Lee DeWyze

The song of the day is 2016's Weight by singer-songwriter Lee DeWyze (Leon James DeWyze, Jr.).

The O’Reilly Factoid

According to news reports, Fox News host Bill O’Reilly, who was recently fired from Fox News over a series of allegations of sexual harassment made by multiple women, will receive a $25 million severance payout. This leaves me feeling torn.

On the one hand, I want to know where I can get a job harassing women and then get paid $25 million when I’m caught. But on the other hand, is $25 million enough? We all know that $25 million doesn’t go as far as it used to go. In fact, were I to live the lifestyle to which I would like to become accustomed, I could go through $25 million in six months. Granted, $25 million may sound like a lot of money to some people, but consider this: after purchasing a Learjet 85, only $4 million will remain. Most of that will go to fuel, pilots’ salaries, and high-class prostitutes. Oops, scratch that last one. I meant to say, “high-class female friends.” Well okay, high-class female friends who demand money. So after all that, how does one survive?

I don’t know much about Bill, but I know he is 67 years old with a wife and two children. So I have to ask, what has he got to be randy about? Give it a rest, Bill.

Crab Cake Deconstruction

A few days ago I bought a package of crab cakes. Printed on the package was the assurance that the cakes did indeed contain crabmeat.

It was comforting to know that the crab cakes contained crab. But it’s also unfortunate that such a statement is even necessary. The fact that someone has to say that his crab cakes contain crab makes me wonder what’s in those other crab cakes. Cat food?

I cooked two crab cakes in my oven. During cooking, oil (probably soybean) oozed out of the cakes. The cakes were fragile and crumbly; one fell apart in the oven. Cutting into a cake with my fork, the cake appeared to be largely bread. There were a few lumps of what could have been crab but which also could have been something else. I’ve enjoyed crab cakes before, but these crab cakes appeared to be made of some kind of crab that had been bred to not taste like crab. For that matter, to not taste like anything. A designer crab, perhaps?

Curious, I looked at the list of ingredients. Sure enough, crabmeat was listed, as were pollock and whiting and a lot of other things like “natural and artificial crab flavor” and “gel fiber” (what?). There was an exhaustive list of chemicals: calcium carbonate, titanium dioxide, sodium tripolyphosphate, tetrasodium pyrophosphate, sodium benzoate, potassium sorbate, and the always-popular disodium inosinate. I could go on, but the print on the box is so tiny it strains my eyes to read it.

I guess all those ingredients have to be in it, or they wouldn’t be. Still, I miss the days when one could buy crab cakes made of crabmeat, bread crumbs, parsley, egg, mayo, hot sauce and mustard. No pollock, please. No whiting. No ingredients that only a chemist knows how to pronounce. Those days probably won’t be returning. It’s modern times, now.

Syria

Trump ordered the bombing of a Syrian airfield in retaliation for Assad using chemical weapons on his own people. Assad has done this multiple times in the past.

In 2012, Obama warned Assad that his use of chemical weapons would be "crossing a red line." In 2013 Assad crossed that line, and 98 Republicans signed a letter that stated bombing Syria without congressional authorization would be unconstitutional. When President Obama asked for authorization, Republicans denied him. Later, they accused him of being weak for not acting. Now America has a Republican president, and suddenly most Republicans are okay with the president bombing Syria without consulting Congress.

A UK website put the bombing this way: "It is in direct contrast to former president Barack Obama who opted not to launch airstrikes in 2013 without congressional approval." Note those last three words: "without congressional approval." Republicans want to rewrite history and pretend Obama chose not to act against the Syrian regime, when in reality he chose not to act without the support of Congress. Which I considered, and still consider, appropriate. Doesn't the Constitution make Congress the decider of when and where we go to war? Yes, it does. Has America’s Constitution been amended to make the president the decider? I don’t think so.

And with 195 countries in the world (not counting Taiwan), why does it seem to always be the American military that has to go in and bomb stuff? If other countries don't care enough to intervene, should Americans care? Using chemical warfare to kill 86 civilians is an atrocity, but 400,000 Syrians have already been killed and millions more have been displaced. Why take action now? Against the backdrop of years of war and hundreds of thousands of civilian deaths, why are these 86 deaths important enough to warrant an airstrike? Here’s why: dead babies on television. Four hundred thousand dead people is just a number. Eleven million displaced people is just a number. But dead babies make a powerful picture and a politician’s nightmare. “They’re killing babies – are you going to let them do that? Do something!”

The airport that was bombed was up and running again within 24 hours, a Russian-Syrian finger in Trump’s face. And the town that suffered the gas attack has already been bombed again. So what did Trump accomplish? And what comes next? I am reminded of something Winston Churchill said in 1942 after his army defeated Rommel in Egypt: "Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

The end of the beginning: that, I suspect, is what we’re seeing in the Middle East. Many more will die before the end of Syria’s long nightmare. In his farewell address, George Washington warned of what he called “foreign entanglements.” I hope our leaders heed Washington’s warning, but I’m not optimistic. America’s leaders have never seen a tar-baby that they could resist touching.

The Invader

It was late night. I sat in my living room chair, watching some manner of late-night show on television. The dimmer on my torchiere floor lamp was turned low. Suddenly, I saw movement on the hardwood floor. A cockroach had found its way into my abode.

I hate cockroaches. There are two things I will not tolerate in my house: a cockroach and a mouse. So when the nasty critter crept out of the shadows into my view, it was game on.

I keep a can of bug spray on the nearby fireplace hearth. Because, if I have to go and hunt down the spray can, the critter will likely be gone when I return. So I got out of my chair and I grabbed the spray can and I rained liquid death on the invading critter. It skittered away under a bookcase.

I sat back in my chair but I kept the bug spray within arm’s reach. Ten minutes later, the bug crept back into my vision. This time I bounded from my chair and gave the critter a good close-up dose of roach-killer. As before, it skittered back into the shadows. I returned to my chair, confident I had given the creature a lethal dose.

Ten minutes later, the blasted critter once again crept into view. What the hell? What does it take to kill these critters? Have they become immune to bug spray? I grabbed the can of spray and I was on top of the bug, dosing it from six inches away. This time, the bug made a mistake. Instead of scuttling back into the shadows, it ran the opposite way – across the room. I followed it with the spray can, laying down a track of white foam along the way. The damn thing was getting away, and I couldn’t let that happen. So I began stomping it. I was wearing socks, no shoes, so my stomping was not as effective as I would have liked, but I got the job done. One cockroach sent to cockroach hell.

A couple nights later I went into my kitchen and damn if there wasn’t another cockroach there. This time the foul creature ran across the floor, and the bug spray was twenty feet away – out of reach and too far to grab and return. The roach would be gone when I got back. Fortunately, I had something in my hand that was even more effective than bug spray. You want to know what really can take out a cockroach fast? A two liter bottle of cola. I bombed that sucka good.

Attention cockroaches: stay the hell out of my house. You’re always going to lose.

Conspiracy Stuff

In the words of Neil Degrasse Tyson, “A conspiracy theorist is a person with insufficient data.” Well put, Mr. Tyson. That is my feeling exactly. When someone tries to feed me a conspiracy theory, I want to tell them, “Come back to me when you know something.”

If you want me to believe your pet conspiracy theory, then present me with evidence to support your claim. Your belief isn’t enough. The fact that you can arrange random events in a particular combination to support your theory isn’t enough. If you believe the earth is flat, that doesn’t make it so. Reality doesn’t care what you or I believe. Reality is what it is, regardless how inconvenient or disruptive that may be to your world-view.

I’m tired of all the right-wing conspiracy theories I see online. (And they always seem to be right-wing: why is that?) Some of these conspiracy theories are so absurd only an idiot could believe them. No – I take that back because some of these conspiracy theories would be an insult to idiots.

Still, there are people who swallow this conspiracy nonsense, and even if they don’t believe in them 100 percent, the stories can cause doubt in people’s minds. Imagine if someone in your neighborhood began spreading gossip claiming you were a pedophile. Even though there was absolutely zero evidence to support that claim, people would begin seeing you differently, and they would start treating you differently. There doesn’t have to be proof. Just making a claim about someone can sully a person’s reputation.

One of the more absurd conspiracy theories of recent months claimed Hillary Clinton was running a child-prostitution ring in the basement of a pizza restaurant. I can picture a Russian agent (probably named Igor) typing that bit of nonsense into an online article while a bemused fellow Russian looks on and tries to give him advice.

“Igor, don’t invent such bizarre story. Americans may be stupid and gullible, but not this stupid and gullible. You have candidate for president of USA in public spotlight, traveling with reporters, speaking at rallies – who would believe such person would have time to run prostitution ring, much less have moral depravity to make story possible? You are wasting time.” But sure enough, some bonehead took a gun into said pizza restaurant and demanded to be taken to the children. Igor must have laughed his butt off. Quite possibly (this is my theory, which I admit I cannot prove), the thousands of Russian agents tasked with smearing Hillary Clinton’s reputation got bored and began competing to see who could write the most far-out, most unbelievable story possible. Igor won.

Pentatonix

My favorite singers just released a new EP titled PTX Vol. 4 – Classics. The five-member a cappella group covers seven classic pop songs.The first two tracks are Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody and John Lennon’s Imagine. Pentatonix does justice to both songs. Bohemian Rhapsody will make you wonder how five people can sound so huge. Imagine will leave you moved. Like other Pentatonix songs, both are arranged superbly and performed perfectly.

 

I’m Not Here to Talk

I went to the Walmart store to buy some groceries. I picked up a few items, but I don’t know how many items were in my cart because I didn’t count them. When I was ready to checkout, the checkout lines were long, but there was an express line that had nobody in it. The sign said “20 items or less” and eyeballing my cart I thought I might have 20 items, but I wasn’t sure. Standing at the register was a young woman who looked to be maybe twenty years old. There was no one waiting behind me so I figured a little friendly banter couldn’t hurt. I rolled my cart up to the register and said, “I’m not sure I have fewer than twenty items. Would you like me to count them?”

The young woman said, “No,” and looked in another direction.

“I don’t mind,” I replied. “You’re sure you don’t want me to count them?”

The young woman said nothing and continued to look away.

“I just don’t want to get in trouble with the Walmart police,” I tried one more time.

This prompted the young woman to say, “I’m just here to do my job. I’m not here to talk.”

“Well, “ I replied, “by all means, don’t let being cheerful get in the way of doing your job.”

So she did her checkout job in silence while I did my customer job in silence. Not another word was exchanged between us. When I left, I almost said to her, “I hope you feel better.” Almost. But I didn’t because that would have involved being friendly to her, and I knew that my being friendly would ruin her day.

I assume she was only having a bad day and that she isn’t a full-time grouch. But who knows. I guess it’s the grouches we meet that make us appreciate the friendly people we meet.

I Was Gonna But

This promises to be another day of “I was gonna but…”

I’ve needed to mow my yard for a month. I was gonna cut the grass yesterday, but it was too chilly. And I was gonna cut the grass the day before yesterday, but it was too wet. And I was gonna cut the grass today, but at 7 AM the temperature is 23°F ( -5°C). The high temperature is supposed to hit 50° today, but that will be at 5 PM. It’s going to be cold all day.

But it’s not too cold to keep the weeds from growing. My yard is chock full of various flowering weeds. The henbit and the chickweed and the dandelions are ganging up on the shrinking islands of grass.

Of course, I could work on the lawn tractor. I could remove and sharpen the blades. I could. But I’m unwilling to lie on a cold, cement garage floor when the temperature is in the 30s to 40s. I could do it, but I’m not gonna.

Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll mow the yard then – if it’s warmer. And if not tomorrow, then definitely on Saturday. I’ll mow the yard on Saturday at the very latest.

Or Sunday.

Spring Arrives

Today is March 20, 2017 – the first day of spring. This means I can mow my yard, which has needed mowing for a month. We had a warm February that allowed the grass to grow sufficiently that some of my neighbors mowed their yards a month ago. But I refuse to mow my yard in winter. It’s a little eccentricity that I justify by the fact that I live in central Virginia, not Florida. Virginia has cold winters, despite the occasional mid-winter warm spell (and here I’m thinking of the famous “January thaw”). Winters are a downside to living in Virginia. I have to burn heating oil. I have to wear a coat outside the house. I have to shovel snow. There’s no “fun in the sun” – it’s winter. There should be an upside to winter, and one upside I insist upon is that I don’t have to mow grass. But that changes today.

First, I’ll remove the mower blades from beneath the deck of my lawn tractor and sharpen them. This is necessary because last summer someone placed a brick in tall grass behind my garage. I couldn’t see the brick (tall grass, remember) and consequently I drove my mower over it. The mower blades chewed the brick to bits with a hellacious racket as the pieces of brick churned out by the blades rebounded off the inside of the mower’s deck and back into the blades for further chewing. The mower blades had (past tense) thin, sharp edges and they took quite a beating from the brick. Of course, the mower continued to cut grass. I could put the blades on backward and they would still shorten grass. But the process would be more of a tearing, ripping, and mangling than cleanly cutting the blades of grass. So there’s that.

And I no longer have an excuse to not scrape and paint over peeling paint on my house’s exterior woodwork. And will the window air conditioner that is 22 years old operate for one more summer? And dandelions are sprouting in the yard, and the yard needs fertilizer, and weed killer, and grass seed.

I should be doing yard work right now, but this blog post isn’t going to write itself. Priorities, you know. I can do yard work tomorrow, but there’s only one first day of spring.