‘Would Dad Approve?’ Neil Armstrong’s Heirs Divide Over a Lucrative Legacy

I hereby bequeath onions to everyone I know and love. onions to my children, to peel and saute in butter for their pilafs. onions to my surviving siblings, to throw at each other in impotent rage. onions to any spouses I've picked up along the way and forgot to mention in my memoirs -- each one to get two twelve pound sacks along with a garland of garlic. to UNICEF I give scallions in the amount of sixteen pounds. and to the doctor that eases me into my grave I leave a used bottle of McCormick's dehydrated onions. you'll find it behind the Colman's Mustard tin on the shelf above the stove.

As homelessness crisis grows, the Trump administration has made few new efforts

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I saw that fair haired man again, coming out of a fancy restaurant. he accosted me as if we were intimate friends of long standing:

"Hiya, Tim old boy! Howz it goin'?"

I tried to give him the brush off by walking past without remark, but he grabbed my arm, and started talking:

"know what? there ain't no such thing as a homeless person. did ya know that, huh? Here, I'll show you!"

he strode off into an alleyway, and I had to follow him -- he had stuck his hand in my coat pocket and removed my wallet. when he found a poor old soul sitting next to a dumpster he pulled out a crisp brown paper bag, wrote HOME on it with a pencil, and put it over the man's head.

"there!" he chortled. "now he's in his home." next he found an old man and woman huddled inside a large cardboard box. he gave them each a Tote brand umbrella, pulling them out of his coat like Harpo Marx. "now you've got a roof over your head" he told them cheerfully.

"can I have my wallet back, please?" I asked him. 

"it's a matter of trust" he told me. "do you trust me?"

"no" I said. 

"good. we'll negotiate a deal where I keep your wallet for you and you won't go to jail for throwing rocks at war veterans."

his logic terrified me and enthralled me, so I continued to follow him as he gave homeless people chewing gum and plastic combs. I suddenly realized he was a misunderstood saint. a patriot who loved his country like he loved his fair hair. and I began to weep.

if only his noble efforts were recognized by the media! 

at the end of the day I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and without any money. the fair haired man gave me a packet of kleenex and a box of paper clips as he skipped merrily down the lane singing 'here we go gathering nuts in May.'

I love that guy. 

An Equifax hack settlement promises a $125 payout. The truth is more complicated.

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congratulations. you are part of a twenty billion dollar settlement against a big honking corporation that did something wrong sometime in the past and has decided to now make amends by employing dozens of high priced lawyers to confuse and bamboozle you into thinking you're actually going to get something for nothing.

you will not be getting anything, but you will be spending quality time with adversarial persons interested in wasting your time and nullifying your importance as an individual. use this time with them wisely, because the way things are going you won't be spending much time with anybody anymore -- the polity of the entire country is shattered into such partisan shards that family members fight over who gets the wishbone from the baked ham on Sundays.

if you have any questions please call our toll free number, to be put on hold and then transferred to a temp who reads from a script and won't answer any of your questions unless it's in his or her script. the temps get paid minimum wage, with no benefits, so they really don't care a fig for you and your concerns. but they are someone to talk to when it's raining out and your cat won't purr.

Postcard to the President

Take my wife joke, please! A campaign trail cliche finally bombs

NO PICTURE AVAILABLE

this is not a piece about marriage. it is a piece about rain. how it can come gently or roughly, depending on so many conditions and circumstances that no human agency can really predict it with much accuracy. everyone experiences rain or the effects of rain. without rain there wouldn't be anybody around. very few people are against rain, but most people would agree that it can be inconvenient from time to time -- and from time to time it can actually be deadly, as in a cloudburst that fills an arroyo so fast it kills people hiking in it. you can't have rainbows without rain, but you can certainly have rain without any rainbows. some people go their entire lifetime in the rain without ever seeing a rainbow. those people are to be pitied. 
we most of us take rain for granted -- it's always been around and will always be around in the future. but global scientists are beginning to wonder if there could be an end to rain as we know it. there may come a time when the clouds refuse to form and water boycotts the evaporation process -- when blue skies turn to brass and the earth puckers up into a dusty rictus. then we'll see who has the last umbrella. 

‘The Squad’ Rankles but Pelosi and Ocasio-Cortez Make Peace for Now

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(dedicated to Sheryl Gay Stolberg)

"you need structure" the doctor said. "try making an enemy this week in order to discover what self esteem is all about." it sounded screwy to me, but he was the doctor and I sure needed something to get me out of my self-pitying hole. I could barely get out of bed in the morning and at night I wanted to hide under the kitchen sink.

so when I went to the market there was this cashier there, Evi from the Philippines. she always wore latex gloves when making change for me for the laundry. I decided to make her my enemy. "my money must be pretty dirty, huh?" I asked her one morning, when she looked pretty cranky. "What's that?" she asked, looking worried. "you can't bear to touch anything I've touched, right?" I pressed her. "Oh, the gloves . . . " she shook her head. "I got bad dermatitis on my hands -- gotta wear gloves all day or I get blisters that crack and bleed." "You need a new job" I told her frankly, forgetting about making her my adversary. "You can go down to Deseret Industries for counseling and help in getting trained for something else." now she got really mad at me. "Mind your own business, you fat pig!" she yelled at me. so she was my enemy, but I wasn't hers yet. I left the store without getting any laundry change and tried the 7-11, but they don't give change there.

I think my doctor is off his nut. I'm gonna get a new one, if Medicaid will let me.

‘It snuck up on us’: A ‘city-killer’ asteroid just missed Earth and scientists almost didn’t detect it in time

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I went over to Crazy Henry's place to commiserate with him. his pet monkey had been run over by a beer truck. I found him contemplating a loose pile of rocks and trash on the asphalt in front of his apartment. he was eating Hostess Donettes from the bag. "is that the monkey's grave?" I asked him. "no" he replied. "I buried him next to my mother out in Saint Anthony Cemetery." "well then why are you looking at this mess of trash?" I asked him. "I am going to create a meteor out of it." we both looked at the pile for a while. I didn't feel like ragging him about it, since he had just lost something that had been part of him, in fact defined him, for many years past. I thought I was being respectful, but really I was just tired of his foolishness and knew if I kept on prodding he'd get me involved in his pointless activities. but Crazy Henry was never intimidated by silence. he just kept on talking as if I'd asked him to explain it all.

"See, I'm gonna meld all this stuff together with super glue, then shoot it out of a huge cannon, like Jules Verne wrote about, and when it falls back to earth it'll become a meteor. I'll charge scientists who want to come study it a huge fee so they'll have to get grant money for it. I'll clean up!" he was smiling, nearly chuckling, and his mood was infectious. 

"You'll need Big Bertha" I told him.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Biggest cannon in the world; they used it in World War One" I told him.

"Can I get it online?" he asked eagerly.

"Why not?" I said expansively. But then I turned around and went back home; I felt Crazy Henry was making me his new pet monkey.

Democrats struggle to figure out next move against Trump after Mueller hearing falls flat

I couldn't figure out my next move, as I sat on the edge of a pool of quicksand. the muddy quicksand felt cool and refreshing on my bare feet as I wiggled my toes in it. I remembered reading somewhere that quicksand is full of mineral nutrients that soften skin and retard odor causing bacteria. then there was the sign on the other side of the pool that read GUARANTEED SAFE BY GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. 
but both my parents had perished in a quicksand pit on the upper Orinoco River when I was a child. they were ornithologists, looking for rare birds.  and I knew from my studies at Florida State University that alligators often inhabited quicksand pools. 
so I was in a quandary. should I go in or should I stay out? I had taken a great deal of trouble getting to this spot; spent a lot of money and slugged it out with competitors who also wanted to sit where I was now sitting. I decided to just keep sitting there, waiting for a sign. diamonds falling from the sky. flowers floating through the air. men with ears on their feet. that kind of thing. 
that was a long time ago; I'm still waiting.  

The poetry, prose and physics of baseball

the baseball maker of Storm Lake works in a shabby shop on Erie Street. he only makes one baseball each year. the baseball that the president of the United States throws out on opening day. after the president throws the ball out onto the field, the umpire takes care of it until he can reach Cooperstown, where he places it in the museum in a tin box with IN GOD WE TRUST stamped onto the lid. those baseballs will save the country one day when rottenness has eaten away at our faith in home runs and apple pie.
the baseball maker of Storm Lake is very humble and quiet. most people in town have no idea what he does, or how he does it. he mows his lawn and takes his trash to the curb in such an unassuming manner that no one really suspects that he can infuse a leather covered horsehair ball with magic. he never brags about it. he likes to watch the Golf Channel. he never married, so he is troubled about how to pass on his trade and craft secrets. he has a nephew, his sister's son -- but the boy wants to play soccer, not slowly stitch together the world. it looks like when the baseball maker of Storm Lake passes on, he will be supplanted by the softball maker of Oshkosh. 

In ‘The Lager Queen of Minnesota,’ two long-estranged sisters are brought together by beer

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Professor Barbara teaches creative writing at the university. at least when she remembers to show up she does. I took her class years ago, before I was married, and half the time she forgot she had class because she was very involved in a DR Congo educational grant proposal that would put schools all over the country that she would be in charge of. she still is involved with Congo projects. come to think of it, she probably should retire from the university. I've been retired for years now. but she really doesn't seem to age. her red hair is just getting brighter, not fading at all. her skin is as smooth as vellum.

I wrote a novel while taking her class, but I lost the manuscript years ago. I think the title was How to Play Pinochle at the Pine Tavern. this was back in typewriter days. and after I finished typing it up I realized I hadn't paginated it -- there were no page numbers. so I numbered each page by hand, in blue ink. I submitted it to Professor Barbara as my Final, and got a B for my trouble. but she went to the Congo before I got my manuscript back and by the time she came back I had moved to Thailand. 

it might have become a bestseller. I might have never been on food stamps. and why does Professor Barbara not age? 

I saw her at the rec center just last week and she is ripe, not old. I am afraid to ask her about the past. she might shatter.