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One fine day on the C

The House January 6th Select Committee's work is a waste of time. They keep digging deeper and deeper, finding more and more criminality, turning over names to the Justice Department, and eventually they'll probably recommend prosecution for some minor figures. Not Trump, though, I'm very nearly certain.

#146
Thursday,
May 12, 2022

It's an unwritten but always-followed rule: Presidents are above the law.

A dour hooray for the Committee's work, sure, but toward what end? There's no indication that the Justice Department gives half a hoot about prosecuting any of these many crimes. Probably some junior official minnows will get their fins cooked, but only small fry — no trout or salmon, not under the leadership of Justice Dept senior puffball Merrick Garland.

And of course, the November elections loom closer and closer. That's when Republicans will take control of the House (and probably the Senate), because Democrats have delivered so little, and been so quiet about what little they have delivered, and also very hush-hush about the dangers Republicans actively pose to the fabric and future of America as we once knew her.

Once Republicans are in charge in the House, everything the Committee has uncovered will be shelved, and the Committee itself will be disbanded. The best outcome to plausibly hope for is that members of the Committee will issue an unofficial report, carrying no weight whatsoever. It'll be a book, probably, selling for $25 and read only by the left leadership. It'll be briefly and barely covered in the news, and then forgotten, and Trump and his criminal cohorts will get away with everything.

As always when I wallow in such pessimism, I would love to be wrong, but you know and I know — I'm not.

The C bus was approaching a busy stop, and in the shelter a largish white guy, hair everywhere and clothes unkempt, was flapping his arms in the air, apparently losing an argument or vehement discussion with someone who wasn't there. This chap was clearly cuckoo, but by the rules of riding the bus, the driver should've pulled over and let him board. He was watching the bus approach, stepping toward the curb, where the bus's door would open.

Rules were broken, though. No-one else was waiting at the bus shelter, and the driver didn't stop the bus. That's probably wise, was my thought. When it became clear the bus wasn't slowing, big hairy white guy switched his arm pattern from random flapping to criss-cross waves, trying to get the driver's attention, but the bus continued rolling past the bus shelter.

"Hey!" the guy shouted, and then "Hey!" again. It was two hells of a shout, too. We were on a bus and buses are loud, on a busy street where traffic was loud, but his shouts came through so plainly that everyone on the bus and everyone on the sidewalk looked up from their iPhones. Like Old Man River, though, we just kept rolling along.

There was a red light at the intersection, so the bus stopped, and hairy loud guy sprinted toward us, shouting "Hey!" twice more. When he reached the bus he flew off the sidewalk, gave a fifth and final very loud "Hey!" and banged on the bus's glass door. The door, though, remained closed. He banged again. The light turned green, the bus pulled away, and the guy's profanities faded into the distance behind us.

Nobody on the bus said a word, but if we had it would've been, "Thanks." Everyone aboard was unanimously glad that the driver broke the rules and didn't stop. Hairy arm-waving dude would've been trouble on the bus, the driver knew it, no bout adoubt it and nobody needs that, so we just kept rolling along.

Whoever invented Capcha should be forced into an endless loop of crosswalks, trees, and buses for the rest of his/her life, preferably without his/her glasses.

I was walking toward the coffee shop, when a boy and a girl came out the door, carrying lattes to go. Not certain, but I think they were the same couple I noticed in the same coffee shop a week ago, only they were younger than I'd thought. Him: a slightly chubby redhead with freckles. Her: Asian, cute but boobless, so my guess is that they were ten or eleven years old. Still are, probably, as this was only yesterday.

As I walked toward them, the girl pulled out her cell phone and they both posed for what I believe is called a 'selfie' (I am so hip to the times, baby). The boy flipped a finger to the camera, they both laughed, and under my COVID mask I laughed too, though I don't think either of them noticed me at all. I'm old, and therefore invisible. I wouldn't notice me, either. Nobody would.

And now, the news you need, whether or not you knew you needed it.

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US secretly issued subpoena to access Guardian reporter's phone records 

The US justice department secretly issued a subpoena to gain access to details of the phone account of a Guardian reporter as part of an aggressive leak investigation into media stories about an official inquiry into the Trump administration’s child separation policy at the southern border.

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China finalizes Hong Kong police state by installing man who led crackdown on protests as its next leader 

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Starbucks workers win unions in Florida, Maryland, and Colorado 

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A common sunscreen ingredient turns toxic in the sea — anemones suggest why 

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Mr Pancake, Mr Hambone, Mr Softee, and some other Misters 

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Leaked memo reveals Apple's anti-union talking points for store managers 

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One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...
climateclimate
copscopscopscopscopscopscopscopscops
Republicans
TrumpTrump

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The End
Justin Green
David Walden 

5/12/2022 
 
Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to All Hat No Cattle, Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...

The facts of unsalted butter


In one of our kitchen conversations several weeks ago, my flatmate Dean explained that restaurants use unsalted butter, instead of the ordinary salted butter most folks use at home. This is because, he says, restaurants use so much butter that if it was salted butter, every dish would be too salty. Restaurants buy butter in one-pound blocks, you know, and that's four times the size of your butter dish at home, and a restaurant's butter comes in boxes with thirty one-pound blocks of butter, and—

#145
Wednesday,
May 11, 2022

I don't give a damn about any of this, of course. Certainly I hadn't asked. When Dean gave me the facts of unsalted butter, I escaped the kitchen as quickly as I could.

That man is an extrovert, and he's happiest when he's talking with someone.

From my room, I can easily overhear Dean's kitchen conversations with our other flatmates, usually Robert, occasionally L, and Dean is always happy to be talking.

My door is closed right now, but it's hollow, and it's directly off the kitchen, so all the words come through and into my room. Dean and Robert are talking, and Dean is in the middle of his butter speech, again reciting the facts of unsalted butter.

In only a month and a half living here, I've heard him explain unsalted butter once to me, once to L, and three times to Robert. Dean has told me that he rides the bus, so I assume he often explains the facts of unsalted butter to other passengers on the #128 or #120. He's retired, and he's said he likes sitting in the park and chatting with people, so I wonder how often he's explained the facts of unsalted butter to strangers on a bench.

Dean may be Seattle's leading expert on unsalted butter.


It's a human thing, this need for someone to talk to, but it's one of the human things that eludes me. Just another aspect of the species I will never understand.

Dean needs to be talking, and maybe Robert needs to be listening, so it's good that they have each other. They talk in the kitchen three or four times a week, usually for a few minutes, but other times, like today... all day, apparently.

I could join them, I suppose. Sure, I could walk into the kitchen, ask a few questions about butter, and we'd all become friends. It's not a tempting thought. I'd rather have no conversations, and no friends, than listen to another lecture about unsalted butter.

I'm an introvert. I'll be here in my room, alone, turning on the fan to drown out their conversation.


Would I chat with Dean and Robert if they were talking about Humphrey Bogart movies, or the collapse of civilization, or some other topic of some interest to me? Probably not. I don't talk much. Never have. Never much wanted to.

I type a lot, though.


I enjoyed talking with my wife. We were each other's constant companions for more than twenty years. We could talk about anything, and in all that time she never bored me even once, and almost never got on my nerves.

When she died, though, I did not seek out someone else to talk with. I went back to being a hermit. The quiet guy. It's my nature.


Mom has invited me to her favorite breakfast place. Just her and me. Her invitation was a month ago, and I've been putting it off, but it has to happen and it will. Soon, I suppose.

She'll have questions about my life, none of which I'm eager to answer, because anything I tell her, no matter how banal, becomes fodder for eternal follow-up questions. If I mention, say, that I've been putting off doing the laundry, she will file that factoid away, and bring it up every time we talk. "Have you done your laundry lately?" she'll ask in a week, and again in a month, and again in July and August and September and October, "I know you tend to put it off."

If I tell her anything that matters, anything more important than the laundry — I miss my dead wife, I'm not eager to find a job and go back to work, etc — it's an instant invitation to advice, or rebuke, or a word of prayer. Thus, conversation with Mom needs to be low-key chit-chat about nothing that matters.

She has exactly five stories from my childhood, times when I allegedly said something cute, and she recites these stories eternally. "I remember when you were about five," she'll say three times every time we talk, followed by one of her stories of little-kid me. I don't remember saying any of these amusing things she says I said when I was a kid, but I remember hearing each of the stories ten-thousand times, and they bore the life out of me.

Her other constant topics — Jesus, the church, family gossip, etc — are also about as interesting as unsalted butter. 

A few years back, visiting Seattle, I took Mom to breakfast, with a strategy. All through the meal, I tried very hard to keep her talking about things other than her five stories of me, other than her naggy tidbits of knowledge about adult me. I asked about her memories, because she's lived a long life and has lots of them — and surprise, they're interesting.

Had to keep steering her away from repeating the same things she always says, but it worked, and we had a nice breakfast, three years ago. That'll be my strategy again, when she takes me to breakfast tomorrow… Or maybe the day after tomorrow. I'm still trying to put it off, but it's coming soon.

I was watching an old movie (I like old movies) and the camera panned down the street past Ching's Laundry. Couple of nights later, watching another old movie, two characters were talking and walking past Wong's Laundry.

It used to be a thing: Chinese immigrants running a laundry. Or at least it was a stereotype. If it was ever true, it seems not to be true any more. Glancing quickly through Google search results, I see nary a single laundry in Seattle that fits the bill, at least obviously. 

And now, some unknown news…  

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Senate officially throws middle finger to reproductive rights 

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Green activists torch Former Minister's cars 

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I declare this useful, if you're looking for things that aren't being promoted with massive ad campaigns: OldestSearch.com yields Google's search results, with the oldest matches listed first. 

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Strippers picket 

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San Francisco police held an 'Ice Cream with a Cop' event. It devolved into chaos. 

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Former Black Panther Sundiata Acoli to be released from prison after 49 years 

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Biden can fight inflation by repealing Trump's tariffs. Why hasn't he? 

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While the world melts, rich folks have their first airport for flying cars. 

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Two more union organizers fired from Amazon's Staten Island warehouse 

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One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...
climate
copscopscopscopscopscopscops
Republicans
TrumpTrump 

♦ ♦ ♦

The End
Sheldon Krimsky
Irving Rosenthal

5/11/2022 
 
Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to All Hat No Cattle, Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...

The Quiller Memorandum and six more movies

I've been watching lots of movies, when I ought to be looking for a job, procuring a Washington driver's license, reaching out to old friends, or writing the great American blog post (this isn't it), so movies are all you get from me today.

Some of them are pretty good, though...


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Alien Private Eye (1990)

Some movies are so bad they're good, and this one starts very bad indeed, with a tough pretty-boy in a ridiculous all-white 1980s jump suit coming slowly to the rescue of a damsel in almost-comically bad-acting distress.

Everyone in the cast pulls a gun on everyone else, one gun at a time, and inexplicably there's a background actor who's pretending to be Peter Lorre, reciting dialogue swiped from The Maltese Falcon.

This was written, directed, produced, edited, and cast by Viktor (just Viktor). It's about space aliens with weird ears selling drugs, and indeed it's quite bad, but sadly it's not bad enough to be any good.

Verdict: NO.

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Date Bait (1960)

There's a bunch of very white kids at a root beer nightclub, but one of them is trouble and pops a switchblade. That boy is a punk and has the shakes from heroin, but he also has a tough older brother, so it might not be happily ever after for the world's whitest white boy and his pretty blonde girlfriend.

The baddies are too tough and the goodies are too wholesome, so nothing here feels believable, and the high school kids' G-rated elopement to ancient Las Vegas is just plain weird. Also, there are two original rock'n'roll songs, neither of which rocks even slightly.

Verdict: MAYBE, but only for accidental laughs.

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Fly by Night (1942)

This opens with an escape from the sanitarium, by a maniac who hijacks a random car, and tells the driver, "I did escape from that place, and I had to strangle a man to do it, but I am not a maniac." Then it's just one thing after another, a series of extraordinary events that happen so quickly there's no time for common sense.

It's an action-adventure that's relentlessly serious but so loony it feels like a screwball comedy. Is "screwball thriller" a genre?

I won't dangle many plot points, because the fun here is wondering what the hell could possibly happen next, but a Nobel-Prizewinner is involved, and there's time for smoochin' while we're on the lam from the cops and voluntarily headed back to the sanatorium. Why, it could happen to anybody. And remarkably, by the time it's over it all sorta makes sense. 

Co-written by Sidney Sheldon, a name associated with trashy fiction, but this ain't that. Directed by Richard Siodmak, who could make almost anything watchable; see Criss-Cross, The Killers, The Spiral Staircase, etc.

Memorable moments:

• "Alterations while you wait."

• "I'm sorry, lady, but I'm on duty."

• "I don't like to shower alone."

• "A cousin of my wife's once thought he was a chocolate eclair."

Verdict: YES indeedy do.

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Get Outta Town (1960)

Notorious safe-cracker Kelly Olesen is back in town to bury his dead brother, Tommy. Kelly has never been convicted of anything and actually seems like a nice guy, but the police hate him and tell him to… Get Outta Town

He's had a change of heart and gone straight, but everyone expects the worst from Kelly. His mom hates him, he's not welcome at his brother's funeral, and when his ex-girlfriend sees him she runs in the other direction.

The mystery here is Tommy's death. The official story is that he cracked his skull in a drunken stumble, but Kelly thinks he was "cheated out of his life by some two-bit rat," and he's looking for trouble, or justice, or vengeance, but first he's gotta find the right two-bit rat, and there are so many to choose from.

I'd never heard of this movie, nor of anyone in the cast, the writer, the director… so there was simply no reason to expect anything from Get Outta Town, but old movies can surprise you, and damn if it doesn't deliver.

There's a snappy score, shadowy scenes, believable background characters, cruel cops, hard-boiled dialogue, and a bartender with a heart of gold. The lead actor, Douglas Wilson, is likable — he kinda reminds me of Jeff Bridges twenty years ago — and the movie's almost as old as I am, but it feels fresh.

Verdict: YES, on the edge of a BIG YES.

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Invasion from Inner Earth (1974)

A low budget for a movie isn't really a problem, if imagination and give-a-damn makes up for the missing money. Sadly, I'm not seeing either of those in this lowbrow 1970s science fiction.

People walk around like quick-footed zombies. A plane crashes. Several tough guys are quarreling, though it's unclear what they're all on about. Red lights bounce around on the walls, we're told, but I was watching and didn't really see it. Stranded in the wilderness, we make radio contact with a man who says, "It's all over. There's just a few people left, and they're going fast," which ought to get your attention, don't you think? But no follow-up questions are asked.

The acting is quite bad, the script is confusing, and the music is Ennio Morricone's classic score for The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, slightly rearranged for a synthesizer instead of a symphony.

I stuck with it to the end because I'm stubborn, and because it often seemed on the verge of making sense, but the hairy guy doesn't even kiss the girl, and then there's a cosmic twist I won't reveal because I don't understand it.

Verdict: BIG NO.

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The October Man (1947)

The October Man opens with a bus crash, filmed very unconvincingly. After seeing the death of a child as the bus hit either a train or a brick wall (it's not clear), one of the survivors (John Mills) lands in a mental hospital. Then, after lengthy counseling, he's discharged, and we're about five minutes into the film.

So it's a drama about a soft-spoken, rather fragile man re-learning the difficulties of dealing with pesky humans. "It's my head — I'm not sure that it's right yet." Of course, this makes him a prime suspect when a woman of his acquaintance turns up dead.

It's very British, so everyone is 'sir' and 'miss' and 'ma'am', and we're 2/3 through the flick before anyone even raises their voice. It's never dull, but takes its time getting interesting, and of course there's a nice young lady (Joan Greenwood) who believes in our not-quite-right-in-the-head hero.

Not-Quite-Right himself, though, is a rather boring nonentity — until he decides he's had enough. After that, The October Man becomes a low-key but thoroughly watchable action movie, and earns a thumbs up from me.

Verdict: YES.

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The Quiller Memorandum (1966)

A worried-looking man walks the streets of West Berlin late at night, alone. He nervously lights a cigarette, then a gunshot rings out and he's dead. George Segal plays a guy named Quiller, and he's going to write a memo about it.

This is one of those movies that intrigued me when I was a kid, but back then movies were only at the theater, when Dad took the family. It's emphatically not the kind of movie Dad took the family to see, so it waited until 2022.

It's been a generation since World War II, some young Germans are sympathetic to the Nazi view, and they're organizing. "Nobody wears a brown shirt now, you see. No banners. Consequently, they're difficult to recognize. They look like everybody else."

Alec Guiness plays a good guy, and Max Von Sydow plays a bad guy, but it's a spy movie so you can never be sure. Günter Meisner, who played Slugworth, the bad guy in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, plays a Nazi — or does he? The biggest surprise is Segal — in my recollection, he usually played light material with a smirk, but he's quite different here — serious and smart, but capable of making a mistake.

Of course, there's a beautiful woman to be seduced, but if you're not a Nazi, "You're so white" seems like an odd thing to whisper in her ear. Other than that one awkward line, though, everything hits the right note.

It's smartly adapted from a novel that must've been a page-turner, and includes several tense sequences unlike anything I've seen in Bond or other spy films. Engrossing from beginning to the thoughtfully but troublingly ambiguous end.

Verdict: BIG YES.

— — —

Find a movie
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If you can't find it, drop me a note.

5/10/2022 
 
Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. No talking once the lights dim. Real butter, not that fake crap, on the popcorn. Piracy is not a victimless crime. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.  



Party of eight

Nothing's better than eating breakfast alone at a good diner, and Mrs Rigby's is great, but I had an idea... and it might have been a bad idea.

#144
Sunday,
May 8, 2022

I issued a standing invitation to my family and few remaining friends in Seattle, to join me for breakfast at Mrs Rigby's, any Saturday morning. It seemed like an easy way to keep connected to the family.

The deal is: I take the bus, always arrive at 9:15 AM, and leave on the 10:17 bus for home. Meet me at Mrs Rigby's at 9:15 if you want, and we can have breakfast together — Dutch treat, of course. An hour later, I'm leaving.

If you're not there, no big deal, I'll read my magazine and eat my omelet and take the bus home.

Mrs Rigby's is at least five miles from anyone's house but mine, so my stupid expectation was that occasionally family and friends would take me up on this offer, but that most of the time I'd be eating alone.

I'm an idiot, of course.

The first Saturday after my invitation, my mom, my sister, and my sister's best friend all came to breakfast. Sure, I love 'em and it was nice, but talk talk talk, instead of being on the 10:17 bus for home, I was at Mrs Rigby's until 11:00.

On the second Saturday, a/k/a yesterday, we were a party of eight — my brother, my sister, my mom, my nephew and his two kids, and an old friend of mine. We needed to drag two tables together, and the restaurant was busy and loud, and I couldn't hear conversations from across the other table. Sure, I love 'em and it was nice, but talk talk talk, instead of being on the 10:17 bus for home, I was at Mrs Rigby's until 11:30.

Everyone says they love seeing me and love Mrs Rigby's, but even with endless coffee, breakfast with eight people was exhausting. Here's hoping I'm a novelty that'll soon wear off, and the crowds will dwindle to me +1, or me +2, or me +0…

At yesterday's breakfast, I was a cranky old fart. The first three times my mom asked about my recliner, I ignored her. Then she said, "Excuse me," and loudly repeated her third question, "Do you still sleep in the recliner without reclining?"

I looked at her but said nothing. Mom knows very well that I'm annoyed by her endless questions about recliners. We've talked about recliners, and about how I'm tired of talking about recliners, and her memory is perfect (for things she wants to remember), so when I stared at her, she sipped her coffee and talked to my brother Clay instead.

Damned if she didn't ask again about the recliner, though, five minutes later.

"Are you still sleeping in a recliner, without reclining?"

"Do you want to do this here, in front of everyone, on the day before Mother's Day?" I asked. "I'll do it if you really want it."

"I don't understand," she said. "I was only asking about your new recliner."

My speech was rehearsed, because I knew this scene was coming. Probably I didn't deliver it as smooth as I'll type it, because when I'm angry (and I was angry) I get flustered in the moment. I did pretty good, though, kept my voice low, and said approximately:

"When you and Katrina invited me to stay in your house, she said I'd be sleeping in a recliner in the living room. I said that wouldn't be a problem, as I always sleep in a recliner.

"That's all I ever wanted to say about recliners, but in every single conversation we've had since then, in person or on the phone, you have asked me about recliners, told me how to sit in a recliner, insisted that I have to recline in the recliner, and found other ways to bring up me and the recliner.

"I have nothing left to say about recliners, so that subject is now and forever closed between you and I.

"And also: Mentioning just once that I sleep in a recliner — an ever-so-slightly personal detail of my life — has led to literally hours of inquisition and advice about recliners, and that's why I never tell you about anything that actually matters from my life. That's why I don't call often, Mom, and why I don't have much to say when I do."

"Does anyone want more coffee?" It was the waitress, and I think she'd been waiting for me to finish.

I said "Yes, thanks," and she poured, and then my sister asked my nephew about his daughter, and breakfast continued like it would never end. Nobody said anything about my outburst, and Mom just smiled her innocent smile. She didn't mention the recliner again — but I know she will.

In my room at the boarding house, there's a coat-rack with six pegs (bought for $12 from Amazon, years and years ago). It holds a few baseball caps, an umbrella dangling on a cord, and my bathrobe. My coat is never on the coat-rack, because I'm a slob; the coat gets dropped on the floor when I come home, along with my pants.

A few days after I moved in, the coat-rack fell, which perplexed me. It wasn't holding much weight — at five pounds or so, my fluffy bathrobe is the heaviest thing on it — and when it fell I was across the room. Hadn't touched the coat-rack in hours.

The room's floor is somewhat slanted, so after the first toppling I've paid attention to the distribution of various items on the coat-rack, arranging everything for what seems to be maximum don't-toppletude. I've nudged the coat-rack on purpose, testing its stability, and it seems perfectly sound, and yet, the coat-rack topples every few days.

Usually when it falls, I'm in my recliner, way across the room, but it fell while once I was out. The fifth time it toppled was a few nights ago while I was asleep, at 3:something in the morning. I didn't even click the light on — just figured, oh, it's the coat-rack again, and went back to sleep.

The next morning I stood the coat-rack up, gave it a fairly firm poke in every direction, and it was absolutely stable. Not even a teeter. When it toppled again in the afternoon, I finally figured out what's happening:

Next to the coat-rack is a small table, and under the table is the cat's litter. I happened to be watching my cat poop, because it's kind of interesting to watch a cat poop. When she finished, she covered the evidence like cats do, jumped out of the litter box, and the coat-rack toppled.

Mystery solved. If the cat jumps from exactly the wrong corner of the litter-box, her leap pushes on a floorboard, lifting the other end of that floorboard, which is under one of the coat-rack's three legs. The coat-rack falls down, goes boom, and the cat runs and hides.

I could hammer the floorboard down, but it was easier to simply move the litter-box six inches south. I don't have many accomplishments to brag about, but now there's this: the coat-rack no longer topples when the cat poops.

Ncuti Gatwa Is the new Doctor Who 

Russell T Davies is now at work, repairing the damage done to an excellent show over the past few years.

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Women who fought for US abortion rights in the 70s call for mass global protests 

Abortion-rights protest targets homes of Kavanaugh, Roberts 

Madison anti-abortion headquarters hit by apparent Molotov cocktail, vandalism, graffiti 

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"Mayor Puckett, the voters have spoken. Do you have any regrets about your giant chicken?" 

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Painting swapped in 70s for grilled cheese sandwich serves up windfall

5/8/2022 
 
Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to All Hat No Cattle, Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S., and always Stephanie...

A tale of two burgers, one which wasn't and another which was

#143
Saturday,
May 7, 2022

The pot I piss into is plastic, watertight, and works fine, but it's translucent — you can see when it's full of yellowy liquid. Being a delicate flower of masculinity, when my door opens and the piss pot is visible on the table, or when I'm carrying it across the kitchen toward the bathroom, I'd prefer a piss pot that doesn't announce it's a piss pot.

Your suggestions are invited: My new and improved piss pot needs to be watertight, obviously, with a screw-on not a snap-on lid. It needs to be unbreakable, so let's rule out glass, ceramics, and porcelain. And the less it weighs the better, because I'm wimpy.

Discuss.

I should be on a diet, and I'm trying.

Also I should be on a budget, and I'm trying.

I'm a fat guy, though, so when I see an interesting restaurant and the prices aren't too high, I'll probably eat there eventually, especially if there's a big sign that says "Burgers."

At Coastline Burgers in West Seattle, the sign that says "burgers" is big indeed, and brighter than the sign that says "Coastline." That has to be a good omen, right?

Another sign at the door says "No cash accepted," but it also explains how they do business — you can tap this, swipe that, use fingerprints, retina scans, or rectal imprints, but they also take credit and debit cards. I have pretty good debit, so I stepped inside.

No humans were at the counter, only electronic devices. Oh, this is very sci-fi, I thought, but I love Doctor Who, so I walked up to one of the devices where the screen invited me to order. The options were burgers, sides, shakes, seasonal specials, kids, and sauces.

I clicked "burgers," which took me to a page with pictures and descriptions of several burgers, and I selected their namesake Coastline Burger. "Add to cart." Mmmm, lunch was coming soon.

I clicked "sides," which took me to a screen offering only one choice: french fries. Darn, that's disappointing. I'd rather have onion rings, but fries are OK if they're done right, so fries it was. "Add to cart."

Where's the "drinks" button, though? I wanted a Diet Coke, but didn't see "drinks." I looked again, because my wife used to say I could miss anything, even if it was right in front of my face, and yup, found a button that said "NA Beverages". Can't guess what NA means, but OK. (Thanks, Stephanie.)

They sell soda in cans, a local brand called "Seattle Soda," made with cane sugar, it says. There's one diet flavor, which also says it's made with cane sugar, but it's moot because all four flavors were marked "out of stock." This is a burger joint with no soda?

Well, here's a button that says "Shakes." I'm lactose intolerant — dairy makes my farts radioactive, and gives me loose, liquid poops — but I still love a good milk shake, so I clicked it, and it took me to pictures and descriptions of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate milk shakes. Strawberry is my favorite, vanilla my second choice, but both were marked as "out of stock," so I sighed and clicked chocolate, added it to my cart, but—

They've invested in three or four high-tech devices to take people's orders, at a restaurant where the only drink they're selling is a chocolate milk shake? That's my least favorite milk shake, and anyway, what is this, the Soviet Union? Screw it.

Couldn't figure an option to cancel my order, so the burger and fries were still in my "cart" when I left. Maybe I'll try a Coastline Burger some other day, but not today, not with second-choice fries and a third-choice chocolate shake.


The next afternoon, still yearning for a good burger, I found myself in a different part of town, and walked into Smokey's Char-Broiled. The sign doesn't say what's char-broiled, but I'll tell you: it's burgers.

Smokey's is the kind of place my Dad took us for burgers when we were kids (but not often enough). It's been in the same building since hippies roamed the earth, and there are chipped bricks on the wall, a menu board with plastic letters and numbers, and mounted photos of burgers, faded by decades of weather. There are no screens. They take plastic, but also take cash. To place your order, you speak to an employee. Imagine that.

As you might guess, the burgers were sloppy, greasy, and marvelous, with all sorts of slop on them — lettuce, mustard, ketchup, ample onions, and mayo was in the mix, or maybe it was some super-secret sauce. Eating it was like an out-of-body experience, without the hassle of getting out of my body.

There were onion rings, and they were hot, crispy, and delicious.

Smokey's has about a dozen flavors of milk shakes, none of which were "out of stock." Mine was pineapple, and it was perfection, with bits of actual pineapple. It was absolutely worth the lactose-fueled farts and explosions that came a few hours after.

Here's a tip, though — with Smokey's milk shakes, don't bother with a straw. The shake is thick, baby, and you won't be able to suck it up. Drink it, or spoon it.

Fair prices too, and the guy taking your order tells you how long the wait will be. After saying thanks, his last words with me, with every customer, were always along the lines of, "That'll be $9.70, and it'll take about five minutes." My meal arrived right on schedule, too.

Now I have a diner (Mrs Rigby's) and a burger joint (Smokey's Char-Broiled) in Seattle. I'm still looking for some good, reasonably-priced fish'n'chips, and Smokey's has fish'n'chips on the menu. I'll try 'em the next time I'm there.

Actually, even though I was full and belching, it took all my limited willpower not to walk back in after eating the burger, and order the fish'n'chips.

Speaking of restaurants, here's a firm rule, never violated unless someone else is buying: If there's no menu posted outside, I'm not going in. 

Every affordable eatery, and even many expensive restaurants, post the prices outside. If there's no info on pricing until you've stepped inside, it's overpriced.


Meet Sir Matthew Hale, the 17th century misogynist that Justice Alito mentioned 9 times in his leaked SCOTUS opinion 

Why didn’t Congress codify abortion rights?  

The criminalization of abortion: What to expect in a post-Roe United States 

The end of Roe would lead to more laws that recognize the rights of the fetus over those of the pregnant person. As a result, people across the country could be prosecuted for activities they engage in while pregnant, including smoking weed and refusing to follow a doctor's advice. This sort of criminalization is already happening in states where the woman’s right to choose has long been legislated into nonexistence. Over the years, women have been deprived of liberty because they were accused of harming or endangering a fetus, and the pace of these prosecutions is rising: 413 such cases took place between the passage of Roe in 1973 and 2005, whereas 1,254 of these cases have been identified between 2006 and 2020.

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Providence gears up to provide reparations to Black residents 

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Anna Jarvis, who founded Mother's Day in 1908, passionately opposed its growing commercialization and eventually campaigned against the holiday. 

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Supreme Court leaks are good, actually. Let’s have more of them 

So should the Supreme Court, virtually alone among core public institutions, be entitled to say, "We'll show it to you when we're ready for you to see it?"

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A California startup is offering cocoon-like pods to allow 14 residents to share a single house as an escape from soaring rents and real estate prices 

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One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...
climateclimateclimate
copscopscops
Republicans 

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The End
Judy Henske
George Perez

5/7/2022 
 
Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to All Hat No Cattle, Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S., and always Stephanie...