After watching and the thinking about the Jan 6 Committee hearing yesterday, I’m more impressed by the process than I was at the beginning. For Republicans, this is like a slow-moving train wreck in which they’re trapped. They’re sure it’s going to hurt; they might even die, and they can’t stop the action. They can only look on in horror. The people who supported Trump’s actions are getting a spotlight placed on them, and it isn’t pretty. And I don’t know what motivated Cassidy Hutchinson, but I’m thankful for it. Someone had to come forward, and she womanned-up.

Weather-wise, July is coming in hot in Louisville. Looks like we’ll have 90+ degrees and humidity in Louisville through at least my first week there. Good weather for tomatoes. And maybe I’ll sweat off a few pounds.

On the lighter side of things, we watched the first two episodes of FX’s The Old Man last night. Very, very good new series starring some great actors. Recommended. And I *love* those dogs.

McSweeney’s tells the sad and funny story of the fearful last bottle of ketchup left at Mar-a-Lago. Hilarious. I’ve always found humor in dark and hopeless realities – this fits. “We lost Daryl that day…”.

I’ve seen too many friends meet what we call “The Wall.” When he gets angry, we get scared. And he gets angry a lot. Sometimes he gets mad about people saying he should be in prison for trying to overthrow the government, sometimes because he can’t drink water from a glass, or sometimes because his hands are too tiny to cut his well-well-done steak. Sometimes he’s not even eating. One time he got back from trying to walk down a ramp and was so mad he ordered food just to throw it against a wall. We lost Darryl that day. Every time his ire matches the color of his makeup, another friend meets The Wall.

I’m the last bottle left. Surrounded by plastic brothers and sisters who no longer are willing to risk their own safety to protect me. I keep telling them there’s this poem: “First they came for the mustard, and I did not speak out — because I was not mustard.” They don’t care. Most of them can’t read. I asked one if it supported the peaceful pouring of condiments, and it said, “I plead the fifth.” I’m alone here.