It was a few years ago that “Everything Everywhere All at Once” hit the premium pay level of streaming new-release movies, and stayed there an inordinate amount of time. So long that when I checked months later, when the rental price should have dropped from $20 to $6, it was still at $20. Even after the Best Picture Oscar, they still expected me to pay the theater price for Alan and I to watch it from the couch.

So I forgot about it for…three years.

Then it appeared, as if summoned by the God of Stuff You Forgot About, on one of the streamers this weekend, free with the price of your subscription. Saturday night at home? Sure, let’s check out this best-in-all-the-land movie.

We turned it off at the two-thirds mark. I was yawning more or less continuously, had utterly lost the thread of the plot — such as it was — and could see the resolution coming like a marching band in a parade. Spoiler: Love is the answer. In between, it was just irritating. This has been Old Woman Considers the Oscars, with your host, me.

Should have watched “Nuremberg” instead. Something cheerier, you know.

Nevertheless! Sunday was a true spring-like day, temps over 50, so we put the bikes on the car rack and took them to Belle Isle for a lap. It was…windy. Sustained at 16 mph, gusting to maybe twice that. All I know is, the flag at the entrance was standing at full extension and it was hard pedaling on the back half of the loop, with the wind in our faces, but we made it. Just a shakedown for the first bike ride of 2026, but I’d call it a win. Still ice on the river in the slow parts:

But look at that sky.

Finally, ai-yi-yi, this war. I just don’t have the bandwidth to write about it on a day to day basis, although my jaw is perpetually in my lap every time I open a news site. I’ve started thinking about false-flag attacks, which would indicate I have not quite gone off the deep end, but I’m standing on the edge of the pool looking into it. I will sign up to work the elections this year, though; that might keep my head from exploding until November.

Breaking: Iran has replaced Ayatollah Khamenei with…Ayatollah Khamenei.

Let’s have a good week, all.

Had a phone catchup with an old buddy, and we were flinging outrages back and forth across the wires. “When did we decide Bibi Netanyahu was co-commander in chief?1” one of us said, and then the other replied, “And why do we have to find ourselves agreeing with Candace Owens when we say stuff like this?!”

It was a spirited discussion, as they say.

This war is not going to go well. It’ll end someday, they always do, and the people who started it will say we won, but nah, we aren’t going to win anything other than another Middle East tinderbox. I got into another spirited discussion with a group chat, which I started by asking when we might see retaliatory strikes in this country, by civilians. One or more targeted mass shootings at synagogues, perhaps. Or worse. One of our number said I was thinking too small, that it’d be another 9/11-scale event. Hijack a UPS or FedEx plane (smaller crew to overcome), then fly it into a packed stadium. There’s a cheery thought. Or truck bombs, detonated randomly around the country. They certainly won’t find it difficult to get guns, not in the freedom-loving United States.

Operation Epic Fury is perhaps the dumbest marketing tag for an American war I’ve yet heard, but there you are. It will soon be one of the most ironic details about this whole misadventure, I fear.

In the midst of this chaos, we went to see Bridget Everett last night. You might remember her HBO show, “Somebody Somewhere,” which is loosely based on Everett’s own life. She was as expected — loud, sloppy, sings great, very blue. The seats, in the first row of the balcony, were the most uncomfortable I’ve ever occupied. Think the tightest airline seat you’ve ever occupied, then subtract 20 percent. Also, the drunken WOOOOOs from the audience were annoying, but that’s the Bridget Everett fan base.

She was very entertaining. Not a bad way to do a Monday night.

I wish I had more to report, but alas, it’s one of those weeks.

Monday was cold and windy and I was sluggish and dull-witted, so I took the keys off the hook and ran a meaningless errand. And then I decided to look for the east side beavers. I didn’t find them, but did discover evidence of their work in a riverfront park:

A picture of this tree popped up on Reddit earlier in the month, and I wanted to see it before their work was done. And so I did.

It must be confusing to be an urban beaver. They can’t really dam anything. That tree will die for nothing, but it’s interesting to see the remarkable consistency to their work as they move around the trunk. And the grooves their teeth make. It illuminated a very dull winter day.

A winter I am throughly sick of.

Did you get up early to watch the gold-medal hockey game on Sunday? I did not, but I gather that for hockey fans, it was a barn-burner. Secretly I was hoping Canada would win, just because it would piss off you-know-who. But the U.S. prevailed, in overtime, so yay team. The rest of it you have probably already heard — Kash Patel pushing his way into the locker room, the women’s-team snub, all of it. Honestly, I’m putting myself in Patel’s shoes and imagining being a spectator at a game, my team wins, and somehow, I end up in the locker room. Where would I be? Where would any reasonable person be? Standing back along the wall, allowing the people who won the medal to celebrate amongst themselves. It’s their medal, not mine. Be happy for them? Certainly. Grab a bottle of champagne and start dousing others? Hell no.

It’s just manners.

Afterward, I texted with Kate, who graduated with one of the U.S. team members. Did you know him? I asked. Was he in any of your AP classes? She replied:

He never gave me the time of day and he was definitely not in my AP classes but I remember him calling Will a fag

I like the “definitely” there. He now plays for the Columbus Blue Jackets. I told him if she ever sees him again (un-bloody-likely), she should say, “Hey, I saw ‘Heated Rivalry.’ I don’t know much about hockey, but are there a lot of fags in the NHL?”

Finally, in this endless winter, I made the time to watch “Downfall,” also known as the movie that generated the Hitler-rants scene that’s been meme’d to death. It’s about the last 10 or 12 days of the war, as the top German command whiles away their days in the bunker. It’s very good, although unrelentingly grim as the Russians close in. Probably not a good choice for seasonal depression, but I’m glad I saw it. Bruno Ganz is amazing. Alan’s review: “The guy who played Goebbels bears a strange resemblance to Stephen Miller.”

It’s free on Amazon Prime.

OK, then. I have work commitments tomorrow, so I will be a beaver, too. Hope your Wednesday is fine.

A few of you have messaged about this bridge business. Trust me, we’re all aware.

Let’s start with a little refresher on the new Detroit River crossing, known as the Gordie Howe International Bridge, to honor the Canada-born Detroit Red Wings hockey legend. The Canadians came up with the name, which is a great symbol of the sort of two-nation relationship the bridge represents – warm, interdependent, close. (It used to be a reality, now it’s more of a nearly lost cause, but we remain hopeful.)

The bridge itself was the Canadians’ idea. The existing span, the Ambassador Bridge, is nearly a century old and was built for a different time. While it can be entered from the freeway on the American side, it dumps out onto Huron Church Road in Windsor, six lanes and divided to be sure, but otherwise just a plain old early 20th century thoroughfare. It carries a ton of truck traffic, which must navigate something like a dozen traffic lights before it intersects with the 401, the main freeway leading to Toronto and beyond.

So imagine living near this. The exhaust, the noise, the constant, 24-hour rumble of semi trucks. It is…not a good neighborhood. What’s more, the bridge is privately owned. By one family, the Morouns. The old man who gained control of it years back was the child of Lebanese immigrants, and grubbed for every nickel like it was the last thing standing between himself and starvation. He had one child, who now runs the business. It is…fantastically profitable. We did some reporting on this when I was at Bridge (the publication, not the Ambassador’s newsletter, haha), and the conservative estimates were jaw-dropping, an annual cash flow in tolls alone of something like $60 million a year. And that’s just the bridge. They also own or control duty-free shops and gas stations on the bridge approaches, significant trucking interests and lots and lots of real estate in the neighborhood, on both sides of the river. They are billionaires.

The Canadians have, at various times, tried to mitigate the damage done by the bridge’s presence, and the owners have not been very amenable. The family is perfectly willing to build a new bridge, but only next to the current one, which doesn’t solve the freeway problem. So some years ago the Canadians said, OK, fine, we’ll build our own. Which threatens the Moroun monopoly, obviously. Around 60 percent of all Canadian/U.S. trade goes over the Ambassador Bridge. (The tunnel under the river is too low-ceilinged to accommodate trucks.) And the Morouns have fought it ferociously, lobbying the state legislature and sponsoring a ballot measure to require a vote of the people (which lost), every trick in the book.

But the last Republican governor, Rick Snyder, believed a new bridge would benefit the state’s economy, and was finally able to get the deal done. The rough outlines: The Gordie Howe bridge would be co-owned by the two nations. It would be 100 percent paid for by the Canadians, to be repaid through tolls. After 30 years, the fare split would revert to 50-50. And construction began. Covid messed up the schedule, but the two sides of the roadbed met summer before last, and the bridge is expected to open later this year. It will have a pedestrian/cycling lane! A friend and I have an occasional lunch date at a Mexican spot nearly in its shadow, and we’ve been talking about biking over to get dim sum (Windsor has an excellent Chinese restaurant scene) for years now.

Enter Donald Trump, and his rant the other night that he would not allow the new bridge to open until the U.S. got a better deal. There was also some insane shit about hockey and the Stanley Cup. Excuse me? A 100 percent paid-for-by-the-other-guy bridge, which has already supported hundreds of construction jobs — we saw them in that Mexican joint often — is not a good deal? And why does he bring this up now, when the bridge is 99 percent done and construction started under his presidency?

This is my shocked face:

The billionaire owner of a bridge connecting Michigan with Canada met Howard Lutnick, the U.S. Secretary of Commerce, on Monday hours before President Trump lambasted a competing span, in the latest flashpoint in the deteriorating relationship between the United States and Canada.

Matthew Moroun is a Detroit-based trucking magnate whose family has operated the Ambassador Bridge between Detroit and Windsor, Ontario, for decades. He met on Monday with Mr. Lutnick in Washington, according to two officials briefed on the meeting who requested anonymity to discuss a private conversation.

After that meeting Mr. Lutnick spoke with Mr. Trump by phone about the matter, the officials said.

Shortly afterward, Mr. Trump threatened to block the planned opening of a new bridge between Detroit and Windsor, which would take away toll revenue from Mr. Moroun’s crossing, if Canadian officials did not address a long list of grievances.

Grievances. I fucking ask you.

I don’t know how this will work out. In my movie dream, the ribbon is cut in the middle and we all just start using it, staffing the customs and tollbooths with volunteers, a la Minneapolis. We just ignore him. Or name a toll plaza after him, that might do it. Because this is ridiculous.

OK, it’s Wednesday. Time to do the crossword and make a plan for he day. Have a good one.

Even in the slough of despond, it’s possible to find a little cheer. The weather has been unrelentingly cold. My nose always feels frostbitten. At the moment it’s sunny and clear outside, but you know what that means in the dead of winter — it’ll be in the single digits tonight, although the full moon will be pretty for the minute or two you can tolerate being outside looking at it.

Then you’re reminded that you have a ticket for this past Saturday’s “Symphonic PFunk: Celebrating the Music of Parliament Funkadelic” at the Detroit Opera, with the full opera orchestra backing up the current iteration of players. It was a birthday present from my friend Dustin, who was my escort. And a few hours later, you’re sipping a Negroni at the London Chop House bar, having ended Dry January six hours early, and while it’s still cold outside, there is the warmth of George Clinton and Co. just a few People Mover stops away, and friends, it was a barnburner of a show. For the “Atomic Dog” finale, a whole bunch of Omega Psi Phi brothers came dancing down the aisles and up onto the stage. (It’s their anthem and they have a particular dance they do, the Atomic Dog Stomp.)

I love this town so much. It just tickles my fancy in so many ways.

The rest of the weekend I spent working and taking breaks to scan the latest Epstein-file news. Sigh. Some of the conclusions one can draw from them are undoubtedly true, others – like the ones from the FBI tip line – give Rolling-Stone-rape-on-campus/Satanic panic vibes. No one with a functioning brain can deny the close, close ties between Epstein and his bestie over at Mar-a-lago.

I’m still waiting for the RogerEbert.com review of “Melania.” You know, our First Lady? The “hot piece of ass?”

There was other good news this weekend. A Democrat won a state senate seat in Texas by a 14-percent margin, which would be interesting, but the fact it was considered safely Republican, and Trump won it by 17 points? Slam dunk. Let’s hope the momentum can be sustained through November.

One bit of bloggage today: Greg Bovino, Mr. Sensitivity.

Stay warm, comrades.

Today — Sunday — feels like it’s going to be a good one. I started it with a bowl of whole-grain, steel-cut oatmeal, just to, y’know, piss off Croaky.

Also, I’m going to swim in 90 minutes and need the carbs.

One of my Facebook group check-ins is with Belle Isle Photography, a group for guess-what. It’s overfull of the bald eagles that have been nesting there for a while, but every so often you get a banger like this, by Terry McNamara:

Notice where the predators started the feast: In the back, where the flava lives.

In keeping with Det. Dale Cooper’s advice in “Twin Peaks,” one way I’m trying to cope with winter this year is giving myself a little treat once in a while, and on Saturday we took a drive up to the Anchor Bay region of the Lake St. Clair flats, and crossed the water on the car ferry to Harsen’s Island, a popular spot for summer cottages less than an hour’s drive away. Even allowing for it being midwinter here, I wasn’t impressed. As I’ve said before, Lake St. Clair makes more sense as a river delta than a lake, and the area around it is naturally quite swampy. (One street in Grosse Pointe is called Grand Marais, i.e. large swamp.) So the areas that don’t have cottages on them are mainly taken over by phragmites, a.k.a. the common reed. Acres and acres of them, so driving around and through the island mainly looks like this:

Every spring, a column of smoke visible for miles rises in the northeast, as the annual Burning of the Phragmites takes place on Harsen’s and adjacent Walpole Island.

Then we jaunted up to Marine City, and had a nice fishy lunch at a seafood place on the river. Perch for me, walleye for Alan. Then it started to snow, so home we headed.

I know, I know — I should have been at a demonstration opposing ICE, but I just couldn’t. Tubby is coming to town on Tuesday, to address the Economic Club, and I’ll go to that one. I should make a sign: EVERYBODY IS LAUGHING AT YOU. Maybe. There’s time.

I can’t even offer any bloggage today, because I feel like I’ve reached my limit of bad news for a while, and I have to turn away from the despair, if only for a while. I’m cleaning closets today. I last went through the one I’m neck-deep in now maybe…four years ago. And I’m finding all the stuff I couldn’t part with then, and am equally loathe to part with now. The English Struwwelpeter? Can’t let that go, even if it is preserved in Project Gutenberg. The subtitle is “merry stories and funny pictures,” and everything you need to know about Germans is contained in the fact they consider a virtual horror movie of terrible things happening to children merry and funny. Here’s a short one, to give you an idea:

One day Mamma said “Conrad dear,
I must go out and leave you here.
But mind now, Conrad, what I say,
Don’t suck your thumb while I’m away.
The great tall tailor always comes
To little boys who suck their thumbs;
And ere they dream what he’s about,
He takes his great sharp scissors out,
And cuts their thumbs clean off—and then,
You know, they never grow again.”

Mamma had scarcely turned her back,
The thumb was in, Alack! Alack!

The door flew open, in he ran,
The great, long, red-legged scissor-man.
Oh! children, see! the tailor’s come
And caught out little Suck-a-Thumb.
Snip! Snap! Snip! the scissors go;
And Conrad cries out “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
Snip! Snap! Snip! They go so fast,
That both his thumbs are off at last.

Mamma comes home: there Conrad stands,
And looks quite sad, and shows his hands;
“Ah!” said Mamma, “I knew he’d come
To naughty little Suck-a-Thumb.”

Imagine what they did for masturbators.

There’s also a volume of my late great-aunt’s teaching material, poems she would read to her students. The ink is so faded it’s barely readable, but it’s part of our family’s history and I will lug it through the next few years.

Back to it. Happy week ahead, all.

I was thinking earlier today about that glorious run we had in the late ’80s, when one money-grubbing televangelist after another was going down in flames. Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart were the biggies, but they were big enough to deflate the entire grift, and that was enough. Jeff Borden and I toured Heritage USA when he was living in North Carolina, and I believe it was after Bakker’s fall, when Jerry Falwell was running it. It was…sad, but served to cement so many of my feelings about both evangelical culture and the American South, which is not my kinda place, except for visits here and there.

There was another great time, during the Clinton impeachment, when Larry Flynt, pornographer and patriot, was taking down the GOP morals squad. Newt Gingrich, Bob Barr, all those hypocrites. They didn’t all stay down, but it was great to see them take fire.

We need another run like that. I feel like it must be coming, but seeing yet another of the good guys, Tatiana Schlossberg, go out early? It feels terrible. Why her and not her terrible uncle? He’s the idiot who guzzles raw milk, and she didn’t even get to see her daughter turn two.

Mixed bag at midweek, so let’s go.

Those of you who live in Michigan know we had something called a “bomb cyclone” Sunday and Monday. The U.P. had a full-on blizzard, but downstate it was a little bit of snow, a 40-degree temperature drop from one day to the next and fierce winds that made that 22-degree final temperature feel like knives on the skin. I considered talking Alan into driving south to observe the seiche effect on Lake Erie, but that wind? :::shudder:::

A seiche (French for “wave”) is what happens when a fast-moving weather system pushes lake water so hard that it effectively drains part of the basin. Western Lake Erie was high and dry, while Buffalo saw their water rise by several feet. There was one earlier this year, and the pictures were amazing, but this one was better. Here’s one from a local meteorologist’s Facebook page, credited to Austin Lada. Anyone lose a snowmobile through the ice a few years back?

Those are zebra mussels covering it, by the way. Invasive species, but the war was lost long ago.

The next time this happens, we’re going, dammit.

Some excellent journalism to point you to, also. First, the Chicago Tribune’s long read about “Operation Midway Blitz,” better known by its popular name, ICE Assholes Invade Chicago Because It’s a Blue City. It’s very well-written, with excellent photos, too. I believe that’s a gift link; at least, I hope so.

I still have a few gift links to share before the month ends, so here’s a social-media talker: Robert Draper’s NYT profile of Marjorie Taylor Greene. I’m not fooled by her apparent conversion, but there’s some spilled tea here:

For Greene, the decades that (Jeffrey) Epstein spent eluding justice for exploiting and sexually assaulting countless girls and young women while amassing a fortune, and the seeming efforts by the government to cover up the injustice, “represents everything wrong with Washington,” she told me. This September, Greene spoke with several of Epstein’s victims for the first time in a closed-door House Oversight Committee meeting. She knew that the women had paid their own way to come to Washington. She saw some of them trembling and crying as they spoke. Their accounts struck her as entirely believable. Greene herself had never been sexually abused, but she knew women who had. In her own small way, Greene later told me, she could understand what it was like for a woman to stand up to a powerful man.

After the hearing, Greene held a news conference at which she threatened to identify some of the men who had abused the women. (Greene says that she didn’t know those names herself but that she could have gotten them from the victims.) Trump called Greene to voice his displeasure. Greene was in her Capitol Hill office, and according to a staff member, everyone in the suite of rooms could hear him yelling at her as she listened to him on speakerphone. Greene says she expressed her perplexity over his intransigence. According to Greene, Trump replied, “My friends will get hurt.”

Hmm. OK.

Finally, you’ve heard the expression “I did not have (astounding news event) on my bingo card,” I’m sure. Well, with the help of bingo-card generators, you too can have one. Here’s mine, from bingobaker.com:

Let’s see how I do. The next time we speak, it’ll be 2026. Remember: All we have is ourselves. Make it count.

An unlucky pig and parts of many more, as the pork-eating holiday approaches.

I’ll say this for Detroit: People here know how to throw a good party.

Saturday, I went out to a double event at the Schvitz: First, a screening of “The Concert for Bangladesh” movie, followed by a one-hour set of all George Harrison music, by local musicians. And it was kind of a blast, being able to move around the whole building, which included a nice fire on the outdoor patio, have something to eat and even take the steam. (I didn’t.)

I walked in during the film’s extended Ravi Shankar performance, and told Paddy, “George Harrison’s great genius was in convincing people to listen to this for longer than two minutes.” I guess everyone needs an opener, but man — a little bit of sitar goes a long way for me.

Things to notice about the concert film: There was a period in the early ’70s when really big bands were, well, really big. Recall Joe Cocker touring with Mad Dogs and Englishmen, which was about two dozen people coming on and off the stage, singing, playing, partying. Harrison’s band for that night, billed “George Harrison & Friends,” was equally populated, although certain players were essential — Billy Preston, Leon Russell, Eric Clapton, a few others.

When the movie wrapped and the show started, they followed the same model, within the limits of the Schvitz stage. Four guitars, two drummers, four background vocalists, a keyboard…there may have been more. But they did a great job. It was nostalgic, but not, Just a nice reminder of one of the century’s great artists.

Plus that fire on the patio.

As for the rest of the weekend, I resolved to get work done, and I did. I’m ready for the holiday (kinda), and maybe even the holiday(s).

How about you guys?

Not much bloggage today, but I found this story about finding one’s second chapter, work-wise, to be amazingly sweet. Gift link.

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.