So the Summer Solstice is almost upon us again, and frankly not a moment too soon. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sun and welcome its presence. But enough is enough.

I don’t really need these super-long days, with the sun worming its way into the bedroom at 5 A.M., any more than I need the super-short ones at the other end of the cycle. Sometimes I think I’d like to live closer to the equator, and lately the idea of getting out of the United States seems appealing. But it’ll probably never happen.

Made it out to the protest last weekend. I’m glad we did it and hope we do it again; it was marvelous and vibrant and uplifting. But I’m afraid the only real effect was to further outrage the demon in the White House, who at this point is pretty much a creature of pure anger. His response to accusations of fascism has been a rousing “Yes and…,” and I fear we will be continuing down that road for the foreseeable future.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that he seems to be finally falling to pieces for real. In a recent public appearance with the British PM, all he had to do was hold a couple pieces of paper, and he couldn’t do it. The photos of him glowering sleepily at his Parade of Sadness as squeaking tanks rolled by were almost poignant in their pathos.

Today he is locked in a debate with himself about whether to bomb Iran. On the one hand, he spent a lot of time arguing — for once correctly — that the war in Iraq was a colossal mistake, and even some members of his usual coterie of ass-kissers are pushing back against this one. On the other hand, the big beautiful bomb is called a “Bunker Buster,” and how cool is that? His inner 5-year-old is excited by the idea, and that kid has a lot more sway over the 79-year-old man than is healthy. Especially now, after the parade was such a dud.

Welp. Not much point to these musings. Just wanted to click “Publish” again, it’s been a while. Keep cool and carry on.