“What Are You Waiting For?”
And So Begins Another Week…
OH MY GOD, YES! Go ahead and sue, you orange bag of shit. Discovery will force the release of all the Epstein documents!
it’s one o’clock in the morning. the world’s most-fragile diaperload is awake — and he’s melting all the way down on his shithole app.
oh dear, it seems that someone’s hurt the colicky rage-baby’s fragile fee-fees again.
The Grammy Awards are the WORST, virtually unwatchable!
and yet the stupid shit sat there and monitored the whole thing, so he could find out if anyone was talking about him. and, sure enough—
Noah said, INCORRECTLY about me, that Donald Trump and Bill Clinton spent time on Epstein Island. WRONG!!! I can’t speak for Bill, but I have never been to Epstein Island, nor anywhere close.
now, because I’m a responsible journalist and everything, I googled ‘where is Epstein Island,’ and I learned that it’s a tiny island within the Virgin Islands, and its actual name is Little Saint James Island.
according to Donny, he’s never been ‘anywhere close’ to Epstein Island. so he’s never been to Christmas Cove, and he’s never been to the St. Thomas Ritz-Carlton — and he’s never been to Chocolate Hole, which, I’m sorry, but that definitely sounds like a place Donny’s been.
Donny’s handlers should never let him watch awards shows. he always ends up cranky, because he absolutely cannot deal with seeing other people receive awards — awards which, in his impaired mind, should rightfully be going to him. never mind that the Grammy awards are for music, and Donny’s only contribution to that field is the pungent aroma of ass music he creates every time he falls asleep in public. where’s Donny’s Grammy, goddammit!
FIFA could actually be doing the world a huge solid right now, by announcing that Donny has won their FIFA Music Award for Most Melodious Farts, and then invite him on stage to hang another dumb-ass medal around his neckgina.
because that would shut him the fuck up for at least a day or so.
by the way, this is Trevor Noah’s joke that had Donny power-loading all the diapers.
“that is a Grammy that every artist wants… almost as much as Trump wants Greenland. which makes sense, I mean, because Epstein’s island is gone, he needs a new one to hang out with Bill Clinton, so…”
big fucking deal, am I right? it was one throwaway laugh-line in an hours-long broadcast full of throw-away laugh-lines. any normal person would have heard it and then gotten on with their lives — but we’re not talking about a normal person. we’re talking about the most broken-inside burst trash bag of personality defects ever. so, naturally —
Noah, a total loser, better get his facts straight, and get them straight fast. It looks like I’ll be sending my lawyers to sue this poor, pathetic, talentless, dope of an M.C., and suing him for plenty$.
Donny’s gonna sue the shit out of Trevor Noah, for ‘plenty$’ dollars — as one does, when one is the thinnest-skinned bastard ever to walk the face of the earth.
he’s such a fucking embarrassment, throwing childish tantrums in the middle of the night, and siccing his lawyers on a comedian, for telling jokes.
oh, and let me just put this here, for no particular reason.
“nobody gets angrier than a narcissist being accused of something they definitely did.”
now, because I’m still wearing my Responsible Journalist hat, I looked it up. the internet tell me that’s a quote from Omar Hussain’s ‘Thoughts and Feelings, Volume One’ — but the internet also tells me that such a book doesn’t exist.
what the fuck? can I borrow one of Donny’s ace team of parking garage lawyers and sue the shit out of the internet?
Omar Hussain is real. maybe I’ll sue him.
so, for those of you keeping score at home, Donny is suing Trevor Noah. at the same time, he’s suing The New York Times — also for hurting his feelings.
Donald Trump has said he is expanding his defamation suit against the New York Times after an unfavorable opinion poll.
He wrote: “The Times Siena Poll, which is always tremendously negative to me, especially just before the Election of 2024, where I won in a Landslide, will be added to my lawsuit against The Failing New York Times.”
fuck me, Donny’s not only a sore loser — he’s a sore winner. and if this ‘I’m suing you for bad polling’ business sounds familiar, that’s because he’s also suing the Des Moines Register for — you guessed it — hurting his feelings
A Polk County district court judge heard arguments Friday about whether President Donald Trump’s lawsuit against the Des Moines Register can move fo
rward.
Trump sued over a November 2024 poll that found likely voters preferred then-Vice President Kamala Harris over Trump days before he won the election and carried Iowa by 13 points.
His lawsuit says the poll is consumer fraud.
my god. could people please stop hurting Dear Leader’s precious fee-fees? we’re in grave danger of depleting our National Strategic Reserve of Lawyers.
and then there’s Donny’s lawsuit against the IRS. he’s demanding they pay him TEN BILLIONS OF PLENTY$ for that time a former IRS contractor leaked years of Donny’s tax returns to the media — hurting his feeling in the process by revealing that for years, the cheater got away with paying only $750 in taxes.
President Donald Trump is suing the IRS and the Treasury Department for $10 billion, alleging they failed to take necessary steps to prevent a former IRS employee from improperly disclosing his tax returns, and those of his sons and his company, to news outlets.
The Times published exclusive reporting in 2020 that showed Trump had paid only $750 in federal income taxes in 2016 and 2017.
of course, this lawsuit is pure corruption at its finest. Donny is basically suing his own administration. no way they’re going to fight this fucking lawsuit in court. the current head of the IRS is Frank J. Bisignano — one of Donny’s cronies. Soybean Scott Bessent is the Acting IRS commissioner. these loyal flunkies are going to roll over and hand Donny whatever he wants.
Donny’s come up with an all-new way of funneling money from the Treasury, straight into his greedy pockets — by suing the shit out of, basically, himself.
don’t you wish Dear Leader would work this hard to make life easier for average American? you get two dolls and five pencils, while Donny uses the US Government as his own personal ATM.
and don’t forget that Donny’s also suing his own Department of What Used To Be Justice, because that mean old poopy-head Jack Smith hurt his feelings by trying to convict Donny for the very real crimes of insurrecting and stealing state secrets.
I mean, what’s the point of even being president, if you can’t rob the country blind, and enrich yourself at the public’s expense?
isn’t it great how Dear Leader has combined two of his favorite activities — filing nuisance lawsuits, and forever grifting — into one neat and tidy profit center?
who says America isn’t the land of opportunity?
and now, it’s hero time.
yesterday, Texas Congressman Joaquin Castro traveled to the hellhole detention center where five-year-old Liam Ramos and his father Adrian were being confined, and personally escorted them back home to Minnesota.
thank you, Congressman.
in any sane country, it wouldn’t requite the concerted effort of a government official to spring a five-year-old from prison. but like the man says, shitty timelines gonna shitty timeline.
this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:
practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.
to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.
we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.
I Could Live There
“Despite the efforts of pedophile and felon Trump and his fascist cult followers, racism can not be denied by taking down signs in Philadelphia or anywhere else! February ushed in Black History Month and I am hornoring Paul Revere Williams (1894–1980), the pioneering African American architect who helped shape the look of Los Angeles, but was not allowed to live in or even stay overnight in many of the premier, white-only neighborhoods and homes he designed. Despite being one of the most celebrated architects for Hollywood celebrities, he was restricted by legally enforced, racist land covenants that held sway in LA until the late 1940s and early 1950s.”
[source]
Triptych
365 Days Of UNF: February 2nd
Some ‘Ships I Get…
…and others I simply do not. Buck and Eddie from 9-1-1, yes. The attraction and the chemistry is obviously there even if the writers never go in that direction. But Robbie and Whitaker? I don’t see that at all; just a lot of wishful thinking on the part of fangirls. But I do enjoy the fangirl artwork…
BTW, if you aren’t watching The Pitt, you should be…it’s damn good television.
Sunday
An old friend and former housemate from San Francisco currently living in Oregon came to town to attend a family funeral yesterday. We managed to steal him away for a few hours today to share coffee and reminisce a bit. But surprisingly, “two old retired guys who’ve known each other going on 35 years” had very little to talk about since we text each other almost daily. But it was still great to physically see him again. That’s been twenty years or so…
I met Michael in San Francisco one morning in June ’92 on the J-Train heading downtown. He got on, we made eye contact multiple times and I finally got up the nerve to hand him one of my “Woof” cards (yeah, they actually had that printed on one side with my number on the other). He called shortly thereafter and we started hanging out and even had a brief affair. I don’t remember why it didn’t work out on that level, but we remained good friends over the years and after I’d moved back to Tucson in 1995—and six months later realized what a horrible mistake I’d made—he offered me a place to stay until I got resettled—and even flew down to drive my car back while I piloted the U-Haul.
Even after I’d found work and had a steady income again, we remained housemates. The location wasn’t ideal (he lived out in the Avenues), so the commute downtown became a pain in the ass, but the rent was reasonable, the company (including three adorable pugs) was excellent, and most importantly, we simply got along.
Everything was fine until Michael met his future husband in ’97. Raymond and I did not get along, and while Michael was hoping for a “Three Muskateers” sort of friendship, it proved impossible (at least for me). I ended up moving out and back to Phoenix in ’98. Tensions were high, and I didn’t even say goodbye.
We remained incommunicado for many years, even upon my return to The City a year later. After my first cancer diagnosis, bygones became bygones after I returned to Phoenix again (for the last time) and we reconnected.
Funny the directions life takes you…
🤣 🤣 🤣
One Year
It’s been one year since my retirement, and unexpected health issues notwithstanding, it’s been what I’d hoped for. I don’t miss working at all. Dreams of sleeping in every morning were quickly forgotten since Ben still has to be up and out of here by 7 am. I do occasionally go back to bed after he’s left for the day, but it’s been rare. It’s far more common for me to lay down in the afternoon for a couple hour nap—assuming the dogs let me.
The mere thought of going back to work gives me a case of the icks.
Most surprising since I had what I thought were good relationships with my immediate supervisor and colleagues is the absolute indifference and radio silence I’ve gotten from them when I have reached out. I mean, I considered them friends—work friends, yes, but still friends. I called to wish my old sup happy birthday last spring and it was almost as if he couldn’t be bothered. I reached out to another colleague prior to my surgery last September and he wished me well, in the most dispassionate, disconnected tone I’ve ever heard. I haven’t bothered following up with either of them, and of course, no one has reached out to me. So fuck ’em.
I have friends from previous employment who have stayed with me over the years, most notably my friend Cindy, whom I met while working at Phoenix Baptist hospital those many years ago. We chat every few days and—at least prior to my swallowing issues—used to get together every other month or so to share Mexican food. I’m her tech go-to, and she’s my medical go-to.
My days have settled back into a semi-routine. Not having one was the most difficult thing I faced. Yes, the world is my oyster as they say, but I still like some regularity.
After I pull myself out of bed, “eat,” and get ready, every other day (because a large iced latte will last me two days) I run out with the doggos for caffeine and pup cups and then spend the rest of the morning in my “office,” online, either working on this here blog thingie, or subjecting myself to Reddit, Tumblr, Instagram, and the news from various sources,
Sometimes I run downtown to the library and see if there’s anything in their CD collection I might want to hear. Back in the day, it was how I substantially expanded my musical tastes. I occasionally will burn a few Minidiscs when I get home, or make labels for ones I’ve already recorded.
After “lunch,” I generally retire to the living room and get some serious cuddle time with the doggos while watching YouTube or Netflix or whatever catches my attention.
Then there’s the infrequent afternoon naps…
Every week I have two PT appointments, always back to back on the same day (although not necessarily on the same day of the week) which actually helps me keep track of what fucking day of the week it is. (An ability that apparently atrophies when you’re not always counting down the days until Friday.)
My one goal—originally manufactured to answer the question I was often asked prior to retiring, “What are you going to do?” (because apparently you are expected to be doing something after retirement and “taking each day as it comes” was an unacceptable answer) was to get out and do more photography. I even bought new batteries for my DSLR, hoping to dust it off and put it to use. But practically that would involve getting out to begin with and with everything going on in the world, I have no desire to be out and about.
A lot of people will say this is boring, and I completely understand. But for me, it’s perfect, and what I was looking forward to for many years prior to retiring.
Every. Damn. One. Of. Them.
“Now Get Over Here And Kiss Me!”
7 Milestones
Just Because
𝖲𝖼𝗈𝗍𝗍 𝖡𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗇
𝖦𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 (𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧) 𝖽𝗂𝗋. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖢𝗋𝗎𝗓
🤣 🤣 🤣
Since We’re Already Down That Rabbit Hole…
Damn, Andy Bell was cute. But then, weren’t we all at that age?
“Live never to be ashamed if anything you do or say is published around the world—even if what is published is not true.” ~ Richard Bach, Messiah’s Handbook
Quote above notwithstanding, there’s a lot more to that photoshoot that I am not going to share. (Although if you were on a certain BBS in the early 90s you might’ve come across a photo from that shoot of me in a cowboy hat, leather vest, and…not much else.)
A Trip Down The Memory Hole
Erasure: Lay All Your Love On Me (1992)
Looking at iTunes, the song has been covered by several artists over the years, but IMHO, there is only one definitive version of this ABBA classic:
Last Summer…
…the Tarot card readers (yeah, yeah I know) that I occasionally stumble across on YouTube warned that when all this Epstein shit came all came out it would be much, much worse than we ever imagined. It seems that—unlike their predictions for a landslide victory for Kamala Harris—they were right about this.
Just when I think I can’t hate him any more than I already do, I constantly find myself re-evaluating that stance.
The Resemblance Is Uncanny!
Rest In Power, My Queen
The More You Know
Which is exactly why CDs and MiniDiscs slow down as the laser goes from the center of the disc to the outside edge. It’s to guarantee a uniform data stream speed…
Look it up!
The Furnishings Are Hideous…
But I rather like the overall plan and exteriors. And that Studio…👨🏻🍳😘
From the source:
Architect Wallace Neff’s third house for opera star Amelita Galli-Curci was located in San Diego’s bucolic Rancho Santa Fe community. Rancho Santa Fe, technically a census-designated place, transports you into the California of yesteryear, and provided just the artistic respite Galli-Curci desired.
My favorite aspect of this home are the garage’s generous overhangs, which provide both protection from the elements as well as adding visual interest to an otherwise stark facade. This home’s design expertly straddles the Spanish Colonial and midcentury modern forms, creating a home that combines the best of both worlds.
And is there anything more romantic than a home situated within its own private eucalyptus grove? While I prefer native plants, I grew up with eucalyptus trees in my backyard, which will always afford them a special place in my heart and imagination.
The home was located on Las Planideras, yet has since been demolished.
Project: Residence of Mr. Homer Samuels and Mrs. Amelita Galli-Curci, 1947
Architect: Wallace Neff
Location: Rancho Santa Fe, California
Photographer: Maynard L. Parker
Period.
Finally, An Adequate Number Of Bathrooms
Friday Tiedrich
I leave it to you, my faithful readers. Because I can’t today…
365 Days Of UNF: January 30th
A Certain Aesthetic
Repost: Alternate Universes
(Originally appeared on Voenix Rising 26 May 2016)
Ben and I were heading home the other day and as we were driving down Lincoln and crossed 22nd Street, I was reminded of a time—a lifetime ago, it seems—when my family almost bought a house in that neighborhood.
It was during eighth grade—or perhaps shortly after I’d graduated. Dad was rightfully proud of the work he’d recently done for Hallcraft on their new Biltmore Highlands subdivision, so one sunny Saturday we headed over to what seemed at the time to me like the far east side of the valley to check it out. I don’t know how the talk started, but before I knew it we went from looking at the model homes to being shown one house in particular a few streets over that my parents were actually considering buying. It was a large, beautiful three bedroom, two bath place with a courtyard entrance, a spacious kitchen and a large family room with a fireplace. The bedroom that was to be mine was significantly larger than my current room, eliciting no small amount of excitement on my part. The room also had two windows instead of one.
My enthusiasm was tempered somewhat by the fact that it would now actually cost to phone my best friend (apparently calling from certain Phoenix exchanges to certain Glendale exchanges back in the day incurred wasn’t free).
This move also meant that my sister and I would be transferring to a new school district, something I think caused my parents’ eventual decision to bail on that house and that particular subdivision.
We did end up moving into a new home a few months later, actually only about a half mile south of where we had been living, so the seed had definitely been planted. I’m sure economics were also a factor; we got a much larger house for less money in Hallcraft’s Bethany Heights than we would’ve gotten if we’d moved to Biltmore Highlands.
Ironically, even though my best buddy and I now actually lived closer to each other than we had previously with this move, after high school started we drifted apart and each went our separate ways. (I found out many, many years later that Neal—whom I’d known since 4th grade—transitioned to Angela sometime in our twenties. He’d always told me he’d felt like a girl trapped in a boy’s body, so this did not come as a huge surprise.)
What does all this have to do with the title of this post? Well, I got to thinking how different (or perhaps not) my life would’ve been had we actually moved to Biltmore Highlands and my sister and I had been forced into a new school district.
Obviously, I would never have met the people or made the friends I did if I’d gone to a different school than the one I did, but I wonder if life post-high school would’ve actually been that different. I’d still have undoubtedly gone to the University of Arizona in Tucson and had similar experiences. Or would I?
A currently popular idea in cosmology is that there are an infinite number of universes, each one calving off and growing on its own, depending upon what choices are made. And not just your choices, but multiply that by the billions of other souls on this rock and it boggles the mind. Multiply that by the number of possible planets and potentially sentient beings in the universe, and it truly becomes an unimaginable number.
So it’s always an interesting “what if” game to play. What if I’d actually gone to ASU instead of UofA, stayed in school and gotten my degree? What if I’d kept on going the night I walked out of The Joshua Tree and never met Dennis? What if Bernie and I never visited San Francisco—much less moved there?
I suppose there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that if this multiverse idea is in fact reality that somewhere, maybe as close as the orbit of an electron—there are universes where Hitler was never born; where JFK was never assassinated; where you are just as likely to be President of the United States as you are to be living in a cardboard box under an overpass; a world where the Dark Ages never occurred and Christianity never gained a foothold; a world where you actually bought that Apple stock in the 90s; a world where mankind has already colonized the solar system and is moving out to the stars…