Vigilant

 I was once implored by Tom Petty to believe that I didn't have to live like a refugee. I have tried to take this advice to heart all these years later, but this thought reentered my mind over the weekend as my younger brother sat in my living room. We had lunch. We caught up. My son was there and showed him photos he had taken at the Twenty-Four Hours of Daytona a couple of weeks back. 

And I marveled at how cleanly our lives had managed to slip past the cliff of tragedy. My younger brother and his wife were just a few blocks away from the fire that consumed Altadena, California. They were told to evacuate and holed up in a hotel for three days while the winds shifted and the flames roared through a vast swath of southern California. Thanks of the efforts and bravery of firefighters and just plain luck, their little bungalow was spared. They were able to move back in just a few days later and begin the process of recovery. 

First was the matter of cleaning up the soot and ash that covered most everything inside and out. Then the hard work began: replacing the map that had only somewhat recently become their home base. The hardware store. The market. Those conveniences were gone. Their belongings were left unscathed, but their memories are now stuffed with a disaster that impacted everyone in their area. The burden of survivors' guilt was now neatly placed on the top of that heap, knowing that the blocks that separated them from devastation was a chance operation. 

There he was. Sitting in my living room. Visiting with us about all manner of things, including his experience in the Eaton Fire, as we have now come to call it. He had come along with his wife who was running a graduate seminar in Berkeley, and was taking the opportunity to reconnect with his upstate brother and his family. 

It made me happy once again to have this connection. It made me relieved that he was unhurt, for the most part, and had a home to which he could return. Part of me wanted to rescue him and keep him safe from the horrors of Los Angeles, but I remembered that he had lived in the Southland for years before he ever trekked on out to Minneapolis, where ice is much more a concern than fire. Then his return to the Bay Area where he braved the flooding that was part of the program for residents in San Anselmo. 

My younger brother will soon be sixty years old. I don't have to rescue him from anything, except for possibly my overprotective urges. 

And he does not have to live like a refugee. 

"DAN" Rearragned Is "DNA"

 Back in 1996, everyone in Boulder, Colorado had a theory about who killed Jon Benet Ramsey. Much in the same way back in the 1980s everyone from that college town had a story about Dan Fogleberg, it was one of the creepy ways that a community can plug in. The murder of a six-year old beauty pageant contestant was news for months, now decades, because of its tawdry nature. 

And because no one was ever "caught."

The story was perhaps highlighted by the fact that the Ramseys were wealthy. Not that there weren't plenty of wealthy residents of Boulder and its surrounding mountain evirons, but connecting salacious details to a family that had recently moved there from, old all places, Atlanta. Not that there was any particular issue with Georgia or Atlanta, but because as open-minded as the folks in Boulder attempted to be, the "Native" bumper stickers that they proudly displayed on their vehicles were just a hint at their xenophobic attitudes. The white-hot intensity of the media that swarmed the city that once played home to Mork and MIndy eventually drove the Ramseys out, maintaining their innocence all the while. It would seem that the locals were happy to believe that there was an alien in their midst who lived in the attic of a Victorian near downtown who drank with his fingers and sat on his face. 

They just weren't able to get comfortable with the kindergarten beauty pageants. The images of a gussied-up six year old were featured prominently in every story about the case. It was a "scene" that Boulderites and eventually a great portion of the rest of the country were never comfortable. How could justice be served in this case when the outside wrapper was so, you know, icky? 

And now, once again, the vault has been reopened to the potential of new DNA evidence that will clear the family from the ugly speculation that has swirled about them since that Christmas morning way back in 1996. 

Who cares? Well, it pains me to confess that I found this most recent surge in publicity worth mentioning here, so I am not immune to that circus of speculation. I just hope when they're done we can get back to good old fashioned stories about Dan Fogleberg. 

A different kind of creepy. 

The Blame Game (Home Version)

 Partial and in no way comprehensive list of things for which we can blame DEI according to the convicted felon currently living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue:

Constipation

Shark Attacks

Electrocution from the batteries of electric boats

George Clooney

Low Water Pressure

McDonald's not having the McRib available year round

Call Waiting

Stickers on apples

Climate Change (how did that get in there?)

"EZ Open" packages that are most definitely not

Lost Remote Control

Accidentally Biting Your Lip

Losing that little plastic clip that keeps the bread bag closed

Somebody forgot to fill the ice cube tray

The American Airlines Crash At Reagan International Airport. 

Diversity

Equity

Inclusion

Snakes. Why Did It Have To Be Snakes?

 If it talks like a snake, if it slithers on its belly like a snake, if it spits venom like a snake, well that's probably a snake you've got there. 

I listened to my wife paint a happy picture of this lunar new year, The Year of the Snake. She talked about the challenge of shedding a skin, with each little wriggle, every twist. And then she spoke of the renewal this symbolized. I did not interrupt her, because I appreciate that her world is full of glasses half full. In this case, they just happen to be full of snakes. Which seems to be a problem, of some kind. 

So let's get this out of the way at the beginning: Of all God's creatures, snakes probably get the worst rap. Right up there with spiders. No legs. Eight legs. Different from us, so naturally we fear them. We are repelled by them. Often we watch with hunched shoulders as those more enlightened than us handle snakes and spiders like pets. 

Ew.

And maybe we should blame the writers of the Bible. Or Freud. 

But no matter what the source, when I think of snakes, I do not immediately ascribe those attributes in a favorable light if I am speaking of a human being. It is not a difficult stretch to call the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue a snake. The fact that we have, within days of the inauguration of America's First Felon Chief Executive, embarked on The Year of the Snake. Yes, a second term full of draconian, self-serving measures and policies has a ring of "renewal" to it, but not in a good way. 

In some cultures, snakes are depicted as symbols of fertility. I suppose if you stable the inability for women to choose to that, you might have a match for our current day serpent. We have the phrase "snake oil salesman" in our lexicon from another age to describe hucksters who might want to sell you a non-effective cure, or some golden sneakers. Harking back to that Bible thing, there's the snake that shows up in the Garden of Eden, who tempts Eve and ends up getting us all kicked out into the cold, hard world. Somehow this is connected to Free Will, which carries its own irony since it was our country's use of that Free Will to choose the scaly reptile for a repeat performance. Which doesn't feel like renewal as much as a rerun. 

And not a good one. 

101

 At the end of our one hundredth day of school for this year, our staff assembled to briefly bathe in the glow of the celebration we had shared with our students.

Then we got back to work. 

At stake was the potential of Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents descending on our school. Oakland has been a sanctuary city since 1986, and like many Bay Area cities, that ordinance has been reaffirmed in the past month as mass deportations have become the "law" of the land. Offering this sanctuary to the kids and their families becomes a new part of our job, and the expectation is that we teachers, administration and staff would act accordingly. 

What does that mean? Cooperating with federal agents in the slimmest way possible. Not to physically impede them, but to document any and all intrusions onto our campus past the front office. Once they make it that far, they are not allowed to go any further. If they present a warrant, we will call our legal department and have them make their way down to our site to give it a look-see. Meanwhile they will have to cool their heels much in the same way that a recalcitrant student might, sitting in the office chairs waiting for the powers that be to decide the next steps. 

The easiest thing would be to call their parents and let them know how disappointed we are in their behavior. 

The hardest thing was to explain to our Latino students why we gave them these little red strips of paper. They are printed in English and Spanish, letting their parents know their rights and what to do if they are stopped or accosted by ICE. Yet another way in which our kids are forced to deal with things that are not in a scale which they should be asked to cope. Pandemics, wildfires, terrorism, and now the fear of being separated from their parents by people with guns. 

Sadly, for many of our kids, this would not be the first time that last one has been raised. And if we have anything to do or say about it, this will also be the last. 

The work continues. 

Milestone

 As an adult, as a parent, I have often felt the need to be the repository for other's childhood memories. Happily there are vast warehouses full of servers whose specific purpose is to store the digital photos of the adventures of our only son. Each time one of those ancient scrolls unrolls onto my cell phone, I feel compelled to forward it along to my son who is busy with his present day concerns. "Remember when?" I prod. 

Then there's the matter of the memories of the students at my school. Two hundred some burgeoning brains into which we are trying to cram reading, writing and 'rithmetic, whatever that is. This past Monday I was part of a crew that raced around the school with banners and streamers, decorating the halls and doorways in anticipation of our 100th day of school. Later I was charged with putting batteries into a series of bubble blowing machines in anticipation of the celebration that would be held at the end of the day. All our classes emptied out onto the playground and the upper grade students shared books with their lower grade counterparts. There were balloons. And there were bubbles.  

As the dust was metaphorically settling, a colleague wondered on the way back inside the building, "I wonder if that's all they're going to remember from today." I understood. At some level, we would like them to be able to recall the math lesson from just before lunch. Or the upper case Q. When they go home, will all they want to tell their parents about is the bubbles?

I get it. But at the same time I can remember very little about my own discovery of long division. By contrast I have a very distinct and vivid memory of the luau my second grade class held on the lawn when I was in elementary school. I can remember most of the assemblies held in cafeterias. And all those exceptions to the bell-oriented schedules that drove my life for all those years. 

Now I'm back, and I am happy to bring those little spoons full of sugar to our kids to help the medicine go down. I won't stop trying to convince third graders that adverbs are easy to spot because of that ly at the end. I will happily explain to a fifth grader why decimals are so easy if you already get fractions. But I'm guessing that when the week is over, they will remember the bubbles. If they have a glimmer of a memory that connects it to the number 100, then our work here was done. 

On to the next milestone. 

Look Both Ways

 "Oh no."

That was the thought that went through my head early Monday morning on my ride to work. It came to me on the dark and busiest stretch of my commute, the one thoroughfare that makes me nervous as I make my way to and from home. 

This is not what you might call a happy story, but it does qualify as a transformative one. 

Turning onto Hight Street, I thought I recognized a lump in the street ahead of my. As I got closer, I was grateful that I had left the house a little bit early for two reasons. Firstly, I was on a deserted street before the morning picked up so that I could slow down and confirm my sad assumption. Secondly, I was able to stop and attempt to figure out what had happened to the black and white cat who was laying there. 

Whatever life this particular feline was on, it was over. There was not a lot of blood, trauma to the head had been the most likely cause of death. I imagined the moment that took life away: A poorly timed sprint from one curb to the other side. He never made it. 

I got off my bike and picked up the limp body of what I imagined might be someone's pet. Or had been. I decided to move it to the grass from which his ill-fated trip across the street began. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, and it flashed in my mind that it wasn't unlike carrying the cat with whom I live by the scruff of the neck. Except when I set this one down, there was no managed descent back to his feet and subsequent padding away to his next destination. 

This cat had reached his final destination. "Oh no," I repeated. This time for the loss that anyone might feel for this domesticated beast, or perhaps he as a stray, with a dozen different stops over the course of the day. He might be missed by the lady who put a bowl of water out for him in the mornings. Or the kids down the street who stop at the bus stop to pet him before heading on their way to their house. In those moments, I thought of dozens of possible former lives for this cat who didn't make it. 

And I felt the feelings I have for my own cat back home. The worry I have every time he gets out of the house and goes on one of his neighborhood explorations. I never wanted him to go out this way. Cars and cats are a bad mix. 

From across the street a voice broke my reverie. "Thank you," a woman said as she climbed into her car, "that was very nice." 

I appreciated the notice. But it was in fact the least I could do.  

No Place Like Home

 Let's fact it: There are lots of reasons to be upset these days. If you're sitting down to read the "news," you might get caught up in what the kids call "doom scrolling." I call it my morning read. I would love to tell you that this news comes primarily from the world of politics, but as we know now the weather can be just as depressing as anything coming out of Washington. Please feel free to insert your own "ill wind" joke here. 

Unfortunately, I feel that I must now remind you that the sports desk is not free from their own painful updates. 

Let's begin with the reality I have been facing myself: Aging. Most fans of professional sports will find a point in their obsession when they had a golden era in which the team they cared about most had at least a player or two that formed the nucleus of a playoff run or two. Even a championship. I have been fortunate enough to live in the Bay Area during a time when Steph Curry and his teammates were rewriting record books and were familiar fixtures when it came time to hoist the NBA championship trophy. Now at the ripe old age of thirty-six, Steph is beginning to show signs of being somewhat more human than he used to be. This has allowed the naysayers to pop up across the basketball world, insisting that it is time to trade him away. Oakland already lost the team to that other city by the bay. The potential of losing one of the greatest shooters to ever play the game would probably be enough to make me start watching more professional indoor soccer. 

That is not the only recent item that has left my sports blood running cold. A recent hype piece promoting the upcoming Major League Baseball season suggests that the team formerly known as the Oakland Athletics were on the brink of putting together a team full of home run hitters that could potentially make a playoff push this summer. Add to that an ownership group that seemingly feels the need to loosen their pursestriings to pay more free agents and veterans to come in and bolster that lineup, and you've got the rumors of a contender. Unfortunately for us in the city currently known as Oakland, this is not where all that potential baseball glory will be experienced. 

So forgive me if I turn something of a blind eye to the run up to the Super Bowl, with its hyper focus on the Lombardi Trophy. If only they were going to have Tower of Power playing the halftime show. 

The Burden Of Proof

 I was reading about how the new Trumpreich wants to have all government agencies get rid of all DEI departments and commitments. That's Diversity, Equity and Inclusion for those of you who may have missed that chapter of American History. I bring this up because apparently part of this movement includes limiting what parts of history are taught to our governmental hires. Specifically, the removal of a video that was included in the Air Force's basic training curriculum at the Joint Air Base in San Antonio. If you are unfamiliar with the Tuskegee Airmen, then you will have something in common with new Air Force recruits. Or if you didn't know anything about the WASPs. 

Now for the cretinous part: In 2020, a (checks notes) Donald Trump serving in the capacity of "president" of the United States promoted Charles McGee, the last surviving Tuskegee Airman, to brigadier general. McGee died in 2022, right about the time Project 2025 was being written, effectively whitewashing all future history for those of us who hadn't bothered to learn it back when it was diverse. 

Like so much else that piles up around the drains of the sequel to the worst presidency of all time, this one is just a harbinger of things to come. But today it dawned on me that there may be a deeper, more troubling source of all this limiting of information. The former game show host and his minions just may not be bright enough to absorb new information. This would explain why they want to ban books and shut down PBS and NPR. Too many words. Too many ideas. We may have stumbled into an era where, for some, there is just too much to keep in their tiny brains. Much in the same way Emperor Joseph II of Hapsburg responded to hearing Mozart. 

We may have reached the end of the Information Age simply because those walking around with limited space on their meaty hard drives have run out of space. Rather than simply acknowledge the lack of capacity or understanding, it makes more sense for them to simply ask PBS to stop making twelve hour documentaries about things that they never fully understood in the first place. Like Baseball. And the Civil War. 

Little tidbits like the fact that slaves were used to build the White House and the Capitol might just go by the wayside. The guy who invented peanut butter was African-American and headed up the Agriculture Department at Tuskegee University. And the forty-fifth president of the United States was convicted of thirty-four felonies. 

Keep reading. Keep thinking. Even when it becomes "out of fashion." 

Capital P

 The truly saddest part about where we find ourselves now is that we are truly the opposition party. And not only that, it feels as though we have been since 2016. Those four years didn't figure in as some sort of palate cleansing sorbet. Instead, the Biden Administration will be viewed as the four years that common sense and decency was a voice in the wilderness while the braggarts and bullies had their way with the tone set in our country.

Admittedly, there was a mild respite from the worry about what fresh insult would be coming from the Oval Office, but we were still more than saturated with the Marge Greene, Lauren Bobo and Mike Johnson fount of ridicule and ridiculousness. Add to that the proliferation of court proceedings taken up in attempt to bring some sort of justice to the fraud and deceit that was painted with broad strokes by the former game show host whose regular attempts to skirt the law of the land became commonplace. 

Four years later, nothing could stop the nonsense juggernaut that is Trumpreich 2.0. The summit of justice for the people defamed, gaslit and manipulated by that first four years of having a slumlord for a "president" was never reached. That wish for the perp walk from Mar A Lago to the waiting police truck never materialized. Cases were "dismissed" and prosecutors left without ever seeing justice served. Instead we bore witness to the re-inauguration of the felon in chief who used his subsequent address to the nation to degrade and dismiss the accomplishments of the previous administration.

And gave us all a peek at the way the "new sheriff" was going to clean up this town. Much in the same way Al Capone cleaned up Chicago back in the 1920s. The idea that we should all just "buckle up" for the strange and dangerous ride for the next four years is torture to me. But for those whose rights and lives will be torn to bits in a flash by the reckless need for this man who should be serving time in jail instead of  moving into the White House can only give rise to more actual opposition. We, the people, deserve a leader, not an oligarch. We deserve peace, not land grabs by a man who likes to put his big gold T on everything he wants. 

We deserve a President. With a capital P. 

New Year, Old Story

 Dateline: Nashville, Tennessee

Purported writing of the alleged shooter who may or may not have shot and killed a sixteen year old student at the supposed Antioch High School is rumored to show a possible connection between the killer and his ostensible victim. This incident may or may not have occurred on Wednesday, January 22 in what was reported to be the cafeteria. 

Or:

Writing of the seventeen year old killer of a sixteen year old Antioch High School student contained violent and racist content including a detailed plan for the murder. The boy then turned the gun on himself making all of this "conjecture" necessary. 

It's an old song. It's a tired dance. The fact that the killer live-streamed on Kick, a social media site based in Australia may be the "fresh" part of this item. 

Otherwise, it's just the first school shooting of 2025. In 2024, there were eighty-three. This provides our gun-totin' populace eighty-two more opportunities to tell the same story from different cities with varying amounts of specificity. One clever commenter pointed out that this murder was committed with a handgun, "proving" that assault weapons are not the cause of school shootings. 

Nice use of the Socratic Dialogue there, pinhead. 

Also, some of you may remember way back in 2023 when a twenty-eight year old killer shot three nine year olds and three adults at the Covenant School located in Nashville. Which puts that municipality in a category with those that have had more than one mass shooting in their metro area. 

And the beat goes on. Whose town will be the next on the hit list?

When will we lose enough souls to feel like we should start praying before the gunfire erupts?

Aloha, Decency

 I know all the drags. 

He was old. He wasn't tough enough. He could have...

He should have...

Joe Biden pardoned Leonard Peltier. After serving fifty years in prison, the Indigenous Activist who was sentenced to two life terms for killing two FBI agents, Mister Peltier will now be under home confinement. So, it wasn't actually a pardon so much as a change of venue. Now that Leonard Peltier is eighty years old and in declining health, he doesn't appear to be much of a threat. Two other members of the American Indian Movement who were also tried for the shootings were acquitted, leaving Leonard to serve his time, his life, in prison for defending the village of Wounded Knee from federal agents sent to serve warrants on those involved in the occupation. 

History is written by the victors, and so Leonard Peltier was viewed as a criminal, not a freedom fighter. On his way out of office, Joe Biden made a gesture to restore some of the natural order of things. 

Does this make Joe Biden a hero? He was not a victor in this past flurry of an election. He was a non-participant. He was the guy who was saddled with the ugly mess left him by (checks notes) the guy who is going to replace him. COVID. Supply chains. Ballooning deficits. In 2020, we handed the mop to Joe and he set to work putting our country back together. His administration created more than sixteen million new jobs. He was responsible for what Forbes magazine called "the strongest, healthiest, most resilient job market in American history."

This was the loser. This was the guy who spent his adult life in public service. He spent four years in the White House attempting to heal a nation that seems more interested in pulling out their IV and running out into the street to pick a fight with the pretzel vendor. Pardoning those closest to him in addition to those he felt were being unfairly held up for persecution by the Second Trumpreich was Joe's way of increasing the peace while he still had a chance. 

Over the next several weeks, we will bear witness to all the ways that the Broligarchy can tip things back into their favor, including renaming the Gulf of Mexico, acquiring other sovereign nations as American possessions and orchestrating the largest deportation of immigrants since Eisenhower. 

I'm not going to wait. I already miss having a decent human being in the Oval Office. 

Seeing The Future Through The Past

 The first thing that aliens saw of our fledgling society was a bunch of Nazis cheering. That is according to noted dead science guy, Carl Sagan. In his book Contact and the subsequent film adaptation, The science behind this notion that the televised bits from the 1936 Olympics might be the first glimpse an alien civilization might get from our little blue marble would be the waves we sent out first. History tells us that would be the experimental television broadcast made by Adolf Hitler to promote his Third Reich's dominance in those games. The images presented therein might be enough to put any intelligent race of plants or ashtrays off of visiting our corner of the galaxy for a good long time.

So maybe these ashtrays or plants decided to wait a hundred years, give or take, to check back in on us down here on Earth. And what they happen to see is the Tech President giving a salute to his followers at the rally commemorating his president in charge of vice. From the podium in front of cheering minions, Elongated Mush gave what can best be described as a full-on Nazi salute. Twice. With the whole world watching. 

The whole galaxy. 

What was the Mush-man's response to those who were put off by his retro-fascist gesture? “Frankly, they need better dirty tricks. The ‘everyone is Hitler’ attack is sooo tired.” The Anti-Defamation League attempted to gloss over the incident, posting, “Our politics are inflamed, and social media only adds to the anxiety. In this moment, all sides should give one another a bit of grace, perhaps even the benefit of the doubt, and take a breath.” 

Whatever happened to "Never Again?" Are we really going to give this apartheid=raised supporter of far-right extremists in Europe and elsewhere a break?  Not everyone who walks like a duck and talks like a duck is, in fact, a duck. But if he happens to walk like a Nazi, talk like a Nazi, write checks like a Nazi and give a Nazi salute in front of screaming crowds? I believe the message is pretty clear. 

And for those of you on GarblemX-9? You folks will have to make up your own collective hive mind. But if I can put in a request, why don't you come and get your boy before he ends up causing any real trouble. 

Overnight

 The saga of being a cat owner continues. 

Last night, the house was filled with the plaintive cries of felinus domesticas. He had a lot on his mind and was more than happy to share it with his caregivers. There was a period of time when this was mildly amusing for us as he reminded us of a favorite bit from a Warner Brothers cartoon. Now? Not as much. 

This cat's transition from feral and fearless to House Cat has been discussed here from time to time. This latest episode has more to do with his full recovery from having all his teeth removed than it does our willingness to accept him into our home. That was always on his terms. What we finally did was give up on the pain medication which once ruled his life and gave him the affect of a mildly confused stoner. His favorite place continues to be someone's lap, but his nocturnal habits have increased greatly since going into detox. 

Not that he's suffering any sort of withdrawl or, if you'll pardon the expression, cold turkey. Instead, he has become more of a presence in and around the house. Especially after dark. This would not be such a problem if it weren't for his insistence that my wife and I come along for that ride. Padding about the kitchen and living room, he seems to have a number of very important opinions to express. Perhaps he wants us to hop out of bed just to have the company. Maybe he has some ideas about what could be on the big screen if we were to give him access to the remote control. 

Not to worry, since he will eventually find his way into our bedroom and eventually on top of one of us. He will pad about looking for some recognition of his presence, often stopping to lick any portion of our exposed body parts with his sandpapery tongue. As mentioned here many times for various reasons, I am not a deep sleeper, and so I remain hostage to his settling down until it actually happens. 

I am very pleased to see that this old cat can learn a new trick or two, but since I am crawling out from under him early the next morning to go about my day's work in the sunshine, I can't help but feel a little cheated. Perhaps this is what drives a man to draw a comic strip devoted to the hijinks created by an adopted feline. At least ours doesn't seem interested in lasagna. 

Yet. 

Persistence Of Vision

 When I was in my twenties, David Lynch was already ninety. He was a codger long before he perhaps should have been, but this may explain why he passed away this past week at the age of ninety: The Power Of Weirdness. 

Hunter S. Thompson famously insisted that "when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro," and I can think of very few examples of this better than David Lynch. I am pleased and just a little bit smug to say that I "discovered" the films of David Lynch way back in the 1980's, after Eraserhead had achieved cult status. There were no theaters with midnight showings of Lynch's surreal dream movie, but home video allowed me to take the dare, of sorts, that was set out by those who had seen it before me. "See what you can make out of this."

It was an intensely odd ride through the black and white dreamscape of a film student who was supported by grants from the American Film Institute over the course of several years. During this sporadic period of filming, Lynch worked several odd jobs including delivering The Wall Street Journal while his nominal "star" Jack Nance kept that odd haircut for the duration. It may have been this dedication to his craft that first pushed my like button for David Lynch. 

Subsequently, I discovered his more "mainstream" work, including The Elephant Man, for which he was nominated an Academy Award for best director. No one was perhaps more bemused by this recognition than the movie's producer, Mel Brooks. Yes. That Mel Brooks. The success of that film seemed only to enthrall Hollywood all the more and they dropped him into the sci-fi epic Dune on his quirky reputation alone. 

That was a glorious mess. For most people, it was a mess that they didn't care to watch. But not me. Which is why I am so very glad that on Arrakis, Desert Planet, David discovered his muse for the next phase of his career. Starting with Blue Velvet, and continuing into the small screen fantasia of Twin Peaks, Kyle MacLachlan became David's onscreen avatar, probing the darkness out there in the netherworld. I ate this all up with a spoon. 

So great, in fact, was the impact of David Lynch's work that decades later my son found himself in a college course devoted to his oeuvre. Without prompting from his father, I might add. It made the weird part of my heart glad to hear that my son was as deeply affected by the passing of David Lynch as I was. To say that he stomped on the Terra would not be quite accurate, since I'm not sure how much time he actually spent on earth, but our planet will miss David Lynch. Weirdly enough. 

Lots

I wish for every school to have the kind of attention and care that is provided to our school by our principal. Last Friday at the end of a somewhat typically busy day, she made a point to shout to one of our third grade boys, "Happy Birthday! I love you!" The most special thing about that interaction is how much it is not unique. She ends most every announcement with her trademark phrase, "Love you lots!" 

And she means it. 

Here is the truth: I know that there are plenty of schools across this great big world where that kind of devotion to a group of children is part of the overarching scheme of things. In spite of the number of Dickensian tropes that might make you believe otherwise, people who get into education and stay are devoted to their students. I feel this same way, but I confess to having a mildly cynical streak (please no snickers here) that sometimes undercuts that connection. And yet, here I go again, talking about that most important part of my job: The Human Connection. 

While I aspire to make the same level of bond with the short people at my job that my principal does, I confess that experience has made me wary. I know that in a moment those relationships can be scuttled by a frustrated parent or a miscommunication that puts me back into that bin of authority figures that are known simply for the oppression that they bring. I tell children and families "no" more often than I might like, but it is the way that we do business. 

No, you can't take your cell phone to the bathroom to record Tik Tok videos. 

No, you can't stay out on the playground after everyone else has gone inside. 

No, you can't bring your BB gun to school and show it off to your friends via social media posts that you cobble together during your recess. 

That last one came up at the end of last week and it was piled on top of a rather solid stack of "no" responses. My principal and I waded through the safety concerns and the reality of the situation with the boys who got it into their collective heads that this would be a cool thing. Then we had to discuss it with the parents who had varying degrees of appreciation for just how difficult this flurry of macho posing could be for all the students in the school. 

And for their sons. 

As the smoke began to clear and all the phone calls, emails and sundry communications that accompany such an even had been made, it was clear that this one had taken a toll on our principal. It had stretched her love much farther than a regular day. But what is a regular day in an urban school?

I'll let you know when I experience one. For the time being I can tell you that my principal loves those boys too. Lots. 

And so do I. 

Ban-Aid

 I am aware of Tik Tok. I know of a group of pre-teen girls who are going to have a long soul-searching challenge trying to find something to fill the void in their lives left by the absence of this social media platform. I have heard of a number of adults who have used the application to promote their businesses who will be sad and frustrated by the government's ban. 

If you were even more off the social media grid than I am, this past Saturday night the plug was pulled on for American users on the video-sharing site. This was done voluntarily by the owners of the company that runs the app posted a pop-up that stated: “A law banning TikTok has been enacted in the U.S. Unfortunately that means you can’t use TikTok for now.”

Which reminds me of a joke: A man goes to an appointment with his doctor for a pre-op exam for a hernia. After the poking and prodding was over and the surgery was scheduled, the man is buttoning his shirt as the doctor asks him if there were any questions or concerns ahead of the procedure. "Well Doc, I was just curious, when it's all over, do you think I'll be able to play the violin?"

The doctor looks at his patient, puzzled, then replies, "Sure. I don't know why not."

The man hops off the exam table and says, "That's great, because I never could before."

That's pretty much how I feel about Tik Tok. I never had any real interest in posting "funny" bits of video for the distraction of my friends and a group of faceless strangers who might encounter them. Instead I feel much more comfortable right here forcing those friends and faceless strangers to wade through my opinions and fascinations right here. It's all I can do to come up with pithy posts once a day. I can't imagine having to spend time editing video and coming up with amusing situations to share with the world. 

But I do confess that the faintest whiff of censorship gets what little hair I have to stand on end. I might just have to open up a protest account just to pretend to have a feeling about this matter. Of course, on the back end, we have the announcement from the head of "Truth" Social who seems to be willing to give the Chinese-owned Tik Tok a ninety day extension that could give them a chance to sell off the American end of their business. The former game show host and dictator for a day seemed willing to waffle on his own stance which previously favored a Tik Tok ban. 

Which, as the squirrely nature of this affair makes another swing back to having the felon in charge of his own social media site forgive the supposed trespasses of Tik Tok, makes me want to stay as far away from it as possible, offering to set up my own pretend web site that will not actually host user's videos, but will rather send them real-time weather updates for their zip code. Because that seems more important than dancing in front of your mailbox. 

Yeah, But

 Ever since my wife politely wondered aloud to me about the pause I was putting after the praise I was giving her by simply interjecting, "but?" I have tried to be more conscious about my use of that conjunction. I was on my way to thanking her for picking up some groceries that we needed. That's when that word hopped into my sentence, adding another clause that wasn't praise as much as it was the zinger to the whole affair. "Thank you for picking up the groceries, BUT did you remember to get the cookies?"

Suddenly, all the air went out of that congratulations. I understand that this is a very human trait and is designed to pass along important additions to communication. However (see what I did there?) it becomes difficult to hear that first clause once that second one shows up. It makes sense. One tends to hear the last thing said more than the ones that preceded it. "And in conclusion, I would just like to sum up by saying that you forgot to get the cookies."

I bring this up not simply to shine a light on my inadequacies as a husband. I am also wondering how we as a group of humans can start to get past the need to limit our accomplishments. For example, it only took a few hours for voices to start butting into the Israel-Hamas ceasefire. After fifteen months of near constant attacks against one another, a pause in the hostilities was negotiated. 

BUT Israel's Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu announced that his cabinet meeting slated to approve the cessation of hostilities in the Gaza Strip would be delayed. In the meantime, air strikes by Israeli warplanes continue because Hamas "won't back down." 

Suddenly that additional ask for Oreos is looking pretty benign. 

Elsewhere on the globe we see folks lining up to praise the brave first responders battling the numerous fires in the Los Angeles area. BUT questions still plague the response connected to how administrators and politicians acted in those moments of crisis. Before the flames have been put out, a new firestorm is brewing regarding everything from forest management to DEI hires. 

There is an old phrase, Monday Morning Quarterback, that comes to us from an age before professional football was played most every night of the week. It referred to the tendency for people to show off their twenty-twenty hindsight. "Oh, I wouldn't have punted there. And did you see that touchdown? It should have been called back." This syndrome is a hallmark of most human behavior: the ability to instruct us all how to close that barn door after the cows have already gotten out, moved on down the road and opened up their own bistro in a nice quiet suburb. 

The fires will eventually be extinguished. A ceasefire will take place in Gaza. I will get my cookies. 

But for now, let's just be glad that there are people working to provide a place that is free from fire, air strikes, and has plenty of Chips Ahoy. 

Almost?

 The idea that my mother could be celebrating her ninetieth birthday if not for the inconvenient fact that she passed away some two years ago is aggravating to me. The idea that she was "almost ninety" when she died suggests that she just couldn't quite make it to that next place, some new level of age and wisdom that is afforded only to people who live a certain life and ring a certain bell. 

My mother rang that bell and many others over the course of her, yes I will say it, all too brief time on this planet and I struggle sometimes with the suggestion that she didn't. 

Perhaps at the top of the list of my frustrations with this bit of accounting is the tenacity that I learned by spending time under her care. The woman had Multiple Sclerosis for heaven's sake and she kept walking around the globe as if her life depended on it. Because it did. She was like a shark in the most benevolent way. She kept moving forward and rejected the suggestions from others that she couldn't. She played piano with love and care well past the cruel introduction of arthritis twisted her hands and made her continued attempts painful and frustrating. She maintained a group of clients for her bookkeeping business well into her seventies, stopping only when her focus became more emphatically on her health and the need to keep herself going every morning: getting up going for a walk, checking in with her sons and grandchildren in addition to a life full of friends and commitments generated by a life fully lived. 

When her lungs decided to make it impossible for her to live without nights spent connected to oxygen, she apologized to her overnight guests if the noise from the tubes kept them awake in the other room. "Sorry if the machinery that is keeping me alive disrupts your slumber." 

I used to joke with her about the tchotkes and relics that she kept around her home, artifacts from her travels as well as gifts from friends and family, all of which carried some memory or story. I suggested that maybe she should be careful that the wrong combination of idols of various sorts might generate some sort of curse and bring about some sort of cataclysm. As it turns out, it is much more likely that these talismans were the thing that were keeping her alive, and when she had to leave her home and its collective ju-ju at a time when she needed it most, that power drain was what left her in a position that even she figured was best described as death's door. 

She decided to walk through. Not because she wanted to give up on life but because it seemed like it was the next thing to do. Because my mother was all about moving forward. 

I miss her today. 

Inevitable

 A few days back, I was riding my bike up the hill next to my school on the way home when I spied a soccer ball in the gutter. 

Our soccer ball. 

That is to say that this is the soccer ball that belongs to the school. School property. As mentioned here on frequent stories about the fanaticism of our student body for "the beautiful game," keeping equipment on site for the continued amusement of the kiddos is vital. 

Which is why finding a soccer ball, our soccer ball, in the gutter at the end of the day is such a crisis. The mystery is not specifically in the discovery of the culprit, but rather to try and understand the though process behind the errant kicks that land our ball outside the fence.

For a while I imagined a scheme in which young men were actively booting the ball over the fence with the expectation of collecting them off the street on their way home from school. Upon some mild reflection, this seems to be giving the perpetrators more credit than they deserve. Affording them such a complex thought process may be missing the mark. The actual target may be much simpler to divine. 

They want to see the ball go over the fence. 

That's it. A momentary flash of accomplishment, then on to the next thing. The continued thought process that would connect them with the immediate consequence being that they would not have a ball to kick anywhere is just outside their reasoning. There is a mild reassurance that the powers that be, which in this case happens to be yours truly, will find a new soccer ball before the next morning comes. 

And I take that responsibility very seriously. Seriously enough that I would stop on my ride home, get off my bike and rearrange the contents of my backpack to accommodate the ball that I will return to the PE cart before most of them will be awake the following morning. Ascribing bad intent is something I do as I grumble about those darn kids. But who could really fault them for expecting that there will be a soccer ball there when they return to school. It is, to paraphrase Thanos, Inevitable. 

It worked yesterday. Why not today?   

After Math

 At one point, more than two hundred thousand people were under evacuation orders in the fire-ravaged areas of Southern California. More than twelve thousand homes, business and other structures were damaged or destroyed. The fact that Mark Hamill's home in Malibu was spared is cause for celebration among those who have homes in Malibu, but not everyone has a home in Malibu. And not everyone's hom in Malibu was spared. 

Media reports have tended to shine a light on those whose names are already known and whose pictures can be easily recognized next to those of smoldering wreckage. The message is clear to those of us on the receiving end: even the wealthy are suffering. Even the famous can experience loss. The hope, it would seem, is to drive home the point of this disaster by pointing at the high rent district and then letting us all imagine how awful it must be. 

For them. 

Meanwhile, I have received regular updates from my younger brother, famous for his role in the Caven Family as "the little brother." This is to say that the bungalow he and his wife were renting was in the evacuation zone, and his claim to fame is limited primarily to me and those who have seen his illuminated gas art or participated in his collage parties over the years. He's also a big fan of all things community, and he has been keeping me apprised of the hundreds of volunteers who have mobilized to remove debris and check in with their fellow residents. None of these folks were listed in IMDB or TMZ. These were individuals who came together in the wake of an indiscriminate force. While my brother and his wife were able to return to their home, just blocks away there are families who do not have the choice of spending a few weeks in their townhouse or their place on Martha's Vineyard. These are the people who are getting up and going to their place of business only to discover that it isn't there anymore. Or the ones who are waiting for word on the missing. The ones who are waiting for clues about how their lives might continue. 

On the flipside, there are plenty of those who live outside the fire zone who see the rich and famous as the reason why we should turn a cold shoulder on relief efforts. Why can't they just take care of themselves? Lost your house? Big deal. Buy a new one. 

Which I suppose they might, if only the real estate agent's office hadn't burned down too. 

Only The Beginning.

 I awoke with mild relief to the sounds of my wife getting ready to take her niece to the airport. It wasn't time for me to get out of bed yet. But the relief came more from the release of the dream which had been playing out in my head just prior to the morning's stirring.

It was a pretty standard zombie apocalypse scenario. Survival for those who were left with their faculties, the ones that kept them from making choices primarily based on eating brains, was the focus. The most difficult problem with this plan was that apparently there was some concentrated effort kept in keeping the zombies safe, happy and part of society. It turned out that there were a great many of the walking dead that were elected officials, leaders of the community that we were all trying to hold together. So the decision was made that we would try our best to live with the zombies in as harmonious a way possible. 

This was about the time that I began to recognize the way my dream was an allegory for living with MAGAts. They look to have been recently human, but there are a number of telltale signs that give them away. The red baseball caps, for example. Or their tendency to shuffle around in mobs, mumbling incoherently. And then there's that whole predilection toward eating brains. 

As it turns out, holding a representative democracy together during a zombie apocalypse is a pretty tough thing to do, but liberals have always been "big tent" folks. If it means making sacrifices to the shambling masses of undead, we'll do that. Even if it means letting them being in charge of all three branches of government. 

This was a scary dream that I was relieved to have interrupted. But in true Rod Serling style, I woke up to the realization that the dream wasn't over. 

It was just beginning. 

What's That Sound?

 That awful creaking and snapping sound you heard late last week was that of the arc of history splintering under the weight of attempting to bend toward justice. The felon who would be "president" finally received his sentence for the thirty-four convictions he received for falsifying business records to cover up that he had his fixers pay porn star Stormy Daniels to keep her from talking about their sexual encounters prior to the 2016 election. 

Eight years later, dirty laundry and all, the only man who has served as president after being impeached twice will be sworn into office next week, making history once again by becoming the only convicted felon to be confused as being worthy of that position. 

And now, a musical interlude: "He's never gonna be president now," sings the chorus in Hamilton during the song that recounts The Reynolds Pamphlet, an essay that Alexander Hamilton wrote to clear his name in connection to a series of payments that it turns out were made not in attempt to embezzle treasury funds but rather to pay off the husband of the woman with whom he had an extra-marital affair. Back in 1797 it seems that such conduct was thought to make even those in the highest tier of government to be unworthy of moving still higher. 

Two hundred some years later, this kind of thing gets pushed to the side and a sentence of "unconditional discharge" was handed down to the former game show host, sounding more like a side effect of erectile dysfunction medication than a legal precedent. That wave that so many of us back in May and even before that which we hoped would bring about the landslide of judgement against this adjudicated rapist and TV pitchman. All of those decisions that we might have imagined that would disqualify him from becoming dog catcher in Mayberry let alone President of the United States have just disappeared. 

"Find me 11,000 votes?" Gone. The rally in front of an angry mob on January 6, 2021 in which he exhorted those frothing minions to "fight like hell?" Gone. He's immune now, and seemingly forever. The next in a series of increasingly unstable moves will no doubt continue to be looked at askance and then passed along as the United States attempts to absorb sovereign nations and Make America Insane Again. 

Someday, maybe they'll write a musical about this one. But for now it reads like a tragedy. 

Potbelly Legacy

 My father used to talk about a thing I attribute to him, but it may have originated long before him: The Potbelly Syndrome. It recalled a time long before I came along in which a town in crisis had a center, in my dad's vision a general store where there was a stove around which people would gather to warm themselves against whatever cold or calamity raged outside. As they stood around that source of heat, they could share experiences of living through the blizzard, tornado, flood, or fill in the blank disaster. Those who had food could use that central location to share it. Those who needed shelter had a safe, warm space to dry off and connect with someone who had a spare room. Inevitably when things went sideways in nature or became otherwise catastrophic in the world, my father would invoke this vision of his. 

As an adjunct to this, my mother would recall the times when her father's drug store was that place. In the frigid winters of the mountainous town in which she grew up, the town would head to Ralph's store to get out of the storm and connect with the rest of the town that spread out into the hills from the main road through town. Light, heat, and a compassionate ear could be found at the Myers' place. This was especially true during the dark days of the Depression and into the Second World War. News, good and bad, was shared inside where lives could be normal for just a little while. 

Which is why I am so relieved to relate that my younger brother received so much of this experience in return to being forced to evacuate his Southern California bungalow. It wasn't just for him and his wife, newcomers who had recently relocated to be near to mother-in-law, but for everyone who had a house or an apartment or a life ripped out from under them. Those who had gave freely to those who did not. Everyone was fed. Everyone was kept warm. Without a potbelly stove in sight. 

While there were those who sought to blame and complain, the human beings of the Southland came together to survive. Together. The older brothers in places that have suffered their own floods and fires stayed in touch with texts and pictures, watching news reports that made us wonder how our sibling would make it through. The quick answer is he had help. And I know my brother well enough to know that as the days go by and the incredible challenge of "returning to normal" begins, he will be out there giving back in the ways that only he can. 

Our mother and father would be so proud. 

I Swear

 What becomes historic is what would be mundane in circumstances that were mundane. As my son reminds me quite frequently, I think we're all interested in living in more precedented times. 

The case that comes most immediately to mind is the oath that members of the Senate take as they are sworn into office: "I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God." If you choose to affirm rather than swear, it's still binding. And that part about God at the end can be a little misleading, what with all that Church and State being divided and so forth. The chunk that I would like ot focus on today is the "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic." This is something that dates back to 1789, but was highlighted at the outbreak of the United States Civil War. Events over the past four years will put a spotlight on Wyoming's former Representative, Liz Cheney. A conservative stalwart and the daughter who picked up the Deep Red banner her father Dick carried in his years of public service, Liz has received bushels of accolades from liberals and Democrats for taking the oath that she took seriously. 

Liz Cheney chose to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. That is why she sat at the front of a committee to investigate the events of January 6, 2024. That is why she chose to support the Democratic Nominee for President in this past election: because the guy running on the Republican ticket had made a mockery of the regulations found within that oath. The same one that the former game show host swore and then ignored in favor of his own twisted version of our nation's binding agreements. 

Liz Cheney did her job. 

Much in the same way that Kamala Harris faithfully discharged her duties when she restored the centuries old tradition of the peaceful transfer of power in our country. What used to be a rather dull procedural footnote in the electoral process had a bright yellow highlight drawn through it four years ago as then sitting Vice President Mike Pence was threatened with hanging by a horde of frothing MAGAts. There was no riot this past January 6. No mobs. No gallows. Kamala Harris received rave notices doing the duties of her office. 

Swear to God. 

Empty

 We have done it. We have normalized the soulless moral vacuum that surrounds public service in this country. I, for one, am glad that Jimmy Carter wasn't around to witness the embarrassing circus parade disguised as confirmation hearings for The Second Trumpreich's Cabinet. 

The former Faux News contributor Pete "Peter" Hegseth had his character questioned this past week: “One of your colleagues said that you got drunk at an event at a bar and chanted, ‘Kill all Muslims!’" To which the candidate replied, “Anonymous false charges,” much in the same way he dismissed allegations that he sexually assaulted a woman in 2017. Keeping in mind that in a text Pete's own mother sent to him she referred to him as "an abuser of women."

Then again, one need not follow the trail too far back to discover the way that frat boy turned Supreme Court Justice Bret "Kegmeister" Kavanaugh defended his own youthful indiscretions powered by Vitamin B: Beer. If this wasn't part of the path that led to a woman accusing The Kegmeister of sexual assault, maybe we could let this go without noticing a trend. 

Like the fact that the incoming "dictator for a day" just received his non-sentence for his conviction on thirty-four counts of falsifying business records to pay hush money to a porn actress with whom he as having a dalliance while his wife had just given birth to their son. To quote the former game show host, apparently "when you're a star, they just let you do it."  

So now we seem destined to mint a whole new cop of "stars" to fill the ranks of the Trumpreich. with besotted, bitter boys working out their misspent youth by seeking approval from a body that is already full of them. 

And so it goes. 

Sorry, Saint Jimmy. 

The Facebooks

 Mark Zuckerberg, who began his career as a fascist by creating a computer application that college boys could use to rate how hot girls they would never date were, has decided that fact-checking isn't something he needs to be done by him or anyone in his employ. He now believes that this function can be taken over by "the community." Ladies and gentlemen, there is no lifeguard on duty.

I understand that it is lazy of me to take my knowledge of Mark Zuckerberg directly from Jesse Eisenberg's portrayal of him from the film Social Network, but since there is no need to check for facts anymore, why not? Fast on the heels of the Elno the Ersatz President, Mark has decided to pull the plug on Facebook's independent fact-checking program. Because who really needs to hire someone to keep an eye out for trolls when the trolls can do that for you? 

For "Free."

Which winds us back to that illusion of Free Speech. As a matter of full transparency, I only use the Facebooks for maintaining a district-required presence for our school. I don't get too much push back from announcing the semi-annual Scholastic Book Fair or the pictures of our Students of the Week, but I have had the vicarious experience of having my blog posts pitched from the Facebooks for no apparent reason. Now the answer seems quite evident: The lunatics have taken over the asylum. Perhaps "lunatic" is too strong. How about incipient fascist incels with access to a keyboard. Perhaps a subset of the group that was involved in getting the Second Trumpreich off the carnival circuit and into the White House. 

In the months since that elevation of the once banned chief MAGAt, the absurdly but appropriately named Meta has donated one million dollars to his inauguration fund, switched its global affairs chief to a more Republican-friendly executive, and selected MAGA ally and Ultimate Fighting Championship CEO Dana White for its board. 

How could this possibly be seen as anything but "promoting free speech?" And, if I remember by Zuckerberg lore correctly, it's also a sure-fire way to impress the chicks. And Sean Parker. 

Cry

 My wife, who is prone to such things, described a visualization in which all the tears for those affected by the wildfires would put out the flames. It's a beautiful image, but not one that comes easy to a cynic like me. 

My younger brother and his wife were forced to evacuate their home in Pasadena early Wednesday morning. When they moved down there from the Bay Area a few months back, I knew that I would miss them but I did not anticipate having to shift that feeling directly to worrying about their survival. The good news, from my very limited standpoint, is that they are both okay with the asterisk of them having to worry that all their worldly possessions would be consumed in a blaze. 

A blaze that I confess surprised me, since I was initially focused on the fires that were burning further south in the lyrically named Pacific Palisades. My limited understanding of the geography of Los Angeles put my brother and his wife in the relative safety of the northern part of that region. It was a separate fire, the Eaton Fire that was threatening to consume their new neighborhood. Forced to confront the map that showed all those affected by the windblown conflagration, I realized that in spite of the somewhat stilted news coverage, it wasn't just a pack of celebrities whose homes were on fire. Hundreds of thousands of Californians were fleeing for their lives, with a death toll that was only beginning to suggest the devastation wrought. 

At this point, I have to pause in my search for more synonyms to convey the gravity of this disaster. I will take this opportunity to insert the words of the Fuehrer-Elect used to address the situation: "One of the best and most beautiful parts of the United States of America is burning down to the ground. It’s ashes, and Gavin Newscum should resign. He insisted that California's Governor Newsom was more concerned about "trying to protect a tiny little fish." He went on: "And for the sake of the smelt, they have no water. They had no water in the fire hydrants today in Los Angeles. It was a terrible thing. And we're going to get that done." This self-proclaimed very stable genius who has regularly shown little or no understanding for how things like solar eclipses work was trying to score political points at the expense of that "beautiful part of the United States of America." 

Thankfully for my younger brother, the guy who wanted us to inject bleach to cure COVID is not currently in charge. Instead, the guy who has been lauded by both sides of the aisle for his handling of disasters from hurricanes to hellfires is still in charge of our nation's emergency response. So keep sending those good thoughts and tears if you have them to spare for everyone who sits on the edge of losing everything. From Paris Hilton to my little brother. 

Nice Things

 "Destroyed" is a pretty tough word. It describes things that are no longer useful. It describes things that have had their usefulness terminated. It also describes a challenge for Mister Caven.

Over the Winter Break I received a text from my principal. It read simply, "They destroyed our soccer goals." This came to me on the Friday before we were set to return to school. My initial thought was to hop on my bike and ride over to see what could be done. 

I built those soccer goals. Not from scratch, mind you, but the scope of the kit that generated just one of the goals was sufficient to keep me busy for most of a lunch period. Back in August, kids hovered around me, asking if they could "help." They were anxious to have something other than the two orange cones we had set up at the end of the field through which they could show off their most impressive skills. It took me another afternoon to get the second kit put together and placed at the far end of the pitch. It did this with, or perhaps in spite of, all the "help" I received. 

As I have noted here on occasion, soccer, not basketball, football, foursquare or jump rope, is the main concession of our recesses. Before school. Morning recess. All three lunch periods. After school. There are not many moments in the day during which you won't find a ball being kicked by someone somewhere on our campus. These new goals were the most significant bits of game architecture on our playground, and as such they garnered both the respect and the inquisitive nature of our kids. "I wonder what would happen if I kicked the ball as hard as I could at the net from two feet away." "I wonder if this cross bar would support me." "I wonder if these things are meant to last." 

We were doing pretty good. We made it all the way to Winter Break with only a few minor repairs and fixes. Then Mister Caven did something not so clever: He left the soccer goals out on the playground for two weeks. Unattended. Which meant that they were attended to by miscreants. 

Hence the text. 

Which became my directive. "Destroyed" does not mean forever to me. I'll be working to reclaim the significant bits and pieces of the wreckage along with a discrete amount of duct tape to bring the plastic phoenix out of the ashes. 

That's the way we can have nice things: Duct tape. 

Nom De Home

 At our house, we delight in the naming of things. 

Our house is named Rancho DeLuxe, after the Jimmy Buffett-infused motion picture from 1975. Our car goes by the name of The Carship Enterprius, and comes complete with NCC-1701 markings and phaser burns. Our dog, god rest her soul, came to us as "Missy," but we quickly altered that to Maddie, or Madeline Albright, or Madagascar, or simply Mad Dog. 

Inside, we have a Google assistant that helps us keep things turned on or off as the situation over the course of the day decrees. We do have one solidly utilitarian name: Kitchen Light that allows us to see when we ask Google to light up that room. During Christmas, when we wanted the outside lights to show off our enthusiastic decorating job, we asked to "turn on the Twinkles." A lamp in the back room has been dubbed Pilot Light, and the one in the corner of the living room is Luxor. To watch TV, was ask our robot overlord to turn on Asimo, named for the humanoid droid Honda decommissioned after nearly twenty years of service. 

When we fostered the neighborhood feral cat who had undergone the extraction of all his teeth, we never imagined we would be referring to "Fluffy" as "our cat" years later. Which has not precluded us from taking all manner of liberties with his moniker as we have become more and more familiar with his moods. Doctor Fluffenstein and H.R. Fluffenstuff are just a couple of the ways we have made his existence fall more in line with our need for our own nomenclature. 

Which is why the purchase of an electric car was almost a secondary experience for our household. Yes, we finally found a deal for escaping the trips to the gas pump, and realizing a dream of creeping ever closer to energy independent. But we were also presented with the opportunity to christen this new entity that appeared in our lives. One of the prime joys that came from this acquisition was that it is a Fiat, from my wife's favorite corner of Europe, Italy. After some hours of making suggestions after the paperwork had been done and the car was parked in our very own driveway, we landed on Lucia. Our Fiat Lucia. If you're interested in her in the entire somewhat lengthy version, you'll have to ask my wife. 

Because giving an object more than just one name would be silly. 

Bullies On Parade

 I am still getting emails from Democrats. The party about which I made such a fuss a couple of months ago. The party to whom I donated what was for a school teacher a considerable chunk of change. I put my faith, nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies into them in hopes of changing the direction of the country, this one in particular, and came up empty. 

Control of both houses of Congress. The White House. And by extension, the Supreme Court. 

A recent missive from the Democratic National Committee wanted to know if I was going to watch the inauguration. The underlying theme seemed to be that by turning a cold shoulder on the festivities for Mar A Lago's resident golf pro would send some sort of message. This has an appeal to the third grader inside of me but the last time I watched a presidential inauguration live was back in 2009. Back then, as the school's tech guy, it was my job to make sure that every adult and child who might bear witness to the swearing in of our first black president had a chance to see it. 

Four years later and subsequently, we have not made the same kind of fuss. To be clear: There will be no joy for me in watching the festivities of January 20. Conversely, there will be no joy for me in making a point to ignore them. I do confess to a bit of schadenfrfeude in hearing that the fact that all the flags in our nation's capital will be lowered to half staff to honor the passing of Jimmy Carter ruffles the scales of the big orange lizard, but mostly this serves as a non-event in my world. 

I understand that this makes me a "bad sport," if we are currently describing the outcomes of elections in terms of playground behavior. Instead, I will choose once again to use the tools I prescribe to kids who feel that they are being bullied. The first part begins with ignoring. Bullies do not like to be ignored. I also understand that things can escalate mighty quickly if a bully is given power, like election to the highest office in our land. I also know that when this happens what we need are a group of upstanders, who won't simply turn their heads and walk away. The next four years will take a lot of upstanding. It will take courage and patience and bravery. 

But it won't necessarily require yet another cash infusion to the DNC. 

Spoiler Alert

 "i've seen that movie too." That was a sentiment expressed by Elton John on his sprawling double album, "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." To be fair, the words themselves belong to Elton's lyricist, Bernie Taupin, which is not exactly the point, but I feel like Bernie doesn't always get the attention he deserves for providing rhymes for the Rocketman. The reason for me to bring this phrase up here and now is the way it describes my feeling lately about going out to see a mseovie. It used to be that you could stop by this corner of Al Gore's Internet and expect that every so often you would be treated to another episode of "Dave Goes To The Movies."

But not lately.

Because Dave doestn't go to the movies like he used to.

Somewhere after COVID, around the time that watching movies as they streamed into our collective living rooms in a literal flood, my compulsion to rush out and put my posterior in a seat anywhere else began to lose its specific appeal. Certainly the habit of sitting in a darkened theater with a group of strangers wasn't something Doctor Fauci recommended, but my wife and I still looked for opportunities to make that communal venture to support the medium that we both love so dearly. It has only been over the last year or so that my need to venture out into the cold hard world to see the next big thing Hollywood has to offer has slowed to a trickle. 

Over the holidays, it was my wife who did the movie duty, taking in both Wicked and Gladiator II. Our son bought himself a ticket to see Sonic 3. I stayed home. There was nothing that moved me off of my spot on the couch and into the aforementioned darkened movie house to take in the latest and greatest. I like to think of myself as a pretty astute arbiter of taste when it comes to motion pictures, but there seems to be something else at work here. 

I may have become old and fussy. 

The suggestion that yours truly might have picked up the mantle of "they don't make 'em like they used to" is on this side of hypocritical when one considers the films for which I have waited in line for over the years. Maybe I've just topped off. This theory was tested when this past week my wife cajoled me out to dinner and a movie. It was a date. Lately this experience had included a lot more trips to Target than our neighborhood Cineplex. We went to see A Complete Unknown, the story of a young Bob Dylan's struggle with fame. 

I liked it. 

And dinner was good too. 

It gave me a smidgen of hope that maybe I could shake off this lethargy and get out to the picture show a little more often than once a blue moon. But we will have to wait and see. 

Won't we? 

Lattice Of Coincidence

 One of the effects of the New Year's Terror Attacks on the United States may be that people may start to shy away from renting pickups. In particular Elongated Mush's vaunted Cybertruck. In case you missed it, after decades of keeping terrorist activity down to, if you'll pardon the pun, a dull roar, the carnage and destruction witnessed on January first in New Orleans and Las Vegas reminded us once again that we are not immune from this kind of devastation.

Authorities were quick to follow the link between the two attacks, citing the use of the vehicle renting application Turo, which was used to acquire both of the trucks used in the conicidental strikes on American soil. For those of you unfamiliar, Turo is a company that allows private citizens to "share" their cars with folks who are shopping for a particular ride in a a particular city. Like if you were headed out to the Big Easy or Sin City and wanted to be able to carry a restricted cargo in the back of a machine that has become synonymous with the American experience. The Ford truck and the Cybertruck used were both electric vehicles. Go ahead and make of that what you might, but I suppose we can all breathe a sigh of relief that terrorists are now becoming more environmentally conscious. 

Also, this is just a reminder that the way terrorism works is to undermine the safety and overall well-being of those outside the blast radius. We are still taking off our shoes and waiting in hours-long lines to get on an airplane nearly a quarter of a century after the attacks of September 11, 2001. And as much as the Head MAGAt would like to pin these crimes on "immigrants who have created a crime wave," we should all be reminded that both of the gentlemen involved were United States citizens. What they had in common was experience in our military, which no doubt allowed them the training and experience necessary to put their twisted plans into action. 

The effects of these events are already being felt, the most readily apparent being the postponement of College Football's Sugar Bowl, held in New Orleans. Suddenly local authorities there were confronted by the potential of another larger mass casualty event, and the powers that be rushed to the pause button to keep from being caught even more unawares. Reckoning on being part of a world that is regularly confronted with car bombs and terror attacks is not something Americans are very good at. 

You don't have to be a conspiracy lover or a counterintelligence wonk to appreciate just what evil is currently being unleashed. How will we respond? Something tells me that the Federal Bureau of Investigation, currently working overtime to investigate these incidents as is their titular responsibility won't be disbanded anytime soon. The potential for waking up in a country with a "secret police" force just grew again. 

Sleep tight, America. 

The Big Not So Easy

 I understand that the grotesque tragedy that occurred on New Year's Eve on Bourbon Street allows the sarcastic tag "When cars are outlawed, only outlaws will have cars," to gain traction. The fact that I wrote this preemptively does not blunt the impact of the callous act committed in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Fifteen people were killed and dozens more wounded when a pickup truck drove into a crowd of revelers. Police on the scene exchanged gunfire with the driver who was shot and killed. 

Happy New Year. 

I can say this with a straight face for one reason: My school's principal, a good friend of mine, was in New Orleans that night. She and her husband decided to go back to their hotel a little earlier and missed all "the excitement." Carnage. I feel very fortunate that I do not have to report the nonsensical death of someone close to me, but that will not be true for hundreds of others who will now have to stubble with the reality of the first moments of 2025 setting the ugliest possible tone for the rest of the year. 

A firsthand account: “The guy in the pickup truck just punched the gas and mowed over the barricade and hit pedicab passengers. There were just bodies and the screams. I mean, you can’t unhear that. It was chaos and very, very scary.” Witness Kimberly Strickland, a visitor from Alabama, starts the New Year with a tragedy that will most likely stay with her for the rest of her life. 

The other glass of lemonade in which we can take Solace in is the bag of lemons that might have been spilled if the attacker had been able to open fire on the crowd after crashing through a barrier at the scene. Two policemen were wounded in the gunfight that broke out in the resulting chaos. A bittersweet reminder from the land of the guns and the home of the pickup. 

If you'll excuse me, I'll just stay out of the way of the spin on this one. 

Auld Acquaintance

 Hindsight, they say, is twenty-twenty. That means that we see more clearly with time what transpired in our youth. This might explain why I spend so much space here ruminating on what was rather than what will be. I know what was. I can pick it up and spin it around. I can look at it from top to bottom without it moving around too much. Which is how I discovered that this connection I continue to cherish was only five years out of my life. I only lived in the same apartment as Darren for less than a year. For the nine months of our sophomore year and two months in what was his senior year. 

Darren only lived for two months after we moved in together in the fall of 1985. His passing is the stuff of legend around this corner of Entropical Paradise. How I came to elevate him to such lofty status has been examined and re-examined for decades now, but it was only this past month when I read a book called Stay True that I truly began to comprehend how this young man who I only knew for a handful of years landed at the top of my pantheon of friends. This memoir, written by Hua Hsu, tells the story of two friends who met in college and developed a kinship through music and fashion and the day to day business of discovering oneself in college. And then, when that friendship comes crashing to an end through no choice of their own, how survival becomes making sense of tragedy. Reckoning with the fragility of life when you thought you were indestructible is a tough pill to swallow. 

I have been fortunate to make that journey myself with the help of fellow survivors, all of whom had their own connection with Darren. For many years, however, I struggled with this puzzle by myself. I was sure that there was no one who understood the shock and depression that I was enduring. It wasn't until I read Stay True that it became apparent that this is a turn we all make at some point in our lives, and I have been grateful to have experienced it with a circle of caring friends. 

This does not mean that I don't continue to be guilty of a bit of navel-gazing. The insular nature of my grief kept me from fully connecting with all those other hearts that were broken when Darren died was part of growing up. Grief was like being tossed into the deep end of adulthood and being forced to swim to safety. I was fortunate enough to make a connection with Darren's younger sister over the past nineteen years. The little girl I met in a Muskogee, Oklahoma living room is all grown up now and she found her way back to me thanks to Al Gore's Internet. That was nearly twenty years ago. 

We talked again last week, picking up where we left off. Her kids, like ours, have grown up in the meantime. The stories we both share with our kids are often sprinkled with the lively spirit of her brother. My friend. We agreed that there is something about his spirit thatat we need to keep alive. She was the one who reminded me that Darren and I were both in high school band. He ditched his saxophone shortly after moving away to college. I sold my tuba and trombone to a guy who intended to turn the into lamps. Darren's sister held onto his sax. She has kept it for all these years. It is a talisman much like the plastic Celica badge I found near the wreckage all those years ago. 

We hold on to things when we can't hold on to people. 

It was during our most recent conversation that Darren's sister pointed out that this fall will mark forty years without him. Sometimes that feels like a long time. Sometimes it feels like last week. The best thing about being here now is knowing that I am not alone. 

We, The People

 Looking back on the year that is creeping toward being a memory, I have to say that I am somewhat ambivalent about seeing it go. 

On the one hand, there was the presidential election. This provided me with no small amount of stress and fatigue, even as I tried to paint a rosy picture of a future that would include our nation's first female chief executive. I let myself get excited about the possibility of driving a stake through the heart of the chief MAGAt and watching our country move on from the decade of rage and fear inspired by him. 

On the other hand, I've got a slew of private satisfactions that allow me to look into the day to day business of life with a modicum of self-assurance. I have reached a point where I can finally accept many of those things over which I have no control. Not the least of these is aging, and waiting patiently for medical science to determine that whatever ails me is just "part of growing old."

Which is what allows me to remain both incredulous and amused as I watch the Second Trumpreich stumble into 2025. I have become just a little numb to the constant barrage of "did you hear what he said yesterday," while at the same time I allow myself to be outraged within limits. Each new transgression against the American Dream for anyone who is not a billionaire reminds me that this is what we, and I'm using that pronoun very loosely, seem to want. 

Even as the edge continues to be pushed on what we have come to recognize as democracy, I maintain an old man's conviction (pardon the pun) that justice will win out. The votes that were cast for the convicted felon continue to show the United States willing to "take a chance" on the presidency not unlike buying a lottery ticket. Even though the odds are incredibly disproportionately stacked against anything that resembles prosperity trickling down past the one percent, Americans seemed to be willing to take the chance on empty and increasingly bizarre promises. 

So, I will sit here and continue to watch as someone who has already been impeached from the office fiddles while Rome burns. I will remind myself daily, if necessary, that this is what we wanted.

But there is still time to change our minds. 

Stolen Moments

 As we put volume 2024 up on the shelf, I can't help but feel the weight of the innocence lost in the year that was. 

Nothing captures that feeling better for me than the departure of the Oakland Athletics. I have written about the ugly business of professional sports and the way that greed has taken over so much of what was once a glorious connection with a community. I have described the helpless feeling of being a fan who watches essentially helpless while the powers that be take a piece of history and leave a divot in the place where baseball used to fit. As if to apply an exclamation point to this sad transaction, Rickey Henderson died in what we might call the late innings of December. 

Outside of Oakland, you might not be aware of Rickey's accomplishments. As a matter of fact, you could say that the New York Post's headline, "Rickey Henderson was far from MLB’s greatest baserunner," stands as an argumentative tribute to the talents of the Oakland A's Hall of Famer. It will be noted that Rickey spent his professional career with nine different Major League teams, but it was his time spent in Oakland that made the biggest impact. 

I say this not simply because of the statistics he piled up while he wore the green and gold. I say this because of the T-shirts sold across the East Bay bearing Rickey's likeness holding up a record-setting base with the legend printed above it, "Everything I know about stealing I learned in Oakland." printed above it. In an era when naming rights for professional sports venues are bought and sold like candy to corporations that can afford it, the field which will no longer be home to Major League baseball was named Rickey Henderson Field. And not only that, but the field that was refurbished and brought up to competitive standards by a group of Oakland Tech parents and community members will forever be known as, you guessed it, Rickey Henderson Field. 

So with all that local fuss, why do you suppose a New York writer would take it upon himself to denegrate the legacy of baseball's all-time leader in stolen bases? Maybe it has something to do with the way that the New York Yankees, as is their wont, decided to trade Rickey back to Oakland after four years, having lured him out to the east coast with a ton of money. he returned to the East Bay to continue his legendary campaign to eventually become the all-time leader for stolen bases with one thousand four hundred six. Second place goes to Lou Brock, nearly five hundred bags behind him. In a career that saw him bounce around the major leagues, Rickey Henderson kept finding his way home. 

To Oakland. He will be missed in that same sad memory of baseball in Oakland. Rickey stomped on the base paths and he will be missed every autumn. Aloha, 2024. Thanks for rubbing those memories in our collective faces.