We now know that the main man heading up that ridiculous puritanical witch hunt against Prez Bubba in 1998 also happened to be a man who got his sexual jollies by seducing the teenaged boys participating in his school’s wrestling program, where he was the coach. What are we to make of this now confirmed revelation? What can we deduce from this horrific hypocrisy? This is some breathtaking shit, even for a Republican. I mean, this is some gall, y’all!

Try to imagine just how completely skullfucked Dennis Hastert had to be as he walked the hallowed halls of the House of Representatives, mixing the slaphappy tales of the president’s lightweight sex romps with his own memories of dark pleasures provided by his bewildered wrestling boys. How do you even pull your socks on with bizarre, evil flotsam like that bouncing around in your head?

So here’s the Republican platform for 2016, reduced to a quick one sheet. (1) Do nothing. (2) Obstruct those who try to do something. (3) Kiss the asses of billionaires. (4) Kiss the asses of millionaires. (5) Do nice stuff for Big Oil. That’s pretty much it. Did I leave anything out? With this philosophy/legacy now firmly entrenched, can we really blame Republican voters for the looming spook spectre of President (gulp) Trump? Well, of course we can. I mean, they are the chowderheads who voted for this moke. But my point is this—if the leaders of your party are people like Mitt, Dub, Darth, Sarah, Mitch and Denny the Randy Rassler, well, wouldn’t you be seriously inclined to tell your party establishment to skinny dip in a boiling hot spring and then vote for the wealthy loudmouth teevee star who openly ridicules the System’s candidates as he tells you that same System is up to its rigged eyeballs in dirty money? Is there really all that much mystery as to how we’ve arrived at Candidate Trump?

Back in March, I was out of my mind over the outrageous Super Bloom wildflower show in Death Valley, a floral event that got coverage from coast to coast. And it should have.

Well, that Bloom has moved north and is happening right now/right here, and it’s pretty freakin’ great. This holiday weekend, it’ll still be on in the hills of Peavine Peak, Spanish Springs, Washoe Valley—hell, all kinds of places that are currently shimmering with sage green and large splashes of mauve (which are millions of aging cheat grass). It’s been a most enjoyable and glorious spring for flower hunters of the West. Muchas gracias to El Niño!

Paul? Bob? Stones? Who? Neil? Roger? At first, I laughed at this Boomer Rock God invasion of Palm Springs in October. And then, I realized—I gotta be there! I mean, damn, how can I not be there? Only please, don’t call it Oldchella. Much better—Geezerpalooza! And now, let’s hope this remarkable bunch of septagenarians all just make it to October.