Best. Funeral. Ever.

For the last couple of days we've been having our annual-ish winter storm here in Texas. This one was actually kind of a doozy: a repeating cycle of sleet, snow, and rain over two days that made driving a very bad idea (as demonstrated by the morbidly fascinating news videos of native Texans and West Coast transplants trying and failing to do just that). It was a great time to stay home, and I did just that.

One of the things I'm very grateful for (for which I'm very grateful...whatever) is the technology that makes it possible for me to do my desk job from my sofa. Another is having management who recognize that letting folks work from home occasionally is a perk that pays dividends, and not simply a lost opportunity to micromanage and browbeat their workers in person. 

I don't take advantage of WFH all that often; when you're an office manager, a surprising amount of your work requires an office to, you know, manage. But I do a lot of other stuff that can be backed up, packed up, and taken home when necessary. And when various forms of frozen precipitation are falling from the sky in a place where that happens approximately as often as Jesus' birthday, I call that necessary.

So I've been tap-tapping away, much to the consternation of Tacocat, who can't understand why my lap is off-limits when I've got the glowing black machine in front of me. I took plenty of breaks to play fetch with him, don't worry. For the most part I've had the TV running while I worked, either keeping tabs on the weather or just listening to old reruns droning in the background.

But on January 9, the National Day of Mourning, I got to the watch the state funeral of former President Jimmy Carter, who passed on December 29 at the age of 100 (an age that, frankly, I never, ever want to reach). As I watched the flag-draped coffin being carried into the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., it struck me that I was home on the day of the last Presidential funeral, that of George H.W. Bush in 2018. I don't remember if it was weather that day, or a stomach bug, or what. But apparently this is my thing.

Anyway, the funeral was, as far as a funeral can be, delightful. Solemn, celebratory, dignified, folksy, full of music and eloquent speeches...10/10, no notes. And you could tell that it had all been planned to the finest detail by the departed himself, a man who knew a thing or two about putting your heart and soul into making an impression.

I was impressed that former President Gerald Ford and former Vice President Walter Mondale both wrote moving eulogies for Jimmy Carter, knowing full well that they might end up being delivered after each of them were gone. Their respective sons read their words - words full of love, respect, and admiration for the man from Plains, Georgia. 

I was beyond impressed that speaker after speaker extolled President Carter's faith, his integrity, his lifelong commitment to civil rights and human rights. I loved his grandson's description of his papaw answering the front door of his house in "70s short shorts and Crocs" and having "a rack (in the kitchen) of Ziploc bags hung to dry." Like many others, I was humbled by the image of a man who was once the most powerful person in the world declining the protection of the Secret Service while he built houses for the poor.

And I - a small, unimportant, and above all very petty person - I enjoyed the hell out of the fact that this heartfelt celebration of Jimmy Carter's life, before over a thousand people from all walks of life, played out in front of the incoming occupant of the White House. He wasn't there as President of the United States. He wasn't there as a cherished colleague, friend, or confidant of the deceased. He was there because of...protocol, and politeness. He must have hated every minute.

The prayers. The hymns. The outpouring of love and sincere grief for the man who was (unlike him) the focus of everyone's attention. It must have galled Donald J. Trump.

What was he thinking? Was he trying to tell himself it was all lame, or phony? Was he flipping through his mental Rolodex, trying to think of people he knew who might give a eulogy with a fraction of the sincerity and affection? Was he mentally redecorating the National Cathedral with fake gold leaf and velvet-upholstered pews? Was he paying any attention at all to what actually constitutes a legacy?

Ugh. Attempting to get inside Trump's head gives me a rash.

There were five former Presidents at Jimmy Carter's funeral - Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and (almost) Joe Biden. All of them will, in due time, receive state funerals. Each will reflect the character and legacy of the man it celebrates.

I doubt any of them will provide as much popcorn-worthy schadenfreude as this one.

I told you I was petty.

Rest in Peace, President Carter.

Five Years (What a Surprise)

 This Monday marks five years since my divorce was final. 

And now this song will be in my head all day, of course. There are worse fates.

(It's been five years since we lost David Bowie, too. Wow, 2016 really did suck, didn't it?)

To prepare for writing about this milestone, I've spent the last hour or so re-reading old posts from the days, months, and actually years leading up to it. If you don't know or have forgotten, three and a half years elapsed between the time my ex and I separated and the day the divorce decree was signed. I'd love to say it was because our extensive empire of assets, holdings, and bank vaults filled with money took time to be equitably split. But no. It was mostly because even the smallest of worlds can become vast and treacherous when you're navigating toward the exit.

Anyway, those posts are all archived under the "Divorce" tag on the right side of the page if you want to peruse them. I get that reading about somebody else's divorce may not be the most compelling thing in the world - especially if, as in my case, there aren't a lot of publicly available juicy details - but as for me, I'm damn glad those chronicles exist. I had forgotten, deliberately or otherwise, a lot of the stuff I'd written down. Re-living some of those moments has been instructive and emotional. 

On the whole, this is a happy anniversary for me. Of all the bass-ackward things I've done in my life, the most significant was becoming an old married lady without ever having been a young single lady.

It's nearly impossible to Google "single lady"
without getting a picture of Beyonce, so here's
a random picture of a snake in a combat helmet
instead. (RIP, Gandalf the White)

Over the last five years, I've done a lot of things I feel I should have done much earlier in life, like figuring out my own taste in decorating (which turns out to involve a lot of skeletons), putting myself on a budget and learning how to save, motivating myself (and taking responsibility when I don't), and just generally being comfortable in my own skin. I'm not saying I've been wildly successful in each of  these endeavors. But as I cruise through my fifties, I've finally put in the work that I probably should have done in my twenties. 

I'm like Thornton Melon, but again, not wealthy.

Of course, my biggest and best accomplishment - and the reason I would never, ever, actually go back in time and change any of the things I think I've done wrong - is my Precocious Daughter. She'll be a senior in college this Fall, and while I worry constantly that I've screwed up her life in a thousand ways as collateral damage of my own screwups, I'm so proud of the person she's become. I'm not sure she'll ever know how much she helped me through the dark days of the divorce, by being strong and happy and inspiring but also by needing me to be there for her. Like most parents, when I stop to think of all the ways I've failed her I go a little crazy. But then I see what she's become in spite of that, which really is a mark of successful parenting that a lot of us don't embrace as much as we should. 

Any kid who never looked at their parents and thought, "Nah, I don't want to go there" probably didn't turn out as well as they might appear to be from the outside.

Never forget that in the Brady Bunch universe,
Marcia growing up to have a drinking problem
is canon.

This is not the post I meant to write today. I meant it to be funnier, and sillier, and have more advice on how to be a happily divorced person in a world that in many ways really only wants to hear about being happy in a traditional marriage. Oh, well. I'm no stranger to things not going the way I planned them to be. Obviously.

(On that note, here's a post I wrote when I was married about another writer's [ridiculous] definition of a good vs. a bad marriage. It's pretty hilarious, and I recommend all my happily married friends feel free to ignore its advice.)

Maybe I'll write the funny, silly post later. Or maybe I'll spend the rest of the day hanging out with the Siamese Kitten and looking for new skeletons to add to my decor.

Whatever you do today, Drunkards, do it happily. 

The Worst Governor Texas Has Ever Had (Latest in a Series)

 For the last 26 years, Texas has had inept, corrupt, mediocre white male governors.

Our state seal if there were truth in advertising.

Don't get me wrong. Texas has had inept, corrupt, mediocre white male governors for a hell of a lot longer than that. But for four brief, glorious years in the 1990s we had Ann Richards. Unfortunately, she lost her re-election bid to George W. Bush in 1994, and so for the last 26 years I've had cause to lament a succession of money-grubbing toadies masquerading as leaders.

I miss Ann Richards.

G.W. Bush was without a doubt the worst governor Texas ever had. This is what I said until December 2000, when Bush inexplicably was elected President of the United States and Rick "Dick" Perry was sworn in. Dick Perry was a frequent target of mine in the early years of this blog, mostly because he faced the daunting task of being a less competent conservative sock puppet than his predecessor and not only succeeded but made it look easy.

Unlike whatever the fuck he was doing
on Dancing with the Stars.

Dick Perry was the governor of Texas for fourteen excruciating years. After he left office he served as Donald Trump's Secretary of Energy, where he distinguished himself by literally not knowing what the U.S. Department of Energy actually did. He was the worst governor Texas ever had. Except for his successor, the current governor, Greg Abbott.

Here's a thing you should know about Greg Abbott: In 1984 he was partially paralyzed when a tree limb fell on him. He sued the owner of the tree and as a result of the legal settlement currently has a lifetime payout of more than $150,000 a year, which is periodically increased to adjust for inflation. In 2003, as Texas Attorney General, he successfully backed tort reform that severely restricted and capped personal injury lawsuit settlements exactly like the one that has given him a six-figure income for more than 30 years. Obviously, the restrictions were not retroactive.

As Texas governor, Abbott has consistently backed legislation and issued executive orders that have little basis in science, history, or public welfare but that pander to a very specific base: Wealthy donors who believe that exploiting fear, ignorance, and religious mania is the best way to maintain personal power and wealth. Notice that his base doesn't include the fearful, the ignorant, or the maniacally religious themselves, except to the extent that they're persuaded by his well-funded campaigns to vote for him. This separation allows him a certain ideological purity: He only has to support the positions that are deemed most profitable to his backers and therefore, to him personally. The will of the voters is fickle and messy and, let's face it, not terribly lucrative.

And on occasion very, very stupid.

Abbott has signed increasingly draconian anti-abortion laws (that have all been blocked by federal courts). He's allowed guns to be sold and carried almost without restriction. He's cut healthcare and education funding for the most vulnerable and enacted "protections" that discriminate against right-wing boogeymen including marijuana users, gay couples, and healthcare providers. 

Let's not forget that in 2015 Abbott found it politically expedient to jump on the Jade Helm bandwagon. This was a whole-cloth Internet conspiracy theory, which alleged that purely routine military training exercises being held in Texas and other states were part of a nefarious plot to declare martial law and usher in an ill-defined New World Order - all at the behest of the scary black Muslim illegitimate Kenyan President, Barack Obama, of course. The wingnuts who perpetuated this insanity managed to weave Walmart, Blue Bell Ice Cream, China, and rogue asteroids into their online batshittery, and Abbott responded by calmly and rationally...agreeing with them and ordering the military exercises to be "monitored" for the sake of...something. 

Last I checked, we were still waiting for the Chinese to invade America and take our Cookies and Cream ice cream away.

These were supposed to be rolling morgues
during the invasion.
Extra nuts on my patriot corpse, please.

By the way, it's widely accepted that the whole Jade Helm kerfuffle was largely disseminated by Russian troll farms, and that its success - as evidenced by being embraced by the governor of the second most populous state in the U.S. - emboldened the Russians to systematically interfere in the 2016 Presidential election. We all know how that turned out.

With apologies to appropriately-coiffed
citrus fruit everywhere.

Anyway, the fetal-heartbeat bill, which effectively bans the option of abortion before most women even know they're pregnant, is Greg Abbott's latest gambit to consolidate his power and declare he really doesn't care about anything not benefiting Greg Abbott. We know this because he is the same man who enacted tort reform to curb "frivolous lawsuits," but has with this law allowed any Texan to sue anyone who performs or assists in an abortion, even if the plaintiff isn't personally involved in the transaction. It's akin to allowing random citizens to sue a drunk driver on the grounds that they don't approve of drinking. So, not frivolous at all.

This would probably be a more effective
deterrent, and more fun to implement.

By the way, slightly overshadowed by the signing of this stupid bill is an executive order he also issued this week. This one attempts, for the second time, to ban local governments and school districts from requiring people to wear masks to restrict the spread of COVID-19. He issued the first such ban in May 2020, causing such a huge spike in cases that he not only had to repeal the ban but institute a statewide mask mandate in July. He lifted that mandate this past March, but his wealthy backers got awfully pissy that most private businesses and many public institutions kept mandates in place. That's no way to show the masses who's in charge of their democracy.

Abbott can't order Target and Costco to let maskless mouth-breathers perpetuate the still-prevalent virus, of course. So he went back to his previous position of requiring schools, courthouses, motor vehicle departments, libraries, and other public entities to ban protective face coverings. Because he is, as he likes to trumpet to his chronically deluded voters, "pro-life."

Ironically, it's a sure sign that the pandemic is winding down, at least in the United States, that corrupt bozos like Greg Abbott can no longer conduct their various grifts and political shenanigans under cover of relentless virus news. Now he and they have to go back to erecting more traditional smokescreens, like "protecting all Texans (who voted for me and also are not scary brown people or uppity women)." Unfortunately, I don't think the tremendous struggles of 2020 taught them anything except that if they dig in deep enough, they can survive anything to grift another day.

And that's certainly not an attitude exclusive to Republicans or conservatives. There's always plenty of corruption to go around. But Greg Abbott is the current worst governor Texas has ever had, so he's the one I'll keep my eye on. Until the guard changes, or he appears on Dancing with the Stars. A girl can dream.

I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers, and I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers More

Today's post is brought to you by two of my best friends-I've-never-met, Bill the Butcher and Allie Cat, who have no clue that they both gave me the same idea. Great minds, etc.

Sidebar: 

The phrase "Great minds think alike" - shortened above with the "etc." to show that I'm one of the Internet cool kids - is itself abbreviated from its original form, which is "Great minds think alike, though fools seldom differ." That happens to be a sentiment I love - "Agree with me, but not too much, because that's highly suspect and makes you seem weird and creepy." The longer saying is great relationship advice, the more common shorter version is how pundits on all points of the political spectrum manage to convince themselves they're relevant even though they're actually emotionally stunted, attention-starved bores.

See also: "Money is the root of all evil," which it's totally not and I'll prove it to you as soon as I have some.

Anyway, back to our post. Last week in this space I wrote about the mystery of the four-ounce Camembert cheese. To which Bill the Butcher - who claims to live in some place called "India," if you can believe that - commented "What is an 'ounce' in human-comprehensible units?"

How rude. Everyone knows that an ounce is the amount of weed that a cop will "confiscate as evidence" instead of just pouring it out on the ground in front of you. Or so I've heard. 

But it was 14.17 grams of oregano for my mom,
I swear, officer.

So then I saw a post from Allie Cat on Facebook, talking about how we Americans look stupid because we stubbornly refuse to adopt the metric system. STUPID? I take umbrage with that. When it comes to our decades-long resistance to adopting the measuring standards of the entire rest of the world, Americans may look willfully ignorant, uneducated, unenlightened, hidebound, parochial, narrow-minded, and obtuse. But we are not stupid.

Some of us are stupid for myriad other reasons.

And by the way, we don't completely eschew the use of the metric system. For instance, you can buy weed in either grams or ounces. In fact, the average stoner is fairly expert in converting metric to imperial measurements. Weed is magical that way. And America has been buying its cocaine and heroin in grams and kilos since before disco was a thing, which is a long time, children. 

The point is, if it's something important, of course Americans use the metric system.

But Allie and Bill did get me thinking of my own history with learning the metric system.  I was brought up in the Shiny Seventies, which means I was subjected to the U.S. government's sustained and hilarious attempts to indoctrinate American children into adopting the vernacular of meters, grams, and Celsiuseses. We were going to be the vanguard, the ones who would help the citizens before us and the citizens yet to come to shed the archaic shackles of acres and bushels and hogsheads and barleycorns. We would eat 30-centimeter hot dogs and wash them down with 1.18-liter malt liquors. For the good of America.

Looking back, it was one of the earliest examples of Baby Boomers expecting Gen X to do the heavy lifting for the rest of society. And in true Gen X fashion, our collective response was "lol wut."

If our parents had just gotten us one of these bikes
for Christmas, the world might be very different today.

But the government tried, it really did. It tried to be hip and with-it and speak to us kids in the language we best understood. Which was cartoons. Hey, they weren't wrong. The government wisely chose to emulate the framework of "Schoolhouse Rock," aka the only reason I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution and multiply by eight in my head.

We got off on our new math tricks,
and we liked it.

So throughout the 70s, my peers and I were shown various short animated films about the metric system. But instead of being broadcast on network television, like "Schoolhouse Rock," we watched these during school hours, on the giant TV rolled out on the magic cart. And instead of enjoying them over a bowl of Froot Loops on a Saturday morning, we were a captive audience that didn't get to go to recess until we had absorbed government-approved ditties about how the U.S. was going to lead the world by doing what the rest of it was already doing. So the metric system had a distinct disadvantage over, say, "Conjunction Junction," passive-learning-wise.

I found the two metric system videos I remember best on YouTube for your enjoyment. Now, I'm not gonna lie: On playing these clips, I found I was able to sing along with them, word for word, after 40+ years. To this day, the only reason I have any clue how long a meter is or what 25 degrees Celsius feels like is because these little jingles play in my head when I need to retrieve that knowledge. So on that level, they were quite successful.

On the other hand, after 40+ years the sum total of my knowledge of the metric system is that a gram is "the weight of a single raisin." And in the real world, the ability to quickly convert ounces to raisins is not as useful as you might imagine.

So instead of a raising a generation of metric-fluent adults, America created a generation of chronic  underachievers who can win at bar trivia as long as a significant portion of the questions involve the metric weight of dried fruit or the history of white Americans, set to music.

And that's why America still doesn't use the metric system. 

Here are the clips, in case you want to know what my inner soundtrack sounds like. You can thank Allie Cat and Bill the Butcher for the earworms.

The Big, Beautiful Letter

 

January19, 2021

"President" Joe Biden

The Beautiful Oval Ovfefe

Washington, DC

Dear Joe:

We both know that I was never going to write you a beautiful love letter like the ones Kim Jong-Un wrote me. Why should I? I'm still the President as I write this, and the Constution Contsitutution Croissanwich  Rudy says the President can do whatever he wants. That's why I just signed a perfect Executive Order renaming the White House "Mar-a-Lago North" in perpetuity. Ivanka just leaned over and told me I should tell you that's a joke. She also told me how to spell perpetuity. 

I will be leaving Washington soon, not because I lost the election but because I hate it here. As you know, I am moving to Palm Beach, where people pay $200,000 to have dinner with me and it's totally legal. This should be how it is everywhere, but Washington is full of elitist Deep State Communist antifa scum. Sean Hannity told me that, and I believe him (but not his failing Fox News). I am taking all the good Secret Service people with me and leaving you with the losers, like Pickle-Dick, Crabby, and the Wetback. Those aren't their real names. You'll find out who I mean when they make you use the bunker.

My son Byron says that in his school, the graduating seniors make mock wills and leave funny things to the underclassmen. I knew that already because I graduated from Wharton and my uncle was a genius. I have a will like no one has ever seen, by the way. I will leave billions of dollars to my family and my creditors if I ever die, which I won't, just so you know. But just like I'm voluntarily leaving the White House even though I could stay if I wanted to, someday I may voluntarily stop living so that my children can take over my very successful company and my extremely impressive debts. You wish you had debts like mine, Joe. I owe more money to Russian  legitimate businessmen than you'll ever see in your life.

So I asked some of my staff, who are also voluntarily resigning at noon on January 20, what they'd like to bequeeeth to your administration. Apparently some of these people are actually Cabinet members, and at least one is my wife, but I call them all my staff. Here's what they said:

• My press secretary, Kayleigh McEnany, leaves you her big, beautiful binder full of not-lies, and 37 pairs of false eyelashes.

• Dr. Ben Carson, from HUD, leaves you everything in his office. He says it's all like new and practically unused. Good man.

• Steve Mnuchin, my Treasury guy, leaves you a sheet of uncut dollar bills and two points in the movie he's already started producing about his time in Washington. Good luck, Steve, I'm sure it'll be a big hit, just like Home Alone 2.

• Dan Scavino, my personal coffee boy, leaves you the burner cell phone he used to write my Tweets, but only when I was too busy making many phone calls and having many meetings to do it myself. Dan also says that it's totally unfair that Big Tech censored me and he hates not being able to see what people are saying about me on social media when  I  he gets up every morning.

• Stephen Miller, the Trump Reichsminister für Propaganda, says he would leave you his copy of Hitler's speeches, but he's still using it. That's a very fine book, by the way. Right up there with the Bible, which I've totally read many times.

• Tim Harleth, the great White House usher hired by me when I took office, is not leaving you anything because he plans to stay here a very long time. He'll be right there to open the door when you enter the White House, Joe. You can count on that.

• Jeffrey Rosen, the acting Attorney General, told me a joke when I asked him about this. He said, "Knock knock. Who's there? Justice Department. Justice Department who? Go fuck yourself." Jeff is a funny guy, very funny guy. Sometimes people have to explain his jokes to me. I'll ask Ivanka about this one.

• Jared Kushner, who did very big, very important things in the White House, things no one ever did before, leaves you a key to a warehouse in an undisclosed location. He says you'll have to find out for yourself what's in there, but it's definitely not millions of doses of the COVID-19 vaccine awaiting shipment to Turkey and Saudi Arabia. So you'll just have to wait and see, I guess. I don't know anything about that.

• And last but not least, my beautiful wife Melania, our great First Lady, who will be remembered as the finest First Lady this country ever had for all her First Lady accomplishments, really incredible First Lady things she did, your wife the fake doctor Jill Biden wishes she could be a First Lady like Melania was a First Lady, leaves you a sealed envelope from a law firm. Actually, now that I look I see that it's addressed to me. Sorry, Joe, I guess she didn't leave you anything except the bill from the landscapers. They did an incredible job on the Rose Garden. You probably shouldn't pay them. I didn't.

It's almost time for me to take a crap and order the Secret Service to fetch me my final Big Mac as President. I'm going to miss that. Not being President, that kind of sucked, if you want to know the truth. Also not taking a crap, ha ha. Come to think of it, the American taxpayer will be paying for my Secret Service protection for the rest of my life, so deal with it, haters. I guess there's nothing I'll miss about this place. It was a dump. You can have it. I didn't want a second term anyway. 

Good luck, Sleepy Joe. 

Signed, your best President ever,

I'm Terrified Beyond the Capacity for Rational Thought

Looks like Ghostbusters had it right.

Everything. Ghostbusters had everything right.

Dr. Peter Venkman: This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions.

Mayor: What do you mean, "biblical"?

Dr. Raymond Stantz: What he means is Old Testament, Mr. Mayor, real wrath of God type stuff.

Dr. Peter Venkman: Exactly.

Dr. Raymond Stantz: Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling!

Dr. Egon Spengler: Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes...

Winston Zeddemore: The dead rising from the grave!

Dr. Peter Venkman: Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria!

Substitute "country" for "city" and "four" for "forty," and they pretty much nailed our current situation.

cheezburger.com didn't even EXIST in 1984. Yet here we are.

Hell, even the part about the dude from the EPA being a huge asshole is spot-on.

It's true. This man has no dick.

And let's not forget the famous line that eerily presages something our current head of state almost certainly uttered in a Moscow hotel room in 2013.

Finally...from Louis Tully aka Vinz Clortho:

"Gozer the Traveller will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of Vudlronaii, the Traveller came as a very large and moving Torb. Then of course in the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex supplicants they chose a new form for him, that of a Sloar. Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day I can tell you!"

I'm having flashbacks to Election Night 2016, aren't you?

Thanks, Ghostbusters. I'm sorry we were too busy marveling at Mr. Stay-Puft and dancing to the Busboys to take your oracle seriously.

You told us about the Twinkie. We just laughed. We know better now.

America has gone bye-bye now, Egon.

Five Faves on Social Media

Lately I've spent more time reading/watching social media than writing/contributing. Life ebbs and flows, and right now that's where the ebb it's been going. See what I did there?

Anyway.

I thought I'd share a few of my current favorite social media accounts with you, so you can see where my head's at. Note: I define social media as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I'm too old for Tumblr and far too unhip for Instagram*, although some of my faves definitely may be active on those platforms in addition to the ones I list here.

*I do have an Instagram, but frankly it baffles me, so basically I only use it to stalk Fredrik from "Million Dollar Listing New York."

In no particular order, here are the accounts you could follow if you wanted to see the world through my eyes (good God, why?)

WeRateDogs (@dog_rates on Twitter): They're good dogs, Brent. Home of the best doggos and puppers, heartwarmingly and hilariously ranked for your convenience. A true phenomenon.

Single Dad Laughing (Facebook): Parenthood, dating, and lifestyle blogger. I follow him mainly for his daily roundup of memes, which I regularly steal/share on my own Facebook page.

Pictures in History (Facebook): The guy who runs this account consistently posts unique and fascinating photographs - not just the ones that are repeated and repackaged ad nauseam in clickbait articles (and I would know because I'm a sucker for clickbait articles - come at me, bro). Fun stuff.

Moshow the Cat Rapper (@IAmMoshow on Twitter and Facebook): Just what he sounds like - a dude who raps about cats, with his cats (he has five). But more than that, he's a sweet, genuine guy who spreads positivity with every post. If you could use a smile several times a day, give him a look.

Tiny Snek Comics (@TinySnekComics on Facebook and Twitter): The artwork here is so ludicrously simple it's beautiful; the jokes are so blase they're profound. The young man who draws Tiny Snek comics has created an entire visual and verbal language that conveys depth and sincerity through extreme silliness. He just graduated from college, but I hope the real world doesn't end his comics.

*****

There's five. I'll come up with five more another time. In the meantime, do me two favors:

1. Share your favorite social media accounts.

2. If you visit any of mine, tell them Chuck Baudelaire sent you.

I'm off to check my notifications. G'night.

Give It Up for Sammy P

Today is the 210th birthday of great American dudebro Salmon P. Chase. Or would be, had he not stroked out in 1873 at age 65.

Who names their child Salmon? Especially when your last name makes you sound like some kind of Olympic event for bears?

Even an actual salmon wouldn't name a kid Salmon.
That would be like me being named
Functional Alcoholic.

Anyway, you might not know as much about Salmon P. Chase as you really need to survive and thrive in this crazy old world. And that's a shame, because someday you might be kidnapped and held hostage by a fanatical "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" contestant and your only path to freedom is to be his Plus-One and know the answer to the question "Which major US bank was originally named in honor of the 25th Secretary of the Treasury?" And if you can't correctly answer "JPMorgan Chase," you'll be beaten with an XBox controller dipped in pure capsaicin and/or forced to watch the Cousin Oliver episodes of "The Brady Bunch" in perpetuity until your eyes bleed Tabasco sauce.

I don't want that to happen to you. I love you guys.

So, to celebrate the life of an American hero and potentially save your bacon in the process, here are 10 Fun Facts About Salmon P. Chase.

1. The P stands for Portland. He wasn't born in Portland, his mother's maiden name wasn't Portland, and as far as I know he wasn't a fan of "Portlandia." On the other hand, his first name was freaking Salmon, so pairing that with Portland and the surname Chase creates one of the greatest non sequitur names in American history. So there's that.

2. He served as the sixth Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and was nominated to that position by none other than Abe "the Babe" Lincoln.

I have no idea if anyone actually
called Abraham Lincoln "Babe."
But I would have if I'd been there.

3. His face appeared on the very first $1 bills in 1862. Guess who designed the bill? None other than the Treasury Secretary himself. Basically, he had political aspirations throughout his entire career and put his own face on the dollar as a means of free self-promotion. Trolling level: Salmon-tastic.

4. As Chief Justice, SPC presided over the trial of President Andrew Johnson, who was impeached in 1868. Johnson was acquitted by one vote, but that's not Salmon's fault. He and William Rehnquist remain (for now) the only two judges to preside over the impeachment of an American president.

5. Salmon P. Chase also appeared on the $10,000 bill, the largest denomination ever widely circulated by the U.S. Treasury. In 1946 the bill ceased production, and in 1969 the government began actively withdrawing it (and other big-money bills) from circulation. There are only a few hundred believed to still be at large. Check your wallet - you never know if the clerk at 7-Eleven gave you one by mistake. Not really. But maybe.

6. My boy Salmon was an anti-slavery activist. He opposed both the Compromise of 1850 and the Kansas-Nebraska Act. He also (unsuccessfully) argued in court that any slave who escaped to a non-slave state was no longer bound to his servitude under the laws of his former state. His objections to slavery were rooted in Constitutional principles more than in a sense of moral justice. But still.

7. Mary Todd Lincoln was not a fan of the Chase family and refused to attend the wedding of Salmon's daughter Kate. Personally, I think being blackballed by Mary Todd Lincoln is kind of badass.

8. If you cover half of Sam's face while looking at his portrait, it seems very plausible that he had at least two demons living inside him doing battle for his eternal soul. Try it!

Use this Matthew Brady photograph.
Also, his less-possessed side looks
a lot like the late Peter Boyle.

9. Chase was affiliated with five different political parties during his career, including one that he and Martin Van Buren basically created themselves. The Free Soil Party was considered a "spoiler" party that effectively led to the election of Zachary Taylor, one of America' least distinguished leaders. You go, Free Soil Party.

10.  Depending on where you look it up, Salmon P. Chase had two, three, or more children. The only one anybody seems to know anything about is Kate (the one snubbed by Mary Todd Lincoln), who apparently was quite a social-climbing spitfire and was delighted when her father gave up on marriage after being widowed three times. Had Daddy Chase ever succeeded in being elected President (he failed to be nominated twice), Kate would have been de facto First Lady, which seemed to sit well with both of them. Hmmm.

There you go. If you win a bar bet because of this post, raise a glass in my honor. Be sure to follow it with a...Salmon P. Chase-r.

Please don't throw fish at me. That's rude.

Happy INDEPENDENCE Day

On July 4th, 1976, the United States of America celebrated its Bicentennial - the 200th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

God Bless "Schoolhouse Rock."

It would be more than five years before General Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, setting the stage for our actual birth as an independent nation. But July 4th, 1776 is the date we Yanks celebrate each year to commemorate our formal FU to England.

We're super-good friends now, btw.

Obama never held hands with David Cameron.

Just saying.

I have such vivid memories of the Bicentennial, Drunkards. I was eight years old. Independence Day in my childhood was always a day of cookouts, watermelon, sparklers, and fireworks. But in 1976, love of America permeated the very atmosphere. Even at the level of understanding of a child, messages of patriotism, freedom, and pride in our country were everywhere.

In my ancestral home of South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, people and local businesses adopted city fire hydrants and repainted them in a Bicentennial theme. All over town, hydrants were transformed into American flags, Liberty Bells, and portraits of Uncle Sam. Those paint jobs remained for years.

This one isn't from So. Milwaukee, but is representative
of the Spirit of '76, which was everywhere.

The Bicentennial instilled in me a lifelong sense of love and devotion toward my country. Which, frankly, was the goal, following years of disastrous involvement in Vietnam. I comprehended almost nothing of Vietnam when I was eight. But I understood the strong and visceral desire of my country to celebrate and validate itself.

That was all right with me.

And today, in 2017, I'm still all right with love of country.

But I'm just a wee bit more informed about political reality today than I was in 1976.

On this Independence Day, we have a President who speaks in 140-character monosyllables to articulate complicated and nuanced policy positions.

On this Independence Day, the current administration has eroded relations with all of our historical allies, who have publicly stated that the USA cannot be considered the driver of western-hemisphere policy any longer.

On this Independence Day, the President of the United States has repeatedly maintained that he represents the interests of those who voted for him and disdains all others.

On this Independence Day, the only campaign promises the POTUS has fulfilled are those that roll back regulations that benefit the many in order to benefit the few.

I still love the USA.

But I don't support what the party in power is doing to my country.

The fallout from North Korea's ICBM launch today, and Trump's meting with Russian leader Putin on Friday, will go a long way toward shaping my opinion of the current administration. 

I will never stop loving my country.

I will never stop protesting forces that threaten its strength and sovereignty.

God (or Whomever) Bless America.

Trivial Pursuits

This evening, looking for something to do, Precocious Daughter and I dug out our Trivial Pursuit game. We didn't set up the board or anything (because it's not much fun with only two players), we just took turns asking each other questions off the cards. I thought it might be a fun diversion for 20 or 30 minutes.

We ended up spending two hours answering trivia questions.

We laughed a lot, and even learned a few things.

I might have quoted Bill Cosby from the opening
of "Fat Albert" if he weren't a despicable sexual predator.

Just a couple of nerdy smart chicks having fun on a Friday night.

Among the things we ended up talking about, either because they were trivia questions or because we went off on a wild tangent:

Renoir's "Luncheon of the Boating Party":

Raise your hand if you had this in your dorm room or first apartment.

Shirley Bassey, who sang THREE James Bond theme songs:

Did you know she's Welsh?
I did not know she's Welsh.

The state flag of Hawaii:

The only U.S. state flag to feature the Union Jack.

Justin and Britney's infamous American Music Awards look from 2001:

JT would later become one of Earth's
suavest dudes, which nobody
would have predicted from this photo.

Teletubbies, and specifically how PDaughter did not know until tonight it was a British show (she said she "didn't have a concept of faraway places" back then):

You guys, the baby in the sun is a freaking grown-up now.

Indira Gandhi, and specifically how I did not know until tonight that she 1) was not related to Mahatma Gandhi and 2) was related to Nehru:

It's a good day when I can fill in a gap
in my knowledge.

Corgi puppies!

Such floofy goodness.

And finally, Nelson Mandela's involvement in legal negotiations following the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988:

May take a bit of time to process this, actually.

All in a Friday night, I guess.

I should mention that I was supposed to spend time with Drummer Boy this evening, but missed out because PDaughter and I were so caught up in our trivia game.

I'm sorry about that, but...

I regret nothing.

What are your favorite bits of obscure trivia, Drunkards? Share and edify the rest of us, please.

Little House, Today

Several years ago, I wrote this lovely little post about the house I grew up in. I loved that house. And although once in a while I'll hop on Google Earth to see how it and my old neighborhood are doing, I hadn't seen the inside since 1982.

Until yesterday.

My childhood home is for sale.

This is not my childhood home, you guys.
This is actually the clubhouse in Grant Park,
South Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Isn't it gorgeous?

Don't ask me why I was looking at online real estate listings in Milwaukee on a Wednesday morning. There was a whole daisy chain of events that got me to typing in my former zip code on Zillow, starting with something that actually was more or less directly related to my job. OK, it sort of got out of hand from there. I blame the Internet for being so full of stuff I enjoy looking at. At which I enjoy looking. Whatever.

So there I was, looking at an overhead view of my old 'hood, and I pretty quickly spotted a listing on my old street. On the corner, in fact. Hey, I lived on the corner....could it be...? I clicked, and found myself looking at the address I called home from kindergarten to my sophomore year of high school.

It's a weird feeling to realize that your childhood home is for sale. For one thing, it forces you to think of all the people who have lived there since you lived there. For them, this is also "home;" we have this in common despite the fact that we are in every other way complete strangers.

Then there's the pang of knowing that, despite thinking of it as "your" home, it isn't. I haven't lived there since I was 14. I moved to another state, graduated from high school, graduated from college, got married, built a career, had a child, bought and sold two houses of my own, got divorced, and started over in that span of time. It's now a faraway part of a long personal history. And until I finally write that damn book and become world-famous, no one cares that it's the "childhood home of...." It's just a private residence that a lot of people have lived in, and having spent my formative years there gives me no special claim on it.

Having said that, I was freaking STOKED to see how the place looks now. Who doesn't want to get a peek inside the house they grew up in?

Always with the hope it doesn't look like this, of course.

Out of respect for the current and future owners, I'm not posting the address of the house, or a link to the Zillow listing, or any of the pictures from it. I just feel that would be creepy and wrong. As much as I'd love to share images of my youth with all of you, my words will have to suffice.

Deal with it.

First and foremost, my little house looks ADORABLE.

According to Milwaukee Central Appraisal District information, this house was built in 1943, along with the other homes on my street. They are all similarly small, modest homes on relatively small lots. And OMG, the family that were my next-door neighbors STILL own the house next to mine after all these years. That's amazing.

My house (I can't stop calling it that despite what I said above) used to be white with light green trim. Now it's white with dark red trim. There was a huge tree in the middle of the front yard when I was a kid. It's gone now. Also, the front and back yard are fenced, presumably to keep kids from cutting across, which happened constantly when I was a kid. Also, the lilac bush that used to separate our house from the aforementioned neighbors is gone. I loved the smell of lilacs when I was a kid. They don't grow in North Texas, you know.

Texas has crape myrtles, which are similar but not nearly as fragrant.

The listing includes a picture of the front porch, which is pretty much as I remember it. We spent a lot of time out there on summer evenings, as there wasn't (and apparently still isn't ) central air. Occasionally crazy neighborhood people would peek in and favor us with their crazy. This is where and how I learned that the world is full of different people, and our goal as humans shouldn't be to call the cops on anybody who doesn't share our values and world view.

Once I moved to the suburbs of Dallas, this lesson was sorely tested, but my upbringing prevailed, I'm proud to say.

Anyway, I was totally stoked to see pictures of the inside of my house.

When I lived there, the living room had dark green 70s carpeting, heavy dark-green draperies, and a whole wall of mirrors. Yeah.

According to the listing and photographs, this house had goddamn original hardwood floors in every room, which now have been exposed and refinished. Not so in my time. :(

This house has walls painted in modern trendy colors, highlighted by beautifully restored wood floors.

The doors and windows have been updated with modern, energy-efficient versions.

The swinging doors to the kitchen, and the dark wood shutters in the bedroom windows, are gone.

The gigantic oil furnace in the basement seems to be gone.

Yet I can still see my childhood home in every photo.

I see the front door, from which we collected the Milwaukee Journal every afternoon.

I see the three bedrooms...I occupied all three of them over nine years. First in the second bedroom, in bunk beds with my big sister; then in the master bedroom, which we swapped with our parents so that we could we could un-bunk our beds; and finally, the third bedroom, which became mine after my big brother joined the Navy. It was tiny - TINY - but it was my first bedroom by myself. And I loved it for the four months I had it.

My house had three bedrooms for five people, and one small bathroom. It still has three beds and one bath. The bathroom is nicely updated, but it's still the only one.

The fenced yard is now more nicely fenced. The outside parking slab is now covered to be a secure carport.

And most importantly...you can still walk to my elementary school. To my library. To beautiful parks.

Because if you buy this house, you also buy a wonderful neighborhood in the southern part of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

You buy my modest, beautiful, awesomely updated home.

Good luck, home. And home owners.

I hope someone freaking awesome buys my house. <3 p="">

Apparently Doctor Who Is a Reality Show Now

You may have seen Daniel Radcliffe's recent appearance on "The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon," in which he admitted he looks a lot of women in old photos.

Viz.

And while there's no denying the resemblance, it turns out Mr. Radcliffe isn't the only attractive British actor with a historical doppelganger.

Because I recently unearthed this photo of a battle-weary Soviet soldier from World War II:

Do you see it?

Do you see it?

How about now?

Between Daniel Radcliffe, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Doctor Who, it seems the Brits know something about time travel that they're not sharing with the rest of world.

Next you'll be telling me that Marcus Mumford is a dead ringer for Charlie Chaplin.

I am utterly convinced the TARDIS is a real thing right now.

Whoa.