Happy Friday, Gentle Readers,
I pray this missive finds you well. Monsoon season is threatening to hit the Beehive State. I’ll believe it when I see it, but if the prediction is true, I will welcome the rain. The heat has been unrelenting this year, and lawn care is not nearly as rewarding in August as it is in May. Besides, my azalea bushes look like they belong at the headquarters of Chernobyl.
We led off the week with the ballad of Sean Charles Dunn, (extremely) late of the Department of Justice, who thought it would be stunning and brave to throw a Subway sandwich at a CBP officer in D.C. He was so stunning and so brave that he immediately fled the scene, leading officers on a Benny Hill-style chase. The only thing missing was “Yakety Sax” in the background. Mr. Dunn thought he was in the clear and had struck blows for “muh Democracy” and the Rebel Alliance, but as Victoria noted, the FBI quickly dissuaded him of that delusion.
This week, we also had Hunter Biden, firmly cementing the family legacy with his foul-mouthed response to Melania Trump’s threat of a lawsuit over his obnoxious remarks. One wonders if he will get his own wing in his father’s presidential library. Nah, it will probably be an art gallery. It will go nicely with all of the pop-up books lining the shelves of the other wings.
It came to light this week that South Carolina Democratic gubernatorial candidate William “Mullins” McLeod was taken into custody in May, after having a meltdown in his underwear, using the n-word, and proclaiming to be God and Superman. Oh, and he also threatened to kick his opponent’s “f***ing teeth in.” The police report noted that his behavior was consistent with someone under the “influence of a stimulant narcotic.” He’s God and Superman? With a resume like that, he’ll win by a landslide. Of course, he’d better find some pants before the first debate.
Gavin Newsom threw a “rally” that looked more like a small gathering of friends for a surprise birthday party for someone no one really likes.
Just when you thought it was safe to go to the mall again, someone decided that it was a good time to re-analyze the proverbial crap out of the Sydney Sweeney ad. And Taylor Swift is back in the news for some reason. I keep seeing the mental image of editors across the nation saying, “Taylor Swift was spotted eating a Cobb Salad in Lower Manhattan. Quick! Somebody get me 300 words on that!”
Of course, we also had Rep. Anna Paulina Luna appearing on Joe Rogan’s show, talking about interdimensional beings. Don’t get me wrong, I catch Rogan’s podcast when I can and I enjoy it; he’s free to talk about whatever he wants, but when it comes to members of Congress, well, stay in your lane, guys. If I want to hear about interdimensional beings, I’ll watch “The Why Files.” At least they have a talking goldfish.
Is this the best we can do? It’s enough to make a man hopeful that asteroid 2025 PR1 or comet 3I/ATLAS will plant themselves smack in the middle of the continental U.S. and force us to start all over from scratch. Sometimes, an extinction-level event can be like a good colon cleanse. Who knows? Maybe the cockroaches will do a better job than we did.
But I can take heart, not from the breathless headlines of the right-wing media, but from something much smaller. Well, four somethings. Four someones, actually. This past weekend, my doorbell rang. We have a “No Solicitors” sign out front, because I grew tired of smarmy college kids trying to shame me into buying solar panels or pest control.
While the first people to darken my door were salespeople, after a fashion, it was a brother and sister who were all of seven and six, respectively. With the characteristic speech of someone who has not completely mastered the letter R, the brother asked if we needed our cars washed. They had a little wagon holding a bucket, soap, and a hose. The brother said they would wash my car for six dollars. And they did a decent job of it, too. The thing looked better than when I took it to the car wash.
Not long after that, my doorbell rang again. This time, it was two junior high boys. They were going up and down the streets of the neighborhood, offering to spray paint house numbers on the curbsides for $5 a shot. These boys had figured out that with a modest investment in a few cans of spray paint at the hardware store and some stencils from Hobby Lobby (I’m guessing), the money was just lying there in the streets waiting for someone to pick it up.
These kids could have been zoned out on their couches, scrolling on their phones, or letting their minds rot with the newest seizure-inducing video games. Worse, they could have been inspired by social media to participate in “The Door Kick Challenge.” Or something like the “Stick-A-Fork-In-A-Socket Challenge" or the “Gargle With Battery Acid Challenge,” both of which I am sure will be along any day now.
No, they spent the last few precious days of summer vacation, pounding the pavement in the searing heat (it has been a scorcher in my part of Utah this year), looking for ways to make a buck. Maybe I’m getting old and cranky, but it doesn’t seem like they make too many kids like that anymore.
Conservatives can thrill to the deportation numbers, find joy in Trump’s foreign policy wins, and look with glowing optimism at our economic future. They can rejoice that there are hot chicks in advertising again, and that the Kennedy Center promises to have the most unique lineup of honorees that it has had in a decade. They can cheer the potential downfall of mRNA vaccines and the rout of Texas Democrat legislators. They can toast the impending return of law and order to D.C. and the collapse of USAID.
The caveat, of course, is that once the opposition party is back in power, it will reverse everything Trump has done with alarming alacrity, and it will be out for revenge. So place not your faith in princes, presidents, policies, or administrations. All is vanity, as the writer of Ecclesiastes said, and what is done today can be undone with the stroke of an autopen tomorrow.
Let us instead praise the lemonade stand owners, the kids with wagons, and young boys who are walking the streets with spray paint, not to tag a wall but to pick up a few extra five-spots. Let us nurture them while we can, and keep them safe from the hooks and propaganda of predators of all stripes. They are the future Nikolai Tesla, Jonas Salk, C.S. Lewis, George Washington Carver, Charles Richard Drew, Marie Curie, and Stephanie Kwolek. People who just don’t see problems, but see solutions and possibilities.
Because if you need your car washed, I can give you a good referral.
Every once in a while, you find a wine that just tries to do too much. It tries so hard to please that it ends up missing the mark by a few millimeters. Or is that missing the cork? At any rate, this week I sampled the 2023 Toso Estate Malbec out of Mendoza, Argentina:
For a while, Argentinian Malbecs were the big thing, since they came from high altitude vineyards and had all the necessary components of a nice dry red, especially if you were rich enough to afford a Tomahawk steak (a delicacy I am a little nervous to try since I don’t want to screw up a steak that expensive). This is not a bad wine by any stretch of the imagination, it just seemed to be working overtime to impress all potential drinkers.
It doesn’t hit as hard as the average Malbec, and it isn’t one you are going to keep on hand. The usual red/dark fruits were in the profile, and a nice presence of wood smoke, but there was a taste I couldn’t quite quantify that was off-putting about it. As I read other reviews, the word “licorice” kept coming up. Sure, it is a matter of preference, and to be honest, once I was aware of the “licorice,” I had a hard time finding the other flavors.
That’s it for me. Have a great weekend, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see you next time.
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