He’s not even a good dancer

Trump has run out of things to say. Two people fainted in his rally in Pennsylvania (this is probably an ongoing problem, when most of your fans are old people), and he used that as an excuse to stop answering questions…but he couldn’t let them leave. Instead, he told the organizers to play music from his playlist while he stood on the podium, swaying and making those hand gestures that he calls “dancing.” For almost 40 minutes. Jeez, let us escape!

Who needs policy when you’ve got a hodge-podge of random songs to play instead?

It was time to listen to Andrea Bocelli’s “Time to Say Goodbye.” After listening to James Brown, Trump began to speak again, as if remembering that he was still at an event that was billed as a town hall.

“This is the most important election in the history of our country,” Trump said, once again accusing Democrats of weaponizing elections. But then he went back to his music.

“Those two people that went down are patriots, and we love them, and because of them we ended up with some good music, right?” he asked. “So play ‘YMCA!’ Go ahead. Let’s go nice and loud!”

“Here we go, everybody,” Noem interjected.

The crowd cheered and danced to the Village People song from the 1970s, which celebrates gay cruising culture. Noem put her hands up in the shape of a “Y.” As the song was ending, Trump mouthed the words, “Nobody’s leaving.”

“Nobody’s leaving. What’s going on? There’s nobody leaving. Keep going,” he said, as Rufus Wainwright’s version of “Hallelujah” played next. “All right, turn that music up! Turn that up. Great song!”

Then it was “Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinéad O’Connor. “An American Trilogy” by Elvis Presley. “Rich Men North of Richmond” by Oliver Anthony. Trump stood and swayed.

As “November Rain” by Guns N’ Roses played, he walked off the stage. He spoke to attendees on his way out, as “Memory” from the musical “Cats” played in the background.

Hmmm. Imagine I walk into class to give a lecture, and instead whip out my iPhone and start playing random tunes from my playlist, while wobbling and grinning up there behind the lectern, and I do that for the whole hour. My students would be baffled, would complain, and my division chair would have words with me afterwards, and everyone would wonder if I was losing my mind and maybe ought to be shuffled off into retirement early. This performance by Trump is clear evidence that he ought to be wheeled off the stage and sent off to cheat at golf for the remainder of his life. He definitely shouldn’t be president.

Testa di cazzo!

To some people, today is Columbus Day. Those people have a cultish dedication to believing that a rapist, a thief, a slaver, and an oppressor was a hero — I guess nowadays we can believe there will be subset of the citizenry who ignore the facts to invent a cherished symbol. To be fair, here’s a bit from the Friends of Italian-Americans.

Even by today’s impossible utopian standards, Columbus was without a doubt the greatest hero of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries. He was a capitalist in the age of Empires, and what he did began the downfall of imperialism. He was a scientist in the age of superstition. He was a civil rights activist in the age of oppression. And he was a pacifist in the age of war-mongering. Thus, Columbus was an icon and a paragon.

For a quick dismissal of their claims, consider that they condemn Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States by citing a PragerU video.

I think this is a better summary of Columbus’s character.

Italian-American Trade Unionists of America Condemn Columbus on Columbus Day The Italian-American Trade Unionists of America (IATUOA) has once again reaffirmed its condemnation of Christopher Columbus on Columbus Day.
“We only mention the son of a bitch’s name once a year and it’s when we announce that he’s a son of a bitch on his name day,” the IATUOA Executive Committee announced from a dark, smoke-filled room in the Italian-American Club of Shamokin, PA.
The IATUOA, founded on the principles of cultural solidarity through bargaining, mutual aid, shared dining experiences, and anti-imperialism, believes Columbus represents the antithesis of these core values. Based on his writing and contemporary accounts, Columbus was a greedy, self-indulgent strunz, a jerk-off that gleefully engaged in the enslavement and genocide of indigenous people for personal gain and fame.
Further, this fucking guy, supposedly Genoese, rarely spoke or wrote in Ligurian or any Italic language. What kind of “Italian” does that?
Italian-Americans deserve recognition and a holiday in the United States, but also deserve a figure worthy of their name. “If you’re gonna name the fuckin’ day Columbus Day, you might as well go-all in and make the fucking holiday Columbus/Mussolini Day to piss on a few more graves,” the IATOUA Executive Committee further scoffed.

She saved what?

Everything.

I’m at my late mother’s house. My sisters have been working hard to sort out the years and years of stuff Mom had stashed away. They have dragged out boxes and boxes of stuff.

Would you believe she kept all of my report cards? Somehow she also got her hands on my university exams and put them in bags and boxes. Right now I’m looking at my exam from Genetics 453, The Genetics of the Evolutionary Process, from Winter quarter 1979 at the University of Washington. I got a 7.3 out of 8.0 on it, with a 3.8 grade for the term. I’m kind of flabbergasted. My mother should have been a CIA operative.

There’s so much more. I was the assistant editor of the O’Brien Elementary newsletter in 5th grade. Mom had a copy. It’s silly.

In 3rd grade, I almost died of acute appendicitis (I survived, don’t worry), and missed a couple of weeks of school. My classmates wrote me “get well soon” letters. Mom saved them, of course. Among them is a letter from one Mary Gjerness, who about 15 years later was going to become Mary Myers. Weird. She is mildly upset now that she made several misspellings.

Throughout college and grad school, I was regularly writing letters home — you know Mom filed them all away. The mindblowing thing to me was how neat and tidy and well laid out my handwriting was, all written with a fountain pen. Partway into grad school I got a home computer and a dot matrix printer, and that was the beginning of the end of my penmanship. I should probably go buy a fountain pen and start practicing again.

It’s not just me, either. My brothers and sisters are all archived in this vast collection of personal documents.

I thought I was going to see a few old photographs, but no, I’m now deluged with ancient artifacts from my past. I have to stop looking at these things, because I’ve got a week of banking and probate law to deal with.

Rural kitsch

I traveled across country yesterday, from Morris to Seattle, and the first stop on the journey was a truck stop in Sauk Centre, where highway 28 merges onto I-94. I gassed up the car, and then wandered in awe-struck wonder through the display of stuff you could buy if you wanted more than a tankful of gas and a cup of coffee.

There were pewter crosses that you could buy with your name embossed in the middle. There were racks of flag-adorned knick-knacks. There were toy trucks and tractors you could buy for the kiddies. Was drawn to the wall of inspirational art, which all had a theme: farming and patriotism.

I could have got myself a metal wall hanging with two pistols, and the words, “In this home we don’t call 911,” which had me wondering…if Ralph nicked an artery on the hay baler, what are you going to do with those guns? If little Edna wandered off in a snowstorm, who you gonna call?

There were very colorful paintings/prints, all in a hyper-realistic style. There was one of a charming farmhouse with a green grassy yard, and five different tractors parked on it, dominating the scene. I guess in this world, prosperity is measured in how many tractors you own. There were so many pictures of eagles, with American flags worked artfully into the background.

But my eye was most strongly drawn to these two pictures.

There on the left was Donald Trump, riding his flag bedecked motorcycle into town, with Melania, and spectators in red MAGA hats cheering him on. On the right, Donald Trump crossing the swamp, in a boat full of poses stolen from a better known painting. We know it’s Donald Trump, not because the figure actually looks anything like the fat old man, but because of the weird candy-floss hair or the bright red tie.

My eye was drawn to these absurd pictures only because I was so repelled that I wanted to slash them. I resisted.

Anyway, this is the Trump cult in full flower out here in the rural midwest. It’s all tangled up in agrarian fantasies, religion, and trucks, tractors, guns, and motorcycles. Good luck rooting it out.

I like Ed Yong even more now

I thoroughly enjoyed Ed Yong’s talk about how he coped with the pandemic. You’ll probably enjoy it, too.

He’s upbeat and positive about everything, although he did break in a few places: first to berate fucking Jonathan Chait, and secondly when he talked about quitting his job at the Atlantic, specifically citing their relentless anti-trans editorial position. I can’t fault him for that, I feel the same way.

We also share one thing in common: during the pandemic, he turned to photography to escape. Hey, me too! Although Yong was more interested in photographing birds, rather than the more delicate beauty of spiders. I’d advise him to try switching it up a bit, except macro photography and wildlife photography require completely different kits and a completely different approach to the subject. Either way, it gets you outside and focusing on something other than the nightmares of pandemics and politics.

Also, this is pretty good advice.

But what if the strangers are arguing with me? That’s a tough recommendation to follow.

I promise to use power well, if ever I have any.

Here we go again

I’m flying out to Seattle this weekend to take another step in the probate process after my mother’s death. I’m meeting with lawyers and bankers — can you imagine anything more fun?

I’ve been getting all this paperwork together, going through my mother’s birth certificate, marriage certificate, social security card, death certificate, etc., etc., etc. I’ve also got all the same stuff for my father — they skipped probate at his death, since everything was in both my mother and father’s name at that time, but now all that has caught up to me. It’s depressing to see a whole life reduced to a small pile of papers.

Next week everything gets shut down, her official existence is over, and every penny gets shuffled into an account in my name, before I have to start divvying it up and sending checks to all the heirs…after we sell off the house. Anyone want to buy a 4 bedroom house on the road between Auburn and Lake Tapps? It was good enough for almost 50 years of homey living and 6 kids.

I am burdened by pessimism

I care about all the things the guy in this cartoon doesn’t.

I do not want to live in the hellscape a Republican victory would produce. I fervently want Harris to win. However…I feel a prophecy coming on.

I prophesy that even if we get the best possible result, a clean sweep by the Democrats capturing the White House, the Senate, and the Representatives, November will be a nightmare. There will be contested elections. There will be false electors. There will be lawsuits. Elections will linger unresolved until Spring. And that’s the gentle stuff.

There will be riots. There will be assassinations. The Capitol will be assaulted. Gangs will roam the streets, attacking anyone not wearing a MAGA hat. Congress will be in chaos, while the Supreme Court looks on in approval, and the NY Times opines on the virtues of fascism.

Mind you, that is the best result to expect.

I don’t own any weapons of war. Maybe I should take some time in early November to sharpen the kitchen knives? Having America wiped clean by a series of climate catastrophes would be a positive outcome.

My personal experience matches this observation

Everyone who has gone to grad school knows this, but we also recognize that this study was executed by grad students who just wanted to get through the next few years.

A study of Swedish PhD candidates has shown the vast toll that doctoral studies can take on mental health. The survey adds robust data to discussions about the mental-health crisis in academia. Studies and anecdotal evidence have long shown that PhD students can experience immense pressure to publish and to find funding and jobs in a brutally competitive landscape.

The analysis looked at the rates at which all Swedish PhD students were prescribed psychiatric drugs and were hospitalized for mental-health problems. It found that, on average, the longer they were doing doctoral studies, the more they needed to access such services. By the fifth year of studies, the likelihood that PhD candidates needed mental-health medications had increased by 40%, compared with the year before study (see ‘PhD pressures’).

I’ll admit that I had a relatively easy time in grad school — I had a good, supportive advisor, and I got through the whole program in five years, and also got support for 3 more years after completion. I knew of other faculty who were absolute monsters, neglectful and cruel, though, and even with a good advisor I felt the pressure of that rising curve. It’s interesting how quickly the curve drops after the fifth year. I wonder whether that’s because they had adapted to cynicism and despair, or because they’d found positions. Grad school ends, you know, and it ends with a sudden increase in the intensity of the experience, culminating in a defense that cleanly completes the process. I remember the relief of finally finishing.

I do wonder how grad school compares to the life of normies, though. I suspect that that transition from trainee to the workforce is difficult for everyone. Except med students?

The study found that uptake in medication varied across academic fields. Those in natural sciences saw a 100% increase by the fifth year compared with pre-PhD levels, whereas those in the humanities and social sciences saw 40% and 50% increases, respectively. Medical students didn’t see any uptick in prescriptions.

That last sentence is just weird. I’ve known med students, and the stresses are enormous. Is it that the med students have access to the dispensary and the good drugs, or that there is so much pressure on them to conceal their stress?