And so we await the heat. I did a lot of complaining about the cold spring, but the last fortnight has been lovely, perfect June weather. Warm enough in the afternoon, but not too, which is to say perfectly comfortable without turning on the a/c. That won’t be the case starting tomorrow (high of 86) and continuing through the week, including a very unseasonal 99 on Wednesday. A legit heat dome. Things won’t start to moderate until a week from Tuesday.

Oh, joy.

We’ll make it through, of course. Providing the power doesn’t go down or some other emergency doesn’t strike. There are pools and fans and air-conditioning. Lucky us.

Me, I went through training Saturday to re-start my career as a precinct poll worker, a prospect that fills me with both anticipation and dread. The Michigan primary is in August, and no one expects any surprises. November is a different kettle of fish, of course. As I sat through two hours of stuff I mostly already knew, I tried to concentrate on the idealism of the people who signed up for this duty and not the nefariousness of the scoundrels already undermining the process by sowing doubt among the pigheaded idiots who still — still! — believe that the 2020 election was “rigged,” as the president says over and over. The people pulling their strings are going to keep up the propaganda until November and beyond, with repercussions yet unknown. In other words, it’s very likely going to be ugly.

I’ll just do my part. New wrinkles since the last time I did this job: As ballot-box inspector, the person who tends the tabulator, I have to stand 10 feet away when a voter is casting their ballot, i.e., feeding it into the machine, and only come closer if they’re having trouble and need my help. Also, we’re now doing curbside voting in Michigan, so that situation could come up. That’s about it.

It’s funny, working the polls. An efficiency expert could have a field day with how things run; you could easily get the job done with a third of the staff. But that would actually increase the chances of shenanigans. The beauty of this Soviet-style workforce is, no one has hands on a ballot for longer than a few seconds. When I worked the absentee counting boards, we had teams of six, and one person’s entire job was to smooth the ballots after they were taken from the envelope, so they’d feed into the tabulator without problems. Another person was charged with opening the envelope. It was ridiculous, but also genius.

And still, ignoramuses (ignorami?) claim it’s crooked. They wouldn’t last an hour at the job, having their preconceived notions smashed like china.

What else is going on this weekend? Oh, did you hear about this? A man, upset by the murder of Alex Pretti, wrote a letter to Todd Lyons, acting director of ICE. It read:

You are a monstrous human being and will go down in history as America’s Reinhard Heydrich, the butcher.

The way you are protecting the obvious execution in Minnesota, even as we see the videos, will lead to your downfall. Even Trump will turn on you before the end, and you will be a sad, despised man who eats himself alive with shame at your own pathetic weakness.

You will never know peace. You will seek to lose yourself, to escape the burden of knowing the truth about yourself. But wherever you go, you will find yourself. You will torment yourself until your last day on Earth.

Harsh moral condemnation? Absolutely. A threat? No. That didn’t stop federal agents from coming after the writer, a Rochester, NY man, at his home and then, later, at his hotel in NYC, where he was staying with his daughter. And all this came after they did the same to a woman who’d posted the name of the ICE agent who killed Renee Good, even though the name had been made public by the Minneapolis media. In the latter case, they pressured the woman to take the post down (she didn’t). In both, they informed the people involved that “they may be in violation of federal law.” (They aren’t.)

Guess what the woman who posted the ICE agent’s name was doing when they threatened her? Working the polls in last Tuesday’s primary in New York. In other words, being a good citizen.

Finally, although this is a long essay, it’s worth reading, if you have any interest in ’60s radicals. It’s a review of Zayd Ayers Dohrn’s memoir, as the son of Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn. But it goes far deeper, analyzing political violence in that era, and held my interest throughout:

In the past few years, the American Left has reformed once again, largely in protest of the Israeli slaughter in Gaza. Like the Vietnam War a generation ago, those protesters have been aided by a central, clarifying conflict—there has been, relative to the DSA of yesteryear, a bit less getting sidetracked into pointless internecine conflicts over the progressive stack—and unlike the Weather Underground, they have been free of any organized Action Faction, of any real effort to cross from building occupation and protest into violence. Of course, this has not spared them the same accusations of pointlessness, unreasonableness, and bigotry for failing to adequately appreciate the glorious incineration of children by US taxpayer-funded bombs. Merely protesting outside of sites dedicated to the auctioning of violently seized land is treated as a kind of violence itself, met with the same yowls and fainting that would meet actual efforts to resist the flattening of Gaza City, the illegal settlement of the West Bank, or at least the United States’ insistence on providing political and material cover for the ethnic cleansing of a captive population. They are still called childish for believing that the world does not have to be this way.

But if it is childish, if any of this—the outrage, the horror, the belief that something must be done—is childish, it is only because a child could see it. It is only adults who find comfort in the reassuring sobriety of pessimism. I keep reading that these protesters—like us, like the left wing of the Weather Underground—have been seduced by anti-American propaganda, by the nefarious infiltration of subversive “ideology” into feeds and articles and schools. If you believe that, you must imagine 9/11 with a twist: hours after the towers fell, as FDNY and NYPD officers swarmed the scene looking for survivors, a second wave of al-Qaeda hijackers brought another plane held in reserve, crashing it into the smoldering ground to kill the rescue workers they had lured there with the first attack. This is ordinary business in Gaza and Lebanon. What dastardly “ideology” is required to find this fact appalling? What far more common ideology is required to shrug, to accept that this is the way the world must be?

OK, that’s enough. News from Hot City later this week, I hope. IF I SURVIVE…..

I was up very very early Tuesday, for a lifeguarding shift. There were caddis flies hatching everywhere, and I didn’t think my camera would catch them, but it did:

They’re fine. Don’t bite. Hatch out of the lake, fly around and die. The fish go crazy for them.

Afterward I swam. The morning was cool, the water heated. It was…heavenly. At least four of the other swimmers had caught the Grosse Pointe stop on the Barbara McQuade book-a-palooza, and were impressed by how great it was, how smart she was. We wondered where we are as a country. Then we swam some more.

I can’t tell you how much I resent having this asshole in my brain for, what? A decade now. And I suspect that even if he bites the big one tomorrow, it’ll be another decade, or longer, flushing him out of the nation’s system.

But that’s no way to start a pleasant Tuesday, is it?

I keep watching the Saga of the Reflecting Pool. As of late afternoon Tuesday, it appeared workers were putting fencing? Around the pool? And cops were rousting anyone who even went near the actual water. Josh Marshall with a few thoughts:

We’ve discussed in the past Donald Trump’s penchant for creating spurious backstories to justify his various building projects. We were told last year that presidents and executive branch officials had been complaining for decades — or centuries! — about the need for a White House ballroom. “For more than 150 years, every President has dreamt about having a Ballroom at the White House to accommodate people for grand parties, State Visits, etc,” he claimed at one point. And it took him to finally create it.

Rinse and repeat: these absurd fairy tales are always part of the Trump sales job. With the Reflecting Pool it’s apparently been in crisis for the last century. Only Trump is going to be able to fix it for good.

Everyone wanted abortion returned to the states too, remember?

Man, these Ukrainians are some tough dudes:

For several months last year, a Ukrainian housewife, 35 and lonely in a marriage that had gone cold, traded WhatsApp messages with a Chechen commander, Achmad, stationed somewhere in Ukraine’s occupied south. They wrote about their days, their disappointments, what they hoped to do when the war ended. She asked about the front. He told her.

“Send me a picture,” she said. “I want to see your life.”

One afternoon, he obliged—a photograph taken inside the barracks, of himself and another soldier grinning for the camera. Behind them, pinned to the wall, was a map of the compound showing the unit’s position.

The housewife did not exist. “She” was a middle-aged officer named Serhiy working for Ukraine’s military-intelligence directorate, part of a concerted effort to draw secrets from the men sent to occupy his country.

“Serhiy was great at flirting,” his commander told me. “Guys in our team started asking him for dating advice.” Shortly after Achmad sent that photograph, the coordinates it revealed were struck by a Ukrainian drone.

Well, when the United States abandons you, sometimes you gotta choose a new path.

Another night of rough sleep last night, so I’m going to hit the hay while the sun still shines. Not hard to do around the solstice. A good summer lies ahead, I hope, for everybody.

Alan is a pretty fair birdwatcher, not the tromp-the-woods-with-binocs type, but the keep-backyard-feeders-and-notice-who-comes by sort. A couple years ago, after not seeing any nearby, we started spotting the occasional oriole.

Orioles, with their bright plumage, are worth welcoming back. But it was only a glimpse; Alan rushed out to buy a oriole feeder, but subsequent sightings were rare. Our little microclimate has been invaded by red-winged blackbirds, which is like having a meth family move in, and we figured they were keeping the orioles away.

This year, huzzah, the orioles returned, so we got the feeder out of the garage, loaded it up — with oranges and grape jelly, if you’re unfamiliar — and soon they were stopping by on the regular, along with other species that apparently enjoy high fructose corn syrup and fruit that grows nowhere near their native habitat, primarily sparrows and robins. Along with another freeloader:

GODDAMN FUCKING SQUIRRELS is something I hear often these days. The ubiquitous critters are very good at finding free food, and figured out how to access the orioles’ chow in about 15 minutes. This necessitated, first, the purchase of a ridiculous squirt gun, sort of a large syringe, that can shoot a few dozen feet. The problem is the squirrels are faster than the gun, and the best Alan’s been able to do is dampen a few. I think for an animal that lives outdoors, a juicy orange quarter is worth a wet coat.

So now he’s experimenting with relocating the feeder. It’s sharing space with the hummingbird feeder now, another desirable species we want to keep happy. It’s an ongoing process. I’ll keep you posted.

Another pleasant weekend. The weather’s been in the 70s, with at least some sunshine every day, and this is, to me, the very best summer. So I’m getting out when I can, which is often. Nothing like a spritz in the back yard at the end of the day.

Of course I followed the saga of the Reflecting Pool over the weekend, too. Don’t worry, Judge Janine is on the case!

Also, farewell to Alan Greenspan and Clive Davis. Happy Monday to all the rest of you.

A few weeks ago, a story sped by in the sluice, something about a company with a substantial valuation that had a workforce of two — the founding partners. Everything else the company did was carried out by AI.

I don’t recall much more about it, AI being a topic that’s simultaneously rage-inducing and terrifying, so I probably read the first three paragraphs and noped out. But it came to mind in recent weeks, in connection with a gas-station credit card of Alan’s.

It’s a negligible card in our credit constellation, kept mainly for emergencies or those back-in-the-day days when you’re driving on fumes but payday is 24 hours away. I always paid it off, never carried a balance. It would give me an updated credit score every so often, which I appreciated: 820. Still excellent.

But earlier this year, we started receiving mail, both e- and snail, informing us that the oil company was closing its proprietary credit-card operation, and migrating it to a branded MasterCard, overseen by an entirely different company, Imprint. Quick! Migrate your account now! Your old card won’t work after May 18! As the payer of the household bills and a person who has most of her shit together, I obeyed these orders. First attempt: No account recognized under this name. Second attempt, a few days later: Same. Third, fourth and fifth attempts, days after that: Same.

Time to call Customer Support then, a call immediately answered by a clanker, er, virtual assistant. The clanker opened by encouraging me to do everything online, where it’s “easier.” Otherwise, tell me in a few words what the problem is. You all know how this goes, because we’ve all been there. The questions aren’t understood, and you end up bellowing REPRESENTATIVE!!! before being shunted to an alleged human being, where “wait times may be longer than normal due to high call volumes.” Reader, I hung on the line for 20 minutes, my personal limit for cycling through hold music.

This happened twice, before I found the company website and started rooting around in the About section, until I found the page for media inquiries. I filled it out with my information, left a terse but not obscenity-filled note about the problem, and went for a bike ride.

An hour later, a call from the company, which went to voicemail, as I was still out touching grass. I tried logging in again when I returned. Mirabile dictu, my account was recognized. Moments later, I was assured that my new MasterCard was on its way. Shipped!

That was May 19. The card has not yet arrived. It hasn’t been activated, whew, but it’s somewhere between there and here, and true to the warnings, the old card no longer works. I tried calling Imprint again. Clanker, clanker, clanker. REPRESENTATIVE!!!! Sorry, no one is here to take your call, try again later.

Sorry for the long windup here, but would someone please tell me how this miracle technology is going to improve our lives? Gov. Gretchen Whitmer lost 99 percent of my personal support last week, when she happily participated in a ceremonial groundbreaking for a gigantic data center in Saline, south of Ann Arbor. It’s safe to say that virtually no one in the area, save the construction tycoon who got the contract, wants this thing. OpenAI had to threaten to sue the pants off the city to get it done. And the governor shrugged and picked up the shiny shovel.

The editorial-page editor at the Freep had a succinct column about this today. Probably paywalled, so here’s the heart of it:

And there was Sam Altman on Monday, smiling alongside Gov. Gretchen Whitmer at the site of a hyperscale data center in Saline Township ― a massive project that will suck down enough electricity to power 1 million households ― bitterly opposed by a lot of residents and forced into the community via lawsuit:

“We know what the current attitude towards data centers in the world is … but I think we can make this a great example … This could turn into the site where hundreds of millions of students around the world learn and get private tutoring. This could turn into the site where millions of small businesses can run their business with AI in the cloud. … Hopefully someday we’ll all read about some incredible thing AI has done for society … and there’ll be a good chance that it happened as this site came online.”

This is a new, rosier Altman, who lately has seemed to discover that telling people you’re working to usher in a “Terminator”/”The Matrix”-esque version of the future where humans are meat batteries for our robot overlords evokes a little pushback. (But hasn’t seemed to hurt the prospects of OpenAI, which is steaming toward a $1 trillion IPO.)

So this is my question, one that it’s absolutely insane I even have to ask: If Altman believes that his work could result in the end of humanity as the planet’s dominant species, why on earth is Michigan doing business with him?

Good question. The governor’s spokesman had no comment.

Meanwhile, back in my little beef with Imprint, I thought it might be fun to punch their name into the Google and ask for reviews. Hoo-boy:

My REMOVED card, which I have had for 32 years in excellent standing has been moved to this company named Imprint Payments. This company is now sending me texts saying I have to agree to having their REMOVED. I already have a Mastercard, so I am not interested.I have been trying to do two things for the past nine days:- Pay any balance on the account – Close the account I have spent 67 hours on hold (literally 8 hours a day) trying to get a representative to assist. I have tried doing it online but the automated system does not recognize my name or birthday or anything else to identify REMOVED now receiving texts saying my account payment is due. I have used the website asking for assistance and am on hold again today as I REMOVED does not matter what option you choose, the system either says I’m not recognized and puts me on hold to speak to an agent. The past three days after being on hold for three hours it just hangs up on you, so I start the process all over. This is definitely feeling like a scam now as I have no way of paying any balance and/or closing the account. PLEASE HELP!!!

If I had this person’s contact information, I’d suggest they leave a note on the media-inquiries page. Not that it’s done me that much good. Poking around that page, I notice most of the content is press releases and one story from Forbes. Which is now a content farm.

Probably a clanker edits it now.

This should not have been a surprise, but as I am Old, it kinda was. At one point in the late-lunch colloquy over the table Sunday, someone mentioned a photo most of us had seen but a couple hadn’t — our friend Dustin as a little boy, sitting on Alice Cooper’s lap. In a golf cart — Alice was playing golf at a course managed by Dustin’s father. (Dustin often says he taught himself to read by examining the liner notes on his parents’ albums.)

Anyway, I wanted to show the pic to the uninitiated, but I couldn’t remember when it made its way into my camera roll. Google Photos is my automatic backup, so just for the hell of it I typed “man in golf cart” into the search engine. Immediately, there it was:

But there were other choices, too. A pic from an early-morning swim in the Shores, with a maintenance guy zipping across the sunrise.

A pedal pub downtown. Two, actually:

Weirdest of all, this detail from the Diego Rivera murals at the DIA:

I guess I’ve known you can do something like this — type “steps” or “waterfall” and be served the photos that match. I did not know it could be this specific. AI, which I try to avoid using whenever I can, is kind of scary sometimes.

I wish I had more to offer this morning, but I read about the president’s most recent, peak-blatant act of corruption — this, of course — and was nearly struck dumb with fury. You want to know why Democrats are so angry? Because I expect my elected representatives, all Democrats, to be SHUTTING DOWN THE GODDAMN COUNTRY right now. And it doesn’t appear to be happening. They’re worthless, every last one.

Also, I have to get a haircut. Let’s get though this week, eh?

I’m a city person. Nothing against the country, but I’m happiest in a densely populated crush of humanity. I don’t care if no one is speaking a language I recognize, or if the subway station is dirty. I’m an extrovert. I like people.

So even though we kinda over scheduled our three-day getaway in New York, and my feet/knees were killing me by the end, I can’t say we wasted our time. The outline:

Thursday arrival, 3 p.m. Thursday night: “Oh, Mary!,” with John Cameron Mitchell in the title role. I really wanted to like it, but it left me meh. Food: Eataly. I know it’s touristy, but it was close to our hotel and honestly, the food was great. Italian is the easiest cuisine, IMO. Buy the freshest ingredients, don’t abuse them, enjoy.

Friday: Considered the Whitney Biennial, read a review, opted for the Met’s Raphael exhibit instead. I find his skin tones enchanting. The NYT did an exegesis on this painting in their review…

…but to cover the high points: This was probably an engagement or marriage portrait. The legend said only a virgin could tame a unicorn. The jewel around her neck bespeaks wealth, as does the richness of her garment. The blush on her cheeks — that’s just Raphael.

A word about modern museum behavior, something I first noticed in Italy, i.e. the visitor who scuttles directly in front of a painting, whips out a phone, takes one pic of the art, another of the title card, then scuttles off to the next one. Maybe they want to contemplate it at length later; maybe they’re on a scavenger hunt. Whatever the reason, they spend little time actually looking at the art. It’s all about bagging photographic evidence they were there.

These are 500-year-old paintings, and they look like they were painted last week. Truly amazing.

Then it was home to recharge before a two-banger of an evening — an early set of jazz at Zinc Bar, with Mingus Dynasty, then over a few blocks to a restaurant to catch Salty Brine, a cabaret artist we’ve seen three times now. He’s remaking one of his Living Record Collection shows, the one with Laura Nyro’s “Eli and the Thirteenth Confession,” wrapped with personal storytelling and a satire of the Nativity. This was advertised as an unplugged show, meaning it was just him and one pianist, and it was a work in progress.

Then back to the hotel. Watched Mayor Mamdani’s video on the new pied a terre tax.

On Saturday, a little light shopping, then to Death & Co. for cocktails. A slice of NY pizza before the subway, then an early night. Sunday, home.

I was texting with a friend, a Staten Island native, and he offered the advice his dad gave him whenever he ventured outside the borough: Keep your wallet in your front pocket. Ha ha. Doesn’t really apply anymore. We rode the subway and buses all weekend with little more than our phones, tapped quickly on the touch screen. No more MetroCards, a glimpse of our cashless future (or present). I still carry some for tips, but I arrived with about $80 in my wallet, and spent $70. That ain’t much.

Didn’t take one taxi. Even the airport transit was a breeze. One bus, one train, walk one block. It was great.

Random observations: The city looks great. Young women waiting in nightclub lines were wearing outfits that would embarrass a streetwalker. Too many tourists don’t know how to behave on a sidewalk, which is as simple as “keep moving.” Finally, I regret not moving here after college graduation, just to have my NYC era. But I did all right.

Other news at this hour: The Michigan Democratic Party had its state convention Sunday, and I gather it was wild. Lots of division over the Gaza/Israel wounds, with a strong showing by the progressive wing, who are arguing we’re tired of holding our nose and voting for moderates, let’s try it our way for a while. Haley Stevens, who was considered the frontrunner for the U.S. Senate primary, was booed and is now polling third, after a surging Abdul El-Sayed and Mallory McMorrow, who are in a dead heat. It’s going to be an interesting summer.

One last photo of an amusing subway billboard.

Oh, and a whole-ass baby grand piano for sale, on the sidewalk. I guess they dare you to steal it.

Hi there. I — we — are back. Where did we go? This place:

It was a whirlwind three days. We ventured uptown and down, saw a play, saw cabaret, saw jazz, saw art. This art, in fact, the Raphael exhibit at the Met:

Dog walkers on the upper east side:

Cocktails on the lower east side:

(Actually, I think it’s more properly the east Village. Whatever, I’m a tourist.)

It was exhilarating but exhausting, and I’m still recovering. More later, but we need a new thread.

P.S. To the dismay of perhaps some of you, NYC is not imploding under its COMMUNIST MAYOR. In fact, it seems to be thriving. Of course, he’s only been in office a few months. Give it time. :::Mitch Albom shakes his fist angrily.:::

I’ll be back when I’m more rested.

A belated happy Easter. It didn’t quite sneak up on me, but it also kinda did. Kate, her boyfriend two other friends came over for brunch. One of us was a vegan, so that was a challenge, but extra-firm tofu can be dressed up a million ways. I made frittatas for the five non-vegans, a bunch of sweet potato hash with the tofu, fried potatoes, a nice Meyer lemon cake. It was fine. Food is never the most important part of a party; the company is. It was good company, and we had a nice time.

I did, anyway.

But I did fall asleep on the couch after everyone left, or at least dozed while watching “Michael Clayton” for the twelve thousandth time.

God, I remember holidays when they were the occasion for a genuine unplug, especially one that falls on a weekend, but we can’t do that anymore, can we? Not if you want to be a conscientious citizen:

That guy could ruin… anything. I don’t even have a metaphor. And yet, here we are, surrounded by cowards and toadies and hand-wringers, and somewhere out there is a monster who will assume the weight of that straw and, back broken, start planning — or stop planning and start implementing — a plan to damage as many Americans as possible. But the shithead will be cosseted behind layers of security. Someone else will suffer, and he won’t care. It’s just how he is.

So I don’t have much for you today. Let’s wait for Real Spring to arrive and hope for the best.

Early in our relationship, which is to say a long time ago, Alan gave me a very nice fountain pen. A Montblanc Meisterstuck, to be exact. I think he paid $140 for it, at a pen store on Calhoun Street in Fort Wayne. I’ve used it off and on over the years, because a fountain pen isn’t just something to write with. You gotta maintain it, too, clean it and keep the correct ink source nearby. At one point it spent several years in retirement, in the pencil cup on my desk, until I decided it was a shame to have such a beautiful pen and not use it, so I took it to the fancy-pen spot at the luxury mall in the suburbs, and they cleaned it up and returned it to service.

The thing about this pen are the details. The six-pointed white star on the tip of the cap, for example. It’s supposed to suggest a snow-capped mountain, as the company is named for the highest peak in the Alps. The pen-store clerks will tell you that in the Arab states, where luxury goods are in great demand, the company sells pens with just a round white tip on the cap, for obvious reasons. The nib has 4810 etched on it, the height of Mont Blanc in meters. Google will tell you the correct number is 4805.59, but the higher number is based on the height including the ice cap. Climate change probably has it closer to the Google number, so it’s fitting that this century-old company sticks with the bigger one.

I’ve been using it ever since. I find handwriting a to-do list is more satisfying than making one on my laptop. I also do a little journal-writing, the occasional check, this and that. When I travel, it goes along, in the elastic pen loop on my planner. I like it. The other day, I idly looked up what it would cost to replace, should what often happens with pens come to pass.

Reader, I nearly died: $810.

A friend of mine is in the Use the Good China camp. Open the special bottle, use the crystal, use the good china. What are you saving it for? Why leave it in the cabinet? And I agree, mostly. At the same time, I went to the pen place where I buy my Montblanc cartridges and bought a $35 Pilot fountain pen, plus a box of ink cartridges. I now use the two pens on alternating days, but only the Pilot will leave the house. At least I don’t have to worry about someone stealing it, although it is a cute purple. The Pilot blue ink is a little brighter, a little bluer. Here’s Fancy Pants and Purple Pop side-by-side.

If you’re wondering, I also use luxury pencils. I have a box of Blackwing 602s in my desk drawer, a sharpened one on my desk. I hardly ever write with pencils, but when I do I appreciate every little thing about the Blackwing. I gave Kate a box for Christmas, to go with the NYT crossword-puzzles book in the same package. (And a pencil sharpener, the small appliance people forget until they need one.)

It’s the little things. The things you touch. The things that are connected to the work you do in a primal way. I do nearly all my writing on a keyboard, but if you’re a writer you should have a decent pen. Now I have two.

Did anyone watch the president Wednesday night? I tried, or rather, I heard it coming from Alan’s iPad. But I noped out after five minutes, figured I’d read the NYT story the next day. Didn’t miss anything.

Happy weekend, all.

The severe cold front headed this way has been heralded and warned about for days now, but it still hasn’t arrived. Overnight, we’re told. Definitely Friday. I got out my flannel-lined pants and longjanes, put them on, and feel right toasty, but it’s still a mere 21 degrees, and I’m indoors. Wore the Parka of Tribulation out for errands today, and it’s stiffly occupying a dining-room chair, so I guess, all in all, I’m Ready.

This is normal, despite what the weather terrorists are telling us. But that’t the thing about weather in general — three mild winters erases all memory of bad ones forever. The AM radio idiots report wind chills, which are pretty sketchy to begin with, as though they are the actual temperatures. It’ll be 20 below tomorrow, the dumbest one reported when I was out and about. Well, yeah. If you’re walking around naked.

Alan will set the faucets to drip overnight. Unless the power or furnace goes out, we’ll be fine.

The other thing the AM radio idiots were talking about today was the 4D chess their brilliant leader played to get a deal on Greenland, when it seems to me he got what we could have had all along if we’d just acted like a normal country and not a speeding truck driven by a drunk. But that’s why they’re idiots.

Now we await the next insane twist in the news. My decluttering project continues. Found this in a case of cassette tapes, which I no longer have the means to play:

Yes, it’s one of Jeff Borden’s hand-crafted mixtapes from the legendary series of Halloween parties he and two other guys hosted in the ’80s. It’s labeled “Hostbusters #2.” I don’t know if that means it’s the second tape of the evening, or the second party in the series. I just punched “Earl Klugh” in the search engine here and got no hits, so I will tell this story that I suspect I’ve shared before, but oh well:

Borden paid a near-scientific level of attention to his mixtapes. (Note the two colors of ink in the track listing.) Like Rob in “High Fidelity,” he gave great thought to how each one should kick off, rise in excitement, offer occasional breaks, etc. Given that these parties went for hours, it required multiple tapes, and each one needed to be considered as part of the arc. One year, a guy who came as someone’s plus-one approached him with a tape of his own, an album by the jazz guitarist Earl Klugh.

“Can you play this?” the guy asked.

Borden put him off, explaining the energy of the party was driven by the music, etc., and he didn’t think it would really work with the vibe. The guy persisted, and Borden finally said, “Let me think of a spot to fit it in,” and they both wandered off. Midnight came and went, and suddenly it was 3 a.m. and the place was still rockin’. Shit, thought Borden. I’m going to be here past sunrise if I can’t get this wrapped soon. He wasn’t the type to turn the lights on and start kicking people out — too rude. But then he spotted the guy with the Earl Klugh tape. “Let’s put on Earl,” he suggested.

The party emptied out in 15 minutes.

I should make a Spotify playlist of these tracks. Something to do when I’m confined to quarters this weekend. Stay warm, everybody.