I’ve seen that chess movie with Anya Taylor-Joy, and now I have lived it.

It’s true. She totally crushed me. I could say that I haven’t played chess in 30 years, but it won’t help, since Iliana had never played it before at all.

Minnesota is a fine state, with one great flaw: we’re nowhere near an ocean. It’s about as far from a seacoast as you can get.

At least Knut got to spend Fathers Day at the Pacific Ocean.

I wish someone would take me to the beach.

I don’t have a father anymore, and I miss him all the time. If you got one, give him a call!

I spent the weekend with my daughter and granddaughter (National Grandparents Day is on Sunday, 10 September, my wife’s birthday, so that’ll be easy to remember), and Skatje fixed a delicious dinner of fish and mushrooms, while Iliana made festive mudcakes. I haven’t heard from my oldest son yet, but that’s better than what my other son did — he called to tell me he’s going camping at the Mora Campground near La Push, and he didn’t invite me! I’m very upset. I love that part of the world.

He also reminded me of one time I was camping out that way with my brother, Jim, and how we got soaked in the constant rain there and drove into Forks to get cheeseburgers. It’s weird how the older you get, the more associations every bit of dirt on the planet acquires, and everything keeps bringing back old memories.

Anyway, Jim’s dead now too, and he left behind 3 kids who I hope are all remembering him today.

Now I need to go recover from hours of driving and an exhausting 4 year old.

Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s own proto-Trump, is dead.

One less flamboyant, sexist crook in the world.

I’d practically forgotten about him, but yeah, sure, taking out the garbage, good. But really, I’m beginning to feel like Death is procrastinating. Henry Kissinger is right there in New York! No more lesser evils until you’ve cleaned up the big one.

PAT ROBERTSON IS DEAD! Everyone must dance.

He really was an awful person. It’s just too bad he lived to spew lies for 93 years.

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Rebecca Watson reams out his corpse.

I took this little survey in the Washington Post that takes into account your income, number of dependents, and region of the country you live in, and it tells me that I am officially and totally middle class. I’m right smack in the center of the arbitrarily defined boundaries that delimit “middle class” — and that the way I got to this point was by getting rid of those pesky kids who were holding me back. Fifteen years ago, I discovered, I was way down deep in lower middle class territory.

Your household has a middle-class income, and you have the financial security associated with the middle class. Your income is similar to others in your Zip code above the median for rural Minnesota. Rural Minnesota is an inexpensive place to live, and you would still be considered middle income anywhere in the country.

It’s a comfortable place to be, but there is no hope that I will ever be wealthy. That’s good enough.

I won’t ask you what class you fall into, because only a grifter cares about that sort of thing.