OK, I have to take at least some of my criticisms of museums back. Admission to the Accademia was free Thursday (Liberation Day), and while a steady stream of art lovers (ha!) streamed through, they couldn’t take anything away from David. He’s so monumental, there are no bad seats, so to speak, and he stands under a dome, bathed in natural light. Unlike virtually every other work of art we’ve seen on his trip, he is more impressive in person. He’s beautiful.

You can read reams of scholarship on his various anatomical quirks — his overlarge right hand, his somewhat cockeyed gaze — but I wouldn’t dive too deeply into that. Just appreciate him.

And marvel at Michelangelo’s attention to detail. His musculature, the veins in his arm, his confident gaze, the tendons and hollows in his neck, even the grooves in his scrotal sac. They’re all amazing, crafted by a 26-year-old, 500-plus years ago.

I read, this morning, about the Supremes’ apparent desire to do the bidding of the worst person in the country, and possibly the world. Yesterday I spoke to a long-lost high-school friend, who today lives in London, permanently she said. She’s been back and forth across the Atlantic for a while, looking after her elderly parents, but other than visits, she plans to spend the rest of her life on this side of the ocean. It was January 6 that did it; she was living in California at the time, and simply didn’t know how to answer her European friends’ questions about how this could possibly happen. So she has noped out of the American experiment. Can’t say’s I really blame her.

Have a good weekend, all.

You guys:

I think I’m burned out on museums, this trip. This was the Uffizi yesterday, in the off-season, before the “crowds” arrive. Granted, this is the most famous painting in the building, but still. The entire room was full of amazing Botticellis, most of which looked like they’d been painted two hours ago (including “The Birth of Venus”) and they were largely ignored, for mob scenes like this. Many of these people would sidle to the front, take one photo of the painting and another of the title card, and scurry on to the next must-see canvas on the list.

It’s Pokemon Go for tourists.

Today we see David, at the Accademia, and after that I think I’m done with this particular pursuit. As I said of the Sistine Chapel: Get a good-quality art book from the library, go home and explore it at your leisure.

The Galileo Museum did not disappoint, however. From the medical section:

Two whole cases of terra cotta models of childbirth – routine, emergency and so on. Seen here, breech birth and forceps-assisted. Kate was born that way. She had bruises on her temples for the first 24 hours or so. I remember nothing about it.

On to David’s marble corpus. Fingers crossed.

We’re starting a little slow this week. Monday was a travel day, yesterday our usual get-the-lay-of-the-land day, so treasures await today — two museums planned, the Galileo and Uffizi.

Yes, we’re in Florence. Which is lovely. The Airbnb is nicer, which is to say the toilet flushes well and the shower doesn’t appear to have been designed for elves. It’s quieter. And not far away:

The Arno River. Over which stretches the ancient Ponte Vecchio:

It used to be leather workers and tannery operations on the bridge, convenient because you just threw the waste into the river. Now it’s all jewelers.

The weather is sharply cooler, and yesterday it rained. The news today said the Palazzo Vecchio, aka city hall, had authorized six additional days of heating for the building, to accommodate the elderly and those in a fragile state. (I’m sure they pronounced it fra-gee-lay.) One more day of cool, then gradual warming through the weekend.

Pizza continues to be outstanding.

A little shopping for the people who are helping out at home, but we won’t get too into that. However, IYKYK:

King Neptune outside the Palazzo Vecchio, not far from where Savonarola burned.

Soon I will be immersed in Botticelli. More later.

It’s been a long day and I haven’t had dinner yet. So maybe a photo dump is in order.

Itsy-bitsy cars are nothing new in Europe, but with climate reforms, impossible parking and the price of gas all putting pressure on, the race seems to be to the bottom, so to speak. EVs and hybrids are commonplace, but this is the smallest we’ve yet seen:

It’s called a Twizy. Alan looked it up. Best for single people (there’s only one seat), all-electric, with a limited range of maybe 40 km. But you can park it anywhere.

Roman drinking fountain:

Roman bird bath:

(You just turn a corner and see stuff like this. Every walk is an exploration.)

You know me, I’m a sucker for a beautiful vegetable, in this case, melanzana. A much prettier word than “eggplant.”

A rare piece of sculpture in which the subject is caught taking his shirt off over his head. Actually, I have no idea what this guy is doing, but I liked the pose:

Finally, the Roma birthday party didn’t disappoint. It was my favorite variety of tourism, i.e., the-same-but-different. If you’ve been to any historic re-enactment, it’s the same. The different parts? All of it. The legions trooped before a viewing stand and did some maneuvers, especially the shield thing where a group of nine or 10 guys turn themselves into a turtle. I paid close attention to the shoes, which looked pretty period — shoes are the Achilles heel of any historic costume.

Also, I don’t think Roman-empire tattooing was quite as advanced as this guy’s back piece:

I call that commitment to the bit. Another different thing? Not one, not one single, not even a whiff of…a food truck. No elephant ears, no Eye-talian sausage, no tacos, no nothing. I did see one tented booth advertising water, but that’s all, and they weren’t even selling it, but giving it away. And now you know how Italians can eat pasta every day and stay slender. (Note the phone in his right hand. Seeing people in historic dress talking on a cell phone is never not amusing to me.)

OK, then. Tomorrow we saw arrivederci to Roma, and travel to…you’ll have to come back and see.

I used to think I would feel rich if, just once in my life, I could fly first-class to Europe. Those overnight flights are simply impossible to tolerate in a sitting position, and being able to stretch out in Delta One would be fantastic. But now? Now I think I’d feel even richer if we could do one of these trips without having to use Airbnb.

Which is to say: Alan’s trying to unclog the shower drain for the second time this week. And I’d like some coffee, but it would require me getting up to use the moka pot in this place, which makes one (1) cup at a time. Such an amazingly complicated process: Heat water in the electric kettle, disassemble the moka pot, tap a little coffee into the thingie, pour heated water into the bottom of the pot, plop in the coffee thingie, then get a towel or something to hold the bottom (because it’s hot now) while you screw on the top, place on stove. When it gurgles, it’s done. Repeat for a second cup.

Also: There’s no frying pan in the kitchen, just two pots. Also: It takes three flushes to dispose of one turd.

I’ll stop my complaining. I’m in Rome! And we finally found some good places to eat. Some Karen gave this excellent place one star because “they served my pasta in a beat-up old pot.” It was spectacular:

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the TRUE emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.”

Rick Steves says the opening acts for gladiators were animal fights, “perhaps dogs attacking porcupines.” As you stand on the higher levels of the Colosseum, you can see its underground, because the arena floor is long-since rotted away. (A partial restoration allows tourists to walk out and give the Russell Crowe speech.) Alan, looking down on the hive of underground cells and passageways: “That’s where they kept the porcupines.”

We also saw the Vatican museums, culminating with the Sistine Chapel. No photos, because it isn’t allowed, but as an art-appreciation experience, I’d put it up there with the Mona Lisa: Too many people, guards barking NO PHOTO because some people either can’t or won’t read, and not a great deal of light, probably to save the artworks. Few places to sit, too. Honestly? Look at some well-photographed art books to appreciate Michelangelo’s genius, and enjoy them in a cafe.

Final complaint: And on the fourth day, I caught a cold. But the weekend lies ahead, what sounds like a delightfully cheesy birthday-of-Roma celebration, with games in the Circus Maximus. Go, Charlie Heston!

Today we were walking across the Ponte Sisto, a pedestrian bridge over the Tiber. Approaching us, hand-in-hand with her chic mother, was a girl of about 7. She was walking as coolly as a model, wearing a tot-sized black leather motorcycle jacket.

I wish I’d gotten a photo of this startling fashion statement, but whoosh they were past us, and oh well.

Not so many photos today, because yesterday we went to a no-photos-allowed zone, it being a Monday and most of the good museums were closed. We went to the Capuchin crypt, and you can look up many photos online if you’re so inclined to see a visual marriage of the Khmer Rouge and, I dunno, maybe some scrapbookers. A long introduction tells you about the Capuchin order — there’s one in Detroit, and they feed the poor — until you get to what you came for, a series of niches decorated with, no kidding, thousands of human bones and a few mummies.

Allegedly 3,700 monks’ bones were used to create the various displays in the crypt, which were so, so strange. Catholics have a lot of premodern opinions about human remains, but it is downright weird to see floral motifs made with vertebrae and shoulder blades, to name but one of the displays on offer. You Catholics know the underlying message here — this’ll be you, one of these days, so don’t get too attached to your corporeal form — but as one who recalls the monsignor telling us that sure, we could cremate our parents, as long as it wasn’t done to deny the resurrection, it’s hard to believe this was hunky-dory with the One True. But who am I to argue.

Today we tried to go the Borghese Gallery, but didn’t plan ahead, and no tickets are available for days and days. So we rented bikes and explored the park.

That zoo entrance could be one or 100 years old — it does resemble the figures outside Comerica Park, where the Detroit Tigers play — but it hardly matters. You quickly learn, visiting here, that Italians are, as the kids say, extra:

Those are the trees so evocatively lit from above, by moonlight, in “Ripley,” now playing on Netflix. A few more days and clear weather and the moon will be up to it:

Tomorrow, the Vatican!

For Sunday, the Pantheon:

If anyone tells you April is a good time to visit a European city and “skip the crowds,” laugh in their face. When we stepped into the square, it wasn’t quite elbow-to-elbow, which I guess is what a skipped crowd looks like in Rome. Rather than wait in the interminable line for tickets, we opted to pay a little more for a guided tour by a short Italian sprite, and it was worth it, just to hear her say “Agrippa.” A friend advised me, in sounding out Italian words, to “say every letter,” and you could really hear that second P in her pronunciation of the Roman general’s name.

What to say about the Pantheon besides that it’s glorious and amazing? Not much. The oculus is my favorite part:

You also have to spend some time marveling at the engineering feat, and consider that, fires and restorations aside, that dome is older than Christ. The only disappointment, if you could call it that, is that there’s no visible evidence of the pre-Christian era, but oh well. We saw Rafael’s tomb, saw the royalist guard in front of :::checks notes::: King Umberto’s tomb, saw the drain in the floor that lets the rainwater flow away, saw it all. After that, the Trevi Fountain was just kinda no-big-deal:

The crowds didn’t help, all these people milling about, bent not on appreciating the sculpture, or even throwing coins in, but getting selfies, because pix or it didn’t happen:

We stayed a bit, and left carrying some McDonald’s trash that some trashy soul or souls had left behind. At the Trevi Fountain. I ask you.

After that, we needed a drink, and I much preferred watching this woman, just inside the cafe where we sipped spritzes, making pasta by hand and then weighing out every portion on her kitchen scale:

Also: More walking, more squares, more spritzes, a pizza, the Tiber River, a genial cashier at our breakfast place who said he had been to the U.S. 14 times, and that his least-favorite American city was Houston, a point we could reach 100 percent agreement on. Speaking of Texas, she’s inescapable, she is:

More later.

I’m sure you are all thoroughly sick of the eclipse, so I’ll only share this one pic, taken at the moment of totality in Forest Cemetery, Toledo, where we were among just a few people set up to watch the show. We could have gotten another minute or two if we’d driven deeper into the zone, but I had to be at work at 5:30 and I knew I’d never make it in time if we went to, say, Wapakoneta, Ohio, birthplace of Neil Armstrong.

So Toledo it was. And a minute or so of totality was enough:

But let’s move on, if only to give you guys a fresh thread for comments. Next stop: The eternal city. (Yes, I’m packing my laptop.)

News just broke that O.J. Simpson is dead. Well, now. Like a lot of you, my knowledge of the man spans decades. I remember watching his 80-yard run in the 1969 Rose Bowl. I remember his TV commercials for Hertz rental cars. And I remember that for a long time, he was white America’s favorite black man, or at least in the top five or 10. Then everything happened, and who couldn’t have a memory of that?

In a running theme through my life, I was the only American to miss the infamous slow-speed Bronco chase. I was at a horse show in Battle Creek, and the B&B I stayed in had only over-the-air TV in the room, so I watched “The X-Files” and went to bed. Alan told me about it the next morning: “There were these people standing on overpasses, cheering,” he said, wonder in his voice. It was only the start of the weirdness.

I will grant him this: I got a few columns out of that trial, the first when I noticed the ’90s-era Sony monitor on Judge Ito’s bench had been enhanced, with paint or a Sharpie or something, so that SONY stood out in giant black letters whenever the camera was on him. I don’t recall anyone took the blame for it. My old college boyfriend Bruce, who lived in L.A., called regularly, especially after he hired a woman who, he soon learned, had been Nicole Simpson’s housekeeper. She’d been an eyewitness to much of the domestic strife between the exes, and he recounted this in her heavy accent: “Meester Oh-hay get berry berry angry with missy Nee-cole,” etc. She ended up leaving his employ after the National Enquirer paid her a modest four-figure sum for her story, and recounted the same stories in perfect English. There was the avalanche of media coverage, running from the gutter tabs to the prestige press. I’m grateful to… was it Dominick Dunne who covered it for Vanity Fair? I think so. I’m grateful to that writer and publication for teaching me that a blowjob is known in that community as “the Brentwood hello.”

And then, of course, the verdict. We all remember how that went.

I recommend two sources if you’re interested in revisiting the era: “The Run of His Life,” by Jeffrey Toobin, where you can learn that Marcia Clark thought she’d get a conviction because “black women love me,” due to her aggressive prosecution of domestic abusers. Also, “OJ: Made in America,” a multipart documentary series you can watch on Hulu. Very very worth your time.

So much other news this week, but honestly, I don’t have the bandwidth right now. Abortion restrictions in Arizona, whatever the former president farted out of his mouth in the last 24 hours, have at it. I’ll be back early next week, depending on the wifi strength in our lodgings.

Friends, I have a crazy week ahead, mainly because I have to cram in a bunch of work in three days, not the usual five. That would be Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, because two exciting events bookend the week. You all know about Monday’s eclipse, and we’re going to do our best to get into the path of totality, probably down Toledo way. The forecast is iffy now, but today was clear and sunny and after the winter we’ve had, we’re owed another clear one for this event, goddamnit.

And on Friday? Why, we’re off on another European adventure. Wheels up for…drumroll…Italy. First stop: Rome. We’ve got a house-sitter, but as usual, I’ve got 19 different to-do lists and they’re starting to be illegible. But we’ll make it. It’s been a very good year for the nest egg — thanks, Biden.

Depending on eclipse success tomorrow, a photo post, then sketchy until we get to the eternal city, I expect. But you all carry on.

Friends, I don’t see how this newfound detente between sports and gambling ends well. Check out this story from the Athletic:

Carson Barrett tore his meniscus earlier this year. The injury required surgery, but this is the last run for the Purdue senior. Though he’s never seen a whole lot of playing time in his career, he wanted to at least have a shot at getting on the court this season. So Barrett delayed the repair work, gladly taking the exchange of some pretty painful nights with a throbbing knee in favor of even a few minutes of hooping.

This season he’s played a grand total of 21 minutes and scored six points. Three of them came in the NCAA Tournament. With 37 seconds left in a game long decided, Barrett drained a baseline 3 against Grambling State, putting himself in the box score of Purdue’s first-round victory. As the ball swished through the net, the bench erupted, Barrett’s teammates knowing full well what he’d sacrificed and endured. His bucket would be the last for the Boilermakers as Purdue cruised to a 78-50 win. Back in the locker room, Barrett picked up his phone and scrolled through the congratulatory texts from friends and started to search through his DMs on social media.

He stumbled on this:

You sure are a son of a b—.
Hope you enjoy selling cars for the rest of your life.

Followed by:

I hope you f-ing die.

And then the kicker:

Kill yourself for taking that 3 you f-ing worthless loser. Slit your f-ing throat you f-ing f– that was completely uncalled for. I hope you f-ing kill yourself.

The Boilermakers were 27-point favorites against Grambling. Barrett’s bucket meant they won by 28. “I had no idea what the line was,” Barrett said. “I’m just out there, making memories with my friends.”

Jeff Borden used to share an opinion about email vs. snail mail. If you wanted to unload on a journalist, or anyone for that matter, in the olden days, you had to hunt up a pen and paper, scrawl your message (or roll paper into your typewriter, or sit at your keyboard and hit Print), find an envelope, find a stamp, walk to a mailbox, drop it in. There were lots of steps along the way when you could say Nah and forget the whole thing. Email makes things so much easier. Social media, easier still. Just find the person you want to abuse, in the heat of the moment, and fire away. Imagine telling a 22-year-old kid to kill himself.

This kid was absolutely right to take his shot, and I’m pleased he made it. When gambling inevitably throws a Super Bowl, or World Series, or NCAA championship, we can say we brought this shit on ourselves.

Let’s make this an all-bloggage blog, shall we?

Elon Musk is an idiot, chapter a jillion:

Musk is now using his dominant presence on the social network, which he has renamed X, to convince people that the 2024 presidential election is rigged. His efforts dovetail with the lies of Donald Trump, who recently claimed that Democrats are “allowing” undocumented immigrants to enter the country and “signing them up to vote.”

Musk promoted a post from @EndWokeness, a popular account that promotes bigoted conspiracy theories, that claimed to have uncovered “data” showing that hundreds of thousands of “illegals” have registered to vote since the start of 2024. Musk shared @EndWokeness’ post with his 170 million followers and called it “extremely concerning.”

…To begin, “illegals” cannot get a Social Security number. Most people who have Social Security numbers are citizens. In some instances, non-citizens can receive a Social Security number — usually in connection with a work authorization — but only if they are legally present in the United States. The idea that using a Social Security number to register to vote is evidence of undocumented status makes no sense.

It’s a crying shame what that dolt has done to Twitter. The For You side of my feed is absolute garbage, especially at night, when it’s all manosphere incels, rad-trad lunatics, clips of people falling into meat grinders and other nonsense. And as decent users trickle away, the Following side isn’t much better. But here we are, enjoying our free speech.

Speaking of Twitter, Trump was in Grand Rapids the other day. One of the ceremonies of the day was the bestowal of the endorsement of the Police Officers Association of Michigan. Cop unions are the worst, keeping bad ones on the job and generally sheltering their membership from negative consequences, no matter how self-inflicted. Of course they were happy to stand behind their hero, who has pledged to pardon J6ers who beat the shit out of cops between taking dumps in the halls of Congress:

Several of these guys are self-described “constitutional sheriffs,” and I doubt you’ll be surprised to learn that.

Comic relief! Gary Shteyngart — a niche writer enthusiasm, I’ll grant — was among the passengers on the inaugural cruise of the Icon of the Seas, and while some of the shots are cheap, they are well-deserved.

And that’s about all I have for Thursday. Enjoy your weekend, all.