The consent of the governed.

We already know our president is unfamiliar with the concept of consent. “Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything…Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Fortunately for us, his understanding of the concept is irrelevant to the fact that his government derives its power from the consent of the governed.

Whenever any form of government becomes destructive to the ends of securing the people’s inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish that government.  “Whenever” does not mean only on Election Day.

What aspect of locking thousands of children in cages and camps secures their lives, their liberty, their pursuits of happiness? Many of these children will never see their parents again.  Can’t we see that this abomination jeopardizes our own and our children’s lives, liberty, and pursuits of happiness? To extrapolate from the oft-quoted poem, it doesn’t get better after they come for defenseless children.  We cannot afford this man’s reckless abuse of power to continue any longer.  The president must resign.

His executive order “reversing” the policy of family separation cannot undo the damage done to these children and their families.  If we accept this “reversal”, we cannot undo the damage done to our nation.  As long as Donald Trump remains president, he disgraces the office, and thereby disgraces us.  He governs by our consent.  We cannot consent to this.

If the president does not resign, the Congress must impeach and remove him.  If the gratuitous torture of thousands of children does not constitute a high crime or misdemeanor, what does?  He does not get a do-over for this.  He does not get to try internment camps on children for size.  This is not his Katrina–it is his Waterloo.

Politicians, even a president, have resigned over less egregious abuses of power.  But the call for this president to resign is conspicuously absent.  Why?  This silence is a toxic byproduct of the gradual erosion of norms of political decency.  We are accustomed to our wacky president doing wacky things.  He expects us to grow accustomed to evil as well.  We cannot consent to this.

The marches planned to protest this administration’s handling of immigration must demand the resignations of the president, the attorney general, and the secretary of homeland security.  We cannot trust or expect them to reunite the families they have torn apart or to keep other families together.  They have proven their vindictive incompetence time and again. 

With these protests, we can reinvigorate our democracy.  We together can fix it.  And it is crucial we do so now, a time when democracy is considered “in retreat”. 

In this country, the people hold the power.  We must remind the president and the Congress that they serve at the pleasure of the American people.  And we are not pleased.

Give me your tired, your poor, and I'll take those babies away: A Treatise on the Border Situation.

If we cannot recognize both the cruelty of separating children from their parents at our border and who bears responsibility for this cruelty, I'm not sure we can claw our way back up this slippery slope.  Again I ask my friends and family who voted for Donald Trump: what are the limits of your tolerance for his actions?  Where do you draw the line?  If the tearing of children from their parents does not stir rage in you, what will?  That is not a rhetorical question.  How bad does it need to get?  Because that is what our president is testing.  The American president and his disciples ask—no, they condescendingly expect your partisan fervor to override your natural empathy for that instinctual panic of a child who cannot find her mother.  But the team conveniently provides an out for those of you (presumably good Christians) who hate what is happening to the poor children: they assure you they too, as parents and Christians, hate this abomination, but there is simply nothing they can do to stop it.  The blame falls squarely on their political enemies.  Republicans only control the presidency and both houses of Congress.  The buck stops somewhere else. 

If our president is such an expert negotiator (who, let's not forget, has all the power on his side), why does he need to use real-life, vulnerable children as pawns? This is the genius of Donald Trump, you say.  He’s effectively forcing a conversation.  Many methods are effective, even sanctioned by law.  But that does not make them all moral.  The ends do not justify the means.  This is not some brilliant move of brinksmanship to force Democrats to the table on illegal immigration.  This is only cruel.  Any fool can orchestrate inhumanity in an attempt to get his way.  The strategy is not only despicable, but shortsighted.  Who else has used this strategy?  How did that turn out?

We can even look at this “policy” specifically.  Who else in history has forcibly separated children from their parents?  Nazis come to mind.  Antebellum slave traders come to mind.  I’m no policy maker, but I’d think we could find better role models.  Though I guess we shouldn't be surprised.  Our president has expressed sympathy for Nazi demonstrators before our very eyes. Our attorney general, like his father and grandfather before him, is named after the president of the Confederacy and the man who oversaw the first attack on the Union. Still, emulating those who increase their power by degrading fellow humans seems at odds that old American fundamental “we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal”.  But maybe the founders really did just mean men, what with "original intent" and all.  Tough luck, women and children.*

Perhaps in the search for biblical justification, Sarah Huckabee Sanders alerted the president to the story of the judgment of Solomon, but he quickly got bored, heard the words "split the baby in half" and thought, "great idea."  Spoiler alert, Don: Solomon neither cuts the baby in two nor blames his murder of the child on the dispute of the mothers.  But in that movie, Republicans of Congress win best supporting actor in the role of the mother who is happy the baby dies.

*THANKS IVANKA

Nun in the News: A Treatise on the Human Condition

(Hello from my sabbatical.)

On his May 8^th show, Jimmy Kimmel poked fun at the Met Gala’s theme of  “Fashion and the Catholic Imagination”. Please watch the clip.  He joked about the celebrities’ interpretations of the theme, and compared their outlandish outfits to his understanding of Catholic fashion as demonstrated by a photo of “Sister Mary Frances O’Brien”.  The nun in the photo, however, is actually Sr. Patricia Pompa, the real-life principal at my alma mater, Villa Walsh Academy. The Jimmy Kimmel clip went viral amongst my former classmates and fellow alumnae.  Sr. Pat was on Jimmy Kimmel!  Nothing had spread that fast since the time Sr. Mary DeAngelis got a photo with Bruce Springsteen (“Big Brucey” as she called him).  The Villa girls I know either found the whole thing hilarious or suffered from brief bouts of nun-induced post-traumatic stress.

But other people (only men, that I noticed) lamented the injustice done to Sr. Pat and sought to defend her sacred honor.  In the Wall Street Journal on Monday, Bill McGurn, father of three Villa girls and former speechwriter for George W. Bush, wrote a column introducing “Jimmy Kimmel’s nun” as a loving woman whose “entire life has been about self-sacrifice.”  In describing her service to the school, he paints her with a halo.

Mr. McGurn implies that Jimmy Kimmel only saw the habit when he held up Sr. Pat’s photo, but I wonder if he himself has fallen into the same trap. When we synonymize one’s clothing with one’s level of virtue, we run into a risk the Catholic Church should well know—the risk of assuming complete goodness and overlooking true failings. Behind the habit is a human, not a saint.  She has not “sacrificed” her life, but rather chose this life for herself.  A subtle distinction, but an important one.  She is not a victim.  She is not a damsel in distress.

But Sr. Pat’s fifteen minutes of fame were not yet up.  Later in the week, Mr. McGurn appeared on Fox & Friends to be interviewed by Brian Kilmeade.  I believe Mr. McGurn when he says he does not mean to demonize Jimmy Kimmel, but I think it’s a shame he didn’t foresee Fox News taking such an angle with  “JIMMY KIMMEL USES NUN TO JOKE ABOUT MET GALA” emblazoned at the bottom of the screen.  While the segment mostly was spent reiterating the sentiments in the article, one moment struck me as exceedingly disingenuous.  Shaking his head in disgust, Mr. Kilmeade asks, “in the #MeToo movement, should we really be ridiculing somebody about how they look?”  While not only betraying a complete misunderstanding of #MeToo, Mr. Kilmeade asserts a distaste that reeks of hypocrisy.  We can argue whether Jimmy Kimmel was ridiculing Sr. Pat’s looks or if he was drawing a humorous comparison between the Met Gala and what most people recognize as Catholic fashion (in other words, making a joke, or rather, doing a thing that comedians do).  But if we are going to exhibit disgust at the superficial treatment of women, let’s hold that up as a standard across the board.  Somehow I doubt Mr. Kilmeade has expressed a fraction of that outrage in reaction to egregious behavior toward women by President Trump or by men at his own network.  But then I guess those women weren’t wearing habits.  Maybe they deserved it.

I know and admire Mr. McGurn and his family, and I have no doubt he had good intentions in writing this piece.  But as one of those capable and confident women churned out by Villa Walsh, I feel compelled to point out why I find this treatment problematic.  Was Sr. Pat consulted before she was used as an example of Christian virtue and as a weapon of Fox News?  It seems not.  If I had to guess, I’d imagine the nuns of Villa Walsh got a kick out of the Jimmy Kimmel bit.  After all, they too are human beings with senses of humor.  They even poke fun at themselves sometimes.  All I ask is that we recognize the human nature in all people—no matter their station, no matter their clothing—and hold them to the same standards of decency.

State of the Blob.

My fellow Americans, the state of the Blob is middling to fair.  I know I said I was going to end it, now it’s back, will I end it again…not sure.  I think I’m resuscitating it.  I know, I’m a tease.  (Speaking of resuscitation, did anyone else expect a reference to the Bee Gees while our president got into the particulars of CPR during his State of the Union address?  I sure did.)

I just finished watching the SOTU while drinking wine straight from the bottle.  So there’s a new low.  I had to turn it off as soon as the post-game commentator used the word “Reaganesque”.  Pretty sure the “shining city on a hill” speech didn’t include any “very, very, very, very”s.  To be fair, maybe that dude was using “Reaganesque” to mean “gradually incapacitated”.  Or maybe he thinks “Reaganesque” means “proving one can read”.  In that case, okay, sir, you have a point.  I think we can put to rest the conspiracy theory that Donald Trump does not know how to read.  I am confident if, at the ripe and stable age of 71, the man does not know the words to the Star Spangled Banner, he most likely was unable to memorize the second longest SOTU address in history and therefore must have read it instead.  Bravo.  (It did occur to me they might have rented the Disney World Hall of Presidents animatronic Trump for an evening...did anyone actually see Donald Trump walk away from the podium??  Or did they know we would all turn off the TV in disgust BEFORE a president would typically leave a podium…he could be stuck there…“he” as in “it”…“stuck” as in “bolted to the floor”…this also explains Mike Pence’s periodic gazes of loving admiration…holy moley, it all adds up…cannot think of a single flaw.  New theory: Disney animatronics running the country.  Thank God.)

To close, I will presume to borrow a few Reaganesque words, the last lines of his “shining city on a hill” speech.  If you have time, the whole thing is worth the read.  You can decide for yourself if it bears much relation to the address we heard tonight.

Let us resolve tonight that young Americans will always see those Potomac lights; that they will always find there a city of hope in a country that is free. And let us resolve they will say of our day and our generation that we did keep faith with our God, that we did act "worthy of ourselves;" that we did protect and pass on lovingly that shining city on a hill.

PS, Mr. Putin, tear down this wall!  lol jk love you man. 

To sleep, perchance to dream.

Until recently, I have secretly judged people who have trouble sleeping.  I was like, please, insomnia is not real.  Being a light sleeper is not real.  What will you tell me next, vaccines prevent disease??  (Jokes.)  Friends know that I am very good at falling asleep and staying asleep.  The talent runs in my family on the O’Connor side.  Head back, boom, asleep.  So these last few nights have unsettled me, as I have done a lot of tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.  Sleep finally comes to me between the hours of 7am and 12pm (which, to be fair, has always been a natural tendency, but that period of sleep normally follows a nice 8-10 hours of REM filled glory.)

So here we are.  I am wide awake.  My right leg hurts and I’m worried I have a blood clot but I’m afraid to google it.  Maybe it’s just a tight IT band.  (Does anyone actually know what an IT band is?  I don’t.)  The pain in my leg is more likely attributed to how I sit while working at my computer.  As it turns out, if I am not forced to enter society and sit in a chair like a civilized adult, I simply do not do it.  Most days, I am a pretzel wearing pajamas, twisted over my mouse and keyboard.  Longtime blog readers may recall a smug Claire mocking her London office safety consultant’s instructions on how to sit properly in a chair.  I may need a refresher course.

It's been six years and I'm still shocked by the graphics of this image.

I really should work on my posture, as one of my greatest fears about getting old is developing the old woman hump.  You know the one.  Maybe I should get one of those machines that makes you hang upside down.  Livestrong.com tells me inversion therapy could benefit my posture and circulation.  But I don’t know if I can trust Lance Armstrong anymore.

Alright, I should stop looking at a screen and attempt to sleep.  Sweet dreams, friends.  (Or if you are lucky, Harry Potter themed dreams.  I found a Horcrux in a dream the other night and it was very cool.)

Blob is back.

Blob is back, blob is back, blob is back.

Speaking of wholesome songs from my childhood, today on Sirius XM radio (Pop2K channel), I heard “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris for the first time since attending/standing-stiffly-with-arms-folded-at Oratory Preparatory middle school dances.  Am I the only one who completely missed the lyrics?  Like, all of them?  It’s quite an exhaustive list.  I almost crashed my car at the (thankfully faded) memory of sixth graders humping each other to this song in a dark, hot gymnasium. SIXTH GRADE.  Are you even ten years old in sixth grade?  When I see a freshman in college now, I’m like, wow, you are a child.  So what do sixth graders look like?  Fetuses?  Terrifying.  How were the chaperones not traumatized by these images?  They must have been drinking to forget.  Feels like the only way to cope.  No wonder my parents hated those dances. 

And this is how I know I’m getting old.  Thoughts like these occur with increasing frequency.  I always remember my dad’s line for when we thought they were being mean parents for not letting us attend this or that event: “You think it’s because we don’t remember, but it’s because we do.”

ANYWAYS, I meant for this post to be a small update, but I think I’ll leave it there.  The Blob is momentarily reactivated.  Details to come.  GOD BLESS.

The prodigal daughter returns.

The Blob began about three years ago as a way for me to put off packing for the big move from Houston to San Francisco.  It feels appropriate that it should end now with me being a giant procrastinator again, but this time packing for my big move back to the east coast (beast coast, as they say).

I'm so glad people have enjoyed this blog.  I promise there will be more to come (possibly "Reports from Solitude"...we'll see).

Merry Christmas (isn't it great we're allowed to say that again?  Just don't mention that Jesus was a vulnerable fetus) and a happy, healthy, peaceful 2018 to you all.

I'll leave you with my packing playlist--all songs that appeared on my Spotify Top Songs of 2017 (you'll find I am not "hip").  I can recommend these songs for singing aloud while moving piles from one place to another and mulling over your life choices.

• "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton: Particularly satisfying after you have quit your job.

• "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling" by Hall and Oates: Becca and I are going to be Hall and Oates for Halloween next year.  This has been good practice for the karaoke portion.

• "I Want Crazy" by Hunter Hayes: Not sure I need too much more of it though, tbh.

• "Montezuma" by the Fleet Foxes

• "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" by The Avett Brothers

• "Fuck You" by Cee-lo Green ;)

• "Respect" by Aretha Franklin

• "Send Me on My Way" by Rusted Root

• "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel: SAIL ON, SILVER GIRL

• "Time to Say Goodbye" by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli: CON TEEEEE PARTIROOOOO (also, why is she so weird in this video?)

• "One Day More" by the 10th Anniversary Cast of Les Miserables (the best version IMO, 25th Anniversary also acceptable): One day more to pack and get rid of all this, plus several items not shown:

A coup in America.

This segment followed by this segment make me about as hysterical as a Fox News host when Barack Obama wears a tan suit.  I feel crazy.  But I think this is incredibly alarming and probably evil shit.  

This is the test of American democracy.

If this White House continues to discredit the FBI, sowing misinformation via their propaganda media arm, insinuating without real evidence that FBI officials were planning subversive activity against the president, we very well may be witnessing a coup—the hostile takeover of the American government by anti-democratic forces and their idiot stooges.

This is what happens in authoritarian regimes—the demonization of the “other”, the undermining of checks on power, the banning of words, the consolidation of that power.  The circumstances are said to be so dire we must put aside the law.

The circumstances are dire, and that’s why we must cling to the law. 

The foundation of our government, those precious values in our Constitution, is under assault.

We, the people, must cling to the law if our leaders will not.

This is the chaos Vladimir Putin wanted when he interfered in our election.  He wants to make a mockery of us, and he’s had definite success.  But his target is not just the office of the president—it’s our whole system of government and society.  He wants the world to see that we as Americans do not value our greatest strength—that we are a nation of laws, and not of men.

If we want to preserve the republic, we, the people, must prove him wrong.

We, the people, must demand our leaders are held accountable to the law.

Congress, representative of the people, must impeach President Trump if he fires Robert Mueller.  The people must demand it.

This is not sexy stuff.  But democracy is destroyed by gradual disintegration from within.  A series of events make up that gradual decline.  The election of Donald Trump was one such event.  The removal of Robert Mueller would be another. 

---

I’m not a big protest person, but I will participate if Trump crosses this line.  Consider finding an event near you. 

Belated birthday message.

I find I'm getting pretty cheeseball in my old age, so please bear with me.  Also if you've been watching the Crown and imagine this in the style of the Queen's Christmas message, I won't be upset.

My husband and I--

Oops sorry, got a little too into being the Queen.  I don't have a husband.  Ahem.

I'm fairly sure my 28th year on this planet would hold its own against most soap operas.  It at least holds the record for number of times yours truly has said, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."  (Nobody was ever kidding.)

It would be easy to dismiss 2017 as a miserable year.  There's been a lot of bad shit.  But I'm not about doing things the easy way.  Some really wonderful things have happened this year.  

My best friend in the entire world got engaged to her (other) best friend in the entire world and I've never been so sure two people belong in each other's lives.  They are going to adopt me and we will live happily ever after in DC with our dogs and cats.  (Can't wait to join you guys on the honeymoon, it's gonna be great.)  

I have two beautiful nieces who give me hope and remind me to keep fighting.

I've made some lifelong friends in San Francisco.  (You're stuck with me, bitches.  Kisses.)

Most importantly, I really think a miracle happened this week.  (I told you this would get cheeseball.)  I'm not always sure God is a real thing, but he got several checks in his column over the past few days.  The last time I felt this sure there is a God, I was laying on the ground in Victoria Park in London having a small personal crisis when a puppy rushed in from out of nowhere and attacked my face with kisses.  Hard to compete with that.  (The puppy probably just liked that my face was sweaty from running, but still.  Higher power.)

Here's to all of us getting out of 2017 alive and maybe even well.  And here's to me becoming a 29-year-old hermit.

A message from Sean.

The Blob breaks its regrettably long hiatus with this special message from Sean Hannity.

Stand down, you idiot fucks.  Stand down.

Such moments in history do not often befall us mere men.  The Keurig has wronged us.  The Keurig has burned us.  Your valiance against the Keurig will not soon be forgotten. 

But we cannot continue in such bitterness. Brother against brother, father against son, husband against wife, husband against husband (lol jk, that would be gay and we don’t do that on this show), son against brother against father against nephew, men against single serving coffee machines.  Enough!  What more can the world take?

Again, I say, stand down.

We cannot hallow these grounds.  Frankly, they don’t deserve it.  I call on you to make peace with the Keurig, not because it is easy…but because it is hard.  Also because Volvo pulled its ads and I’m a little afraid to see what you’ll all do next. (Oh who am I kidding—GO SMASH SOME VOLVOS INTO HILLARY CLINTON’S FACE)  (lol jk again, my lawyers are advising me not to encourage this behavior.)

There will be other hills of beans to die on.  This is not our hill. 

You have fought the good fight.  You will finish the race, maybe even all the races.  You have kept the faith.  Know that our God fully espouses our righteous rage.  Is that not the best part of waking up?  But we must return to merely winking at violence, rather than actively stirring the pot.

Press on.

Panhandle peanut gallery.

I wore a neon green Rice t-shirt on a run in the park after work today.  Comments received:

“Jerry Rice—he was a good, good friend of mine muttermuttermuttermutter”

“You run to burn calories, but you wear rice on your shirt!  HA HA HA HA”

“Rice!  It’s what’s for dinner!”

“You don’t eat a lot of rice—I like you have no belly.”

WOW THANKS EVERYONE RICE FIGHT NEVER DIE

Public service announcement.

A British friend recently informed me that “blob” is slang for “period”.  So if someone were to, let’s say, name a blog “Claire Blobbing” or perhaps “THE BLOB”, others might infer this blog is somehow related to Claire’s menstrual cycle.  Given the semi-regularly scheduled bitching that may occur on such a blog, some might even think it a clever, if vulgar, title.  Any resemblance to such cleverness, however, is purely coincidental.  Longtime readers may recall the rationale for this blog's name back from episode one.  I apologize to my British readers and friends if I unwittingly distressed their polite sensibilities.  We all can now share in the awkward terminology commonly employed here ON THE BLOB.  GOD BLESS.

Harvey who?

I find myself in a familiar scenario—I fly tomorrow for the Dirty Jerz, my suitcase stubbornly remains unpacked, and I decide that now, 11:00pm, is a good time to sit down and blob.  At least I’ve packed the two critical items—my everything bagel and cream cheese making kit and my terry-cloth bathrobe. Whatever else I need I can probably steal from my sisters.  This has worked in the past.

But now I feel compelled to share some big, cheesy love for the first city that stole my heart—HOUSTON, you big, ugly, beautiful, delicious sprawl of a city.  Just writing the word “cheesy” made me hungry for the queso only you can provide.  Look what you’ve done to me.  I have you to thank for some of my best friendships and best memories.  I miss you, I love you, I’m proud of you.  The images from the hurricane boggle my mind and break my heart, so I went back through my own images of Houston to cheer myself up.  I hope they’ll do the same for you.

First, literal cheer.

Second, comfort food.

Third, weather you used to think was a disaster.

And fourth, the kind of downpours we prefer.

Please be mindful of your safety.

And know we've got your back.
(Friends, please consider donating to YES Prep Family Flood Relief fund. I used to coach at YES Prep--they are wonderful people.)

PS. Current presidents need not apply...

...Houston has enough dopey big heads!

Turn around, bright eyes.

I am the first to admit: from time to time, I poke fun at our president on this blog.  One, it’s just too easy, and two, he is always such a good sport about it.  In the spirit of generosity, I would like to cut the man some slack for something the internet is blowing WAY out of proportion:

 

Donald stares directly into eclipse.

I know.  You’re surprised.  Claire, you say, of course we believe in your magnanimity, but why won’t you join the fun and heap scorn onto our blithering idiot of a president?  Well, it’s definitely not because I did the exact same thing.  Because I didn’t do exactly the same thing.  I was inside…looking up…at the sun…during the eclipse…without the glasses.  FOR A SPLIT SECOND.  JUST DON’T THINK ABOUT HOW FAST LIGHT TRAVELS.  OR ABOUT HOW DELICATE AND WONDERFUL OUR EYES ARE.  BECAUSE THAT’S DEFINITELY NOT WHAT I DID FOR THE REST OF THE DAY.  I have not been fretting about premature blindness in my left eye.  I am not one of those people who googled “How fast will I know if I damaged my eyes by looking at the eclipse”.  (I googled, “likelihood of cancer from UV radiation directly into eye”.)  I didn’t immediately make an eye doctor appointment.  (Because I already have one next Monday.  A lucky stroke of advance planning.  Should I tell her what I did?  Or see if she can figure it out?)

So listen…we’re all human.  We make mistakes.  We fly too close to the sun.  I'm with you here, Donnie.  I will ask St. Lucy, patron saint of the blind, to intercede for us.  (Might help with more than the literal blindness!  Who knows!)

(Fun story—I always remember St. Lucy is the patron saint of blind people because we had these little books of saint biographies in my second grade classroom and I WILL NEVER FORGET ST. LUCY’S PAGE BECAUSE SHE IS HOLDING A DISH WITH HER TWO EYEBALLS IN IT BECAUSE THEY GOT PLUCKED OUT WHEN SHE WAS BEING TORTURED FOR BEING A CHRISTIAN.  SECOND GRADE.) 

Cheers, y'all!

Robert E. Lee is Deplorable: A Treatise on Charlottesville

One reason I’ve been bad about keeping up with the blob is that I’m exhausted and speechless at our constant deliveries of fresh bullshit from Trumpworld.  This is not sustainable.  This shit is piling up and reeking.  America’s existential question seems less “will we drown in shit?” and more “how quickly will we drown in shit?”

I’ve been thinking a lot about Robert E. Lee.  We have a Robert E. Lee problem.  We don’t think of Robert E. Lee as the guy who led the fight to keep black people enslaved.  We remember him with a sort of apologetic romance—the guy who was personally opposed* to slavery, but could not take up arms against his beloved Virginia, who would rather oppose the Union than sacrifice his sacred Southern honor.  We felt sorry that he died without his American citizenship restored, so our Congress posthumously awarded it to him in 1975.  Bless his heart.

What is that all about?  I don’t feel sorry for this guy.  He used that classic “but it’s the Southern way of life” line to excuse some pretty awful shit.  I’m glad they turned his family’s ancestral home into the premier cemetery for the war’s dead.

At the outbreak of the Civil War, Robert E. Lee was faced with a serious moral decision—fight for your country against slavery and your home or fight for slavery and your home against your country.  The item that defines the morality of that decision is slavery, but the item that steered General Lee was his home.  A sentimental choice?  Yes.  A morally correct choice?  No.  He picked the wrong side.  I see no honor, Southern or otherwise, in his choice.

Why am I going on about this?  This is not an argument about the statues.  Take them down, get over it, assholes.  Chances are, your beloved statue got put up by white people trying to assert their dominance over bIack people during Jim Crow or the civil rights era.  Is that the heritage you want to celebrate?  Congrats.  I’m talking about the morality of our choices.  Many of us chose to vote for a man who now (unsurprisingly to others of us) cannot whole-heartedly disavow white supremacists and anti-Semites.  A man who declared there were “fine people” in the group that marched into town wielding torches and chanting “Jews will not replace us.”  Friends and family who voted for this man, can you condone this?  What are the limits of our excuses for vile behavior? for race-baiting and dog-whistling?  Will we not stand up while he perverts our democratic values?  while he spits on the sacrifices made by our grandparents to defeat Nazis and fascism?

I ask you to think about what defines the morality of your choice to condone or disavow the words of this man.  I’ll give you some hints: it’s not your party affiliation, it’s not the “alt-left”, it’s not your pride, it’s not how much you hate Hillary Clinton.  None of that will justify (or has ever justified) your choice to support him.  The defining element of Donald Trump is the hatred he spews and promotes. If you support him and condone his words, you are complicit in his hatemongering. 

-

One of my biggest regrets about Hillary Clinton’s campaign is that she did not double down on her “deplorables” comment, referring to that contingent of Trump voters.  She wasn’t wrong and it wasn’t a mistake.  I wish she had said to the squeamish Trump voter, “I dare you to tell me those people who would resurrect the KKK and who would dare to carry a swastika are not deplorable.  Do you want to be in their camp?”  You didn’t believe it then, but it’s still true—you’re in their camp.  And they are making the rules.  How long do you want to stick around?

I promise next post will not be so doom and gloom.  Maybe we will explore possible reasons my dentist and I always end up talking about prison. (?? it's so weird.)

All's quiet on the western front.

Reporting live (for the time being) from the West Coast, apparently within striking distance of North Korean missiles.  Isn’t this fun?  Ben and Jerry’s 2 pints for $6, yes please.  If I’m gonna get burnt to a crisp or have my taste buds radiated off, I’m having Half-Baked TONIGHT.  BALLS TO THE WALL, Y’ALL.  THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE ELECT A MAN WHO ONLY UNDERSTANDS REALITY TV AND LOVES TO SAY “YOU’RE FIRED”.  REINCE PRIEBUS?  YOU’RE FIRED.  NUCLEAR MISSILES?  YOU’RE FIRED.  ISN’T THIS GREAT.  I’ll eat my communist ice cream and await my destiny.  At THE VERY LEAST we can be thankful we don’t have a lady president with email troubles.  Having a competent woman in power would obviously be MUCH WORSE than nuclear holocaust.  BenghaziemailsradicalIslamicterrorism, am I right?

Because this is a normal thing to do, I considered my last will and testament while walking home today.  Fortunately for all of us, I have Marie-Kondo-ed most of my shit in the last few months (thank you for your service), so nobody will have to dig through this stuff and feel bad about throwing it away:

It was important work.

But here go the crucial items:

If Minnie survives the nuclear blast, I entrust her to Trish.  Hugging Minnie for the last 26 years has contoured her perfectly to my body.  Trish and I have the same body.  Therefore, Trish gets Minnie and her wonderful hugs.  You’re welcome.  Treat her well.

My pearl earrings will go to Molly and my diamond earrings to Rose.

Give all my money to Kelsey Gleason.  Girl, have a killer wedding.  Or, elope and use my money for a down payment.

Will, you may keep my TV, wine, and coffee table.

In the event that my death is murder by an illegal immigrant, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT ALLOW MY DEATH TO BECOME AN OBSCENE TOOL OF THE REPUBLICAN PARTY. I’m pretty sure having my name repeated over and over by Paul Ryan and Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity will not allow me a good rest in peace.  I do not want any Claire’s Law unless it has something to do with forcing all grocery stores to function additionally as full service liquor stores EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN DAY. 

If I die in a freak accident or of some crazy disease, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT TURN MY FACEBOOK PAGE INTO A BIZARRO MEMORIAL WHERE YOU ALL WRITE NOTES TO ME.  GUESS WHAT.  I’LL BE DEAD.  I WON’T BE ABLE TO READ.  IF I HAVE SOME MAGICAL CONSCIOUSNESS IN THE AFTERLIFE, I WON’T HAVE TO LOG INTO FACEBOOK TO SEE HOW YOU’RE FEELING.  Instead, please direct your lovely thoughts and memories in notes to my parents.

As for the rest of my stuff, have at it, y’all.  Go crazy for that Ikea.  First dibs to sisters, cousins, and friends.  Now, I have some ice cream to attend to.  Please remember me as a lover of truth, humor, and peanut butter cups.   If I am granted more time on this fragile planet, I will be more attentive to this blog.  Godspeed.

And we're back.

2017 is not turning out to be my favorite year ever, but I’m not looking for a pity party.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am newly single and have already continued my rampage of breaking hearts across San Francisco (sorry to Sergei, my brief Muni romance).  As he said after I texted him that it turns out I’m not into 40-year-old Ukrainians, maybe we will meet again another rainy day on the Muni.  (We won’t, because I changed my commute.)

For the first time ever, I understand Taylor Swift.  I, too, feel compelled to fill my art (blob = art) with Starbucks lovers.  But then, the lilting voice of an old English teacher creeps into my head—girls, do not sell your souls in the marketplace.  I won’t, Mrs. O.—at least not more than I already have.

And thus, The Blob returns.  I leave you with one more bit of wisdom, from Sergei’s final text—don’t waste the pretty.

What did I miss?

Good night, sweet prince.

The Blob has been on hiatus, but I thought I’d check in to let you know that I planned this vacation sometime last fall and it has nothing to do with the sexual harassment claims against me.1  Unfortunately, the same may not be true for Mr. Bill O’Reilly, whose vacation became permanent today.

The Blob sends its heartfelt regrets.

What a world we live in—a world where a powerful man at the top of his game, making millions of dollars for himself and his company, can get fired because he’s suddenly not making as many millions for his company and because humanity is disgusted by allegations of him sexually harassing female coworkers.  How sad. 

Bill laments this world in his latest book, Old School.  He never would have lost his job back in the “old school” work environment.  As the book description says on his website, “It’s a values thing.  The anti-Old School forces believe the traditional way of looking at life is oppressive.”2  Bill might refer to agents of the anti-Old School forces as “pinheads” or “snowflakes”.  He wasn’t creating an oppressive work environment for all those women—it’s just tradition for a man in power to comment on a female coworker’s cleavage, or to masturbate while on the phone with her, or to threaten her career unless she visits his hotel room.  What woman doesn’t want that sort of attention from her saggy old boss?  Where’s the respect? 

Not that those allegations are true, of course.  Women are always looking to make a quick buck off sexual harassment claims, aren’t we?  It’s just such a fun and easy way to put our careers and reputations on the line, and maybe get a million dollars. 

My heart goes out to Bill.  He’s been through so much.  To have the President of the United States vouch for your character, and you still lose your job—what a blow.  I’m sure the left-wing media has something to do with this.

Keep your head up, Bill.  The rest is silence…for you…we hope.

---

¹ This is a joke.

² Other gems from the book description: 

"Do you look for something to get outraged about, every single day, so you can fire off a tweet defending your exquisitely precious sensibilities? Then you're a Snowflake."  ...Or the president.

"This book will explain the looming confrontation so even the ladies on The View can understand it."  And why don't women love this guy?