Nope, sorry, not feeling better, although based on the fact I woke up Saturday morning with the feeling of having a hot poker stabbed into my ear, I’m fairly sure of my self-diagnosis. It so happens I had an unopened package of cipro otic solution from a previous false alarm, still unexpired. So I’m self-medicating until I can see the doctor.

And two sentences of another person’s medical woes should do it, so let’s move on.

Man, has summer arrived with a vengeance. A week ago, long sleeves, and now, an extended period in the 90s. (It’s especially fun with a hot-lava post-nasal drip, let me just say.) Fortunately, the inaugural Grosse Pointe Pride parade was wrapped before noon:

I walked, yes. Why not? It was the safest, most family-friendly Pride march you’ve ever seen — not a dyke on a bike or a leather daddy in sight. Everyone behaved themselves, and even the cops were friendly. A trio of high school-age MAGAs showed up with their Trump flag, but they kept to themselves and didn’t draw attention to themselves.

What I noticed most? Teenage girls never, EVER tire of taking photos of themselves. Especially when they have rainbows painted on their cheeks.

So, with much of the weekend spent lying in bed, hoping the pressure didn’t blow my eardrums clean outta my head, a little bit of bloggage, most of it outdated.

A rather blunt-spoken account of working with Roget Ailes. Spoiler alert: He was not a nice person, not even a little bit.

The Guardian is reporting that our president’s state visit to the U.K. has been indefinitely postponed. Why?

The US president said he did not want to come if there were large-scale protests and his remarks in effect put the visit on hold for some time.

For some time? For ever, at this rate. Maybe the Queen decided against loaning him her golden carriage.

Now starts the slow process of catching up. And the wonders of antibiotics. (Fingers crossed.)

Again with the apologies, and I’m sorry. Sorry to be scarce around here, sorry to be always apologizing for it. Monday afternoon I seem to have been struck down by an illness, and I’m not sure what it is. Might be allergy-related; this year has been an absolute mofo for pollen. It reminds me of the ear infection I got the last time I swam before I made wearing earplugs a regular habit, but my ears don’t hurt (yet). I considered going to a strip of doctors’ offices nearby and walking the halls until I found a nurse with an otoscope. But then the low-grade fever rose again, and I decided to go back to bed.

So that’s me, today. Alternating chills and sweats and really not wanting to do anything other than watch “The Great British Baking Show” from the couch.

Instead, I have links. They’re old links, because I gathered them on Monday, but maybe you haven’t seen them yet.

Check out the rocket trail on this chart, tracking overdose deaths in the U.S. Appalling. Wait until all those Trump voters realize they voted away their health care. This New Yorker story is instructive:

Michael Barrett and Jenna Mulligan, emergency paramedics in Berkeley County, West Virginia, recently got a call that sent them to the youth softball field in a tiny town called Hedgesville. It was the first practice of the season for the girls’ Little League team, and dusk was descending. Barrett and Mulligan drove past a clubhouse with a blue-and-yellow sign that read “Home of the Lady Eagles,” and stopped near a scrubby set of bleachers, where parents had gathered to watch their daughters bat and field.

Two of the parents were lying on the ground, unconscious, several yards apart. As Barrett later recalled, the couple’s thirteen-year-old daughter was sitting behind a chain-link backstop with her teammates, who were hugging her and comforting her. The couple’s younger children, aged ten and seven, were running back and forth between their parents, screaming, “Wake up! Wake up!” When Barrett and Mulligan knelt down to administer Narcan, a drug that reverses heroin overdoses, some of the other parents got angry. “You know, saying, ‘This is bullcrap,’” Barrett told me. “‘Why’s my kid gotta see this? Just let ’em lay there.’” After a few minutes, the couple began to groan as they revived. Adults ushered the younger kids away. From the other side of the backstop, the older kids asked Barrett if the parents had overdosed. “I was, like, ‘I’m not gonna say.’ The kids aren’t stupid. They know people don’t just pass out for no reason.” During the chaos, someone made a call to Child Protective Services.

At this stage of the American opioid epidemic, many addicts are collapsing in public—in gas stations, in restaurant bathrooms, in the aisles of big-box stores. Brian Costello, a former Army medic who is the director of the Berkeley County Emergency Medical Services, believes that more overdoses are occurring in this way because users figure that somebody will find them before they die. “To people who don’t have that addiction, that sounds crazy,” he said. “But, from a health-care provider’s standpoint, you say to yourself, ‘No, this is survival to them.’ They’re struggling with using but not wanting to die.”

We are all West Virginia now, or soon will be.

In 2018, the GOP strategy will be all about the media. I wonder if those of you who don’t work in this business know what it’s like to be universally loathed by the general public. I expect you do, because you’re in similar fields. We just keep doing the job, as strange as it can be in these times. I was doing spadework on a story a few weeks ago that was put on the shelf until the whipsawing in D.C. leads to a coherent policy, if it ever does, and this week I’m doing the same – working on something that could be overtaken by events before, like, Friday. And I’m sick, too. Woe, woe is me.

I don’t think it’ll be overtaken by events, though, because the event we’ll all be watching is the Comey Show, starting tomorrow.

I believe J.C. flagged this on Monday, but if you didn’t see it then, I wish to do so again: A teacher deep in Ohio’s coal country tries to school his students on climate change. This guy’s a hero.

Finally, Neil Steinberg wrote something elsewhere, on the science of falling. Interesting.

Back to bed for me. OK, no. I’m actually in bed. But back to work, anyway.

So glad you nice commenters are willing to keep the chitchat going when the bartender retires to her cot in the back. You make running this place so much easier.

I had some evening stuff last week, and I have evening stuff this week, but not quite as much this as last. I’m also hitting the weight rack again, which means I’m walking around like a crippled-up gimp, but last week was the first, so: Slightly less crippled this week. Fingers crossed.

So. A terror attack in London Saturday night, and Sunday morning, the leader of the free world tweets? And golfs.

What are we going to do when this happens here? I can’t even think about it.

With apologies for the autoplaying video, this was an incredible story from the weekend here, about an abused woman and her incarcerated ex-husband, who vows to kill her when he’s released — in a little over two months. And the law can do little to help her.

You know, just an uplifting story for the weekend.

Meanwhile, back at the State Department, things are not looking so great.

Is that enough to start a Monday?

Just a quickie today: Had an early start and a late finish yesterday, and besides, Wednesday night is for “The Handmaid’s Tale” on Hulu, so t.s. for you guys.

Speaking of which, that show is freaking my cheese right out. I generally don’t get swept up in dystopian fiction, but this adaptation is very very good and very very powerful. I don’t think I was all the way in until a flashback scene, to the time before Gilead, when one character remarks that soldiers are rounding people up, another says the army wouldn’t do that, and the first one says, “This is a different army.” I can’t be the only one who thought, So that’s what Erik Prince has been up to lately.

Anyway, there was a double drowning in the Metro this week — a toddler and his father in an apartment-complex pool. The boy’s tricycle was found in the water, too, and the theory is, the kid drove his bike into the pool, the father jumped in to save him, but neither could swim and neither made it out. The grim punch line: They drowned in five feet of water. The father could literally have stood up and probably gotten his nose and mouth into the air, and he certainly could have bobbed his way to shallower water.

The incident prompted me to do something I’ve been meaning to do for a while — donate $100 to Detroit Swims, the program run by the YMCA here to teach city children to swim. Most children of color cannot, and a $100 donation covers lessons for one kid to go from scaredy-cat to water-competent, including transportation and even a swimsuit. On impulse (and because I was on my second beer), I set up a Crowdrise account for it, posted it to my social media, and a few of you who follow me there contributed. Huzzah, we now have $400.

This is not a pitch for donations, although (koff) here’s the link. Give if you feel like it, or better yet, find a similar program in your own city and donate to that. The Ys do great work in this area, but they’re not the only ones. These tragedies shouldn’t happen, and I thank Sherri, Ann, Jolene, Kathy and others who pitched dollars into the kitty.

On to the day ahead! What fresh hell will it reveal on the Trump front? Oh yeah, this.

One final note: I did a lot of driving yesterday, and listened to the most recent Pod Save the World ‘cast. The guest was career diplomat Bill Burns, who explains clearly and calmly how modern diplomacy works, including back channels and when they are and aren’t appropriate. Highly recommended.

Later, all.

I was 16 when Patty Hearst was kidnapped, just three years younger than the victim herself — a fact I find astonishing — and was only paying a teenager’s attention to current events, so this is what I know and recall from that time:

Hearst, a wealthy heiress to the publishing fortune, was kidnapped by a radical group called the Symbionese Liberation Army. She was held for a long time, during which the SLA called not for ransom, but for her father to distribute millions of dollars’ worth of free food to the poor in California. There was a fire in Los Angeles that killed most of them, but Patty wasn’t in that group. She was later spotted on a bank security camera helping surviving SLA members rob it. Arrested later, she raised a clenched fist to news cameras. She was tried, convicted, sentenced and did prison time, after which she was released, married a cop/security/bodyguard type, submerged herself in American anonymity, wrote a memoir, received a presidential pardon and most recently owned the Best in Group winner at the Westminster Dog Show. And that’s pretty much it. Oh, and it’s where I first learned of the concept of Stockholm Syndrome, the condition where kidnapping victims are said to identify and sympathize with their captors.

And that’s probably more than most Americans know. But the story is so much richer that that, and I’m glad to be reading the current On the Nightstand book over to your right, Jeffrey Toobin’s “American Heiress,” about the case. Toobin crafts his story as a case of not ’60s counterculture America, but the ’70s post-counterculture era — with Vietnam winding down and the air rapidly leaking from the antiwar movement, leaving behind only the craziest and most dangerous radicals. The rest of youth culture was entering adulthood or grad school, starting to ask the big questions of self-discovery that led to the Me Decade. The Beatles had broken up, disco was right around the corner and serial killers with names like Zodiac and Zebra were terrorizing places like San Francisco. It was this period, February 1974, when the SLA knocked on Hearst’s apartment door and, despite being so bumbling they couldn’t even tie her hands correctly, managed to get away with their prize more or less cleanly, leaving behind Patty’s dork fiancé, Steven Weed, whom I will always remember wearing a bandage, black eye and walrus mustache.

The SLA was equal parts crazy, dangerous and inept, led by an ex-con named Donald DeFreeze, aka Cinque M’tume, and staffed mostly by whack-job women who were themselves equal parts crazy and smart. One worked in a library, and kept very good notes. Others found their way via acting (acting?) or teaching or whatever. Paranoid and deadly, they lurched from missions to safe houses to whatever. They assassinated the Oakland school superintendent, of all people, thinking it would set off a people’s revolution. (In this, they reminded me of Charles Manson, who thought slaughtering a houseful of Hollywood types would start a national race war.) When it didn’t, they thought kidnapping might be the way to go. Patty and Steven’s engagement photo, in the pages of the Hearst daily in San Francisco, gave them their target.

I’m not very far into it, and I’m noticing how many of these anecdotes mesh with other stories that broke earlier or later. Angela Atwood, one of the kidnappers, the actress, went to college in Bloomington, Ind., with Kevin Kline. When three of the group accidentally touched off some full-auto rounds at a firing range, one of the people who noticed was none other than Lance Ito, the O.J. Simpson judge. The Hearst family’s hastily thrown together food bank had its books kept by Sara Jane Moore, who would later try to assassinate Gerald Ford. Jim Jones, of the notorious mass-suicide People’s Temple cult, tried to horn in on the food giveaway. One of my old editors, Richard, covered it for the San Jose Mercury. I get the sense that California is a very big state and a very small world at the same time.

But my biggest takeaway — so far — is how insane the world was then, emerging from the cataclysmic ’60s into the burned-out ’70s. It’s somehow…familiar, the end of a period of idealism into a darker one of cynicism, full of hustlers and flatterers and a corrupt president who exposed how broken the country was. The SLA signed its communiques thusly: DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS UPON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE. All caps. It seemed to fit the times.

An enjoyable read. And the previous paragraph leads us into the first bit of bloggage, this essay by Rebecca Solnit on…can you guess? Can you guess? Yeah, you guessed!

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

And here’s the Financial Times, proclaiming the end of the American century:

Mr Trump’s impact on the very idea of the west is already significant. The western alliance is still the world’s biggest economic bloc and largest repository of scientific and business knowledge. But it is disintegrating. As Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, admitted, Europe can no longer rely on the US. It might have been unwise to say so, but she was surely right.

Mr Trump seems to prefer autocrats to today’s western Europeans. He is warm towards Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdogan and Rodrigo Duterte of the Philippines, not to mention Russia’s Vladimir Putin. He appears to care not at all about democracy or human rights. Neither does he seem committed to the mutual defence principles of Nato.

Mr Trump’s “alt- right” supporters see not a divide between the democracies and the despotisms; but rather between social progressives and globalists, whom they despise, and social traditionalists and nationalists, whom they support. For them, western Europeans are on the wrong side: they are enemies, not friends.

Depressed enough yet? The Onion is here to cheer you up.

Me, I’m out.

I can tell how exhausted I’m getting by my reaction to the news from Montana: So now we’ll have outrage from the left, scoffing at pussy reporters in glasses from the right, a lecture on the historical perspective from some egghead, and then the attacker wins the election.

Hope it doesn’t go that way.

I have to hit the phones today, so here’s this: A look at a California couple who believe, deeply, in “chemtrails.” A sympathetic Guardian reporter (like the guy who got roughed up) tries to understand where this brand of crazy comes from. He’s not entirely successful. As in vaccine panic, much is based on what people say they feel is true.

On edit: And here’s a really good, data-packed but still human story about the fading American dream in Michigan, by my colleague Ron.

So, a dustup in Montana, dust in the wind in California, and the CBO score for the tax-cut bill — that should be enough for you guys to talk about.

Last week I posted a link to a blog post speculating on whether the president is in the early stages of dementia. This week the theory is picked up by the reputable medical news site StatNews, and I have to tell you, I think they’re on to something:

(In interviews and public statements in the ’80s and ’90s), Trump fluently peppered his answers with words and phrases such as “subsided,” “inclination,” “discredited,” “sparring session,” and “a certain innate intelligence.” He tossed off well-turned sentences such as, “It could have been a contentious route,” and, “These are the only casinos in the United States that are so rated.” He even offered thoughtful, articulate aphorisms: “If you get into what’s missing, you don’t appreciate what you have,” and, “Adversity is a very funny thing.”

Now, Trump’s vocabulary is simpler. He repeats himself over and over, and lurches from one subject to an unrelated one, as in this answer during an interview with the Associated Press last month:

“People want the border wall. My base definitely wants the border wall, my base really wants it — you’ve been to many of the rallies. OK, the thing they want more than anything is the wall. My base, which is a big base; I think my base is 45 percent. You know, it’s funny. The Democrats, they have a big advantage in the Electoral College. Big, big, big advantage. … The Electoral College is very difficult for a Republican to win, and I will tell you, the people want to see it. They want to see the wall.”

His mood swings, his intemperate blurting, his inability to find a story and stick to it — these are not small things. West Wing leaks describe a latter-day King Lear, alternately raging and out of it, boasting of his big ol’ TV and his double-scoop chocolate pie. His wife is batting his hand away in front of the world. This is an administration in chaos (but you knew that). And of course, none of this is new since last year; we’re only seeing in greater detail what’s been obvious all along.

Which is to say, I’m switching my exasperation from you-know-who to the people who voted for him, who watched all these speeches and said, “Yep’m that-there’s some straight talk. He’s my man.”

This guy will go to his grave believing he’s the greatest. There’s a case to be made that his brain is growing plaques. What’s 60 million voters’ excuse?

Meanwhile, Monica Lewinsky grew into a very impressive woman, and I regret every bad thing I said about her back in the day, and there were quite a few bad things to be said.

And Fox News has finally slow-walked its Seth Rich story retraction into the spotlight. But what’s Newt Gingrich’s excuse? If I were Pope Francis, I’d be tempted to … well, to do something really rude and undiplomatic.

Wednesday has been achieved, or is at least in sight. Hallelujah.

So the vice president returned to his native state to address graduates at the University of Notre Dame commencement, and some students walked out.

It’s early yet – it happened this morning – and I expect the blowback is coming. It won’t be the full rank exhalation of Troll Twitter, but enough people will say enough stupid things that it’ll qualify as a skirmish. So here we are again, where an administration whose representatives admit to considering changing libel laws isn’t considered a threat to free speech, but college students protesting or declining to listen to a handful of troll speakers is.

I’ll state my bias right here: I think most speakers should be allowed to speak. I think protesting them short of shutting them down is fine. And I say that knowing the speakers we’re talking about here do not come in good faith; they’re trolls, basically, and if you don’t believe me, Google “milo on women” or “ann coulter book titles” and get back to me.

Early on in this administration, there was a certain both-sides harrumphing about “respect for the office,” i.e., that certain niceties were due to the person behind the Resolute Desk, because s/he occupies the highest elective office of the most powerful nation on the planet. This was offered as explanation for seemingly decent people taking jobs in that administration; they were Serving Their Country, not toiling for Trump. Show some respect.

Only respect wasn’t shown by the person who actually held the office. He continued to treat the place like the set of “The Apprentice” between shots, a place to be tolerated, barely, between trips to Palm Beach. In which case I think the average citizen is absolved of any need to tug his or her forelock, don’t you?

The great American value of listening respectfully to all sides is rooted in the idea that all sides approach the marketplace of ideas in the same spirit. And that’s clearly not the case with speakers like Ann Coulter or Milo Whatshisname. It might not even be the case with Charles Murray. Some opinions are expressed merely because to do so is lucrative for the speaker, or because it gives others the chance to mau-mau an authority figure.

A couple-three years ago, one of the young Republicans groups at a local high school got someone to pay Rick Santorum’s speaking fee to give a talk at the school. But, they said when they made this request of the administration, he needed to speak during school hours, because he’s such an important national figure. Single-celled organisms have more savvy and spine than the superintendent in the job at the time, and at first he said yes, then no.

Of course the No opened the floodgates of Free Speech Suppression, etc. So he had to reverse himself again, and now you can’t google the incident without wading through half a dozen pages of right-wing websites that waved that bloody flag to tatters. (And the thing is, the supe had the perfect response right in front of him – a policy that said individuals brought in by private clubs, etc., could speak all they wanted, after school. He should have said, “Sure, kids! Bring him in. I have to coach soccer practice that day, but take lots of pictures and let me know how it turns out. Oh, and turn out the lights on your way out, OK?” The guy let himself by played by a couple of 17-year-olds.

So. Change of subject: Pippa’s wedding! Love to look at the Brits in their upper-class native habitats, funny hats and all. I thought Kate looked awful, but the real revelation was the nanny, who looked like she was wearing a grown-up version of the Brownie uniform. Turns out she was, sorta. The uniform identifies her as a graduate of the prestigious (yes, really) Norland nannies’ school:

But today’s graduates are also trained in martial arts, kidnap evasion by using the pram, self-defense, and advance driving techniques; they are in all regards thoroughly modern Mary Poppins.

To answer the obvious question, i.e., why hasn’t this been in a James Bond film yet, well, I don’t know the answer.

The week ahead will be a grind. Expect light posting, unless catastrophe explodes on Air Force One, in which case, well, carry on.

Now that we have yet another news bombshell exploding, seems time for a weekend thread. Anything else to put in there? Well, for Kirk and anyone who’s been a copy editor, there’s this:

“KOs” – I ask you. The woman was literally KO’d, but she’s also in critical condition. It got changed, I’m happy to say.

Crime in my neighborhood:

It’s either this, or contract murder.

Let’s see how the weekend goes, shall we?

I was thinking I should change my social media profile pix, or avi, as the kids call them. I was further thinking it should betray a hint of wit. Maybe a crying eagle superimposed over a flag, I mused, and googled the very same.

Oh, you find so much:

I had to look up what happened June 28, 2012. Anyone? No Googling! OK, I’ll tell you: It was the day the SCOTUS decision affirming the constitutionality of the Affordable Care Act was handed down. And the Constitution burst into flames, the Statue of Liberty fell apart and everyone lost their grammar. “The day when” — yikes.

Better to go with a classic, maybe?

No flag, but simple, fierce, screaming — this may be my eagle. What could it be saying? Knowing eagles, it could be anything from get me a dead salmon to pick apart to another fucking eagle cam? I told you never again, Bob.

But I looked some more, and I think this is my eagle alter-ego. (Alter-eagle?)

That eagle’s going to a Ted Nugent concert, you just know it.

I haven’t changed my pic yet. But speaking of birds…

Man, this guy:

If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, it must be government waste. pic.twitter.com/JKgabZ47O5

— Rep. Mark Walker (@RepMarkWalker) May 15, 2017

This may or may not be Cooze’s congressman; if so, I wonder if his inbox has started to coruscate with the towering obscenity of Cooze’s scorn, but on the other hand, no, because the world has turned against this soulless skinflint, who begrudges something like $37 worth of parts and labor to make it easier for baby ducks — baby fucking ducks, people — to get into the Capitol’s reflecting pool. I encourage you to click and read the replies, because they are poetry:

@RepMarkWalker The world is awash in hills. You picked the stupidest one in existence to die on.

— Ian Fortey (@IanFortey) May 16, 2017

And many are better than that.

Ducklings. DUCKLINGS. Who in the world hates ducklings? I ask you.

Wednesday is behind us. Yee-haw.