Happy to see a Republican with a spine. Thank you, Pierre Delecto.
Meanwhile, the sign behind him alludes to one of my favorite Bible verses:
He has showed you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? (Micah 6:8)
Awake but angry. Finding it hard to shake my frustration and despair. Over everything.
Went spelunking in a neglected pantry cabinet this morning. This product won the prize for “Most Likely to Be Older Than Our 12-Year-Old Daughter.”
Good morning.
The world I want to live in has a big library, a campsite with pizza, and dancing cartoon animals.
The Onion: “‘This Face Will Be The Last Thing You See Before You Die,’ Says Trump In Healing Address To Nation.”
The Nebraska Expression of Genuine Racial Outrage Exclusivity Zone, or NEGROEZ, is a ten-foot by twenty-foot parcel of land off of State Highway 61 between Merriman, NE, and Hyannis, NE. The United States government has earmarked this area for the specific purpose of giving Black Americans a place where they can demonstrate their anger at the injustice they experience every day in America in an appropriate manner. At the NEGROEZ, and only at the NEGROEZ, Black Americans are allowed to express their rage in any way they see fit, provided it involves some form of primal screaming that nobody else can hear.
~ Carlos Greaves, “The Only Acceptable Form of Black Protest Is to Stand in This Field in Rural Nebraska and Scream Into the Void,” McSweeney’s
Spotted on Twitter (per @CarolYMorrise1 on @TheRickWilson’s feed).
I first learned of the Hmong when I lived in Fresno more than 30 years ago; many settled in the Central Valley. The fact that one of the four officers in George Floyd’s murder is Hmong is a reminder that this crisis isn’t just a black-and-white one.
The husband this morning: “I’m sorry. The conservative I was thinking of who turned on Trump was Ann Coulter, not Kellyanne Conway. I keep getting those two harpies mixed up.”
It’s 1:05 a.m. I drank half a Greek coffee frappe so I could stay up to get some work done. The work is more or less done for now, but I have a feeling I’ll be up a whole lot longer. #PoorPlanning
Weird to read a story on infighting among Bernie Sanders’ top campaign aides and spotting a familiar name.
One of Bernie’s higher profile aides was a newsroom intern of mine more than 20 years ago. He spent most of his time screwing around, babbling about his pet piranhas, and spouting off about how boring San Diego is—until I told him I was from there. He didn’t apologize—and frankly, I agree that San Diego is boring—but the embarrassed look on his face was gratifying.
A week or two later, he stopped showing up.
Clearly he made something of himself. Sort of. But the story indicates he hasn’t grown up much.
Obama will address the nation at 5 p.m. Eastern today. I consider that appointment viewing.
Somebody joked on Twitter that the White House immediately scheduled a news conference for 4:55 p.m. That may well be true.
There’s an anti-racism and anti-police protest in my leafy, suburban, and largely white town. The husband biked over there after finding out the city asked businesses to close and board up around 3 p.m.
He saw maybe a couple of hundred people. I asked if he spotted any actual people of color, and perhaps firearms. Yes to people of color, no to firearms. There was one white kid who tried to stir things up with cops, yelling “Fuck the police!” or whatever, but Chris says he was mocked.
I appreciate those who sincerely mean well in speaking up. But I’m having a hard time not being cynical. I read the law-and-order posts from the residents who ask why the cops and National Guard can’t show up and shoot looters on site. I see the occasional quizzical look at me at school functions. It’s hard not to be jaded, even with video that Chris texts me of people honking in support of this quaint crowd of people lining a main artery of our town.
That said, most of the protesters appear to be kids of different colors, probably from the local high school and/or liberal arts college. Some of them probably have parents who whine about law and order on Facebook; doesn’t have to mean they do. Nobody appears to have guns, nobody’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt. They hold signs that say “Justice 4 George” and “White people, do something.”
I don’t know. Maybe there’s hope. As long as looting, agitating trolls don’t come out after dusk.
Talked on the phone this morning with my colleague, an African-American woman and mother of three grown children. Wanted to see how she was doing. She described a jumble of emotions and pain and weariness – and fear for her children, particularly her two sons. That tore my heart out.
And all I could tell her was that I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be the mother of African-American men in this day and age. I can’t even imagine.
Meanwhile, we have a president who has peaceful protesters tear-gassed out of the way so he can have a photo op in front of a church, waving a Bible.
I’ll have what they’re having.
O/H on the local town’s Facebook “news and comments” page, about folks allegedly looting a local Kohl’s: “Can‘t police just shoot them?”
This is why I don’t necessarily want to get to know my neighbors.
My day today. Good thing I can plug the personal laptop into the office monitors. I think I’ve finally decided where to put the recliner I’ve been wanting.
(On the right: “The Art of Letting Go,” Mina Kimes' article on the KBO.)
Good morning. Everything hurts. Physically and otherwise.
Very happy to see this statement on the death of George Floyd from top leaders of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, including Auxiliary Bp. Joseph Perry of Chicago, one of the highest-ranking African-Americans in the Church.
For what it’s worth, Bp. Perry is one of my favorite church leaders. He’s a liturgical traditionalist and a fine advocate for African-Americans in the Church. My everyday rosary was blessed by him at St. John Cantius parish in Chicago about two decades ago. God bless him.
Our next-door neighbor, a King James Version-only fundamentalist, mows her grass twice a week. When we moved in, her two biggest concerns were (1) whether we were saved, and (2) how we kept up our yards.
I really hope for her sake that her little patch of heaven has a lawn.
Angry. Horrified. Beginning to lose faith in a lot of things.
Trying to find a way to be engaged in the world without giving into the compulsion to hide from it. I was only 2 years old in 1968, but I’m beginning to suspect this year will make that time look like a picnic.