Semiquincentennial? I celebrated on June 18th.

I don't remember all that much about my personal celebration of our nation's bicentennial. The year before, on April 19, 1975, I'd gone to the reenactment of the Battle of Lexington, which was quite enjoyable. The night before, my cousin Barbara hosted a big spaghetti supper and pajama party - there must have been a couple dozen of us at her house, occupying every nook and cranny with our sleeping bags - and at dawn we all descended on Lexington Green. Patriots fired at Redcoats. President Gerald Ford was there. It was more or less the kickoff of the 200th anniversary of the United States. 

Eleven days later, the last of the American military was helicoptered out of Saigon, and the Vietnam War was officially over.

On to the next. 

In 1976, I remember plenty of hoopla, but I wasn't all that interested. I had a crappy job, a new boyfriend, and I was still pissed at the government over the Vietnam War, which I'd spent my college years and beyond protesting. 

The Pops concert on the Esplanade had an immense audience, but I wasn't in the crowd. That event, which had previously been lowkey and pleasant, was turning into a thing. No thanks. Did I watch on my little b&w TV? Yes/no/maybe.

The following week, I did see Queen Elizabeth buzz by in her limo when she was on her bicentennial visit to the colonies of yore. I may have even gotten a royal wave. 

I have been dreading, our 250th, the semiquincentennial. I have been dreading seeing Trump taking ownership of it, ego branding it, descretating it. As he did the White House lawn with the tawdry, pay per view UFC event. As he did when he sat there smirking while one of the idiot, punch-drunk racist fighters used a slur against Michelle Obama. As he did when he destroyed the beautiful reflecting pool - paying an inept and/or corrupt contractor a super-inflated fee to botch the job. Trump just had to have it done by the Fourth of July. Well, the contractor sure managed to f it totally up well before our birthday.

I have been dreading the big day-of splash, which Trump has taken over, with promises to turn it into a "classic" Trump rally. That should be uplifting. Me-me-me. More me-me-me. Bragging about saving the country from the destruction wrought by Biden and Obama, being an even more powerful leader than Stalin and Hitler. (Which he has actually done recently.) Grievances, both petty and ginormous. Name calling. (His latest nickname is for Senator Jon Ossoff, who he's dubbed Oss(jerk)off. Ho,ho, ho.) Blame gaming. DJT can't manage to settle on whether Obama or Biden is more responsible for destroying the country. Or maybe it's all us Dumocrats. Get it? Get it? Democrats are Dum(b). Har, har,hardy, har har. (So, Mr. President, is there a "d" in "dumb" of not?)

Mostly I've been "celebrating" the semiquin by losing sleep, fretting over whether we're going to make it as a democracy for the next 900-something days, let alone the next 250 years. 

And then I watched the ceremony opening the Obama Presidential Center, and realized that this - and not Trump's demented, racist, misogynist, dictator-worshipping, ill-informed, stone-stupid, and lying, lying, lying blather and pronouncements - is what our country about. This is what is worth celebrating.

By the time Jennifer Hudson finished her beautiful rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, a song that usually doesn't do all that much for me, I had tears in my eyes. From then on out, everything was pure gold. 

The performances - by A-listers AND members of the community - were lovely, stirring, pride-inducing. I knew I was going to like John Legend, but who knew I was going to swoon over Marc Anthony? 

And the speeches by Michelle Obama and Barack Obama were brilliant. Touching, moving, heartfelt, true, measured, uplifting, intelligent. Oh, what we have been missing. Instead of rhetoric that moves the heart, the mind, the soul, we've been subjected to lies and incoherence. Imagine any other president badmouthing prior presidents when meeting with world leaders at the G7?

Speaking of prior presidents, I was very happy to see George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and Joe Biden there, along with their wives. I wasn't much of a W fan, but I never doubted for a moment that he loved our country and did what he thought was best. I just thought that most of the time he was dead wrong. (And I'm thrilled that Trump wasn't invited. A well deserved dis, given that he's been crapping all over Obama and his Center, including sharing a meme that showed the Center in a couple of years time, turned into a trash-strewn homeless encampment.) 

Without even seeing a program, I knew that the last two performers would be Bruce Springsteen, who sang an un-banger version of Land of Hope and Dreams, and that Stevie Wonder would close the show out. And bring down the the house. 

I had to leave for an appointment during Stevie Wonder's part, but listened to the live stream in my Uber. (It's an appointment I normally would have walked to, but I didn't want to miss any of Obama's speech, so...)

This is the America I want to see: intelligent, inclusive, proud, honest, hopeful. This is the America I want to love. This was my semiquincentennial.

Oh, on the Fourth, I'll no doubt read the Declaration of Independence, which I always do. I'll no doubt put on the Pops concert, and watch the fireworks out my window. Or out my sister Kathleen's window, which is a perfect view. 

But the Obamas gave me all the semiquincentennial celebration I need. 

These are the words that are on the Center. They're from Barack Obama's speech at the Edmund Pettus Bridge commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Selma-to-Montgomery march for Civil Rights. 

You are America. Unconstrained by habit and convention. Unencumbered by what is, ready to seize what ought to be. For everywhere in this country, there are first steps to be taken, there is new ground to cover, there are more bridges to be crossed. America is not the project of any one person. The single most powerful word in our democracy is the word ‘We.’ ‘We The People.’ ‘We Shall Overcome.’ ‘Yes We Can.’ That word is owned by no one. It belongs to everyone. Oh, what a glorious task we are given to continually try to improve this great nation of ours.”

Ah, the audacity of hope!

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Image Source: People

Celebrating Memorial Day (Eve) with The Boss

I celebrated Memorial Day in the normal way, by walking over to the Boston Common (alas, in the rain - this picture is from a kinder, gentler weather year) and looking at all those flags - one for each member of the armed services from Massachusetts (and, let's face it, we're almost always talking young men here) who has died in one of the way-too-many American wars we've participated in starting with the Revolution. Some wars were righteous - think the American Revolution, think World War II; others were jingoistic nonsense - think Spanish American War; yet others were futile misadventures - think Vietnam. 

How do you categorize the Civil War? Was it a just war to end slavery? An internecine battle that we're still fighting? Something else altogether? 

I do know that about one-third of those roughly 37,000 honored with a flag for having given their life for their country, fighting for the Union, were from Massachusetts.  

I don't believe that any of those who've died in the latest jingoistic misadventure in Iran have been from my state, but as the war drags on, this is subject to change.

Speaking of war, "War" is the full-throated battle cry of Bruce Springsteen's Hope and Dreams Concert, which I saw Sunday night, Memorial Day Eve.

This was my sixth Springsteen concert, and they have all been great.

When it comes to the Boss, I'm something of a latter-day fan. I was long aware of him, of course, and knew (of) a couple of his classic numbers: "Born in the USA," "Born to Run," "Dancing in the Dark." But I never really had much interest in him until my sister Trish (an OG fan from her high school days) took me to the Magic Tour concert nearly 20 years ago. I came away from that concert pretty much a fan for (the rest of my) life. 

And now I've seen him twice at Gillette Stadium, three times at TD Garden, and once (gloriously!) at Fenway Park.

Even the 2023 concert I saw at Gillette - when Springsteen was a few days out from canceling the tour due to a peptic ulcer - was great. 

As a performer, as someone who communicates with his audience, Springsteen is brilliant. You definitely get your money's worth. No 1.5 hour concert for Bruce and the E-Street Band. 

And, sure, I have my Bruce favorites, but I enjoy most of his songs and all of his albums.

Me being me, I don't mind at all when he gets political, which is what Hope and Dreams is all about. 

But it was interesting that, knowing the overall weighty theme of the night's concert, the anticipation of the concert was less buoyant than for concerts past. Sunday evening's cold and rang did, of course, tamp down some of the usual buzz, but everyone thronging the Garden knew that there was a seriousness of purpose to the night's setlist. 

"American Skin (Forty-one Shots)", not "Sherry Darling." And there was going to be no throw-in of "Dirty Water" to please the home crowd. 

I was so moved by Sunday's concert. There were the overtly political songs: "War," "Streets of Minneapolis," "Born in the USA." And the songs that are the essence (sometimes the aspirational essence, sometimes the sad) of our country: "America Land." "Land of Hope and Dreams." "Badlands." "Death to My Hometown." (This daughter of Ellis Island especially loved "America Land," Springsteen's immigration anthem.)

At times, the concert took on a revival element: Bruce as preacher. All I can say is "Preach, brother." His stated mission was to give us hope that our country will fulfill its dream of becoming "a more perfect union." That he did. 

The concert ended with the hopeful yet tempered joy of Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom" and the playing, as we streamed out of our seats, of Woody Guthrie's rousing anthem, "This Land Is Your Land." 

For a few moments at least, we reclaimed our country from the forces of nativism, racism, misogyny, and greed.

It was thrilling!

And lest I forget what Memorial Day is about: it's those 37,000 dead kids (mostly) from Massachusetts who gave their lives for our country. (Along with the million+ from all corners of the USA.) We have an obligation to all of them, to each other, and to generations to come to make sure that their deaths were worth it.

Springsteen Image Source: Salon

The Aptly Named SantaCon

I'm not 100% certain that Boston has SantaCons - a pub crawl where runners/drinkers wear Santa outfits and raise money for charity. But I'eve certainly seen the Santa-garbed pub crawlers doing their December buzzing around town.

I'd say it looks like fun, but to me it actually doesn't. Even if I were 50 years younger, this sort of event is way too extraverted to be my jam. I'm more the make-a-donation and/or show-up-and-actually-do-something to an actual charity kind of gal, without running around like a maniac, let alone shaking friends and family down for a donation. And this doesn't even take into consideration that the idea of pouring beer down my gullet and running to the next watering hole to that I can pee is beyond fathoming. Me? I just don't go pub-to-pub a-wassailing

But, hey, great that folks are thinking "charity" rather than just obsessing about Christmas shopping, wrapping, cookie-baking, and decorating.

Unfortunately, the NYC edition of SantaCon has been running something of a Grinch con.

On its website, the organization bills itself:

...as “a charitable, nonpolitical, nonsensical Santa Claus convention that happens once a year to fund art & spread absurdist joy.” (Source: NY Times)

Participants buy official badges - the price in 2025 was $17 - and the take goes to local charities like City Harvest, the City Parks Foundation and the Flatbush Development Corporation. But some of the proceeds have, grinchedly, made their way into the NYC event organizer's pockets. (In addition to the badge money, SantaCon NYC gets a cut of the action from the bars for whatever the crawlers consume along their merry and none-too-bright way.)

The lead organizer of SantaCon NYC, an annual Christmas-themed bar crawl that is both beloved and reviled, took more than half of the nearly $3 million the event raised for charity over five years, federal prosecutors said on Wednesday.

The organizer, Stefan Pildes, used his position as the president of the nonprofit that runs SantaCon to illegally divert the money into a separate company to finance “personal ventures,” and spent “hundreds of thousands of dollars” on “extensive renovations to a lakefront property in New Jersey, luxury vacations in Hawaii, Las Vegas, and Vail, extravagant meals and a luxury vehicle,” according to an indictment.

Santa, Baby, whatever happened to being nice rather than naughty? And that naughty could end up with Stefan Pildes ending up with 20 years in prison.

Not everyone loves SantaCon NYC.

The sight of people wearing red and green and slumped over in doorways is a not-uncommon sign that the holiday season is in full swing.

The comedian John Oliver once described SantaCon as “a terrifying combination of binge drinking, public urination and trauma to small children that decades of therapy will never manage to reverse.”

But plenty of others say the SantaCon brings joy to the world. There are the inevitable "meet cute" stories of couples who got together on the run. And then there's the charity angle. (There are allegations of some dubious financial activity on SantaCon NYC's part, including involvement with cryptocurrency and the Burning Man festival. Quite a combo!)

Pildes has set up a couple of other organizations adjacent to SantaCon NYC, and funds flowed among those orgs, funding Pildes personal professional/creative efforts and diverting pay for the property renovations, concert tickets, vacations, meals and luxury vehicle, prosecutors said.

Pildes is pleading not-guilty.

We'll see whether he'll be having himself a merry little Christmas. And whether he'll be having it up and over the river.

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Image Source: SantaConNYC

A day late and a flag wave short

Yesterday was Patriots' Day, and I did what I usually do.

I went to the Red Sox game, which on Patriots' Day has an early (11 a.m.) start. The early start time tradition started years ago, and I guess the thinking is that, because Fenway Park is just off the route of the Boston Marathon (a mile or so from the finish line), the baseball fans also get to see some of the race. The Marathon has become a lot bigger deal that it was when the early-start was introduced nearly 60 years ago, and now getting to and fro from the game requires dealing with security checkpoints and massive crazy crowds. But it's still fun to be around. More or less.

A few years back, for some reason we tried to take one of our usual ways home and ended up - thanks to blocked streets and security measures - walking a couple of miles out of our way in the cold and drizzle. But we know better now: fight the crowds into the entrance to the T-station in Kenmore Square and use the underground passageway that takes you under the Marathon Route and over to the side of the street where your passage home is not blocked.  

Anyway, the Patriots' Day game is pretty much my favorite game to see live, even if the weather is iffy (make that terrible, most of the time). I'm writing this before Game Day, so I don't know whether the Sox won or lost, or whether the game was even held. (I've had rain checks in the past.) But if the game was on, I know that, win or lose, I was enjoying it with my niece (Sweet) Caroline.

For me, the Red Sox game is a highlight of the day, as is the Marathon, which is always a good buzz (other than in 2013, when the bombing occurred). And it takes my mind off the fact that it's exceedingly difficult to enjoy this wonderful, quirky holiday in the malign era we're currently enduring.

Last year, here's a bit of what I wrote:

I've never been a big flag waver, but this year I'm feeling a definite deficit of patriotism - at least of the fervid, jingoistic, blinders-on variety that for a good long time has defined the term. But if the definition of patriotism can accommodate someone who appreciates the country for its good, wants to acknowledge the not-so-good (and the out-and-out bad), and tries to make things better by voting for good candidates, donating to good causes (increasingly of the pro-democracy kind), and showing up for demonstrations to demonstrate to the powers that regrettably be (as if they give damn) that not everyone in America welcomes the slide into autocracy/kleptocracy,well, I guess I can count myself as patriotic.

So if I'm feeling anything today, it's the red, white, and blues. (Source: Pink Slip)

Ditto for this year, with the add on that things are far, far, far worse than I could possiblly have imagined they would be way back in April 2025, when we were only a few months into Trump Redux.

I have two patriotic traditions.

On the Fourth of July, I reread the Declaration of Independence. 

And on Patriots Day, I recite  (mostly from memory) Ralph Waldo Emerson's beautiful tribute to the "embattled farmers" who "fired the shot heard round the world." The poem was first read in 1837 at the dedication of a monument at Concord Bridge honoring those "embattled farmers." It is a beautiful, tranquil spot, probably my favorite tourist site in our state.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

So much to be proud of in our history, so much good (even if there are plenty of not so proud moments, plenty of not so good, which, under the current regime, we are not supposed to admit to). 

This year, I've added William Butler Yeats' The Second Coming to my Patriots' Day mix:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

Sadly, a very rough beast has slouched into the White House. I'm a day late, and a flag wave short, to celebrate Patriots' Day 2026, other than to say God - if there is a God - help us. 

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Image Source: Commons/Wikimedia 

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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This Patriots' Day, feeling the red, white, and blues

Today is Patriots' Day, a holiday that I have always loved.

This year should have been a big one, especially in these parts. It's Bisesquicentennial! The 250th anniversary of Paul Revere's Ride (April 18th). The 250th anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord (April 19th). And the day when the holiday is observed here in Massachusetts - third Monday in April - when the flags and tricorn hats come out, the Boston Marathon is run, and the Sox are home for an early start (11 a.m.) game.

I've never been a big flag waver, but this year I'm feeling a definite deficit of patriotism - at least of the fervid, jingoistic, blinders-on variety that for a good long time has defined the term. But if the definition of patriotism can accommodate someone who appreciates the country for its good, wants to acknowledge the not-so-good (and the out-and-out bad), and tries to make things better by voting for good candidates, donating to good causes (increasingly of the pro-democracy kind), and showing up for demonstrations to demonstrate to the powers that regrettably be (as if they give damn) that not everyone in America welcomes the slide into autocracy/kleptocracy, well, I guess I can count myself as patriotic.

Sigh.

So if I'm feeling anything today, it's the red, white, and blues.

I'll put in a couple of hours for my regular shift in the Resource Center at St. Francis House, and then head out to Fenway for the game. (This is weather dependent, of course, Patriots' Day seems to ping-pong back and forth between absolutely rotten and absolutely spectacular. As I'm writing this in advance, the weather remains a big unknown.)

I will have deliberately ignored the happenings in the North End (one if by land, two if by sea). In Lexington. In Concord. Especially if the nightmare that currently occupies the Oval Office has the bad taste to "grace" Massachusetts with his malign presence, thereby ruining the celebrations for a lot of people - which would of course be his point. (In 2024, Lexington 2024: Harris 77%, Trump 18%; Concord: Harris 80%, Trump 16%; the North End of Boston split would have been closer, but I didn't want to spend all that time trying to figure out what precincts are where; the overall Boston split was Harris 76%, Trump 22%.)

I won't be around for the Tricentennial, of course - if there is one. 

I don't have the heart to wish anyone a Happy Patriots' Day. As I see it, the good has mostly outweighed the bad, but whether that can hold, well...

But the best I can muster up is good luck. And God, if there is a God, save our country. 

With $75K you get Egg Roll

The news that the White House is soliciting corporate sponsors for the annual Easter Egg Roll should come as no surprise. Surely by now we must all be shockproof. Yet there'sstill something disturbing and nauseating, about selling out what has been a nearly 150 year old tradition - the oldest annual WH tradition. And event that is supposed to be such a (theoretically, at least) joyous, politics-aside occasion.  

The White House is working with an event production company named Harbinger (BOLO: some connection to Trump cronies) to run the event and flog sponsorships. 

There are packages running from $75K to $200K that let sponsors do stuff like put up a trade show booth (at least that's what I think a 10x10, 20x20, or 30x30 "branded activation" is), distribute branded swag, get a WH tour, rub shoulders with the WH press corps (maybe you get to meet a right-wing podcaster!), and brunch with FLOTUS.

Brunch with FLOTUS? What a treat! In the kinder, gentler Trump I era, Melania was complaining about Xmas-related tasks and famously asked "who gives a fuck about the Christmas-related stuff?" Maybe she feels differently about the Easter-related stuff. Or maybe this is one of the appearances that's part of her Trump II contract.

Sponsors also get some tickets. While my understanding is that pols and staff traditionally get tickets for their kiddos, tickets are also available via lottery for free. Wonder if the sponsorship tickets cut into the pol supply or the general public lottery allocation. What do you think?

One of the benefits that Harbinger touts: 

By partnering with this historic tradition, sponsors can engagewith diverse audiences,showcase their commitment to community and education, and align with a beloved American event. (Source: Event brochure linked to the NY Times article.)

Diverse audience? But but, but...isn't diversity way, way, way out? Hasn't anything and everything with the D-word in it (or words that are DEI-adjacent) been purged from all government documents and operations? And purged from the vocabulary and way-of-doing-business of any and all organizations (corporations, law firms, universities, museums...) that Trump can manage to bully and frighten into compliance with his whims.

By the way, the Easter Egg Roll is run by the White House Historical Association, a private non-profit org started by Jackie Kennedy. You remember Jackie Kennedy. She's the one who redesigned and spruced up the Rose Garden, which Trump is planning on paving over so it looks like Mar A Lago. Or something. 

The Egg Roll:

...is largely held without taxpayer dollars, with the American Egg Board, a marketing group for the egg industry, sponsoring thousands of eggs for the event — but without the kind of visibility laid out by Harbinger’s guide. (Source: NY Times)

So the good news is that the money will not be going directly into lining the pockets of the Grifter in Chief. Not that GiC would ever line his own linty pockets.

Federal regulations prohibit government employees from using their public office for private gain. Richard W. Painter, who served as chief ethics lawyer in the White House Counsel’s Office under President George W. Bush, said that the White House was clearly breaking that code by allowing private enterprises to use an official event to showcase their brands and letting the proceeds flow into a private nonprofit.

Phew. So glad there are Federal regulations in place. If not, there'd be tawdry things like turning the White House into a Tesla dealdership. Or selling their own cryptocurrency (POTUS) or memecoins (FLOTUS). Imagine if any of that had happened. 

Mr. Painter said that some in Mr. Trump’s White House have argued that the ethics laws technically do not apply to the president, but most presidents have complied with some sort of ethical guidelines since President Richard M. Nixon resigned in 1974.

I realize that, given all the depraved, moronic, corrupt, and frightening things Trump's been up to since noon on January 20, 2025, selling corporate sponsorships to the annual White House Easter Egg Roll is the least of it. Yet it's so emblematic of this malign administration. I'm not all that big on the sacred, but lordy-lord, this is so colossally profane. 

If Trump had any shame (hah!), there'd be egg on his face. Instead, he's just once more demonstrating what a rotten egg he is. 

Happy Easter, anyway.

Happy National Whatever Day

Well, I always like to know what I'm dealing with, so I thought I'd check out just what National Whatever Day we're celebrating on April 10th. 

Turns out it's National Alcohol Screening Day. There sure may have been days in my past when I could have used an alcohol screening, but today my consumption is pretty much limited to a couple of glasses of wine (mostly prosecco) a month. Unless I'm on vacation, when I'm likely to have a couple of glasses of wine (mostly prosecco) every day. In any case, I think I'd pass any alcohol screening test with flying, no problema colors. Now if it were National Chocolate Overdoing It Screening Day, that would be another story. But today I will be working a shift at the homeless shelter where I volunteer, and there are plenty of folks there who struggle with alcohol and other substance abuse issues. And I love it when someone tells me they're in recovery. Which I hope will happen today.

It's also National Erase Self-Negativity Day. Well, I've never heard of this day, and really don't know anything about it other than what seems like the obvious. I'm all for being honest with your self-appraisals - once a Catholic, you never, ever, ever lose that "examine your conscience" mentality - but never, ever, ever to the point of not keeping your honest self-positivity in mind. And pretty much every day should be one dedicated in at least some small art to erasing negative self-image. Life's too short to spend it wallowing in self-abasement.

One way to shake out of self-negativity would be celebrating National Farm Animals Day. Go cows! Go pigs! Go hens! Go roosters! Go goats! Go sheep! Go ducks! Thanks for all you give us. I'll celebrate you all without dwelling on the fact that a lot of what you give us leads to loss of life. Your life. I could never be a vegan, but I could be a vegetarian (or at least a pescatarian). So why aren't I? If only there were a reasonable substitute for bacon. 

Not that I indulge in bacon all that often. Just once in a while. But instead of bacon for breakfast today, which I wasn't going to have anyway, maybe I'll take advantage of National Cinnamon Crescent Day. Or maybe not. Because I really don't feel like baking cinnamon crescent rolls, even if they pop into the oven straight out of the shiny blue Pillsbury can. Is a chocolate honey dip donut an okay substitute?

And Happy National Siblings Day to Kath, Tom/Gus, Rich/Stick, and Trish/Po! (Kath and Moe didn't get cool nicknames like the others.) I can't say it's always been a 100% pleasure cruise, but I love you guys. That's us last fall at Kath's - the first time we'd all been together in years. A bit blurry, and not the best photo ever taken. I mean, why is Tom's head growing out of Kath's??? But thar be us! 

Finally, it's National Encourage a Young Writer Day. Not that I begrudge any young writers any encouragement, but where the hell was a day dedicated to encouraging young writers when I could have used it? Note to self: BOLO National Encourage an Old Writer Day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day (to those who observe it)

In my Twitter bluesky profile, I say that I'd rather be in Ireland. And these days, I sometimes actually mean it, or at least kinda-sorta mean it. In my old age, would I really uproot my existence and plunk meself down in a country far away from family and friends, hearth and home? Sure, I've been to Ireland plenty of times but have never lived there - or any place outside the United States. So it's probably not going to happen (unless fascist putsch comes to fascist shove, in which case...) That's Galway in the pic, by the way, which would be my first choice of a place to live in Ireland.

I have no illusions about Ireland being perfect. To quote my Grandmother Rogers - the daughter of Irish immigrants - "If Ireland were so great, we all wouldn't have had to come over here." True that. The country my Irish great-grandparents - Matthew Trainor, Bridget Trainor, John Rogers, and Margaret Joyce - fled in the 1870's was poor, backward, repressive, priest-ridden. (Not to mention still under Britain's tyranny.) They found a much better life for themselves and their progeny in Amerikay. 

But over the last several decades, with remarkable speed, Ireland has done of very good job of throwing over its poor, backward, repressive, priest-ridden self, and there's certainly an argument to be made that today's Eire (for all its problems, including a nasty right wing nationalistic movement) may be a lot more comfortable, open, and sane place to live than, say, the USA envisioned by the white Christian nationalists. So if I were going to live in another country, it would be a) Canada if New England merged with it and I didn't have to move; or b) Ireland. 

The first time I went to Ireland, in 1973, I have to say I felt right at home the minute I stepped off the boat in Dun Laoghaire in the pouring rain. (I grew up in an Irish-American neighborhood and went to Catholic schools - through college - largely populated by Irish-Americans students and teachers, so the fact that everyone looked like everyone I ever lived around just made Ireland seem like home. The gestures, the manner of speaking - it was all pretty familiar.) 

Ah, Ireland...

I love the music. I love the tea. I love the brown bread. And I love the literature, which this year I've been reading a bit of.

So far in 2025, I've read five novels written by Irish authors.

I don't know why I had a copy Elizabeth Bowen's The Last September sitting there in one of the piles on the cedar chest in my bedroom. But there it was. So I picked it up and read it.

Bowen was a well-to-do member of the Anglo-Irish (Protestant) Ascendancy that dominated/exploited Ireland, and kept the Irish Catholics in their (downtrodden) place until that particular yoke was thrown off in the twentieth century. The Last September takes place in a "Big House" in County Cork in 1920. The Irish War for Independence is revving up around them, but the Naylor family and their friends and relations are keeping up the idle rich life they've always lived: House parties. Tennis games. Dances. Condescending to the locals (Irish, Catholic), who as servants, laborers, tradesmen, and peasant farmers, made their lives of jaded leisure possible.

My greatgrandfather Matthew Trainor was one such servant, working  as a stable boy in the grand Protestant manor house in Ballymascanlon, County Louth, until he emigrated. The Big House where Matthew labored is now a hotel and restaurant. When, a few years back, my sister Trish and I had lunch there, Trish commented as we walked in that "this is probably the first time anyone in our family used the front door." 

The manor house in Ballymascanlon survived to become a hotel; the manor houses in The Last September met a different fate. In the final pages of the novel, they were burnt to the ground by Irish soldiers during the war to get the Brits out. The novel is dated but beautifully written and, while some may read it fearing the impending doom, I was rooting for the boyos to get in there with the petrol and light a match. About 300 Big Houses were burnt down to the ground in Ireland between 1919 and 1923, with very little loss of life, as the families were given warning and allowed to get out and sit in their lawn chairs to watch their homes burning. (Up the Republic!)

I am a big admirer of his (The Barrytown Trilogy, Paddy Clarke HaHaHa, etc), so I can't imagine why I hadn't read Roddy Doyle's Paula Spencer Series. I came to it backwards, picking up the third novel The Woman Behind the Door (2024), and then immediately Kindling The Woman Who Walked into Doors (1996) and Paula Spencer (2006) for my February trip to Tucson to visit my sister Kath. These books chronicle the life of a working class Dub (Dubliner) woman through her turbulent marriage to a "charming" wife-beating thug, her struggles with alcoholism, her up and down relationships with her four children, her motherhood, her friendships and relationships with her family (especially her sisters), her crappy jobs, her financial struggles. This all sounds pretty bleak, but in Paula Spencer, Doyle has painted a nuanced, sympathetic but never patronizing portrait of a modern-day Irish woman who's plenty smart (although spectacularly dumb at times), plenty funny, plenty observant (except for those blindspots), and plenty tough. I loved these books, and loved Paula Spencer, her kids (Nicola, John Paul, Leanne, and Jack), her sisters Carmel and Denise, her friends Mary and Rita...The only one I hated was her shite husband Charlo. I was delighted when he got plugged by a Garda. Good riddance! In the third book, Paula's in her sixties. I hope there's at least one more Paula novel in Roddy Doyle. High praise to him for doing a feckin' brilliant job. 

The fifth Irish novel I've read so far this year is Time of the Child by Niall Williams which is pretty much set plunk in the middle between the demise of the the Protestant Ascendancy (Bowen) and the emergence of modern Ireland (Doyle). It's the Christmas season of 1962, and Ireland is still plenty poor and plenty backward, especially in the remote backwater Clare town of Faha, which has only had electricity for a few years and where life is carried on by indirection yet with plenty of room for everyone to be up in everyone else's business. I've read a number of books by Williams, including the two prior novels set in Faha, so I was familiar with some of the characters from minor roles they'd played in those earlier books. Williams is a beautiful, lyrical writer, and his characters and settings are memorable, but his work generally has a fairy tale quality to it that I'm not fully enamored of. (The miraculous abandoned baby showing up...) Not that he ignores the harsh realities of life, but even when dealing with them, the corners are a bit rounded and gentled. I prefer Roddy Doyle's straight-on grit. Still, I much enjoyed this book (and thank my cousin Ellen for the recommendation).

All I can say is that, when it comes to writing, Ireland (population: 5.6 million) sure manages to punch above its weight in producing wonderful writers. No wonder there are times when I'd rather be there.

Roundabout way to celebrate Ireland's national holiday, but Happy St. Patrick's Day to those who observe it.

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I've often written about my Irish (-American) identity and my affinity for Ireland. Here's a roundup of my St. Patrick's Day posts over the years.

And today we're celebrating...

Well, yesterday was Abraham Lincoln's Birthday. Or, as I've taken to calling it, Abe Lincoln (For Obvious Reasons) Is Rolling Over in His Grave Day. And tomorrow is Valentine's Day, a very sweet (though, for plenty of folks, understandably depressing) holiday. So what's on for today?

I love that, on any given day, there are all sorts of things being celebrated.

February 13th is Digital Learning Day. As a Duolingo aficionado, I celebrate digital learning every day. Even if it's only doing the cheesiest, easiest exercise to keep my streak going. (Over a year, now!) It's not exactly like I'm learning all that much Spanish, but after a year+ I can read a bit, understand a bit, and speak a bit. Given that I volunteer in a shelter with a signficant percentage of Hispanic guests, it comes in handy that I can ask folks whether they want a cepillo de dientes (tooth brush) or calcetines (socks), two of the items I give out. And I can ask the Puerto Rican lady who brings the turtle in most days how her tortuga is doing. 

Some of what I'm learning it pure nonsense, even if it rings true. In real life, I may well want to tell someone that I've always hated clowns, but the person I want to reveal this deep-seeded, highly personal bit of info to is most likely to be English-speaking. Nonetheless, if needs be, I can tell someone that siempre he oidado a los payasos. 

While I like Duolingo, I hope that all learning doesn't get pushed to digital. It's good for somethings, and no doubt great for some learners, but mostly I'm pro face-to-face learning with a real teacher and real classmates.

February 13th is National Tortellini Day. The first place I ever ate tortellini was decades ago at Romagnoli's Table, a very nice Italian restaurant in Quincy Market. This was nearly 50 years ago, and the tortellini had a bit of nutmeg sprinkled on the dish. Yum! I used to always have a package of tortellini in my freezer, there when I needed a quickie meal. Tortellini makes for one excellent boiled dinner, I can tell you. I need to get back into the tortellini on board habit. Sprinkle on a tiny bit of nutmeg. Please allow me to repeat myself: Yum!

February 13th is Get a New Name Day. I've never been all that fond of my name. I like some of the other "een" names - like Kathleen (one sister's name) and Eileen (the other sister's middle name). But I've always been sort of 'meh' when it comes to Maureen. As I've gotten older, I've become more okay with it. I like that it's Irish. I like that, when I'm in Ireland, people know how to pronounce it. (It's MAUR-een, not Maur-EEN.) And I kind of get a kick out of the fact that it's pretty much an old lady name. (Try finding a Maureen under the age of 50.)

Maureen was a wildly popular name in my time and place. There were so many Maureens in my high school class - Catholic girls school - that we all went by our full first-name-last-name. This was also true for the Kathleens, who outnumbered the Maureens by about two to one. 

At one point in my twenties, I tried on Maura for a while, since it sounded classier (to me, anyway) than Maureen. I was working at a temp job, happily going by Maura, when a friend called and gave it all away by asking for Maureen. 

It's too late now, but if I did go out and get me a new name, it would be Elizabeth, which is my middle name, my mother's name, and pretty much my favorite girl name.

February 13th is Galentine's Day. The notion of a day to celebrate women's friendships with each other came out of a Parks and Recreation episode 15 years ago. And it's a good one. Everyone doesn't have a sweetheart, BF (or GF), hubby (or wife), or significant other to celebrate Valentine's Day with. No chocolates. No gushy cards. No roses. No nothing. A sweet but Hallmark holiday designed to make those without a love interest feel depressed, neglected, rejected, and alone. But most of us gals have friends. Female friends. And how sweet it is to have a day to celebrate those friendships.

So I'm picking Galentine's Day as the one I'm going to celebrate.

Thus, Happy Galentine's Day to my wonderful women friends. I've sure had more of them over the years than I've had romantic relationships, and I'm delighted to celebrate our friendships. Yay to you all!

Not that I'll neglect the other celebrations. I'll do my Duolingo lessons. I'll boil up some tortellini. When I think of myself, I'll try to think of myself as "Elizabeth" rather than "Maureen." But today, I'll be mostly be celebrating my friendships with some wonderful women. Here's to you all!

A couple of new editions

I completely appreciate that the timing for Christmas is just terrific, distracting us from our struggle to get through the gloomy dark days of December. But as a holiday, I could take it or leave it. 

I have family over for Christmas Eve, and that I love. (Been doing it now for over 30 years!) And I love Christmas music. Not to mention cookies.

But mostly, I'm relatively meh on the season to be jolly.

Other than having a Christmas tree, which I love decorating. 

I have a smaller tree than I used to - a foot shorter (6 feet vs. 7 feet), which makes quite a difference - so this year I finally downsized my ornament collection. Any ornament that hadn't made it onto the tree since I my trees got smaller, any ornament that did  not give me joy, I put aside. I brought them to the Christmas in the City signup, and we offered them to those registering for toys for their kiddos. Most of my discards were snapped up - they were all pretty nice; I just had too many of them - and the couple that were left behind were used to deck the halls of the dingy donated storefront we run our toy giveaway, Jake's Toy Mania, out of.

I really love putting my ornaments. I don't have one of those perfecto matchy-tatchy trees. I have ornaments of all sorts. A few from my parents' first Christmas tree. Counted crossstitch ones my mother made. Ones that were gifts. Ones the commemorate late, lamented pets. 

Most of my ornaments hold some meaning, if only that they are really pretty.

But there's plenty of meaning in the all the Worcester-related ornaments, and in the ones I picked up on my travels.

My cousin Barbara started me off on the Worcester-themed ornaments. They come from Sharfman's, a Worcester jewelry store, which each year for nearly 40 years, has put out a Worcester ornament. Some are of specific buildings - the Antiquarian Society, the old Municipal Auditorium, the historic Salisbury House, Polar Park where the WooSox play -  and some are of Worcester things - a three decker, a diner. I have about a dozen of them now, and I really get a kick out of putting them on my tree. 

This year's is an especially good one. It's of Spag's, a discount store before there were discount stores, that sold all sorts of stuff: small appliances, tools, workboots, work clothes, jeans, toiletries, "art" work, hardware, food, plants - all haphazardly laid out. You'd just wander around, picking up whatever caught your eye and putting it in your.... Hmmm. Spag's didn't have shopping basket or carts, so what you'd do was find an almost empty carton of, say, shampoo and dump the contents. Voila! You're very own shopping basket. When you went to pay, Spag's didn't have shopping bags, either. You just left with your arms and pockets full, or took the carton with you. 

There was no such thing as a fall return to college without a stop at Spag's to stock up on shampoo, deodorant, soap, toothpaste, whatever. And a pair of Wranglers or two. It was as if you were going to college in Timbuktu, rather than in Boston where there actually were stores that sold shampoo, etc.

Spag's has been gone for a couple of decades now, and I still miss it. And I can guarantee that there is no one anyone near my age who grew up in the Worcester area who doesn't have memories of Spag's.

My other new edition to the tree this year came from my wonderful blitz trip with my sister Trish and nieces to Stockholm last spring for the Taylor Swift concert. 

I have ornament from Ireland, France, Italy, Czech Republic, the Netherlands, Hungary, Poland, and probably a few other countries. (Not to mention NYC, where I have one with the Chrysler Building on it.) And now I have one from Sweden.

Merry Christmas in Worcester-ese is Merry Christmas. In Swedish, it's God Jul.

So Merry Christmas and God Jul to all.

In keeping with tradition, Pink Slip is taking some time off. I'll be back on January 6th. (Ugh!)

This year's N-M Fantasies...

I do so look forward each year to the Neiman-Marcus Fantasy Gifts Catalog, or, as I like to think of it, the Let Them Eat Cake Spree. 

For $90K, you can treat yourself and a couple of your pals to a fine porcelain experience. Get your creative on and work with the porcelain-os at Ginori in Florence to come up with a design that expresses your vision - and then see it get turned into a place setting for 12. Reminder not to put it in the dishwasher, and it would probably be wise not to use it at the kids' table, either. 

It's on my "watch if there's a blizzard and I'm snowbound" list, but I've never seen Emily in Paris. But for some lucky fan who's made a killing in crypto, or got out of Truth Social in time, and has $175K squirrled away, there's a chance to hang with Marylin Fitoussi, the show's "glorious, iconic, award-winning costumer designer." It goes without saying that I've never heard of her. Plus I haven't made a killing in anything. But someone might want to swan around Paris with Maylin, get styled by her to the tune of $25K, and score a professional photoshoot. 

At a lower price point - a mere $20K -  you can get a set of crystal mahjong tiles, and a fancy-arse handbag to carry it around in. "The handbag's colorful mosaic butterfly motif—a nod to Neiman Marcus's signature symbol—is bejeweled with more than 10,000 crystals that took an expert artisan 80 hours to set by hand." Wonder what that expert artisan gets paid per hour? Bet it's a lot less than Judith Leiber got for designing the bag. Still, good to see that one of the little guy expert artisans out there can make a living, 80 hours worth of a living anyway.

A nice companion piece for the mahjong bag might be a $28K pair of Miron Crosby Starry Night Boots.  I doubt it's Miron, but someone at his studio "stitches each boot by hand, combining time-honored techniques with a sartorial wit beloved by collectors and celebrities alike." Yee-haw. Nothing I like more than getting me some down-home sartorial wit. Plus them boots come with an astrological reading,

I actually don't know how well the boots would go with the mahjong bag. A pair of Manolo Blahnik's might work better. Or two - monogramming optional and free. Of course, the visit to Paris experience will run you $55K, but you do get to sip tea with Manolo's niece Kristin. Plus you'll get "to attend the UK’s first-ever Marie Antoinette exhibit at the prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum and be invited to attend one of the opening celebrations for the Manolo Blahnik–sponsored historical exhibition with a guided tour."

Marie Antoinette, you say? They really are starting to say the quiet parts out loud, aren't they?

On the other hand, the pavé  diamond studded cowboy boots might be more practical on the safari to Namibia with the good folks from Messika Jewelry. All sorts of goodies included: cameras, framed photos, and an "18.05 carat fancy yellow diamond necklace." Hmmm. For $777,777 do they really have to tell us it's fancy? Maybe that's just to warn off the rich folks who like there pricey items on the understated and not the glitzy side - although would such folks be thumbing through the N-M Fantasy Gift catalog to begin with?

Back to Marie Antoinette - or at least Marie Antoinette adjacent - the pièce de résistance of the 2024 catalog is the 18th Century Royal Family Calèche pictured above. It's certainly a rare gem. "The carved wood and iron carriage is a masterpiece, adorned on all sides with pastoral scenes that showcase the painters’ skill in immortalizing their world through polychrome paint. Each gilded panel is crowned by a Greek-style frieze and bordered by chiseled Baroque moldings, reflecting the rich blend of artistic influences present in Spain at the time."

Going for $1.9M, you might think you'd at least get to ride around in it. Alas, it's only 7-feet long and designed for a principe o principesa. Come one, can't you just see your little one's little face light up when they see this beauty under the tree?

Rich folks are certainly entitled to do what they want with their money, whether they actually did anything to earn it or not. But it sure seems to me that some folks have entirely too much disposable income on hand if they can dispose of nearly $1.9M to by a gilded child's coach.

Labor Day, 2024

 Oh, we'll still have some hot days - scorchers, even. 

And it's still a bit lightish in the evenings. 

But there's no doubt about it, summer's pretty much over. And even if it's been decades upon decades since you went back to school with your new shoes and pencil box, and even though these days a lot of schools start up before Labor Day, there's something about this holiday that makes you think of that something's ending and something's beginning. (Duh statement, if ever.)

The big thing I'll miss is the daylight in the evening. The big thing I'm looking forward to is that eventual die out of the scorchers. That and the availability of early Macs. (McIntoshes are much my favorite apple.)

But it's Labor Day, so I need to give a shout out to the men and women who built this country by working hard. In a world where the most desired professions include influencer and private equity investor, let's hear it for those who actually make things in factories or in their craft rooms, so they can sell it on Etsy. Let's hear it for

those who swing a hammer, snake out plugged drains, paint the walls and ceilings. Let's hear it for those who save lives, fight fires, and arrest bad guys (the good guys among them, anyway). Let's hear if for those changing the diapers of the bedridden. Those who swab the floors and clean the toilets. Let's hear it for those who wait tables and tend bars, who run the checkout counters and stock the shelves, who deliver all those goods to our front doors. Let's hear it for the teachers whose lives get more difficult by the moment. Let's hear it for those who work in social services - hard work taking care of those on the fringes of society - and do so with compassion, and for short money. (I see them all the time at St. Francis House, the shelter where I volunteer.)

Let's hear it for all the blue collar, pink collar, and white collar workers whose jobs may be in jeopardy if we let AI take all the good jobs without figuring out what people are going to do when some big buck, big brain, small heart a-hole decides that they can get all the jobs done with robots and ChatGPT. 

Hate to end on a downish note, so let's leave it with Happy Labor Day!

We are not so not OK (Fourth of July, 2024)

I love the Fourth of July. I really do. Or I used to. 

Cookouts. Fireworks. Pops music. Uncle Sam. Red, white, and blue. Yay! BIG YAY!

But the holiday is no longer haunted by the pleasantly ghostly specter of righteous, tough-but-benevolent Uncle Sam. It's haunted - as it has been for nearly a decade now - by the ghastly presence of Donald Trump. 

What a depraved, malign, fowl, ignorant individual. The thought of him being elected again is unthinkable. And yet here we are. 

And WE ARE NOT OK.

We'll all be spending the next x months watching him trash our country and its institutions. Trash anyone he doesn't like, or has the audacity to say they don't like him. Lie like there's no tomorrow - which, come to think of it, there may well not be. Spew gibberish, physically and mentally deteriorating before our very eyes - a deterioration seemingly beneath the notice of the press that's too focused on Joe Biden's gingerly shuffling along in the orthopedic sneakers he wears to help with his peripheral neuropathy. (Note to readers: I, too, wear orthopedic, orthotically-enhanced sneakers to help me cope with my peripheral neuropathy.)

This post was written before the debate debacle. I hope Joe decides quickly whether he's in or out. If he stays in, he should have a full medical and neurological workup by a panel of neutral physicians and release the results. If what's ailing him is standard geezer slowdown and/or sleep apnea, fine. We'll get through it. If it's early stage dementia, thank you for your service, President Biden.

But if it's just standard geezer, then he needs to hit the road, give interviews, hold press conferences, demonstrate that he's okay.

The press should demand the same - full physical and neuro -  from the other guy, and one of the physicians can't be Ronnie Jackson. How about forgetting about Stormy Daniels - she's had her moment, and I'm grateful for it - and take a look at the newly surfaced allegations regarding Trump/Epstein. And while the press is at it, how about a bit more scrutiny given to Trump's utterances - the lies, the threats, the plans that others have for his adminstration (given that all he will be giving a shit about is revenge), the overall unhingedness...

This post was also written before SCOTUS ruled that judges should make decide on regulations, not experts who might, say, know something about science or whatever the domain in question is. And before SCOTUS ruled that having an overzealous prosecutor is more likely and more dangerous than the potential that a rotten-to-the-core, unbridled, sociopathic POS president will do whatever the fuck he wants, call it official, and have immunity, impunity.  

My bottom line is this: If DJT wins this November, we're screwed. Project 2025, anyone? How about throwing everyone DJT hates (Liz Cheney, Joe Biden, Mark Milley, the Clintons...) into prison and put them in front of military tribunals.

If he's defeated, we're screwed, as he's likely to whistle up his goon squaddies to wreak some ego-satisfying havoc for him. 

Heads, Trump wins. Tails, we lose. 

Lisa Whittington (@LiLiWhittWhitt on Twitter) is an artist and this is one of her works:

The upside-down-flag is used to indicate that someone is in distress. The right wing has hijacked use of this flag (among others - they're oh so good at hijacking flags), but it's time to take it back. We are in distress.

This Fourth of July, we are not OK.

Sure, I'll do something patriotic of other. Read the Declaration of Independence. Dig out that powder blue cap with the discreet flag that's around here somewhere. Watch me some concert. Watch me some fireworks out the window. 

Hard to wish anyone a Glorious Fourth when we are so not OK.

Memorial Day with nothing new to say

Nothing to say that I haven't said before, other than hoping and in my own atheistic way praying that, when Memorial Day 2025 rolls around, we're not living in an authoritarian state.

Here are my historic thoughts on this holiday.

Have a wonderful (and a bit thoughtful) day.

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Image source: Bridgely Key Options.

In Your Easter Bonnet

Well, Sunday is Easter, making today Holy Thursday, when the Last Supper is commemorated.

If you went to parochial school back in the day, you got a couple of bonus days during Holy Week. Everyone - public schoolers, most businesses - got Good Friday off. But Catholic school kids got a halfday on Wednesday (Spy Wednesday, thanks to Judas) and a full day off on Thursday. Once you reached a certain age, you went to Mass on Holy Thursday - a small price to pay for the day off school - and sort of cool because it was a rare evening Mass. (My most vivid memory of Holy Thursday was going to Mass with my father and sister Kath. Somehow, Kath and I got the giggles, and I remember my father lifting me out of the pew to sit on his other side so Kath and I would be separated. I have no recall of what set us off - spotting some dopey kid we couldn't stand, a prissy-pious  parishioner scooting by, soeone in the choir hitting a clinker - but my father was pretty pissed, and reported our misdeed to our mother when we got home. Generally, he had a good sense of humor, but not when it came to church-y things.)

Friday my father had off of work, and our family's big deal was securing a group indulgence by making a flying visit to three churches. My mother liked to visit different churches, so each year she'd plan out where in the far-flung diocese of Worcester we'd head. She especially enjoyed the trek if the churches were new since the prior Good Friday - and during that era of Church Triumphant on Earth, American edition, there was always a new church to take in.

Saturday was spent prepping for Easter: dyeing Easter eggs (fun, even though I was disgusted by hard-boiled eggs; I suppose my mother ended up eating them for lunch during Easter week) and glaming up for the big day (spoolies in the hair, etc.).

Easter meant a new Sunday dress and a new Easter coat and hat. Unless you outgrew it, you'd wear that dress pretty much every Sunday for the next year. You'd wear the hat until late fall, when you swapped out your straw Easter hat for something warmer. 

My most memorable Easter bonnet was the one I got in second grade. My mother wanted to buy me a cute little sailor style hat with navy streamers, but I insisted on a completely hideous little white half hat covered with white flowers that had red and green stamens (seems a bit Christmas-y to me; why not pink and purple?). I grew up in a family and era when a child insisting on something just didn't fly, so why my mother let me go for this hideous little half hat continues to amaze me to this day. I do know what the real attraction was. The hat came with a matching pocketbook that somewhat resembled a bird cage. I always was a fashion maven!

I had a couple of Easter dresses that I really loved. 

One was a pastel pink-purple-blue plaid with patch pockets (yay!) trimmed with black velvet. The other - my all time favorite - was a crisp little white cap-sleeved A-line number printed with sprigs of navy blue flowers. I absolutely adored that dress - my third grade Easter dress (the pastel plaid was fourth grade) - and was devastated when I outgrew it.

Easter meant Mass, then Easter baskets (which typically included a small gift like a stuffed animal or bubble bath, jelly beans, Peeps, a small hollow chocolate rabbit, some tiny chocolate and or marshmallow coated eggs, and those ghastly dyed hard-boiled eggs). Then we set out on our annual trip to my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Ralph's in Newton, which was almost like going into Boston. (One time, when the Prudential Center opened in 1964, my uncle took my father and the older kids into Boston to gawk at it. Excitement!)

While we only went to Margaret and Ralph's once a year, we saw them all that time.

They came to dinner at our house in Worcester every Friday (with their kids when they were younger but still older than the kids in my family). And they came to our house on Thanksiviging and Christmas Eve, and my grandmother's (who lived on the next street) for Christmas. 

Easter dinner - in my aunt's cramped dining room - was always ham, mashed potatoes, cole slaw (made by my mother), tons of veggies, pineapple-raisin sauce, and pies. She was still hosting Easter well into her 70's, maybe her 80's, and I remember that the last one there was on an unnaturally warm April day - and my aunt, who was always chilled in her old age, had the heat blasting.

There's nothing holy about my Holy Week. And I don't have a new dress, let alone an Easter bonnet. But I will be hosting a small family gathering at my house.

There will be ham. And a frittata for my pescatrian niece. I will make my mother's cole slaw, even if I'm pretty much the only one who likes it. The potatoes will be my sister Trish's amazing scalloped potatoes. And rather than pie, we'll have my niece Caroline's amazing carrot cake. The wine - chosen by Molly my wine-expert niece (she even took a course in college) - will also be amazing. I'm looking forward to what she comes up with. 

Trish will probably bring me a Peep - a yellow chick: the original is still the greatest - and it won't be Easter until I have bitten the Peep's head off.

Happy Easter to all, and to all a good night.