Excuse the absence earlier. That silly column I wrote blotted out the sun for a couple days. On Monday I was toiling away at something else when my doorbell rang. On the front porch was a reporter from the local Fox affiliate, who wanted to interview me about it.

“Me? That column?” I asked, astounded.

“My news director says it’s a talker.”

I welcomed her in. I mean, I’m not going to turn a reporter away. But when she started asking questions, it became clear that she thought I’d dropped a policy brief on the mayor’s desk, complete with suggested GPS coordinates for sinking the Boblo boat, not a whimsical column chiding Detroit for its constant backward-looking gaze. I closed the door behind her thinking, I’m gonna look like an idiot, and I expect I did, although I haven’t watched the piece yet, and won’t. My takeaway is this: No one knows how to read anymore. For a while now, I’ve been wincing at how upset people get over headlines, knowing how many of them are likely written by interns or the web staff or whoever, some of whom may not even reside in the same city where the story was generated. But given how many people read no further, maybe it’s more important. Apparently there’s an entire Reddit thread of people who think I literally want to scuttle a precious childhood memory. I don’t! It’s a metaphor, folks. We covered that in seventh-grade English.

But lots of people liked it, so that’s cool.

Oh, and I haven’t told you the best part: I was invited to be on the Mitch Albom show. HAHAHAHAHAHA. I had to lifeguard during the time they wanted me, so I declined. I don’t think the producer is clued in to my online claim to fame.

But now it’s Wednesday, and as editors have been saying for millennia, what do you have coming for tomorrow? In these parts, a possible snowstorm. Nothing insane, but three inches will announce winter pretty emphatically, and it’d be wise to get the snowblower gassed up and in the front of the garage, where it will swap places with the lawn mower.

So I guess that’s what’s coming for tomorrow. Snow. And probably the erection of the Nall-Derringer Co-Prosperity Sphere Christmas tree.

In bloggage, don’t have much, but news is breaking that the CEO of UnitedHealthcare was shot to death this morning in Manhattan. Police are calling it a targeted attack, so: very interesting. As always, more will be revealed. Refrain from jumping to conclusions. And I’ll see you later this week.

Thanks so much to everyone who shared Thanksgiving menus, greetings, memories and more. Ours was fine. We traveled to Alan’s sister’s in Defiance, bringing half the meal. I already posted this in the comments on the last post, but if you’re not a comments reader, here you go, my favorite disruptor to the earth-toned Thanksgiving table:

That’s a cranberry curd tart, a New York Times recipe (gift link), and it was the bomb. A bit of a hassle to assemble all the ingredients, but fortunately a local nut shop — a nuttery? — had blanched hazelnuts so the skin-shedding step was taken care of. And I didn’t sieve the cooked cranberries; I pulverized them in the blender. It turned out fab. Try it at the next holiday table. Pro tip: If you have a non-stick tart pan, use it.

We took Alan’s new (new to us, that is) car, which has satellite radio, still in its trial period. He gets a one- or two-month trial, then so many months at $5 per, and then it bumps to its regular charge of $20. We’ve already decided that’s more than we want to pay to have it in one car, but as soon as I mentioned it to a friend, he said we have to get Sirius on the horn, inform them we won’t be paying that much, and let them counter. He pays $10/month, and that seems more reasonable.

Overeating and consumerism — I guess this means we’re in the holidays for real. It beats talking about Kash Patel turning the FBI into Donald Trump’s personal revenge machine. And the very real chance he’ll get confirmed. If you haven’t read Sherri’s thoughtful comment toward the end of the last thread, I suggest you do so now. I spend a lot of time thinking about this, too: How we can dig ourselves out of the morass we’re in. Because of my work experience, I spend much of it concentrating on the news media. The same NYT that gave us that wonderful cranberry tart also served up this headline over the weekend: Trump Disavowed Project 2025 During the Campaign. Not Anymore.

What? Say wha-? You’re joking! Of course, many of us were screaming HE IS LYING ABOUT THIS throughout the campaign, but so glad to hear he’ll now be held accountable, lol.

I don’t have the stomach for this now. Let’s make fun of Mitch Albom.

I’ve been saying for a while how I’m marveling at the anachronistic nature of Albom’s work; it really doesn’t seem to have changed one bit since he started this job in the ’80s. He pulls the same mangy rabbits out of his hat:

The one-line paragraph.

The repeating phrase (in this case, “rub your eyes,” often delivered in a one-line paragraph). The noodling, the telling us what we already know, the HOW BOUT DEM WOLVERINES AMIRITE message delivered, and re-delivered, through several hundred words. And then there’s the tortured simile:

On a bracing cold afternoon when Ohio State, at 10-1 and ranked No. 2 in the nation, and Michigan, at 6-5 and ranked somewhere between “Why” and “Bother?”, the Wolverines marched into Columbus like the fiercest theater critic at the biggest box-office play.

That makes zero sense. Critics go to plays in their opening days, not after they’ve become boffo box office. But as Boon says to Otter, “Forget it, he’s rolling.”

Also note that there’s no dateline, and all the quotes came from Fox Sports, which means Mitch watched the game on TV and filed a column about it. You could do that job! I bet Sherri, for one, would do it better.

But at this point, who cares? It’s the last weeks of the last good year. Let’s enjoy it as they play out.

Back to the basement for me, where we are reassembling my home gym after months of idleness (for the equipment, not me). The week is ours for the taking, so let’s.

What did you have for Sunday dinner? We just had Kenji Lopez-Alt’s kung pao chicken, and y’know what? It’s pretty damn good. I made it a little on the hot side, but it didn’t disappoint. Used bok choy instead of zucchini, may have had a heavy hand with the ginger, garlic and peppers, but who cares, it was delish.

This will be a weird week, with the holiday bearing down on us. So much prep work, then the feast, then the leftovers. I predict a lot of meals taken standing up, eaten out of refrigerator dishes. And pie.

While I would like nothing better than to move on, I spent some time wondering what the resistance, if any, will look like in Trump II, and what’s more, who will surprise us in the process. I wonder, for instance, about the military. I can maybe see certain troops participating in the mass imprisonment of immigrants, but when protests begin, will they shoot or brutalize their own countrymen and women? I just don’t see it. Of course, I didn’t think Trump would win, either, so.

What do you think? What’s the worst that can happen?

Hate you leave you with just this, but I have some food prep to do.

I was in Chicago summer before last, and Jeff Borden and I went to the club where Shadow Show was playing. At some point in the evening, he handed me a shot of some amber liquor and told me to go ahead, drink it.

I don’t worry that Borden will slip me a Pete Hegseth mickey, and I wasn’t even tipsy from the beer I’d been nursing, so I did, downing it in one go. My eyes bugged out of my head, my throat screamed for mercy and my brain started flashing neon ABORT signs.

“What,” I gasped, “was that?”

“Malört,” he said. “Otherwise known as the Chicago hello.”

I’m not super-big on liquor history, but I’d never heard of this stuff. Borden said it was made with wormwood, a word I recall mostly from Shakespeare. What is wormwood, anyway? All I can tell you is, don’t drink it.

But now, Malört is catching on, or so says the New York Times:

Malört is, in one word, unforgiving. Made from neutral spirits, wormwood and sugar, it tastes a little like sucking dandelion juice through a straw made of car tires. It is also kind of good. Intensely bitter, it’s herbaceous and a touch citrusy, as if you were to bite a grapefruit like an apple.

It is also, in five words, the unofficial liquor of Chicago.

Carl Jeppson, a Swedish immigrant to the city, peddled Jeppson’s Malört as a digestif as early as the 1930s. “It was the only liquor to survive Prohibition because no one believed that a human being would drink that on purpose, and that it had to be medicinal,” said J.W. Basilo, the manager of the Promontory and a bartender in Chicago for more than 20 years.

Intensely local to the Windy City, Malört “became the designated initiation shot, something you downed to prove your Midwest mettle — a difficult drink for a difficult place to live,” the story goes on.

Hence the Chicago hello. I noticed that the next day on Shadow Show’s Instagram stories, they posted a photo of all of them taking their Malört punishment. Kate noted something to the effect that Chicagoans have some strange ideas about what’s drinkable.

Now, though — and this is the point of the NYT story — Malört is spreading beyond Chicago, probably because hipsters cannot stand not being in on a single city’s digestif secret. There’s even a Malört-centric bar now, in New Orleans. That city has its own signature cocktail, the Sazerac, but it also has to serve lots of thirsty tourists who want to be tipsy, but don’t necessarily want to be served the usual watered-down Hurricane in a go-cup. Novelty is the soul of capitalism.

I guess what I’m saying is, if someone offers you this particular digestif after the Thanksgiving turkey, think twice before you say sure, love to.

And now another tough week comes to an end. I can’t stop thinking about Pete Hegseth raping that woman (allegedly, yes), his dog tags swinging over her face before he ejaculated on her stomach. A rapist nominates a rapist, of course.

Next week is Thanksgiving. I’m going to have to dig for something to be thankful for, but not really. There’s always something, if you have food, shelter and family love. It’s just how long that could last, know what I mean?

See you then, at least for a little while.

Well. Mehmet Oz, Linda McMahon? I got nothin’.

I’m going to call him Mehmet from here on out, because I suspect he hates it. If I’m remembering correctly, wasn’t he outraged to learn, when he ran for Senate, that the ballots in Pennsylvania would carry his full legal name, with no honorific? What? You mean I won’t simply be “Dr. Oz,” the way it is on all my branding? Yeah, well, fuck that guy sideways. Twice. He once had a reputation and a decent life, and he threw it away for money and quackery. He doesn’t deserve the title.

A woman of my acquaintance, who I suspect would generally be pretty conservative, is horrified by all this. One of her family members decided to “space out” her child’s vaccines, because Common Sense. Fortunately, the rest of the family piled on and got her back on track, but I wonder if that will even be possible in this new era.

“I feel like we’re on a roller coaster, an old wooden one that hasn’t been maintained and maybe the structure has been colonized by termites, and we’re going up the first hill and we can see springs and parts falling off the car, and we haven’t even started the ride yet,” I said.

“I pray for sanity,” she said. I always overdo my metaphors.

I recall that in his first transition, Trump offered stewardship of the Federal Aviation Administration to the pilot of his plane, because it seemed like a fit. The pilot, to his great credit, turned it down. Mehmet thinks he and RFK Jr. can run the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services? That is a real job, not just a photo op. They will make a hash of it. I am on Medicare now. These motherfuckers are going to ruin it, just as I finally can collect on decades of investment.

As for McMahon, I’ll only point out that she’s the sort of very rich person who will not be harmed at all by the destruction of the agency she is charged with dismantling. Her grandchildren or great-grandchildren, or whatever generation is currently in play, will go to excellent private schools. It’s the rest of our offspring who will suffer.

All those kids who “got autism” from a vaccine and need IEPs in public schools will find themselves back on the shortbus.

Let’s see what today’s misery brings, eh?

I was ranting about Mitch Albom on Facebook — I’m already bored by it, but if you are in my network, you can read it there — when I started thinking about tropes.

Tropes as in, the expected motifs, even clichés, that we find in certain genres of writing. I was comparing Albom’s Sunday column about Mike Tyson (phoned-in, sketchy, error-strewn — the floor of a boxing ring is canvas with one S, not two) to Pete Dexter’s far superior one from 1996. That column, which I can’t link to because I can’t find one, described watching Tyson in training as he demolished a sparring partner. It describes the gym he was training in, in upstate New York, “on the third story of an old building, over the firehouse and the city hall.” It talks about the trainer who discovered him, Cus D’Amato, and the one who took over after D’Amato died, Kevin Rooney.

It reminded me that boxing gyms are rarely if ever luxurious, and are always on the third floor of an old building, or perhaps in a converted garage in a bad part of town. Men who take up this dangerous sport are often from lower-status ethnic groups, which in the 20th century were Irish (Rooney), Italian (D’Amato) or people of color. It reminded me of the studio executive yelling at the title character in “Barton Fink” about why his star writer, a playwright of the common man, can’t get his arms around a script about one:

What do you think this is? HAMLET?
GONE WITH THE WIND? RUGGLES OF RED
GAP? It’s a goddamn B picture! Big
men in tights! You know the drill!

Judy Davis, as Audrey in that same film, explains it deftly:

Well, usually, they’re… simply
morality tales. There’s a good
wrestler, and a bad wrestler whom he
confronts at the end. In between,
the good wrestler has a love interest
or a child he has to protect. Bill
would usually make the good wrestler
a backwoods type, or a convict. And
sometimes, instead of a waif, he’d
have the wrestler protecting an idiot
manchild. The studio always hated
that. Oh, some of the scripts were
so… spirited!

And yet? It’s all in how you put it together. Dexter’s Tyson column is trope-filled, but still manages to break your heart a little:

The first time I ever saw (Holyfield) was in Atlantic City, where he was standing otherwise unnoticed in a crowded hallway outside one of the casino auditoriums, wearing a suit. He wasn’t on the card that night, he was just there to watch.

It’s hard for me to understand how that person came to beat the fighter I first saw 11 years ago.

I did see it, though, in what most people thought was a beautiful fight.

There was a moment, though, near the end, as Holyfield went hunting and a tired, half-conscious Tyson stumbled and nearly turned his back, that was not beautiful at all. A right hand exploded, sweat flew up into the lights, a halo, and Tyson pitched dangerously sideways, and then staggered away, toward the far rope, and before he gathered himself and turned back into the onslaught to meet what was waiting for him there, in that moment, I think, confusion and exhaustion took him home, to the place he comes from, where there is no protection, and there is no one who cares.

A story I’d like to see written? How boxing, a sport that’s pretty much dead now, is being kept alive by Arab kids in metro Detroit. I don’t think there’s a boxing culture back home, but in any Detroit gym, there are always a few Mohammeds and Husseins. Most of them are Yemeni, which is the lowest echelon of Arab-Americans in Detroit. Come to think of it, when we saw Claressa Shields fight in Detroit, the undercard featured a couple of bouts with Russian fighters from Chechnya, the Yemen of Russian republics. So the trope holds. How desperate do you have to be to risk your life in a boxing ring? When you see it as a chance to improve your lot in life.

Albom’s Sunday column was typically dumb — his grand conclusion was that the crowd backed Tyson because he was old, and we wanted Gen X to triumph over Gen Z. He barely talked about Jake Paul, who won the fight, beyond describing him as “a 27-year-old YouTube sensation turned professional boxer.” YouTube sensation? Hmm, OK. Paul and his brother Logan got famous the way young people with no particular talent get famous these days: By acting like assholes on YouTube. That seems to be the quickest way to fame and fortune online — be an asshole. The Paul brothers explored a Japanese forest where people go to kill themselves, found a hanging corpse, and made fun of the dead man. They also traveled to Italy and treated the canals of Venice like a water park, jumping from bridges while onlookers gaped. If you want to read about the perfect example of this type, google Johnny Somali. That’s why I was rooting for Tyson. I wanted him to murder this shithead. Full Duk-koo Kim. I wanted Paul to be a grease spot on the canvas. It had zero to do with age.

I didn’t watch the fight. I figured Tyson would lose, and didn’t want another disappointment.

One more interesting angle Detroit’s most famous best-selling author could have explored: Tyson distinguished himself for terrible behavior in the early part of his life, and has been rehabilitated into something cuddlier in his late middle age. He has a one-man show that he tours with. He’s a cannabis entrepreneur. Like Snoop Dogg, he’s one of those black men who used to be scary, and is now someone you wouldn’t mind sitting next to at dinner. That’s an idea it would have been interesting to pick apart. A task for a much better writer.

OK, it’s Sunday, my cold has relented somewhat, and this coming week has to be pedal to the metal. First, a birthday dinner for the birthday twins. (In a fancy restaurant. I have lost some cooking mojo in recent days.)

I’m having an Unsubscribe party for myself this week. My inbox was a stew of misery, even with most posts going to their proper folders on Gmail. I figured it would end after the election, but it didn’t — I even got fundraising emails after the campaigns, with STAY INFORMED in the subject line, that sort of thing. I didn’t hesitate. Every candidate I sent money to this cycle lost, and I’m not inclined to stay informed about their activities. I’m replying STOP to end text contacts. I’m just done. Uncle.

The ones that gave me the best feeling were Axios, a.m. and p.m. I still get the Axios Detroit newsletter, but it’s about one eyeroll away from getting shitcanned, too. Fortunately it isn’t run by the same people who are now giving the president-elect the Strange New Respect treatment. Take a moment and tell us why you’re leaving, Axios begged. Because I’m sick of you polishing Trump’s knob, I wrote in the designated box. What could we do to keep you? Stop polishing Trump’s knob. And with that, I hit Unsubscribe with grim satisfaction.

Somehow I got on some right-wing mailing lists, on my other account. They all sold my address to their friends, too. I used to get some amusement out of seeing how they whip up the proles, but ultimately it wasn’t worth it. They all use the same Unsubscribe reply: Hate to see you go! Fuck off, assholes.

Needless to say, I dropped Amazon Prime.

I’ll be off Twitter soon enough. Find me on BlueSky at @nderringer. I have to stay on Facebook for my social-media work, but I’m trying to go dark there, too. (I may fail.)

Along with Unsubscribe, I’m also doing a limited number of paid subs, too. There’s Roy Edroso on Substack, although I think he comps me. He shouldn’t, because he brings me real pleasure and I’d gladly pay. I don’t pay for Eric Zorn, only because his paid content is all Chicago-oriented and would be wasted on me, but if you’re a Chicagoan, consider it. I like his Thursday newsletter because it’s amusing and topical. My friend Jimmy is on Substack, doing daily short fiction; I pay because he’s an artist and I sometimes attend his monthly writing workshop. I just subscribed to Caryn Rose, a freelancer who specializes in rock ‘n’ roll, because I’m so out of touch and should be in better touch. There are a couple of others.

You might see this as turning inward, and you might be right. I’m just trying to preserve my sanity in an insane time. How insane? Have you met our incoming secretary of defense?

Maybe I should start a paid service, called You Voted For This. A few bucks a year gets you an email sent to three addresses of your choice — friends, parents, colleagues, whatever. Once a week I will round up the horrors of the last seven days and mail them to the people you can no longer stand to speak to: Hi! Did you know the incoming secretary of defense just had his third child with an affair partner, is going through his second divorce and lies like a rug? Now you do! And he’s going to be in charge of the Pentagon!

Oh, well. Enough for now. Join me in the high point of the week: Figuring out why my vacuum lost its suction, via deductive reasoning. Answer: The head piece was clogged with schmutz. Later, gators.

A few years ago, one of Michigan’s plentiful dumbass state legislators introduced a bill to do away with private-employer vaccine mandates, specifically the ones hospitals commonly have that requires their employees to get flu shots and the like. I wrote a story about it, and what stands out to me is what the co-sponsor said when I asked him what his intent was:

“I’m not a strong believer in mandatory things. If it’s against someone’s religious beliefs or something like that, there are people who just don’t believe in things like that.”

There you have the Tea Party mentality, c. 2012: You can’t make me.

What I also remember about that piece is what a doctor told me:

“Nowadays, we’re trying to convince people who are already locked into their opinions, and also don’t have historical perspective on history of these diseases,” said DeGraw, who is a paid consultant for two pharmaceutical companies. “A child born in 1912 had a 1-in-5 chance of dying by its fifth birthday. Even my parents’ generation knew someone who died of these diseases.

“Pertussis is a great example,” he said. “In the ’30s and ’40s, before the vaccine, 7,000 to 8,000 kids would die in the U.S.(from whooping cough). Now, in the last decade, you only get a couple dozen.”

Robert F. Kennedy Jr., alleged incoming health czar in the Trump administration (although there are whispers he’ll be Chris Christie’d before January), says he’s not anti-vaccine. He just wants people to have choice, and for them to be fully informed about vaccine safety. I expect we could be heading toward a state of affairs similar to getting an abortion in a red state pre-Dobbs: Of course you can get your child vaccinated, but you have to sit through a video first, in which the “vaccine-injured” will tell sad tales about how their child was fine, fine, perfectly fine, and then he was vaccinated for measles/mumps/rubella and AUTISM. Still want that shot, mom? After all, most kids survive measles just fine.

I don’t want to keep harping on the medical damage we’re facing, because we’re facing so much other damage. Someone suggested that we could see a national school-voucher program in this administration, which will hollow out public schools. They’ll still exist in some fashion, for kids in Detroit or Chicago or wherever, and the Vance children and others of their wealth and class will attend elite private schools, but the vast middle class will be sucked into shitbag voucher academies. They’ll learn that God blessed America alone among nations, that slavery was really just an immigration program with a work requirement, and that higher ed is unnecessary — we need electricians, too! Girls can learn womanly skills like cooking, sewing and housekeeping, and boys will go to shop class.

Needless to say, teachers won’t be unionized, and they’ll be paid shit, while a few voucher-school tycoons grow very very rich. We’ll send money to homeschooling parents, too, and I’m sure that will work out just dandy.

I think I have to listen to some podcasts about movies or whatnot. This isn’t healthy for me or anyone else.

I went to Columbus this weekend, on family matters, and treated myself with the Crazy Mama’s 45th reunion party. Crazy Mama’s was a nightclub I used to go to, along with Jeff Borden and some others, back in the day, which is to say, the ’80s. It was spectacular; at a time when rock music had become bloated and boring — Kansas, anyone? — Crazy’s DJs played new wave, rockabilly, punk and other music that you never heard on the radio, and that just required you to get up and dance. And when I say “I used to go there,” I mean I was dedicated: For a while I was splitting my sleep in half. I’d stay until closing time, go home and sleep three or four hours, get up and go to work, then come home and crash for another three-hour nap before I left for another night of fun.

Pro tip: This is not a sustainable lifestyle, but I was very young.

I’d kinda-sorta planned to go with Borden and another friend, but Jeff had some family matters of his own and so that plan fell apart. I don’t mind going to stuff like that by myself, however, and the music was great — the Whiskey Daredevils, Willie Phoenix, Screaming Urge and the Fleshtones. I had a good time.

But now I’m back home, and it’s starting to look like family matters may bring me back to Columbus sooner rather than later. (I’m being oblique here for a reason.) They say life is a shit sandwich, and everybody’s got to take a bite. I just wish the whole country wasn’t being served a giant platter of them.

Oh, forgot to add: Here’s a podcast featuring Kate. You can listen on whatever platform you prefer. The podcast is called Outer Limited, and it’s produced by a music journalist here in Detroit and another bassist with a local band. The focus is Detroit music. She sounds good!

Strange to think my daughter will lose her rights and her affordable health care by the end of next year. And neighbors who watched her for years walking down our street, headed to school or the park, will celebrate. Hell, we could lose our health care, or see it whittled away to nothing, replaced by a “market-based” plan that will cost more than the pre-ACA plans did, and won’t cover anything anyway.

Rolling back fluoridation. The ignorance is breathtaking, isn’t it? To believe RFKJr’s lies about that, you’d have to believe the EVIL fertilizer industry had an EVIL problem, i.e., where to dispose of its EVIL waste, and some Snidely Whiplash in the C-suite said, “I know! Let’s add it to the nation’s drinking water!” and a plan was hatched to bamboozle the nation’s dentists, and it was successful, and all the EVILLLLL fertilizer guys cackled and rubbed their evil hands together in glee, and backed their dump trucks full of POISON to the nation’s reservoirs and poured it in, probably charging ratepayers for shipping and handling.

Because EVIL.

Well, I know what evil looks like, Pilot Joe. Sometimes it comes dressed in ignorance, but evil is as evil does, and a whole, whole lot of evil will be going on in the coming years. Because peanut butter is more expensive than it was a few years ago, and a suspiciously tall lady with a prominent Adam’s apple peed in the next stall at the coffeehouse, and oh my what could have happened.

I don’t have much to say today, except fuck it all.

Good morning, America, how are ya?

I think a lot these days about the damage done over the last 10 years or so. I’m focused on RFK Jr. at the moment, but I could be thinking of any one of dozens of people. Bobby’s patron speaks of children being “injected with this giant needle,” a ridiculous lie that’s hardly ever refuted by a journalist. RFK Jr talks about “72 vaccines,” another lie. The standard childhood vaccine array today is aimed at 15 diseases, some given over time in multiple doses. I counted the number of doses on the Cleveland Clinic vaccination schedule, and it totaled 37. My child got every one of them, including HPV, which conservatives, with typical Christian charity, call the slut shot. Needless to say, she’s healthy, unless you consider choosing a career in rock music an illness, ha ha.

And yet. A friend has a mother with some fragile health conditions, and when he told her recently that he didn’t want to visit until he’d had a Covid shot, she expressed concern that he’d had “too many” of those. He obligingly sent her the story about the German man who deliberately got a Covid vaccine about every four days for more than two years, for a total of 217. He is fine. But this is what I think of as the damage.

Clearly we’ll never reach Bobby and his cohort on this issue, but their continual amplification of this lie is seeping into the consciousness of otherwise reasonable people, who just vaguely worry that he’s probably wrong, but maybe he’s right, or a little bit right, and let that keep them from stopping in at their local pharmacy for whatever they’re due for.

Me, I’ve gotten eight Covid shots. I figure I’ll be getting two a year until I die. Still a Novid here. (Now let’s cue the troll who always pops up and jeers at us. Mr. Coffee, or something.) Might still get it. But I won’t get it because I let some propagandist talk me out of a safe vaccine. I got flu and shingles shots on Friday, and my fucking arm is still hot and sore from the latter, but that’s normal and I remember people with shingles telling me they have never, ever suffered such pain. Seems a good trade-off.

Today is the election. Over the last four years, despite saying ridiculous bullshit like “if I lose, that means it’s rigged,” millions of Americans have bought in to the idea our elections are not secure. They hold up this or that case of shenanigans as proof, whereas anyone who’s paid attention knows that yes, election fraud is easy to commit, on a very small scale. I could have voted in Indiana and Michigan — hands up don’t shoot — for a couple years, but I didn’t. And if I had, it would have made a difference in any race with a one-vote margin. I could have collected Kate’s absentee ballot and deposited it in the drop box with mine and Alan’s, which would technically be ballot harvesting because we don’t live in the same household anymore. Perusing the Heritage Foundation’s database of election fraud, you can read about individual cases. There are 19 listed for Michigan. Here’s one for Brandon Hall, a bottom-tier GOP activist:

Brandon Hall was convicted of ten counts of ballot petition fraud stemming from the 2012 election. Chris Houghtaling, who sought to become a candidate for the Ottawa County District Court, hired Hall to acquire the necessary signatures for his candidacy; Houghtaling reportedly did not care whether the signatures were collected legally or illegally, and even assisted in Hall’s crime by providing him old 2010 petitions to copy. Hall, realizing he did not collect enough signatures, used a phone book to complete the rest. Hall’s friend, Zachary Savage, assisted with the fraud, but prosecutors granted him immunity in exchange for his testimony. Hall appealed his conviction, which was affirmed. He is awaiting sentencing.

(Hall is the genius who briefly worked for James Craig, a former Detroit police chief who ran unsuccessfully for governor, and was part of this fiasco.)

Here’s another, Nancy Williams:

Nancy Williams was charged by the state in Wayne County with 3 felony counts of forging a signature on an absentee ballot, 2 felony counts of election law forgery, 5 misdemeanor counts of false statements on applications for absentee ballots, and 7 misdemeanor counts of receiving a payment to influence vote after participating in an absentee ballot trafficking scheme involving elderly voters at a nursing care facility. She submitted voter registration and absentee ballot applications for 26 legally incapacitated residents under her care without their consent. Williams had the absentee ballots mailed directly to her. She pleaded guilty to 7 counts of receiving a payment to influence vote in exchange for dismissal of the other charges, was sentenced to one year of probation, fined $3,500, and assessed $1,096 in fees. Similar charges against Williams in Oakland County are still pending.

You don’t win elections with 26 votes, at least not important ones. You win with thousands, hundreds of thousands. And that requires a conspiracy so vast it would collapse in hours.

But that’s where we are today. I hope we take a step back, but I expect bad things will happen between now and next January 20. We just don’t know what kind of bad things, and they’ll be different for everyone.

Be at peace, all. I’m working overnight tonight as a Dem challenger (observer) in Macomb County, where the city clerk has opted NOT to take advantage of eight days of pre-processing of absentee ballots, for unclear reasons. What that means is, I go to work at midnight and get off Whenever. So expect me Whenever, and play nice in the comments.