Darkness

 About a week ago, I wrote about Max Azzarello, the gentleman who set himself on fire outside of the courtroom where the twice-impeached former "president" was on trial for misuse of funds to pay hush money to the adult film actress with whom he had a clandestine affair while his third wife was at home with their new son. I prefaced this story with that of my father's untimely accidental death. 

I compared the ends of my father with Mister Azzerelo's and expressed my distinct lack of sympathy for this guy who set himself on fire. On purpose. At that time, I was struck more by the tragic waste of life than I was trying to imagine what must have driven a thirty-seven year old man to do such a thing. I was angry at the void left by this act of self-violence and the way it rubbed up against the pain I still feel about the way my father passed. 

It was not, as a friend and constant reader pointed out, my most graceful moment. Specifically my penultimate line: Good riddance. 

That was uncharacteristic of me in general, but not completely out of character. I continue to own that sentiment, and have not bothered to go back and edit or reframe it. It was my reaction to the moment in time. Upon further reflection, I can understand how this might have raised an eyebrow or two. Especially since I spend so much time making sense out of so many other's failings or moments of weakness. There certainly might have been a time when I can imagine that I would have made the case for this guy going out in a literal blaze of glory. I might have pointed out that this kind of high profile failure of our mental health system is the kind of thing that could bring much-needed attention to the plight of those suffering from similar afflictions. 

I might have extended my heart. 

In many ways, I failed myself and you readers out there who may be looking to me for wisdom and insight into some of the darker corners of the human psyche. Instead, I opened up the id box and let my own conflicted feelings fly without much, if any, explanation. There it was: my misanthropic snark on display for anyone to see. 

Anyone who stops by here with any frequency, anyway. This is not an apology so much as a check on what I must be thinking. I must be thinking about what happens next. So much of what I see and hear lately puts me on a path where laughter and forgetting is not the easy one to take. I appreciate the reminder that I can be better. 

Sometimes it takes a little more effort. 

On Message

 In 1952, the powers-that-be in the Republican Party created an experience on the newly minted form of social media called "television" in hopes of taking some of the heat off their presumptive vice-presidential candidate. This young senator from California had been accused of improprieties relating to a fund established by his backers to reimburse him for his political expenses. Six weeks before the general election, the Republican National Committee raised the unheard of sum for its time of seventy-five thousand dollars for the air time, and for a half an hour Richard Nixon poured his heart out to sixty million viewers. 

Young Dick spoke of his humble beginnings, and of his family making ends meet: "It isn't very much but Pat and I have the satisfaction that every dime that we've got is honestly ours. I should say this—that Pat doesn't have a mink coat. But she does have a respectable Republican cloth coat." As he was wrapping up the speech, he did acknowledge a gift from a supporter: "It was a little cocker spaniel dog in a crate that he'd sent all the way from Texas. Black and white spotted. And our little girl—Tricia, the six-year-old—named it Checkers. And you know, the kids, like all kids, love the dog and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we're gonna keep it."

The "Checkers Speech" was enough to turn the tide, and Richard Nixon was swept into office with Dwight Eisenhower, setting the stage for what would become, twenty years later, one of the ugliest moments in American politics. 

Until now. 

While the former game show host trots between court appearances, golf dates and rallies to the faithful/deranged, he is on the lookout for a potential running-mate. One of those who have been mentioned on the orange one's short list is South Dakota's governor, Kristi Noem. If you're not as familiar with South Dakota's politics as maybe you should be, Ms. Noem is a firebrand in the MAGAt mold, endorsed by her twice-impeached mentor. She created a stir by being one of the few governors not to issue a statewide mandate requiring face masks in public during the height of the COVID outbreak. 

And now there's this: In her upcoming book, No Going Back: The Truth on What’s Wrong with Politics and How We Move America Forward, Governor Kristi spends several pages describing how she shot and killed her fourteen month old wirehair pointer named "Cricket." Apparently little Cricket wasn't the hunting companion that he was expected to be, preferring to chase and kill the neighbor's chickens instead of the pheasants he was supposed to be chasing and killing. Ms. Noem likened executing her canine to having the ability and willingness in politics to do anything “difficult, messy, and ugly.” It’s not the only animal she chose to sacrifice that day, she wrote: "​​I realized another unpleasant job needed to be done.” That's when she went out and killed the family goat, whom she deemed  “disgusting, musky, rancid,” and had a habit of knocking over her small children and making their clothes dirty. 

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: The recent history of the Republican Party, from Checkers to Cricket. 

Well-Defined

Immunity: 

1. 1.

   the state or quality of being resistant to a particular infectious disease or pathogen.

   "immunity to typhoid seems to have increased spontaneously"
2. 2.

   protection or exemption from something, especially an obligation or penalty.

   "the rebels were given immunity from prosecution"

As I like to say here, from time to time: "I looked it up." 

It is interesting that the first definition applies to the blind-leading-the-blind approach the former game show host took to the COVID-19 pandemic. He stood at a podium and suggested that a bright light might scare away the germs, or maybe an injection of Clorox could clear up any infection. He also seemed worried that wearing a mask would affect the application or over-application of bronzer to his face. 

And then he caught it. On October 2, 2020 this self-proclaimed "very stable genius" showed the world that he was not, in fact, immune to the deadly virus that was raging across the globe. Did this change the scientifically proved non-immune former president's approach to the pandemic? Well, he did get the FDA to approve a horse de-wormer as a treatment. What could it hurt, right?

Now, about this second definition. The Supreme Court had to get in on this one. The twice-impeached, multiple-indicted on state and federal charges guy who sold Bibles to shore up his legal defense fund is now begging the judges, three of whom he appointed, to say that the United States President should be immune from criminal prosecution. As the interpreters of our Constitution, these nine justices will have to decide if it is okay for a President to commit serious crimes. This is coming from a guy who announced before the 2016 election, "I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn't lose any voters, OK?" 

Just as the framers of the Constitution never could have imagined a future where automatic weapons would be used to gun down school children, they could not have anticipated electing a sleazy real estate developer to the highest office in the land, committing crimes as casually as he gives away medical advice, and insist that the rules be changed to suit his malfeasance. These were the guys who worked with a guy who once confessed to chopping down a cherry tree. 

Immune from the truth?

Kid Proof

 We can't have nice things. 

I say this because something always happens. "On accident." 

The quotation marks are there for a somewhat dubious purpose. I cannot say, in my heart of hearts, that when the soccer ball goes flying over the fifteen foot high fence that encircles our playground that there was not an element of chance in the actions of the leg and foot that launched it. Which is essentially the cornerstone of most physical endeavor: The voice inside or outside saying, "I'll bet you can't." 

Imagine the dull surprise with which this feat is met. Each and every time it takes place. Sometimes we are fortunate, and the aforementioned soccer ball, or basketball or football or anything remotely round, ends up on the roof where it can be retrieved by the simple act of climbing up on the roof and fetching it down. A scene which might have a lot to do with the innate reasoning behind the children's interest in putting it up there in the first place. "Look! Mister Caven is up on the roof!" Such a sight can really break up the start of another boring institutional day. 

This is pretty standard stuff, and has been for the years that it has been under my purvey to keep track of those round things. The next level of shamelessness comes from things that cannot be as easily kicked over the fence. An item like a soccer goal, for example, is expected to withstand a certain amount of punishment. We have a school full of burgeoning Messis and Ronaldos. Even those who are content to play within the painted on boundaries of our soccer field are eager to test the limits of the standards at which we put out each day for them to kick the ball. 

It's our fault, really. We see these things in the catalogs they send us and we believe we have finally found a solution to the disposable nature of our playground equipment. The most recent victim of this folly was the "collapsible" pair of goals we purchased back in December. Putting them together the first time inside the relative calm of my empty classroom, I was impressed by the way they seemed sturdy and nominally flexible. I hoped this would allow them to bend but not break. 

This should have sent a warning to that nerve that anticipates the eventual disintegration of all matter. Lord Kelvin might have stumbled upon the Second Law of Thermodynamics much quicker if he had moved his laboratory to an elementary school playground. Entropy always increases. I'm here to tell you. And this phenomena is never more in evidence than when six-to-ten year olds get their hands on anything. 

The discussion around here, as we come tumbling toward the end of another school year is this: Should we buy new goals? We have. Because our students are soccer mad. The follow-up is the one with which we are currently wrestling: Should we set them loose on these nice new PVC pipes and nylon nets? 

It only occurs to me now that we could probably be providing a service here, by allowing PE equipment manufacturers the opportunity to use our playground as a test kitchen. You say the item you have for sale is tested for durability? Let us get our hands and feet on it for a week or so. 

We'll send the pieces back to you. 

Elegy For An Appliance

 Blood, sweat and tears. 

That's what you dealt with. 

You were here before

In the days before the baby

and the dog

And all the mess we could make

You outlasted so many

When we brought you damp

You made it dry

When we brought you soaked

You made it dry

You had the power

And never got the glory

When the rains came

We didn't worry

We could count on you

Thirty years? 

That's a lifetime warranty

Now you're gone

Replaced by a machine 

with buttons and bells and whistles

Maybe someday it will be

As appreciated as you were

But for now

You are

And always will be

Our dryer

Come Together

 The guy who was my first manager at Arby's way back when I spent my gap year slinging roast beef sandwiches at an unwitting public had this little piece of non-beef related wisdom for me: "Don't go to college to party. It costs too much."

The following year I went to college and callously avoided his advice. These were the eighties, after all. I wasn't going to be stuck in my dorm room studying art history when it was Beatles Night at Bennie's Basement. Dollar pitchers all night long. There was a life waiting for me to live/destroy out there. What were grades but an arbitrary judgement placed on my by the man for some bureaucratic record keeping that was no true measure of the depth of my knowledge. 

If I had been that self-aware at nineteen, I probably would have found some other way to display it. 

Like protesting. 

No friends, I am sad to tell you that all that youthful idealism was wasted on my youth. I did not attend anything resembling a protest until after I had graduated and had all that time to pursue my political and social activism. 

Right about the time I sobered up. 

Which brings me to the youth of today. It seems that I am currently reading daily reports of youth unrest on our college campuses. Protests at Columbia University have brought the institution the kind of national attention that no administrator wants. A surge last week in antisemitism on campus and pro-Palestinian protests on and near campus have proved to be a focal point in our nation's fractured ability to "just get along." So much so that Rabbi Elie Buechler, associated with Columbia University’s Orthodox Union Jewish Learning Initiative on Campus, sent out this warning to the school's mostly Orthodox Jewish students: “It deeply pains me to say that I would strongly recommend you return home as soon as possible and remain home until the reality in and around campus has dramatically improved." 

Improved reality. Sounds like something I was working on when I was an undergrad. 

Or maybe they should bring back Beatles Night at Amity Hall Uptown. 

Where Will You Sleep Tonight?

 It would be great if we could elevate the thinking about homelessness in these United States. The number of conservative voices who see fit to assume that not having a place to sleep at night is a moral defect, a choice made by folks who just got tired of having a roof over their head. Very few of these pinheads are making these claims based on any actual experience. Instead, they pontificate from the steps of their summer cottages as they try to decide which bedroom they would like to muss up this weekend. 

Without the hyperbole: The town of Grants Pass, which has no public homeless shelters, effectively banned homelessness by imposing escalating fines starting at one hundred eighty dollars for those who sleep outside. One of the original plaintiffs in the case against the city had over five thousand dollars in penalties before she died. The United States Supreme Court is now hearing the case of the City of Grants Pass, Oregon v. Johnson, in which the justices will determine whether localities can criminalize homelessness by punishing those who sleep out on streets using tents, blankets, or even a piece of cardboard. The court must weigh if doing so when no beds are available violates the Eighth Amendment and constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

Maybe we should start with the level of ridiculousness this discussion entails. If someone is homeless, one expects that they lack the money to pay rent, or to buy a house, or to pay for a room. Fining these individuals is as crass as it is unnecessary. The city of Grants Pass Oregon began aggressively enforcing penalties for sleeping outside on public property, like issuing two hundred ninety-five dollar fines that increase to five hundred thirty-seven dollars if unpaid. Following two citations, the police could then find the homeless person guilty of criminal trespassing, which could lead to up to thirty days in jail and a new one thousand two hundred fifty dollar penalty. 

From people who have no money. The attorneys for Grants Pass argued that they were regulating the "conduct" of sleeping outside, not the "status" of sleeping outside. It was their assertion that  the government could criminalize homelessness, because it is not “a status like drug addiction” but a series of acts that can each be outlawed. 

There are more than half a million Americans who fit the description of homeless as laid out by this case. Breaking the law because they have nowhere to sleep. Human beings. Conduct? Status? Grants Pass has approximately six hundred homeless people living in their midst. Grants Pass has no homeless shelter. How can that be legal?