June 8, 2026: Squad cars on Drexel Ave. in Racine, Wisconsin.
Another Week: Number 181
My mom’s 91st birthday party was on Sunday at the clubhouse of her apartment complex, which can be reserved by residents. The building feels like maybe a bank branch. Its high ceilings and hard surfaces create an echoing atmosphere, and the air conditioning made the place too chilly.
A bunch of our cousins travelled from parts north and south, and my nephew rode by rail from southern Illinois. Once everyone was gathered and talking, it became hard to make out what was being said, so everyone talked louder.
Later, we moved to sofas outside, where the weather was comfortable and the conversation easier. We talked about Mick Jagger and The American Revolution and Carl Jung and insurance and deadbeat clients and my aunt’s sudden death from sepsis almost 50 years ago. Before you know it, it’s time to say goodbye.
After I returned home, there was a graduation party at a neighbor’s house. That one was broken up by the police at about 12:30 Monday morning.
Picking up their litter the next day, I talked with Gene from across the street, who became a grandfather over the winter. Later on, Gene brought Jaylen over to meet me. He seems like a very peaceful kid.
The weather turned muggy, windy, and rainy on Wednesday. Thursday was the last day of school, and the Mitchell kids took their traditional group walks through the neighborhood. At first I thought the debris on our front lawns was from the wind, but then I realized it was more litter.
Thursday night I spent a little time in my basement as some minor tornados swept through the area. The only damage I sustained was what appeared to be a direct hit by an extremely tiny tornado through my two Yarrow plants, parting both down the middle.
I’ve been reading a book that distills all the stories ever told down to a few basic plots — and as far as I can tell, Donald J. Trump is now in the frustration stage of his tragedy.
On Thursday, Trump chickened out of a threatened capture of Iran’s Kharg Island like a frantic yo-yo.
Then, the poor baby had to endure his stupid name being pried off The Kennedy Center. The operation was so embarrassing that it had to be carried out under cover of darkness and behind a tarp wrapped around scaffolding like a giant pair of striped boxer shorts.
I walked 5.39 miles this week in my outback hat — and touched palms with a black man in sunglasses and captain’s hat.
Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe
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Lucy Worsley’s Holmes vs. Doyle (2024)
Old guys naturally gravitate toward history series, but I have a hard time with the thudding battle reenactments on cable channels. I prefer something more trustworthy and sophisticated, and I’ve found it in Lucy Worsley. She displays her sources — and a little sly humor — as she wends her way through historic sites and archives, working her hypotheses like a sleuth. Her confidential tone and the stunning panoramas make for relaxing edutainment.
I have seen most of Lucy Worsley Investigates, half of Lucy Worsley Investigates: The American Revolution, and now all of Lucy Worsley’s Holmes vs. Doyle.
This three-part profile was absorbing. In a nutshell, Scottish doctor Arthur Conan Doyle found enormous success once he hit upon the recipe for his Sherlock Holmes stories — but cranking out fresh servings did not satisfy him. Doyle longed to write real literature, and felt hounded by his popular detective.
Like its Millennium Falcon starship, the movie shows signs of wear, but still hold up well enough. Mom was mostly interested in Carrie Fisher, and she began to nod off a bit during the extended TIE fighter chase scene.
But now she’s seen it for sure and that box is checked.
Blue Moon (2025)
This Richard Linklater film, currently streaming on Netflix, is centered on lyricist Lorenz Hart, on the opening night of night of Oklahoma! — his former songwriting partner Richard Rodgers’ first musical with his new partner, Oscar Hammerstein II.
Looking like a modern installment of Playhouse 90, the movie takes place in the bar at Sardi’s, manned by bartender Bobby Cannavale. This spells trouble for Hart, because alcoholism already has him on the ropes.
Hart is portrayed by frequent Linklater accomplice Ethan Hawke, with hair and makeup and camera tricks employed here to considerably alter his appearance. The problem, though, is the dialogue. Hawke talks and talks and yammers through most of the movie, cattily disparaging everything that crosses his mind — especially Oklahoma! ”with an exclamation” — until you want Cannavale to shoot him.
Of course, the booze isn’t helpful — but Hawke never really delivers any sense of inebriation, just a lot of annoying sniping that grows increasingly rude.
My mom loves to sing all the Rogers and Hart songs, and she’s the world’s biggest Oklahoma! fan. I thought she would enjoy this period piece, but she it only irritated her.
Then suddenly, Hart is alone in the coatroom with Elizabeth (Margaret Qualley), a young climber in the theatre world with whom he’s hopelessly infatuated. Qualley is really captivating, Hawke’s mouth gets a rest, and for a brief moment, the movie grabs you. Then she leaves.
There’s a very sad story here about alcoholism and sexual repression. Instead we get an exhausting evening of Ethan Hawke soliloquies.
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