Having bitched my heart out about the punishing heat this summer, I owe a debt to the weather gods to salute the lovely days that have been with us since the last week in August. We can use some rain, but the nights are cool and the days are on the lower side of warm, and that’s a good thing. Most days, my hair looks the same at 3 p.m. as it did right after I blew it dry after my shower, which means my head isn’t schvitzing like a dockworker all the livelong day. So that’s good.

Right now, I’ve leaning against some pillows against the footboard of our bed, spread out an old down blanket, and Wendy is curled up at my feet, snoring a little, sometimes wagging her tail in a dream. The laundry’s done, the larder is full, I got in a little workout, I restocked at Costco. I’ll owe some money to the IRS in another week, but the wolf is far from the door. My local CVS has the new Covid vaccines, and I’ll get one soon. It’s a good day.

Wendy’s getting on in years — 13, as far as we know — and is showing it in ways large, small and sad. So I’m taking time to appreciate my little dog. We go on more, but shorter, walks. I changed her food from kibble to kibble-and-canned to be easier on her achy teeth. She’s still got that spark, but it’s more mellow, like the autumn sunshine. One reason we haven’t taken a big trip this year is Wendy. I don’t want to leave her with Kate (no fenced yard, cats) for three or four weeks anymore, and she’s so sensitive, that much time in a boarding kennel would kill her. But I don’t mind. She came with us to the U.P., and for our next trip — three nights in Fort Wayne next week — she’ll be fine with a babysitter.

Did I mention we are going to the Fort next week? We were invited — GOD KNOWS WHY — to one of those Chamber of Commerce “homecoming” events. Does your city do those? Detroit’s regional chamber did for a while. They invite notable expats back to town to see the shine they’ve put on it in the meantime. We’re staying at the Bradley, the boutique hotel built by the Vera Bradley people, and some friends will be in the group as well. The idea seems to be to invite potential investors (not our cohort) or opinion leaders (ditto) and spread the good word. Honestly, I have no idea why we’re included, but I’ll try to sparkle and not be too mean to the Republicans.

Speaking of which! What a last few days it’s been for the GOP, and once again, I’ve lost track of the current outrage. Is it Croaky going on the attack about vaccines? Or the Department of WAR-RAWR-WARRRRRR rebrand? There are days when I have to avert my gaze and just appreciate the weather for a moment. Although there are moments of grim, black humor, as here:

While the criticism of Kennedy slowly grows from different sides, I fear it’s too little, too late. Considerable damage has already been done to Americans’ trust in vaccines under false pretenses. A veterinarian recently told NBC News about people expressing their concerns to her about giving their pets vaccines out of fear that they will harm their pets, causing autism or other cognitive issues. When people are afraid of dog autism, it’s going to take a lot more than some harsh words at a little-watched Senate hearing to get us back on track.

Dog autism. Dogtism.

On Thursday, the day this little-watched hearing took place, I took some time to take myself out to lunch, and watched the live updates with analysis on the NYT site as I worked through my pizza and Diet Coke. Claim after claim by Croaky was batted down, and now I can’t find it on their website, although there are plenty of stories wrapping it up. What a psycho that guy turned out to be. Alan thinks he’ll be fired, but I’m putting my chips on the No Way square. Trump never admits a mistake, and he likes anyone who stands up to Elizabeth Warren. We’re stuck with him. As the Onion noted: Kennedy Curse Sure Taking its Sweet Time With RFK Jr.

And now I think I’ll take myself out in this lovely late-summer sun and maybe slowly amble my old dog around the block. The Lions play in half an hour. It’s a nice Sunday.

A friend called me today to ask what I thought of the Epstein mess. I told him, first thing, that if we have to throw Bill Clinton over the gunwale, well, we’d just have to do it. That horndog got the biggest free pass in the world when he evaded significant punishment about Monica. He doesn’t get another.

But as we talked, I started to sort out my own thinking about it, and I think it’s this:

There are some who will think that any revelation of the Epstein affair that doesn’t include a photo of the president getting a BJ from a 13-year-old means he’s innocent, free, in the clear. I figure, if he was so innocent, he’d have had them printed on placemats at Chick-fil-A by now. But honestly, I think what’s going to be revealed, if anything, is something closer to this:

Epstein was rich, Trump is rich, they hang out with other rich people, and rich people don’t think rules apply to them. Any rules, at least behind closed doors. So what will likely emerge is a picture of Epstein as a guy who knew everyone, invited everyone to his parties, had his young masseuses passing canapés and occasionally slipping off to massage or bang this or that guest, and everybody knew what was happening, and further, no one said a word about it. Because they’re rich. Even if they didn’t participate, even if they disapproved, they wouldn’t say boo. Did they see anything directly? No. And it would just make a big mess for everyone, and after all, everybody’s rich. It would break the code.

Trump was ankle-deep, knee-deep, neck-deep in all this, I’d be willing to bet. Every day was “a wonderful secret,” the secret being that they could fuck young teens with impunity.

After all, Trump married a sex worker, maybe two of them. This is going to bother him? Not a chance.The rules are different for people like him, as we’ve all seen.

OK, so life is starting to return to normal. After my week of vacation, I had a week of pedal-to-metal work, then a long weekend of more work, then this week, and I’m hoping that things will settle next. I have enrolled in a creative-writing class at Wayne State, as a “non-matriculating student,” i.e. an auditor, and I have to read, write and prep for twice-weekly classes. My lifeguarding starts up again, in the early mornings instead of evenings, at least this semester. So I have, as they say, a lot on my plate.

But I will continue to show up here. So forward, into the fall, eh?

I said I’d be back Tuesday, and here it is, Tuesday. A woman of my word.

For what it’s worth, I don’t think President Shit-for-brains is dead. I think he’s an old, sick man, but he’s still exchanging oxygen. We’re stuck with him, at least for another day. The bells will ring around the world when he finally kicks the bucket, there will be dancing in the street and party snacks, but I doubt there will be much of a delay before we know, not with JD Vance circling like a vulture.

Sorry to start your Unofficial Fall with bad news, but there you are.

What a weekend. Very busy. I’m still not recovered, so I will leave you with this thin gruel, in the interest of getting something done.

At one point this weekend, I was way up in the sky:

I swear, I could see my house from the 69th floor of the RenCen.

When I said the week would be a whirl, I wasn’t kidding. The work I do for a local nonprofit is coming to a crescendo, and I don’t have a lot of time to do anything. However, I gots me some links for you. I’ll be back on Tuesday.

So.

Did you think it was impossible for the state of Florida’s slurpy MAGA community to get even worse? It is not. Behold the case of the Pulse nightclub crosswalk. You may recall Pulse as the site of a particularly grisly mass shooting in 2016 — 49 killed, 53 injured. As a memorial, or part of one, a crosswalk near the club was painted in rainbow colors.

Can’t have that in Ron DeSantis’ Florida, not when you-know-who is president. So earlier this month, workers painted over the rainbow in black and white. The club’s partisans painted the rainbow back, and state of Florida workers re-painted it black, sometime after 11 p.m. Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy decided the rainbow was a safety hazard, I guess. But wait, there’s more!

A Florida state trooper is now parked at the scene, making sure those colors don’t come back. Someone went into police work, and is paid a state police officer’s wages, to watch over a crosswalk.

Moving on. As per our discussion of Jon Carroll a while back, a poignant piece about his wife, Tracy Johnston, who has Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. He’s calling it a pre-obit, and it’s lovely:

We were backpacking in the Sierra, sometime in the late 1970s. The day had been spectacular, and the twilight was glorious, and fading fast. Here’s a great campsite, I said, about a lovely piece of flat earth right beside a lake. Tracy looked at it. Nope, she said. We trudged on. Two more times I found lovely campsites, with trees and views and birds twittering, and Tracy said, nope. And we finally, near total darkness, found a campsite near a stream and a lake. It was in fact the best campsite.

Tracy’s handling of cancer has been like that. There is always more life to be lived, more books to read, more people to hug. Here’s the good news: She ain’t dead yet.

Finally, one of those daffy McSweeney’s pieces that people pass around: I’m the abandoned new Cracker Barrel logo, and you can all go fuck yourselves:

Oh, I guess you’re also mad that they revamped the inside of the restaurants. Heaven forbid they rearrange their collection of Americana garbage to make it look less like the hoarder house you lost your virginity in. Jesus hates a coherent aesthetic, I suppose. A touch of care when placing items on a wall is a DEI dog-whistle, according to the bozos losing their minds on X. Not sure what it is about white space on a wall that makes you think a business hates white people, but okay. I hope they didn’t put all that stuff in the actual garbage, because with what they spent on this rebrand, they’re never gonna be able to buy it all again. On the other hand, if they just scrounged it back out of the trash, who’d know the difference?

Always good to end on a high note, eh?

Like I said, back after the weekend. Enjoy yours.

I put this on my Insta stories earlier today, but what the heck, let’s put it here, too. Same person, same bar, different sign. 1974:

Friday:

Yes, it’s the dreaded vacation photo dump! If you haven’t figured it out, we were in the Upper Peninsula, nothing fancy, just a cabin at an old-fashioned waterfront resort. I have friends there, and a friend from Detroit was at the same resort the same week, so it was a very chill week of doing nothing much, drinking beer at lunch without guilt, napping after lunch ditto, sitting by the water in a chair thinking about nothing in particular, discussing current affairs with like-minded people, wondering if Dollar Island, which sits about a hundred yards offshore from where we were staying, would be a good place to wait out the zombie apocalypse. (It was for sale for $850K in 2019, the last listing I could find. Today, a faded For Sale by Owner is tacked to one of its buildings, and having learned they sustained a fire recently, I’d say that price is…ambitious.) The answer: Only until the ice comes in, at which point you better hope zombies can’t operate snowmobiles.

Funny to see this no-doubt-contemporary-but-looking-retro poster in a local bar, since this was our m.o. up here for many years:

Proof. One of the visiting tramps, in one of those years:

Here’s Alan in two of his happy places:

This garrulous pair of sandhill cranes could be heard every day. They hung out in the yard next door. The house was flying a Trump flag, so I hope their excrement was smelly and copious.

Much has changed since our last visit, even more since my first one. My friends sold their cottage (and that boat). But Mark, the surviving family member still lives there, in a different place, on the mainland. And he has a different boat, this lovely, triple-cockpit 1930 Dodge Watercar:

We went for a boat ride. Alan and I sat in the middle cockpit, along with Mark’s dog. Solo is an Anatolian shepherd / Great Pyrenees cross, which makes him both ideal for up-north living and very very big. One hundred forty pounds of big, in fact:

I couldn’t fit him in one photo while sitting next to him. He took up a lot of space:

After I left, Mark sent me a bunch of pictures of the old days. Here’s the last shot of a fall party, back in the day:

It was fun while it lasted. It still is. It’s just a different kind of fun.

A whirl of a week ahead. Expect light posting.

One of my lifeguard colleagues and I were shooting the bull one evening, and discovered we have one bedrock belief in common: The best temperature is shorts-and-sweatshirts, i.e., when it’s warm enough to wear shorts, but cool enough for a sweatshirt. Somewhere in the range from 65 to 72, say.

I’m in shorts-and-sweatshirts latitudes now. Heavenly.

Where, you ask? We had to cross a big bridge to get here:

There was fresh whitefish for dinner the first night:

The first day the weather was perfect:

The second day it was cool and breezy. So we went even farther north to look at the engineering structure that makes Great Lakes shipping possible:

Had a very mediocre lunch nearby. Atmosphere: 10-plus. Food: 4. Service: Also 4.

Finally, I want to buy this boat. I would not change the name:

That’s all for now. New comment thread!

You guys? I am feeling peevish. It’s the usual stuff. Work hassles, other hassles, seeing pictures of the new Rose Garden, reading the Kennedy Center list of honorees, and then this:

In the World as Ruled by Nance, there would be no “K-9 officers,” which is copaganda so prevalent most people don’t even notice it anymore. A “K-9 officer” is a police dog, and that’s what they’d be called in my world. I don’t know what bugs me more: canine rendered as K-9, or a dog being called an officer. They’re not officers; I don’t care if they wear a little outfit and a badge. They’re tools used by human officers in the course of their duties, but calling them officers themselves is as dumb as declaring a police car to be an automotive officer.

What irritates me as much as anything is having to pause at this point and declare my love for dogs. Of course I love dogs. Most dogs are better than many humans, and disliking dogs is a red flag so glaring I think it should be disqualifying for holding high office in this stupid country, and yeah, you know who I’m talking about.

For a while now, I’ve tried to stop anthropomorphizing the animals in my life. I may talk to them like they’re human, but I know they’re not, and that’s what’s great about them. Truly appreciating animals is striving to understand them at their level, in their true nature, not the one we’ve imposed upon them.

Some years ago, a stupid superintendent in the local schools allowed the local police to do an unannounced contraband sweep of both high schools, using cops from their own and other departments and, of course, their dogs. It served as a training exercise for the police, and a terrorizing event for the students. A lawyer later told me it also yielded a case for him, when one of the dogs “alerted,” as they say, on a car in the parking lot driven by a girl whose father became his client. The father was an FBI agent, and his daughter was a multi-sport athlete, a straight-A student, and otherwise a shining example of teenage humanity, not likely to be even a casual drug user. Her car was thoroughly searched, and nothing was found, but the girl was isolated and aggressively questioned by the police, which left her in tears. They only reluctantly let her return to her class and drive her own car home after school. No apology. After all, the K-9 officer alerted! And dogs don’t lie!

They don’t lie, but being dogs, and being German shepherds in particular, they are bred and trained to please their handlers. The lawyer directed me to copious research on this subject, and how often these alerts turn up nothing, because the dog isn’t “looking for drugs,” which it can’t understand, it’s looking for a scent that will make the cop say “good boy, Rex.” Sometimes it’s contraband, but sometimes they just want the good boy.

That is today’s rant. There are a lot in the pipeline, which is the long way around to announcing I’ll be taking a few days of R&R, and while I’ll have wifi and my laptop in the cooler climes we’re headed to, I may or may not use them. More likely, I’ll just post a lot of pictures with brief commentary along the lines of wish-you-were-here. I want to let the world carry on without me, just for a few days. Please feel free to keep the conversation going, and thank every last one of you for reading.

I update this blog three times a week, most weeks, not every goddamn day, so Neil Steinberg beat me to the punch, but the punch deserves to be delivered twice, a one-two, if you will.

Croaky and his boss, President Shit-for-brains, have blood on their hands. Specifically, that of David Rose, the responding officer for the attempted mass shooting at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Friday. He was killed by Patrick Joseph White, the shooter who toted five rifles to a CVS across the street from the building and opened fire. White was said to be increasingly obsessed with the idea the Covid vaccination had made him sick. Wherever could he have gotten that idea?

Our HHS secretary has called the Covid jab “the deadliest vaccine ever made,” citing reports to VAERS, the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System. Intended to be a democratic way for anyone to report sore arms, fevers, etc., it was most certainly set up for a simpler time, when people would be honest brokers of this information. A friend of mine, then a reporter for a prestigious magazine, was asked to poke around in it, see if there was a story, maybe.

He poked, and came away after a couple days with his conclusion: No. Why? Recall that the Covid vaccine was first given to those most vulnerable to the disease — the elderly and immune-suppressed. And so VAERS is full of accounts that run like this: My father had stage IV lung cancer, and received the vaccine. Three weeks later, he died. Or: My mother, 97 and bedridden in her nursing home, received the shot, and died after 10 days. Neither of these people had Covid when they died, so: Very suspicious!!!

And because VAERS is open to anyone — seriously, anyone can make a report — it is of course subject to manipulation by bad actors. And I’m sure it is. Anyway, it’s not a reliable source of information. Which Croaky should know.

One caveat that I should note: Something that’s always interested me is how mental illness cleaves to the culture of its time. People used to believe incubi and succubi came into their rooms at night and had sex with them. Today, it’s aliens who abduct victims to their ships to stick probes into their anuses. (Always the anus. Huh.) The man who killed four people in New York City a couple weeks ago was convinced he had CTE, or chronic traumatic encephalopathy, from being hit in the head as a football player. (He was in the building housing the NFL.) He was 27 years old (well below the age when CTE typically presents), played only high school (potentially dangerous, but hardly NFL-level dangerous) and had not been diagnosed with anything.

So both these men, White and the NYC shooter, had fixated on current events to explain whatever was jangling around in their heads, and it’s possible that White would have fired on the CDC in the absence of a led-from-the-top damning of the work they do. But I’d say those chances are slim.

How did Croaky react? With the usual thoughts-and-prayers statement, made on Instagram. Fuck him.

Finally, I leave you with this, which is so ironic I can’t stand it:

As a record number of people in the U.S. are sickened with measles, researchers are resurrecting the search for something long-deemed redundant: treatments for the viral disease.

After the measles vaccine was introduced in the 1960s, cases of the disease plummeted. By 2000, federal officials had declared measles eliminated from the U.S. This success led to little interest in the development of treatments. But now, as vaccination rates fall and infections rise, scientists are racing to develop drugs they say could prevent or treat the disease in vulnerable and unvaccinated people.

“In America, we don’t like being told what to do, but we like to have options for our medicine chest,” said Marc Elia, chairman of the board of Invivyd, a Massachusetts-based drugmaker that started working on a monoclonal antibody for measles this spring.

Yes, that’s correct: A drugmaker is looking for a treatment for measles (because “we like to have options for our medicine chest”) because increasing number of dumbass Americans are refusing a safe, long-established vaccine for measles. I can’t stand it.

OK, then! On that cheery note, go start your weeks! I’m off on a bike ride before it gets to…checking…89 degrees. Ugh.

I really don’t want to be like this, but it’s hot again and I’m back to hate-reading the publications that cross my path, some of which I even pay for.

For instance, a lame-ass op-ed published by the Detroit News, written by none other than Ted Nugent. It’s about better management of wildlife, a table Ted and I could sit down at and maybe find at least a little common ground. Deer are popping up in my suburb all the time now; on one of the local Facebook pages, a woman said she came across a doe with three fawns on a nighttime walk this week. I always heard that deer will have twin fawns when the livin’ is easy, but I never heard of triplets before.

The Canada geese are so plentiful now that when a beach closes for e.coli, it’s as likely to be because of goose poop than human.

There are other issues, but the bottom line is: I don’t object to hunting and never have. It’s an important part of managing the ecosystem in the absence of natural predators, and I don’t think anyone wants to release a wolf pack in suburbia. For now, it’s Bambi vs. cars.

Unfortunately, from this promising beginning…

Wise use — it’s common sense to us attentive common citizens, and our hearts and instincts compel us to perform our clear and obvious responsibilities to participate in God’s miraculous creation as conscientious hands-on stewards in harmony with nature.

…things go downhill:

Wild game and wildlife are thriving across North America as a direct result of this proven conservation model, and out of touch, even corrupt bureaucrats, and the equally disconnected fantasy-driven uneducated nature haters that they mistakenly listen to are a very dangerous scourge that good, caring people must be ever vigilant of and willing to push back and stop at all costs.

Those real-world healing powers of nature is what I have dedicated my life to, and the embarrassment of mismanagement in my beloved birth-state of Michigan must no longer be tolerated.

This, I think, is going to be the hardest stain to scrub out of the country, if it can even be done, once Ted and company have gone to their reward: “Bureaucrats” must never be overmatched, or even incompetent. They must be corrupt, which suggests maybe they were bought off by Big Bambi, I dunno. Ted goes on for a bit about patriotism (he’s performing his “we, the people” responsibilities, he says); more corruption, this time “blatant”; and finally gets to the point: He wants to shoot not only deer, but bear, mourning doves and sandhill cranes, which birdwatchers know as lovely creatures and he calls the “ribeye in the sky.” They damage crops.

Mourning dove hunting comes up from time to time; they’re not a nuisance, but they do flush in a manner that trap and skeet shooters enjoy, once they get bored with clays. And bears can be a pain in the ass around unsecured garbage, for sure, but the answer seems to be: Secure the garbage. Also, limit or eliminate all food sources, including deer corn and bird feeders.

Ted disagrees, needless to say. The answer is: Whack ’em and stack ’em.

Mostly I wouldn’t object, but he ignores the obvious problem here. What do you do about those wildlife that have moved to suburbia? Make the deer season all year, hell I don’t care, but I would care about bullets, crossbow bolts or even arrows whizzing through the neighborhood, and this is where most of the so-called problem deer are. Canada geese, ditto — they can shit in the middle of the lake all they want, but they like placid places like parks and golf courses, another place it’s difficult to bump them off without risking hitting a kid, or a duffer. Extending the season on up-north deer isn’t going to do anything for down-here deer.

And anyone who could kill a sandhill crane because they gobbled up some farmer’s soybeans ought to move to Texas, or some other bloodstained shithole. That’s where Ted lives, anyway.

Let’s move on. Let’s treat Edward Coristine, aka “Big Balls,” the way his camp treated — treats — anyone in the other camp who suffers a misfortune. If you haven’t heard, BB, a protege of Elon Musk and a DOGE “worker,” was injured in what police are calling an attempted carjacking in Washington. From the WP:

Coristine was assaulted around 3 a.m. Sunday in the city’s Logan Circle neighborhood by a group of teenagers attempting to carjack him and a woman whom police identified as his significant other, according to authorities.

Three a.m. on a school night? Whatever could BB and his girlfriend be doing out in the District at that hour? Could they have been buying drugs? Googling can you buy ketamine on the street in Logan Circle n’hood right now.

OK, I must scoot. After nearly 10 days in the shop, my car is being liberated later today. Time to flex the Amex card and go for a drive. Have a great weekend.

Writers are infamously messy, and I suppose I am too. My Google Drive, desktop and other repositories hold various half-baked drafts of this and that. From time to time I try to clear them out, but I hang on to some of them. One in my blog drafts folder has a headline — The indifferent sea. — and is an unkind look at something one of my husband’s former colleagues, who was college friends with none other than Stockton Rush, wrote about his dead classmate. Alan asked me to maybe consider not publishing it, if for no other reason than it would make future collegial gatherings maybe a bit awkward. I agreed.

Rush is, of course, the man responsible for his own death, and four others’, when his jerry-built submarine imploded en route to the wreckage of the Titanic in the North Atlantic. The U.S. Coast Guard has published its own report on the disaster, and it is…not kind:

At the time of the Titan’s final dive, Mr. Rush possessed a credential issued by the U.S. Coast Guard that permitted him to operate vessels of a certain volume on inland waters.

That credential was based on falsified information, the report said: In 2020, OceanGate exaggerated the volume of the Titan in a letter to the National Maritime Center so that it would appear as though Mr. Rush had the requisite time at sea needed to earn the credential.

…In an interview with the board, the OceanGate director of operations described a dive in which an earlier OceanGate submersible, the Cyclops 1, became stuck beneath the bow of the Andrea Doria shipwreck near Nantucket, Mass., with Mr. Rush at the controls. In response, Mr. Rush had a “meltdown,” the director of operations said, adding that when he asked Mr. Rush to relinquish the controls Mr. Rush threw the controller at him.

All of which made me dig up the original column, and hoo-boy, talk about aging like milk:

From test pilot Chuck Yeager to Mount Everest explorer Sir Edmund Hillary, risk-takers are a special breed. OceanGate CEO Tock was one of them. Unlike the astronauts and explorers who lived to reach the summit of mountains and outer space, however, Tock was fascinated by going to the bottom of the ocean.

…Ask anyone in my Princeton University Class of 1984 which one of us would be brave enough to dare such a mission, and Tock would be at the top of the list.

…When we were 19 years old, he became the world’s youngest commercial airline pilot, commanding Saudi Airlines planes during our college summers.

The part about Saudi Airlines was my first whoa moment. You’re telling me a commercial airline allows college students to fly its planes? Not quite. A little Googling reveals he worked as a first officer, i.e. co-pilot, on DC-8s operated by Overseas National Airways, which was under subcontract to Saudi Airlines to do charters, so kinda true, but not really.

But for the deepest and most unselfconscious look at ol’ Tock, you really have to go to the Princeton alumni publication:

Seemingly round-the-clock news coverage of the missing submersible has led to some unfavorable characterizations of Rush as a risk-taker whose adventures trended toward recklessness. Deep-sea explorers, oceanographers, and other industry leaders were reported to have expressed concerns about OceanGate’s safety precautions in recent years. For example, the Titan was built of both titanium and carbon fiber, which is used in the aerospace industry but considered experimental for deep-sea pressure.

“I mean if you just want to be safe, don’t get out of bed, don’t get in your car, don’t do anything,” Rush told CBS Sunday Morning last year. “At some point, you’re going to take some risk, and it really is a risk-reward question. I think I can do this just as safely by breaking the rules.”

Rush’s friends said that quote has been used to misrepresent his “joie de vivre” outlook on life, and that the message of his quote was likely more along the lines of encouraging people to live their lives and not be afraid.

“History shows us that exploration and innovation are inherently risky and dangerous,” a group of alumni wrote in a statement to PAW, signing it “Proud and Grieving Friends of Tock.” “We’re disappointed, if not entirely surprised, at the outpouring of armchair quarterbacking about the science behind his work.”

Was Tock a rich kid? Of course he was:

He kept a private plane at the Princeton airport, and friends recounted adventures they took with Rush at the wheel.

…(A) friend who flew with Rush on his private plane during college remembered the feelings of trust and safety she felt on board. “He cared for people deeply and he wouldn’t want to put me in a position where I was unsafe.”

Bad things never happen to rich kids, as we all know. Ah, well. Now we know, but we always knew. Meanwhile, speaking of rich kids, Croaky has effectively pulled the plug on publicly funded mRNA vaccine research. If bird flu goes big, let me say it now, while I’m healthy: It was nice knowin’ ya:

Mr. Kennedy has been sharply critical of the technology. In a video posted on social media on Tuesday, he claimed incorrectly that mRNA vaccines do not protect against respiratory illnesses like Covid and the flu, that they drive viruses to evolve and that a single mutation in a virus renders the vaccine ineffective.

“As the pandemic showed us, mRNA vaccines don’t perform well against viruses that infect the upper respiratory tract,” he says in the video.

“By issuing this wildly incorrect statement, the secretary is demonstrating his commitment to his long-held goal of sowing doubts about all vaccines,” said Jennifer Nuzzo, director of the Pandemic Center at the Brown University School of Public Health.

What else is new?

So that’s Wednesday’s stop on the Farewell to American Greatness tour. How’s your week going?