Thursday, May 6, 2021

As I Understand It; But What, After All, Does "Understand" Really Mean?

 As I understand it, Jim Jordan and his various republican nut cases are all waiting, indeed inducing, the second coming.

I hope Google doesn't remove this post for that porn dripping statement.

The coming in question is of d. j. trump.

(I eschew the obvious fun I could have here with the preceding statement.)

And the second nature of that coming is variously described: QAnon seems to be as good a source as any.

Q says that on 4 July 2021 it is written (somewhere unspecified) that the savior, THE DONALD, will return and smite the unfaithful and, after brandishing aloft the Golden Plates, the Angel Maroni will descend and anoint THE DONALD, and the faithful will file, one by one, into the Valley of Jehoshaphat, all chanting "screw Mitt Romney; screw Mitt Romney"; and then all will be good again, with the commencement of the thousand years that prophesy has given us as fact.

The question one would ask is how did they all - the QAnon observers - all become Mormons?

A question for the ages.

Here's another question, for here and now.

Didn't Hitler say that the Third Reich was going to last a thousand years?

Or, would you believe that Jesus is going to come back, in lieu of donnie the dildo?

Jim Jordan says that Jesus has better things to do.

I would hope so.

Hitler is probably available for the event.

Wednesday, May 5, 2021

The Word Witch Seems To Be A Prevalent republican Personification

 Especially from the republican fascist clergy.

Our Vice President has had to grin and bear a monumental load from the "clergy" recently.

One "pastor" said something to the effect that she was a witch and spawn of the devil.

Today that "christian" wrath descended upon President Joe's Press Secretary.

"Pastor Greg Locke, the outspoken pastor and supporter of former President Donald Trump, has called Jen Psaki a "liar" and a "treasonous witch" in a post on Twitter following her latest remarks addressing the migrant situation at the southern border".

From a Newsweek article by Soo Kim.

******************************************************

So, I guess you might understand why I say our country is disintegrating.

Which is why it is comforting - in the very short term before the various militias start killing all of us and each other - that we have Seth Meyers.

Here is a link to one of so many of his recent bits that deaden the pain of loss as America descends into chaos.

Seth pretty well understands the mechanics of the disintegration. 

(2500) Republicans Lash Out at Liz Cheney for Not Supporting Trump's Big Lie: A Closer Look - YouTube

******************************************************

In honor of the end, here is an image.

Sunset in America



One Of The Gilts On Pont Alexandre III

 I keep taking this picture.

This is the best I have.

But it's not that good, and it's not the best that I will do.




A Paris Poem

 On the trunk of a tree in Paris;

On the quai as I recall;

Were the symbols of some people;

A community of all y'all;

Places such are sacred;

Making us all as one;

The carving of initials;

Makes hatred gone and done.




Senator John Kennedy Of Louisiana: A Human Ant Lion?

 Senator John is, apparently gifted with a very high IQ.


At least his educational  resumé would seem to indicate that to be the case: University of Virginia, University of Virginia Law School, Vanderbilt University, Magdalen College Oxford and Oxford University.

No wonder he looks so down at the jowls: he has spent most of his life being educated.

But there is nothing wrong with that.

Here in this post that is just evidence for my case.

And my case is as follows.

When I was a pre-teen child I listened to a lot of radio: Red Skelton, Jack Benny and all the mysteries and melodramas of the time.

One of the never ending cliches of that era was the Southerner as the rube; it lived in parallel with the Black American as the rube; in retrospect that justaposition is probably PHD disertation material; but I mention it only because it is evidence for my ultimate conclusion, yet to be revealed.

Move the clock forward from the 1950s.

I was in the United States Air Force; I was a Second Lieutenant; I was in a melange of humanity that should have been studied - somewhere - and it had a large Southern component.

I was from Portland.

I had never known a Southerner.

All I knew about them I had gotten from radio years before.

I knew that they were all rubes.

( I should at this point in the post define "rube" since I may be the only person living to whom the word means anything; it means self-impressed Buffoon.)

So in the myriad interactions of which I was a participant, and of which I was an observer - the Southerns interacting with the Bostonians, New Yorkers, New Jersy-ites, the Rhode Islander (we had one of these (Walt Couteau) the Iowans and - I can go on for quite a while, but I won't - all the rest of the demography that gets pumped into the military when you have a draft.

Those "Southerners" always played the rube and they always came out looking like geniuses.

They ran rings around the Harvard et al graduates.

I loved it.

So I know the game that John Kennedy from Louisiana has been playing.

And I shriek at the heavens that he has been allowed to sully the name of JFK with his tragic name-alikeness.

But he has played the rube game with a brilliance which is the least to be expected of an Oxford alum.

You are probably wondering why I have taken the trouble to write all of this.

The reason is because one time I was sitting quite drunk under a juniper tree in Central Oregon.

A really good friend was sitting next to me.

He was drunk also.

So when he said : "have you ever seen an ant lion?" I didn't know how to answer.

In fact, I didn't answer; I just sat there drinking more of whatever it was that I was drinking.

"No, seriously, there is a bug called an ant lion; they dig a conical hole in the sand, and they stay below the surface of the cone, down in the sand and wait for ants to stumble into the cone; when the ants stumble they can't get out because the grains of sand in the cone keep falling down; so, while the poor ant is stumbling the ant lion jumps out and grabs the ant and pulls it down into the sand and has his way with it".

Then he gestured under the juniper and I saw a cone and what he had just described actually happened.

That is how I think of the Southern rube, the role that John Kennedy of Louisiana has perfected: he's just a simpleton from Louisiana.

The southern rube digs his cone of being thought to be stupid by northerners and sits at the bottom and waits for the ants; I saw it so many times in the Air Force that I can't count them.

I think it is a tactic that, if not genetic, is taught subliminally by the Southern Culture; it is a tactic for certain victory in the everyday dealings of the human race in the United States.

Most of what I have seen from Kennedy in the last two years supports the fact that he is, indeed, playing the rube.

And I know, from my Air Force experience, that he has cultivated that image with serious intent.

But, with Kennedy, I have seen the down side.

Sometimes if you play a role too well, and for too long, you actually assume the role as your real identity.

You really become a rube.

It's Either A Klan Meeting, Or

 A Lopez island tomato patch.

People on Lopez Island tent their tomtato starts until the weather gets warmer.



Randomly Selected Images For May 5, 2021

 I wanted to do an image post today.

But Screen Saver hasn't served up enough since my last image post.

The real reason is that I took the ferry to America yesterday so I could replenish supplies at Costo - wine, scotch, vodka - important foodstuffs.

I also bought this year's tomato plants.


The way the images accumulate over time is that I leave the computer on most of the day, and, after five minutes of non-use, Screen Saver starts up.  In the course of the day I walk past my work station quite a few times, and, quite frequently see images that make compelling candidates for cropping, enhancing and posting.  A quick "PrtSc" and a close encounter with PhotoShop and the rest is history.  Since I wasn't here to do that yesterday, there were only a couple images from late the previous day.

As an aside, I doubt if this process is ever going to run out of new candidate images: Screen Saver is pointed at a file exceeding 700 gigabytes (on one Paris soujourn, for example, I ran a brand new camera into a second 10,000 image folder).

So just now I went to the saved images file where I keep what Screen Saver serves me, scrolled down a few years back and randomly selected a few images.

******************************************

Awhile back my wife told me I should go out and take pictures of the goldfinches eating seeds in the early morning sunshine.


I wish I could claim that I had thought through this shot, but I can't; I was walking along the tombolo, saw this guy, and pointed, and shooted.


I love thistle down and dandelion down, and the down of the mysterious purple flowers that I have been trying to get to grow in the shore grass off our deck.  




This burst was along the shore of the lake in le Bois de Vincennes.


A nice day on the quais Bernard - or near it; across the river is the entrance to the Paris Boat Basin where people moor thier private boats - l'Arsenal de Paris.


I take a lot of pictures at l'Aquarium Tropical.


Carrots make great still lifes.


La fontaine du Jardin des Grandes Explorateurs


When I was young I looked down upon these birds - we called the English Sparrows - because they weren't pretty.  In intervening years my definition of pretty has changed; I think English Sparrows are among the birds of beauty, and I am happy that we have them on Lopez mixed among the Fox Sparrows, Song Sparrows, Golden Crowned Sparrows and White Crowned Sparrows.  This one was in the flowers at Jardin du Luxembourg.


At Christmas time le Champs Elysees turns into a two mile market place of little kiosks and cabins of commerce.


This is a really good shot of a rainy day in Paris from the happy vantage point of inside le Départ St Michel.


The only place in Paris that I know of that has these beautiful white roses is Le Promenade Plantee.


Napoleon is here.


This the ferry dock at Shaw Island.  I took this picture in 2019.  From my memories of Orcas Isalnd in the 1950s, I think this must not look much different from 60 years ago.


A Lopez Song Sparrow.







Tuesday, May 4, 2021

More We Was Robbed Crap

 Derek Chauvin and his attorney want to compell the judge in Chauvin's recent conviction to interview unspecified members of the jury because the only way Chauvin could have been found guilty is that there must have been misconduct on the part of the jury.

Change the specifics and you get "the only way I could have lost the election is that the election was stolen; I don't need proof other than the fact that I lost, so the election had to have been stolen".

In times that I can still remember the purveyor of that ridiculous assertion would have been laughed out of Washington.

Instead, a couple hundred members of Congress said that indeed the election was stolen.

And now they are supporting the January insurrection.

So laughing off Ol' Dereks version of the big lie is not a thing to be done lightly.

And if the trial is forced into a re-do because of ridiculous late breaking trumplogic, then that fact can be added to the fact that a perfectly valid popular vote landslide has been forever tainted by lying donnie, and we are only one or two more similar incidents away from the complete disintigration of the United States.

It's jackal logic: "harass and slash at the poor beast until he turns to fight; then all us jackals can have a bloody feast".

Sunday, May 2, 2021

A Few Pictures

I always like to take pictures of plants being plants.  Usually I know where I took the picture.  I don't for this one.

 


There is a rose garden on la Isle des Cynges where I always take pictures of the roses.


One could learn the blues here at midnight?


A really major sunset event through our windows on San Juan Straight.

I can't remember what type of bird this is.


Not in Paris, but I don't know where.

I wish I knew where I took this.


This was on a bike trip in Entre Deux Mers.  These grapes make sauterne wine.


From The Probably Too Good To Be True Department

 There are threads on the internet that say that Bob Baffert has declined an invitation to Mara Lago to celebrate his seventh Derby winning horse.

"If I had wanted to see a horse's ass I would have come in second" he has supposedly said.

I personally think that that is too good to be true.

But I can always wish.


Saturday, May 1, 2021

On The Arno - A Valentine

 As my wife and I walked along the Arno in Florence once, I saw something that I had to capture as an image.

Later I was able to use it in a valentine to her.

And it included a little poem.

On the Arno

The sun plays trickster

Sometimes.

Upon the river’s wall,

Beneath the vines and leaves,

Clinging

To the heart



The Lady At Bistro Mazarine

 As sometimes happens in Paris the rain had moved in with a vengeance.

Unlike its usual fleet and go, follow the wind, follow the clouds, occasional showers, this one had been serious: it just kept going for hours.

And that had really adverse effect for me.

My job in Paris is to walk for several hours every day and shoot pictures.

When rain at its worst is a here-it-is, now-it's-gone sort of thing, a little rain gear and a big pocket to stow the camera during the showers is all one needs to spend the day meaningfully employed with a camera on the streets of Paris.

Walking and shooting, pictures.

But this day was not one of those days.

The rain was heavy; the rain was steady; the rain seemed to plan to remain until an ark would be the only reprieve.

I have seen pictures of Paris in the past when such rain had brought the Seine into the streets in front of my apartment - but that was in the past.

Those things don't happen now, in modern times, do they? I heard myself asking myself.

As cabin fever began to threaten my life I decided to go out into the rain, cross the street and go to Bistro Mazarine for - whatever - at least I would benefit from not being in my apartment any longer.

I was the only person in the outside part of the place when I got there.

I took a table and ordered un verre de rosé and sat there sipping, listening to the rain on the roof of the tent covering the outside bar.

I went pleasantly catatonic.

After some period of time - minutes, hours, days, years, eons? - I was brought back into the present.

The rain still drummed upon the roof.

But I was in the presence of another human.

She took a chair at a large table suitably distant from me and looked very sad.

I began to have delusions of being Hemmingway.

After her glass of wine was delivered she looked every bit still as sad.

I left before she left, but not until I had watched her for some period of time: minutes, hours, days, years, eons?

I have always wondered who or what she was waiting for.