Dear CBS National News,

In this part of the country, your network is doing the most complete and honest job in covering what's going on in the country. (Yeah, it took you guys long enough to get off the Trump-HaHa mindset, but that's a whole 'nother story. So did almost everybody else, finally. A bit late, eh? I trust you got the cause/effect message there.)

Right now I want to address you on your Puerto Rico post-Maria coverage. We get "both sides". First Trump is patting himself on the back, bragging about his ratings, informing us that Puerto Rico is actually an island in a huge, HUGE ocean. Really BIG.

Then you have a news team, boots on the ground, sometimes in the water, showing us what conditions are really like, talking to the people who are really affected and those trying to help them.

Thank you for that.

But that's not really what I'm writing about. I would appreciate it if, once this is back to as normal as it can be, where our fellow Americans aren't struggling (and failing) to find clean water, food, medicines, fuel, transportation, communication, once your crew has returned from telling the complete story, if you would pass along a message to them.

I understand how difficult a job this must be for them. Any human with half an ounce of empathy, any understanding of humanity, must find it excruciating to go on telling this story, when you know that you actually have food and clean water, transportation, fuel, communications, medications if needed ... and you can't share them with the hundreds or thousands of people you are reporting on every day! You have to want to. You have to feel like shit when you need to save these things for yourselves. While those around you suffer because they have not, you suffer because you have.

And that's a story that ought to be worth telling.

Doggone ... Mostly

Those of you who've been following regularly are aware that we found new homes for our dogs while we were on vacation this summer.

Yes, we miss them sometimes. We  fall in love with other people's dogs, dogs on TV, in pictures, online, but only over the short term. It's kinda like being a grandparent, loving the heck out of the grandkids and happy to return them to their parents. I even found a new breed to covet, until sanity returned again. For the record, look up the Louisiana Catahoula Leopard dog. Go through about 50 different pictures for all the coat variations and see if something doesn't hit just that note. And hey, short haired. BUT, it's a herding dog, large and active, not for geezers like us. And there would still be the feeding, training, pooper scooping, shots, barking, traveling issues....

Sigh....

Those of you who follow this also know we've just gotten a new vacuum cleaner. It's finally assembled and working, even though we still have no clue where "Tab A" is. Most of the house has been attacked by it. We're reveling in colors in our rugs that we haven't seen in years. It's taking a while because it's bagless, the canister fills up in a big hurry from all the Fred Fur, and you have to use a long skinny stick to reach up around the edges to pry out the wads of fur that cling to each other as if their very life depends on it.

Come to think of it, it probably does.

And the emptying takes twice as long or longer than the vacuuming did.

By about the fourth time across the rug, you're mostly pulling up dust, and crumbs dropped since the last vacuuming, and they drop out of the canister for emptying pretty easily. And the colors still deepen. Whew!

Now with all this attention, including moving furniture, shaking out the little rugs, hitting the hallways,  and all the other stuff that might actually qualify as a Spring Cleaning, you might think that the floors stay pretty clean now. That the Fred-bunnies are gone. That it's just new stuff to pick up. That the house cleaning has gotten simple now.

Uh huh. Sure.

I think what we have here is proof positive that all those little Fred-bunnies have been taking after their namesakes and multiplying and multiplying and multiplying and....

I think I understand now why my parents put their collective feet down and said no more pets in the house. No cats, no dogs, no guinea pigs, no nothing!

None!

Never!

No!  No!  No!

Losing Puerto Rico

What is it? Nobody cares about "those brown people"? If it's an island, it's not part of America? (Like, you know,  Hawaii, where a president born there wasn't American?)

Are we all just too worn out from Harvey and Irma? And heaven help anybody who might raise taxes on our billionaires to send assistance to Americans who have no food, water, electricity, homes, and are additionally suffering through a record heat wave? Or is it just more important to our so-called president whether athletes take a knee to protest racial injustice at the beginning of a game because he thinks it is about him?

Oh, so the airport control tower is down. How about we send in the navy with supplies and/or transportation off-island rather than put on a show to provoke Kim Jung Un? They don't need radar to land on Puerto Rican shores, and they could be doing a part of our country way more good than trying to start a nuclear war.

Every so often Puerto Rico takes a vote to decide if they want to become a state of ours rather than a territory. Or do they want independence? With this kind of treatment - or lack of recognition - why on earth would they do anything to tighten their ties to us? Heck, maybe they'll chose to join up with Cuba. At least there they would get healthcare!

And while I'm on a rant, let's turn our eyes to Flint, Michigan. Yep, they're still there. Just fewer of them. No, not from moving away, but from drinking their own water. It's been scientifically determined that not only have the lead levels highly decreased pregnancy rates, but highly increased miscarriage rates. What? Hadn't heard that? Can't be bothered with news? REAL news?

Surely you've heard for decades now about the evils of abortion. Your belief or not, you've heard that point of view. But where are all those folks who care about fetuses now, when an plan to save tax dollars is killing them off left and right, just because it costs about $100 a day to add the right chemical to the drinking water so the pipes don't corrode and leach lead into the water? More than that is spent to pay abortion protestors to carry signs outside women's clinics. Can anybody spell "hipocricy"?

Say, this wouldn't have anything to do with all those urban brown people, would it? Why bother shooting them when they run away from you if you can just prevent their existence in the first place?

Yeah, much as it hurts, I'd take a knee too.

A Birthday Cause

I just sent an undisclosed amount to my daughter's Go Fund Me page.

There are a lot of reasons I'm proud of her, besides the simple fact of being her mother. She fights for women's rights in a lot of ways, just one of which is on her blog. There's more stuff on it than that, of course, just like mine is pretty eclectic. But in her case, there have been consequences.

She goes to a lot of conferences. One relatively famous attendee/ presenter is what some folks refer to as a hound dog. Apparently believing himself to be the ultimate gift to women, he pushes himself on them in whatever circumstances he believes he can get away with it.

Not all women appreciate his advances, of course. They protest, they bear witness, they talk amongst each other. Steph, in her blog, on numerous occasions, has related - aka warned - about what has been going on. It hasn't mattered to those in charge of organizing and presenting those conferences. Big Name Guy carries on ... all puns intended.

Ever heard of a Slapp suit? It's where one person/group sues another for the express purpose of silencing them. If that term doesn't ring any bells, think about terms like libel and slander. The thing is, if you're telling the truth about the bad things the other person is doing, and can prove it, the lawsuit goes away.

Mr. Big Guy has sued all those he can find who are telling others about his behavior. He's got a big pot of money. The people he's suing don't. Some days that wins the game. It's expensive to fight. Together, the suit recipients have hired a lawyer, who says them he has no case against them. But I repeat, it costs to fight.

Steph has set up a Go Fund Me page. She is asking for anybody who wished to send her a birthday present ('cause today's her birthday) or for any other reason support her cause, to send money to it. Since she posted it on Facebook,and I don't "do" Facebook, and Steve has a heck of a time excerpting something out of Facebook and sending it to me, I had him read off the URL and I wrote it down for me and whomever of you cares:

https;//www.gofundme.com/defense-vs-carrier-slapp

This is not a link. You'll have to copy-paste. We thank you in advance for your support.

Comeback

They're trying to kill all the benefits we've gotten used to from Obamacare ... again. Just because they told their constituents they would. Not because they have any  kind of a plan that's an improvement.

To further the confusion, they manage to get ignoramuses who don't understand the principles of any variety of insurance being the reliance of those who need it being supported by all the folks who don't... at that particular  moment. Your car insurance rates start at a lower payment so if you have an accident you don't have to carry the full load of replacing your car, hospital costs, liability, and what not. Of course, if you persist in driving stupidly, your premiums can rise or you get  booted.  But the whole supports the individual, and good driving can drive your rates back down again.

Homeowners insurance gets paid for by everyone even if your own house never burns down or crumbles in an earthquake or blows away in a tornado, hurricane, etc.

Health insurance should work the same way. It's there when you need it because who knows what kind of illness or accident can come your way. If we knew, who'd buy insurance? It's the unforseen that's the issue. That tree that knocks over your house may hit you too. Got the principle down?

Now, you get the ignoramuses who think health insurance should be parsed out by what they think is likely to happen to them. Like, they'll never need mental health insurance. Uh huh, sure. Not that they'd recognize it if it bit them in the ass.  But the ones who really annoy me are the ones - males, of course - who chafe at having to chip into the pot for maternity care. (Like sperm wasn't half of it.)

This is when you just look them slowly up and down, and ask, "What? You were hatched?"

Assembly Is A Bitch

This story goes way back to 1964, boys and girls, and ends... well, maybe next week sometime. So settle in, find a cozy chair with a good spot of light, feed the critters, grab a glass of whatever,  and read on.

I'll never forget the year, since my mom complained about it so frequently. That was the year a slick Kirby salesman talked her into throwing away a whole $360-something on a brand new vacuum cleaner. I reminded her years later that she'd have spent much more on replacing ordinary cleaners over the years, and she finally quit complaining. At least to me.

I had faith in that Kirby, you see. It needed a few minor repairs over the years, mostly replacing worn belts. A few bags were needed as well, but like the pink bunny with its drum, that Kirby just kept going and going and going....

I told Mom I wanted her Kirby after she died and had no further use for it. No rush. Just staking my claim. When the time came, I announced to my brother as well that the Kirby was mine. He just shrugged. Perhaps he hadn't had my years of experience replacing worn out broken vacuum cleaners, one after the next, fighting to find room in the budget for each one. Each time it happened, I reminded my mom of how well her Kirby was holding up.

We got accustomed to a certain amount of litter on the carpets.

Once Mom died, at the ripe old age of 90, the Kirby stayed with my dad. There was still a need for vacuuming, and he had hired help to assist with the machine. And for those of you who wonder, NO, that had absolutely nothing to do with my taking him into our house for his final 2 1/2 years. Absolutely nothing!

Once Dad died, and Steve and I moved to Arizona, the Kirby came along in the moving truck. With the condition my knees were in, and the fact that by then most of our floors were uncarpeted and could be swept with a broom, the few rugs in the house were very infrequently vacuumed. The Fred fur coating them was a fairly even grey, and one could willfully ignore its accumulation. Until you couldn't anymore. Then the Kirby got dragged out and used.

Fred fur filled a bag fairly quickly. There were replacement bags aplenty, but somewhere along the line, that danged spring that held them in place got so tight, and my fingers lost enough strength, that the bags ripped each time they were changed. Then the belt, like all rubber finally must, discombobulated. I looked up Kirby stores in the area, but the nearest one, far as I could figure, was 30 miles away. I didn't feel like going there. Shopping on line, I managed to find them, but only in bags of ten. Oh well, a forever vacuum cleaner could use ten belts, right?

The problem was, over the intervening years, I had forgotten how to change one. Plus there was that aforementioned finger strength issue. They finally got themselves all straightened out, and suddenly the rugs showed colors we hadn't actually seen in years! Cool!

But then... last spring... there was a little square of hard plastic, the kind that, with opening and closing the top of a daily pill box over a couple of years, gets folded a few too many times and falls of, just so it can get lost on the floor. Somewhere on the rug. Under a chair. Right where the Kirby could suck it up, emit a partial minute of high pitched squeal, and manage, somehow, what over 50 years of use had not managed to do: kill the Kirby.

I changed the bag, since that needed doing anyway. I dug deep into memory and changed the belt, leaving 8 still in the bag hanging in the closet. I grabbed a good pliers (yes, I do actually have a good one. One. Plus a whole lot of others.) and worked it in between the roller and whatever, managing to pull the green plastic piece out, this time to throw it away forever! When I plugged the Kirby back in, it hummed. When I looked where I had been, big clumps of hair had been left behind. Turning it upside down, the roller refused to roll. Nothing was getting swept up.

Kaput.

Since it was spring and we were about to head back north, I just left the Kirby on the kitchen floor in a spot where we wouldn't trip over it while rushing stuff to the car.

Upon return, I looked one day when I had enough energy to examine it again, thinking maybe the fairies had visited over the summer, or maybe I'd just gotten smarter (equally likely), and discovered the Kirby had disappeared. Steve had thoughtfully put it away for me. I guess I had "forgotten" to tell him it was broken.

While Fred was no longer here to shed over everything, we were. There was an amazing amount of crap on the rug that we could no longer blame on the dog(s). Plus the old stuff was still there, along with the miraculous emergence of Fred fur from all the hiding places where it had been holing up during previous sweepings and vacuumings. That, or maybe I was actually right when I claimed the stuff multiplied all by itself without the need for a dog. Hadn't we been calling those clumps of fur "Fred Bunnies"?

It was time to head to the store and find something with a HEPA filter and get rid of all those allergens ... occasionally. The model we wanted was, of course, out of stock in the store. And I, of course, was out of patience. Upon returning home, I turned to my favorite online shopping-for-everything location, eBay. First thing I found, once HEPA was one of the search words, was the model from the store. Now $80 cheaper.

SOLD! Delivery guaranteed in two more days from now. Arrived yesterday.

I let it sit in its box inside the door. I knew what was coming.

Steve was all excited to see it, cutting open 77 feet of tape first thing this morning. Then there was the box fitting snugly inside the box with several other parts boxed, and those not boxed, bagged. Some both bagged and boxed.

I actually found that kinda reassuring.

Assembly, of course, was required.

I'm still not sure what language the instruction book was printed in, but once we flipped it over, we found English. (But why combine those two in particular?)

It had the usual warnings in it about not electrocuting yourself, just in case you can actually find the plug before you've read the rest of the manual. For those unacquainted with electricity, it explained that plugs come with a narrow and a wide prong these days, and it needs to be inserted into the holes in your outlet correspondingly. No, don't file down the wide side to fit. Go hire an electrician if you don't have a wide opening in your wall socket.

I wonder how many lawsuits prompted adding that bit of wisdom.

Next, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, here is your drawing and naming of the parts. We're already in trouble. It points to a tab "A", showing it in an empty space between two other parts. We can see how those two parts fit together, after all, they are the two parts of the handle (Duh), but look as we might, there is nothing either between them or on one end or another that could be remotely considered any kind of tab.

We decided to carry on, though it'll come back to haunt us, since other directions require locating and using this same Tab A. But the next directions required removing a Phillips head screw, inserting the smaller part inside the larger (though that is not how they described it), and reinserting the screw to hold both parts of the handle together.

Bet you think that would be easy, eh? This thing had the most cockamamie design since the axolotl, and after Steve fought with it for ten minutes, then handed it to me for the same, the task finally got accomplished. And please note, no Tab A showed itself at any time during this process.

After figuring out that we couldn't find a couple of pieces that needed to be inserted inside each other because they already came packed inside each other, and unlike the advertising that the HEPA filter was easily rinsed off between uses,  unless of course it was a HEPA filter which couldn't be rinsed but needed to be bought and replaced, which was probably why we couldn't figure out how to remove it for cleaning, we both decided we'd run out of patience with it for the day. Maybe two. Even three.

That's why the story doesn't end yet. The new vacuum is sitting in an infrequently used corner of the living room waiting for us to finish figuring out which parts of its assembly are still required.

And where Tab A is.

A Partial Answer

So I've been to my cardiologist 3 times now. Last week was the echo, this week the stress test one day and results and discussion the next.

First, the good news is my heart is perfectly healthy according to all the tests. There have been no A-fib episodes since late spring, and those were limited to tiny flutters of short duration.

After explaining my recent issues to him, we agreed that perhaps it's as simple as a medication change. The metoprolol slows down my heart, which is necessary when it's trying to gallop down the road three miles ahead of you. It also, however, can make it more difficult  for it to respond to increased demand. You know, like a little bit of exercise. So we're going to cut my dosage to half a tablet twice a day. (In case you were wondering, it only acts for 12 hours, so twice a day keeps it in my system.) I go back in two weeks and report the results.

A possible alternative is cutting the other one, the amiodarone, in half. Since that has worked to keep my rhythm steady for two years, that alternative scares me a bit. My cardiologist likes that alternative better because amiodarone has long term side effects. So we'll be experimenting.

The best part of this is I trust him, unlike my "regard" for my primary physician.  That is in the process of being corrected.

Another possible sign of progress, not fully tested yet, is that I've gotten back behind the wheel again. It's just short stints, but it was me. The one possible glitch seems to be I can't be chatting away and drive at the same time. Maybe that's the slower heartbeat. Maybe I just can't talk and drive. Hey, I've never tested whether I can walk and chew gum either, so who knows where all my limitations lie? Maybe it's all still to be determined. So far Steve still comes along with me, in case.

We'll see what the pulmonologist has to say later this month. Meanwhile I moved some furniture this evening.

Reflexes - Or Not So Much

This happened at another birthday dinner some good friends treated us to, the day before the main event as Steve and I actually had already made plans for The Day.

What drove it home for me was the discussion Steve and I had just that morning. A TV commercial showed a man in his doctor's office, the hammer to the knee, and reflexes so strong his shoe was kicked high into the air. It's not about how stupid the commercial was. It was trying to remember how long it had  been since a doctor had actually checked our reflexes that way.

Years, for both of us. We'd both had no knee reflexes since long before our osteoarthritis had seriously set in. How did they know? And why had they stopped trying?

Back to the restaurant:

Sitting down at the table, the person carrying the tray of beverages made the tiniest of miscalculations and bumped the edge of the table rather than setting the tray on the table. Hey, no blame to him, embarrassed as he was. It happens to all of us. I can personally vouch for that on my own behalf.

What registered for me were my own reactions to the event. Imagine, first, how speedily this all happened in real time. Now imagine me reacting in about the time it takes to read the rest of this.

Oh, I heard a noise. Hmm, I guess the tray bumped the table. Hey, there are a couple tall cups tilting my way. They're probably cokes, knowing what this group likes. Oh, look, there are ice cubes floating across the table towards me on top of the coke. Hey look, it's starting to spill over the table top. The ice cubes are hitting the floor going all over. That coke is hitting my lap. Oooh, it's cold! Hmm, I didn't grab enough napkins to stop the flood. Hey, I guess I could push my chair back and stand up to stem the flow a bit. Yep, it's still cold. Look at that pattern of wet and dry on the front of my shorts. Ooh, I feel it on my ankles too. Let's see, we're not home so there are no towels to take care of this. Oh wait, there are a whole lot of napkins back where we grabbed our forks and, oh yeah, our first batch of napkins, maybe two per each of us, because who thought we'd need more? I guess I could head over there like everybody else and go grab some. Let's scoot some of these ice cubes on the floor out of the way first so nobody falls on them. Like me while I get ready to stand up. Good thing they let you refill your cups here so the two people with cokes don't have to pay for more. Oh yeah, remind the person who spilled the cokes that it's no big deal. It easily could have been me. And has. Plus I'll be dry again before we leave here.

Which I was.

And dinner was great, so an extra "Thank You" to my friends.

Pulling a Trump

I've been raised not to create a scene, particularly in a public place. Sometimes I regret that.

It was the one thing that spoiled a very nice birthday dinner that Steve took me out to on Sunday. It was our current favorite restaurant and the food, as usual was fantastic. Our server was absolutely perfect, plenty of attention without being intrusive, knowing what we needed almost before we did.

In the direction I was facing, I had a complete view of a foursome halfway across the room. My guess is they were about our ages. The meal was over, and after sitting for over half an hour, it can be difficult to get knees and hips working again, not to mention with anything resembling grace.

We know about that. That's us too.

The presumed husband of the 1st pair slid out of their booth first, waiting for his female partner to work her way across the seat, stand securely, and start walking towards the restroom. Needless to say, there was none of the fluidity of a 20-year-old in her movements.

He let her precede him down the aisle, ostensibly a show of good manners. But there it ended. As he followed, by exaggerating her movements, he mocked her every infirmity, eyes on his male tablemate who was his primary audience. He apparently thought he was hilarious, and his cohort did nothing to disabuse him of this idea. He reminded me of nothing more than Trump's mocking of the disabled reporter during his campaign.

I run through the excuses in my mind: I was too far away. I wasn't spry enough to get up quickly and and approach him to chew him out, something starting with, "Hey, Asshole!" or similar. I wasn't skilled enough to lay him out on the floor - a major temptation, let me tell you. The restaurant was too noisy for yelling my contempt across to where he could hear it. Same with yelling over to his compatriot challenging him as to whether he actually thought his "friend" was funny.

I do feel fairly confident that, had I been the woman mocked and caught him at it, I could have turned around and "accidentally" stumbled into slamming a knee into the "wrong" location. After all, none of those parts were anything he was likely to get to use in the near future.

Feel free to define "near" as anywhere from 6 months to ever. And I could easily blame it on the clumsiness he'd been demonstrating to the world so entertainingly on my behalf.

Still Waiting

Still waiting... like many parts of the world. Not for earthquake reports, nor strength and paths of 4 sequential hurricaines, nor body counts of any of them, though I'm waiting for those too, and they help me keep perspective. It's not even that I'm waiting for some actual rain, especially when most nights we get spectacular lightning shows, haboob warnings, and watch weather pass on every side of us but overhead.

I'm waiting for my stress test Monday, of which I won't get the results until Tuesday. Still waiting for the results from my new, local pulmonologist, whom I don't even meet till the end of the month. Then again, that's pretty quick for getting in to see a specialist, unless it's one you meet in the hospital. I've already done that. Not too satisfied with, "We can't find anything to treat you for so go home."

I'm waiting to meet my new primary physician, after the former one (who still thinks he's my current one) excuses failing to refill my prescriptions by laughing it all off with - and I quote - "Do you have any idea how many faxes we get in here each day?" Let me give you a tip, Doc: it's about to become a bunch fewer!

I'm still waiting for some way to do a little exercise - and I do mean little - without running short of breath. And still waiting to feel secure enough to get back behind the wheel again without fear of getting ready to black out. Yep, that's still happening. It's not an altitude thing. I made it two miles last time, before deciding that Steve is our driver for now.

And he's still waiting to get his appointment with his new spinal surgeon for what is likely to be fusion of a couple of discs so he can get off the drugs which make it illegal to drive, without really knocking out the pain, especially when he hits the meerest bump in the road.

So good thing there's great TV on right now to help us distract ourselves... oh wait, there's not. Well, then, good thing there are so many books to read in the house to distract us from, say, worrying about getting to appointments safely and legally, and we're not taking so many pills that we can't concentrate on the words on the page.  Oh, wait, Steve can't do that either right now. I can, and just finished that oh-so-cheery book about a Jewish woman hiding her identity to survive in Germany during WWII. Great book but now I need something a little less edifying, like, say, Judge Judy, where the idiots do a little less harm to each other. After that last book, it gains a certain appeal.

Hey, it's something, while we're still waiting....

Then there's still waiting for the first great-grandchild. Her pictures are adorable. Where does her tiny Mama find all that room?

So Many Harvey Stories

There are so many different Harvey stories. There were the ones showing the cute little tropical depression in the gulf, along with vague promises that it would grow. And land.  And leave, and land again. There are the stories of rainfall records, from bad to what seemed like bragging rights for who got the most water. Ever. There are the folks who left and the folks who stayed, the mandatory evacuations and the idiots who never ordered any because, hey, Texas!

Somehow being bigger magically meant disasters could only be small. You know: Texas!

Cameras had a field day, starting with the obligatory let's-stand-out-in-the-wind-and-water-along-the-beach-and-prove-how-tough-reporters-are-in-the-face-of-Mother-Nature. Because, hey, egos. Because, hey, stupid and unoriginal.

Then photos switched to flooding, how deep the water was compared to cars, street signs, roofs. And how many reporters in waders could step out in a foot of water and pretend bravery. After that, out came the kayaks, the flat-bottomed boats, the huge boats with fans on the back. Then helicopter baskets full of the rescued, dump trucks hauling the hapless around, the overcrowding in shelters and a certain televangelist who refused to open up his massive facility until shamed into it. He even got air time to repeat his defense of how Christian he really was, because, hey, excuse.

Lest you think Mr. Osteen was the only show of selfishness in this saga, note the stories of price gouging. Gasoline in certain stations jumped to $8 a gallon because some folks leave their churches on Sunday and return to worship at the altar of supply and demand all week long. Similar reports filtered in on water and food prices while they could, until free supplies could finally be delivered despite closed highways.

The maps got full play, showing the red bands of heavy rain whirling off the core of Harvey, except that the ones which crossed the border to dump their deluges on Louisiana got no mention because, hey, not Texas.

The rich and famous got their time to shine in the headlines, promising a million dollars here, a half million there, another million and another million from their invulnerable and perfectly coifed photo shoots because they had to be part of the story too. They couldn't just give the funding because it was needed, but likely had their publicists in the background poking them forward for the reflected fame of the biggest story of the week. (Yes, my cynical imagination provides the image of little red tridents. How did you guess?)  Even Trump pledged his million, but with his track record, it either won't arrive or will be other people's money: keep your eye out, folks.

There are still stories to be told. What happens to all those made homeless and destitute next week, next month, once the cameras have turned away to the next big story? There will be a next story, and a next. We as a nation will sit with our eyes glued to our screens, marveling at all the unexpected, horrible things displayed there. Unexpected, because the biggest part of the Harvey and all the other shocking extreme weather stories is simply not being told. The Harveys will keep coming, along with the droughts, the fires, the floods, the mudlslides, rising sea levels, vanishing permafrost, disappearing glaciers, species extinctions... because, hey, climate change!