poison, right?). By that afternoon, the resultant lack of calories left me with blurred vision and feeling pretty terrible (or it was water poisoning – I drank a lot of goddamn liquid).

And then it was time for round one. I was supposed to start at 4 PM, but I had to wait a few minutes because I really wasn’t doing well, but eventually I toughed it out and sucked down a bottle of what tasted like watered down cherry cough syrup and (over the next hour) 48 ounces of water.

Now, I don’t have a lot of talents in life, but taking a shit is something I’ve generally been pretty good at. I mean, I got my phone, I got my laptop – I got Netflix, Hulu, YouTubeTV, a network TV tuner, Google Books, Google Music, electronic versions of the past year or so of Sky and Telescope magazine (thanks to the Girl Scouts of Juneau Alaska), and five spare rolls of toilet paper, so I was prepared to settle in for a quiet evening of contemplation.

I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just day what ensued was neither satisfying nor relaxing. And not exactly conducive to the “clean, fresh” feeling those of us fortunate enough to not be homeless have come to expect in life. And that was just round one.

I was supposed to start round two at 10 PM, with no food or water after midnight (despite no eating all day, that, at least was NOT a problem). As I may have mentioned, I’m on old man hours these days, and the only time I see ten o’clock at night these days is when I get up to take a piss (and NOT, might I just say, out my ass). Even the dogs went to bed without me (hey, thanks for the support there kids). Drinking isn’t normally difficult for me, but getting that additional quart and a half of water down was a real struggle. Especially since I just wanted to get it over with so I could go to sleep.

Hah!

Let’s just say there wasn’t a lot of sleeping going on that night – and not in a good way. Anything substantive was long (long) gone, but it’s difficult to reason with your colon (don’t bother trying to argue – you’ll lose). By the time I was ready to “get up” the next morning, two things were clear – all I wanted in life was for this to be over, and I was never – NEVER – gonna let myself be talked into doing this again. Assuming I didn’t have some horrible disease, of course – and maybe not even then.

I won’t keep you in suspense any longer – I don’t have cancer or polyps or anything else (they did find a set of keys I lost about 10 years ago, so that was cool). The doc also told me that because I’m thin, all my guts are packed into a small space, meaning, apparently that my colon like a good mystery novel – full of twists and turns. Every time he thought he was at the end of the line, around another corner he went. He said I might be sore because he had them smoosh me down flat to try and straighten things out a bit. I wasn’t sore, but it would certainly make for an interesting picture – a couple people trying to flatten me out while I lay there with a big black garden hose ten feet up my ass.

Again, grateful to have not been born a prince.

Anyhow, I wasted two days of my life and a sizable amount of money to find out what I already knew. Just to be “sure.” The doc said I’m good to go for 10 years. Yeah, right. If I’m still alive in ten years, I won’t be wasting time doing this. Hopefully I’ll be retired to some place warm, spending my final years attempting to drink myself to death.

Friday was a beautiful day, otherwise, and although they told me not to drive or operate machinery, I was feeling pretty good and figured I’d get the grass cut. Until I got home, that is. Whether it was the lack of sleep or the residual effects from the propofol, or maybe just being dehydrated, I don’t know, but I had all the pain of terrible hangover with none of the joy from the night before. I managed some weed whacking, but that was about it. Mostly I hung out on the front lawn with the dogs.

Of course it rained all day yesterday and appears to doing the same thing today. So the grass is about ten feet high now and I don’t know when I’ll be able to cut it.

But, hey, at least I’m not pissing out my ass, so I’ll call it a good day.