The FIFA Piece of Crap Prize

I don't know much of anything (i.e., nothing) about Maria Corina Machado, other than that she's the leader of Venezuela's democracy movement. And that she beat out Dear Leader for the Nobel Prize. 

What a travesty. 

After all, Dear Leader helped bring about the ceasefire in Gaza that lasted a day or two before Israel got right back into flattening Gaza with weaponry provided by the US. 

And he did broker some sort of ceasefire of the 12-day war between Iran and Israel, the included a bombing foray into Iran by the US. Can you be the president of peace when you've bombed a country? Not quite as if Harry Truman had gotten the Nobel Peace Prize after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but still...

Pakistan went full suckup grateful nation and nominated Dear Leader for the Peace Prize after the US played a mediator role in ending a brief war between Pakistan and India. But India said he had nothing to do with it. Gee, why would Pakistan lie  just to get into Trump's good graces?

And there were all those other wars, or non-wars, or skirmishes that Dear Leader laid claim to ending, and which garnered him a couple more nominations.  

I'll give Trump some minor credit for using his diplomatic and economy-threatening skills to move things along in a number of these situations.

But then he goes and starts obliterating boats (and the humans in the boats) that may or may not have been involved in drug trafficking, but which is kinda/sorta against international law. 

And he renamed the US Department of Defense to the Department of War.

Plus he's been threatening war with Nigeria. (Is it to save Nigerian Christians, or grab the country's oil?)

Not to mention he's been sending in troops to cities and states where they a) aren't wanted and b) aren't needed, in Trump's peacekeeping hopes that these deployments will turn into violent fiascos so he can declare an insurrection and start killing folks in blue cities. (I'm already practicing my 'duck and cover.') 

Anyway, now that I think of it, Trump not getting the Peace Prize is a travesty? NOT.

Of course, I can't say that it's not at least mildly entertaining - if you can factor out the nausea-inducement - to watch Trump non-stop grovel for the recognition and pathetically whine about not winning it. Trump is actually somewhat fascinating in that, along with his lack of empathy, lack of curiosity, lack of integrity, lack of decency, lack of honesty, lack of compassion, etc., he is apparently completely lacking in shame. What an embarrassment to our country. (I was going to say 'what an embarrassment to his family,' but as long as they're raking in the grift $, I'm sure they don't care at all.)

After he didn't win the Nobel Peace Prize, after he threw his snits, Trump did get a boost when the South Koreans gave him a crown. If you can't be the Nobel Peace Prize winner, at least you can be a make-pretend king! 

And then FIFA, the famously corrupt international soccer association, decided to trump the South Korean gift of a crown, and create a consolation peace prize.

In November: 

Fifa president Gianni Infantino announced the creation of the Fifa peace prize, to be awarded each year to “individuals who help unite people in peace through unwavering commitment and special actions”. The inaugural award will be presented on 5 December during the World Cup draw at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington DC, a high-profile event that Trump is expected to attend. (Source: The Guardian)

Expected to attend? Did anyone think for a New York minute that Trump was going to miss an opportunity to be the center of attention, have his arse royally kissed, and get to blather on about how the FIFA - Guardian says fifa, I say FIFA - prize is actually better than the Nobel.

“In an increasingly unsettled and divided world, it’s fundamental to recognise the outstanding contribution of those who work hard to end conflicts and bring people together in a spirit of peace,” Infantino said. “Football stands for peace, and on behalf of the entire global football community, this prize will recognise the enormous efforts of those individuals who unite people, bringing hope for future generations.”

FIFA corruption aside, sports in general, and football (a.k.a., soccer) in particular do unite people. Billions of people will watch the World Cup matches next year. I don't have much interest in it, but even I will likely turn it on at some point, and I'll know for sure who's in the finals. Sure, your enemy becomes the opposing team, but - occasional riots and hooliganism aside - it's not a murderous emnity. And you're friends with anyone and everyeone rooting for your guys. For a peaceful 90 minutes (plus stoppage time), you're with those who are wearing the same colors and waving the same flag, even though IRL (which starts the moment the trophy is awarded) you might despise them.

But in what world is Donald J. Trump someone who "unite(s) people, bringing hope for future generations"? 

He makes no bones about not giving two shits - make that actively hating - those who didn't vote for him. What hope exactly is be bringing to anyone? Please name names.

In any case, 2026 will be a big ego-booster of a year for Dear Leader. Even if he fails yet again to win the Nobel Peace Prize, he'll be presiding over both the US's 250th birthday and elbowing his way into the picture whenever he can at World Cup events. 

Can't wait. (Have I used up my allotment of NOTs?)

Meanwhile, congratulations to Trump on winning the FIFA Peace Prize. Make that the FIFA Piece of Crap Prize.

Memo to the Toy Hall of Fame: Let It Snow!

Each year, I like to take a look at the toys nominated for entry into the National Toy Hall of Fame, which is housed in the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY. (I've been there, a brief but fun visit. What's not to like about a museum dedicated to toys and playing?)

There are a lot of wonderful toys and games that have been inducted in the Toy HoF. The Hula Hoop. The Baby Doll. Jacks. Teddy Bears. PlayDoh. Doll Houses. Balls. 

All personal faves.

But my favorite favorites are the most basic of items, toys like Alphabet Blocks, Crayons, Chalk, Swings, and Playing Cards - things that aren't over complicated, tricked out, expensive, yet provide for hours of fun. (Or at least they did when I was a kiddo.) I was a little bummed out that one of last year's finalists - Balloons - didn't make the cut.

But there are even more basics, the most basicests of basics, that don't cost a thing. How wonderful that the Hall of Fame includes things that aren't produced by Disney or Mattel, that aren't made in miserable overseas factories, that don't end up in waste dumps. Sticks. Cardboard Boxes. Blankets. Sand.

Sticks can, of course, be weapons, which is likely their most common usage. But they can also be canes or shepherds' crooks. Teachers' pointers. Outlines/framing for a pretend house. Bats. Etc.

Cardboard Boxes. The fun never ends! One of the treats of my childhood was when someone in the neighborhood got a large appliance delivered - a fridge, a washing machine - and us kids got the box. Instant club house or fort, good until it rained. And - my favorite use case - a tumbler: stuff a bunch of kids in it and push it down the steep bank of the frontyards of the street I spent my first seven years on. With luck, you'd get a couple of somersaults in before the kid-filled box hit the edge of the cement retaining wall and landed on the sidewalk with a satisfying clunk. Small boxes were just fine, too. You could make trains, houses, villages full of houses, doll beds. Or just push a baby around in it. You could use a piece of cardboard as a makeshift sled for snow, or to slide down grass banks if you didn't have a big, intact box.

Blankets were hiding places, tents, things to toss other kids in. They were costumes. Cover your head: ghost or monster. Over your shoulders: cape. Draped around your body: glamorous ball gown.

Sand also made an excellent toy. Castles. Forts. Food (especially when augmented with acorns, pignuts, and red berries). Mud pies. Just digging in at the beach and watching the hole miraculously fill with water. Digging for worms. (Oogie.) Digging to China. (A complete waste of time. You knew you were never going to get there.)

Ah, the basicests! Available, versatile, affordable. No rules. No tricky pieces. No assembly needed. And good for all sorts of imaginative play. 

Given my inclination towards basic toys, I was delighted to see that one of this year's Toy Hall of Fame finalists was SNOW. 

Unfortunately, only available in places where it snows - and there's a diminishing number of those, I'm afraid, but Snow is such a terrific plaything. 

You can use it to build forts, igloos, caves. You can make snowballs. You can slide on it. (And lest you think that you need a pricey Flexible Flyer, a toboggan, a flying saucer, to enjoy sledding, you can slide using a piece of cardboard. (C.f., Cardboard Box.) 

Snow is good for making snow angels.

And snowmen.

I was especially fortunate to spend my early years in a flat in my grandmother's coal-heated three decker. So we had real bonafide pieces of coal to use for eyes, for the smile, for the buttons. Even in the dead of winter, you could always find sticks for arms. And even my frugal mother would spot us a carrot to use for a nose, and some worn to the nubbin knit cap, a rag to use for a scarf. When we moved to the next block and no longer used coal, you could always find stones. (This was New England. Rocky, stoney ground in abundance.)

Snow was also, of course, the ultimate pro-play, pro-toy thing in that we were pretty much guaranteed a couple of Snow Days per winter. (Snow days required at least a foot of snow, but there were plenty of foot-of-snow storms in the Worcester of my childhood. Bummer if they happened on a weekend. Hiss, boo!) I know I've said this many times in the past, but one of the most beautiful sounds in the world was the WNEB radio announcer saying "No school all schools, Worcester public" - and here we would hold our breaths waiting for the words we longed to hear - "and parochial."

Tough luck for my mother. Good luck for us! A day off! And all that glorious snow to play in!

As I write this post, I don't yet know what's been elected to the Toy Hall of Fame for 2025. 

Let it be SNOW!

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Image Source: Wikipedia

Dr. Who? Dr. What?

In October, I received a form letter from my primary care physician, announcing that she was leaving her internal medicine practice to become a concierge doctor.

I was not happy to hear this news, as E has been my doctor for well over a decade, and I trust, like, and admire her. E is a good 20-25 years younger than I am, so I had been hoping that she would see me out the door. (Her husband is my dentist, and my hope is that he ain't going anywhere. I've been getting my dental care at his practice for nearly 50 years. E's father was my dentist for decades, and I was delighted when E joined the practice.) 

The form letter from E stated that all of her patient's would be assigned a new doctor by mid-November, and we were not to contact her office. Don't email us, we'll email you.  

When I saw the note, I gulped and did three things: 

• I wrote E a very nice snail mail note telling her that I was grateful for her care over the years, and, while I was disappointed in the news that she was leaving, I wished her well.
• I got in touch with K and M, two friends from different spheres of my life who are also patients of E. All three of us are long-standing members of the E Fan Club. All three of us were upset by the news.
• I wrote an unwanted email to E (or E's practice) saying that, before assignments were made, patients should be asked for their preferences. Mine would have been a woman doctor, one affiliated with Mass General,where I have been a mostly healthy part of the family for nearly 50 years, and one who was relatively convenient to get to. MGH is the hospital where my husband spent the last week of his life. I know my way around there. Brigham & Women's is part of the Partners healthcare system that MGH is a member of. I did not want to get shunted off to The Brigham, even though it is a fine hospital. Whenever I visit someone there, I get lost.

No response to either the note (wasn't expecting one), nor the email (kinda/sorta was).

Pairwise, K, M and I had several convos about the sitch. (As an aside, K is a retired primary care physician, M a retired nurse. They know things.)

On a lovely mid-October day, I was on the train, tootling out to the 'burbs to have lunch with a friend. I was checking my email and saw a notice from Partners. I had my assignment. In suburban Waltham. 

I immediately texted K and M, and spent the rest of my train ride on the phone with one or the other of them.

K had also been exiled to Waltham. M, through a convoluted set of circumstances - and a lot of persistence on her part - had been okayed to see O, a resident in E's practice.

The notification said that the Waltham facility was accessible by public transportation.

Their definition of accessible is not quite the same as mine. 

I plotted a trip, and for me to get from home to the new doctor in Waltham via public transpo would take 1.5 to 2.1 hours each way. It would involve multiple changes train-bus-bus, and, depending on the route, would require a .4 to 2.0 mile walk up a hill. (The detail on the hill climb wasn't included in the route info, but, as it turns out, I used to work in that area and know all about the hill.) 

Not that I would ever be taking public transpo out to the wilds of Waltham - Uber all the way, baby - but, seriously folks, to expect a carless elder who lives a 10 minute walk from E's practice - which is still a practice - to trek out to Waltham seems pretty daffy to me.

When I got home from my lunch, I shot a response off, saying that I thought it was pretty outrageous to assign a carless city-girl elder to the boondocks. I also asked to be assigned to O, the resident physician that M had arranged to see. The curt auto-response was pretty much of the sorry/not sorry variety. It included a number to call if I wanted something different.

So I called and spoke with a very nice young woman who told me that there were no MGH-affiliated PCP's anywhere in the city of Boston taking new patients. She laid out my options, which were mostly in locations farther away than Waltham, but the coup de grâce was that I could get assigned - guaranteed, they're taking new patients - to Amazon One Medical. NO THANKS! Make that NO FUCKING THANKS.

While I was speaking with the very nice young woman, I saw that another message had come in from E's office, this time not an auto-response, but a personal note from E's practice manager. She apologized for the process having upset me, and told me that if I were willing to see a resident - who would only be around for a couple of years - she would assign me to O. 

Yes, seeing a resident 10 minutes from my house was infinitely preferable to schlepping out to Waltham. Over the course of time, I've seen a number of residents and nurse practitioners and physicians assistants. Happy to see any and all. Sure, for continuity of care it's nice to have your very own personal Marcus Welby, but that's not the wave of the present, let alone the future.

Meanwhile, K wasn't able to line up with O, but was assigned to another resident which she, as a physician herself, thinks is just fine.

So all good.

But it's no secret that there's a shortage of primary care doctors, and Mass General Brigham has been hit especially hard. 

So they've now launched:

...an AI app that questions patients, reviews medical records, and produces a list of potential diagnoses.

Called “Care Connect,” the platform was launched on Sept. 9 for the 15,000 MGB patients without a primary care doctor. A chatbot that is available 24/7 interviews the patient, then sets up a telehealth appointment with a physician in as little as half an hour. MGB is among the first health care systems nationally to roll out the app. (Source: The Boston Globe)

Look, medicine is one area where I think AI shows some real promise. I've read that it's proving to be better at identifying breast cancer than mammograms are. And I'm sure that eventually AI will be very good at looking at tests and symptoms and making a diagnosis, which should be especially helpful in rare and complex cases. There's too much stuff to know out there, and doctors really aren't able with keeping up with it all. So bring on AI. (Not to mention that half of us are using AI search to get preliminary diagnoses for ourselves, our friends, and our families. Asking Dr. Google - and making sure that the sources are legit and not some ChatGPT iodiocy spewing bot - helps us figure out what to ask the doctor when we see them.)  

But I'm not fully sold on sticking an AI intermediary (and AI-driven devices) between patient and physician. 

It will, of course, happen sooner rather than later. And there may be plenty of places - refilling a prescription, the common cold - where Dr. AI will perform plenty well enough. But there's something to be said for the doctor in the white coat actually looking you in the eye when they're delivering good, bad, or just sort of meh news.

Maybe MGH needs to start treating its primary care doctors better so they won't be running out the door. It's a demanding job to begin with, and the paperwork, the midnight emails, the Dr. Googling don't make it any easier. But I can certainly see a point where having a personal PCP will only be for those who can afford concierge medicine, while the rest of us "see" a robot, or a doctor in Timbuktu via telehealth, or a rotating carousel of residents and nurses, or whoever it is that's on duty that day in the healthstop or Amazon's fakeroo doctor's offices. 

Me, I'm just happy to be seeing Dr. O for my annual come January.  So what if it's the first, last, and only time I'll see her? Crisis averted, at least for now. No more worrying about Dr. Who and Dr. What. 

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Image Source: SciTech Daily

Thanksgiving 2025

A couple of years ago, I did a post listing the things in life that I'm thankful for. Here's a slightly updated version:

Thankful for:

• Family. (Many are friends, too!!! Yay!)
• Friends. (Some are like family!!! Yay!)
• Dogs. (Their very existence makes living worthwhile.)
• Health. (Iffy ankle aside, I'm kinda/sorta rockin' geezerhood, healthwise. So far, anyway. Update: had a few minor things in the last year, but knock on wood. And the ankle's fine. Shifting from 7 miles a day walking to 5 did seem to eliminate most of my joint pain. Alas, it did result in a 10 pound weight gain.)
• Medical care. (My doctor, dentist, and eye doctor are all in walking distance, and all still in their 40's. All are excellent. Bonus points for being young. My wonderful PCP decided to join a concierge practice, but I was able to transfer to another highly-recommended physician in the same place who I'll be seeing in January. And she sounds just fine. She's also younger than my "old" PCP. And I'd say my dentist and eye guys are now in their early 50's. I almost ask my eye guy when I saw him in September. Still likely young enough to see me out the door.)
  
• Home. (Sure, I'd like a rug under my dining room table, but I love the cool new lamp in the LR. Sometimes Wayfair does have just what you need.
  
  Or just what you want, anyway.) There is a new furniture addition. My sister Kath downsized and I got this gorgeous cherry breakfront. Forget Wayfair. Crate & Barrel, baby!
• My neighborhood. (Beacon Hill. Lucky me. The Boston Public Garden is my front yard.)
• My City. (Oh, oh, Boston, you're my home.)
• NYC. Chicago. (If I had to pick another city.
• My State. (Guess I'm pretty much a homer, but this is it for me.)
• Maine. Vermont. (Maybe. If push comes to shove.)
• My Country.  (Sadly, not always. Still beats many alternatives.) Yes, it still beats many alternatives. For instance, I wouldn't want to be in North Korea or Saudi Arabia. But the way this country is going... Thankful that, for now, we are still able to exercise our first amendment rights, but we know that the rancid malefactor in the White House is just lusting after operationalizing the Insurrection Act. 
• Ireland. (If I had to pick another country.)
• Galway. (If I had to pick a city in another country.)
• Old sweaters. (Some go back 30+ years.)
• New sweaters, too. (Are sweaters my hobby?)
• Comfy shoes. (And Bombas socks.)
• The baseball season being over. (How 'bout those Red Sox?)  Yes, the last couple of years, the Red Sox were god-awful, but they pulled their socks up this year and the season turned out to be fun. And I wasn't happy to see it end. 
• Truck day. Pitchers and catchers. (It'll be February before you know it.)
• Music. (Still crazy after all these years for folk, folk rock, Celtic.)
• Books. (Not the reader I was before I started obsessing on the news. Now 1-2 a month, vs. 1-2 or more a week. Still, where would I be without them?) This year, I'm on pace to have read over 100 books. So, two a week. A return to my norm. A combo of literary fiction, history, biography, mystery, police procedural, political and social issues, beach reads. The only requirement was well-written. If not, I slapped it shut fast. I also rediscovered the Boston Public Library, which I hadn't used regularly in quite a few years. Now if I pick up a book that isn't all that enjoyable, I can slap it shut without fretting about how much I paid for it. Anyway, I'll be doing a highlights post on my year in reading sometime in December. 
• Work. (Especially now that it's 99.99% 100% in the rearview mirror.)
• Volunteering at St. Francis House. (Gotta do something, and SFH is a great place to do that something.)
• Oranges. Cherries. McIntosh apples. Nectarines. Tangerines. Blueberries....(And nuts, too.)
• Pasta. (Especially the good kind from Italy that I buy in the North End.)
• Salad, and all the good things to throw in salads.
• Sesame chicken. Teddie's peanut butter. Scallops. Asparagus. Broccoli. Etc.
• Fried clams. (Other than the light and the baseball, I'm not wild about summer. But just about now I'm missing a summertime fried clam roll.)
• My Le Creuset Dutch oven. (If you only have one pot, this is the one to have.)
• Chocolate. (What's not to like?)
• How in god's name did I leave ice cream off my original list???
• Tea. (Barry's is best.) But I've added peppermint and ginger to my tea repertoire. Both soothing. And who couldn't do with a bit of soothing these days?
• Prosecco. (Alcohol of choice, for those occasions that call for alcohol, which I must say occur nowhere near as often as they used to.)
• Sense of humor. (Where would I be without it?)
• Public transportation and Uber. (Love being car-free.)
• Other stuff...

Not quite sure who(m) or what I'm thankful to exactly, but plenty to be thankful for. 

Happy Thanksgiving, 2025!

Betcha can't eat just one

Seriously, who doesn't like potato chips?

There are plenty of food items you can't eat just one of: Oreos, M&Ms, and peanuts, for starters. But right up there on my list you'll find potato chips. And you don't need to take my word for it. During my youth, Lay's ran a famous ad saying "betcha can't eat just one."

Not that I ate Lay's. In my house, if and when we had chips - which was mostly when we were having a holiday cookout, so Memorial Day, Fourth of July, or Labor Day, or when we were going on a picnic or having a day at the beach - we had State Lines, a local brand that has almost but not quite disappeared. (State Line got its name from its location: Enfield, Connecticut, on the Massachusetts-Connecticut boarder.) In school, when I had an extra nickel to buy a bag of chips, the brand was even more local: Wachusett, a product of Worcester County. 

These days, if and when I buy chips, it's almost always going to be Cape Cod, which are delish. (Not exactly a unique opinion.  Earlier this year, Cape Cod Originals with Sea Salt were chosen the best potato chip by Food and Wine.)

If and when I buy a sub, which I try to limit to once every couple of months, I'll usually throw in a bag of Lay's, which seems to have a monopoly on local sub shops. 

Lay's are fine, just not my faves. But they are the market share leader, and they're doing a big brand makeover. 

Some of the makeover involves removing synthetic colors and flavors from the ingredients that go into the making of a chip. Which is a good thing, but I'm wondering how all the flavored brands are going do without fake whatevers. We'll see. Actually, "we" won't see, as I do not like flavored potato chips - even the most innocuous sour cream and onion flavor. Although I'm down with Cape Cod Russets, the original, the plain, the "vanilla of potato chips" is still the greatest 

Anyway, as part of the Lay's rebranding, Pepsico - the snack empire that Lay's is a major part of - is putting the potato on the bag as well. 

• The redesign will also incorporate a new logo that looks like the sun, photos of potatoes on the bag, and the phrase “Made with real potatoes.”
• A 2021 survey found that 42% of consumers didn’t know Lay’s were made out of the spuds. (Source: Fortune)

42% of consumers didn't know Lay's were made out of spuds? Come on now!

I can see not thinking that Cheese Doodles aren't really made with cheese. (And you'd be right. It's "cheese flavoring.") I can see not knowing what the hell Pringles are made out of. (If you're wondering, it's dehydrated processed potato.)

But what did people think potato chips were made out of? It's pretty simple. Unless they're those weird flavored chips - barbeque, vinegar, dill pickle - potato chips are made out of potatoes, some type of oil, and salt. 

And even if you don't realize and appreciate what the ingredients are, I betcha can't eat just one.

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Image Source: Pepsico

Indifference to Running

Not that I watch much college football, or churn through a lot of brain cycles thinking about it, but one of the funner things about college football is the team mascot. 

Sometimes it's a student cavorting around in a costume, like Notre Dame's Leprechaun. Sometimes it's a student cavorting around in a big-foam-head costume, like the UMass Minuteman. Sometimes it's a student cavorting around in an anthropomorphic whatever it is costume, like the Ohio State Buckeye. Sometimes it's a student cavorting around in an animal costume, like the UCal Berkeley bear. And sometimes it's an actual animal cavorting around in its birthday suit, like the Navy Goat. (Okay, the Navy Goat is sometimes a student cavorting around in a goat costume, but at other times it's the real goat deal. I'm not sure whether there's ever an actual elephant on the sidelines, but Tuft's mascot is Jumbo the elephant, originally donated to the university, in all of its stuffed majesty, by none other than P.T. Barnum.)

Among the real animal deal mascots is the University of Colorado's Buffalo, a shaggy beast always named Ralphie, even though they've all been female:

The running of Ralphie during Colorado games is one of the most famous mascot traditions in college football. Five handlers run with Ralphie, who is actually a bison, although buffalo and bison are sometimes used interchangeably. The animals can reach speeds of up to 25 mph. (Source: NY Times)

Alas, Ralphie VI ("real" name: Ember), who served for  four years, has been retired. She was put out to pasture because she ticked off Colorado fans with her nonchalant approach to cavorting on the field.

“Due to an indifference to running, typical of many mammals both four-legged and two-legged, it was determined that it was in Ember’s best interest, based on her disposition, to focus on relaxing strolls on the pasture, which is her favorite hobby,” Colorado’s announcement said.

Ember had replaced Ralphie V ("real" name Blackout), who was dispositionally the polar opposite of Ralphie VI. Blackout took to the field with gusto, so rambunctious she once pulled away from the ropes her handlers held her back with. In her later years,Blackout kept up her aggressive ways. Unlike Ember's "indifference to running," Blackout started "ignoring cues from her handlers." So, indifference to handling. Tsk, task. 

Ember will be put out to pasture with Blackout, where they can compare notes on whose approach worked better.

I'm going with Ember, who was able to weasel her way into early retirement after just four years of goldbrickin' on the job.

You don't go, girl! Maybe Emagainstber didn't like being manhandled by a bunch of cowboy-hatted students. Maybe she found crowd noise annoying. Maybe she was pissed she wasn't eligible for lucrative NIL payments. Maybe she just didn't like football. 

But maybe, just maybe, Ember's slowing the line down was a protest against using live animal mascots. It's one thing for a student to don an animal costume. They're doing it voluntarily, for the joy of supporting their team and the privilege of a can't-beat-it sideline view of the game. 

Not that there's anything natural about a student in an animal costume, but when you think about it, it's more natural than expecting a real, live animal to cavort up and down the sidelines in front of thousands of screaming fans. Personally, I'd be displaying indifference to running, too. 

Enjoy your retirement, Ember, out there at home on the rane. You've earned every bit of it.

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Image Source: AP News

Did there used to be this many narcissists?

You're not imaging it. 

There have always been narcissists. Caravaggio's masterpiece Narcissus was painted 1597-1599, and he obviously didn't pull the concept out of thin air.

But many psychologists are saying that there really are more narcissists these days than there used to be. 

Sure, some of the increase may just be an increase in awareness of the problem. As with autism. I have a hunch that the stats on how many autistic people exist are inflated by the definition of autism having been expanded. Autism is now considered a broad spectrum of behaviors, not just Rainman-like behavior. My career was in tech, and a lot of the colleagues we considered your typical techie oddballs would now be characterized as "on the spectrum." 

It's likely the same with narcissism. The term, in all its glorious (mis)understanding, trips off pretty much everyone's tongue. And when the inglorious spectacle of a manifestly disordered president - a fellow who, when it comes to narcissism, pretty much checks every box - invades our lives, a lot of us are thinking/fretting about narcissism 24/7. 

But it's also likely that technology - all that Insta, all that TikTok - and the equating of success and happiness with having a distinct personal brand have resulted in greater levels of self-absorption. Influencer as a profession, anyone?

One of the more spectacular manifestations of narcissism that I've seen recently came across my timeline. 

Jennifer P is a NJ stay-at-home dog mom (nice work, if you can get it, I suppose) who has been cataloging her "fitness journey" for years. I don't know how many folks she actually influences - when I looked at her TikTok, the number was fewer than 2,000 - but earlier in the fall she was getting an awful lot of views, and it wasn't for all those butt angles of her  tightening her glutes in her lululemons. 

I won't be using the full name for Jennifer P, but it's out there. (Click the linked article and see for yourself.) But I'm not using it because I feel kind of bad for her. An influencer with little influence who brought a virtual ton of bricks down on her virtual head, and who keeps posting (at least as of this mid-October writing) videos continuing to excuse herself from any stupid-doing while assuring her meager pack of followers, and herself, that what she did was fine and dandy, that she can't believe she's become such a thing (and such a target), and that she's really ok. 

So, kinda sorta sad. 

But a pretty good example of narcissism run amok. 

What Jenny from NJ did was put out one of her exercise vids and decide to make it about "gym etiquette." But she wasn't pointing out that folks should put the weights back, and wipe their sweat off the equipent they'd just used. No, she took on a fellow gymgoer, bitching her out for "photobombing" her video, and accusing her of doing it deliberately. When IRL, all the accusee was doing was being a gymgoer. Here's how it went down:

The video was set up to focus on [Jennifer P] completing her routine on a bench, but more of the gym beyond her was visible, including a row of weights and mirrors. During her set, a woman stepped into frame to return her weights and to stretch in front of the mirror, seemingly to check her form.

[Jennifer P]  appeared irritated as she glanced at the woman and then looked at her camera, as if to confirm that the woman was included in her shot. She appeared irritated as she switched to leg lifts before finally dropping to the floor and approaching her phone.

Off-screen, [Jennifer P] asked the woman why she was standing there. When the woman expressed confusion, [Jennifer P]  stated: "Because you're annoying me. You're annoying me. You're doing this on purpose."

The woman replied something inaudible to [Jennifer P]  before grabbing another set of weights and walking out of the frame.

But that wasn't enough for [Jennifer P] , who said:
"Don't work out next to me. Don't work out next to me. Please, don't work out next to me."

Ironically, [Jennifer P]  wrote in a text overlay on the video: "Gym Etiquette Lesson 47: Don't photobomb the content creator."

She also wrote in the video's caption: "She did that sh*t on purpose." (Source: ComicSands)

I'm not going to say that all hell broke lose, but partial hell sure did. And all of a sudden, viral being viral, a whole lot of TikTokers were weighing in on Jennifer P's "delusional level of entitlement" and lack of understanding of what gym etiquette actually means. To the world at large, Jennifer P is no Emily Post of the Gym. One critic even wondered whether the whole thing was a skit. 

Then some big kahuna fitness influencer, one Joey Swoll - Joey Swoll of the 8.1 million TikTok followers - came for Jennifer P, suggesting that if she needed so much private space, she needed to build herself a home gym.

Jennifer P, like a true narcissist, found it impossible to accept any responsibility or blame for the incident, and kept posting back. Some of her commenters warned Jennifer P that she was going to lose her gym membership over this, but Jennifer P insisted that she'd been a member for 17 years, and no way were they going to kick her out.

A short while after she posted her NFW would they expel me video, Jennifer P was kicked out of her gym.

Oh. 

Maybe Jennifer P was having a bad day. Maybe she was having a menopausal meltdown. Maybe one of the bulldogs she moms was sick. But she sure sounds and acts like a narcissist to me. (And, yes, I did look through some of her TikToks.)

Anyway, technically there may not be all that many narcissists out there than there used to be, but it sure seems as if there are. 

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Image Source: Turning Leaf Therapy (Ur Source for Image: Caravaggio)

Short answer: not really

Well, yesterday, my post was dedicated to pudding. Today, we take on an adjacent foodstuff: Jell-o salad.

One of my mother's festive specialties was the Jell-o mold.

Early on in my childhood, for Thanksgiving, she regularly made a Waldorf Salad that contained apples, celery, and walnuts suspended in a lovely golden apple-flavored Jell-o. Even though the walnuts got a little soggy, I loved it. Then Jell-o went and stopped producing apple Jell-o. Hiss, boo. My mother experimented and landed on lime, but it was never the same.

But she had another Jell-o mold up her sleeve: a strawberry Jell-o delight that had strawberries, bananas, and walnuts in it, and was slathered with sour cream. 

For Easter, she made orange Jell-o with shredded carrots and pineapple. 

Sometimes she'd whip up a lime Jell-o with canned pears special, other times she doctored up whatever-flavor-of-Jell-o was on the shelf with canned fruit cocktail or grapes.

True confession: my palate ain't all that sophisticated that I didn't absolutely love these Jell-o molds. Don't knock that orange-pineapple-carrot mold unless you've tried it. (And, yes, I have made plenty of fun of Jell-o molds over the years.)

Maybe it's because I'm half Midwest, but whie I may not ever actually make a Jell-o mold, I'm fine with eating one. 

Years ago, on a biz trip to State Farm HQ in Bloomington, Illionis, we went with our client to the campus cafeteria and there we found not one, not two, but three options for fruity Jell-os. I abstained. I knew they would not be as good as my mother's. 

Although my mother's molds sometimes used a veggie - carrots, celery - Liz never, ever, ever made a savory Jell-o Salad. 

But they're apparently a thing. A gourmet thing.

A recent NY Times article asked a compelling question that drew me right in. Can the Jell-o Salad Be Redeemed! 

Talk about click-bait!

Aspics and other savory gelatins are popular again, this time with top-notch ingredients and a refined, ultramodern look. (Source: NY Times)

What's pictured here is not, of course, an ultra-modern, top notch anything. It's a totally vile 1950's recipe using unflavored gelatin, tomato soup, spaghetti-o's and hot dogs. 

Revolting dosen't begin to describe this desecration. We didn't have a lot of say over what my mother put on the table. She occasionally served something that my father liked, but the kiddos mostly found disgusting. Looking at you, creamed chip beef. Looking at you, liver and onions. But once a year, we were all capable of gagging down a meal we hated. Early on, I mastered the act of sluicing down a bite of something disagreeable by floating it down the hatch in a mouthful of milk. But if my mother ever tried to serve this, there would have been a riot in our kitchen. And rightly so.

But The Times isn't talking about hot dogs and spaghetti-o's. They're talking about high-end top-chef creations. 

They're talking about chefs who make "aspics [which] resemble Lucite sulptures." Like one that features soft-boiled egg, herbs and cubed sausage and ox tongue. Ox tongue? That's right up there in the Top (Bottom?) Five when it comes to disgusting foods. Personally, I'd rather sup on Lucite.

A chef at a Berlin restaurant came up with a dish that 

...used a dashi-flavored gelatin to suspend crisp endive leaves and jewel-like kumquats, making the broth with fermented smoked bonito and umami-rich aged rausu kombu from the Japanese island of Hokkaido.

Oh, FFS. 

Anyway, I was not surprised to learn that this Berlin restaurant went out of business last year.  

I don't care how fancy-schmancy these "salads" are, the short answer to Can the Jell-o Salad Be Redeemed! is not really. A shorter version is NFW. A still shorter version is NO. 

A Jell-o mold with fruit, on the other hand... There is a gelatin brand that makes apple. I'm hosting Thanksgiving. Maybe, just maybe.  

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Image Source: Cookbook Community

Proof of the pudding

I like pudding. 

Chocolate. Butterscotch. Vanilla. Rice. Grapenut. Tapioca. And the near relations: mousse, flan, and whatever's in the middle of those chocolate volcano cakes. And, of course, bread pudding. (Worth a trip to New Orleans for, and it's near-ubiquitous there.)

My father had a colossal sweet tooth, so we always had desserts at our house, and when my mother didn't have time to bake, she'd whip up something quick. As often as not, that was pudding. If she enough time for making something but not enough time for baking something, she made chilled "parfait" of graham crackers and cooked chocolate pudding. If she had a bit of time but not enough for the graham cracker concoction, she made plane old cooked pudding. If she didn't have any time, she made instant. My mother was a scratch baker (and cook), but when it came to pudding, cooked or instant, it came from a little carboard box from Jell-o or Royal. 

Everyone (in their right mind) preferred cooked pudding to instant, but sometimes when it was instant-time, my mother made a combo of chocolate and vanilla, putting them in clear glass bowls - chocolate layer followed by vanilla layer, topped off with half of a maraschino cherry. (I can't say I've ever replicated this "recipe," but I do have a couple of those little clear glass bowls, which are very useful keepers of small amounts of ingredients when baking or cooking. Most recently, I used them for orange zest and freshly squeezed OJ needed for a yummy orange-shrimp-pasta recipe of mine.)

I like pudding.

I rarely make it, but when I'm out and see rice pudding, tapioca, or grapenut pudding on the menu - which I believe can only happen in restaurants/diners that specialize in non-exciting, non-innovative old time American-New England cuisine - I'll often order it. The one and only time I was in Greece, 50+ years ago, the treat of the day was finding a street vendor selling little cups of rizogalo - 

rice pudding dusted with cinammon. 

But one thing about pudding: with the possible exceptions of flan and bread pudding, pudding is eaten with a spoon.

Not so for the youth of the world, who've begun convening in parks and other central locations to eat pudding with a fork.

According to a recent article I saw in The Boston Globe, "eating pudding, in public, with forks" is "the latest social media-driven activity now sweeping the world." Or the GenZ world at least. (All I see on social media, which for me equals BlueSky, is the stuff of politics. That and cute dogs and the occasional poem.)

And the origins of forked pudding are in a country not generally associated with fun.  

The first Pudding mit Gabel [Pudding with Fork] took place in the southwestern German city of Karlsruhe, best known as the site of the country’s Supreme Court, in late August. Evidently, young people across Germany thought it was a tremendous idea. Within weeks, there were pudding fests in Stuttgart, Hamburg, Munich, Hanover, and other cities and towns.

These events attract crowds - a thousand or so twenty-somethings (zwanzig etwas) - and is now spreading around the world. It's recently arrived in the States. Although there was a recently small gathering at Boston's Northeastern University, and another in DC, it hasn't yet taken off. Let's give it some time.

The NU gathering was local, but I was not invited, anymore than an old geezer in the 1950's would have been asked to join in with a bunch of crazy college students seeing how many kids they could stuff in a telephone booth (ah, those were the days) or a VW Beetle. (I'm trying to come up with a similar youth fad of my college era. I guess it was streaking, but I was more into protesting the war in Vietnam.)

I'm happy that GenZ-ers are looking for ways to connect, and have fun, in real life. 

But pudding with forks? Why? Some have suggested the goal is to build community, and make new friends, a slippery grasp for togetherness, in a world that seems increasingly fractured.

But pudding with forks? Although spoons (löffeln) do a better job, I guess the answer is why not? 

The world is often a mean and ugly place, and young people are bearing a disproportionate burden of the meanness and ugliness, especiallly when it comes to what comes next. If you're living through particular and general existential crises, why not have some dopey fun and try eating pudding with a fork. 

The only downside is that it's harder to scrape the last of the goodness out of the cup using a fork. But I guess that's what tongues are for.

The proof of the pudding with forks fad will be to see whether it continues to grow, or just dies out. 

I may be sticking with the spoon method, but I'm rooting for pudding with forks to grow. With so much rancid stupdity and evil out there, we could all use a little fun. (Bonus points for the birthplace being Germany. Juhu!)

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Image Source: Silk

Buy Now, Regret Later

I am at the point of my life when I don't really need anything. 

When I was a lot younger, and a lot shoppier, the byword was that "need" should never enter into the shopper's vocabulary. So I bought a lot of stuff I didn't need. I'd stop at Crate & Barrel after work and buy a cute little pitcher that I really had no use for. But, hey, it was only fifteen bucks. So what if, when I had parked my car and was heading home I whacked the C&B bag on the side of a brick Emerson College building just down the street and destroyed the cute little pitcher. It was only fifteen bucks.

I bought plenty of clothing that I didn't need, even back when I went into the office five days a week, back in  the day when you had to look at least quasi-professional. Non-need-based shopping is how I ended up with three periwinkle-blue cashmere sweaters, two nearly identical teal silk blouses. 

I'd spend Saturdays shopping with my sisters and friends, hunting for bargains at Loehmann's, at Frugal Fanny's, at Filene's Basement, and at the outlet stores that were starting to pop up in places like Kittery, Maine. 

But while I wasn't exactly shopping at K-Mart or the Dollar Store, my tastes were pretty pedestrian middle-class. Crate & Barrel. Lord & Taylor. Talbot's. Funky, artsy stores with funky, artsy tops and earrings. I had a few higher-end pieces from upscale brands or shops, but they were items I got at Loehmann's or Filene's Basement. That cool sweater from Barney's - does Barney's even exist anymore? - I got it for not much in Filene's Basement. I had a pair of kick-ass black leather Ferragamo boots I got for pennies on the dollar at Saks because size 10 AAAA boots weren't exactly flying off the shelf Sometimes I'd do a birthday splurge on a $$$ sweater from Peruvian Connection. 

I will say that, in my shopping days, I enjoyed shopping, especially when it was part of a social excursion. 

Now, meh. And it's pretty much the same for my shopping companions of yore. (We old.)

And, of course, I don't need anything - those cute Crate & Barrel  on-sale dessert plates don't wear out. And I'm someone who hangs on to clothing for a good long time. I've had one of those $$$ sweaters from Peruvian Connection for 35 years. (Birthday present from me to me on my 40th birthday.)

Most of what I buy these days is replacement: undies, socks, sneakers, tee-shirts. 

But even in my shopping prime I was never drawn to luxury goods. And never in a million years would I buy a clothing item or kitchen  tchotchke that was going to put me in debt. Sure, I'd charge things, but when the bill came, I paid it. (I say this now, but I there were plenty of times when I didn't fully pay off a credit card bill the month it was received. I was just too cautious and frugal and paranoid to rack up much debt.) 

The idea of acquiring a heavy consumer debt load for anything other than a car loan or a mortgage (or an MBA) was anathema to me. Unless it's a big ticket, once in a very blue moon item, if you can't afford to pay for something without going into serious debt, how could you enjoy it? 

And, fortunately, I never wanted high end designer items to begin with. Birkin Bag? Way cute! But $12K for a pocketbook, when I was just as happy with a Dooney & Bourke I scored at TJ Maxx. 

And, of course, I'm not young and scrolling through Insta and Tik-Tok seeing all the cool and expensive stuff, the It Girls, the influencers are urging us to buy. And feeling aggrieved and jelly that I can't afford it. (And I'm not young and saddled with college debt and wondering whether I'll ever be able to buy a home, let alone worrying about the existential yuck that the youngs these days endure.)

Anyway, I was interested to read a recent NY Times article about a young woman who - gulp! - found herself $50K in debt for buying high-end duds through Buy Now, Pay Later apps. These apps - Klarna is the best known - let you put down a small amount up front, and then pay it off in installments. 

Elysia Berman's first B.N.P.L. purchase was for a used orange snakeskin Proenza Schouler PS1bag. This is a brand and item I've never heard of, but the one she saw was $1K retail, but only $430 on The RealReal (a site where people sell used designer clothing and accessories). In Berman's defense, she was young. She'd grown up a relatively poor kid in an ultra-affluent town, she'd gone to college with a lot of big buck classmates, and she was working in the fashion industry where most of her colleagues were rich girls who had multiple pricey bags. (Probably had Birkin bags, too.) 

“I felt like that bitch in that bag,” Berman remembers. After so many years “seeing everyone around you have a nicer life than you,” she was overjoyed to get a taste for herself. Taking home such a treasure for only a small cost upfront felt like stumbling upon a cheat code — “a kind of unlock.” (Source: NY Times)

For Berman, this first purchase was a gateway drug. Among other items, she bought a pair of  R13 boots - another brand I've never heard of - for $2,000. Her "wake up call" was paying $700 for a Khaite (what? another brand I don't know?) jacket that was sharply discounted. She had to have it. But her normie credit cards were (not surprisingly) maxed out, as were several of her B.N.P.L. apps. But she just had to have the jacket. (Believe me, I get it. When I was 25, I spent $150 on an on-sale blue suede jacket at Ann Taylor. This was, in fact, my rent money, and for the next couple of weeks I lived on a loaf of white bread, a jar of Peter Pan, and a bag of oranges. I completely adored that jacket. So I get it.)

The juggling she had to do to make the Khaite jacket purchase got Berman to start looking more closely at what she was doing to herself, and found that she was that big old $50K in debt. (She is now in her mid-thirties and has worked her debt fully down. She no longer uses B.N.P.L. apps.)

Part of the seduction of B.N.P.L. is that your purchases are "interest free." (The vendor pays them a percentage of each sale.) But they're only "interest free" up to a point that can be easily passed. B.N.P.L. shoppers can end up paying 36 percent interest. Yowza! 

Maybe a better name for those apps would be Buy Now, Regret Later.

Sometimes I'm really and truly glad that I'm not young anymore. (And not that it would fit me, but I wish I still had that blue suede jacket.)

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Image Source: Adwin

Heartbreaking. Enraging.

I suppose I should have followed up yesterday's grim post with something a bit lighter, but, hey, in for a dime, in for a dollar. So today we take a look at homelessness.  

Two days one week, three weeks the next, I volunteer in a day shelter. Mostly what I do is give out socks and toothbrushes, give out information, give out directions, and sometimes just lend an ear to someone who just wants and needs to talk. 

Not everyone who comes through our door is experiencing homelessness - some are just plain old poor - but most of the folks we see aren't housed. And whenever someone finds a place to hang their hat, we are jumping for joy. SRO (hopefully not a wretched one) with shared bath and kitchen, or a full apartment, when someone's where they can lock the door, keep their stuff, stay in bed in the morning, they're happy to get up in the morning worrying about where they're going to lay themsleves down to sleep that night. Surprisingly - to some - many of the folks we serve have jobs. They may be poorly paid, low benefit, crappy jobs, but, let me tell you, people do seem to love saying "I just got a job" or "I have to get to work."

The parents who head the five Atlanta families that Brian Goldstone writes about in his brilliant (compelling, depressing) book There Is No Place for Us, all work, often holding multiple jobs. Sometimes they've been at the same job for years, other times their work is temporary or sporadic. The commonality is that the jobs are poorly paid, low benefit, and crappy. (Hmmm. Where have I heard that before?)

The families, for the most part, had - at least at some point - housing stability in a rented apartment where they could celebrate a birthday, put up a Christmas tree, cook a Thanksgiving dinner. But then something rent wrong. 

Someone got cancer. Someone got divorced. Someone lost their job. Someone had their hours cut back. Someone was two days late with their rent check and lost their lease. (Georgia has very few tenant protections.)

Lives are lived pretty precariously when you're living paycheck to paycheck and don't have any cushion to fall back on. 

All of the families Goldstone chronicles fell into wretched housing situations in extended stay facilities (bleak hotels) or living with a family member or friend. Extended stay facilities means that your family is likely living in one room: parent(s) and kiddos crammed into crowded quarters with no privacy, no place for the kids to play, kiddos jammed into bed together, a hot plate and/or microwave to cook on. 

Staying with family or friends sounds better. But when you're poor, your family and friends don't tend to be much better off than you are. So you end up sleeping on the living room couch or a sleeping bag on the floor. Again no privacy, no nothing. No room to breathe, let alone work, let alone go to school.

And, as the time Goldstone spent with the Georgia families overlapped with covid, folks were trying to work and get their kids to learn from "home."

Picture this: you're trying to work a grueling but poorly paid call center job while your seven year old and nine year old are "going to school" over unreliable wi-fi, and your toddler is doing what toddlers do. Which is not giving anyone a moment's peace. 

But since some of the folks in the book were essential workers, they had to go into their jobs as, say, hospital cleaners, even with an epidemic raging. And the jobs they went into were mostly poorly accessible by public transportation, adding a few hours commuter time getting to, waiting for, and riding on buses. Late too many times? You're fired, girlfriend. 

Then there's the wonderful gig work. Door Dash? Talk about slave-driving. You're pellmelling around, getting docked (or fired) when traffic makes you a nano-second late with a delivery, and - of course - your car is old and unreliable.

All of Goldstone's families were hardworking. They were always on the lookout for ways to lemons into lemonade. (Good luck with that, when you lack sugar and water, let alone a pitcher.) They all loved their children. They all hated the lives they were giving those children. They all wanted better for them. And for themselves.

I was having a nervous breakdown just reading about their lives. I can only imagine the lived reality.

My lived reality includes talking with homeless individuals. So I know that what triggers homelessness is a mixed brew of mental illness, substance abuse, past incarceration, childhood trauma, bad schools, poor choices (absolutely), and - the one thing that's 100% in common - bad luck. And, of course, the lack of affordable housing. 

Back in the not so recent past, single folks with (or without) crappy jobs could always live in an SRO. Sure, many of them were god-awful, but it was a place to call home and it beat sleeping in a mylar blanket over a heating grate. 

Back in the not so recent past, poor families could afford to rent an apartment. If they were lucky, they had a good landlord. If they were really lucky, they had a Section 8 voucher. If they were maybe not all that lucky, they were in a project. But wherever it was, it was home.

Alas, other than for scarce vouchers and bogus set asides for affordable housing, the government has long been going out of the housing business. And "the market" has not kept up with the demand for housing for the poor and, increasingly, the middle class. Especially in big cities where the jobs are and where a lot of people want to live. Like Atlanta. (Like Boston.)

The problem, as Goldstone points out quite eloquently and forcefully, is precisely that we have left housing to "the market." Which could not give a rat's arse about anything other than making a profit. 

In Atlanta (as in Boston), neighborhoods that once provided affordable housing for the working class have been gentrified. And capitalism in general, and private equity in particular, has jumped in to make matters worse. Those extended stay facilities are a big and lucrative business. Families in them are pretty much paying what they'd been paying when they had an actual apartment in their former, real life. 

Airbnb's knock a lot of potential housing off the market. Why rent to a family who'll actually live there, when you can make more doing temp rentals to tourists?

Corporations scoop up affordable properties, renting them out, dumping families out of them when they can get someone new (and desperate) in them for a couple of hundred bucks more a month. With so many houses taken out of play, home ownership out of the question for many families (poor, working, middle class). 

How many homeless people are there in the US? Who knows. The government says about 800,000. Goldstone points out that the government doesn't count people living in extended stay dumps or sleeping on their aunt's floor. He argues that the true number of homeless folks is closer to 4 million.

Through my volunteer work at the shelter, and with a holiday charity for poor and homeless families, I've gotten to learn up close and personal how tough people's lives can be. But not that up close and personal. I really have no idea what it's like not to have privacy, a warm bed, a comfy couch, a stocked fridge, a set of keys to a door that locks. Sure, I've had times in my younger days when I was pretty skint. But was I ever worried about not having a roof over my head? No. If I had to no place to call home,

I'd probably have a nervous breakdown on day one.

Anyway, go read Brian Goldstone. 

I thought I knew a lot about this problem. I had no idea.

Heartbreaking. Enraging. 

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Image Source: Penguin Random House

It's Just a Matter of Time (Veterans Day 2025)

The song's been running through my head a lot lately. I'm singing it in the shower. One of the signal songs, about one of the signal events, of my generation.

Tin soldiers and Nixon's comin'
We're finally on our own
This summer I hear the drummin' 
Four dead in Ohio

May 1970. Kent State University. Four students, just kids, protesting the Vietnam War. Yes, some rocks were hurled, but the students were unarmed. They thought the Guards were firing blanks. They weren't. Four dead in Ohio. 

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down

A couple of weeks later, two kids were killed at Jackson State. State troopers this time, not Guards.

It was a scary time. 

I wasn't hurling rocks. But I was marching. And shouting. And riding the bus to DC to make sure my voice was heard.

I'd be very surprised if it happened on college campuses this time. But it's coming. Trump. Vance. Hegseth. Bondi. Miller. Homans. Noem. They want it. Blood. Lots of it. 

Maybe some nihilistic moron will fire on ICE and give them the excuse they're salivating for. Maybe it'll be nothing more than a priest in Chicago getting in the wrong guy's face, a Barney cosplayer in "war-ravaged" Portland making a little too much fun of some thin-skinned thug. Maybe an LA protestor will hurl a taco their way. Maybe it'll be a car backfiring. 

It probably won't happen in Boston. I know we're on the list, but there are still a few cities ahead of us. 

But it's retribution time, baby, and there's a lot of trigger fingers out there hoping for a reason to fire away.

It's Veterans Day, a holiday of sorts. I've written about it in the past. Here's one of my early Veterans Day posts, from the wayback of November 2008. When we weren't at each others throats. When the country was in an economic mess, but not an existential crisis. When we'd just elected our first Black president - and I was thrilled. (Election night was warm, and we had our windows open. My husband and I were sitting in the living room with our friend Joe, waiting for the election to be called. At 11 p.m., it was. We started cheering, and we could hear people throughout the neighborhood cheering as well. There were carhorns blaring away on Charles Street. It was a kinder, gentler time.)

Stephen Stills had a point, but I don't think that members of the National Guard are tin soldiers. They want to serve their country. They're patriotic. They want to earn some extra dough. They want the benefits. They want to get out of the house. They love what they do.

And what they do should not involve being sent into another state, where they are neither needed nor wanted. Where government officials, and Fox, and Sinclair News, have propagandized them into thinking that folks who live in blue cities, in blue states, are the enemy. That our cities are full of violence, that they're war ravaged. For sure, we have crime, and addicts, and homelessness, but let me assure you - and I'm speaking for Boston here, but assuming it's much the same for all the cities on Trump's enemies list - tourists are jamming the streets on nice fall weekends because - get this - even people who live in suburbs love visiting cities. 

I feel bad for these National Guards members. 

They really didn't sign up for patrolling our cities, for attacking their fellow citizens as the enemy.  (We have met the enemy and they is us? Alrighty.)

But if the rhetoric, the confrontations, the brutal treatment of immigrants, the roughing up of protestors, the attacks on the press, the rapelling-down-the-sides-of-buildings-and-zip-tying-kiddos-in-the-middle-of-the-night keep up (and I realize those rapellers weren't National Guards, and that the violence directed at protestors, the press, and anyone suspected of being an immigrant, i.e., existing while Black or brown, is mostly coming from ICE), something's going to happen.

It's just a matter of time.

Is it any wonder that I'm singing Ohio in the shower?

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