I told you I’m taking this swim-instructor course? So last night the woman teaching it called me over to explain butterfly stroke to a bunch of level 3 kids, which is to say, 8 years old and younger. I bent over at the waist, held my arms out and said, “Your hands should enter the water at 11 and 1,” among other things. And then I thought: Noooo, not an analog clock reference!

If you have young people in your life, be advised: They don’t understand analog clocks until they get older, some as old as fourth grade. I first learned this lifeguarding in 2023, when I was the only one who wore a watch and my colleagues, deprived of their phones, were always asking me the time. “Ten ’til one,” I might say, to a blank stare. “Twelve-fifty?” I’d say, and they’d nod. “Quarter after” meant nothing. You had to say “two fifteen.”

The wonders of technology. So I told the kids, instead, to start the stroke with their arms close to their head, like so. It’s humbling, when the world moves on without your permission.

Welcome to the end of the work week, a very long one for me. How to cheer myself up? Hate-reading another Tim Goeglein adjective party about a notable Lutheran church in Fort Wayne!

Zion Lutheran is indeed a lovely church. I don’t know what it did to deserve this, however:

As you drive down Creighton, Zion’s beautiful and lithe central spire rises like a phoenix as if welcoming an old friend.

I have found that steeple most inspiring on semi-foggy, semi-misty Hoosier Sunday mornings when the spire seems to lift itself heavenward as if peeking out of a cloudburst.

Zion’s sheer dimensions are awe-inspiring, and you can clearly see its unique cuneiform shape from the top of the Lincoln Tower when glancing southeast: 124 feet in length with its landmark transepts jutting out 80 feet.

Tim struggles with basic vocabulary. “Lithe,” for instance, means “slim and flexible,” which would seem to be the last thing you’d want in a church steeple. As for “slim,” aren’t all spires? Here’s the church in question:

Looks pretty standard churchy to me. But never mind that. The rest of that sentence is a disaster. For the thousandth time to the hundredth writer, a phoenix is a mythical bird that rises from the ashes of its own pyre (depending on the version of the myth) in rebirth, not to “welcome an old friend.” And again, flames are exactly what you don’t want near a historic church; ask the folks in Paris about that. Anyway, a building that’s been there for more than a century cannot be said to rise, even in a metaphorical sense. Let’s count the various mangled metaphors here, and on second thought, let’s not. As Alex said when I sent him this earlier this week, “Tim’s a late starter, having been a plagiarist until now.”

Indeed. Also, what is a cuneiform shape, in a building? One of you architects tell me.

We’ve had a lovely stretch of warm weather — high 70s on Thursday — and that has officially launched this tardy spring. I’m looking out the back windows at blooming trees and hostas in overdrive. The birds are already chattering when I leave for the pool or gym in the early dark. My plan to throttle down my paid work in favor of having more time to enjoy my dwindling number of springs and summers could be going better, but oh well.

Some miscellany ahead.

I don’t like to make too much out of women’s appearance, but mercy, has anyone seen Sarah Palin recently? What a tragedy, and I’m not talking about natural aging, but what plastic surgery has done to someone who was once strikingly pretty…

…and now looks like this:

She was a silly woman, wrong about everything, but she had the gift of a pleasant appearance. Looking at the 2024 version, I see evidence of chin, cheeks and lip work. The sunglasses are hiding her eyes, but likely there’d be something else going on there. And what on earth is a serious person (see above; she’s not) doing with a cartilage piercing that deep in their ear? You’re 61, not 17. Shudder. But this is what MAGA beauty standards can do, even to beauties, and say what you want about her, but Palin had that, at least. For a more standard-pretty girl like Kristi Noem, it just spells disaster:

Note: Eyebrows drawn with a Sharpie, those ridiculous false lashes (WHY?), and enough foundation to make her uneven complexion look even worse. Again, let’s compare and contrast. 2011:

And 2025:

Which one looks like the human being, which the fembot? Her eyes are disappearing into caves lined with kohl, and good lord, that hair. Nothing wrong with it, except that it’s the same hair every woman who passes through Trumpworld ends up with, the . High-maintenance bed hair, the tonsorial equivalent of a flag pin and MAGA hat.

OK, enough snarking for one day. The announced retirement of Dick Durbin prompted Neil Steinberg to unearth a few columns the senator appeared in. This passage, from 2006, was striking:

Had breakfast the other morning with Sen. Dick Durbin and Dan Seals, the young Democrat who just might unseat Mark Kirk in the 10th Congressional District next week. We were discussing that age-old question of whether the current election really is the most mean-spirited in history or only feels that way. Conversation naturally moved to George Allen, the Virginia senator who, having pretty much dug his own political grave with his mouth, is desperately lashing out at his opponent, Jim Webb, by pointing shrilly to salty lines culled from Webb’s war novels as if they were evidence of perversion. Durbin used a phrase I hadn’t heard before.

“George Allen is a spit tobacco senator,” he said. “One of four in the Senate.” Meaning that he dips and chews tobacco, a vile habit better left in the barn. But Allen doesn’t leave it in the barn. Durbin entertainingly described a flight down to Guantanamo he and Allen shared on a military airplane, and the cringing revulsion the clean-cut, dignified and ramrod straight military hosts extended toward Allen, a drooling nicotine addict dribbling brown saliva into a plastic cup. That’s a grosser image than anything in Webb’s novels.

Ewww. Happy weekend, all.

I had a shit-ton of work dumped on me in the last few days, so here’s more shortened shrift. First, be advised there’s a colt entered in the Kentucky Derby this year named Sandman. He has an excellent social-media team, or maybe it’s just Churchill Downs’. Whatever, he’s been popping up on my socials a lot in the last two days. With his name, as you could guess, he has fans in Metallica, who sent over a bunch of merch for the barn crew:

That’s Sandman, obviously. I love grays. What a beautiful boy. And look at all the faces in his team, overwhelmingly Latino/a. (I refuse to use Latinx, sorry.) I wonder if ICE will be dropping by to fuck up the Kentucky Derby this year, too. Of course, many of these people may well be Puerto Rican; racing is big there. Trust our ICE team not to understand they’re Americans too.

Horses don’t have walk-on music, but if they did? Man oh man, Sandman would have that race in the bag.

Moving on! To the Mysteries of Kristi Noem’s Purse. Who carries three grand around in a purse? The other day I read a business owner complaining on Facebook that the local parking meters haven’t been converted to an app, and still require the antique currency known as “change.” But we’re to believe our homeland security secretary was carrying around that much dough for “family activities” during Easter weekend? The most benign speculation is that she’s trying to keep her much-gossiped-about affair with Corey Lewandowski off the credit-card bills. The funniest was Roy’s, of course.

I am the increasingly rare adult who enjoys drinking milk, but I’m starting to think I should reconsider:

WASHINGTON, April 21 (Reuters) – The Food and Drug Administration is suspending a quality control program for testing of fluid milk and other dairy products due to reduced capacity in its food safety and nutrition division, according to an internal email seen by Reuters.

… The testing program was suspended because FDA’s Moffett Center Proficiency Testing Laboratory, part of its division overseeing food safety, “is no longer able to provide laboratory support for proficiency testing and data analysis,” the email said.

Thanks, Croaky! 10/10, no notes.

Back to real work.

A number of you have asked how Bob Dylan was. Those who have seen him already know, because over a 60-plus-year career, one theme runs throughout: Bob does whatever Bob feels like doing. Also, Bob is now 83. He spent the show seated at his piano, never spoke to the crowd other than to introduce the band, and played about 85 minutes. The setlist was mostly from his most recent album, “Rough and Rowdy Ways,” although he took time to throw in “Desolation Row” and “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” The overall vibe was loping, twangy, Americana.

I’m glad I went, but if I had missed it, I wouldn’t have missed anything.

Then we were into the weekend and its many rewards. Eggs Benedict, warm temperatures, Easter. I hope yours was great.

There were no Hands Off demonstrations nearby, so I didn’t do that, but for those who did? Respect. Best sign:

Ha ha ha.

The news went by in a blur, of course. What a gang of morons. Between the oopsie Harvard letter and the oopsie another Signal group getting the top-secret military texts and oopsie Google Drive sharing, to that add the impossibly hamfisted attempt to brand the all-female space flight as “inspiring” and who knows, about a thousand more dumbass moves that probably escape notice in America’s hollowed-out newsrooms.

I mean, I get 10 NYT gift links a month, and the last one was my seventh. There are still 10 days left in April.

I’m going to do a partial screen capture of a photo in that same paper. It’s a story about Kash Patel and his jet-setting fabulous life on the public dime. Here’s a piece of a photo of the A-Team at a UFC fight:

First of all: UFC, gross, but OK whatever, no judgment. There’s Croaky and Mrs. Croaky, POTUS, Patel et al. What are they thinking? The only one with a glimmer of emotion on his face is Patel, and my thought bubble for him would be, if I were in that ring, I’d totally be winning, only far better-looking. Mrs. Croaky: I can’t believe the shit I have to go to just to make sure he’s not cheating. POTUS: Covfefe. Croaky: Mom and Aunt Jackie would have hated this, but the world has moved on.

Modern life is so exhausting.

And the week ahead promises to be the same.

Why do I do these things to myself? I signed up to take the training that certifies one to teach swimming, thereby condemning myself to another month of training that will involve one or two evenings a week, in the pool. Yesterday I fulfilled my daily exercise goal (40 minutes) by 300 percent. Got home, ate like a teenager, went to bed with wet hair. You should see it today.

Ah well, it’s just another month. And I’m not even sure I want to teach swimming. I’m not that good with children, but who knows, soon maybe we’ll need another $19/hour household income. I think I’d rather work in a weed store. Not as hard on the hair.

Anyway, one of the things we did last night was observe/participate in the pool’s weekly special-needs swim, in which children and young adults with various disabilities get wet and work on whatever. Most of them have some form of autism, and when I say “some form” I’m talking about the whole spectrum. I spotted one of my favorites from the classes I lifeguard, a gangly young man who’s making steady progress. This year he learned to dive, and believe me, that was a milestone. Anyway, he’s bright, chatty — last night he was asking his swim buddy where he went to college, high school, middle school, elementary school and preschool — and I feel very optimistic that, contrary to the remarks yesterday by Croaky, the Health and Human Services secretary who’s doing his best to ruin both, this kid will grow up to go on dates and definitely pay taxes.

I was reading about that press conference yesterday. One thin shred of hope I might have in the future recovery of this country lies in the fact these people are so goddamn bad at what they do. I know a few people with children on the spectrum, and judging from their social-media venting, they’re incensed by Croaky’s improv yesterday. One signed off on a wrenching Facebook post with, I can’t wait for this asshole to die so I can piss on his grave. How in the world did he, or anyone else, think it was a good idea for him to not just promise to find the causes of autism by the end of the summer, but freestyle about the terrible burden these people are to society? Pro tip, Bobby: When you climb in bed with actual Nazis, maybe save that for after the third cocktail at a dinner with excellent security and not in a restaurant. (Roy, as usual, finds the grim humor within.)

Throw in the secretary of education talking about “A1,” the attorney general lying through her teeth, the “gold guy” turning the people’s house into Mar-a-Lago (read that, it’s a trip; gift link) and various other fuckups we’ve seen so far, and it’s possible to think it’s only a matter of time, but who knows?

This is likely to be the last post of the week, because tonight? The Derringers and a friend are driving to Toledo to see Bob Dylan. I’ve seen him before, in Indianapolis sometime in the ’80s, and the show was terrible. Tom Petty was the opener and his band remained onstage to play with Bob, and it was one of those shows where I felt…assaulted by the sound. It was loud, it was distorted, it was painful. Today it’s a smaller venue, and I’m hoping 83-year-old Bob is in good voice and has a far quieter band. As always, we’ll see. The point of this evening is the outing and spending time with good people.

So have a great rest of the week, and we’ll see you again sometime Sunday, most likely.

I’ve been quote-unquote retired for a few years now, and I still think of the weekend as something special, look forward to it, get that Friday-on-my-mind feeling, and in fact think Friday night is the best night of the week. In Columbus, we got paid on Friday, and the table we assembled at the bar next door was long and loud. No separate checks. The rule was, you kept an approximate tally of your own damage as the night wore on and threw your cash on the table when you left, with a little extra for the tip. If you stayed until the end, you might get stuck with a bill for more than was on the table. Or, if everyone had overestimated, you might walk away winners. At a time I my life when I was on such a tight budget that I would put $5 in quarters in a mesh coin purse that I hung on a hook by my door — so I knew that whatever happened, I’d have bus fare to get to and from work, back in the days when the fare was 50 cents each way — walking away winners was like getting a little bonus.

I stayed late a lot, but mostly because I so enjoyed Fridays. I still do.

This week, I had a Friday dinner date with the friend I dogsit for. This was my thank-you for a week of service in the coldest week of the year, plus cleaning the coffee pot, a gripping take you might recall from a few weeks back. We went to She-Wolf, a spot that specializes in Roman cuisine. Had a pasta thing, and a fish thing, and gelato. It was all delicious, and it was a perfect Friday night. The rest of the weekend? Sunny, warmish, nice. Bought eggs, was thankful I already filed my taxes, ate too many jellybeans. Went to the library. The usual.

And I missed “The Ten Commandments,” but Alan is no fun to watch it with. You need to make it a party, with at least two gay men and lots of people who can say funny things about the next big moment coming up onscreen. Alan just thinks it’s dumb.

“THE TEN COMMANDMENTS” IS NOT DUMB.

OK, enough. Another thing I tried to do this weekend, and should do on more weekends: Pay no attention to whatever Tubby is up to. I stay informed, but there’s a limit to how much of this shit I, or anyone, can take. I go back and forth with my friends who practice 100 percent ignorance — and I stress that I mean “ignoring the news,” not actively cultivating stupidity — about how responsible that is. Some news will always break through, but I think to be an engaged citizen, you have to be well-informed. That said, I understand the agita that being well-informed causes mere mortals these days. I think my solution is mini-breaks. And I definitely think it’s wise to avoid shit like this (gift link reluctantly extended):

What do you wear for your first trip to space?

If you are like most people, probably whatever spacesuit or astronaut outfit the company (or government agency) you are flying with provides. However, if you are Lauren Sánchez — journalist, pilot, children’s book author, philanthropist and fiancée of Jeff Bezos, the second-richest man on the planet — you have another idea. You think, “Let’s reimagine the flight suit.”

Yes, it’s a liberally illustrated, ass-smooching feature on what Jeff Bezos’ arm candy has “reimagined” for what’s supposed to be an 11-minute trip on her boyfriend’s spaceship, and it’s about as gross as you’d expect, with quotes like this, from the designer:

“Simplicity was important, and comfort, and fit,” Mr. Garcia said. “But we also wanted something that was a little dangerous, like a motocross outfit. Or a ski suit. Flattering and sexy.”

I’ll say this for the :::checking::: children’s book author: She knows how she caught her boyfriend’s eye, and she means to keep it, if it takes all the lip filler in the world to do it.

Now, here I am getting agita again. Let’s do some yogic breathing and try to start the week off right. Happy Monday. In just four more days, it’ll be Friday.

Oh, hey, this isn’t worrisome at all, is it?

A lawyer’s spring break trip to the Dominican Republic with his family ended on a troubling note at Detroit Metro Airport on Sunday: He was detained by federal agents, questioned about his clients, and asked to give up his cellphone, he says.

But Dearborn attorney Amir Makled, who is representing a pro-Palestinian demonstrator who was arrested at the University of Michigan last year, stood his ground. He didn’t give up his phone.

…What followed was a 90-minute, back-and-forth verbal tussle between Makled and two federal agents, who, he said, ultimately released him without taking his phone, but looked at his contacts list instead. For the 38-year-old civil rights and criminal defense attorney, it was a daunting experience that he says highlights a troubling phenomenon that’s occurring across the United States: Lawyers are getting targeted for handling issues the administration of President Donald Trump disagrees with.

What’s worse is what happened when he tried to clear passport control. This is an American citizen, mind you:

Mom and the kids got through with no problem. But when Makled’s photo was taken, a notification popped up and Makled said he heard one agent ask another agent: “Hey, are the TTRT folks around?”

TTRT? Is the Tactical Terrorism Response Team. For a Muslim lawyer coming back from vacation. The TSA people repeatedly asked him to give over his phone, and he refused because, he said, there was information therein covered by attorney-client privilege. They told him they wanted his contacts list. He ended up letting them look at it, and the encounter ended.

As I wrote on Facebook earlier this week, it’s time to stop asking whether we’re “at risk” of becoming a fascist autocracy. It’s clear we already are.

I got an unexpected work assignment yesterday, and should probably hop to it. Short blog, but sometimes that happens. How about another picture from this weekend? Not mine, but I admire its sauciness:

I want to say a couple things about media coverage of Hands Off before it gets too small in the rearview mirror. Generally speaking, it…wasn’t great. Both the WashPost and the NYT did stories, focused on their local areas but fleshed out with details from other cities. USA Today, of all things, did a pretty good job, and I suspect got their local Gannett outfits in on it, because here in Detroit the Freep kicked the News’ butt, and that doesn’t happen all that often.

But there were notable missteps. A local TV station said “hundreds” attended the Detroit march, a laughable shortfall later changed for the web story. And both the News and TV felt the need to ring up the Michigan GOP chair for a whining quote.

I don’t recall this happening during the Tea Party protests. But the two situations, more than a decade apart, aren’t directly comparable, either.

If nothing else, the shitty coverage reflects how hollowed-out local media is today. Never chalk up to a grand conspiracy what can be more easily explained by: the weekend crew. Never the A-team in any outlet, it’s likely to be all the short-straw holders in the organization — the young and inexperienced, toiling for a similarly distracted and overworked supervisor, all charged with filling a newscast or a diminished Metro page with stuff like fatal accidents, fun runs and other weekend afterthoughts. If anyone was counting on the media to help us through this, that cavalry isn’t coming. Trust me on this: I rewatched “Spotlight” Friday night, and it was almost from another century. A fully staffed newsroom! An investigative team given time and resources to work! A supportive research team, with dusty archives in a library! It just doesn’t exist anymore except in rare, rare exceptions.

Two more signs, the first salty, the second very salty:

Finally, here’s a Substack column to read and tell me if I’m crazy because I think the guy is on to something:

After the fall of the USSR, America pressured Russia and other former Soviet republics to quickly privatize their public assets, allowing wealthy individuals from America and Europe to dramatically increase their fortunes. It seems evident that similar conspiratorial forces are now seeking to do the same to the United States, Shock Doctrine-style. To understand this, we must consider who will benefit — fantastically — from the collapse of American economic stability.

Trump’s tariffs aligns with a plan to transform the U.S. fully into a serf society ruled by tech and AI interests. To create a pliant population, you must first destroy the middle class.

…I understand why Krugman wants to view Donald Trump’s trade policy—especially his erratic, often self-defeating tariffs—as the bumbling chaos of a vicious bumbling orangutang motivated by ignorance, populist posturing for FOX, and petty vendettas. But these apparently stupid and erratic policies are, in fact, logical instruments, when seen from a different perspective. They are designed to destroy the American middle class so our country eventually becomes a serf society similar to Russia or, eventually, North Korea, with no free thinking allowed. This will give maximum freedom for billionaires but no freedom for those trapped under economic and legal obligations as the country goes down in flames.

It makes sense. Peter Thiel put JD Vance in the job for a reason. And JD Vance is one heartbeat away, and 40 years old.

Shudder.

Let’s hope the week unfolds well, shall we?

I guess most of you saw at least something about the demonstrations on Saturday. Hands Off 2025 ranged from sea to shining sea, and organizers said at least 500,000 RSVP’d for the events. I didn’t even know that was an option; I just showed up. (Or maybe I did, saw the RSVP link that required me to give them my email, and thought: Nah, I get enough junk mail already.) Anyway, based on the turnout in Detroit on a chilly, overcast, rain-threatening day, I’d say the crowds exceeded expectations.

There were several thousand marching here. At least 8,000, I’d guess. The course was from the Detroit Institute of Arts to Little Caesars Arena down the southbound sidewalk of Woodward, then back on the other side of the street, 1.7 miles each way. The returning side was back at the DIA while some were still leaving the grounds. Lots of people, lots of horn-honking from passing motorists.

I made a sign, because George Soros promised me an extra $10 if I did:

Thanks to Dorothy for the idea. It was clever, but not cleverest by far. A selection of my own photos:

And some bangers I found on social media, mostly Bluesky:

Here’s Fort Wayne, with Mark the Shark’s granddaughter and her great-uncle Phil:

P.S. Her dad’s a pediatrician, and that little girl looks EXACTLY like her grandmother.

The biggest media fail I’ve seen so far comes from the Detroit News, which so dropped the ball they ended up posting a story about the march in Wyandotte, a downriver suburb. Three hundred people showed up, Debbie Dingell spoke, and they gave four paragraphs of pushback to the chairman of the state GOP, who sneered at what he called a “fake grassroots organization.” Are you kidding me? It was so grassroots it smelled like a new-mowed lawn. At least he didn’t talk about outside agitators or paid protestors, but I don’t know what the reporter left in her notebook. (And George Soros better pay me that extra ten bucks!)

I took the bus there and back, because we’re down to one car this week and Alan was supervising some plumbing fiddling over at Kate’s before she moves in. Stopped on my walk back from the bus stop for a slice of Buddy’s Pizza, and a nice Girl Scout was selling cookies outside. Now that’s what I call a good day.

Posting early for timeliness’ sake. Hope your Hands Off was fun and heartening, too.

It’s amazing, how events like this week’s can make you understand things like the butterfly effect. I just looked it up: “The Apprentice” first aired January 8, 2004. I was living in Ann Arbor. It was a Monday. The Knight Wallace Fellows had our seminars on Tuesday and Thursday, so the following night would have been the first of the new year. If I recall correctly, it was a duck barbecue at the director’s house. None of us would have suspected that a fuse had been lit the previous night, that one TV producer had breathed life into a monster that would blow up the richest country, a beacon of freedom all over the world, not 20 years later.

You “Game of Thrones” fans remember little Arya Stark, making her way in the wilderness and putting herself to sleep at night with her own form of fantasy-novel doomscrolling: Reciting the list of people she wanted to kill for having wronged her. I have my own list, although I’m not homicidal and some of them are dead already (hey, Roger Ailes!), but Mark Burnett, producer of “The Apprentice,” is on it. He’s a very public Christian and has never once expressed regret for having rehabilitated this transparent phony, this con man, this moral homunculus who just today cost my household 3.37 percent of our life savings, into what we used to call presidential timber. Today presidential timber is a termite-infested telephone pole.

A Kennedy Center Honor is coming for Mark Burnett. Bet on it.

Today I got an email from an old friend who asked I use no identifying details in telling their story. They and their spouse are laying the groundwork for permanently leaving the U.S. for Canada in the next year. The details involve applying for permanent residency, picking a home base, checking out neighborhoods, etc. This sentence in their letter stood out:

I have admired Canada since I first started visiting here in 2001. I’ve simply given up on the U.S. Even if Trump and Vance were to die tomorrow, the GOP and Fox have so corrupted the country I see no way to truly combat an active embrace of falsehoods. It’s never going to end.

I’m reminded of a line from Neil Steinberg, way back in the first Bad Administration: I’d rather be on the last train out of town than the first. Me too, but I don’t fault my friend one bit. Meanwhile, measles is starting to spread in Michigan.

OK. Sorry to be a downer, and after I was feeling pretty good yesterday. It’s hard to stay on the sunny side, this week.

Check out this interview with Albert Mohler, president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, “one of the best-known evangelicals in the United States, famous for his writings on faith.” Today, his faith compels him to support you-know-who, and to argue against empathy. Here’s one passage:

You’re talking about the Venezuelan immigrants who were deported to El Salvador. The White House claims that they were all gang members, but we actually don’t know that. It seems like some of them were not. Time magazine wrote about these men: “Inside the intake room, a sea of trustees descended on the men with electric shavers, stripping heads of hair with haste. The guy who claimed to be a barber began to whimper, folding his hands in prayer as his hair fell. He was slapped. The man asked for his mother, then buried his face in his chained hands and cried as he was slapped again.” The President and his Administration were revelling in this.

I think you ought to have a concern about the mistreatment of anyone. Look, I take a very Augustinian view of state power. You know Augustine, the Church Father?

I’ve heard of him.

This is the main Western theological tradition in Christianity. Am I making sense?

Yup.

An Augustinian view of government says that government coercion is never pretty. It is necessary, but it’s never pretty. And, when government acts in a coercive manner, it always leads to some form of pain. That’s what government coercion is. And so I am not justifying it. I’m simply saying that if you are going to return people against their will to their country, where they are seen there as gang members and they’re going to be treated as criminals—

They were Venezuelan, and they were sent to El Salvador, but go on.

O.K. No, that’s true, but at least in theory, they are to be sent back to their home country. And I think that’s a part of the spat between the Trump Administration and Venezuela at the moment. But, I also think the vast majority of Americans would say, Look, our understanding of refugees who are legitimate refugees does not include gang members who clearly are coming to the United States with an effort to expand their colonization of criminal activity.

We just don’t know for sure that they were gang members. There’s been some reporting that suggests some of them are not.

I understand that, but want to be honest with you, and I think you’ll be honest with me. Look, you can’t say that everyone with that tattoo is a gang member, but there’s no reason anyone other than a gang member should have that tattoo.

One of the “gang members” had another tattoo entirely, but do go on, Reverend.

OK. Three blogs this week is the best I can do. Let’s see what the financial markets do tomorrow. Maybe we’ll all be penniless by next Thursday, eh?

Happy weekend! Hands off!

Happy Liberation Day, fellow Americans. Elon Musk spent more than $20 million for his candidate to lose a Wisconsin Supreme Court race, and all he got was this stupid hat:

On, Wisconsin!

So that was nice to wake up to today, as was the lack of physical misery. I finally got around to getting my second shingles vaccine Monday, and it kicked my ass hard. (Keep in mind this description comes from a total wimp where physical discomfort is concerned, which doesn’t bode well for a cheery old age.) It was roughly 24 hours of low-fever no-fun, and as I lay in bed, whimpering, I wondered what it would be like if I was a Wisconsin voter in the election-security era Republicans want to return to — i.e. only in-person voting, only on Election Day. I might have chosen to sleep through the day. Or what if the weather had been like it is today, a driving, cold rain that’s threatening to flood roads and make even a quick scuttle to the garage miserable? Ditto. This is but one reason I’ve come to loathe Republicans.

But we have at least some limited good news to enjoy today – the narrowing of the margins in the Florida races, the blowout in Wisconsin. Maybe it’ll light a little flame in the national party. Maybe they’ll decide it’s better to fight than to roll over and play dead. We can hope, anyway.

So, Wednesday. The rain pushed me to look at Saturday’s march weather, and it’s not good, but I don’t want to be dissuaded. Somehow, walking in a cold rain means more than coming out on a perfect spring day. And as we say at this latitude, there’s no bad weather, just the wrong clothing.

As I’m still a little tapped, here’s some bloggage to consider:

Another banger by Roy, this one on JD Vance, as he considers what, exactly, about Vance attracted Trump’s eye:

I know Tubby likes to have stone bastards around him, but he also likes to keep people close that he can smack around. Fortunately for him, some of his freakshow inner circle can fulfill both functions — like I’ve said, this is the last respectable job any of them will ever have, and they know it. And he’s also got a couple of fuckfaces he can definitely treat like shit whenever he wants: one’s “Little Marco” Rubio and the other is Vance. Trump sends them out specifically to step on their own dicks, which they always do, and he not only gets the pure joy of that spectacle but also a chance to send the world a message: That he’s the kind of guy that can and will do that to people, so everybody better watch out. He can’t really do that to Miller or Musk, but he sure as hell can do it to these clowns whenever he likes.

Exactly right. The Greenland trip was a fiasco, concluding with VP ChubbyCheeks essentially threatening military action to a (for now) ally, while standing on its soil, the sort of diplomatic…you can’t even call it a “misstep” or “faux pas,” it’s such a dick move. Tubby isn’t going to live forever, and none of these guys have what it takes to keep the movement together. Vance will end up going back to blood, I suspect — drinking from a shoulder-supported jug with “XXX” on the front and yelling at his TV.

I can hear sounds from the back yard even through this downpour, and sure enough, it’s what I’m calling the motorcycle gang — the flocks of starlings, grackles and red-winged blackbirds that come through every spring. The latter are notorious for defending their nests, to the point that some local parks have to restrict movement near where they’ve chosen to do so. It’s pretty funny; every year some runner or child gets dive-bombed, leading to an outcry on social media, where stupid causes go to nest. I just watched one perambulate through the yard, making his shrieky call and flexing his epaulets with every one. Must be mating season.

OK, then. Enjoy the day, no matter what it’s doing outdoors, and remember: Wisconsin is lighting our path.