I saw the news about the Brown University mass shooting Saturday evening, and woke up to the Bondi Beach mass shooting Sunday morning. I have no thoughts about this other than: :::deep sigh.:::

No, just this: Mass shootings are a true American export, aren’t they? As always, more will be revealed about both incidents, but that’s my knee-jerk reaction.

So let’s wait a bit before we talk too much about it.

And it was such a pleasant weekend, too. Erected the tree, squired the out-of-towners around a bit, hit a Christmas bazaar, set up a wrapping station in the basement, spotted a Cooper’s hawk sitting on our back-yard fence. My plan to get the decks cleared by today isn’t going perfectly, but it’s close enough.

If you follow sports at all, you’ve probably heard about the travails of the just-fired University of Michigan head football coach, Sherrone Moore. It’s a tale as old as time: Sexually profligate man allows his sexual profligacy to get the best of him. We don’t know all the details yet, but it seems pretty obvious that his main side piece was his executive assistant, herself the daughter of an NFL scout and an Erika Kirk doppelgänger, minus the Tammy Faye Bakker level of eye makeup. Moore is said to have “grabbed butter knives” from her kitchen drawers in a confrontation, and threatened to kill himself with them and make her watch. I don’t know how she responded to this threat, but needless to say, it came up at his arraignment and, well. Like I said: A tale as old as time.

At least he was fired for cause, which means the university won’t have to pay out his bloated contract, as Michigan State University is doing with its own fired coach. For once, I find myself in complete agreement with Nolan Finley, the conservative ed-page editor at The Detroit News. I’m sure his column today is paywalled, but these two grafs are hammer-meet-nail dead-on:

Schools hire coaches who promise to take them to the mountaintop, sign them to lengthy, multimillion-dollar contracts, and when no championship banners arrive in two or three years, cut them loose and go looking for their next savior. Most end up stuck paying the salaries of both the old coach and the new one at the expense of students.

Look up the road to East Lansing, where Michigan State University will be paying $32.5 million over the next five years to fired coach John Smith, and $30 million over that same period to new coach Pat Fitzgerald. So the head coaching position will cost MSU roughly $12 million a year. And if Mel Tucker wins his $125 million wrongful discharge lawsuit, that figure will skyrocket.

I used to say the best job in America is to be the first ex-wife of a billionaire: Marry him, birth and raise the kids, then bail out with an eight- or nine-figure settlement when a spiritual sister of Lauren Sanchez enters the chat. Now I think it’s being a losing football coach with a multi-year contract.

One last note, a story that dropped online a few days ago, but I’m just getting to today, about how the loathsome Tate Brothers were sprung from custody in Romania thanks to the Trump administration, and yes, that’s a gift link. It’s as upsetting as you’d imagine, and my takeaway is this: No more hands off Barron Trump, that poor innocent kid, who appears to have blossomed into the apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree, or a grosser metaphor about assholes and shit:

Barron, now 19, admired Andrew (Tate), and spoke with him over Zoom last year, according to Justin Waller, a mutual friend who was on the call. During the call, they discussed their shared belief that the Romanian criminal case was an effort to silence the Tates, he said.

Maybe he never had a chance, being the son of a criminal and a whore, but he’s made his own choices.

Off to enjoy a very cold Sunday, if “doing some work” can be called enjoyment.

The other day I was down at Wayne State, turning in my textbooks, browsing the campus Barnes & Noble. On a whim, I bought Emily St. John Mandel’s “Sea of Tranquility,” because I loved “Station Eleven” so, so much.

This week I’ve been reading it, and I was 50 pages in when I realized: I’ve already read this. And not that long ago, either. And it took me 50 pages to realize it.

Obviously, this is an affirmative diagnosis of dementia. Also, I’m out $18.

It’s still a good book. Mandel has a real gift.

How’s everyone, midweek? Man, has it EVER been winter all up in this place. It got cold early, snowed early, and now we’re getting another 1-2 inches overnight, followed by a single-digit cold snap this weekend. Our Atlanta guests are heading south as we speak, and I don’t blame them. (Also, I don’t mind the snow, either. I am large, I contain multitudes. With dementia.) Woke up this morning to two more inches of slush, with school called off, which means early-morning lifeguarding is cancelled, too, but the call came late and I was already at the pool and the pre-dawn patrol was pulling in, so? We swam. Or rather, they swam. I sat in the chair and watched.

Bloggage? Oh yeah:

President Shit-for-brains goes off-script:

MOUNT POCONO, Pa. — He had charts that he read from, touting economic data. The stage around him was filled with signs reading, “Lower Prices Bigger Paychecks.” He introduced Pennsylvanians who he said had more take-home pay because of his policies.

But if he was supposed to launch a speaking tour to connect with Americans struggling with higher prices and stagnant wages, President Donald Trump didn’t hesitate to veer off course.

He mocked the word “affordability,” touted how high the stock market had risen and said Americans didn’t need so many pencils. He launched into a number of digressions to disparage the country of Somalia, the concept of climate change and the news media in the back of the room.

Yeah, he’s back on the you-have-too-many-pencils-and-dolls thing. But remember! It’s Biden who was senile!

Miami elected its first Democratic mayor in 30 years. More bad news for you-know-who.

Can a typeface be woke? Mario Rubio sure thinks so, the dolt.

Among the many funny things Jeff Borden said during our time as across-the-hall neighbors was his offhand observation about exercise: “I could get into it if I could find one like…oh, like sex. You work a little while, you get a big reward, and then you go to sleep.” Ha ha.

I swam on Sunday for the second time in 72 hours, and reflected that it is the most paradoxical of the three or four workouts I most often do. It’s the one I have to work hardest to show up for, but once it’s over, I feel much better than after boxing, cycling or doing weight work. I don’t know if it’s the shower, or what. I certainly don’t get an orgasm out of the deal. But I always leave feeling not just exercised, but energized.

Then I go home, eat my weight in carbs, and fall into a food coma.

Swam 2,075 yards in 58 minutes, average heart rate 121. Nothing special, but it started the week off right.

Most of the weekend, I worked. I had to file 1,600 words on pickleball, and I now invite you to ask me anything about pickleball, a game I’ve never played. My favorite research was on the war between pickleball players and those who do almost anything else on a court. Pity poor tennis, now eclipsed by what appears to be a goofier form of ping-pong. In Santa Rosa, Calif. in 2021, pickleball courts were vandalized by a deliberate motor-oil spill:

The players also found a profanity-laced note printed on a piece of white paper lying on one of the courts. Its writer threatened to key the cars of any pickleball players who came to the courts, and called tennis players who didn’t do anything to stop the pickleball players “chickens.”

Don’t cross Big Tennis! They don’t mess around!

Then there’s this guy, who squats on handball courts in New York to keep picklers away:

His name is Paul Owens (or maybe Paul Rubenfarb or Paul Rosenberg); he claims to be 97, and his cryptic business card reads “Let’s go dancing,” while listing a variety of genres like “doo-wop” and “1950s red-light mambo.”

All they know for sure is that his life seems to revolve around arriving at the North Meadow Recreation Center as early as 7 a.m., well before Parks Department employees clock in for the day, and just as the earliest pickleball players begin trickling in. That is when he stakes his claim in the middle of the courts and, in a sense, holds the pickleballers hostage. He contends they are taking away space originally devoted to the proletarian sport of handball, historically favored by teenagers of color. (He himself is an ex-handball player, but like many old-timers, he has switched to paddleball, which is more forgiving on the knees.)

To anyone who asks why he insists on ruining the fun, he hands out a flyer in the style of a ransom note that slams “pickleball’s well-off aggressive elite.”

My dad played handball. He often called racquetball “a ladies’ game.” I wonder what he’d think of pickleball. My guess: Not much.

Otherwise, it was a pleasant weekend. J.C. and Sammy are swinging through tomorrow for a brief visit, and I’m very much looking forward to that. Thanks for your comments on my Belle Isle piece, also. I don’t have a lot to add, except that the man with this big idea went on something called the Charter Cities podcast to discuss it. I gather the concept of charter cities is the same as charter schools, i.e., a boondoggle that allows chartered individuals to step outside the law with the promise of innovating their problems away. I expect it will end the way the charter-school movement has, i.e. with wealthy people getting wealthier, the problems remaining and the rest of us, screwed.

Bloggage? A good WashPost dive into the state of the Kennedy Center (gift link):

So what is the Kennedy Center now?

For one thing, it’s getting a Trumpian revamp. He ordered new marble and the repainting of the exterior columns in austere white. Portraits of the first and second couples now hang in the center’s Hall of Nations, and the building exterior is occasionally lit up in red, white and blue (a move that, many staffers joke, makes the building look like the flag of France, not America).

…(Kennedy Center President Richard) Grenell, who directed his staff refer to him as “Ambassador,” quickly began overhauling the center’s leadership. Hires included Roma Daravi, a White House communications aide from the first Trump administration and a former ballerina, as head of the public relations team; and Lisa Dale, a former senior campaign adviser to Trump ally Kari Lake, as the senior vice president of development. He installed the former national chairman of the Young Republicans, Rick Loughery, and his longtime adviser Nick Meade in top roles. None of the three had any previous arts expertise. (Staffers quickly dubbed the trio “The Icks.”) Grenell spends a significant amount of time in California, where he primarily resides, and is rarely seen in the building, staffers say.

Ai-yi-yi. Can’t wait to see the new medals.

OK, time to make some dinner. Have a good week, everyone.

As expected, Kate’s health insurance, purchased on the ACA marketplace, is going to be more expensive next year. In fact, her plan won’t even be available, so she was booted to an allegedly comparable one for…quadruple her current premium. Which she absolutely can’t afford. And so the three of us must now put our heads together and try to figure out an alternative.

I’ve reached the point where I despise every Republican on the planet, and at least some of the Democrats, for allowing this to happen. I can’t even tell you how angry I am that a modestly paid gig worker like her has to risk going bareback because she can’t afford even the shitty health insurance the private marketplace offers.

But remember! The key to Democrats taking back Washington? Is MODERATION. What a joke. Medicare for all.

That rant out of the way, let me commence another: President Shit-for-brains has said he plans to pardon the former president of Honduras, Juan Orlando Hernández. Yeah, this guy:

He once boasted that he would “stuff the drugs up the gringos’ noses.” He accepted a $1 million bribe from El Chapo to allow cocaine shipments to pass through Honduras. A man was killed in prison to protect him.

At the federal trial of Juan Orlando Hernández in New York, testimony and evidence showed how the former president maintained Honduras as a bastion of the global drug trade. He orchestrated a vast trafficking conspiracy that prosecutors said raked in millions for cartels while keeping Honduras one of Central America’s poorest, most violent and most corrupt countries.

All this, while we’re still blowing up boats in the Caribbean, claiming without evidence that they’re drug-runners. And millions of Americans are just fine with all of this.

I must say, however, this is really a time for the NYT Pitchbot to shine:

In this Ohio town, it was tradition: Latin mass, biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans, and then down to the old marina to shoot a bunch of fishermen and claim they were running drugs. But now the woke mob wants to take all that away.

— NY Times Pitchbot (@nytpitchbot.bsky.social) November 30, 2025 at 4:47 PM

Friends, I have a lot of work to get out the door in the next two weeks, plus the usual holiday ramp-up. The good news: My shopping is all but done. The bad news: See above. Expect light posting, but I’ll be here, because blogging is a great way to procrastinate.

This will be quick because I have a long to-do list, as generally happens to women before a holiday. But they’re all happy errands, for the most part, so no biggie.

First, let’s go with the lighter stuff, if you consider waiting for a fool to drown “lighter,” but you know my sense of humor.

There’s a guy who’s been hanging around the local waterways for a while, navigating what’s charitably called a “homemade houseboat.” It looks like a shipping container sitting on a raft, the raft itself floating on 55-gallon plastic drums. It might not be a shipping container, but that’s about the size. Everything about it is what you’d call “makeshift,” and maybe “half-assed.” It made the papers when it required Coast Guard assistance to get through the considerable currents at Port Huron, where Lake Huron drains into the St. Clair River. Once past, though, the captain — of the houseboat — waved them off and said he was fine. He’s now docked in Lexington, Mich., and the story goes that he’s trying to do “the Great Loop,” or the circumnavigation of the eastern U.S. via the Atlantic Ocean, the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River. It’s unconfirmed, but if he is, I’d advise taking a few days off, or even a few months.

The gales of November are blowing as we speak, with a blizzard bearing down on the U.P. and just general misery everywhere else. If that ridiculous thing leaves the safety of its current mooring, it’s bound to be broken up before he reaches Saginaw Bay.

On a darker note, I don’t know how I missed this earlier in the week, but here’s a gift link to a great analysis of the Epstein emails by that guy whose name I always have to look up, Anand Giridharadas:

At the dark heart of this story is a sex criminal and his victims — and his enmeshment with President Trump. But it is also a tale about a powerful social network in which some, depending on what they knew, were perhaps able to look away because they had learned to look away from so much other abuse and suffering: the financial meltdowns some in the network helped trigger, the misbegotten wars some in the network pushed, the overdose crisis some of them enabled, the monopolies they defended, the inequality they turbocharged, the housing crisis they milked, the technologies they failed to protect people against.

This is Giridharadas’ particular hobbyhorse; he writes a lot about the global elite, who care less for the rest of us than they do their own spouses. But it’s pretty perceptive, rich with detail and observations like this:

Many of the Epstein emails begin with a seemingly banal rite that, the more I read, took on greater meaning: the whereabouts update and inquiry. In the Epstein class, emails often begin and end with pings of echolocation. “Just got to New York — love to meet, brainstorm,” the banker Robert Kuhn wrote to Mr. Epstein. “i’m in wed, fri. edelman?” Mr. Epstein wrote to the billionaire Thomas Pritzker (it is unclear if he meant a person, corporation or convening). To Lawrence Krauss, a physicist in Arizona: “noam is going to tucson on the 7th. will you be around.” Mr. Chopra wrote to say he would be in New York, first speaking, then going “for silence.” Gino Yu, a game developer, announced travel plans involving Tulum, Davos and the D.L.D. (Digital Life Design) conference — an Epstein-class hat trick.

Landings and takeoffs, comings and goings, speaking engagements and silent retreats — members of this group relentlessly track one another’s passages through JFK, LHR, NRT and airports you’ve never even heard of. Whereabouts are the pheromones of this elite. They occasion the connection-making and information barter that are its lifeblood. If “Have you eaten?” was a traditional Chinese greeting, “Where are you today?” is the Epstein-class query.

A long read, but it kept my interest throughout.

And with that, it’s off to tackle the to-do list. At the end, I’ll have a homemade apple pie, a brined turkey, the makings of tomorrow’s green-bean dish and maybe time for a cleaned bathroom or drink with a friend. (I’m hoping for the latter.)

Have a great Thanksgiving, all. Back after.

Sometimes I feel bad about calling the First Lady a sex worker. (Or an old whore, depending on my mood.) First, because sex work is work, as we feminists say. Second, because I believe she’s retired from sex work, and maybe that should be acknowledged. And finally, because the current non-occupant of the now-demolished East Wing isn’t much of a First Lady this term, why quibble about what she did to get the job?

First, maybe we might address the question: Was she a sex worker at one time? (And I know we’ve talked about this before. I’m not obsessed. OK, maybe a little.) Not in the stand-on-a-corner-in-skimpy-clothing sense, no. But everything we know about her history as an immigrant, about what she did when she came to New York, the people she associated with, etc. suggests a form of…polite sex work, you might say. She was a “model,” a job description applied to many pretty girls whose photo will never appear in a magazine or catalog, or walk a runway. But she would make herself available for events requiring a certain number of hot women in attendance — parties, openings, nightclubs, etc. — and would be happy to catch the eye of the rich men in attendance. I suspect that is exactly why she came to the U.S., in fact: To find a wealthy man who might marry her and allow her to not only never see the rough side of Slovenia again, but to maybe get her parents out, too.

And that’s exactly what happened. Is that sex work? Probably millions of women consider potential life partners with eyes that cold. I think FLOTUS herself answered that best of all, when asked if she’d be married to her husband if he wasn’t rich: “Would he be married to me if I weren’t beautiful?” A transactional woman.

Her empty, loveless marriage suggests they both got what they wanted from it. After all, this is a woman who wouldn’t move into the White House until her prenup was recast to her satisfaction. At this point, she doesn’t need to have sex with anyone. She has a child and a wedding ring; she will never go quietly, unless it’s with suitcases stuffed with cash.

But I get salty when I hear the most repulsive of the MAGA crowd go on about the warm, elegant, refined Michelle Obama, calling her “Big Mike” because she used to be a MAN, doncha know? They photoshopped dicks onto her dresses and say her husband is gay, then complain that no one will put Melania on the cover of Vogue. “That old whore?” I reply.

This is counterproductive, I know. It won’t bring people together, join hands across the chasm of our differences, etc. But it seems the only response.

What else is going on today? There were some demonstrations in Dearborn yesterday. One was initially organized by a fringe candidate for governor — go ahead, guess which party!!! — protesting SHARIA LAW, etc. He called it off after claiming to have a change of heart about our Muslim neighbors. but the ball he started rolling didn’t stop. This guy appeared to be behind the wingnuts:

At about 6 p.m., there was a growing crowd confronting Jake Lang, a rightwing activist from Florida who organized one of three rallies Tuesday. Police then brought up several metal barriers around Lang and his supporters, keeping them separated from the crowd, who yelled back at Lang at times.

Here’s the gubernatorial candidate:

Another gathering was led by Anthony Hudson, a Republican candidate for governor who initially was planning an anti-sharia rally, but had a change of heart after spending four days last week in Dearborn and Dearborn Heights, visiting mosques and Muslim leaders. Hudson told the Free Press in an interview his rally was to promote unity, but also to tell Dearborn Mayor Abdullah Hammoud to be more respective of Christians and their concerns. Hammoud faced criticism earlier this year for berating a Christian minister, but later said the city welcomes all.

Note the misuse of “respective” by the reporter. The word he was trying for is “respectful,” but unfortunately, all the copy editors were purged in some previous round of cuts, apparently.

Listen to this douchebag, though:

Hudson said he visited the Islamic Center of America in Dearborn, Dearborn Community Center, the Islamic Institute of America in Dearborn Heights and the Islamic House of Wisdom in Dearborn Heights, where he met with Imam Mohammad Elahi, a prominent Islamic and interfaith leader in Michigan. He also visited Eternal Light, a nonprofit in Dearborn Heights, and a food bank.

“We’re proving the point that we didn’t see sharia law in Dearborn,” Hudson said. “We didn’t see women getting assaulted or disrespected. We saw women business owners that were yelling at men, telling them what to do. We saw young women walking at night to go to the bars and they weren’t being harassed. We saw the gentlemen’s clubs, which is against sharia law. We saw the liquor stores, which is against it. We just saw so many things that were against sharia law that I made the determination that during my trip, my four days, there was no sharia law.”

Afer living here all these years, I notice the wingnut panic over Dearborn runs in cycles. They all seem to take their cues from one another, because they have so few original ideas, and the wheel has turned again. The other day I looked up M*ll*ssa C*ron*, the fameball from the 2020 election cycle, and even she was posting “content” from Dearborn during the call to prayer, barking, “How would you like to listen to this five times a day?” And I considered that nearly all the people within earshot are Muslim themselves, and Melly herself lives in goddamn Macomb County, so what’s her damage? It’s just Dearborn’s turn, I guess.

God help us if they discover Hamtramck. OK, then. Time to find a grindstone and press my nose to it. Happy Wednesday, all.

How many of you have young-adult children? And how many of them are at least as disgusted with the Democrats than the GOP? Are they even, perhaps, more disgusted, because at least the GOP says it’s the enemy of things that are important to them, while the Dems pretend to be on their side? And refuse to leave their elected positions until, like, oh, Eleanor Holmes Norton, they have to be forced or shamed out due to their physical and mental deterioration? (Note: This hasn’t happened yet, in Norton’s case. She plans to run again.)

How is the Surrender Caucus going over with those young people?

This combination photo of eight senators who are facing criticism from the Democratic party for their deal to end the government shutdown shows Sen. Catherine Cortez Masto, D-Nev., top row from left, Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Dick Durbin, D-Ill., Sen. John Fetterman, D-Pa., Sen. Maggie Hassan, D-N.H., and bottom row from left, Sen. Tim Kaine, D-Va., Sen. Angus King, I-Maine, Sen. Jacky Rosen, D-Nev., and Sen. Jeanne Shaheen, D-N.H. (AP Photo)

Fucking Dick Durbin in particular:

Whoa — Sen. Durbin went to up Leader Thune during the vote last night to tell him that on the shutdown vote and ACA promise that "8 of us are sticking our neck out that you're going to keep your word. I hope you will. He said 'I assure you I will,'" Durbin says just now

— Burgess Everett (@burgessev.bsky.social) November 10, 2025 at 12:59 PM

We had one week — not even! — to savor our victory before the Neville Chamberlain Caucus ripped it away.

When people tell you that the GOP is unpopular, but the Democrats are even more so, this is why. The scoundrels.

So: With that mood established, I made the mistake of reading comments on a story about a local billionaire’s divorce. Thirty-year marriage, five children, which included one son who died young of an incurable disease (neurofibromatosis). They were together when they were young, and they split up when they were rich. See if you can guess what at least some of the online reaction was?

But of course. She’s a ho’.

Can you tell it’s been cold the last two days? Bitter wind, all of it? Yep. Let’s hope the back half of the week is more promising.

In other news at this hour, the GOP is still trash. This is a direct response to the SNAP crisis. I checked.

A few days back I turned on NPR, to yet another — yet! another! — earnest, NPR-like discussion on how to reach out to people you disagree with. How to build bridges, join hands across the chasm of our differences, all that.

And I…didn’t snap, exactly, but I reached my limit. I switched to the AM band, set push-button tuning for a couple of right-wing, all-talk stations. Enough of my NPR bubble; let’s see what the other side is talking about, vis-a-vis their political opponents.

I regret to inform you, although not surprised by it either, that they are not talking about joining hands, reaching out, or making nice. The only time liberals, or even moderates, are mentioned, it’s in discussions like, “How many New Yorkers will flee the city if Zohran Mamdani is elected? Tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands?” “The problem with that party is, they’re not proud to be American.”

And that’s not all. Talk about closed systems: In this world, Fox News at the top and bottom of the hour is nearly as lib’rul as NPR. One of the stations carries a network whose anchors and reporters say “the Democrat party” and “the government remains shut down, as Democrats refuse to budge from their insistence on free health care for illegal aliens.”

So no, I’m not particularly interested in hearing about how to talk to these folks. Really, really not interested.

But the blog today has been, as we say, overtaken by events, with the death of Dick Cheney. His black heart, mechanical though it was, finally couldn’t keep up with his deteriorating body, and he went the way of all flesh. I guess his statement in 2024, that he’d be voting for Kamala Harris, is supposed to redeem him somehow. Huh. Well, strange bedfellows and all that. We’ve talked here before about how Trump has managed to make even ghastly people look good, just because they oppose him. Dan Quayle and Mike Pence as the saviors of democracy – at least temporarily – is only one example.

But to me, Dick Cheney will always be this guy:

Thanks to Jeff G. for the image.

I remember learning about Abu Ghraib. I was finishing up my fellowship in Ann Arbor, driving back from a job tryout in Minnesota. I didn’t get the job, and Wisconsin was under my wheels on the way home, and I checked email during a gas stop. A friend in Fort Wayne wrote about the Lynndie England photos, the one where she’s holding the prisoner on a leash. He wrote something like, “But we haven’t accidentally dropped a nuke out of a Blackhawk helicopter, so I guess the war is going great!”

Very droll, my friends.

And who suffered for America’s foray into torture? Lynndie England, certainly, and a few other soldiers. Not Cheney.

So that’s my near-midweek catch-up. I would save this and post it tomorrow, but it’s time to discuss our late vice-president, so here you go.

I guess I’ve been gone a while. No reason. There are times when the well is empty and must be refilled, especially when you’re making a concerted effort not to think and write about a particular person more than is necessary, and/or part of our patriotic duty of being well-informed Americans.

Then I read about the Great Gatsby-themed party the president threw at Mar-a-lago on Halloween, on the literal eve of millions of Americans losing their SNAP benefits, and I get a goddamn facial tic. Fortunately, there are good people in the world:

That’s at the Eastern Market Saturday. I can’t wait until this motherfucker dies. The whitewashing of JD Vance’s marriage in preparation for that event, we’ll save for another day.

I’ve been walking around woolgathering on a subject that floats in and out of my headspace — transgender…ism? Is that a word? Dunno, but the issue keeps surfacing in connection with terrible crime, and I’m alarmed for the trans people I know, all of whom are not criminals and may end up suffering as a result.

A kid in Indiana, arrested while planning a mass school shooting. Nashville school shooter, maybe transgender. The person just sentenced for plotting to kill SCOTUS Justice Kavanagh? Transitioning.

Anyone with half a brain knows that being transgender makes one far more likely to be the victim of a violent crime, not the perpetrator. Yet, we can always count on the New York Post, Rod Dreher and, well, most of the right wing to amplify every incident, and most people don’t pay attention beyond that.

Transitioning is such a huge step to make, I hesitate to suggest anyone does it on a whim. But the sort of people who commit mass shootings or targeted assassinations are not mentally healthy people.

It made me think of the ’80s, and this guy I used to work with. His marriage was clearly not meant for the long run. Every talk show – and there were a lot of them on around that time, from Phil Donohue to Jenny Jones to Oprah – was talking about repressed memories and/or Satanic cults, and especially repressed memories of Satanic cult abuse. And soon enough, she was accusing him of Satanically abusing their kids, or her, or that she was recovering memories of all of the above. I think she may have thrown multiple personalities in the mix, too.

A troubled woman, yes. But not one crazy enough to be committed. Subclinical, as the shrinks say. It made me think about people who believed, once upon a time, that incubi and succubi entered their bedrooms at night and penetrated them sexually, sometimes impregnating them. I saw “Agnes of God,” both on stage and in the movie. Now those people are more likely to believe aliens do the same thing. There are no incubi, succubi or aliens. I feel pretty confident in this.

My point is that every era in history, especially in this media-soaked age, has its high-profile mental issues, and I wonder if the people in that link-filled paragraph are truly trans, or have simple seized on it as a way to explain the static in their own heads. Next year, we may be back to incubi and succubi, who knows.

A passage from the story I linked above:

“They hate your guts. They despise everything you stand for, and we’re running out of time to stop them,” a somber looking Virginia Lt. Gov. Winsome Earle-Sears says in a recent campaign ad. “This election, don’t let radicals decide what kind of man gets to undress next to your daughter at school.”

Earle-Sears, a Republican, poured millions of dollars into this ominous advertising blitz attacking her Democratic opponent for governor, Abigail Spanberger, as a radical on transgender issues. She blanketed the airwaves with warnings to Virginians that mimicked Donald Trump’s successful campaign against Kamala Harris last year (“Kamala is for they/them, Trump is for you”).

But as Tuesday’s election approaches, the line of attack does not appear to be working as well for Earle-Sears as it did for Trump, according to data, raising questions about how potent the issue will be in the future for a party facing voter anger over high prices. Spanberger is leading Earle-Sears in recent polls.

So we may have already passed Peak Trans Panic. Let’s hope so.

It’s the return to standard time this weekend, so expect a tsunami of complaints. It gets dark so early now, etc. I will repeat my twice-yearly opinion about this: Changing clocks in spring and fall is a useful adjustment to the way we live our lives, at most a minor inconvenience, and some people should stop complaining about it.

I see the Free Press – the one in Detroit – is making a fuss over the upcoming 50th anniversary of the loss of the Edmund Fitzgerald. We will inevitably hear the Gordon Lightfoot song over and over in the next week. I’m taking this opportunity to echo something I believe Eric Zorn once wrote, and he may have been quoting Peter Sagal, I’m not sure: That Lightfoot’s song is only the second-best song about a shipwreck. The best is this one. Listen and see if you agree. It’s certainly a good anthem for times like these.

And with that, I’m back in the saddle. Have a good week ahead.