And just like that, the four-day downtown festival I worked is over. I slept in my own bed last night, not the RenCen Marriott, although there’s something to be said for awakening to a view of the Detroit River in dawn’s early light, the sign from Caesars Windsor reflected in the water, looking like spilled…blood, I guess. Appropriate for a gambling house, wagers being responsible for gallons, tankers of blood-spill through the ages.

In the Canadian fashion, that casino is non-smoking. Progress.

And for now, I plan to rest for two days, then turn my attention to another project. I hope that by Christmas, my workload will finally ease.

I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so busy you can’t pay attention to the news. Thursday night is about when I checked out, although being in a hotel room with cable, I was able to watch much of CNN’s interview when they replayed it through the weekend. It was amazingly dumb. The questions were all about prompting reactions to stupid shit various GOP blockheads have said. Why should Kamala Harris have to dignify Trump’s racist comments? Why should Tim Walz have to answer expressed ignorance about his own child? Fuck every last one of them.

As they say on the internet: WhY wOn’T ShE TaLK aBouT PoLiCy?

Fortunately, my room also had Netflix. So I could put on early “Sex and the City” and just let ’em roll as I dozed off.

Today, I have to clean-clean-clean the house before Alan’s sister arrives for a visit. So short shrift again, but I’m hoping things will settle down, soon.

The view from my window for four days:

Back in about 48 hours.

I’ve been seeing it here and there — maybe even in these comments — that there are fewer Trump yard signs in evidence, and this is maybe a hopeful sign. I, too, have noticed this. There’s the guy across the street and a few others here and there, but definitely not as many as ’16 and even ’20. However, I don’t think this is good news. I think it’s a sign of trench warfare. I think we’re just exhausted. Why bother with a yard sign? Is it going to change any minds? I don’t think so.

That said, I impulsively stopped at the Grosse Pointe Dems storefront and picked up two Harris/Walz signs, one of which is in my yard. Gave the other to a friend. We’re hopeful.

But I’m mainly here to tell you that the social-media work I’m doing is eating my leg off, and it all comes to a climax this coming weekend, which is my way of saying this may be the last you hear from me until after Labor Day. The next few days will be action-packed. But I’ll have my laptop, and I’ll try.

Today I mainly want to draw your attention to Neil Steinberg’s excellent blog on Robert Kennedy Jr., on the occasion of the utter rejection of all he claims to hold dear, and his willing embrace of Trump flunkydom.

None of it is news at this point, but this was a sharp observation, I thought:

RFK Jr.’s story is not at its end, unfortunately, but now continues, to a fresh hell, the humiliation of being a Trump acolyte. Take a glance at a piece I wrote in 2016, “Chris Christie in rags” about the “stunned, miserable stare” on Christie’s face when he found himself standing in Trump’s rogue’s gallery of supporters, just another supernumerary to the Great Cheetoh God, hoping to huff a contact high of ego and power. The former governor of New Jersey later tried to reinvent himself as a person with a functional conscience, and speak out against Trump. Too little, too late. Or as I sometimes will write a reader: a person who thinks that Donald Trump is a good idea for this country can’t really expect anyone to care what he thinks about anything else. It’s the same reason you don’t ask homeless people for stock tips. I wonder as RFK slides deeper into the Trumpian netherworld whether it will ever occur to him that he had done this to himself.

It’s sorta breathtaking, in a way: An environmental lawyer has now allied with a man for whom the environment is a golf course. A vaccine opponent who’s now in the pocket of the man who, in his one decent act as president (although a no-brainer), fast-tracked the Covid jab. And I keep thinking about RFK’s voice, his spasmodic dysphonia, which he is said to believe was the result of a flu shot, and refuses to treat. I hadn’t heard him speak in a while, and on Friday, I was struck by how difficult he is to understand. The condition is treatable, with Botox shots to the larynx, but he refuses to get them. And now he’s hoping for a high-level position in the second Trump administration — Trump, a man who picks his inner circle on the basis of how they look, and was said to be repulsed by Nikki Haley’s slight skin discoloration. You just know he’s imitating his new supporter the minute Sad Bobby leaves earshot.

But you know what? It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. So the hell with him.

Now it’s back to the video-editing mangle with me, and I wish you a pleasant unofficial last week of summer. We’ll see if my yard sign gets stolen.

God bless you, girl:

LIVE from the DNC – @JackPosobiec: "How many abortions have you had?"

DNC Attendee: "I'm being paid by George Soros to have an abortion on stage." pic.twitter.com/AyQvgivtSI

— Human Events Daily (@humaneventslive) August 19, 2024

That’s the way to deal with these weird freaks.

I didn’t watch any of the RNC, so it’s hard to compare however they did their roll call of the states with the raucous, DJ-spinning roll call I’m watching now at the DNC. They just hit Idaho, and the DJ cued up “Private Idaho,” which is probably the only danceable song ever written about that place. What will it be for Michigan? Either Motown or Eminem, but I’m figuring it’s gotta be Motown. Whatever it is, this is pretty cool, although I loved the virtual roll call in 2020 and the calamari ninja from Rhode Island.

They should play this song for Rhode Island. Wouldn’t mix with the high-energy groove, but it’s definitely one of those only-song-written-about-it kind of places.

And now Michigan! And it’s Eminem after all.

Kamala is in Milwaukee tonight, running a similarly high-energy rally. Meanwhile, the orange menace was in Howell, Michigan this afternoon, where he took over a police station for a “press conference” of 150 journalists and 70 or so supporters. It was…not high-energy:

it's the second straight day where a sedated-sounding Trump has been ranting incoherently at an event (this time in Howell, Michigan) while people are forced to stand behind him for way too long. Note the complete lack of reaction to everything he says & the fact that he appears… pic.twitter.com/9iY7biRO7Z

— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar) August 20, 2024

We might pull this thing out after all. But keep the pedal to the floor all the way.

Not much more today, except to direct you to this very excellent essay by A.R. Moxon, taking apart J.D. Vance’s agreement with a podcaster that went like this:

In recent days we were reminded that back in 2020 the bestselling author, pretend hillbilly, future prospective vice president candidate, and full-time awkwardness enthusiast Jorts Decider “JD” Vance went on Eric Weinstein’s podcast, and nodded along with an out-of-pocket statement that the host made.

The statement was that raising grandchildren was “the whole purpose of the post-menopausal female.”

It’s a great piece, but here’s where it rang all the bells for me:

It might be a bit hard for Vance to dodge the rap, though, since he’s spent so much of his time in recent years agreeing with creeps who say creepy shit about women, and being a creep who says creepy shit about women in order to impress creeps who say creepy shit about women, and generally just acting like the kind of creepy little suck-up who calls women “females”–which is to say one of a whole passel of moist pallid online dudes who freebased Jordan Peterson throughout the 2010s and antisocialized themselves into treating relationships with women as a sort of transactional warfare between sexes, in which men are bold adventurers looking for sex and family, which are natural human connections they seem to view as video game achievements to be bestowed upon them if they enter the proper cheat code, in which women are hidden clay jars containing sex and family, to be discovered and then once found added to the inventories of adventuring men as acquisitions. A number of these creepy perverts got rich on tech or crypto or whatever, and they think their wealth makes them geniuses instead of just wealthy, and the ones who didn’t get rich through tech or crypto or whatever seem to think the wealth of the others conveys genius upon themselves, so now they go around talking about themselves as Alpha Chad masters of the universe, and speak of other human beings like they’re fodder for their whims, and generally sound do their very best to sound like eugenicist mad scientists in Victorian novels.

Egg-zackly. These people aren’t just weird, they’re dangerously weird.

And they’re only to Pennsylvania! But it’s very entertaining. So I’ll leave you here.

I expect by now the outrageous tale of Judge Kenneth King of the 36th District Court here in Detroit has spread to your neck of the woods, but just in case it hasn’t…

Judge King is something of a showboat. No, he is a shameless showboat, no something about it. His courtroom actions are streamed on his YouTube channel, and you know what they say about courtroom cameras — sooner or later, someone’s going to play to them, and in this case, it’s the judge. He seems to consider himself an undiscovered court-TV personality, and has a fan group that he regularly interacts with on Facebook.

So the other day a local nonprofit brought a group of teens to his courtroom on a field trip, and one of them, Eva Goodman, fell asleep during the judge’s talk to the group. He didn’t take this well:

After speaking for about 45 minutes, King walked over to the young woman and screamed, “wake up!” Then he asked if he was boring her, before suggesting “there’s one in every group.”

Alas, Eva was very tired that day, and fell asleep again. Well. This was too much for King:

He ultimately decided she needed to “take a walk in the back to see where we keep our people who are disrespectful to the court.”

On Wednesday, King told the Free Press he felt disrespected mainly by her body language.

About two hours later, he had court staff bring her back into the room. At this point she’s wearing a green jumpsuit, the words “Wayne County jail” printed on the back. Her hands are cuffed in front of her body.

…Jumping from his seat, King repeatedly questions the young woman before offering his own comments.

“You sleep at home in your bed, not in court. And quite frankly, I don’t like your attitude,” King said.

Yes. He had this sleepy girl dressed in jail clothing, handcuffed and then? He held a mock trial, of sorts, and threatened her with juvenile detention. You really should read the story. It’s amazing.

But it gets worse. It turns out the reason the girl kept falling asleep? Her family is homeless. Not living-on-the-street homeless, but the more common variety of bouncing around from place to place with her mother and siblings, and the previous night had been a rough one. This came out later, when the circle of people who know about King’s courtroom had expanded well beyond his fan group.

The best thing written about it was this column by a Freep contributor, who pointed out, correctly, that this is one reason black teens run from police, etc.:

(H)is actions reinforced the pipeline to prison culture that community activists are continually fighting against. That culture includes everything from metal detectors and uniforms in public schools to forcing young people to cut their hair because it’s too long, or suggesting that wearing a hoodie or engaging in other normal teen activities are inherently suspicious and must be policed.

Precisely. It needs to be pointed out, again and again until people get it, that the reason Ferguson, Mo. exploded 10 years ago wasn’t the death of Michael Brown, but the years-long abuse of poor people by not only the police, but the entire judicial system, and you should read Radley Balko on this subject:

After the death of Michael Brown, we learned that black and poor residents of St. Louis County were essentially treated like walking ATMs. The mid-20th Century migration of white people to the suburbs, and then the exurbs — and their attempt to exclude black people each step of the way — resulted in an astonishing number of tiny “postage stamp” municipalities, most of which had their own police department and were funded by fines and fees imposed on their residents. The poorer the town, the more it needed fines and fees to operate.

Anyway, things aren’t going so well for King at the moment. His docket has been taken from him, he lost a teaching gig at Wayne State, and he’ll be lucky to keep his job, although he probably will, unless Fox News snatches him up and makes him a member of The Five or something.

But enough about him. Let’s turn instead to the turgid prose of Tim Goeglein, who apparently has found a sucker editor at the surviving daily in Fort Wayne, the Journal Gazette, willing to publish his columns:

He writes on Sunday of his misty water-colored memories of going to the Embassy Theater downtown to see old movies with Ma and Pa Goeglein:

The rain was pouring in monsoon-like waves in downtown Fort Wayne. The cars were splashing buckets-full of water hither and yon. People were skittering across the puddled streets like stones across ponds.

Everyone was being lashed by the fury of a Midwestern downpour, a soaker.

The windshield wipers clicking at record speed, my father pulled up our maroon Jim Kelley Buick LaSabre to the front doors of the Embassy Theatre on West Jefferson Boulevard.

All I remember seeing was a forest of umbrellas amid the bright, luminous, brilliant, beautiful lights of that singularly familiar Embassy marquee flashing its message: “Friday Nights at the Movies.”

Tim owns a thesaurus, but hasn’t absorbed the message that you don’t have to use all the synonyms when you look up an adjective.

It goes on — and on and on and on — until it reaches a sloppy climax with what else? The organ recital that preceded the movie:

We found seats midsection, and then, as if on cue, rising like a phoenix from the floor, as if out of nowhere, a kind of magic happened: the most glorious, riveting tones of a colossal organ as if from the highest plain of heaven.

Pipes of every tone and tempo kept us awash in the glory of pure sound, a kind of elixir for the ears.

It was the Grande Page Pipe Organ, rising before us as if from the MGM soundstage in Hollywood itself. Has there ever been a more amazing instrument in the history of our nation?

Well, yes, Tim. These theater organs were quite common in old movie houses. There was one in Columbus, which I heard when my mom took me to the old-movie screenings at the Ohio Theater there. There’s one in Detroit, at the Redford Theater. But I’m amazed at Tim’s amazement: Pipes “of every tone and tempo.” The “most glorious, riveting tones.” The MOST AMAZING INSTRUMENT IN THE HISTORY OF OUR NATION.” I’d think he was kidding if I didn’t know he wasn’t.

After one of his last columns, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Journal Gazette. Cruelly, they didn’t print it. So I will copy/paste it here:

I haven’t lived in Fort Wayne for nearly 20 years, but given the role I played in the loss of his White House job, I’ve since taken a particular interest in Timothy Goeglein’s writing, appearing occasionally in the JG’s opinion section. As a writer myself, and as one who wants everyone to be a better one, sometimes this is painful; I’ve rarely seen such floridly composed word salads, to use a phrase Tim might employ. I won’t call them “hate reads” — I’m trying to be a better person in my dotage — but my fingers often twitch toward an imaginary blue pencil to strip the lard, the filigree, and especially the adverbs out of his rhapsodical tributes to whatever misty water-colored memory is striking him today.

I’m also an editor, and know that self-editing is difficult. But can’t anyone at the Journal Gazette take a little hot air out of these balloons, perhaps by paring Tim’s “tall and willowy, thin as a rail” piano teacher down to just “willowy,” as that word literally means tall and thin? Or suggest that “a museum specializing in great art” redundantly states the definition of art museums, unless he knows of one that specializes in mediocre stuff.

To Tim, I offer my services as a writing coach. My email’s easy to find. Give me one paragraph, 100 words tops, on…something you dislike. Tight. No adverbs. We’ll start there. It may be a journey of a thousand miles, but it’s gotta start somewhere.

He won’t take me up on it. Sigh.

OK, Monday looms. Punch it in the face!

I’ve mentioned this here before, but for you folks who need a catch-up: I got a new phone a year ago, and no matter what I do, I cannot get it to stay paired with my car’s sound system. So rather than spend any more time trying to make it work, I have been listening to over-the-air radio on trips around town. (For longer ones, I have a small speaker I just stick in the console.)

Anyway, there’s an AM station here, CKWW, out of Windsor. It’s automated, which means a visit to “the studios” will find no people, and only a desktop computer cycling through the playlists. I read somewhere they use the playlists of the legendary CKLW, the old 50,000-watt behemoth of the golden olden days of AM radio. But it’s only 500 watts, which means it’s hard to pick up on the west side of Detroit. Fortunately, I spend most of my time on the east side.

Honestly, I’m kind of philosophically opposed to oldies radio, but sometimes NPR just gets to be too much to take. And while it’s interesting to go spelunking in the no-higher-than-30-40 range of 1970’s charting hits, what has really captured my interest are the newscasts at the top of the hour.

CKLW, back in the day, leaned hard into Detroit crime, and its “20-20 News” was designed to capitalize on it. It was tabloid, lurid and sometimes alliterative: “The battered body of a buxom blonde bounced once and came to rest on the sidewalk,” “The blood-smeared highways of Michigan claimed 14 more lives over Labor Day weekend,” and if you like this sort of thing, this 10-minute compilation is spectacular.

But CKWW’s news is distinctly…Canadian. The other day they reported on a bicycle theft, complete with a detailed description of the crime, the victim, and a description of the suspect. Yesterday a similarly comprehensive report was delivered, on a man who “committed an indecent act” in a public park, complete with a sketch of the perp available on the station’s website. This the tenor of the crime reports, day after day.

Now, I know Windsor isn’t some paradise. However, I also know that on a different Canadian station I used to listen to, around the new year there was a report on how often police had used force on arrestees, prisoners, etc. It was a little jarring; around here, where cops shoot people fairly often, the Canadian report mostly concentrated on the use of nightsticks. So I think it’s fair to assume the city across the river is a quieter, less violent place.

I wonder what it’s like to live like that.

In other news at this hour, I watched “Jaws” again last night, for the first time in a while. For all the talk about the mechanical shark failing to work, why doesn’t anyone mention the opening sequence, which covers maybe 20 minutes of action but starts in full darkness, switches to early-evening gloom, then pre-sundown, then just after sundown, before going back to full night? Damn amateurs.

Wait. I see someone has indeed discussed this.

Happy Wednesday.

The news has been moving at such a blistering pace of late. I know this story has already been passed around, but honestly, it was so interesting I have reread it a few times, and you should, too.

It’s about how Tim Walz, as a high-school teacher in Alliance, Nebraska, a little town in the western part of the state, decided to teach his geography class about genocide. This was in 1993, although the story linked above is from 2008, when Walz had recently been elected to Congress. And so:

Mr. Walz had already taught for a year in China, and he brought the world into his classroom in the form of African thumb pianos and Tibetan singing bowls. For the global geography class, he devised something far more ambitious than what the curriculum easily could have been — the identification and memorization of capitals, mountain ranges and major rivers. It was more ambitious, too, than a unit solely on the Holocaust of the sort many states have required.

“The Holocaust is taught too often purely as a historical event, an anomaly, a moment in time,” Mr. Walz said in a recent interview, recalling his approach. “Students understood what had happened and that it was terrible and that the people who did this were monsters.

“The problem is,” he continued, “that relieves us of responsibility. Obviously, the mastermind was sociopathic, but on the scale for it to happen, there had to be a lot of people in the country who chose to go down that path. You have to make the intellectual leap to figure out the reasons why.”

How did he do this?

For nine weeks through the winter and early spring that school year, through the howling blizzards and the planting of the first alfalfa on the plains, the class pored over data about economics, natural resources and ethnic composition. They read about civil war, colonialism and totalitarian ideology. They worked with reference books and scholarly reports, long before conducting research took place instantly online.

I’m already loving his approach as a teacher. I wonder how many kids were in the school. How lucky they were to have a teacher like this. At the end of the unit, he asked them to give their best guess where the next genocide would happen, offering them about a dozen choices. And what did they come up with?

Their answer was: Rwanda. The evidence was the ethnic divide between Hutus and Tutsis, the favoritism toward Tutsis shown by the Belgian colonial regime, and the previous outbreaks of tribal violence. Mr. Walz awarded high marks.

Well. We all know what happened the very next year.

This guy isn’t perfect, because no one is. But I’d vote for a teacher who came up with a lesson like this over a guy who peddled a memoir selling out his community.

Well, how was your weekend? Mine was busy, at least until I tried to bring a heavy box in from the front porch, struggled to get the screen door open, and fell on my ass right off the whole thing. I’m fine, but I took a bang on the ribcage and my hip. The good news is, I didn’t break anything, but I do have a garish bruise the size of my hand there. And it still hurts to move. It’ll be better in a few days, but it sucks to glimpse your mortality, doesn’t it?

Another killer week ahead, with one after that, and then Labor Day weekend, and after that — relief.

This might be the last day for this for a while:

Fortunately it was a great day for it.

I guess it was back at Barrington Elementary School, and it must have been early in the year, because we were talking about the just-concluded Olympic Games — this had to have been 1968, I guess — and one of my classmates asked, “Who won the Olympics?” The teacher explained that no one country “wins” the Olympics, that athletes compete under their own flags and win individual events, but the whole spectacle was about international fellowship and friendship.

Yeah, tell that to Dick Ebersol, amirite? As I recall, he was the one who instituted medal counts, first on NBC, which jingoistic editors later adopted for newspapers, and so on and so on.

Since we have to live with medal counts, here’s an unpopular opinion: I like it when American athletes, especially those who are favorites, are upset in their events. My all-time favorite might be when the American men’s basketball team had to settle for bronze in the 2004 games. And I realize it’s not the athletes losing that gives me this grim joy, but the insane, over-emphasis on American athletes, especially in the handful of prime-time sports that NBC shamelessly milks for pathos — gymnastics, swimming, track and a few others. Because I’ve spent my career in media, I can’t watch a closeup of Simone Biles sitting on the sideline without reverse-angling through the fourth wall. I know she’s surrounded by photographers and lenses capturing her every nose-scratch, and while I don’t want her to crash and burn — excuse me, for her Olympic dreams to vanish, I do want NBC to think, just for a few minutes, whether maybe another sport might be worthy of a little bit of attention.

Alan told me about kayak cross, a new sport this cycle, described by a writer for New York magazine as “a kind of mix between a ski slalom and white-water rafting and something you would see on one of the silly game shows that air on ABC in the summer where people risk bodily injury for small cash prizes. It is easily the most ‘should be narrated by a B-list comedian’ event at the Olympics. People in the crowd at Vaires-sur-Marne Nautical Stadium should have airhorns. These are the highest compliments I know how to give.” That is an excellent description; the videos are hilarious. Can we get a little comic relief between closeups of Simone Biles looking fierce and determined? Just a little?

I mean, I look at the clips that turn up in social-media feeds, and it’s often the weirdo sports like artistic swimming. There’s definitely an audience for this. You know what the most shared track-and-field clip was in recent days? The French pole vaulter who brought down the bar with his sizable penis, but did we see that on NBC? No. (OK, maybe we did. I didn’t watch every second in recent days. But I doubt it.)

Fortunately, other media outlets are still practicing journalism:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by The Washington Post (@washingtonpost)

You should watch that. It’s good.

Now I’m watching diving. One of the things I like about the Olympics is the way different sports reward different body types, and no group excels at flinging their bodies through the air like compact Asian people. These Chinese women are amazing; they barely make splashes.

In other news at this hour, Tim Walz! That was a good introductory speech. Still not taking anything for granted, because man, these Republicans get scarier every day.

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.