Tis The Season

 I have the Denver Broncos National Football franchise to thank for giving me the better part of six months of distraction from "the outside world." During this period I watched only bits and pieces of the games that they played, eighteen of them during this past season, due to my inability to stare directly into the glare of the actual competition. This did not keep me from feeling the tension and anxiety associated with spectator sports that many individuals experience by actually watching their favorite team play. Amongst the seemingly endless quirks about my character is this odd fascination/avoidance combination. It makes for some strange behaviors on any given weekend from August through January. 

This past weekend, I enlisted the help of my very patient wife to stare at the goings-on in Mile High Stadium. She understands the significance of the decade that has passed since "our team" has been to the Super Bowl. As I sat in the office, looking for ways to distract myself, she watched the entire second half of the Broncos/Bills game, encouraging me every so often to "come and look at this." Every so often I would stray out of my self-imposed cocoon and watch a play or two. Just enough to feel that creeping pain in my neck from the tension created by caring about a group of men playing football in a city in a state where I used to live more than half my life ago. 

Why should I care? I have been disappointed far more often than I have been brought joy from this association. It is a condition that I was actively attempting to address even as the Denver Broncos continued to find a way to make me care. 

It's just a game. 

The joy I felt when "our team" prevailed was cautiously out of scale for the outcome. There were still games to be played for the victors. Contrastingly, there were tears in the eyes of the quarterback for the Buffalo Bills as he addressed the media. The Bills' coach was fired two days later. For taking his team all the way to the doorstep of a championship. This is, after all, big business and losing is not the way to hang on to a job in the National Football League. And in the midst of the mildly ridiculous euphoria that was my home came the news that Denver's quarterback had suffered a broken ankle and would not be able to participate in any of the games left to be played this postseason. 

Once again I felt relief from having to care, but mired in the past with a heart that somehow continues to bleed orange and blue. This is a legitimate medical condition I can assure you and may be the root cause of all this madness. 

At least that's what I will continue to tell myself for at least one more week. 

Definitely

 I know. There is a convicted felon in the White House whose cognitive abilities have been measured by the ability to identify various sorts of wildlife. "Hey, I know that one! My son shot one of those!"

But maybe, just maybe, we're measuirng the wrong thing. The Montreal Cognitive Assessment is used to detect mild cognitive impairment. 

There is nothing mild about the cognitive impairment found between the ears of the resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. He seems to actually believe that because the winner of this year's Nobel Peace Prize handed it to him, that it transfers to him. This is a guy who openly campaigned for the prize by threatening anyone who had the temerity to disagree with his whimsical notions about international and domestic affairs with military force.

Sure. He knows what a giraffe is, but peace? Please. 

Instead, maybe we should focus on testing for sociopathy. You know, "a pattern of behavior characterized by a disregard for societal norms, lack of empathy, manipulation, deceit, and impulsivity." Does that sound like anyone we know? A sample question: "I’ve always found it easy to convince people to do favors for me." Or how about, " Other people make so many stupid mistakes compared to me." 

I don't know about you, but I would happily take a person who struggles to identify the animals in the zoo as our nation's leader instead of one who would easily agree with the statement, " Some people just aren’t meant to succeed in life, and that’s not my problem."

Convicted felon. Demented? Maybe. Sociopath? Definitely. 

Boldly Going

 A lot has been made of the potential failings of the overwhelmed muscle situated between the "president's" ears. A great many headlines begin by mentioning that this specimen is seventy-nine years old. The wandering off to peer out the window during a meeting at the ruins of the White House with oil executives is a matter of fact. Or the addition of a gold script sign reminding the occupant that they are standing in what used to be "The Rose Garden," to go along with the sign that shows the occupant where the Oval Office is. The fact that there is a sign labeling The West Wing seems particularly ridiculous since there is no longer an East Wing on the White House. Are these literal signs that the convicted felon needs assistance as his mind continues to deteriorate? 

Or maybe he's just stupid. 

But let's not pick on the doddering old pedophile. Instead, let's pick up the thread of dumb at the social media account of the Deputy Chief of Staff, Stephen "Goebbels" Miller. After taking the time to make very specific threats against anyone who stands in the way of the ethnic cleansing he is overseeing, As frightening as this continues to be, the noted Nosferatu cosplayer extended his own particular brand of hate to the Final Frontier. He took to what was formerly Twitter to announce his displeasure with the new Star Trek spinoff, Starfleet Academy. The issue for proto-nerd Stephen is the galactic "wokeness" of this new generation. Ignoring the historic facts of the interracial and gender acceptance found throughout the decades of the Trek-verse, Little Stephen chose to take issue with the three women on the bridge of the newest starship. "Beyond parody," he fumed, and then went on to insist, "But it’s not too late for @paramountplus to save the franchise. Step 1: Reconcile with @WilliamShatner and give him total creative control.”

Nobody mentioned, apparently, to Miller that William Shatner is ninety-four years old, and his last time he showed up on the bridge of any Enterprise was 1994. I would expect that every so often, Bill gets up and stares out the window, imagining there's a holodeck out there. At least he doesn't need a lot of gilded signs reminding him where sick bay is. 

Flock You

 The one finger salute. 

Give someone the bird.

Flip the bird. 

Flip someone off.

Flick someone off. 

Give someone the finger. 

Once, when shown this signal by detention-mate Claire Standish, young John Bender was shocked: "Obscene finger gestures from such a pristine young girl."

Which is essentially the approach I take when I see the bird taking flight on my walks across the elementary school playground. Most of them have no working knowledge of what gesticulation implies beyond the obvious naughty implication. They have seen someone else do it, and they have heard the gasps. They might be years away from uttering any of the variants of the meaning behind that middle finger, but they know it's dirty. Kids flip the bird at each other. They wait until the grownups' backs are turned and they give them the finger. One of the upsides to all this digit manipulation is that it gives a pretty accurate reading for basic motor skills. 

Which brings us to the "very stable genius" who is capable not only of identifying a giraffe, but also capable of maneuvering his fingers into the aforementioned salute. The convicted felon's supporters/handlers must be relieved to know that he is capable of such dexterity after months of concern over the bruises on those tiny little hands. He was able to signal his previously mouthed response at a Ford auto worker who had called him out as a "pedophile protector." 

The Ford employee was suspended directly after this exchange, and shortly after that two separate GoFundMe accounts was set up for him and his family. Donations added up to just over eight hundred thousand dollars. 

I don't know if we can afford to pay off every offended third grader on our playground like that. 

The Wonder Years

 While rambling on about my work history earlier this week, I neglected to give any quality time or words to the five years I spent helping to run a book warehouse in Oakland. This enterprise had begun in Berkeley, and as an employee-owned company birthed in the height of hippiedom, there were plenty of ways in which the business never quite managed to escape its granola roots. I say this with love and affection as this was the first job I had in California, having missed my opportunity to continue my career standing behind the counter of a video store blocks from the apartment where I landed. 

As mentioned in prior posts, my ascension in the ranks from the packing line to assistant warehouse manager was achieved in less than a year. I had arrived at a time when change was on the rise, and I caught that wave, eventually landing in the weekly managers' meeting and then a spot on the Board of Directors. This put me in the position of being part of the team that was going to select the company's first general manager since they had thrown off the yoke of oppression way back in the seventies. Five of us were entrusted with the task of bringing in someone who would steer the ship but always be able to hear the folks back in steerage who were complaining about the direction. 

Thus began a months-long creation of a job description for this duckbill platypus of a position. Eventually we ended up talking into the night about the expectations for our creation. It all came down, for me, about the difference between "power" versus "authority." In my very Jimmy Stewart view of the world back then, I felt that authority was something that was given, while power was often something that was taken. 

I think about those late nights often these days. I wonder how we ended up giving away so much authority to one person, never imagining that this might give that person the chance to grab more power. 

Eventually, we hired a guy we thought could do the job. His salary was, by the metrics set by the hippies who founded the place, enormous. To his credit, he hit the ground running, coming up with all manner of ways to make the book warehouse work. It was not long after that when I left the book business to become a teacher. It was not long after that the book warehouse died of "natural causes." Not enough money. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't hasten that end with my part in the devolution of the employee-owned model. 

And I wonder now about how we ended up picking this new General Manager for our country, even as it tips at the brink of collapse itself. Somewhere in all those high-minded ideals, do we all really secretly want to be oppressed? To have something or someone to blame for our misfortune? 

I do wonder. 

Wheels

 Up until very recently, a law in Los Angeles read:  “No person shall play ball or any game of sport with a ball or football or throw, cast, shoot or discharge any stone, pellet, bullet, arrow or any other missile, in, over, across, along or upon any street or sidewalk or in any public park, except on those portions of said part set apart for such purposes.” If you read that statute and thought, "Hey, this is a law that forbids me to play catch with my kid," then you were paying attention. Violators could be fined up to one thousand dollars and face up to six months in jail. This law was believed to have been enacted some eighty years ago, and fast-thinking City Council members voted to repeal it. 

Something about the wheels of justice turning slowly and all that. 

Right about this same time, Stephen "Nosferatu" Miller issued what he labeled a REMINDER to the goons under his purvey: “To all ICE officers: You have federal immunity. Anybody who lays a hand on you or tries to stop you or tries to obstruct you is committing a felony. You have immunity to perform your duties, and no one—no city official, no state official, no illegal alien, no leftist agitator or domestic insurrectionist— can prevent you from fulfilling your legal obligations and duties.”

It's kind of a shame that he didn't finish up by outlawing hopscotch or touch football. That way the ridiculousness of his pronouncement would have fallen directly in conflict with the hard work of the Los Angeles City Council. Little Steven and his Disciples of Cruel were announcing their position above the law. No city, state, or civilian interference with their stormtrooper tactics would be permitted moving forward. The newly minted notion of "weaponizing vehicles" is not something suited for a Mad Max sequel, they're talking about a Honda Odyssey trying to get past a bunch of masked nincompoops as they terrorize the neighborhood. 

Did I just mention "terror?" Well, yes I did. It was conjugated, but it was the term I used to describe what the Department of Fatherland Insecurity is doing across this land of ours in hopes of making it "great again." 

Great as in, "The stormtroopers are here. Oh, great," with a derisive roll of the eyes. 

The next step for the LA City Council should be to declare its sidewalks sanctuaries. For balls and human beings alike.  

Worst Of The Worst Part Deux

 Jonathan Ross, the ICE goon show shot and killed Renee Good last week, had a GoFundMe page set up on his behalf by supporters who felt that shooting an unarmed civilian three times in the head at close range was an act of heroism. Folks like hedge fund billionaire Bill "Yunz" Ackman and Megyn "You can't spell Megyn without a Y - oh wait yes you can" Kelly promoted the fund because they figure "Officer" Ross might need to buy some more ammunition. 

Ross is alive, by the way, and has yet to see any sort of disciplinary action. He is being kept away from motor vehicles. 

But he is alive. 

And in the middle of the tirade connected to the plea for money for this "victim of domestic terrorism" we find this little bit: "But this didn’t happen in a vacuum — it’s the dire result of anti-American traitors like Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey (who is Jewish) fanning the flames of resistance. Frey blasted ICE after the incident, telling them to ‘get the f— out of his city,’ signing executive orders banning federal agents from using city property for deportations and even warning that ICE agents could get ‘kilted’ if they keep removing invaders from his sanctuary cesspool."

Hold on. Why does it matter if the Mayor Minneapolis is Jewish?

Oh. Just because you walk like a Nazi, talk like a Nazi and quack like a Nazi doesn't you a Nazi, does it?

Which is probably why some of "officer" Ross' neighbors were surprised to find out that he was an ICE goon. He was telling neighbors that he was a botanist. He worked with plants. 

Right.

Fiercely proud of his service to The Party. 

Who knows how many ferns died under his watch?