Another scorcher of a weekend, but that’s summer, or at least it’s super-heated climate-change summer, eh? After a Thursday/Friday work thing, I jumped at the chance to do something I haven’t done for years, i.e. attend a simple county fair with friends. In this case, Monroe County, just south of Wayne.

What did we find? Animals, junk food, crybabies. The crybabies were in the county GOP tent:

Oh, sit on a pin, people. I found this goat far more compelling:

What fascinating animals goats are, with those horizontal pupils. I scritched a few bony skulls in my pass through their lodgings.

It was the last day of the fair, and the livestock auction was going, with cages full of chickens and rabbits selling for a couple hundred bucks, mostly. What a far cry from my time as the Ohio State Fair reporter, when there was a doping scandal around the grand champion steer. I’m sure I’ve talked about this before in this space, so I won’t bore longtime readers, but the basic outline was: Losers in the beef cattle competition accused the winner of doping, but blood tests showed the champion was clean. The following year more accusations were made about the winner, more testing showed no shenanigans, but when they slaughtered the animal and stripped off the hide, great globs of silicone gel fell from the carcass, and oh my but did hell break loose. Farm kids, improving their animal’s contours with plastic surgery of a sort? And here we thought those kids were innocents.

Today I spent my morning editing video — see Thursday/Friday work obligations — and drifted the afternoon away in a friend’s pool. Man, did I need that on another 90 degree day. And now I’m making a promising dinner from the NYT — this one — and planning my week ahead, which I devoutly hope will be less crazy.

How’s ’bout you?

Like many of you, I’ve been watching the Olympics this week. Only the primetime stuff, and I’m not squeamish about spoilers. I know, for instance SPOILER ALERT that Simone Biles killed it today, and the women’s gymnastics team won the gold. I mean, if I wanted to be surprised I wouldn’t be on the internet all day. I’ll watch anyway.

In the course of it, I may see this commercial, called “Dear Sydney.” In it, a father asks Google’s AI function to help his daughter write a fan letter to a track star. “She wants to show Sydney some love, and I’m pretty good with words, but this has to be just right,” he says.

I hate this fucking thing. As the New York story points out:

What? Why would a dad who is “pretty good with words” need an AI model to help his daughter write a heartfelt message to her favorite athlete? Aren’t these moments what parenthood is all about? What sort of lesson is this? Not only does it imply to your kid that it’s okay to offload writing assignments to AI, it also suggests it’s a good idea to let the computer express feelings for you, which may be a troubling precedent.

Troubling? When your kid gets caught using AI to write a term paper in high school, don’t cry about unequal treatment, dad. You started her down this path. Weird, too, that I had almost this exact thought, too:

Brand strategist Michael Miraflor wrote that the ad was quite similar to the Apple iPad commercial from May that was widely reviled. “They both give the same feeling that something is very off, a sort of tone-deafness to the valid concerns and fears of the majority,” he wrote, adding that both were developed in-house.

Yeah. What tf is going on in Silicon Valley? I want AI to do the boring shit so I can concentrate on stuff I want to do, not the other way around. Sydney should return Google’s money and tell that little pixie to leave time in her life for English class.

In other news at this hour, Kamala Harris has texted me 9,000 times to inform me she’s running for president. (You’re kidding, I hadn’t heard.) Then she asks for money. I sent her some. But I have yet to see a significant attack ad on Trump, and I’m ready for it. You have money, Democrats! You’re raising millions and millions! The “weird” thing is fine, but it’ll be played in about 5 minutes, and I expect to see a LOT of advertising talking about what a threat Trump is. Yes, a threat to democracy, and I don’t care if these weird right-wing pundits blame that line for the shooting in Pennsylvania. It doesn’t make it any less true, so lean in! Get going!

And that is all for a muggy Tuesday.

Remember back in June, we were talking here about “medbeds,” which, in the words of the NYT story I had posted, one subject of which…

…came to believe, along with millions of others, that Covid was a creation of the federal government used to manipulate the public and steal elections; that two doses of the vaccine would make men infertile; that Trump had been anointed to lead a “government cleansing”; that fighting had already begun in underground military tunnels; that Trump’s election in 2024 was preordained by God; that he would return to power with loads of gold collected from other countries that had capitulated to his power; that, during his next term, Americans would have free electricity, zero income tax and “medbeds” powered by a secret technology that could harness natural energy to heal diseases and extend human life; and that the only thing standing in the way of this future was a deep state so malicious and vast that its roots extended all the way into tiny Esmeralda County.

Well, the same reporter, Eli Saslow, who already has one Pulitzer and will no doubt gather a few more in the coming years, actually found someone seeking medbed therapy, such as it is. And the story — gift link here — is astonishing.

The subject is a 60-ish former paratrooper and current rancher, whose body is a banged-up, painful mess, and thanks to the “Patriot Party News,” whose various feeds are his near-constant companion, is after this miracle cure his online friends are talking about. He seems like he at least leans in the direction of skepticism, but piping this garbage into his brain nearly every waking moment of his life has taken a toll:

Michael walked outside to check on the horses while he listened to people on the audio feed talk about how Trump was anointed president by God, and how George Soros was building mansions in Hollywood to house undocumented immigrants. He turned up the volume and spoke back to the group over the wind as the unrealities in his ears continued to become the reality of his life.

“Thanks for helping me get up and going this morning,” he said. “I never thought I would be on a platform with people I’d never met and hear this many I love yous.”

“I’m so glad we’re in this war together,” said an aircraft mechanic who went by the name Oath Keeper Bill. “We need you healthy and strong. Have you been following the latest news on medbeds?”

“Oh yeah. They’re here, and they can heal anything,” someone else responded. “Cancer. Dementia. Broken bones. Arthritis. Forty-five minutes in one of those beds, and you’ll never be in pain again.”

“Come on,” Michael said. “Really?”

Yes, Michael, really! Of course, “the military” has a big share of them, and the ones in private hands are being hogged by “liberal billionaires” and why no one thought to pop Joe Biden in one is not a question that’s answered here. I don’t want to spoil the story for you, but eventually Michael gets his medbed appointment — and this section of the story is amazing. Just a glimpse:

He picked up the menu of options and looked at the alphabetized first page, which had more than 50 choices beginning with the letter A: “Acid Reflux,” “Acne,” “Alzheimer’s,” “Alcoholism,” “Aneurysm,” “Anthrax,” “Anxiety Relief,” “Arthritis,” “Asperger’s,” “Autism.”

“Wow, it can really correct all this?” Michael asked.

“Over time, it’s possible,” Andrea said. “As long as you believe, and your mind and body are in alignment with the right frequencies.”

It’s just a new version of faith healing, yes, but…wow. I said back in June I’m no longer interested in making nice with these people, that they deserve whatever is coming for them, but it’s hard to stay hard-hearted about legit chumps.

No, maybe it isn’t.

What else did I do this weekend? Well, it was hot. And I worked. But the coming week won’t be as busy as last week. But it will be as hot. Hotter. Stay cool out there.

Whew, what a week. Sorry for being mostly absent, but I have a week-long commitment with a social-media client that is kinda tapping my energy, although today I got to watch this YouTube clip as part of it, and it cheered me right up and I bet it’ll do the same for you. Watch the whole thing; it just keeps getting better.

I’m mostly cheered up on a lot of fronts. As we’ve been discussing in comments for the last month, it’s been…a fucking month. A lot, as the kids say. But now, things are looking up and I can feel my energy and optimism returning, although I’m not taking a goddamn thing for granted this time. If Kamala can appear appropriately presidential in coming weeks — or at least present as a credible alternative to angry grandpa — we have a real shot.

Also, I sent her $100. I’m sure that’ll make the difference.

“Are you worried it might come back to bite you?” Alan asked of this donation. Journalists aren’t supposed to make political donations, but hell, I’m barely a journalist anymore, and who the fuck cares. This is life or death. I’m on the side of life.

Also, I once donated to a couple of Jennifer Brunner’s campaigns in Ohio, and no one cared. So pfft.

As I imagine you’ve been doing, I’m mainly just absorbing the news, trying to synthesize it and get through the day and into the night without lying awake half of it, thinking about whether to stay and become a fighter for democracy or check out and find a nice cheap property in the Italian countryside. In between, I watched the latest adaptation of “Presumed Innocent” and came away thinking man, what a piece of crap.

How about you?

As Lloyd Bridges once said, I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

Enough with a chatty, breezy blog today. We went for a bike ride on a hot day on the Detroit riverwalk, and somehow, I left my phone at home. On the drive, we listened to a new mix CD Jeff Borden sent us last week. As we pulled back into the garage and my watch reconnected with it, it was nonstop ping-ping-ping and I knew something was up, and it was.

I simply cannot keep up with the news today. So it’s up to you. Have at it.

I suspect those of you on social media have already heard the news that President Biden called the widow of the man killed at the Trump rally, but she wouldn’t take it. Her husband, “a devout Republican,” wouldn’t have wanted her to, she said. As for Trump, he hasn’t called yet. He played golf the following day.

Meanwhile, I looked up the dead guy, Corey Comperatore, on his socials. He was mostly a reply person on Twitter. And many of them were like this:

OK, then.

This really, really has been a shit couple of weeks, hasn’t it? The most terrible people appear to be winning. I’m starting to think they are winning. I’ll still vote, with my optimism fading. But as Neil Steinberg says, anything is possible. I fear the “anything” isn’t the good thing, however. I’ve lost faith in the Democratic Party to respond to this in any meaningful way. I may be wrong — I was certainly wrong to think this country was too decent to sink as far as we have, so consider that — but at this point, I feel more right than wrong.

I’m struck by a phrase in Steinberg’s column: “… this was a lucky wound, another stroke of good fortune for a man born with a horseshoe up his ass.” Perfect. I tend to believe that luck goes in both directions, and I feel like we’ve not had a win for a long while. I’m not a believer in conventional Christian versions of God, so I can’t be comforted by the idea of Trump & Co. in hell. But I do think the universe has a sense of humor, and I want to know when we get to see a little evening of the scales.

Yeah, yeah, tell that to the Jews at Auschwitz.

OK, I’ll stop now. One thing I learned in the newspaper business: Never say “it can’t get worse,” because it always can.

And if you’re a cyclist, be careful out there. Some people hate your guts just for existing.

Friends, as if this last fortnight couldn’t get any worse, apparently we’ve lost another member of the commenting community. Connie Ozinga, whose contributions here were always sane, intelligent and high-quality, died Sunday at her home.

Here’s the obituary, if you’d like to know more about her.

She was a library director, mostly in Michigan and Indiana, with one stop-off in Rochester, Minn. Her preferred memorial is to any Friends of the Library of your choice.

Given that libraries are currently under assault by some truly hideous individuals currently enjoying a moment, I can’t think of a better cause.

I’m very sorry to hear this.

Well.

Well well well.

Honestly, I don’t have the heart to read all the comments on the last post. I’ve been sitting here draped in Glum all day. It’s been very hot this weekend, and I went to a friend’s house yesterday for poolside dips and cocktails, and came home to see the big news. I had about one wine spritzer too many, and all I could think was: Shit. He’s gonna win. Mother. Fucker.

I know, I know, don’t lose heart. It’s still three-plus months until November, but lately I’m thinking of Biden as hopeless. He reminds me of a man I used to work for, who believed in this mythical past where we all sat down at the table of brotherhood and hammered out compromises that none of us were totally happy with, but were best for the country. It’d be one thing if he were just old, but old and out of touch is unforgivable.

I know, I know: Everything could change, etc. And it’s not like there weren’t glimmers of humor in the day. Take this utter horseshit:

There’s a longer statement, which you can find on the web; it’s just as ridiculous as this snippet. Like, oh…

A monster who recognized my husband as an inhuman political machine attempted to ring out Donald’s passion – his laughter, ingenuity, love of music, and inspiration. The core facets of my husband’s life – his human side – were buried below the political machine. Donald, the generous and caring man who I have been with through the best of times and the worst of times.

I feel like we’re living in two realities. Or else she is as diseased as he is – a strong possibility, actually a certainty – and is simply reacting in kind.

Oy. I need to feel bad for a while. But here’s a new thread.

Raining here. Raining raining raining for hours and hours and hours, the remnants of Beryl sweeping up the continent. Fine with me; I love a rainy day. Just watched two grackles livin’ it up in the birdbath on the one day you wouldn’t think they’d need it, but I’m not a grackle. You do you, grackles! Live your best life. I’m just glad it’s not 90 degrees and sunny.

It is 74 degrees, with one million percent humidity. I’m inside, and staying here.

I read this Substack note by a writer I kinda vaguely follow, Sarah Kendzior:

Point 4 is the one that intrigues me, and isn’t something I’d considered. “Collapse the U.S. and strip it and sell it for parts” is, as she notes, precisely what happened in the Soviet Union, post-collapse. Whole industries were stolen by those with the daring to try it. Think what would be possible in a United States where Project 2025 has succeeded in driving the dismantling of large portions of the federal system. It’s not hard to see it. One thing living near a city many wrote off years ago taught me is just how much meat remains on the bones of a carcass. I just reserved “Hiding in Plain Sight” at the library.

Meanwhile, here’s the GOP platform.

Still raining.

Columbus was fine, if you’re wondering. Every so often I think I should swing home via Newark and check in with Jeff Gill, but I don’t. I go straight up U.S. 23 because I want to get home, and then, three hours later, I am home.

But it was a good trip, weaving family with friends in just about the right proportions. I even had time to swing past my childhood home. You might recall it from this post, which found it, in 2022, seemingly at the end of an extensive renovation. It looked like this:

I said at the time I hoped it would be mellowed with landscaping and shutters and all that. It appears to be done. And now? This:

Um. OK. They’ve added landscaping. And shutters. And whatever the hell that thing is sticking out over the front door, but what do I know? The trend today is MODERN FARMHOUSE, and if your AMERICAN COLONIAL won’t play ball, you make it so.

I drove away reflecting on this passage in Elmore Leonard’s “City Primeval,” which I’ve been carrying around in my head for a while:

Bottom line: Don’t get sentimental about cars, or real estate. It’s a house, not Tara. Your family hasn’t been there for 29 years. Let it go. Houses are for keeping the rain off your head and hosting the Thanksgiving dinner. And when you sign the papers, they’re for someone else’s Thanksgiving dinner.

I came home and told Alan about this, who happened to have spent that very day in his hometown of Defiance, Ohio, helping his recently moved-in sister with some things in her new condo. He said his family’s old house, also sold years ago, is now “easily the worst one on the street,” with all kinds of shit like trampolines and recreational garbage in the front yard, not the back. “And there’s a sign nailed — NAILED — to my father’s ash tree,” he reported, horrified. “It says ‘No Trespassing.'”

Like anyone would want to. That nail hole will have bad juju down the road, but one day we’ll all be gone from the earth, and it won’t matter.

No, I’m not depressed. Just taking the long view.

I tried to disconnect from the news, to the extent I was able to, this weekend. It was easy, in the sense that it was all about Will Biden Drop Out, and in the sense I have no control over that, it was easy to do.

What do you think? Oh, and happy week ahead.