Bad Crazy

 I know. I'm as guilty as anyone when it comes to poking fun at Republicans for being afraid of electric boats and sharks. Or being attracted to couches and dolphins. On any given day, the stuff that issues forth from the slit just beneath their noses is preposterous if not straight up laughable. 

Remember when the former game show host was joshing his pal Sean Hannity about being a dictator? He then backed up half a step and said he wouldn't. "Except for day one." That little exchange happened more than six months ago. Long before Project 2025 was on everyone's mind, it was being written and researched and created as a template "to lay the groundwork for a White House more friendly to the right." And while the former game show host has danced around the edges of this binder full of bad ideas, the round ball of sycophancy JD Vance was busy scribbling a foreword for a book about it. To wit: "We are now all realizing that it's time to circle the wagons and load the muskets. In the fights that lay ahead, these ideas are an essential weapon." 

See? It's all just metaphorical, right? He's talking about muskets, not AR-15s. He's talking about a fight with "ideas."

Well how about this idea: “I love you Christians. I’m a Christian. I love you, get out, you gotta get out and vote. In four years, you don’t have to vote again, we’ll have it fixed so good you’re not going to have to vote.”

These were the words of that former game show host as he spoke to a conservative Christian group in West Palm Beach, Florida on Friday, July 26. There were microphones in front of him. And cameras. They recorded him as he said them. It's not some dirty little secret. He is officially saying the quiet part loud. 

Not that he ever really had a quiet part. 

Sure, we could go ahead and say that he was "just riffing." Like the nonsense he babbles about Hannibal Lecter. He is the oldest candidate for president in the history of the United States, after all. He's just working the crowd. He's just trying to get a rise out of the media. Or his audience. Or his opponent. 

Doesn't matter. All of those excuses don't make it less of a threat to our democracy to have him get anywhere near the Oval Office again. It's not like the shark thing. It's not like the couch thing. It's like asking to be installed as a dictator. 

It's not just crazy. It's bad crazy. 

Changement

 I marveled, briefly at the sight of Snoop Dogg took his leg of the Olympic torch relay into the heart of Paris. Yes, that Snoop Dogg. The "gangsta rapper" and close personal friend of Martha Stewart. It may seem like forever ago, but there was a time when that "gansta" label was meant to be serious. It's been more than thirty years since Snoop blazed onto the scene, appearing on Dr. Dre's "Deep Cover." On Death Row Records. This was one rough customer. He was charged with first degree murder, but later acquitted. He was a close friend of Tupac Shakur before he was shot and killed. 

Fast forward to 2024, and this same guy is not only proudly carrying the Olympic torch into Paris, but he is also on hand as a special correspondent for the National Broadcasting Company, part of their "Primetime In Paris." 

Things change. 

Now, at the risk of giving you all whiplash, I'd like to transport you all back to 1968. Not Paris, but Mexico City where the Summer Olympics took place that year. Now a couple of names: Tommie Smith and John Carlos. It would be understandable if these men's names do not resonate with you. Snoop Dogg was not even a puppy back then. Mister Smith and Mister Carlos were track athletes on the U.S. Olympic Team. Smith won the two hundred meter race. Carlos came in third. At the medal ceremony, after Smith was awarded the gold medal and Carlos the bronze, the Star Spangled Banner began to play. Both men raised a black-gloved fist in salute with their heads bowed. 

For their actions, the two were expelled from the Olympic Village. Sent home in disgrace. Brent Musburger, then a writer for the Chicago American, described Smith and Carlos as "a couple of black-skinned storm troopers" who were "ignoble," "juvenile," and "unimaginative." 

And that's how things worked back in 1968. 

In 2024, a self-professed gangster is proudly wearing his nation's colors carrying what might be confused with a cartoon-sized joint through the streets of Paris. 

Things Change. 

Seating Chart

 One several occasions I have, in this space, waxed rhapsodic about the days when getting tickets to see your favorite artists depended on just how much you were willing to sacrifice. How long would you stand in line? How long would you sleep in line? How long would you and your like-minded pals take shifts sleeping in line with your sleeping bag and a good book? Just to get seats that were not in the very back row?

Stories. I have stories about those long nights and early mornings and how righteous and triumphant I felt when I walked away from that ticket booth after enduring what can best be described as urban camping. Two things were at play here: The time I had to spend in line and my super power of compulsion. The words "rope drop" in conjunction with Disneyland give me goosebumps. Racing through the Magic Kingdom with a couple hundred other similarly afflicted individuals who got up before dawn just to mill around with the others of like mind. After years of being a responsible husband and parent, slavishly adopting the "no need to rush, it's not going anywhere," I was proud to have raised a son whose need to be up and at the task of bagging as many E-coupon rides as possible before lunch. 

As he grew still older, he got himself a job where he traveled up and down the west coast, and at times across the country. His airline of choice was Southwest. That's because his understanding of just how important being early really means being on time was shaped at an early age. Like his father, he sets alarms to remind him at the moment that he is free to check in twenty-four hours ahead of his flight. In our family, the A group is a badge of honor. The shame that comes with the periodically unavoidable B or even C group cannot be fully explained until you've felt it yourself. Yes, there was a period during which our little sprout allowed us the privilege of pre-boarding, but once he was too big to garner us this perc, we had to resort to the tricks we learned from Springsteen tickets and Space Mountain. It was a game that we were willing to play, and somehow it felt good to be at the front of the line because of the somewhat ridiculous sacrifice of time spent worrying about it ahead of time. 

Well, all good things come to an end. Southwest Airlines announced that their fifty year tradition of open seating was over. No more cattle calls. No more wild attempts to game the system, like showing up in a wheelchair and then walking off the flight without assistance once the destination has been reached. The consumer, the Southwest folks insist, has spoken. They want reserved seats. And if you want really special seats, you can just pay more. You want more? Pay for more. This is what the market will bear. An era has passed. 

I haven't been on a plane for more than a year, and it's been almost that long since I was at Disneyland. But here's another quirk of mine I can confess: When I buy reserved seats for a concert from the relative safety and comfort of my home computer, I still make a point of getting to the venue early the day of the show. I know I've got a saved seat, but I still relish the opportunity to be in it. For as long as I can. 

What's Right?

 A philosopher once said, “Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

The past couple weeks have been a terrific example of this. It was only moments ago that someone took a shot at the oldest presidential candidate. Of course, back then he wasn't the oldest. But by the time the metaphorical smoke cleared, he was. He continues to be. He's also the first former "president" to be tried and convicted of a felony. The only "president" to be impeached not once but twice. The only former game show host to hold the office. These are all distinctions that now hang squarely around the neck of the MAGA movement like a great orange albatross.  A great orange albatross with a combover and an irrational fear of sharks. 

And somewhere, back in that flurry of political machinations, Elon Musk announced that he was starting a Political Action Committee to donate forty-five million dollars a month to the election of that albatross. This was during a window in which it seemed like the wheels had just come off the Democratic Party's presidential hopes. It raised a question about how Silicon Valley types would suddenly become enamored of the MAGAts. Like Peter Thiel, billionaire co-founder of PayPal, who was outed as one of the chief supporters of the political career of one J.D. Vance. Mister Theil, who is openly gay, has donated to conservative candidates and causes including ten thousand dollars to fight Minnesota's Ban on same-sex marriage. Confused? 

This is understandable. It was made easier for me to comprehend how all this could take place when Pete Buttegieg, who is openly gay and Secretary of Transportation, explained it: "I think it's a profound contradiction, but maybe it's not that complicated. I know there are a lot of folks who say, 'What's going on with these Silicon Valley folks veering into Trump world with JD Vance, and backing Trump?'  We've made it way too complicated. It's super simple. These are very rich men who have decided to back the Republican party that tends to do good things for very rich men."

Super simple. 

So simple in fact that it would seem that now Elongated Mush wants to distance himself to what he refers to as the "cult of personality" that surrounds the combed-over albatross. This came in a swirl of a news cycle that included his ugly recounting of how he was "tricked" into signing off on his trans child's gender affirming care, and now he says that person is dead to him, killed by "the woke mind virus."

Life moves pretty fast, but I hope you all have a moment to step away from the news and watch this: 

She's The One

 Well, the "He's old and can't remember things" card was played. 

But the Democrats had a Wild Card. Now it's back to the other guys again.

"She slept her way to the top," insist the red capped minions. Forgetting that their guy is an adjudicated rapist and whose name appears all over Jeffery Epstein's call logs and has had extramarital affairs during each of his three marriages. 

This is knows as a "reverse." 

By not saying anything at all, Democrats have played a "Draw Four."

Leaving the Red Caps to go fishing in their now full hand of card for something to play. Large Marge whispers in somebody's ear to play the "she's unqualified" card. 

Democrats have a resume that includes Attorney General and Senator from California in addition to her term as Vice President of the United States.

Red Caps play J.D. Vance.

Democrats take their time, drawing just the right card.

Republicans and hillbillies take a swig of Diet Mountain Dew to prove that they aren't racist. Then they consider the possibility that their guy could lose to a woman. A smart woman. A smart woman of color. They ask for a clarification of the rules. 

The Democrats toss a "single cat lady" card.

Fear begins to bubble over as the Republicans draw still more cards. Felonies. Insurrection. Sharks. Finally deciding on the "We'll sue you because we spent all this money thinking we were playing against the old guy" card. 

Kamala smiles, and says, "Uno." 

No More Fear And Loathing

 "What are we going to do today Brain?"

"The same thing we do every day: Try to take over the world." 

The lines are being drawn pretty clearly now. The addition of a woman of color at the top of the Democratic Presidential ticket makes the whole election experience quite the contrast from deciding which old white guy to choose. The late great Hunter S. Thompson would probably have plenty to say about fear and loathing on the campaign trail in 2024. We do, however, have the gift of his gonzo perspective to fuel us through the next four months. To wit: “Those who fail to learn from the brutal stompings visited on them in the past are doomed to be brutally stomped in the future.”

There was a time when progressives had an object for their hatred in Richard Nixon. After four years of what was, at the time, the crookedest gang of thieves to slither in and out of the White House, Democrats put forth their best shot at hope and change: George McGovern. It would be difficult to say  whether or not Nixon would have achieved the landslide win without the dirty tricks implemented by CREEP, but it was the machine that eventually broke down and caused the first and only resignation of a sitting President of the United States. If our folk tales are to be believed, it was the efforts of two crusading journalists, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who followed the clues and unraveled the conspiracy that was Watergate. 

But if anyone had been heeding the words of Doctor Thompson, maybe the catastrophe what was the second Nixon administration never would have come to pass. "This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it—that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable. The tragedy of all this is that George McGovern, for all his mistakes and all his imprecise talk about “new politics” and “honesty in government,” is one of the few men who’ve run for President of the United States in this century who really understands what a fantastic monument to all the best instincts of the human race this country might have been, if we could have kept it out of the hands of greedy little hustlers like Richard Nixon. McGovern made some stupid mistakes, but in context they seem almost frivolous compared to the things Richard Nixon does every day of his life, on purpose, as a matter of policy and a perfect expression of everything he stands for. Jesus! Where will it end? How low do you have to stoop in this country to be President?”

Here we are, more than fifty years later, on the brink of a choice for the future of our country. Donald Trump is the product of half a century of Karl Rove-inspired experiments in the creation of a new strain of political predator. More fierce, more defiant, and more amazingly out of touch with the people whom he pretends to care about. For all those folks who insisted that they needed a change, you have one. You have a chance to make something change about America and its leadership. In 2016, we missed our chance. 

Now it's time to make good on all the talk. 

Let's do this thing. 

Highway Miles

 Pardon me while I take a quick break from the fray. 

Not that this post won't dwell on the current experience, but it will be particular to me and without a political bent. 

A few days ago I reported to the Kaiser Injection Clinic because I had been told that without an updated TB test I would not be allowed to teach this fall. I will confess that, for a moment or two, I weighed these options. Not having to go through the relatively painless but mildly arduous task of not only showing up once to get jabbed with a sample of germs in my forearm, but I would have to return two days later for them to inspect the spot where they put that sample of germs in my forearm to give me their official okey dokey to return to my job. 

Oh, and I also needed an updated tetanus shot. Which was just enough leverage to get me up and out and into that chair where I was poked and stabbed and sent on my way. With the promise of coming back in two days for the aforementioned inspection. 

Preventative maintenance, right? Well, I have been recounting more of these incidents lately. They are, I am assured, part and parcel of the aging process. Every bump or bruise could be a sign, a signal of something that could kill me. 

That is not the way I felt back in 1986. When I was still finding my way out of my twenties, I made what could be described as a tactical mistake when I mixed Budweiser, LSD and a swing set.  This became known as "my knee operation." I spent the rest of that summer and into the fall in a brace and on crutches. I worked at home to rehab my knee, and as legend has it, I danced before I walked. 

Then I went back to running. Not fast, at first, but nine months later I was ready to run the ten kilometer Bolder Boulder race with my father. And it would be a tribute to me if I had taken that moment in time to embrace a sober, more cautious lifestyle. 

This was not the case. I didn't do my body any particular favors for a few more years. In spite of major reconstructive surgery on one of my appendages, I assumed that I was for all intents and purposes indestructible. Finding a lump on my tongue? So what. Pass me another beer. Your boss says you need a TB test? Who needs that kind of aggravation? 

Well, here I am. Sixty-two years old and still in one piece, more or less. I do what my wife and my doctor tell me to do, though sometimes begrudgingly. I take the pills and the tests and show up for recommended treatment. And I abstain from swing sets. 

For the most part. 

What Happened?

 The most amusing irony about the CrowdStrike empowered outage that affected millions of computers and their users last week was how Southwest Airlines saved themselves from being part of the catastrophe. Those daffy folks at Southwest had resisted updating their operating system for their machines and consequently missed the bad code sent out by the company whose sole purpose is to secure cyber traffic. 

All those other airlines and companies that relied on being safe from hackers by utilizing the services of a company that likes to promote themselves as "A single agent solution to stop breaches, ransomware, and cyber attacks—powered by world-class security expertise and deep industry experience" were left conspicuously hanging on July 19, 2024. The chaos that ensued was not unlike what was predicted for January 1, 2000. You remember how everyone assumed that planes would fall from the sky and banks would close and no one would be able to have online meetings at the turn of the century? Well, that didn't happen, and happily the planes that were in the air were coaxed back to the ground and everyone's bank accounts remained more or less intact. Those Team meetings? 

They had to be rescheduled. And all those flights that were not in the air but waiting to take off. Those too. The bank accounts were right where they were when the lights dimmed. But for a short period of time, the planet wrestled with the twenty-first century using twentieth century tools. Calls to 911 had to be rerouted. Starbucks customers had to walk up to a human being and ask them to please make them a double frappadolcefina with cinnamon. One of those was perhaps more burdensome than the other. 

For those who had to wrestle with the Blue Screen Of Death, you have my most sincere sympathy. Mac and Linux users? Feel free at this moment to be very smug about your decision to not be part of the milling sheep running Windows and updating it conscientiously. 

Go ahead. 

And remember that this is precisely the kind of thing that brings a nation together. A crisis like this only brings out the best in all of us. Or at least it brings out the pad and paper to add that total up for you manually. 

Now back to that meeting you missed and don't forget to thank your IT guy. 

Bye, Bob

 There were few drinking games as elemental as "Hi, Bob." For those of you who may not have spent their late teens and twenties plumbing the depths of ways to encourage beer consumption, and for those of you who may have chosen to put those memories behind in an hermetically sealed container, here is how it went: Everyone sits down in front of a television. With a beer or two. The rules were simple. Watch a rerun of the Bob Newhart Show and any time someone in that episode said, "Hi, Bob," everyone would take a drink of beer. Not as tortuous as some, but if that episode happened to be centered on a birthday or Christmas party, things could get messy very quickly. Which, for those of us who recall, was the point. 

This is a memory that is in no way to be in any way a diminishment of the genius behind that particular situation comedy. Before I ever used it as impetus to swill beer, The Bob Newhart Show was appointment television. It followed the Mary Tyler Moore Show, so it was what amounted to one solid hour of sure-fire comedy on the Columbia Broadcasting System. I was transfixed. 

As part of just about every episode, Doctor Hartley (Bob) would take a phone call in which only his side could be heard. This was a weekly reminder of Newhart's stand-up act. Imagine how entranced I was to find out that he had once done a bit about a security guard at the Empire State Building calling his boss to let him know that a giant ape was climbing up the outside. This was my entrée into The Buttoned Down Mind of Bob Newhart. This gave me insight into what my parents were talking about when they were watching Bob over my shoulder. 

And if that weren't enough, Bob returned to CBS four years after his eponymous show left the air, in a new sit-com, this time with the catchy title of Newhart. He wasn't married to the same lady, and to avoid confusion his character's name was Dick Loudon, who is not a psychologist but an innkeeper in Vermont. This did not keep those with fragile mental states out of the picture. Quite the contrary. Dick was surrounded by a local loons and quirky staff that made the slow burn, for which Bob Newhart was so famous, inevitable. 

All of which adds up to a Hall of Fame Comedy career. Or if you prefer, Komedy Kareer. But I like to think that the most impressive thing about Bob Newhart was his decades-long friendship with "Mister Warmth" Don Rickles. 

It would be a little against character to suggest that the king of quiet pauses stomped on the Terra, but the path he blazed was that of a Titan. Bob gave the world ninety-four years and laughs that will keep on coming for years to come. 

Aloha, Bob. Now drink. 

Reset

 I'd like to let you in on a little secret: Sometimes when I walk into the kitchen I stand there. After a few moments, I walk back out again. It is usually at the moment that I enter another room that I remember what I went into the kitchen for in the first place. 

I am sixty-two years old. 

Once upon a time, there was a comedian or two who made lots of jokes about Ronald Reagan being too old to be President of the United States. One of them suggested that his father was seventy years old and they wouldn't let him near the TV remote. 

Ronald Reagan was sixty-nine years old when he took the oath of office for the first time. When he completed his second term, he was seventy-seven years when he left office. 

Joe Biden was seventy-eight years old when he took office. 

Okay. No more secrets. Joe Biden is probably the most hard-working and conscientious president that this country has had since Jimmy Carter. His record of public service is one that will be difficult to recreate in this media-crazed new millennium. There is a reason why photos of Franklin Roosevelt in a wheelchair were not readily available during the four terms he served. With polio. 

Joe Biden does not have polio. FDR was sixty-three years when he died. 

Okay. 

Being old does not mean unfit. But you have to play the media game which seems to value random ramblings about sharks and Hannibal Lecter over thoughtful pauses. Convicted felons over public servants with conviction. Chaos over order. Joe Biden led us all out of four years of bedlam and put us back on a path toward the ideals that he himself holds dear. He was the man who stood up to the hate and fear that had been stirred for years even as he attempted to take the office to which he had been elected. It's hard not to feel like this is a bit of a surrender, but if it's a battle and not the war I'm okay with that. 

Time to look forward, but remember how we all got here. 

Not Everything's Legal In New Jersey

 Senator Bob Menendez was found guilty on all sixteen counts for which he was indicted. These include bribery, extortion, wire fraud, obstruction of justice and acting as a foreign agent. When his sentencing comes up at the end of October, he faces decades in prison. 

Decades. 

Senator Bob was "disappointed" with the jury's decision. “I have every faith that the law and the facts did not sustain that decision and that we will be successful upon appeal,” said an assuring Senator Bob. 

Did I mention Senator Bob is from New Jersey? Did I mention that he is a Democrat? 

Other Democrats lined up to insist that Senator Bob resign from the Senate. Meanwhile, Senator Bob is running for a fourth term. The election will be held one week after his sentencing. Doesn't that sound like an interesting scenario? 

Which brings us to the song and dance about a "two-tiered system of justice." This phrase gets tossed around when one party is pointing fingers at the other. But it would seem that guilt is guilt, and even the most expensive lawyers can't always keep folks who end up holding gold bars that used to belong to foreign agents out of jail. But, you can invest in even more expensive lawyers to drag out what is essentially inevitable. Harrison Williams Jr., a former senator from New Jersey, resigned back in 1982 and eventually went to prison for twenty-one months after being found guilty during the ABSCAM operation back in 1980. 

New Jersey. 

You have to go back to 1862 to find an expulsion from the United States Senate. That was when ten senators were given the heave not because of any gold bars or suitcases filled with cash but because they were loyal to a little group called The Confederacy. 

The sentencing of (checks notes) the Republican nominee for President was postponed after his pals in the Supreme Court muddied the waters of immunity. The new date for this convicted felon to find out if he will have to go to jail is September 18, "if it happens at all." Meanwhile, this Supreme Immunity was directly responsible for the dismissal of the classified documents case against (checks notes) well, you know. And you'll never guess who appointed the judge who made that ruling. That one took place in Florida. Just like New Jersey, but with better beaches. 

Opinion

 I'm going to throw this out on the metaphorical stoop and see if the allegorical cat licks it up:

No one deserves to be shot. 

TanDaGod, an East Bay rapper, was shot and killed last weekend. She was attending the Grand Opening of Glamor Beauty Supply on Telegraph Avenue this past Saturday when someone came through the gate and started shooting. The gunman wasn't shooting at anyone else. He was just shooting at her according to eyewitness accounts. TanDaGod, whose real name was Alliauna Green, had been invited to preform because she was an outspoken advocate for black-owned businesses. The owner of Glamor Beauty Supply worried that no one would come to her shop now, fearing for their safety. 

There were those who said that a verbal altercation led to the rapper's death. Which is the story of far too many young people in the East Bay. A war of words ends with a hail of bullets. For far too many folks in the United States this is known as "conflict resolution." 

Meanwhile, the chicken/egg debate continues to be had about whether its the guns or the people doing the killing. Perhaps we can agree to the middle ground: people with access to guns kill people. 

I mention all this because of what I feel is a very unsettling conversation taking place in living rooms and on street corners around the country. And on stage. In Australia. Over the weekend during a break in a Tenacious D concert in Sydney, Jack Black presented his bandmate Kyle Gass with a birthday cake. Gass was encouraged to make a wish, to which he responded, "Don't miss Trump next time." So taken aback by this over-the-top response, Mister Black announced that he would be cancelling the rest of the shows on the tour, leaving his thirty year partnership with Gass in doubt. 

Jack Black is by no means a fan of Donald Trump. He has referred to him openly as "a threat to democracy" and made numerous appearances in support of President Biden. But this was apparently beyond the pale even for the star of Shallow Hal. 

Corey Comperatore, a firefighter from Buffalo Township, Pennsylvania did not deserve to be shot. 

TanDaGod, East Bay Rapper, did not deserve to be shot. 

Donald Trump, yes him, did not deserve to be shot. 

Anybody check on that cat yet? 

Lotsa Litmus

 So there's this thing called the litmus test. Not the literal one in which we use litmus to test for acidity, but the way we choose candidates. Before the events that resulted in the former game show host getting an unauthorized ear piercing, leaving one of his followers dead, there was this matter of who would be the twice-impeached former president's running mate. 

A lot of names were bandied about. Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina who also served as ambassador to the United Nations in the previous administration. She didn't pass the test to which I previously alluded because she had the temerity to run against her former boss in a series of Republican primaries a few months ago. She won the one they held in Washington, DC. She also won in Vermont. She was, ever so briefly, the second place to the man she said was "unhinged" and "not qualified" to run our country. 

Ms. Haley will not be on the Republican ticket this November. 

Neither will any of the other folks who ran campaigns for a year or so just to see their momentum crushed by the inevitable that has been and continues to be MAGA. People whose names you might recall, like Chris Christie, Vivek Ramaswamy and Ted Cruz will be on the outside looking in as the Grand Old Party heads into the fall with all the potential distractions that might come from anybody who might possibly outshine their Chosen One eliminated. What once looked like a hot ticket, Kristi Noem found out that being unapologetic about shooting puppies isn't the look her party is after. 

So when the nod went to J.D. Vance, junior senator from Ohio, it became clear that the best path was the one that wouldn't ruffle any feathers or upset anyone with pets. His election to the Senate in 2022 was his first public office, which means he has only a couple years of laundry to sort. He did write a best-selling book, Hillbilly Elegy which was turned into a feature film directed by Ron Howard. A Ron Howard directed film that has the distinction of being the lowest rated of all his movies on Metacritic. But maybe that's Opie Cunningham's fault, not J.D. Back in 2016, when he was an author and not a politician, he called himself a "Never Trump" guy. During this time, he could not be described as "a fan." 

But things change, and sometimes to get ahead in this hurly-burly world of politics, you need to be a leopard with Velcro spots. By 2020, those spots spelled out MAGA, and he voted for the only former president to be convicted of a felony. By the time he climbed onto his own campaign bus in 2022, he was ready to whatever it took to gain favor from the MAGAMaster, who was more than willing to endorse him as long as he played his role well. This might be why another former Republican presidential nominee, Mitt Romney once said, "I don't know that I can disrespect someone more than J.D. Vance." 

But maybe the most important thing to come out of Senator Vance's mouth in terms of qualifying him to be the GOP Vice Presidential Candidate would be this: insistence that if he would have been vice president back in 2020, he would not have certified the election results. Like the guy who was threatened with lynching because he did. 

Careful what you wish for there, J.D. That's a lot of litmus. 

I Was There

 Sooner or later, everything ends up on Al Gore's Internet. 

It's an information sponge. 

To wit: I was idly searching about on the waves of the world wide web the other day when what should appear but the Colorado Triple A State Basketball Championship from 1979. Someone had taken the mild effort of uploading the entire game between Boulder High and Regis. Complete with play by play commentary by Mike Hafner and a smattering of local commercials. 

I had never seen the broadcast. 

Because I was there. 

In the last six seconds, Doug Wilson sank two clutch free throws to tie and then win the game. I was sitting in some pretty bad seats along with the rest of the Boulder High Pep Band, but it didn't matter. 

I was there. 

It would be the third state basketball championship for Boulder, and as of this writing, the last. They got close the next year. In 1980, they were favored to win their second title in as many years. But I wasn't there. Not for the beginning anyway. For reasons recounted elsewhere, along with a couple of friends, I was late getting there. The Boulder High Panthers lost to Green Mountain. By a lot. 

I have not made any effort to find a recording of that game. That was my senior year and the high point of my vicarious sporting life was ruined in that one night. Championships would elude me and the teams that I followed for another decade. The Golden Buffaloes winning the National Championship of college football. The Super Bowls won by the Denver Broncos. There was even a World Series win for the Chicago Cubs. 

But back in 1979, that was my first taste. And to think I found it on Al Gore's Internet. 

Bad Sign

 It wasn't until the morning after that I had this memory: My Volkswagen had expired somewhere west of Tulsa, Oklahoma. I coasted to the shoulder, pulled on the emergency brake and got out. Right behind me were my two college buddies with whom I was making a pilgrimage to a Muskogee high school football game. Ever hopeful that it would be something simple like a loose wire or a big "reset" button, I opened up the back lid to inspect the engine. It was my friend, the Okie from Muskogee who summed it up, "Hmm. Flames. That's not a good sign." Before I considered all the potential harm I might be doing us all, I blew out the fire not unlike a birthday candle. 

We did not make it to the football game. 

The reason for me to have this memory jogged was the moment my wife said, "There's a car on fire next door." This was a lot of information to take in at one thirty on a Saturday morning. I got the "on fire" part. That was enough to get my body up off the bed and lurching into something approximating verticality. Now I just had to take in the rest. Car? Not ours. Our car was not next door. Which next door? We are sandwiched between two apartment buildings? My freshly opened eyes began to take in what my wife had seen. Not outside our bedroom window. Outside our living room window. 

Meanwhile, my very clear-headed wife had already called 911 and was grabbing the fire extinguisher from beside our refrigerator. I was stumbling toward the front door to get a look at just how big a car and how big a fire we were talking about. 

The front end of our neighbor's SUV was fully engulfed. The flames had begun to melt the plastic on the cars next to it. I stepped back inside to put on a jacket, as I was standing on our front porch in my pajama pants. This is when my wife passed me the fire extinguisher. It might as well have been a giant zucchini or a coffee grinder. My brain was not grasping the full scope of what was going on in front of me. 

"You just pull the pin," she told me as she retreated back into the house, "I'm going to put some pants on." 

Down the front steps I went, fumbling with the device that was designed for putting out grease fires in the kitchen, not for a fully engaged car fire. That's when the first tire blew. Then the fire truck pulled up. I stood there in my driveway watching professionals do the job for which they were trained. When the second tire exploded, the fireman closest to it didn't even flinch. I felt pretty silly standing there with my little extinguisher. 

And just like that, the fire was out. The smell of burned plastic mingled with that of the charred fence. Most of the residents of the apartment building were now assembled loosely in the parking lot. Grateful that no one had been hurt. Relieved that the relative calm was returning. 

I knew our neighbor was going to have a rough week ahead, dealing with reports to insurance and fire and police and back to insurance again. I'm guessing she won't be going on any road trips to Oklahoma any time soon. 

Stretching The Definition

Hey - I looked it up so you didn't have to. Heritage: "property that is or may be inherited; an inheritance." Or, "a special or individual possession; an allotted portion."

Foundation? "the lowest load-bearing part of a building, typically below ground level" or "an underlying basis or principle." 

Put 'em together and what have you got? "A research and educational institution whose mission is to build and promote conservative public policies, based in Washington, D.C."

Does this make sense? Upon whose heritage is this foundation built, anyway? Probably the upper class white guys who we so often refer to as "the founding fathers." The ones who wore wigs and stockings and owned slaves and had wooden teeth. And owned tobacco plantations. The Heritage Foundation has a history of opposing tobacco control measures and taxation, and has been funded by the tobacco industry. In 2017, the Heritage Foundation published a paper that suggested that Congress and the Trump administration should embrace tobacco harm reduction as a way to help smokers quit and reduce regulatory burdens. In 2019, the Heritage Foundation also published a paper that criticized the FDA for not embracing alternatives to nicotine delivery, such as e-cigarettes, and for demonizing them. 

And if that were the end of it, maybe it wouldn't be so frightening to think that a group of conservatives were trying to push their far-right notions on us. Installing Trump loyalists at every level of government? Putting the Department of Justice under the President's control? Criminalizing abortion drugs? 

Hold on a second. Let's talk about that abortion thing for just a second. There were no laws forbidding abortion in America until the mid 1800s. Reproductive care including abortion was unregulated back then. It was provided by skilled midwives, nurses, and other unlicensed women’s health care providers. It wasn't until around the time of the Civil War that the Catholic Church started to push their way into the states' decisions to outlaw the procedure. Oh, and don't forget about having all public school kids being required to take military entrance exams. 

Is this the heritage we are hoping to return to? And what about all this fuss about our traditional AmericanTM Values? At this point I feel compelled to recall the words of one of this country's finest soldiers, John Winger, who said "We’re Americans, with a capital ‘A’, huh? You know what that means? Do ya? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We’re the underdog. We’re mutts!" 

Because that's our true heritage. And we've been making it up as we go along for two hundred and fifty years. So shut up with your "Heritage Foundation" already. 

Special Appearance

 The death of Shelly Duvall last week brought back a few memories. The initial one was standing in front of a shelf full of Faerie Tale Theater VHS tapes at the video store where I worked during college. Ms. Duvall produced twenty-five live action versions of fairy tales that weren't exactly for children, but over five years she starred in three of these and introduced each episode. The one I remember best was her take on Pinocchio, with Paul Reubens as the puppet who wanted to be a real boy, and Carl Reiner as Geppetto. Reubens was manic as ever, but Reiner had the best line: "You know how those boys are - especially the wooden ones." 

And wouldn't that be enough? But Shelly Duvall will forever be remembered by most sentient beings as the tormented wife of writer Jack Torrance. No? How about "Wendy in The Shining?" Better? Sadly, Shelly may be best remembered for her terrified shrieks and hand-wringing in this film rather than so much of the rest of her work. 

What am I talking about? Well, for my money when you're talking about actors who embodied the role for which they were chosen you have to start with Sean Connery as James Bond. Right after that comes Shelly Duvall as Olive Oyl. It was the other movie she made in 1980: Popeye. This was one of seven collaborations she made with director Robert Altman, starting with Brewster McCloud way back in 1970. She was also in Nashville, and McCabe and Mrs. Miller, and Buffalo Bill and the Indians. All of these are certainly noteworthy, but Shelly's turn as Olive was one of those rare moments when an actor simply became the character that was being portrayed. Back in 1980, I believed that Robin Williams could do no wrong, and I bought my ticket to see him. When I left the theater, I was singing along with Olive. 

It is interesting that one of my friends harbors a grudge against Shelly Duvall for playing Wendy in The Shining. He had read the novel before going to see the film, and was put off because author Stephen King describes Wendy as "blonde and very beautiful." Shelly was a lot of things, but she certainly wasn't blonde. As for her beauty, I can only say that it was uncommon. More often than not, she was "the other girl" as she was cast in Steve Martin's Roxanne. In 1987, who's going to remember the other female lead when Daryl Hannah is prancing around in a bathrobe? 

No matter. Shelly Duvall left her mark. She danced lightly across the Terra, but her path is easy enough to follow. She will be missed. Every time I think of Sweethaven. 

Sadly

 There are all kinds of ways that the events of July 13, 2024 could affect the way things turn out in November. In one particular version of the aftermath of the attempted murder of Donald Trump, the presumptive candidate for the Republican Party could have expressed his regrets.

He could have used this opportunity to announce his shame for the way his words had promoted such anger and hate that he could have become a target for an assassin's bullet. He could use this chance to examine how his rhetoric could have incited so much rage that he became a target for that kind of murderous intent. 

Furthermore, in the wake of becoming a victim of gun violence himself, he might feel compelled to rethink his own stand on the Second Amendment. Maybe our love affair with guns and the way America has become all too familiar with the all-too-easy version of problem solving that he would announce that background checks turn out to be a very important thing and that civilians do not need access to weapons that could be used for the killing of other civilians. 

This might trigger further remorse for his prior commitment to violent change. Like the events of January 6, 2021. Telling those who follow him to take to the streets, to match on the Capitol and "firght like Hell" could have been just the kind of incitement to riot that put a match to the feelings he so carefully set up in the first place. 

The essentially needless death of two fellow Americans, one of whom was an innocent victim there at the rally to support the ex-president. Two more victims suffered critical wounds during the melee, simply because they wanted to be part of the circus-like atmosphere that he commands. The gunman, only twenty years old must have been affected in some horribly powerful way to have attempted to kill such a heavily guarded individual. 

Donald Trump could use this moment to rethink his whole campaign. His whole adult life. What if someone hated you so much that they wanted to kill you? Would't that give you pause? 

Or would it give you the martyr's role, with the raised fist and bloodied shirt? In one version of the next few months, there might be quiet contemplation of all the ways and words that led us to this point by the man who spoke them. 

I do not expect that this is how things will go down. 

Conjecture

 If you're a fan of Marvel comics, you may have stumbled upon their series titled "What If..." As the title suggests, the reader was given a hypothetical situation into which each issue would delve. One such example was "What if Spider Man joined the Fantastic Four?" I can't remember if this necessitated rebranding or new costumes had to be sewn up, but for a few dozen pages we got to see your friendly neighborhood wall-crawler mixing it up with the Invisible Girl and the Thing. Captivating for those of us who may have wondered about such things. Then there were those that proposed something a little darker, toying with life and death. What if Uncle Ben had lived? What if the Invisible Girl had died? The series gave us all a break to pretend something different from the pretend world we had been so carefully following. 

But one of my favorite stories from the What If... files was "What If Captain America Had Been Elected President?" Happily for me, the entire plot does not center on meetings in the Oval Office. Having a super hero for Commander In Chief brings out that certain element that eventually moves beyond the question of diplomatic relations with the recently reformed democratic nation of San Pedro. I won't spoil the ending in case you're interested in finding out just what might happen if Captain America had been elected President, but I can say that anyone who has spent a chunk of his life actively punching fascists would have my vote. 

Which brings me to the most recent version of "What If...?" This one is not sponsored by the folks at Marvel, but rather all the pundits and talking heads on both sides of the aisle. What if Hillary Clinton ran for President in 2024? What if Kamala Harris took over for her boss? What if Michelle Obama decided to take her shot? What I like about all of those suggestions is that they suggest that the time is long overdue for the United States to have a woman in the White House for something other than flower arranging and standing by her man. The Hillary thing is especially enticing since it offers up a special slice of a dish best served cold: Revenge. 

Of course, these are not the only names on the list that seems to grow each day since Joe Biden's series of senior moments. Gavin Newsom, Pete Buttigieg, and Steve Rogers have all been mentioned in this same flurry of Democratic speculation. 

Wait a minute? Steve Rogers? Isn't he...

What if? 

Where's Waldo?

 I am happy to say that some eighteen years ago I had the good taste and cleverness to write a little piece here about what Reader's Digest used to refer to as "My Most Unforgettable Character." That person's name was James Walton. Those close to him referred to him as Waldo. 

My initial contact with Waldo was as an employee under his supervision at one of the three Arby's restaurants he supervised. He split his time between the three stores, but I knew which one was his favorite. Because he told me. The quirky group of young people who were finding their way into adulthood by working shifts in a fast food joint were all the more quirky because of the leadership they enjoyed. Working a lunch shift with Waldo was always easier than any other day because it was entertaining. I knew that he too had started out as a "Tuna" as new recruits were called. He had worked the counter and cleaned the shake machine and wrapped more Beef 'n' Cheddars than I would see in a lifetime. He had made a career out of what for so many was a summer job. 

And all of that would have made him one of my favorite bosses, but the fact that he invited me into his life as he was trying to fine-tune his role as husband, father and grownup gave me a real leg up on what was ahead of me. He had made his way through the University of Colorado where I was trying to find a path of my own to a degree. He told me stories about getting stoned and sitting down in front of Star Trek reruns with a set of colored pens to do his Egyptology homework. Waldo told me his professor  was so impressed with his hieroglyphics that he was offered a major in archaeology. Another time he spun a tale about dropping acid with a friend and riding in the front seat of Mister Twister at Elitch Gardens. Each time the roller coaster came to a stop, they handed the guy running the ride another handful of tickets, insisting that they weren't ready to get out just yet. 

As I said, he did find his way to marriage and fatherhood, and eventually divorced fatherhood. It was his discovery as divorced dad that you didn't have to form the meatloaf into just a loaf. He made his into a bunny, which allowed him to ask his pre-teen daughters to "please pass daddy an ear." It was around this time that he gave up being manager of a fast food franchise and became the owner of a fast food franchise. On Tuesday evenings, I would drop by the mall which housed his Taco John's and have a churro, but only after stopping next door for a couple slices of pepperoni and a large cola product at the pizza place he ran as well. The price I paid for this pit stop? An hour or so of witty conversation, and a series of cartoons I drew on paper plates that would eventually adorn the service area of the pizzeria. 

Waldo was there at my thirtieth birthday party. He brought along the crew from his fast food palaces, with whom I had become friendly from my weekly visits. This was also my bon voyage soiree as well, preparing to make that jump to California and whatever adulting I might encounter with my girlfriend and the rest of my life. But we didn't part ways exactly. My mother, who had just recently become a divorced person herself, was happy when Waldo became a car salesman and was able to be the friendly face when her Dodge Neon wasn't cooperating. 

It was in that showroom that we encountered one another last. On a visit back to Colorado, I brought my son to meet the man who had been such a guiding light in my life. Waldo was happy to share the wonders of the automotive world with my nascent gear head. Our chat was like no time had passed between us even though the circumstances certainly suggested otherwise. 

This past Sunday I got the news that James Walton had passed away. My older brother sent me the news. At first it was hard to imagine. This giddy force of nature, the man who taught me that carrying a clipboard is what made you a manager, and that no matter what the price you should always put the word "only" before it. "That will be only five hundred and twenty-nine dollars," was gone. 

Because he's not, really. He lives on in the hearts and minds of anyone who has sat still long enough for me to tell any of these stories. His stomping on the Terra made me aspire to do just the same. And oh my, yes, he will be missed. 

Aloha, Waldo. 

Neo-Nothing

 Let's talk Nazis. You remember them. The bad guys in half of the Indiana Jones movies. 

Bad guys. And not just in the movies. These were the folks who were members of the National Socialist German Workers' Party in the nineteen thirties and forties. They were the reason for the world to go to war a second time. With an eye toward global domination, they made a pretty solid start before being pushed back to their bunkers where they were eliminated. 

The good guys won.

So what is all this about Nazis marching through Nashville just last weekend? Sure, we call them "neo-Nazis" now and they don't seem to be as big a threat as the Third Reich. Not yet, anyway. But there were dozens of masked men in matching outfits carrying flags of various permutations, chanting their greatest hits, and calling themselves Patriot Front. This demonstration followed one back in February by a group called Blood Tribe. In Nashville. Before that it was the Proud Boys. It seems that Tennessee is a pretty popular spot for white boys filled with hate and matching khakis to strut their stuff. 

Which would be easy enough to tolerate if there wasn't so many threads that lead back to the Far Right "Christian Nationalist" movement so prevalent among the MAGA crowd. I have written here before about the hyperbole of the term Nazi. Anecdotally I can tell you that I was asked by my wife to stop referring to her as The Recycling Nazi because it turns out that not only is it not as funny as it may once have been, but Nazis don't really seem to be that concerned with our planet's sustainable future. 

Instead, they seem to be of the opinion that a white Christian nation is what our founding fathers had in mind when they drew up the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. Never mind that "all men are created equal" jazz. We can just skip over that part and get right to ignoring the separation of church and state. In 1930's Germany, the Great Depression was helpful in driving people to the Nazi Party because it gave them someone to blame: Marxists and Jews. It would seem that the conditions over the past ten years here in America have been sufficient to increase enrollment among hate groups. During the first year of the Trump administration, the number of Neo-Nazi groups jumped up twenty-two percent. 

What if there was a second Trump administration? 

Let's not find out. These are the bad guys.

Right? 

The Rock

 Pick up a rock. Take it to the edge of a lake. Toss it in. Bloop. The rock sinks to the bottom. Hypothesis confirmed. 

Fifty-five years ago next week, Apollo 11 blasted off from the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. This was significant because it was the culmination of a pledge made by the late president for whom the launch facility was named. "We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard." So hard, in fact, that three astronauts died in the run-up to the launch of July, 1969. The two years between the tragedy that was Apollo 1 and the eventual full-fledged attempt to land a man on the moon was a series of testing and calibration that let the stage for one of the hardest things man had attempted to do. 

On July 16, 1969 Michael Collins, Buzz Aldrin, and Neil Armstrong left their home planet behind to do something no one had ever done before. On July 20, Aldrin and Armstrong landed on the surface of the moon. On July 21, Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. For a very brief moment, the world was in awe. How could this be? If man were meant to fly, he would have wings. It wasn't long after this that conspiracy theories began to arise, primarily based on the brewing mistrust of all governmental agencies. If they could lie about the Vietnam War, why couldn't they lie about this? And who really believes that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone when he killed the guy for whom the launch facility for those so-called Moon Landings took off? 

For fifty years, the idea that the Eagle landing at Tranquility Base was all just a hoax has been a rumble heard not just here in America, but across the globe. A 2018 poll taken in Russia suggested that fifty-seven percent of those asked believed that the moon landings were fake. Note the use of the plural there: Landings. We got so good at landing on the moon that we did it six times. It would have been seven if Tom Hanks hadn't gotten it into his head to go. 

But that's the rub, isn't it? The film 2001: A Space Odyssey premiered a full year before Aldrin and Armstrong's feat, and it made all kinds of scientific sense but it was all done on soundstages and in miniature. Who's to say that Stanley Kubrick didn't just whip up a bunch of deleted scenes and pass them off to NASA to save a little money on the back end? And when Hollywood tried to give us yet another chance to get in on the conspiracy in 1977 with Capricorn One, we still weren't ready to buy the clue? 

Okay. Now back to the lake. 

This time, take a moment to pick up a very flat rock. Put it in the crook of your finger and fling it sidearm out across the surface of the lake. Watch gravity be defied as it skips across the water. It's all about the fling. 

Limited Vision

  “I know nothing about Project 2025. I have no idea who is behind it, I disagree with some of the things they’re saying and some of the things they’re saying are absolutely ridiculous and abysmal. Anything they do, I wish them luck, but I have nothing to do with them.”

This is the logical fallacy that the convicted felon and former game show host used to distance himself from the playbook crafted by the Heritage Foundation to fill the executive branch with thousands of Trump loyalists and reorient its many agencies’ missions around conservative ideals. How can you "disagree with some of the things they're saying" when you "know nothing" about it? Admittedly there are plenty of things that twice impeached former "president" knows nothing about, but that doesn't seem to keep him from talking about them, but to go on and say that he has no idea who is behind it? 

Right there on the Heritage Foundation's web page you'll see Spencer Chretien smiling out at you, with his resume just below, "From 2020-2021, Chretien was a Special Assistant to President Donald J. Trump and Associate Director of Presidential Personnel, helping to identify, recruit, and place hundreds of political appointees at all levels of government." 

This "Mandate For Leadership" proposes reclassifying tens of thousands of merit-based federal civil service workers as political appointees in order to replace them with those who will be more willing to enact the wishes of the next Republican president. Heritage Foundation president recently stated, "We are in the process of the second American Revolution, which will remain bloodless if the left allows it to be." Meanwhile, the list of advisors for this special plan includes not fewer than twenty former members of the Trump administration. 

And yet he has "no idea who is behind it." Which might make Spencer Chretien a little sad, since he argued that it was "past time to lay the groundwork for a White House more friendly to the right." More friendly for the right, but certainly not more friendly to affordable health care, the Departments of Education and Homeland Security, affirmative action and DEI programs. Any "very stable genius" could take a moment or two to scan the web page to get just a whiff of what might be in store if there was a Republican president elected in 2024. Providing that that "very stable genius" could read. 

Or maybe we should simply take the orange wad of hate's word for it. But not knowing really shouldn't qualify as an excuse, should it? 

Hot Enough For Ya?

 Congratulations! You made it through the bulk of the summer which, in case you are unfamiliar with my calendar, included Flag Day, My Birthday, Father's Day and The Fourth of July. Now all you have to do is survive until Labor Day and you're home free. 

It's practically Fall!

Now, if you got stuck at the phrase "survive until Labor Day," you must be one of those "readers" who expect me to explain. 

So here goes: For only the second time in one hundred years, a category five hurricane has rolled into the Gulf Of Mexico last week, leaving at least two dead in Jamaica with thousands left homeless from the destruction. 

In Death Valley, California temperatures toyed with the one hundred thirty degree mark, making it  the hottest temperature ever "reliably measured on earth." If you needed the unreliable measure, you would have to take the word of a fourth grade girl in one of my PE classes this past May who insisted it was "about a million degrees out here."

In Paris, the Summer Olympics are preparing to unfold and those clever French decided to make their Olympic Village AC-free. Climate-wise, this was very forward thinking. Competitive athletes and their coaches have other ideas. They will be toting their own air conditioning units along with the rest of their gear once things get underway. 

My wife once upon a time drew a series of cartoons called "Planet of the Slow Learners."  These were drawn in the last century. Since then the average annual temperature increased by 0.18°C (0.32°F) per decade, which is more than twice the rate from 1880 to 1980. We are currently being saddled with terminology like "web bulb temperature" and "heat dome." Feel free to file these next to "bomb cyclone" and "atmospheric river." These will all make interesting conversation starters in the underground bunkers into which we will all soon be retreating. 

Slow learners, indeed. 

Out Of Touch

 I have written here before about the possibility that I may have missed something. I may have blinders on. It could be that I do not see the intrinsic value of having a former game show host and convicted felon lead our country. I spend so much time trapped in this bubble of compassionate liberal love for my fellow man that I don't attempt to reach out with any understanding to the one person who seems to need it the most. 

You have probably picked up on the fact that I rarely, if ever, refer to him by his name. I am giving him what could be called "Voldemort Status." He who shall not be named. This of course brings me to the brink of a potential discussion of the gender politics of JK Rowling, which could be part of my conditioning as a bleeding heart snowflake. That in itself is a disturbing enough image to want to steer clear of it for now. 

I find myself in the latter years of my life not simply annoyed by the direction or policies of a political party or candidate, but terrified. Nixon, Reagan, the Bush clan, they don't compete with the deep down visceral terror I have for the thought of letting 45 become 47. 

Is this rational? Our country has survived so much. Assassinations, wars, terrorist attacks, plagues. Why should the election of one man disturb me so very deeply? 

There have been times when I have trotted out the Martin Luther King Jr. quote, “The Arc of the Moral Universe is Long, But it Bends Toward Justice.” Each time I think the arc might be bending in such a way as to mitigate the acts of this serial philanderer and rapist, convicted felon and failed businessman, someone seems to get in there and readjust the geometry. It could be that my own perspective is the part that is skewed. Maybe it's not about a Moral Universe at all. Maybe it's all about if you want to make an omelet, you've got to break a few eggs. Who really believes we were going to save this planet anyway? Two hundred fifty years is a pretty good run, empire-wise. Thomas Jefferson, who knew a few things about this sort of thing said, "We get the government we deserve." 

If there were people on the fence trying to decide between the orange husk of a man and Joe Biden before the debate and they decided that lying was infinitely more palatable than being sleepy, then maybe this is exactly how our story ends. 

Or maybe we need to take another look at that arc out there in the Moral Universe. Weather permitting, of course. 

Up North

 It's pretty bleak around here. It's easy enough to point fingers at states like Florida, Arkansas and Louisiana, insisting that they are Red States. The ghost of the Confederacy rearing its ugly head one hundred sixty years later. 

But it's not a simple geography lesson. That Mason Dixon Line doesn't tell the whole story. Not just that whole North-South conundrum. I submit to you that anomaly known as Idaho. A recent Gallup poll tells us that the Potato State is the third most Republican state in the union. Idaho is home to one of the strictest abortion bans in the United States. It took a Supreme Court decision to allow emergency room doctors to be allowed to perform abortions in the event that a mother would die unless the procedure was done. 

Insert polite but sarcastic applause for Supreme Court here. 

Politicians in Idaho who have merely toed the traditional moderate conservative line have been voted out in favor of new candidates pushing the boundaries of Far Right. Recently, a former state senator who was pushed out was able to narrowly defeat his more toxic replacement for a chance to represent his district. Jim Woodward believes that abortions should be made available to rape victims. His nickname? "Liberal Jim." 

In 2023, the Southern Poverty Law Center was tracking twenty-five different antigovernment groups in Idaho, including such fan favorites as The Proud Boys and Moms For Liberty. It used to be that the frothy-mouthed types in the Pacific Northwest were confined largely to armed encampments of militia/survivalist types who could be dismissed as "fringe." That distinction is no longer clear as the anti-vax, anti-abortion, anti-gay, anti-common sense folks have rallied together to become a political force. Way up north. 

Recent events have only emboldened these tiny minds. But what if your brain operates somewhere above the lizard level determined "safe" by the Idaho powers that be? Maybe a trip to the library would help. 

Just kidding. The state of Idaho recently passed the Children's School and Library Protection Act. According to this new law, school and library staff members who provide youths with materials deemed harmful to minors can be fined two hundred fifty dollars. This may seem far less draconian than the death penalty suggested by some Idaho lawmakers for doctors who provide abortions, but that law never passed. The library law did. Patrons of Idaho libraries may now request relocation of materials to adults-only areas, and libraries will have thirty days to fulfill the request. If they fail to comply, they will incur fines and may face “any other relief available by law,” which could include “injunctive relief sufficient to prevent the defendant school or public library from violating the requirements." If that last bit seems a little vague, that's probably on purpose. Because jailing librarians and limiting access to libraries to adults only sounds a little crazy. 

Doesn't it? 

You Said Hey

 I don't do requests.

I thought I made this clear. 

But then again, polite suggestions for topics that may have missed my usually zeitgeist-driven view of the world should not go without some kind of recognition. A good friend and constant reader wondered why I hadn't gotten around to saying something about Willie Mays.

The Say Hey Kid went to the big ballpark in the sky on June 18, rounding the bases for the last time at the age of ninety-three. Willie was by most every measure one of the greatest to ever play the game. Over a career that lasted twenty-three years. In his rookie year, he hit twenty home runs and helped his team, the New York Giants win their first pennant in fourteen years. He was named National League Rookie of the year for his efforts. 

The next year, he only played in thirty-four games before reporting for the Army induction center after being drafted. He played baseball on the Army Wheels team, playing one hundred eighty games before a foot injury sidelined him for the rest of his two year hitch. The day after he was discharged in 1954, he reported to the Giants' spring training camp. 

1954 was his second full season in the majors. All he did was help the Giants win a World Series and the Most Valuable Player for the National League. By most accounts, Willie just got better. Home runs. Stolen bases. Amazing catches. At the end of the 1973 season when he retired after playing his last two years with the New York Mets, he had hit six hundred sixty home runs and stolen three hundred thirty-nine bases. 

Along the way, he helped bring baseball to California, When the Giants moved from New York to San Francisco, crowds flocked to see him. So much so that nowadays when Bay Area fans want to catch a Giants game they pull up to the park located at 24 Willie Mays Plaza. 

So, why did it take me so long to get around to eulogizing this all-time great? Maybe because I never had the relationship that some did, having myself grown up in the baseball void of Colorado. I was more familiar with the cultural phenomenon that was Willie Mays. He even showed up in an episode of Bewitched. There was no ESPN. No Baseball Tonight. Willie was a force of nature as far as I was concerned, but the realities of that force were never made apparent to me. 

Until now. Willie Mays stomped on the Terra, specifically its base paths. He paved the way for generations who came after him. And he did it all for the love of the game. His salary in his twenty-first year as a major leaguer was $165,000. In 2024, the Major League minimum rookie salary is $740,000. Yeah, I know, inflation blah blah blah. Willie Mays was a great player and an even better bargain. 

Reading Is Fundamental

 Starting this fall, if you're going to be teaching in an Oklahoma public school you had better know your Leviticus from your Deuteronomy. According to State Superintendent Ryan Walters, the Bible is a cornerstone of Western civilization and that its use in classrooms is mandatory. From where I'm sitting, I suppose the good news is that these hardline conservatives have finally found a book that they didn't want to ban. 

In what seems to be a game of right-wing Truth or Dare, folks in many states seem to be waring their Bible Belts on the outside. When Louisiana declared that the Ten Commandments need to be on display in every one of their public school classrooms, that seemed like a bit of stretch constitutionally speaking. When I started in the teaching biz, there were a number of heated discussions about whether or not we should include the "under God" portion of the Pledge of Allegiance. Ultimately, we decided not to make a specific edict at our school and wouldn't you know it that just a few short years later no one was performing the Pledge with our without the God. There was just too many other things to try and cram into a busy day of learning. 

Of course, this was in the People's Republic of Northern California, where free speech continues to be a prized commodity. At my school, we have a wide variety of cultures represented in our student body and staff with a panoply of  religious beliefs and practices. We make every effort to be inclusive, whether it is referring to the mid-year vacation as "Winter Break" or providing classrooms for our Muslim students to spend lunch time during their Ramadan fasts, much in the same way that we mark absences for Ash Wednesday excused or allow families to choose whether of or not to participate in the heathen activities of Halloween. 

And this all comes during a summer in which the Los Angeles School District has decided to ban cell phones. Interestingly, their approach to this sea change was to phase it in over the course of the 2024-25 school year. In Oklahoma and Louisiana, their biblification of the school day begins on the first day of school. Me? I'm just hoping to keep the soccer balls off the roof and the running in the halls to a minimum. 

Oh, and I want to teach kids to read so they can comprehend important documents besides the Bible. Like the Constitution of the United States. And just a reminder that Oklahoma is ranked forty-fourth and Louisiana forty-ninth in public school rankings. 

Presenting:

 I heard Martin Mull before I saw him. The summer I took up playing the tuba, I became moderately obsessed with all things tuba. It just so happened that my parents were willing to support this obsession, and they bought me Mister Mull's 1973 album, "Martin Mull and his Fabulous Furniture In Your Living Room." It was purchased with an eye for the second track, a little number titled "Dueling Tubas." As it turned out, this became a favorite, but not the favorite bit on the record. The one that stays with me to this day is "Licks Off Of Records." 

The kind of parents I had, my mother in particular, were always on the lookout for things that I might find interesting. It was at the foot of my parents' bed late one night that I first saw King Kong. It was a similar late night introduction to America 2 Night, the talk show parody that appeared in the spring of 1978. It was the spinoff of Fernwood 2 Night, which aired the year before and was itself spun off of Mary Hartman Mary Hartman. Which give  you the lineage and progression of these brief moments of less than conventional TV comedy, but it gave me the foundation of the arid wasteland of dry comedy available through the eyes of Martin Mull. 

It was also in the summer of 1978 that I paid to see the movie FM in a theater, based solely on the fact that the smarmy DJ Eric Swann was played by Martin Mull. Sure, there were cameos by Linda Ronstadt and Jimmy Buffett playing live, but I was there for the Mull. 

Over the next few decades, Martin Mull would show up in various bits and pieces of movies and television. I was especially fond of his turn as Teri Garr's boss in Mr. Mom, and was happy to have HBO long enough in the eighties to see his mockumentary, The History of White People In America. He showed up in groundbreaking TV shows like Roseanne and Ellen. 

And he was a painter. Seriously. 

But mostly he was Martin Mull, willing at any moment to show himself up as a pompous know-it-all ready to be whittled down to anyone else's comic effect. He stomped all over the Terra for nearly fifty years, and this past weekend that stomping ceased. He went to that big green room in the sky at the age of eighty. He will be missed. 

Thanks again, mom.