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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Did any of you catch that giant, That’s-No-Moon-It’s-A-Space-Station Super-Dee-Dooper Blood Wolf Moon last evening?  (I know friends of the decanter in New England did not, as I was chatting with Sistah in Maine in the afternoon and she was griping about the blizzard they were dealing with.)

Anyhoo, Ol’ Robbo did.  Not the eclipse itself, but the moon-rise at sunset, which was so huge and beautiful that it even tore Youngest’s attention away from her iPhone long enough for us to have a discussion about why the moon looks so much larger at the horizon than it does overhead.  (By the time of the actual eclipse, Ol’ Robbo was comatose for reasons which ought to become apparent as you read on.)

We were watching it -fortunately heading in the right direction -as I drove the Gel home from a softball camp for teens being held at one of the local universities.  After swimming varsity her first two years of high school, the Gel has got tired of the water (although she’s still acting as a manager) and decided she wants to go out for JV softball this spring.  As she hasn’t picked up a glove since little league, she figured she’d better do a camp prior to tryouts in order to brush up her skills.

The camp, open to teenaged girls, runs for three Sundays, four hours each time.  Mrs. R dropped the Gel off and I went over after Mass to watch for a while and bring her home.  I found myself pretty impressed:  While the camp is advertised as being open to all skills levels, it seemed to me that almost all of the participants were pretty advanced, the types who played travel and all stars in little league and then “A” team in middle school, and were now gunning for varsity and college scholarships.  (Youngest told me one of the gels was 14 and had travelled for it from Upstate New York.)  Nonetheless, from what I could tell the Gel looked perfectly respectable among them.  I watched her do some batting drills: While her eye was naturally somewhat out, her swings looked quite good.  Afterward, she told me she felt like the old moves really came back to her naturally, and didn’t feel the least awkward about being outclassed.  We shall see how things go.  (The JV program at her school is pretty inclusive, not cut-throat.  Indeed, one of the friends who encouraged her to try out is this year’s varsity captain.)

I was doubly impressed because I was only about fifty-fifty sure the Gel would even go in the first place.  Not only was it going to be a strange, new environment, she’d also been up all hours the night before hosting a birthday party for herself and a mixed group of about ten of her friends.  Needless to say, Mrs. R and I were up all hours as well.  Not only was there incessant “thumpah-thumpah” echoing up from the basement, we also had to take turns attempting (largely unsuccessfully) to calm the outraged outbursts of our highly neurotic dog.  Plus, there were a couple boys at the party and we weren’t going to send them home in the middle of the night in a pouring rain (our part of the Northeastern storm), so we had to do sentry duty as well.  Once everyone called it a night, the boys slept in the basement.  The girls slept upstairs.  We stayed in between them.  (One of the dads had asked – only half-jokingly – when dropping off his kid if we were some of those “cool parents”, the kind who encourage drinking and turn a blind eye to other goings on.  No, we’re not cool parents.)

My godmother says we should “cherish” these events because once we’re empty-nesters, the silence will seem uncanny and disturbing.  She may be right, but as far as Ol’ Robbo is concerned, no more parties at Port Swiller Manor.  From now on, a few friends is just about my limit.  Mrs. R concurs.  As she put it, “If Youngest wants to take a big group out for her 18th next year, fine.  If she wants a graduation party, she’ll need to find a friend who has a pool and throw it there.  We’re done.”


UPDATE:  Took the gel to have her choppers cleaned this morning.  Guess who gets to have their wisdom teeth yanked this summah? (Not me, heh-heh).  When they told me, I made a little joke about how much I had enjoyed the Demerol when they yanked my own set back in the day.  It was as if I’d farted in church.  The dentist gave me a very thin smile and said they were “really trying to keep the kids off that sort of thing”, like I was some kind of dope-peddler.  Is it any wonder I simply avoid talking to people these days?


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Looks like three to six inches of winter is on its way to Port Swiller Manor tonight and tomorrow.  We can haz panix now?  Ol’ Robbo is all set to break up the furniture for firewood and skin the cats for food if needs be.  OR we might just get the opportunity to finally get some use out of the incredibly expensive generator we put in last spring which has sat idle ever since (other than its weekly 5 minute exercise on Saturday afternoons).

Actually, up to half a foot is, in Ol’ Robbo’s opinion, a perfect amount of snowfall.  It’s more than enough to look lovely, but it’s also not so much that I have to kill myself digging out. (AND it won’t stop Eldest from heading back to college Monday morning.  It’s been lovely having her home, of course, but she really needs to get back into the campus environment.)

And then there’s the dog.  How is it that a dog can absolutely detest being out in the rain yet absolutely lurves bounding about in the snow?  (Ours isn’t the only one like this, I know.)

I notice that VDOT isn’t taking any chances with this one, not after it failed to treat the streets before the last storm we got in November, leaving them as slick as if smeared with Vaseline.  The anti-ice stuff was already down on our road yesterday morning.

Nonetheless, I expect everything will come to a screeching halt for the next 48 hours or so, including a softball camp Youngest was supposed to start tomorrow over to one of the local universities.  (She’s decided to go out for the JV team this spring, and since she hasn’t played since little league she wants to brush up on her skills.)  I confess that I actually won’t mind this too much, since taking her (the camp lasts for the next three Sundays) means having to go to early Mass and missing my cherished Extraordinary Form.

Speaking of screeching halts, a week or two back I was praising AccuWeather for being what the Weather Channel used to be before it went politickally correct.  Alas, as I was watching last evening, AW ran a filler about how, what with the gubmint shutdown and all, non-inspected foods are starting to invade the grocery shelves, the Hubble Telescope is about to fall out of the sky, and cats and dogs are living together, all because Orange Man Bad.  Sigh….You just can’t get away from this nonsense, can you?

UPDATE:  For those of you keeping score at home, Ol’ Robbo glanced out the window just now and noticed that he’s up to five pairs of cardinals hanging about his feeder (in addition to the various other birds).  I picked up an extra bag of seed yesterday in anticipation that traffic will be pretty heavy over the next few days.

UPDATE DEUX:  Make that seven pairs.  Extraordinary.  I don’t recall ever seeing such a high concentration of cardinals here.  Why, I could practically elect a new Pope! (Hey, a fellah can dream….)

SUNDAY APRES-SNOW UPDATE:  Yes, about six inches altogether, with enough moisture in it that I kept having to bang the accumulated slush off the shovel as I cleared the drive.  Perfectly respectable for these parts and, as I say, quite pretty.  And yes, dog has been frolicking duly on and off today.  UPDATE TO UPDATE:  Whoa, not so fast there, monkey-boy!  It’s coming down heavily again after I thought it was all over and done.  Add another three inches at least to that total and yes, I’m going to have to shovel again, dammit.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

A lovely, lovely Saturday morning here at Port Swiller Manor.  Cool, crisp, and the promise of a marvelous Maine-like day.  Fortunately, we’ve had so much heat and so little rain recently that Ol’ Robbo can get away with skipping the lawn this week, although I will have to get out with the hose and water things later on.

Middle Gel and I ran out to the wilds of southwestern Pennsylvania yesterday in order to retrieve Youngest from her term at Bible-Thumper camp.**  (We took the Gel’s VW Tiguan, which proved to be a pretty slick little mover out on the highway, btw.)  As regular friends of the decanter may recall, Middle Gel, after a considerable amount of anguish, decided to attend a different camp this summah, and so missed out on her eleventh year at BTC.  It was good for her to get to go up to retrieve her sistah, as she got to see a lot of her old friends.  She now talks about possibly applying to be a counselor there next year.

Youngest, as it turns out, had a very good term.  She took the girls’ swim medal for her age group and was the camp chess champ.  Also, if you go to the linkie, you’ll see that the camp is divided into two teams, Romans and Galatians.  Over the course of the term, the teams compete in a variety of athletic competitions with an intensity that matches many big-time college rivalries.  Youngest is a Roman, and the Romans won this year (an admittedly rare occurrence).  The Gel screamed and shouted so much that her voice is literally gone at the moment. (A very small loss, indeed.)

Aaanyhoo, upon our return to Port Swiller Manor late yesterday afternoon, Ol’ Robbo noticed that the A/C was not working again.  I say “again” because about a month ago it stopped blowing cold air.  (It was still blowing air but just couldn’t keep up with the thermostat.) When the repair fellah came out, he discovered a leak in the coolant line caused by a faulty weld that was gumming up the works. The insides, which he showed me, were a solid block of ice.  So we had to shut the whole thing down, wait for the ice to melt, and then go about fixing it.  Fortunately, since the screw-up was the company’s fault, the repair was free.

This time, the thing was just shut down altogether.  (The outside unit was still working, however.) I flipped the circuit breaker a couple times, fiddled with the thermostat, pounded on the sides.  Then I noticed that the insulation around the coolant line is sodden and dripping.  So here we go again, I think.

Curiously, the A/C is working fine this morning.  My theory is that when it shut itself off, the ice melted all by itself, so the thing could kick back in.  Doesn’t mean the leak isn’t still there, however.

I hope my diagnosis is correct, as it should mean another free repair.

Fortunately, as I said up top, a lovely day today, so having the thing offline for a while will have no real impact.  But still……..Grrrrrrr.


**Ol’ Robbo uses this term, and always has, only in the spirit of gentle teasing, not in mockery, of course.  In the battle lines of the current culture wars, I gladly fight alongside the Evangelicals.

UPDATE:  Heh.  HVAC fellah appeared this afternoon.  I rattled off my observations and explained my theory.  He listened patiently, remarked that every observation was helpful in its own way, and then proceeded to diagnose something completely different.  (The system had just shut off because of a slight clog in the drainpipe.  He flushed it out with some water and vinegar just to make sure it was clean.)  He was very polite, but I know what he was thinking because I think the same thing when laymen start arguing legal theories at me.  I suppose I had it coming.

UPDATE DEUX: Came home this Monday evening to discover the thermostat was spiking again.  (Apparently, everyone else at home was too caught up in themselves to notice.)  I went through the flush drill again as the fellah had shown me.  No result.  The inside unit sounds like it’s trying to restart, but just isn’t turning over for whatever reason.  At this point, I don’t think it unreasonable for me to bring my own theory back into play.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

I see in the gnus today an article that the Cleveland Indians are phasing out their beloved mascot, Chief Wahoo.

Fortunately, I already own a DVD copy of Major League, so at least that image can’t be completely disappeared from history.  I also own a hat from a game I went to when I was in town doing depositions back in 2009.  (I also have a Travis Hafner bobble-head from that game.)

I’d insert here a paragraph about mascots as sources of pride, not derision,  and the standard “What about the drunken leprechaun of Notre Dame or the Boston Celtics or the San Diego Padres, etc,, etc.”, but I’ll save my pixels because of course this whole biznay has nothing to do with actual grievances and everything to do with Cultural Marxist mau-mau politicks.  (I gather MLB put the hurt on Cleveland because it’s hosting the 2019 All Star Game and, wull, it’s be a shame if somefin happened to their franchise to prevent that, woodnit?


Curiously enough, the first little league softball team Ol’ Robbo managed when the gels were coming up was given Cleveland as their MLB “affiliate”.  We got Indians’ hats and color-coordinated uniforms.  The team took to it to the extent of spreading war paint on their faces and yelling war whoops every time they took the field.  I did nothing to discourage this and, indeed, promoted it as an instrument of team unity.

I suppose this means that, when Ol’ Robbo is sent to the Reeducation Camps, his chocolate ration will be increased from 20 grams to 15 grams.

Double Feh.

Chief Wahoo! Live free! Die well!

UPDATE:  Oh, my prophetic soul! Via the Puppy-Blender, we’re down to this: ESPN Host: Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish Mascot Is Offensive, Needs to Change.  I didn’t actually click over and read the article, because I don’t have to.   The mau-mau script never changes.

However, if, indeed, begun the Mascot Wars have, I want to go ahead and nominate this guy for the top of the proscription list:

Mr. “Met”

I mean, he triggers me nine ways to Sunday.  Look at him.  Big, complacent, white face just screams out “non-woke”.  And the arms raised up in classic rapey, hegemonic fashion?  C’mon!  Plus, I hear he likes to abuse small, furry animals….right out there on the 1st Base line.  (Well, okay, I suppose that last bit probably wouldn’t bother the SJW crowd, but I still think it’s icky.)

Plus, he’s not going to have much to cheer about this year anyway, since Ol’ Robbo’s beloved Nats are going to beat the rest of the NL East with the Pain Stick all season. (Woo, hoo, hoo!  *Ducks*)



Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo just learned that Youngest Gel, now a high school sophomore, made varsity swim team again this year.  It’s always gratifying to see one of your kids achieve something genuinely solid as a result of her own self-motivated hard work.  Woo Hoo!

Swim meets, by the bye, are a very moderate entertainment for those of us stuck in the bleachers.  The kid is only in the water for a few seconds at a time, with loooong intervals between each of her competitions, and what with everyone wearing the same suit, goggles, and cap, most of the time I can’t even tell which one she is.

Nonetheless,  I am still very pleased and proud (as is she).

** Yeah, yeah, I know.  But I’ve got a blog and there you are.  Just wait – in a few years I’m likely to start posts with the sentence “Let me tell you about my grandchildren……”


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Fortunately for Ol’ Robbo’s blood pressure, Game Four of the Nats/Cubs series (with the latter up 2-1) was postponed this evening due to rain.  I didn’t think I could stand to watch had the game gone forward.

Ol’ Robbo is sometimes haunted by apprehensions that he isn’t really a very good father, but this postponement gave him some cause for reassurance in at least one respect:  Both of the Younger Gels independently came to him this evening to argue about the merits of sticking with the planned fourth arm in our rotation versus bringing back our ace.  Surely that counts for something, am I right?

Anyhoo, and violently switching subjects:

Ol’ Robbo, as regular friends of the decanter know, is an enormous fan of the author George Macdonald Fraser.  One of Fraser’s books, written in the late 80’s, is The Hollywood History of The World, in which he compares historickal costume dramas with the “reality” of the periods they purport to represent.  The book is split up into seven sections:  The Ancient World; Knights and Barbarians; Tudors and Sea Dogs; Romance and Royalty; Rule Britannia; New World, Old West; and The Violent [20th] Century.  Ol’ Robbo has been re-reading it this week.

I don’t think this is one of GMF’s best works, as it covers an awful lot of ground at what I think is a pretty superficial pace, but it does throw out a delightful lot of references.  So, given an evening’s reprieve from the tortures of October Ball, Ol’ Robbo was seized with the idea of opening up this book to its index and dialing up Netflix in order to toss as many of GMF’s references into his queue as possible.  I’m at 90+ films in reserve now, and am pretty sure this is a record.  (Whoever at the NSA has Ol’ Robbo’s file no doubt will have kittens tomorrow morning as a result.)

You know what? GMF’s movie list stretches back to the early 30’s, but a surprising number of his cites are still available, even if some of them are only in the “save” category, which means that the odds of my seeing them are pretty slim.

On the other hand, some of them, as you might imagine, Ol’ Robbo has seen already, some many times.  But others will be new to me and I will post about them here.

Curiously enough, when I got this idea, I was already working through a patch of WWII historickal films, all of which get a nod from GMF.  Here, then, are some very brief reviews:

Sahara” (1943) – I’ve seen it before, but it stands up very well as a nice, tight, film.  An American tank is cut off from the retreat from Tobruk in 1942 and has to make it’s way across the North African desert alone.  Humphrey Bogart is the tank commander, aided by a young Lloyd Bridges and Dan Duryea, the fellah who played Waco Johnny Dean in Winchester ’73 and who, once, you’ve seen him, you’ll never fail to recognize.  Along the way, they pick up an RAMC medico and a couple of tommies, a Sudanese scout and his Italian prisoner, and a Luftwaffe pilot.  Together, they have to navigate between water holes, and also fend off the German unit coming after them.   Good stuff.

A Walk In The Sun (1945) – I cannot recommend.  It tells the story of an American platoon going ashore in Italy.  Unlike in Sahara, I found the characters to be wooden and clichéd.  The pace may very well have matched actual combat conditions, but it didn’t translate well to the screen.  Oh, and there’s a ballad.  Ol’ Robbo hates ballads.

The Desert Fox” (1951) – I also can’t recommend.  Although James Mason is rightly cast as Erwin Rommel (whom I respect as a principled warrior, by the bye), I think the movie tries to do too much in too little time, short-changing Rommel’s skillfulness in fighting in North Africa, his frustration in trying to hold the Atlantic Wall, and his (questionable) complicity in the attempted assassination of Hitler.

Well, there we are.  Game Four? (Sigh.) Bring it on.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Last fall (I believe), the Family Robbo won a set of primo tickets to a Nationals game from an auction at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method – about seven or eight rows right behind the Nats’ dugout and a parking pass.  Ol’ Robbo was looking mighty forward to going to the game.

Whelp, that game was today.  And it was a sweet, sweet win.

Alas, Ol’ Robbo didn’t wind up going after all.  Because he is head honcho on one side in a trial coming up in a couple weeks with a wicked pre-trial schedule in front of it, he instead found himself spending most of the day moodily pouring over deposition transcripts and other legal falderal.  (And if you don’t hear much from me between now and August, now you know why.)

At least it was a genuinely pleasant day in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor – warm, but not too hot, quite dry, and comfortable enough that I could sit out and do my work on the porch.  Also, Middle Gel (who did go to the game, along with Mrs. R and a couple of family friends),  was sweet enough to give me the Nats tee-shirt she snagged when they were being thrown into the stands.

So I got that going for me….

Anyhoo,  a few things:

♦ One break I took was to go to Mass, of course.  We had a guest priest today, a padre from somewhere else in the Diocese.  He mentioned that he had a brother who is a Brother at Clear Creak Abbey out in the Diocese of Tulsa.  Co-incidentally, ever since I swam the Tiber, I have bought rosaries, books, CDs, and calendars from this abbey, but I don’t recall that I have ever explicitly plugged it here.  For those of you who are interested, consider it plugged now.

♦ Another, somewhat more earthy break was to fool with the Port Swiller Manor clothes-dryer, which after 17 years of service suddenly is producing no heat whatsoever, although it still tumbles and blows air.  My suspicion is that we have been less than diligent about clearing out the overflow from the lint trap and that some accumulation of same has probably shorted out the heating element.  (Mrs. R is going to see if we can get this replaced before we go plunking down dosh on a new dryer.)  Anyhoo, this afternoon found Ol’ Robbo digging around in the space below the lint trap slot with an old coat-hanger (surely there’s a better way to do this?), and dredging up all kinds of things.  In addition to the accumulated lint, I discovered a $5 bill, another $5 in loose change, several hair twisties, a couple lost earrings, innumerable old “Hi, My Name Is…” nametags, and a pair of miniature keys to what I believe was an old locket.  I would not have been the least surprised to find the bones of Piltdown Man in there, too. UPDATE: Mrs. R had a repair guy out today. It was just the thermostat.  He replaced it and cleaned the whole thing out.  MUCH cheaper than plunking for a new one.  Ol’ Robbo is happy.

♦  Regular friends of the decanter will recall that Ol’ Robbo had a duff steering damper replaced on La Wrangler a couple weeks ago in order to alleviate a bad case of the “death wobble”.  Whelp, as I feared, the fix appears to be more of a Band-Aid than anything else.  The wobble is gone, to be sure, but I can still feel the front wheels fighting with each other.  Also, in the past couple days, the right front has begun making an ominous howling noise that is definitely linked to rotation velocity.  I believe an alignment check is in order, but I now fear that the fellah who recommended the damper replacement may not have actually checked the rest of the steering mechanism.  I don’t want a ball-joint going as I swing down the G-Dub some fine morning, thereby flipping me into the Potomac.

♦  In re culchah-related matters, I’ve been on a bit of a John Wayne toot this weekend, watching back-to-back, “Hondo” and “The Comancheros“, two of my favorites.  (I confess that I also have “The High and the Mighty” at home.  It’s pure cheese, but I like to think that Robert Stack was gamely parodying his performance in it years later when he did “Airplane!“.)

Whelp, that’s about all that occurs to me at the moment and is suitable for discussion over the Stilton and walnuts.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

A conversation from this morning:

Self:  What on earth are you doing up at 6:30 am on a Saturday?

Youngest Gel:  Dad, it’s Friday.

Dang extended weekends.  I’m getting old and confused.

Anyhoo, the big nooz last evening was that Youngest made her school swim team.  She just made the cut time and apparently the coach likes her attitude and enthusiasm.

I must say that I’m quite proud, particularly because I had nothing to do with this.  The Gel had swum for our pool club team for a number of years but then dropped out this past summah.  A couple months ago, however, she decided that she really wanted to get on the school team, so she started training again  (she’d worked with this program in the past, but stopped after swimming head-first into the wall and suffering a concussion), and now here we are, all because of her own efforts.

Think she’s pleased?  She spent all last evening walking around saying, “That’s right….Youngest Port Swiller, varsity athlete – believe it, baybee!”  (There’s no freshman or jayvee team at her school.  You’re either in the Show or you’re not.)

I expect a major outlay in purchases of sweatshirts, t-shirts, window decals, and the like, but so what.  If she’s on the team, working hard, and pulling her weight, let her have her fun.  (Ain’t ol’ Robbo getting indulgent in his old age?)

She also mentioned the benefits to her resume.  “Do you think I could wind up swimming for UVA?” she asked me.

“Well,” I said, “competition to get into UVA from around here is wicked fierce.  Yes, you almost absolutely need a varsity sport, so this is an excellent start.  But you also need a GPA of about eleventy-billion and a Nobel Prize in astro-physics, so get cracking on those books, too.”

I think that gave her some food for thought.

Since the gel’s only a freshman and is at the tail of the team, I don’t know how many meets she might actually make this year.  Frankly, the fewer the better, at least from my standpoint:  Swim meets are amongst the dreariest and most boring of all sports events, at least from the parental point of view – hours of sitting around on cold, hard benches just to see your kid in the drink for about 30 seconds at a go.  (That is, of course, unless your wife has secretly volunteered you to man a shift at the snack bar.  Then it’s even worse.)


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo doesn’t get out very much, in part because it gets expensive very quickly and in part because, once I’m done shlepping down to the shop and back every day, I’d really rayther stay home of an evening.

This weekend, therefore, was quite out of the ordinary.

First, as mentioned in the weirdo post immediately below, Friday evening saw the Family Robbo trek down to Nats Park to watch our beloved Nats take on the Fish.  We got there around 5:30 pm.  The game was supposed to start at 7 pm.  It didn’t actually start until 8:50 pm.  Here’s what ol’ Robbo had to look at during the wait:

"It's a tarp!"

“It’s a tarp!”


So why stay, you may ask?  After all, the Division Title was already locked up, the shakiest starter in the rotation was pitching (he actually lasted about 2 innings), and it was cold and rainy.  (Indeed, it never really stopped raining all evening.)

Well, I’ll tell you.  For one thing, Eldest Gel was home visiting from school and really wanted to go.  For another (related) thing, it’s rare that all of us do anything together as a group now that the gels are growing up.  For a third, I hadn’t been to an actual game all year.  And fourth? Look again at the pic.  We had bought seats in the upper deck, but the Gods of the Ticket Office decided to smile upon us and upgraded us to about 20 rows behind 1st Base.

I couldn’t pass that up.

Last evening, in turn, the Middle Gel and I went down the Kennedy Center to catch their production of Mozart’s Le Nozze Di Figaro.

Curiously enough, while I have heard the piece many, many times, owning 2 CD versions and a pretty good DVD recording of it as well, I’d never seen it performed live before.  Go figure.  Anyhoo, we had a thoroughly delightful time.  It was well staged, most of the singers did very well and were obviously having fun, and the orchestra was good, too.

However, get a load of where we wound up sitting.

Photo credit: Middle Gel

Photo credit: Middle Gel

Yep, the Bob Uecker Front Row.  We’re talking real nose-bleeders here.  Indeed, we weren’t even sitting in one of the affixed rows, but in a couple chairs brought in at the very back.  (Thus the wages of putting off to the last minute trying to get tickets to a very popular production.  On the other hand, I was able to slip off my loafers without anyone noticing.)

All I can say is that even though we eventually started to succumb to altitude sickness, we could hear and see well enough.  I also found myself musing that this was just about the position we would have been in the night before if our ballpark seats hadn’t been changed.

Anyhoo, ol’ Robbo didn’t make it to bed until past one ack emma on either night, so I am in something pretty close to zombie mode now.  Which is another reason why I don’t much care for the night life.

In these cases, tho’, I think it was worth it.





Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’Robbo spent the bulk of today traveling to and from the wilds of southwestern Pennsylvania, there retrieving the Middle Gel from camp. (She and the Youngest did their usual term earlier in the summah, but she had gone back for a second term to work on the kitchen crew.)

As I tooled along I-70, something occurred to me: Back in the day, the standard was “slower traffic keep right” and the general rule was “lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way”. Oh, sure, there were those who ignored this, but at least it was the expectation.

Not so much, anymore. People seem to float all over the lot, driving at any damned speed and oblivious of all around them.

What happened? Were these old-fashioned, common sense measures suddenly deemed “speedist”? The outworn privilege of an acceleration-centric patriarchy? Is it now a thought crime not to respect whatever speed the other driver now identifies with? Am I just a hater?

I wouldn’t be at all surprised.


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