That Went Well

     Steak grilled over hardwood charcoal (with a little truffle butter I needed to use up), sweet corn roasted in its own dampened husk over the coals, baked potato and salad: all the food I cooked was ordered over the Internet and delivered to my door fresh, and as good as if I had picked out out myself.

     Tasty, and well worth the Sun King "Sunlight" cream ale I had with it, a very rare indulgence.  (Grape tomatoes and radish enhancing the salad, I already had on hand.)

Living In The Future?

     Just ordered the makings of a grilled steak dinner from Amazon Prime Now.  We'll see how it works out.

Maryland Newsroom Shooting

     It didn't happen out of the blue; the shooter had a long-running grudge against the newspaper (since a 2012 report on a harassment suit against him) and when discussing filing a restraining order, one of the staff had told the paper's attorneys that "this is a guy who will shoot us."

     He used a shotgun, not an "assault weapon."  He was almost certainly legally prohibited from possessing firearms.

     Maryland's gun laws are strict; the Giffords Law Center seems to have taken over from the Brady people on handing out letter grades and they rate Maryland A-, just like New Jersey, New York, Massachusetts and a few other states.

     But the paper never filed a restraining order; the killer was able to walk right up to what are described as the "glass doors" of the newsroom with a longarm and shoot them to smithereens, which suggests that physical security was inadequate.

     Blame the gun?  Shotguns are one of the most widely-owned and least-expensive firearms in the United States.

     Blame the law?  Maryland has nearly every law gun-controllers might want.  It didn't stop him.

     Blame the paper?  --True, they made an inadequate response to a known threat -- but newsrooms deal with angry people bearing grudges every week, if not daily.  It's been a part of the "background noise" of the news business for decades and winnowing the real threats from the idly irked or harmlessly loony is difficult if not impossible.*

     Blame the NRA?  They didn't put the shotgun in his hand; and if he was indeed prohibited from owning guns as a result of his criminal history or a restraining order, that's a law the NRA is happy to see enforced.

     I don't have any easy answers and I'm not about to test the ire of concerned people by offering "thoughts and prayers."  This is an outrage; murders are always an outrage, always a tragedy.  I don't think there are any nice, neat ways to prevent them.

     We can expect the usual arguments to be thrown back and forth.
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* My workplace puts a greater emphasis on security than many others in the news business -- but we've got bigger budgets.  The dreadful calculus is that you get as much of the security your bosses think you need as your employer can afford.

Here We Are

    Well, that was fun -- Tam showed up at my work noonish and I drove her over to the orthopedic specialist, so she'd have a (nominally) responsible adult around if they decided to get really interventionist about her collarbone.  We arrived at the office with a comfortable ten-minute margin, only to be told by the I-couldn't-care-less young woman at the counter that Tam's appointment was still forty minutes away, at 1:10 p.m. rather than 12:40, "And they're all at lunch, anyway."

     Tam checked the Official Text on her phone, which still read: Appointment, 12:40.  Okay, there's always slippage.

     Lunch sounded like a pretty good idea to me, so I asked, "Where do people go for lunch around here?"

     Miss Congeniality reluctantly admitted there was a cafeteria on the ground floor.  I gathered up my things -- hat, purse, cane -- and as Tam and I turned to go, it suddenly dawned on on the medical recptionist that we were, in fact, leaving, and she chided us, "If you leave now, I can't keep you checked in and if anyone gets back from lunch early, you'll miss out."

     No lunch, then.  We picked chairs in the waiting room and sat down.  The only other person there had rolled in on her own chair, so there were plenty of choices.  Over the next few minutes, more and more people showed up, one with her cellphone notifications set on maximum volume, which charmed Tam.

     What we didn't know -- from the evidence later, what no one in the waiting room knew -- was that the extra half-hour was for X-rays, which has its own waiting room across the hall but which is all "walk-in;" and they stagger their lunches, so the work never stops.

     So one after another, patients were parceled out to exam rooms, nurses did the usual pulse and blood pressure checks, Physician's Assistants followed for intake and imaging review...and sent them, one-by-one, across the hall for the X-rays that should have been shot when they first showed up.  Why the Muse of Unhelpfulness at the intake counter was unaware of this -- or at least didn't stoop to mentioning it -- remains a mystery.

      The doctor says Tam is healing well.  Handstands are still out of the question but she's on track to be back to normal, probably before summer ends.

Taking Tam To The Doctor

     It's Tam's follow-up appointment with the orthopedic specialist today.  Hopes are high but your positive thoughts would be appreciated.  Has her collarbone started to knit up?  She'll know a little bit after noon today.  She'll likely still be stuck wearing a sling for the next few weeks either way, but progress is progress.

     My next ortho appointment is still a couple of weeks away and it's anyone's guess what they'll say.  Still using a cane most of the time; at this point, I can't even fake it well enough to visit a big-box store without limping and needing a cart to hang on to.  I can just about get through our neighborhood grocery store without limping much, if I don't dawdle.  Ice packs every night and during that day when possible, but my darned knee still feels hotter to the touch than the rest of me.

They Have Convinced Me

     One of Indiana's Senatorial seats is up for election this year.  Democrat incumbent Joe "Almost a Blue Dog" Donnely and Republican challenger Mike "The Working Man's Pal" Braun (and their various Committees To Support...)  are continuing to wage negative campaigns, focused on the alleged venality and duplicity of their opponent far more than their own qualifications to serve. Both men are sons of the wealthy families, working hard to seem like "plain old guys" and entirely blind to the source (or even the existence) of the crease in their slacks and the shine on their shoes.

     After months of it, I have come to the conclusion they're both right: neither of them are to be trusted with anything with a bigger budget or payroll than a lemonade stand.  I'm taking each man at his word about the other: the United States Congress is the last place either one should be.

     The Libertarian Party of Indiana is running someone: Lucy M. Brenton.  She's good on the issues, a right-down-the-middle Libertarian.  She's raised a passel of children, which I figure is probably better preparation for serving in the Senate than being the boss's son.

     Does she stand a chance?  Not if you don't vote for her!  Why throw your vote away on some guy who hasn't even got the decency to be who he is, and instead plays at being someone like you?  You can do better: vote for someone who is at least an outsider to the political power structure, someone who is most likely to go off to D.C., do her homework and vote her principles!

Yes, It's Monday

     Another weekend of big plans and small achievements is past, my knee is swollen and painful despite sleeping with an ice pack on it, and I've got to go do physical therapy again.

     I'd like to be cheerful and upbeat -- and I'll probably manage, at least a little, for the sake of those around me, but I'm feeling more beat-up than upbeat.

Farewell To Jack The Cat

     He was 26. He was a long-haired, gray and white feral tomcat who lived next door. He would always "talk" to me and often came to the fence to be petted. He loved attention, and would purr and smooth on your hand for as long as you'd let him.

     He came up on our front porch this afternoon, talking away, and I went out to pet him. His fur had gotten very matted over the winter and he'd been getting thinner and thinner, despite our neighbor feeding him every day. The neighbor came over soon after and remarked he'd been to see the neighbor on the other side of her yesterday. She said he hadn't been eating much recently. He was a little shaky as he walked around.  But he burbled and purred as we petted him.

     My neighbor called several hours later. She'd found Jack curled up in her garage, in pain and unhappy. She took him to the vet. He died there, with her petting him.

      We'll all miss Jack. He couldn't stand to be indoors for very long at a stretch but he was a good cat. I'm glad he visited me to say goodbye.

Head Full Of Bees -- Plus A Nightmare

     Sheesh, what a headache!  --I've taken something, well, a couple of things (paracetamol and ibuprofen) and I'm waiting for them to kick in.

     I woke from a nightmare this morning, got out of bed and padded down the hall to do as one often does on awakening.  Nearly bumped into Tam on the way, gave her a shocked look and asked, "Why'd you do it?  Why wreck all the phones?"

     She was confused by this question, as anyone who hadn't wrecked all the phones would be.  My dream started with me inadvertently making a mess in the kitchen, a huge mess, and while I was cleaning it up, Tam and her oddly anonymous boyfriend had dumped out some chemical compound that was smoldering and was going to ignite the drums of explosives in the basement (!!!)* -- and they'd taken all the cellphones and smashed all the landline telephones in the house.

     In the dream, I was running from one wired phone to another in the larger-than-reality house, which had a lot more connected wired phones in it than our actual house, and my own oddly anonymous boyfriend was doing much the same, only puzzled and more slowly, perhaps because he didn't realize the place was going to blow up soon.  It had just occurred to me that we needed to hightail it out of there and find someplace with a working payphone† when I--  woke up.  The dream was still with me when I walked down the hall.

     Missed the explosion, at least.
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* No, there aren't any.  A couple of ammo cans of 7.62 x 39, another of .22LR and my box of assorted uncommon pistol-caliber cartridges is as close as it gets.

†1975 just called.  It wants its quarter back that the phone ate.

All Growed Up, With Cats

     Dinner cooked and eaten; dishes in the dishwasher and I started it at bedtime.  In the meantime I ran (and folded) a load of laundry, collected all the trash and set the big collection bin at the curb, and put new bags in all the the trash containers.  And washed Rannie-the-cat's tail with dish soap!

     That last calls for explanation.  I often keep a saucer of olive oil for Rannie Wu in an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen: she likes olive oil, it's good for her, and there's never much in the saucer unless I've just added more, usually by request.

     But Huck was in a rambunctious mood and had cornered the venerable (and slow-moving) Random Numbers Wu in the olive oil corner; she had panicked, struggled, turned, and ran her tail through the half-full saucer several times.

     I heard the spat from the basement.  By the time I limped up the stairs, Tam had broken it up.  I went back to sorting and folding and it wasn't until dinner was ready (it had been simmering while I folded) that I noticed dark, crescent moon-shaped stains on the hardwood floor and figured out what had gone on.  Wiped those up, found more, found blotches on the ceramic tile in the kitchen and realized the Rannie needed found and cleaned up.  She objected mightily to having her very oily tail wiped down with paper toweling; I turned down the stove burner under dinner -- Eggs Pomodoro in a thick, ragout-style sauce that had plenty of meat and vegetables -- and asked Tam, "Can you wait five minutes?"

     She said, "Sure," so I got a folded square of paper towel damp with dish-soapy water, told the robot, "Alexa, set a timer.  Five minutes," ("TIMER SET.  FIVE MINUTES.") and shut Rannie and myself in the washroom.  There was a lot of pathetic complaint, most of it from her, as I scrubbed her tail in both directions, worked up a lather, and rinsed her off in warm water under the tub spout.  Now I had a wet, unhappy elderly cat and the air-conditioning was running -- so I dried her with a hand towel.  She was still damp and complaining, so I took a bath towel and made a cat burrito.  The timer went off right as I opened the door, the swaddled cat in one arm like a baby.

TAMARA KEEL PHOTO

     You'd think they'd hate it, but a wrapped-up damp cat being cuddled and fussed over is usually a not-unhappy cat.  Tam was so charmed she got her camera out and took a series of snapshots: dinner could wait another few minutes.

     The Eggs Pomodoro was good; there was a new episode of The Expanse to watch while we ate and Rannie curled up on the couch between us, leaning into my hip, grooming desultorily and occasionally reaching out to rest a paw on Tam and blink up at her, oil-free in the tail department and at peace with the world.  Mr. Huck sulked on his fancy cat-perch in the corner the entire time.

You Say "Clown Circus" Like It's A Bad Thing

     The two complaints I see directed at the Trump Administration are that A) everyone involved is Pure Evil and B) they're incompetent.

     As for "evil," well, there's plenty of that; it's pretty hard to be POTUS without being at least mildly evil.  It can be (and usually is) argued that many of the wicked things Presidents do (and considered all by itself, an act like, say, destroying the power distribution and civil government of a region or country is, in fact, evil: innocent people will die from it, no matter how "surgical" the airstrikes) are done to stop or prevent even greater evils.  And Presidents routinely do just that, or at least just about all of them during my lifetime have done that --- even really nice Presidents, darlings of the media, have to wear the Commander-in-Chef hat.  So I'm going to posit the evil part, suggest it is inherent in government and add that a big government is more able to commit great evils than a small government.  YMMV, but it's difficult to find exceptions.

     Incompetence is another matter.  We have a government that was originally set up to be operated by amateurs.  Part-timers.  People who had other work, who took two or four or six -- or twenty -- years away to serve their country, to represent their state or district or shake hands with kings and try to keep the place from going off the rails, or to sit as judges.  The first generation of Federal officials included plenty of hardcore hobbyists, more than a few genuine idealists and lots of men with prior govenmental experience, but they were, nonetheless, amateurs, and we've had a good many in Congress and the White House since -- engineers, college professors, farmers, former military officers.  The country has survived them, survived the people they appointed, survived their sometimes less-than-wonderful Cabinet choices.  Incompetence may, in fact, be a virtue, in that people who aren't sure how it all works and are learning on the job have a lot less time and opportunity to get up to really big, complicated badness without being tripped up or found out in the process.  All first-term Presidents are new at the job; even second-term ones have only been at it for four years and after four more, they're out for good; they'll never do that work again.

     I'm not hugely impressed by Mr. Trump's Administration.  It think it tends to flounder.  It looks very ad-hoc to me.  But I don't think it is The End Of The Republic; among other reasons, it's thoroughly (if somewhat paranoiacally) watchdogged by the Press and the opposing party; the biggest risk there is missing substantive issues among wild confabulations of sky-falling speculation.

     Might as well enjoy the popcorn.

Oh, Lovely

     Went to put away the Aircast icewater ice pack system this morning (after having slept wearing it) and got off-balance with my feet wrong in the narrow space between the opened-out futon and media/storage area with a fat, insulated container of icewater in one hand and the knee-cuff in the other, took two quick half-steps to stave off a fall, and came down pretty hard on my right leg for the third one.  That's the leg with the bad knee.

     Sitting here typing with a big gel-type ice pack on that knee now, hoping to stave off anything worse.

     On the good side: having the first breakfast of more than buttered toast of this week.  I had medical appointments Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, which left only enough time to make coffee and not even really that.