I’m glad Tampa Bay lost yesterday, though was kind of hoping there was a scenario in which both teams could lose. I’m especially growing weary of both quarterbacks. Tom needs to retire, and Aaron needs to step down from the pedestal he’s put himself on and just go eat or smoke or whatever he does with some more of those mushrooms.

Just walk away, guys. You’ve both proven yourselves, you’ve both worn out your welcomes.

I’ve always been of the mind that Aaron Rodgers has been the better QB, at least in terms of raw talent—cooler, quicker, better arm, but lacking those elusive intangibles. Or maybe Aaron just hasn’t played with a chip on his shoulder every week. In any event, it’s time for them to let their competitive juices fuel other endeavors and make room for a couple of upstarts who are looking to make a name for themselves.

The old vets’ll probably play for the NFC championship.

The remains of Fiona packed an incredible punch in eastern Canada, by the looks of things. Houses built at water’s edge are now in the ocean. Big surprise there, though I imagine people have been thinking it’s somehow a safer bet, being that far north.

And now Ian looks to be gaining strength and on course to hit somewhere along the Gulf coast of Florida. Get ready, Ron. Make sure you get your next load of migrants on some planes before the airports are shut down.

Or maybe you can work something out with Greg—actually work out a plan together this time. Looks like things will be quieter in Texas.

Or you can simply deny that the storm’s even coming, like your former mentor and muse. Better yet, you can blame your geography! Why does this peninsula have to stick out so far? We’re damned sitting ducks here.

The air has been remarkably clean the last couple of days. Everything is noticeably sharper and brighter. Visibility has been seemingly limitless.

It happens to coincide with the earliest days of Fall. And it’s fodder, somehow, for the climate change naysayers. So clear. So beautiful. It’s been the best clean air.

It’s little wonder that people are trying to avoid being pressed into servitude in a war apparently many don’t want. Mr. Putin is too blind, in too deep, feeling too much pressure from his inner circle of old guard warmongers, to see the writing on the wall.

The people he views as materiel, as simply filling a need to plug holes in the line, are trying to tell him to fuck off.

It’s difficult to know if the pictures of lines of people trying to leave the country are indicative of widespread unrest and demonstrations, or just Western media doing its part in creating a counter-narrative.

What did Vlad expect, though? There is no basis for whatever rallying cry he could conjure up. This is his doing, his nightmare. He had no business thinking he could just march in and take territory from a sovereign country full of people who want to live their own lives apart from the control of an out-of-touch oligarch living in the past and trying to hold onto something that went away for a reason.

People just wanna be free. Or they at least resent being told how they are to live their lives. I hope they prevail in helping Vlad realize that. Though maybe it’s out of his hands now.

In the most recent post, I misspoke regarding the name of the Texas Governor. His name is Greg, not Jim. My apologies for the inaccuracy.

The rash of migrant transplants might raise peoples’ ire, and with good reason. But, as much as I disagree with their methods, I guess I understand why Ron DeSantis and Greg Abbott have been doing what they’ve been doing. From a political standpoint, they might be making points with their coveted bases, looking like badasses on immigration, forcing the hand of sanctuary cities to live up to their aspirations, and maybe shining a light, in a perverse way, on immigration in general.

Still, it’s Ron DeSantis and Greg Abbott we’re talking about here. Both are players, bona fide puppets, cut from cloth that was lined with burlap and dragged through a patch of poison ivy.

Just more antics, more over-the-top calculation intended to ruffle the feathers of so-called coastal elites, all the while reinforcing the notion that these two guys really are in a class by themselves. Black hatters, faux groundbreakers, not to be outdone or trusted, though perhaps pitied. Who are they working for?  

The people of Puerto Rico must be feeling like they have a target on their backs. Five years ago it was Maria, complete with Trump’s stultifying presence in the form of an infamous paper towel-tossing photo op, and more recently Fiona.

Widespread power loss—almost the entire island— and extensive flooding. They were still recovering from Maria. How do you come back from something like this? It seems it would be easy to start feeling snake bitten. Or abandoned by God.

Donald would say that it’s somehow their fault. They were in the way. Shame on them.

What the hell is Putin’s motivation for causing so much pain and suffering?

Really. What is the motivation? I want to know. His own people want to know. The world, I imagine, wants to know. It has to be really good, if he’s gonna sell us on the need for all he has wrought over the past seven months.

Ukraine’s latest resurgence has apparently backed the little goblin into a corner and he’s once again threatening to play the nuclear card. He obviously doesn’t mind playing with fire, and who knows what kind of pressure he’s getting from his Generals and others to step things up?

Tight corner, eh Vlad?

It’s quite the experience to walk into a vehicle dealership trying to get some straightforward information about trade-in value. I was in the neighborhood recently and decided to do just this, current used car values being what they are. I ended up taking a test drive in the pickup of my dreams, awaited word on a pay-off and trade-in value for the vehicle I’m currently driving, and predictably was presented with a monthly lease payment that was well beyond my willingness to make.

The sales rep, undeterred, spoke with his manager and came back from the Inner Sanctum with a Plan B: they would give me $2K more for my vehicle toward a floor model with fewer bells and whistles and a less desirable color. And they would make it sound like they were doing me a favor.

I knew going in that things would likely progress this way… the dealership speak, the convoluted explanation of how a lease works, the pressure, the persistent efforts to move inventory. I was kind of ready for it and ended up saying No to the final offer, which saddens me, because the truck was awesome, even if it wasn’t the color I wanted.

Probably for the best. I’ll just drive my Camry into the ground and end up getting little for it.

From what I saw of it, the Queen’s funeral was everything folks probably thought it should be—steeped in tradition and formality, regular close-ups of the Crown Jewels, the tolling of Big Ben on the minute. The somber looks, the Royal Family in tow behind the caisson, the ever-present soap-operatic undercurrents, the streets lined 50-deep with mourners and onlookers and curiosity seekers; wondering if any of the military personnel would get out of step or keel over from top-heaviness or heat exhaustion, marveling at the stamina of the band members.

It really was a spectacle, impressive mainly for its duration and choreographed precision. It seemed to unfold as planned and, admittedly, was rather impressive, fitting for a reign that may never be matched again, at least in terms of longevity.

Not bad for a figurehead with little political power, and who, apparently, paid no taxes on a fortune estimated to be in excess of a billion dollars and now in the hands of King Charles III, who seems to be a bit of a dour chap. To say the least.