There are a lot of things I could say about Sidney Powell (soon to be disbarred) but they all boil down to, “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…ahhh [taking a breath]…ha hahahahahahahahah!” Release the Kraken, indeed. {Update: two more co-defendents, both lawyers, have also flipped on Orangeman…and as of this note dated 29 October his kids are all testifying next week and the man himself the following Monday.}
And, I suppose, Trump would tell his followers he loves Ralph Reed, as well (if he thought there was a dollar in doing so).
The Fulton County Jail had only been open a few months when we moved into the house on Warfield Street at the corner of Tilden in what was then called (pre-gentrification) Knight Park. There were a lot fewer houses and hardly any trees blocking the line of sight to the Jail. There was a homeless encampment in shacks put up by the Mad Housers down in the meadow between Us and The Man.
The parking lot of the jail was empty except for some Sheriff’s cruisers and a shitload of abortion protesters stinking up the neighbourhood because Ralph Reed, suburban infection and founder of the Christian Coalition, was being held there for a few hours.
“Where you going with that?” Jackie asked as I headed out to the lawn with my golf bag. “Target practice,” I said.
The first ball was a high 5 iron swat that landed in roughly the centre of the mob. I saw three cruisers immediately leave and some other deputies running out to the car lot so I just sat down figuring I could spit on that protesting trash as I got hauled in past them.
“What do you call this?” yelled the guy in the middle car as they came to a stop in front of me. “Just trying to help out, sir.” He got out and chuckled in the sort of terrifying way Fulton County coppers do.
Then instead of kicking the shit out of me, he squatted next to me and, pointing at the structure said, “there’s ballistic glass in the windows over there so you can’t really do any damage to the building. Can you give us a minute to move the cars?” Turned out, they recognised me from taxi work (cops and cabbies deal with a lot of the same people) and the Checker sitting in our driveway had probably bought me a bit of good will.
I looked back at the house and waved Jackie off from where she was fretting behind the screen door, then gave her the universal, “bring me a bottle of beer when you get a sec,” hand sign. The other two cars left and the guy with me asked about the carbon fibre shafts on my driver and 3-wood, and if I used the Bobby Jones course a couple miles away. Another cruiser pulled up and tossed my first golf ball discretely on the bank of the culvert in front of us. “Titlest #4?” he asked then drove away before I could say, “thanks”.
A few minutes later, the Sheriff’s vehicles were gone except for the one I could see blocking the way into the neighbourhood down at Marietta Blvd (there are a lot of Marietta named roads in the area). Then, the guy I had spoken to came out to the parking lot near the protestors and, looking not-quite-in-my-direction, stretched his left hand up in the air above his head and blew three long, loud whistle blasts through the fingers of his right hand. I tee’d up as he walked back inside.
Atlantans don’t like it when outsiders fuck with them, Jackie reminded me a couple days ago when Trump’s fourth indictment came down. She also reminded me of this story and said that at the time she was only disappointed I wasn’t a better golfer.
Of course, Ralph Reed and his minions didn’t have Secret Service protection. And, I’m too old and too far away. Were but there only existed a scratch player/patriot.
I have actively ignored the Sunbeam when I pass it from the rail station but the bus station adjacent was crawling with coppers so I figured this would be the date to set aside my doubts. A pint of Abbot and a window seat and then all the coppers packed up and left.
I continued to people watch outside since it was more like whale watching within. {Note: That is NOT “Fat Shaming”… those, ahem, people have no shame.}
Took some interest in the Queen’s Building out the window. It is Grade II listed and was the carriage entrance to the old rail station.
Oh, and speaking of fat people from Queens…enjoy your years in Reidsville, Mr Trump, sir. (The tears on my cheek are from laughter.)
Trump continues to dig deeper and deeper holes in all his criminal cases. You should be watching this.
Related: Some rats live in the neighbour’s shed and have started raiding our bird feeder. We named them after the Trumps with some others named Rudy (Giuliani) and Steve (Bannon), the sniffiest one is “Don Junior,” but they all have to die, now.
The amaryllis bloomed before New Year’s Day and bravely held on through the first two weeks of the year. I broke open one of the paper chromatography lateral flow devices I used over the break and found nothing really interesting there. Largely, that’s how the month went…things working the way they were supposed to without surprises.
Running: 140.1 miles, 80 of which were on the 9 Rail Runs. One bottle of bourbon (to finish the Christmas hoard), 18.8 bottles of wine, and 8 beers for an approximately 20% decrease from last January. End of the Christmas weed. No psychedelics left. 13 negative lateral flow tests. One kebab, one fish & chips, two pubs. Progress on living room floor, stairwell walls and stairs, and dining room trim.
Trump is still free. We’ll check back on that at the end of February update.
Went to stores to pick up an ampuole of lipids standards and our clerk mentioned he saw some post for me. Turns out a far-too-kind friend from back in the States (and way back in the Olden Days) sent out her New Year greetings in December. To get it on this auspicious day in World history (Biden’s inauguration is t minus 5 hours 55 minutes as I write this) gives me greater joy than usual for a Wednesday.
Thanks, out there in the USA (Unparalleled Shitshow of Alltime), Mik. The mushrooms are on me if you ever find your way back over here.
Had some things to do in the lab, Sunday, and decided to do the run home instead of “to” due to the persistent and heavy rain. I hoped for a metaphor, but the concrete nature of reality sustained me for the journey.
We chilled some champagne Friday. Events at Walter Reed dictate the state of the cork.
The rain will end, someday. And, this prophecy may finally come true:
Trump said something about light at the end of the tunnel the day before he told everyone to drink Dettol to cure COVID-19, so that light at the end of the tunnel might be related to the GOP rats fleeing the sinking SS Donald (I’m mixing metaphors as much as the Bad, Orange Man appears to be mixing his meds, but, hey-ho!).
9.7 miles on the canals with a slight detour at the campus to find a porous enough entrance to slip through. Seemed reasonably warm but the weather app claimed it was 8°C (46°F).
All change this month with a house purchase (and move), Thanksgiving (and return of the Holiday Run Streak), Impeachment yonder and a snap General Election here. First, monthly stats:
Miles: 141
Runs: 19
Avg: 7.4 miles/run
Long: 20.4 miles
Pubs on runs: 8, and total: 14
Best pub: King Edward VII
The 2019 Holiday Run Streak is the first in a couple of years (these always seem to fall on odd-number years) but at the end of the 2017 effort my inflamed soft tissue injuries dating back to the Ridgeway Challenge were only a few months away from curtailing ALL running for the entire summer of 2018. In fact, return to form has never completely occurred albeit this year represents a noble effort for an old man.
The rules are dynamic, and this year include a minimum of 3 miles per day but use the ultramarathon training schedule I recently started as a guide for the days with longer runs. More at the first weekly update, here.
One nice discovery this month was the Harborne Walkway, an old railbed converted to paved foot/bike path running from Harborne into (at least) Smethwick. Exits onto busy roads but also tunnels under or uses old rail bridges to fly over them.
“Stand for something,” reads the sign one of the background women is carrying at the Mary Macarthur monument in Cradley Heath honouring the trade unionist suffragette who, among a long list of achievements, led a strike of women chain makers here in 1910. Spotted on a long run on my way to the Wetherspoons a couple miles away:
Another rainy run turned up this monument to the 2nd Boer War with another towering woman (I reckon this is Brittania) flanked by two artillery men:
This was the day after Remembrance Day and the sad, solitary tribute of poppies at the base seems fitting to a war about gold, diamonds, and the Boer’s resentment of their British overlords prohibiting slavery nearly a century earlier. These ladies’ diaphanous gowns were worth the stop:
The running plummeted after the house purchase led us into a pre-move refurbishment rabbit hole. This is beginning to recover with aforementioned Holiday Streak…its weekly updates will supercede the monthly ones from today.
Looking for a place to sit in the Sir Charles Napier with a better view of the bar than I eventually found (see 2nd photo), I was confronted with the ghost of Joe Strummer circa 1978. Through brown (let’s call them) “teeth” and a haze of alcohol and reefer, he spotted this sweaty stranger lost in his local and simply had to chat. So, there is where I parked for the duration of the pint.
Friendly fellow that I think (he was a bit hard to understand) only ever wanders far from Bordesley for work (I get the feeling that he has only been to London once and hated it and the outer limits of his other travels are Leeds, Manchester, and Liverpool).
He’s also a Trump fan, so maybe he only looks like our dearly departed Joe.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 