White Trash White House

Posted on April 5, 2026 by Editor

“Tuesday will be Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, all wrapped up in one, in Iran. There will be nothing like it!!! Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell – JUST WATCH! Praise be to Allah. President DONALD J. TRUMP.”

Thus spoke U.S. President Donald Trump on his Truth Social social media on Easter Sunday.

You don’t even need to let that sink in. It will of its own accord: Easter Sunday.

So, yes, it really has come to this: Our nation’s foreign affairs are being conducted by the equivalent of inebriated Uncle Bart from his seat at the American Legion bar outside Podunk, Idaho.

What a crazy old bastard.

What’s especially unnerving and odious is that my generation elected this potty-mouthed ignoramus, serial liar, draft-dodger, narcissist, convicted rapist, and an overseer of six bankrupt businesses. Six.

And not once have we elected him, but twice — to the highest office in the land.

It should be clear to everyone by now that my generation has woefully failed in its civic duties, and a depressingly large percentage of my group is either too dumb, too deluded, too self-centered or too altogether out of touch to have an inkling of the damage they have done to themselves, their children, their grandchildren and the nation.

We’ve screwed up.

And the thing is, as far as I know, there’s still no rehab for stupidity.

We gotta live with this shit and I’ve no clue how to do it. So I hope you haven’t come here looking for advice. I got nothing but despair.

But even I know that despair is a loser’s game.

“No society can expect its children to engage with a world they think has already given up on them.”

Robert Pondiscio, a former public school teacher who is now at the American Enterprise Institute, made that remark several months back while urging teachers to avoid adopting “an unbearable bleakness” in their classrooms.

Optimism, he argued, is an essential civic virtue.

Yet optimism is something in this day and age that seems to be its own category of rare earth mineral, but it’s out there, and it must be dug from the soil and championed.

Let’s not join our old high school friends in re-posting ICE-friendly AI smut films; let’s not lean into that pot-like buzz of indulging in quick anger on our social media feeds.

When they go low, we go high really wasn’t bad advice. The air is cleaner and clearer above the clouds.

The view is better, different. It’s true, of course, that our technologies have made it easier for so many of us to see so much more of the world, but never before have so many of us seen so much without understanding what we are seeing.

Take time to understand the world. At the very least, take time to try.

If I Needed You, Would You Come To Me?

Posted on April 4, 2026 by Editor

Before he died, he wrote songs. Good ones. He wrote “No Deeper Blue,” “I’ll be Here in the Morning,” “Be Here to Love Me,” “If I Needed You,” Pancho & Lefty,” and a whole lot more. He wrote “Rex’s Blues.”

Haunted throughout his life, he wrote songs to help keep the visitants at bay. He sang the good songs. He wrote better ones. He sang those songs too.

And on New Year’s Day, 1997, Townes Van Zandt died from cardiac arrhythmia aggravated by years of drug and alcohol addiction.

He was 52 years old.

“He sang about how precious it was to be alive yet spent a good deal of his life killing himself with drugs and alcohol.” — Michael Hall, Texas Monthly

He came from money, from an old Texas family that has a county named for them — Van Zandt County, about fifty miles east of Dallas. Townes Hall, the main building at the University of Texas at Austin School of Law, is named for his great-grandfather on his mother’s side.

But Van Zandt didn’t care for money. He lived much of his life on the open road. If he came into any money along the way, he usually gambled it away; He preferred the company of outcasts, outlaws and the poor.

“You were living a lie if you sang the blues and hadn’t lived them,” he once told his first wife, Fran.

He lived them.

If I Needed You

If I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me and ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you
I’d swim the seas for to ease your pain

Well, in the night forlorn, oh, the morning’s born
And the morning shines with the lights of love
And you will miss sunrise if you close your eyes
And that would break my heart in two

The lady’s with me now since I showed her how
To lay her lily hand in mine
Loop and Lil agree, she’s a sight to see
A treasure for the poor to find

Well, if I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me and ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you
I would swim the seas for to ease your pain

There’s little that’s as satisfying as a newly sharpened, well-made knife

Posted on March 29, 2026 by Editor

The man we know today as Turkana Boy was almost certainly smiling when he picked up his new stone knife, gently rubbed his finger along the freshly flinted edge, and uttered a satisfied, “Ah, yea,” — or its equivalent in the lingo of Homo erectus.

We humans, beginning with our early ancestors, have been using knives for at least 1.5 million years, and you can be assured they were as much a joy to us back then as they are today.

A joy, a necessity, and all but indispensable first-tool for humankind that has never lost its intrinsic appeal.

That’s because a good knife is as useful and necessary today as it was when Turkana Boy and his family were hunting the banks of the Nariokotome River in northwest Kenya during the Early Pleistocene epoch.

To hold a sharp, well-made knife in your hands is to slip through the gates of space and time and join the caravan of pre-historic travelers setting out from their African base on an ages-long, dangerous, and uncertain journey to colonize the world.

The knife was the essential tool in making that journey possible.

While the function of a knife is the same today as it was when Turkana Boy sliced a serving of antelope from the animal roasting above his family campfire, the material they’re made from has come a ways.

Take the Guardian 5 shown in the photo above: it’s fashioned from a high-tech steel manufactured by Crucible Industries using a sintered proprietary process known as Crucible Particle Metallurgy which — to greatly simplify the undertaking — atomizes molten alloy into fine powder that is then hot pressed into sheets that are just about ideal for making exceptionally hard and super-sharp knives.

There’s a vast difference between today’s steels and yesteryear’s D2 tool steel from which most of our old knives were made. That said, D2 still makes a better than passable knife, though short of what you get with CPM-3V, Magnacut, Elmax, Cruwear or some of the other more refined and more pure steels.

Another view of the Guardian 5 from Bradford knives.

The newer steels vastly reduce impurities and non-metallic goop that create weak points in a blade — unwanted hitchhikers such as sulfur, nitrogen, phosphorus and junk metals like tin or lead. With that detritus gone or minimized you’re left with a steel that has increased edge retention, more toughness and greater corrosion resistance.

The Guardian 5 blade, for those who may wish to know, is finished in what Bradford calls “stonewash;” the blade is ground to a sabre edge. The handle is made of G-10, a high-pressure fiberglass laminate of cloth and epoxy resin. It’s exceptionally strong, moisture-resistant and lightweight. The light green finish on the handles on my model is called “ghost.”

Bradford Guardian 5

G-10 is also low- to zero- maintenance, making it a popular choice for outdoor and heavy-use knives.

You can get the Guardian in other configurations and lengths, from a 3-inch to a 6-inch blade, I believe, along with other blade finishes and a choice of several handle finishes. All ship with a sheath — leather or nylon. Take a look at the company website.

Bradford USA is located in Kent, in Washington State. You won’t go wrong ordering your next knife from them.

Across the Great Divide

Posted on March 22, 2026 by Editor

Georgia State Road 197 intersects U.S. 76 between Hiawassee and Clayton, Georgia, plunging south through Moccasin Creek State Park and the mountains of the Chattahoochee National Forest until it dumps Helen-bound motorcyclists onto Georgia State Road 356.

From there you’ll follow the scenic, twisting two-lane through the valleys and mountains, past Unicoi State Park, and into Helen, a Bavarian-style, wannabe Alpine tourist trap cut through by the picturesque Chattahoochee River.

Outside Unicoi State Park in north central Georgia.

Weekend seasonal traffic is always bumper to bumper through Helen — it’s less than 100 miles from Atlanta, after all — but it’s a tiny village and being stuck in slow-moving traffic for five or six blocks can afford some prime people watching as folks parade by on the nearby sidewalks. So, relax.

Customer at a fast food stop in Helen, Georgia, with a “Jesus is My Big Homie” T-shirt. Probably a Southern thing. I didn’t ask. The front of her shirt said, “Godgang.” I got the picture.

If you’re on a motorcycle you’ll have plenty of two-wheel company. At one main-drag beer joint I passed on Sunday, March 22, there seemed to be 90- to 100 Harleys (mostly) jockeying for a parking space, and another 70 or so already parked.

Lots of motorcycles.

But if you happen to live like a teetotaling frickin’ monk, as I have been these past 10 years or so, you won’t be tempted by beer anyway, so keep going.

At the Hogpen Gap overlook on the Russell Scenic Highway in Georgia.

From my cabin, following the route I took on this trip, it’s possible to make a pleasant 140 mile loop through Helen and onto the Richard B. Russell Scenic Highway — often praised as one of the most beautiful drives in north Georgia — and back to Cherokee County, North Carolina, without seeing the same scenery twice.

It’s an enjoyable bike ride, and the mid- to high- 70-degree weather we had Sunday made it a real pleasure.

Russell, by the way, was a racist Georgia governor and U.S. Senator who was one of the key figures in filibustering civil rights legislation in the 1960s, along with Mississippi’s John Cornelius Stennis, James Oliver Eastland, and a host of other bigoted, duck-dicked, discriminatory throwbacks to a Rebel yesteryear that is, sadly, enjoying something of an injudicious revival among numb-nuts on the far-right of American and other nation’s politics — a revival sparked in no small part by Donald The Dickless Duck Trump.

A selfie at the Hogpen Gap overlook. The Appalachian Trial crosses the road at this point.

Speaking of dicks and Trump, it’s easy to imagine he has a wee detachable penis similar to the orb spider, and, also, similarly, to imagine he was left a eunuch a few years back — as are all mating male orb spiders — when reportedly attempting to force his tiny member into the mouth of a 13 year old, who (again, reportedly) bit him on his little thingamajig, prompting the indignant U.S. president to slug her in the head.

This is mentioned in the Epstein Files. Just something we’ve all heard about President Jackass, an ignorant rotted snotball of a man.

Makes one wonder about those who voted for this amoral manchild creature — many of whom voted for him twice. Twice. Dear god. Think about that. Twice.

Dear Lord Odin, our beloved Allfather, guide us from this wicked, wanton, wallowing, witless wilderness, we humbly pray in thy exalted name. Now, damnit. Get us out now! Amen.

Anywho, onward.

First Day of Spring, 2026

Posted on March 20, 2026 by Editor

Two days of cloudy cold weather packed up, bundled up, and trundled up the mountain paths and out of western North Carolina just in time for spring, 2026, which arrived today with sunshine and temperatures that stretched to 72 degrees.

Tomorrow, the weather god, Freyr, promises even more sunny warmth. Word is he’ll push the mercury to 78 degrees under this March sun.

Harley in the backcountry — Spring has come to the Mountains.

To celebrate Spring’s arrival, I took the Harley out of the basement and onto the mountain roads in Cherokee County, North Carolina, and Union County, Georgia.

But first, Hazel and I took the truck over the mountains to Franklin, North Carolina, to deliver samples of some of my body fluids so that the VA can test them for still more diseases and disorders that plague us elderly folk — and that’s all I’ll say about that.

Anyway, I took the photo above somewhere along the Georgia-North Carolina boundary on my much more pleasant motorcycle ride.

If you remember, back in 2024, Spring came on March 19 — a day or so early, the earliest in the U.S. since 1896.

You’ll recall from Elementary School that every year divisible by 4 is a leap year, in which a 29th day is added to February to account for the little white lie that we tell ourselves about our 365-day years. To be precise, of course, our years are not 365 days long, but 365.2422 days long. The Earth’s 574,395,530-mile annual orbit of the sun really takes a wee bit longer than 365 days.

The adjustment of days in 2024 — a leap year — led to the early Spring.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also add that you can always tell when Spring arrives in Murphy, N.C., because of the re-opening of the Sweet Tooth, an ice cream shop downtown on Andrews Street.

The popular shop closes every year for the winter on Labor Day.

Now put your books away and let’s go riding.

North Carolina vet vindicated in illegal arrest following peaceful flag-burning protest

Posted on March 15, 2026 by Editor

News arrived this morning that Trump’s misshapen Department of Justice has dropped the prosecution of an Arden, North Carolina, man who pointed out the illegality of a Trump so-called executive order designed to make it illegal to burn an American flag.

Flag-burning as a form of protest has been settled U.S. law for more than 30 years. The Supreme Court ruled in June 1989 in Texas vs. Johnson that flag burning is a form of legally protected speech under the First Amendment.

The high court ruling came after the 1984 arrest of Gregory Lee Johnson, who burned a flag during the Republican National Convention in Dallas.

The court found that the government cannot ban the expression of an idea just because society finds it offensive, and when Congress attempted to pass the Flag Protection Act of 1989 the Supreme Court reaffirmed that federal laws against flag burning were also unconstitutional.

So as I say, settled law.

Yet here we were, on Friday, with the wayward Justice Department having to dismiss charges against Jan “Jay” Carey, 55, a military combat veteran from Arden near Asheville who set the flag on fire in Lafayette Square in Washington, DC, in August, the day that President Donald Trump signed a presidential order to crack down on flag burning.

“I’m burning this flag as a protest to that illegal fascist president that sits in that house,” Carey shouted to onlookers as he set fire to the flag. He was somewhat promptly arrested by police.

The justice department didn’t explain its decision to drop the case against Carey, who served in Iraq, Bosnia and Afghanistan and earned, among other decorations, the Bronze Star during his years in the military.

The move came just days before a deadline set on Monday for prosecutors to respond to claims by Carey’s lawyers that he had been the subject of an unwarranted attempt to curtail his first amendment rights, which include freedom of speech.

“This is a very significant victory for not only the first amendment rights of Mr Carey but the rights of all Americans to stand up and speak out on issues that they care about without being targeted for punishment by the justice department,” Mara Verheyden-Hilliard, a lawyer for Carey, told NBC.

Verheyden-Hilliard, who is representing Carey pro bono, said that her client had been prosecuted “at the whims and the directives of a president who has said that he disfavors a particular viewpoint”.

Trump had ordered his lapdog of an attorney general, Pam Bondi, to “vigorously prosecute” those who burn the flag, arguing that the action could spur violence.

“It is a statement of contempt, hostility, and violence against our nation – the clearest possible expression of opposition to the political union that preserves our rights, liberty, and security,” the order read. “Burning this representation of America may incite violence and riot.”

Following his arrest, Carey said he felt compelled to act in response to the executive order.

“This was a direct protest about an illegal order that President Trump tried to put in place,” he said. “I did not do this just for myself, but for everyone who believes in the constitution and the protections for all that it provides.

Above the clouds

Posted on March 9, 2026 by Editor

The weather forecast was for heavy fog when I left the cabin at 6:50 for an early morning appointment at the VA CBOC in Franklin, North Carolina.

The route from Murphy takes you through a section of the Nantahala National Forest where it straddles Clay and Macon counties, and across some of the highest mountains in our region — though I should add we have nothing like you’ll find in the Black Mountain Range that stretches out northwest of Asheville and on into Tennessee.

Above the fog in Macon County, North Carolina.

There you’ll find Kuwohi, Mount Mitchell, Mount Craig and others that top 6,000 feet.

But the 5,000 and near-5,000 footers I crossed this morning was enough to get me above the clouds — if, as I do, you consider fog to be just another name for a cloud, albeit without a pilot’s license.

I shot this photo at the only scenic pull-off on my route, roughly 11 miles west of Franklin along U.S. 64 where drivers can stop at an overlook that offers views of the vast valley winding river-like between the rugged mountains of the Nantahala forest.

Clouds of fog snuggled thickly below us, squirming here and there as if sunrise was waking them from a deep sleep.

From the pull-off you slide down a long, curvy stretch of highway that drops at a 7 percent grade and takes you to the outskirts of Franklin, the county seat for Macon County.

And once I got to the VA, I found out I didn’t have an appointment after all, though somehow I was sure I did. But, nope, the friendly staff assured me, my appointment wasn’t until March 26.

Properly chagrined, I headed back the way I had come.

Can you see that rear tire? It’s pretty slick. (As with most of my images, clicking on the photo will provide you an expanded view.)

Back in Murphy I stopped at my favorite coffee shop, the Rare Bird Emporium, and sat outside at one of their tables contemplating my rear tire. You almost certainly can’t tell it from the photo here, but she’s growing pretty bald.

I’ve been keeping a wary eye on her for weeks now.

I’m hoping to make it roughly another 1,000 miles before taking it in to have both the rear and front tires replaced — though I grow more doubtful every time I look at it.

But if I can wait, I’ll be able to have my 20,000-mile service at the same time as the shop replaces the tires. And, yes, that’s a lot of miles for a two-year-old bike. And most of those came in my first year, largely due to my trip out to South Dakota’s Black Hills and into Wyoming, Montana, etc.

In fact, I bought and had the current rear tire installed in Sturgis, South Dakota, during that trip. The tire I replaced wasn’t nearly as worn as the current one, though the current one has fewer miles.

I’m unsure why the current tire has worn so, but I suspect hard(er) riding.

Walking the Hiwassee

Posted on March 8, 2026 by Editor

70-degrees and rising

Posted on March 1, 2026 by Editor

It may be a strange combination of businesses, but common enough in north Georgia. This is in downtown McCaysville.

The Ides of March marked misfortune and doom for the ancient Romans, but in 2026, the month didn’t start out that way in the North Carolina mountains.

March 1 marked sunny, beautiful motorcycle weather in the western mountains.

You take what you can get. The thermometer eventually reached 73 at mid-afternoon.

Today I rode over the mountains to Mineral Bluff, Georgia, hooked a right and motored to McCaysville, Georgia, which shares a main street — Toccoa Avenue — with Copperhill, Tennessee.

The side-by-side towns are popular with tourists, and the sun had brought them out today in plentiful abundance to visit the shops that line the streets here.

Alongside U.S. 64 at Ducktown, Tennessee.

The Toccoa River flows 56 miles from the south into McCaysville where it loses its name, but not it’s identity. It becomes the Ocoee River just after it passes under the wood-floored truss bridge on Grand Street, continuing for another 37 miles into Tennessee and the Ocoee Gorge.

The bridge, known as a “camelback truss,” was built in the early 1900s, probably in 1928, though some date it to 1911. There is a more modern bridge across the river a block to the south at Blue Ridge Drive.

The state line is a few feet north of the older bridge, and that’s where the Toccoa becomes the Ocoee River.

On the Georgia stretch, the Toccoa is lined by tubing outfitters that will open for business as the weather warms, but in Tennessee, especially in the Gorge, the river is primarily a kayaking destination.

After touring the towns, I turned north and headed to U.S. 64 at Ducktown, Tennessee, making a full loop of some 80 miles back to the cabin outside Murphy — but not before I paused for a photo at the North Carolina state line.

-30-

Snowmageddon, they’re callin’ it

Posted on February 26, 2026 by Editor

My Toyota Tacoma after the snowstorm.

Snow started falling over the Maryland peninsula on Sunday, and it didn’t stop until Monday afternoon by which time the sky gods had dumped as much as 15 inches of the stuff on anything that stood or lay in its path.

To be correct, of course — and why not? — this is the Delaware, Maryland, Virginia peninsula. All three states claim a part of this area of the Chesapeake Bay.

It’s an area of chicken “factories” and fishing fleets, of crab cakes and casinos. There are enough Trump morons in these parts to stock a decent Mississippi county jail, and enough Democrat leaning voters to give you hope.

The most popular restaurant is a convenience store chain known as Royal Farms, which sells fried chicken by the bucket load and gasoline by the gallon. The chicken gets rave reviews from the locals.

I’ve been here cat-sitting for the past two weeks. It’s a yearly chore. Five cats. Hazel helps me keep them in line.

Anyhow, we made it through the storm without any damage other than a yard full of. broken tree limbs. And, of course, snow. Tons and tons of snow.

Throughout the neighborhood trees were down and government road crews were busy with big snow plows, snow blowers and other imposing implements that more northern locals clearly keep in ready supply for just such emergencies as we have here over the past few days.

And despite what one might think from the photo above, my truck didn’t have a scratch — at least one that I could see beyond the ordinary dings of 10-years and 180,000 miles of frequent use.

The gods smile on the Toyota Motor Car Co.