What?

 I was this many years old when it finally came clear to me that the lyrics to "The Ballad Of Gilligan's Isle" includes the line "it started from this tropic port," and not (as I had been singing and recalling for all those years prior "it started from this traffic port." The confusion stemmed from my far-too-clever mind at an impressionable age and choice I made to hear "traffic" instead of "tropic" because I assumed that there was a nautical distinction for busy ports where three hour cruises could be chartered. I made the sense I was going to make of it some sixty years ago and it was only this past week that stumbling across the phrase "traffic stop" in a completely non-Gilligan-related podcast that a light wen on in my head: "Tropic port" makes so much more sense. My prior belief that Sherwood Schwartz and George Wyle were trying to goose the seafaring knowledge of the viewing public by including some naval jargon was crushed beneath the reality of a misheard lyric. 

I have had my struggles with this sort of thing at other points in my life. A very good friend of mine insists that the Vapors are singing "cyclone ranger" and not (as the lyrics sheet included with the album suggest) "psyched lone ranger." Friendly as these discussions begin, there seems to a point at which surrendering to the "truth" takes a back seat to the synapses that had been knocked into place in some formative time and place. 

If you have spent years, nay decades, singing along tunefully to the words you believed were those stated by the artist and it turns out that they are not the words stated by the artist, you have a choice: go with what you know in your heart or surrender to the reality of what is on that piece of paper that comes along with the album. 

Which brings us to the question: What is an album? 

Or a lyric sheet? 

And who is still aware of Gilligan's Island anymore? 

I started to wonder about the topographical features of the island itself and if someone had bothered to create a map from the periodic ancillary references to its geography. I became concerned that those seven stranded castaways might not be getting enough protein amid their seemingly banana and coconut-based diet. Why did the Howells seem to have brought enough cash in addition to wardrobe changes for months at sea, not three hours? Was there ever a moment that things got particularly desperate and the rest of them didn't have the urge to take out their frustrations on Gilligan fouling up yet another rescue attempt by requiring the ultimate sacrifice? 

It all started from that traffic port...

Taco Tuesday Will Now Be Every Day

 I think of Marty McFly, and the way he used to light up when somebody called him "chicken." Not the healthiest response from our boy Marty, but he was (according to the movie timeline) seventeen years old. Or forty-four. Or seventy-seven. It depends on the reality in which his DeLorean lands. The actor who portrayed Marty, Michael J Fox, is the same age as I am. I want to believe that he has learned through his experiences on the screen and in his real-life struggle with Parkinson's Disease how to cope face the world with a brave face regardless of the challenge. 

There might be some comfort in knowing that our current situation with Pennywise the President was brought about by someone mucking with the timeline. The former gameshow host seems like the kind of guy who would fall for a stainless steel lemon that could be modified into a time machine. It might explain how we got into the mess in which we currently exist. Only this time it was Biff Tannen who kept the Sports Almanac and made a bunch of deals that generated the warped space that we are navigating. 

One telling difference here: The Biff currently taking up space at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is the one with the "chicken issue." In case you missed it, the convicted felon and adjudicated rapist slumlord does not like being called "chicken." The phrase used first by Financial Times columnist Robert Armstrong, "Trump Always Chickens Out" refers to the twice-impeached White House resident and his stop, step back, jump, turn, hop and skip away from threats he has made about tariffs. One hundred fifty percent to ninety to pause to fifty to only things we don't buy anyway. He calls it "negotiation." Those of us watching call it "chicken."

Of course it's not just Marty McFly who historically had trouble with this epithet. Once a very long time ago a young man named Jim Stark struggled with this epithet. In the movie, Jim avoids going over the cliff, but the James who played him wasn't so lucky. A tragedy to be sure, but at the time James Dean crashed his car he was not in charge of the United States economy. And the third biggest army in the world. And the nuclear codes. 

With those factors in mind, I guess we can only hope that TACO is an acronym that sticks. 

Commuted

Last Thursday I rode my bike to school.

No big deal. I've done it a lot of times.

Most of the time that I have been teaching, this year and all the years before. 

But it was the Last Day of School for kids at Horace Mann that I stumbled on the phrase: Rush Hour. What does that mean to me? 

I know it takes me about twelve minutes to get to work from my house. It takes about fifteen minutes to get home. I take advantage of the slope on my way there, and it works against me on the way home. The elements sometimes play a part in that as well, but my commute has been blessedly straightforward for more than a quarter century. 

On those rare occasions that I get to ride in a car there is the tiniest bit of traffic with which we must contend. Parking isn't usually a hassle of any significance because there is plenty of bare curb to be found when I roll up. And more often than not, if I am in a car, I will be exiting the vehicle so my wife can be on her way to whatever adventures await her. 

While I go to work. 

I got my perfect attendance award last week. I was on time and in my place each and every day this school year. I got there early so that I could have a few quiet moments before the gates open and the stream of children signal the start of my work day. 

I'm the guy who opens that gate. Which does give me pause. I wonder if I didn't show up on time one day if there might be a mad scramble to figure out how to get all those little people into the building if I weren't there. 

But now it's June, and these questions can go unanswered for the time being. This all too brief pause in the story of Mister Caven and his commute. Starting with day one.  

Cents

 Benjamin Franklin suggested that "A penny saved is a penny earned." He was considered wise for making this observation. 

For about five hundred years, folks have been offering one another a penny for their thoughts. A penny from the 1600s would be worth tens of thousands of dollars. So maybe holding onto those thoughts might be worthwhile. 

Steven Wright postulated, "If it's a penny for your thoughts and you put in your two cents worth, then someone, somewhere is making a penny."

P.J. O'Rourke noted, "A penny will not buy a penny postcard or a penny whistle or a single piece of penny candy. It will not even, if you're managing the U.S. Mint, buy a penny."

Which brings us to our current state in which the current administration would like to do away with pennies as a part of our currency. This coming from a guy who has a gold toilet means very little, but since he can make this kind of decision, the United States Treasury is going to keep stamping pennies until they run out of blanks. This will be sometime in 2026. Estimates currently put the cost of the production of a single penny at four cents apiece, so it makes some sense. 

This is notable because very little else that has happened during the past four months has. It also goes along with a a decades-old trend toward eliminating the penny. Our once-good friends to the north in Canada gave up their penny more than ten years ago. Their maple leaf design was the distinction made between our two currencies when every so often one of those Canuck coins slipped into your change at the Seven-Eleven. 

Why should I care? Perhaps because I have spent the past forty years or so picking up any and all spare change that I find in my travels from here to there. Most of this accrued wealth has come in the form of pennies. Sometimes in groups of two or three, but almost always that lone one cent piece left on the street, sidewalk or parking lot. I bring them home and put them on my wife's desk. Eventually we put them into rolls of fifty and hold on to them as if they were truly worth something. At any given moment there are five or six hundred pennies rolling about our house in one configuration or another. 

That's five or six dollars. A fortune, right? Unless you convert it to thoughts, in which case it would be five or six hundred thoughts. And all of those would be earned. 

Fall

 According to some, Bruce Wayne's father once counseled him with this bit of wisdom: "Why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up." This might feel like love to a billionaire with a borderline personality and a somewhat unhealthy fixation on flying rodents, but when you're a teacher things come out a little differently.

"Why do we pick up after ourselves? So we can come back in the fall." 

Like so many working stiffs across the globe, teachers tend to look at each week as a mini-marathon, with Friday as the ultimate goal to which we all aspire. Loverboy would have us believe that we are all, in fact, Working For The Weekend. I know that they are sincere in this assertion. They're Canadian. 

But with teachers, it works a little differently. Certainly we all hold Friday as a shining light by which to guide our days. Each holiday, three day weekend, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Spring reminds us why we are all there: To shape young minds and count the days until summer. The industry standard is one hundred eighty. Somewhere in January we tend to celebrate the hundredth day of school. This festival is a chance for children to reflect on that rather large number, and for teachers to breathe out secure in the knowledge that they have passed the halfway mark. 

So here we are, at the end of May, having reached the end of this particular string of school days. We will gather our belongings and store those things that belong to the district in cupboards and on shelves with the expectation that we will be back. I have been doing this exercise in mild futility for twenty-eight years and I still haven't found a way to make it feel any less final. 

Because it isn't. Even though the Federal Department of Education is being dismantled, my own school district is fumbling toward next August, with a small percentage of my colleagues looing for extra earning potential teaching summer school. I was one of those people once upon a time. It didn't mean that I could avoid cleaning up, it just meant that I had to move my junk to a different part of the room so that "deep cleaning" could take place before the additional education could take place. 

I do not seek those opportunities out like I used to. I tend to leave them for those fresh faces who are looking to pad their income with a little extra work when the rest of us are making that big slow turn back to fall. That is when we take all those things down from the shelves and open up the cupboards to welcome a new cycle of learning. 

About gravity and the way time passes. 

Connective Tissue

 My wife and I attended the graduation party for the youngest son of our friends. Our friends who came into our lives when our own son was three years old. That was the beginning of an arrangement that found us sharing a childcare that would lead us to a co-op preschool that created an even larger village of children and parents that we grew to know and care for at different times and places. It was born out of convenience, but these friends became the friends of our son and the arrangement that began out of quiet necessity became a brotherhood of sorts. 

This was our son's first group of friends. Through elementary school, into middle school and high school, their paths crossed again and again. Sometimes out of that convenience mentioned earlier, but mostly out of the comfort of knowing someone all of their lives. 

That's where my wife and I landed this past Saturday night. The house full of guests milled about, introducing themselves and their affiliation to the graduate. I could honestly say that I had known this young man since before he was born. I could remember the ceremony we attended in another back yard that welcomed him into the world. His older brothers and our son played together while we passed the new baby around. 

Now this baby is heading out into the world to begin what he hopes is a career in journalism, even as my own career begins its final act. I was accutely aware of all the gatherings that we had enjoyed with this family, the birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases and yearly trips up to the snow. I could not count them all. 

Over the course of all those years, our connection bent and slipped. Once our kids began to forge their own relationships and paths, our social circles shifted. But that evening as we applauded yet another commencement, I was aware of our position in the Venn diagram of our collective lives. 

Right near the center. 

It felt good. It felt right. 

Promotion

 Some nimrod in a red baseball cap wandered into the campus at West Point on Graduation Day and somehow found his way onto the stage where he stood up in front of a bunch of cadets and their families and proceeded to babble on for some time before he ran out of steam. News crews and civilians on hand captured some of the rant: “The job of the U.S. armed forces is not to host drag shows, to transform foreign cultures, but to spread democracy to everybody around the world at the point of a gun. The military’s job is to dominate any foe and annihilate any threat to America anywhere, anytime, and anyplace.”

To be clear, this was not a group of soldiers who had just completed basic training, "hoorah." but rather more than one thousand men and women who completed their education at one of America's institutes of higher learning. At West Point degrees are available in a great many subjects, including such majors as Environmental Science, Foreign Studies, and History. Once their course of study is complete, these graduates become second lieutenants in the United States Army. The buffoon who got hold of the microphone last weekend seemed not to be clear on this matter. 

Or any other matter. 

"We are getting rid of the distractions and focusing our military on its core mission, crushing America’s adversaries, killing America‘s enemies, and defending our great American flag like it has never been defended before,” continued the man who seemed intent on rattling sabres more than inspiring future leaders. Instead, he seemed committed to reminding anyone who would listen about topics only he cared about: “We have liberated our troops from divisive and demeaning political trainings. There will be no more critical race theory or transgender for everybody forced onto the brave men and women in uniform—or on anybody else for that matter—in this country. We will not have men playing in women’s sports.” 

For more than an hour, this guy seemed intent to focus on a lot of things, including golf and real estate mogul William Levitt. Included in his Levitt bit was this aside, "He ended up getting a divorce. Found a new wife. Could you say a trophy wife? I guess we can say a trophy wife. It didn't work out too well." One might imagine that someone who chose to paint kettles in a particular shade might not have a bunch of pots at home that were black. 

No, this was not a salute to the newly minted officers of West Point. This was sixty-plus minutes of grandstanding from a guy who never served in the armed forces himself. He also failed to make note of one honorary graduate, Peter Wang. Peter never attended West Point, but he was a member of his high school's ROTC. He did not graduate high school. Seven years ago, Peter attended Parkland High School in Florida, the adopted home of the current "president." Like sixteen other classmates of his, Peter's life ended when a fellow student went on a shooting rampage. He held the door open so his others could escape and he wound up being shot and killed that day. It was this act of heroism that he was conferred the honor of being a member of this year's graduating class of cadets. 

At least he didn't have to suffer through the bloviations of the red-capped buffoon. 

The Streak

 When it was all over, my friend and colleague confided to me that he had recently uncovered his kindergarten report card in which his PE teacher had written praise for his athletic abilities but, "he needs to learn to be more gracious when he loses." This was pertinent to the moment in which, after years of taking on the fifth graders in various versions of kickball and winning, the teachers finally lost. 

For their part, the kids were mostly gracious and respectful in their triumph. With a few notable exceptions. As their PE teacher over the past six years, I have a pretty good handle on which ones will be what we traditionally refer to as "good sports," and which ones are "not so good sports." The most apparent instance I can point to was the moment when I noticed that my walkie-talkie had fallen from the clip on my belt as I rounded second base. I turned to find a kid holding it and in a loud and clear presentation voice he was hollering into it, "Imagine losing!" 

Points for vehemence and cleverness. 

As the game wore on, it became apparent that the teachers and staff were simply outnumbered by the fifth graders. I took some measure of quiet pride in the knowledge that I had helped create this beast that was on the brink of doing something that had not been done in years. I taught them teamwork, and who would have imagined that they would rise to this occasion just in time to show us old folks up? 

Instead, the grownups were the ones screeching, "That's not fair!" The game and its rules were known going in, and the advantage was squarely with the group that had more chances to get more bases, and somewhere in the middle of all the commotion it was the teachers who started to complain about the way things were turning out. 

When the bell rang and it was time for everyone to go home, the fifth graders had won. Fair and square. Which did not sit well with all the folks on the losing side. I found myself asking a group of adults, "Did anyone have any fun?" Some nods, some hands raised. "If you had fun, then you won." The refrain I give to every heartbroken fifth grader in years past and at recess or in PE class or whenever competition is involved. We all tried our best. That was the important thing. 

I didn't tell my friend that I consider it a supreme irony that I find myself teaching Physical Education in what might be referred to as my golden years. When I was in fifth grade, I was looking forward to a time when the embarrassment I tended to experience on a regular basis when running, jumping, kicking or climbing was involved would be in the past. I learned to be a "good sport" very early on. Winning was something other kids did. I participated. 

Which is pretty much what I did last Friday along with my fellow teachers and staff. Can I imagine losing? Yes. I can. But I know there will be another day, another game. I plan to continue to participate. 

In Memoriam

 Do you remember when an invitation to the White House was a source of great pride and inspiration? Heads of state eagerly attended with the anticipation of being welcomed and celebrated for their connections to this great land of ours.

Not denigrated and embarrassed ambush-style.  Do you remember when being called to the Oval Office wasn't like being called to the Principal's office? 

Do you remember when our country accepted a certain swing of the pendulum from left to right? When bi-partisan was a matter of practice, not a concept from a bygone era? It was a time when legislation had titles like "The Budget," or "HR 223." I do not recall an episode of Schoolhouse Rock dealing with a "Big Beautiful Bill." 

Congress used to be the place where laws were made, not just rubber-stamped by a mindless majority. 

Do you remember when questioning authority was part of our national pedigree? It seems to me that if there had been no questioning of authority two hundred fifty years ago, we might be even more interested in the goings-on in Buckingham Palace.

More than we already are, that is. 

Do you remember when habeas corpus meant meant "you should have the body?" Furthermore it meant that you could not be lawfully detained without valid charges. Not some babble about "a constitutional right that the president has to be able to remove people from this country, and suspend their right to ..." trailing off into nothingness. 

So much for sound and fury. 

Do you remember putting your flag out on national holidays without wondering what message you were sending to your neighbors? All those symbols that have become co-opted by this group or that, leaving us all worried about how we might be perceived for wearing a red baseball cap. I'm looking at you, Philadelphia Phillies. 

Do you remember when Memorial Day was for recalling those who served our country? All of the men and women who fought and died to save our country and the world from authoritarian leaders and un-American thoughts like fascism? 

We were once the land of the free and home of the brave. We were once a land of immigrants. We have been great. Just because someone invents a clever slogan does not mean they have a road map to return us to greatness. 

Remember that. 

Tracking Norm

 George Went. To be more precise, George Wendt Went. 

He's gone to take a stool at that big bar in the sky. 

For those of you who were not watching commercial television back in 1993, Cheers left the airwaves on May 20 of that year. Forty-two million households were watching back then, and if you missed it, you probably didn't have a lot to talk about around the water cooler the following day. Or maybe you were the kind of person who would just lean against the wall and nod knowingly as other people talked about something for which you had no experience. Or perhaps you avoided the water cooler because that jerk from accounting was always hanging out there and he was always trying to get you to go out to karaoke with him on Friday nights. 

Or maybe there wasn't a water cooler at your job. 

Or maybe you didn't have a job.

What I am suggesting is that there used to be a thing called "Must-See TV." The National Broadcasting Company wanted you to forget any notion you might have had about doing anything but planting yourself squarely in the couch in front of your television set and staring at their two hour block of programming that they believed would keep you there for every following Thursday night because everyone would be talking about it the following day around that allusive water cooler. 

Cheers was one of those shows. It was an anchor of sorts, already established and set up the highbrow antics of its spinoff, Frasier. 

I'm getting away from my original premise: George Wendt passed away last week at the age of seventy-six. George played bar-nacle Norm Peterson. He appeared in every one of two hundred seventy five episodes of the sitcom, and was a special guest star on an episode of Frasier for continuity's sake. Norm was an institution. He was greeted by the patrons and staff of that Boston bar in such a lusty manner that I aspired to having a similar experience. It was the dawn of the nineties, and my drinking days were passing behind me, but I was still envious of the reception: "Norm!" Every Thursday for eleven years. 

So I made it my habit, every Tuesday, to stop by the pizza place my friend owned. I would pull up a stool and anybody who was working there would toss two slices of pepperoni into the oven and bring me a large cola product. "Dave-O" was the cry that went up in that corner of the mall. 

And it was as comforting as you might imagine. 

Now that pizza place is gone. So is the friend who owned it. And George Wendt has left the building. And this earthly realm. He will be missed. Maybe not around the water cooler. He didn't so much stomp on the Terra as hold down that portion of it that was beneath his bar stool. 

Aloha, Norm. 

Seriously

 But, the MAGAts will insist, they have Kid Rock. 

“Listen, I was just watching your clips, and we have this low birth rate in America, and it all made sense to me. It hit me right now because who’s going to sleep with these ugly-a**, broke, deranged, TDS [Trump Derangement Syndrome] liberal women?”

This was the in-depth analysis Mister Rock provided after a video segment was run just before his appearance on the Jesse "Holdyer" Watters show. To be fair, the host of the show followed up the montage thusly: “I think I saw armpit hair. The resistance is deranged, misinformed, hairy and rather homely,” Watters said. During another montage, the Fox News on-air graphic blared: “Blue-hair: Child Rapists Deserve Dignity.” This line was furthered by the "Kid," who was the catalyst behind the boycott of Bud Light beer when he bought a few cases for himself to shoot up, “I mean, you look at these rallies, it’s like a bunch of women that no guy wants to sleep with, and a bunch of dudes that want to sleep with each other.”

Ultimately, this was the way Faux News chose to counter the comments made by Bruce Springsteen last week, supported by a  number of artists such as Eddie Vedder and Neil Young. Not by responding to the "rant" Springsteen made from the stage, but rather to sink to the now familiar misogynistic and homophobic snickering that provides the basis of the "analysis" taking place at eight PM Eastern on The Only News Channel named after a vulpine. 

Meanwhile, Dear Leader is somewhere in a lavishly appointed bunker tapping out his strategies for bringing artists like Bruce, Beyoncé, and Oprah to heel.  “HOW MUCH DID KAMALA HARRIS PAY BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN FOR HIS POOR PERFORMANCE DURING HER CAMPAIGN FOR PRESIDENT?” Trump wrote online, in a message published at 1:34 AM Eastern. “WHY DID HE ACCEPT THAT MONEY IF HE IS SUCH A FAN OF HERS? ISN’T THAT A MAJOR AND ILLEGAL CAMPAIGN CONTRIBUTION? WHAT ABOUT BEYONCÉ? ... AND HOW MUCH WENT TO OPRAH, AND BONO???”

Apologies for the all-caps, but I believe in artistic integrity, and that's how it showed up to the world. In the middle of the night. Eastern time. Time to get a new spokesrocker. 

...I Know What I Like

 I consider myself an artist. 

Not simply because of the ramblings you see here on a daily basis. This could be done, as some have theorized, by a very clever chimp. Or Artificial Intelligence. Feel free to take your pick. I will say that I carry certain genetic patterns that could be confused with those of a chimpanzee, and there are definitely times when my art Intelligence is superficial, I don't think you could get a machine or a primate to do exactly what I do here. 

That said, I don't want to bash apes or machines here. Some of my best friends are robot monkeys. Instead I would like to take this opportunity, now that I have lulled you into a second paragraph, to discuss the systematic dismantling of the arts in America. The most obvious threat can be found at your local library where signs promoting banned books are proudly displayed. If you are not seeing those signs, your municipality may have already caved and become part of the purge. The wild flurry of lawsuits and insidiously generated "outrage" over what any of us should be allowed to read flies in the face of what some might call "liberty." The Freedom of Speech is not limited to the spoken word, though there are those who would love to put the clamps on that one as well. Especially if you're not going to fall in line with the renaming of the body of water heretofore known as the Gulf of Mexico. If you would care for a little math to go along with that particular discussion, Mexico has 1743 miles of coastline on the Gulf while the United States has 1680. 

Advantage: Mexico. 

But I am not just here to fuss about that geographical hubbub. I would also point to the way the former gameshow host and redecorator in chief seems bent on gutting and rebranding the Arts as a whole in America. His picks to replace the board of the Kennedy Center include White House chief of staff Susie Wiles, Attorney General Pam Bondi, Usha Vance (wife of Vice President Juan DeMarco Vance). and Lee Greenwood. As "Arts" go, that's a pretty light list, with the possible exception of Mister Greenwood, whose song "God Bless The USA" is getting all kinds of attention since it has been played at most every appearance of The Tangerine Man, edging out "Hail To The Chief" and "YMCA" on the twice-impeached playlist. 

So this is not the first time that the United States Government has gotten their knickers in a twist because of some song, dance or painting. Elvis, who was King long before the current Reich, was once considered a threat to the chewy moral center of the god blessed USA. Ironically, several years later during a visit to the Nixon White House, Mister Presley told the president who resigned before being impeached, "that The Beatles laid the groundwork for many of the problems we are having with young people by their filthy unkempt appearances and suggestive music while entertaining in this country during the early and middle 1960s." It was his opinion that "the Smothers Brothers, Jane Fonda, and other persons in the entertainment industry of their ilk" who were to blame for the cultural demise of this great land of ours. 

As a rule, I take careful note of anyone who uses the term "ilk."

In the 1980s, another Republican president fought what he felt was the "good fight" by trying to censor the work of artists such as Robert Mapplethorpe. Mister Reagan had a Secretary of the Interior, James Watt who figured banning the Beach Boys from performing at a Fourth of July celebration in Washington DC would be taking a stand for "wholesomeness." Which is what banning the work of Robert Mapplethorpe was also supposed to do. Ultimately, the Beach Boys played the show on the National Mall, while the National Gallery eventually declined to exhibit the work of Mister Mapplethorpe. 

And let's remember that it isn't just the Republican Party that is capable of slamming the door on the freedom of expression. Dee Snider of Twisted Sister, Frank Zappa and (checks notes) John Denver were among those artists who sat down in front of Tipper Gore's husband's subcommittee on offensive lyrics in pop music. 

As if it were the government's job to keep our minds and spirits unfettered by thoughts less flattering than the tunes of Lee Greenwood. And the paintings of Ralph Wolfe Cowan. As for the literature? Well, first of all we need to get ourselves a president who can read. 

Haunted

 It's a dark and stormy night inside the convicted felon's head. Of course, most nights inside the convicted felon's head are dark and stormy. 

Like the night that the convicted felon stayed up late to insist that Barack Obama be brought before a military tribunal for the completely unsubstantiated conspiracy theory that Forty-four had spied on the campaign of Forty-five, who would later become Forty-seven as well. 

In between bouts of railing about the relative levels of talent exuded by Bruce Springsteen and Taylor Swift, the former game show host chose to press allegations about an election that he won. The phrase "No hard feelings," means very little in the dark and stormy place inside the head of an adjudicated rapist. 

Never mind that all of these claims of election interference have long been set to rest, and the slumlord who wants to be King of America sits atop a throne of lies propped up by his rabid followers, this guy continues to press the issue of the election that he lost and the ones he won. Never mind the economic and constitutional crisis he continues to fumble through while embarrassment after embarrassment pile up at his doorstep, he axes to grind and irons in the fire. Exactly what he will be doing with those irons and axes remains a bit of a mystery, but it would seem that this is not a family that understands gracious winning or losing. They don't seem to get "gracious" at all. 

Ever. 

That same dark and stormy night that Mar-A-Lago's club over seventy champion was prattling on about whatever creeped into his skull brought well wishes for Joe Biden's "fast and successful recovery" from the prostate cancer diagnosis Forty-six announced earlier that weekend. 

Hope for some measure of humanity? Not when the twice-impeached "president's" namesake is trolling about in the same dark and stormy night. Junior had this to tweet: “What I want to know is how did Dr. Jill Biden miss stage five metastatic cancer or is this yet another coverup???” A big wide swing at the family who came in to clean up the mess daddy made before he came storming back to tear it up once again. 

Above all, dignity. 

It's going to be another dark and stormy night. 

Deep Fake

 A reality TV show is in the works from the producer of Duck Dynasty in which immigrants will compete for a chance for U.S. citizenship. According to sources, the idea was pitched to the Obama and Biden administrations but they turned it down. Now, from the minds of the people who thought it would be a great idea to have a "Gold Card" issued to wealthy foreign investors to become permanant residents of the United States. 

Department of Homeland Security Kristi Noem would like you to know that this claim is untrue, and such a thing. Her office insisted that it is not happening, and furthermore, "DHS receives hundreds of television show pitches a year, ranging from documentaries surrounding ICE and CBP border operations to white collar investigations by HSI. Each proposal undergoes a thorough vetting process prior to denial or approval. This pitch has not received approval or rejection by staff.”

Of course, it's impossible to know what to believe in this current looking-glass world. Admitted puppy killer Kristi would also like us to know that ICE officials were "body-slammed" by Democratic protestors, including Newark New Jersey's mayor Ras Baraka was arrested for trespassing. Bodycam footage from the event shows some tense moments, but fails to deliver on the "body slamming" account. The mayor was arrested for trespassing when he appeared at an ICE faculty along with three members from Congress. 

Like the Immigration Game Show, it turns out the wrestling spectacular in Neward was just another bit of hyperbole in the pot we like to call our national discourse these days, stirred constantly by the former star of The Apprentice. 

What is really happening in our country? I'm sure I couldn't tell you. Not without a two-season gaurantee and a whole lot of money up front. And a promise that no animals will be hurt during the filming of our show. 

Listening

 My mother in law wanted to make sure I saw this:  “The mighty E Street Band is here tonight to call upon the righteous power of art, of music, of rock’n’roll in dangerous times. In my home, the America I love, the America I've written about, that has been a beacon of hope and liberty for two hundred fifty years is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent, and treasonous administration. Tonight, we ask all who believe in democracy and the best of our American experiment to rise with us, raise your voices against authoritarianism, and let freedom ring!”

A very good friend and constant reader texted me to be certain that I had not missed it.

A fellow teacher with whom I have worked with for decades sat out front of our school with me and wondered if I had heard these words. 

I had. News about Bruce Springsteen doesn't slip past me easily. I am on the lookout for news and updates about The Boss and his music as I have my phone set to let me know whenever there are stirrings somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. Lately most of these notices have been about the release of seven "lost" albums from the vaults, which I await eagerly, but not a tiny bit more than the impassioned words of a man whom I refer to as my "semi-major demigod." 

My response to each of those three individuals who lovingly reached out to keep me in the know was the same: "Bruce speaks for me." It was true more than forty years ago when Ronald Reagan began to appropriate what he believed was the patriotic cries of the working man from "Born In The USA," and it's even more true now. Back then, Ronnie said from his campaign stage, “America’s future rests in a thousand dreams inside your hearts. It rests in the message of hope in the songs of a man so many young Americans admire—New Jersey’s own, Bruce Springsteen.” For his part Springsteen, who had kept his politics close to the vest until then, used the next stop on his tour to respond: “Well, the president was mentioning my name in his speech the other day, and I kind of got to wondering what his favorite album of mine must’ve been, you know? I don’t think it was the Nebraska album. I don’t think he’s been listening to this one.” At which point he launched into "Johnny 99," a stark ode to a laid-off auto worker who goes on a killing spree. 

Since then, Bruce Springsteen has only grown more impassioned and outspoken about his vision of the land that he loves. He sees the joy. He sees the pain. He sings about the Ghost of Tom Joad. He sang loud enough to be heard by a group called Rage Against The Machine, who covered it and helped make it roar. And right about that time, Bruce turned on a dime to remind us all that we continue to live in "The Land Of Hope And Dreams." 

And that was the punctuation he used to complete his statement on the way things are currently going here in that land. 

So, yes. I did hear. 

Thank you for asking. 

Fair

 Do-overs are a tried and true tradition among the younger set. It is a relatively civilized way to resolve conflicts. The thing that sometimes gets left aside in these matters is those situations in which one party was correct in the first place, but then ends up on the wrong end on the do-over. Take it from an elementary school teacher: hard feelings abound in spite of the push of the reset button. 

News from this past week reinvigorated my sense of justice and its relation to the playground. Lyle and Eric Menendez are inching their way toward freedom after more than three decades spent in prison for the murder of their parents back in 1989. Their sensational tabloid trial way back when ended with the two brothers being sentenced to life without parole. At the time, Eric and Lyle's attorneys insisted that the boys, eighteen and twenty-one at the time of the crime, were acting in self-defense after years of physical and sexual abuse. Last year, the Los Angeles County District Attorney recommended that the boys who are now men be resentenced in accordance with California's youthful offender law because they committed the murders before they were twenty-six. That and apparently new evidence that came to light via a Netflix documentary on the brothers suggested that new evidence might change the previous ruling. 

Which seems fair. 

But it sets my mind to wondering about karma and how that account will be settled over eternity. 

I have similar wondering about professional baseball's decision to reinstate "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and Pete "Charlie Hustle" Rose, making them both eligible for induction into the Major League Hall of Fame. The one for baseball, that is. Prior to this, both men had been declared ineligible for gambling on the game that brought them fortune and fame. Or at least infamy. Commissioner of Baseball ruled that the conditions laid out by Rule 21 had been satisfied after Pete Rose died last September. Mister Jackson was allowed back in under the same process, even though he passed away seventy-four years ago. 

Which seems fair. 

Meanwhile Barry Bonds, who holds the all-time Major League record for home runs and was never suspended or declared ineligible by the powers that be has to be wondering what he has to do to get a chance at the Hall of Fame. 

All of which leads me to the immediate resolution of Ro-Sham-Bo, or Rock, Paper, Scissors. The winner moves on. The loser goes to the end of the line. And if you think there aren't cries for "best two out of three" or tears from the loser, well you haven't spent as much time on the playground as I have. 

Which seems fair. 

Less

 Here at Entropical Paradise we do not shy away from the hard-hitting news of the day, nor do we shirk our responsibilities to account for global shifts in our priorities. 

That is why  I am here today to speak on the matter of lite. 

An absurd reality here: the spell-check elves did not bother to put a squiggly red line under the last word of that last sentence. That is because in a world filled with mystery and confusion, this bit of creative spelling is allowed.

Nay, encouraged. 

Etymologists will tell you that "lite" springs from the Old English, the dialect and not the furniture polish, meaning "few; little; not much." 

Fast forward a few hundred years to 1962, when it had become a word-forming element in product names. It was a way to shorten the burden of that five letter word to a more compact four. This new version now facilitated by the use of the silent "e" sound to make the "i" a long vowel. No more need for that unruly "gh" in the middle to confound those who might question your rite to fite to party. 

I spent a decade or so emptying cans of Lite Beer without fully considering the fact that they were the same weight and volume as Miller's "regular beer." I was entranced by the notion that I might actually end up losing weight because I consumed so much of it. It continues to be "a third less filling than their regular beer." Same great taste, awkward spelling. 

These days it's hard to turn around in your local supermarket without knocking over a display for some variation on a "regular" product that claims to be "lite." Things like cream cheese. Or Ranch dressing. If these are the places you're hoping to make inroads on your new healthy lifestyle, just stop. Stop now. 

Additionally I have recently become aware of "lite apps." These are software applications that are smaller and generally more efficient in order to function on less powerful devices with limited storage. This is most definitely not supposed to be confused with the flashlight app on your phone. Or maybe they could make one of those that still tastes great, but has a third fewer calories than your standard flashlight app. And with only those four letters instead of the burdensome five, think of the space you'll save. Maybe the condensed version of Breakfast At Tiffany's could tell the story of a young lady named Holly Golitely. 

If this ever comes to pass, remember who suggested it first. Frst. Whatever. 

Prep Work

 When my son was in high school, he and a group of friends began formulating their Zombie Apocalypse Plan. This afforded a group of young nerds the opportunity to try and regulate the unprecedented times in which they were living. They came of age during September 11, Katrina and a war in the Middle East that never quite ended. It is through this lens that my son and his gang of nerds set about preparing for ZAP. 

Among the features of his all-encompassing survival system was the need to be prepared at any moment to fight off a surging mass of undead. At a movie theater. In his back yard. On vacation. All of these contingencies were considered and variables such as available cover and weaponry became codified as they were written down. 

It is only now as my son crests the hill into adulthood that I realize how important these exercises were. This is the guy who has insisted to me time and again how much he would rather be living in precedented times. His parents are painfully aware of just how much heavy lifting we have left him and his generation. I believe the deep emotional scars we have gifted him thanks to climate change, global pandemics and the failure of democracy will generate an evolutionary change.

He and his buddies may never get a chance to hole up in an abandoned shopping center, or wander the wastelands searching for other survivors. That is fine. He will be able to stare down the ugly realities of his very real timeline. He has lived through a time when active shooter drills became as commonplace as fire drills and daily attendance in the schools he attended. 

As it turns out, his childhood fears of spending nights away from home were probably partly inspired by his genetic connection to his father who never managed to get that comfortable anywhere but the house he grew up in, but also because he was already considering how to be safe when the monsters showed up. 

The monsters didn't turn out to be the shambling, decayed corpses looking for brains to consume, but a series of horrible mistakes made by the world in which he found himself living. The legendary Marvel Comic book Howard the Duck was introduced with the line, "Trapped in a world he never made!" That pretty much sums up what I believe my son's motto might be. 

Except he probably kept the one he had when he was seventeen: "Don't be a snack."

A Gift

 You might think that a guy who was once impeached for attempting to make a deal for Ukraine to look for dirt on his political opponent in exchange for arms might be a little shy about sniffing around anything that carried even the faintest whiff of impropriety. 

You might also think that such a person, after a second impeachment would be a less viable candidate for dog catcher, let alone a return trip to the White House. And subsequent convictions on felonies along with being found liable for sexual abuse and defamation. 

And so on. 

They used to refer to Ronald Reagan as The Teflon President. Ol' "Dutch" traded arms with the Contras in exchange for hostages and his approval hung pretty steadily alongside his love for jellybeans. I expect that the former game show host currently making a mockery of our system of government and justice looks to Ronnie as a model, substituting the jelly bellies for Diet Coke. 

Because now his mockingness wants to take a "floating palace" home from Qatar. This would replace the current Air Force One which has been in service for thirty-five years. This comes from a "president" who has been insisting that "little baby girls" don't need thirty dolls, and should instead be happy with the lump of sod that their parents can afford. 

A four to six hundred million dollar aircraft, depending on whose estimate you use, that will be in service toting Dear Leader from golf course to golf course until such time as he slithers out of office at which point it will become the property of The Trump Library Foundation. 

You know who else has a 747 hanging in his presidential library? Ronald Reagan. 

Prior to his career in politics, Ronald Reagan was in show business. 

He never hosted a game show. 

He never accepted a jet from a foreign government. 

One can only imagine what the quid pro quo for a 747 is. 

Lack Thereof

 For years I have listened to the calming voice inside my head that says, "They're only children," when the discussion turns to my hair. Or lack thereof. 

More often than not, the questions are innocent enough. "Mister Caven, why don't you have hair?" I do the best I can to give them a direct and sincere answer, but the bottom line tends to fall in the "because I'm old" range. This can still leave a dangling thread, specifically "how old are you Mister Caven," but that is an answer that I have given up being coy about. My age is no longer a source of embarrassment for me, but rather a badge of honor. It couples nicely with the other time-related inquiry, "How long have you been teaching here?"

I used to leave it simply at "forever," but now I have no real difficulty letting my young charges know that I am approaching three full decades of service at Horace Mann Elementary. There are an increasing number of children who have parents whom I taught that can piece that puzzle together. The question for them becomes, "Did you have hair when you were my mom's teacher?"

The answer to that one is a qualified "yes." The pictures of me in my first years of teaching show off my rather shaggy mass of curls that neatly covered the back of my head, accompanied by a beard and mustache that tended to diminish the effects of the radically receding hairline at the top of my rapidly emerging forehead. The reality is that I showed up to work as a teacher going bald, and my years of service have done little or nothing to diminish that trend. 

So much so that some years back I switched from a once every three months scalp purge to keeping a clean-shaven dome at all times. Maintenance has become a matter of keeping hair off my head, rather than trying to find clever ways to diminish the aforementioned ravages of time. 

"Mister Caven is bald," isn't the putdown that many of my young charges feel that it should be, though it does tend to obscure my relative worth as an educator. If discussion has turned to my capacity to grow hair on the top of my head, things have slipped off the track of elementary education. Even a quick lesson on genetics would probably fail to satisfy the attempts of keeping things light since the common wisdom seems to be that you get your hair or lack thereof from your mother's side of the family, but my mother's father had a pretty nice head of hair before he passed on to the big drugstore in the sky at a relatively early age. 

So, when the kids start in calling me "Mister Clean," I tend to remind them that when I started this job, I had hair. Leaving some of them with the notion that when I am done with all of this teaching stuff, I will return to the Hair Club For Men. 

I'm not just a member, I'm one of the founders. 

Car Guy

 What do you get for the man who has everything?

A new car? 

Well, in the case of my son who is turning twenty-eight years young today, that would be a lot like bringing coals to Newcastle. In case you're not familiar with that expression, there is a town in northern England where mining coal is the chief industry, so importing that particular resource would be a wasted endeavor. 

My son already has a lot of cars. The number fluxuates, but for some time now it has rarely dipped below four and has at times exceeded six. He has several roommates, but he has one side of the driveway and the garage all to himself. For this he willingly accepted the small bedroom next to he kitchen. A bedroom that includes a number of pictures of cars as well as dozens of Hot Wheels, mint in box, stuck to the walls. 

Which is probably his parents' fault, since we did nothing to discourage his fascination with wheeled things from the time he was an infant and tipped his stroller over so he could play with the spinning disks that continue to fascinate him to this day. The mild relief to this saga may come in the revelation that initially he was fixated on trains, and maintaining a private railroad outside of the rare game of Monopoly is much less likely than keeping a fleet of automobiles in various states of repair in front of his house. 

Eventually, my appreciation for this "hobby" stems from the fact that keeping one car running at a time was sometimes too much for me when I was his age. Not only does he manage to stay on top of his automotive purchases, he actively seeks out opportunities to procure cars for his friends and family. Having a gearhead in the family has made my own fear of broken car bits less of a worry and more of an opportunity. 

For him. 

As yet, his parents have not misused this superpower. We try not to complain or ask too often, instead we try to slip naturally things like, "So, what does it mean when the Prius makes a ticking sound after it starts up?" into a conversation about his welfare. Which today is all about having a birthday. 

That ticking sound the Prius makes after it starts up can wait. 

But for how long? 

Only The Best

 The very stable genius who is currently trying to make Amierca "great again" certainly has a different definition of "great" than I do. 

Just a short time ago, I had a reminder of a very old joke about a guy whose doctor asks him why he keeps hitting himself. His reply: "Because it feels so good when I stop." This is the punchline that creeped into my head upon witnessing Elongated Mush's retreat from Washington. Apparently his plans to save the United States a trillion dollars fell well short of his goal, and the richest man in the world kept arguing with the guy who likes to pretend he's one of the richest men in the world. 

Someone had to go. Certainly after watching his DOGE-y attempts at chainsawing through government efficiency were distracted by the hit his personal fortune took, but just like his old boss said after the new Canadian Prime Minister announced in front of the convicted felon, "Canada is not for sale," the twice-impeached beast with one thousand whines burbled, "Never say never."

Which brings us to the newest appointment from the man who brought Rudy Giuliani into the White House. The new acting U.S. Attorney for Wahsington DC will be Jeanine Pirro. If that name doesn't sound familiar to you, congratulations because that means you haven't spent enough time staring slack-jawed at Faux News to become aware of one of their former talking heads. It is important to note that the term "acting" is placed before her new title, since that seems like the best way to describe her journey through Americana. She was once district attorney for Westchester County in New York, and she was on her way to becoming Attorney General of that state when, shock of shocks, a scandal broke. Jeanine was, in a fit of irony, caught on tape insisting that she wanted to bug her family's yacht to catch her husband cheating on her. She lost the election in a landslide. This is the person that the Orange Furher picked after his first choice Ed Martin fell out of favor for being associated with the "Stop The Steal" movement, including defending the January 6 2021 rioters and demoting anyone he felt disagreed with him and his Dear Leader. 

So Dear Leader went back to the wells: Faux News, from which crawled his embarrassing pick for Defense Secretary, Pete Hegseth. Jeanine will join a dozen other former Faux hosts and contributors who are already roaming the halls of the White House, genuflecting in the direction of their master. Doesn't this sound like a sound hiring practice? Or maybe it shows just how limited the seventy-eight year old's imagination is, limiting himself to celebrities from the only channel he watches. 

Might I suggest someone switch channels one day and see if he starts hiring folks from Cartoon Network? 

The Look

 Alright. I can confess it now. 

My wife and I both spent time poring over the river of images generated by this year's Met Gala. 

Like it mattered. The annual fundraising dinner for the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute provides us, the unwashed, a glimpse into the world of high price couture and the people who slip inside these "wear it once" fashion dares. It has been going on since 1948, and the first themed Gala was held in 1973. 

This was long before I became an interested bystander. I have my wife and her own innate sense of style to thank for getting me to stare at celebrities mincing about in clothes that are created for form not function. This event in May caps off what began months ago as we took in the Academy Awards' Red Carpet meander, the celebration of the phrase, "Who are you wearing?"

It should be noted here that the fashion statement that I made ahead of our wedding to my wife was that I wanted all the groomsmen to wear Hawaiian shirts. I wore a white tux with tails, accentuated by a vest and tie handmade by my wife from scraps of an Aloha shirt that did not make the cut. I wore my father's pants, not specifically because I needed "something borrowed," but rather because in my haste to get up into the mountains to prepare for the celebration in the meadow, I left them in my mother's closet. 

The all-black Converse hi-tops were not a case of forgotten footwear. These were specifically purchased for the event and worn with all the pride. They were my statement. And that statement was, "I'll wear a tuxedo, but I'm still wearing sneakers underneath."

I did much the same thing when I was by my then fiancée to accompany her to the Art Deco Ball, an annual event held in Oakland to help preserve and appreciate that era. I wore a tuxedo to that as well. My wife helped coordinate my cufflinks and studs with the maroon pair of Chuck Taylors I wore with it. She understood my quirky sense of style, brought about by my own inner twelve year old. 

Since then I have worn more occasion-suitable apparel to events such as weddings, funerals, and the occasional Bar Mitzvah. Even my shoes. I own more than a dozen ties, but I don't have much call for practicing the knot. I am most often found in a souvenir T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans, with the ever-present threat of my wife asking me, "Are you going out in that?"

Which brings me back to the finery on display this past week in New York City. I looked for the telltale signs of Converse Hi Tops, relieved to discover that no one had appropriated "My Look."  

The 'Hood

 Sure I miss my old stomping grounds, but the "hood" to which I refer is not where my neighbors lived, but rather the esteemed Hood of the Mother. 

I have not participated actively in this institution, having been relegated by convention to the Hood of the Father, but I have definitely observed and appreciated all that goes on across the fence. 

On this, the second Day of the Mother I am experiencing as an orphan, I am feeling sad and out of sorts. As mentioned here on many occasions, I took great stock in the conversations I had with my mother over the course of the years we spent together. I fully expect that we might have gone right on into eternity talking about things important and trivial had we not been interrupted.

Which is where I find myself currently wondering how I can make this apology: In my line of work, I see my share of distraught mothers. Disappointed primary caregivers who cannot fathom how their children have come to the choices and paths for which they have been called into school. Voices are raised. Tears flow. And the question remains. "How could this have happened?"

I made my mother cry. On more than one occasion. Several, in fact. These were primarily in my teens and early twenties when I felt compelled to strain against the reins that existed primarily in my own mind, not in the authority held by my parents. I was a teenager, and therefore I felt the need to stir things up around the house. As if it were my job. 

I reached the end of the rope when I took advantage of my mother's kind offer of a trip to Phoenix after the video store I managed closed around me. Instead of using the opportunity to relax and visit a friend, I turned it into a Lost Weekend that found me flirting with the frayed ends of my mother's patience with me. 

The good news is that somewhere just before impact, I was able to pull up and keep from destroying the airship of our relationship, but defining the moment of just before all the air escaped. 

My mother forgave me. She lived long enough to see me turn my life around. She was there to hold her newborn grandson. We stayed in touch well enough for those on the outside looking in to wonder if I wasn't showering my mother with too much attention. 

Too much? 

Never enough. And yes, I am sensitive to the fact that it was Norman Bates who said, "A boy's best friend is his mother." 

My mother would have laughed at that. 

Embargo On Ideas

 Okay. The banners are down. The guests have gone home. Time to get back to work.

Is it the reopening of Alcatraz or the insistence on tariffs for movies made outside the United States?

These ideas were, in my opinion, given free reign last week in order to obscure that moment when the felon currently occupying the White House was asked if it was his job to defend and protect the Constitution. 

"I don't know," was his answer. Alas, Mister Hand was not there to take this feeble excuse for a student to task. Maybe you have somehow missed out on the educational magnificence of Ray Walston in Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Let's put it this way: I believe that Sean Penn's worldview was forever changed by his time in Mister Hand's class. 

Still, I don't believe that even Mister Hand could get through that thick orange skull all the important details of our system of governance. "Because I said so," is not the basis for a system of government. Just as the constitutional peasants of The Holy Grail remind us that "Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government." And furthermore, "Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses."

You didn't miss that one too, did you?

Maybe you were caught up in the furor over the reopening of one of the most notorious prisons in our country's history. It was closed because of its location. Situated in the middle of the San Francisco Bay, it was more expensive to run than any other maximum security facility that was accessible by land. But to hear the convicted felon, who may have shopped around a bit when it appeared that he might actually do some time in jail, you would believe that this relic of a bygone age was the answer to all our correctional facilities. "No one ever escaped," he prattled on when he could have been making excuses for ignoring his Oath of Office. 

As far as the movie tariff malarkey goes, he may be targeting Monty Python with that one. Mister Hand, however, is a product of the good ol' US of A. Ridgemont High certainly shows its age, but then again, so does the United States Constitution. Which doesn't mean that the ideas expressed by filth-gathering peasants are any less vital and alive than those expressed by a guy whose cameo in Home Alone 2 is only seven seconds long, but director Chris Columbus wishes it were gone. However, he lives in the Second Trumpreich, with all its fear and loathing: “If I cut it, I’ll probably be sent out of the country. I’ll be considered sort of not fit to live in the United States, so I’ll have to go back to Italy or something.”

Just because some moistened bink lobbed a scimitar is no reason for a dictatorship. Just ask Mister Hand.  

Veinte

 You'll have to pardon all the confetti and streamers. We're having a celebration here. 

As mentioned here perhaps far too many times, this is an accounting of the things that cross my mind. Mostly in the mornings. I began taking up this clickable spot on Al Gore's Internet more than twenty years ago, starting with a Friday afternoon musing about my Career Path. This came as a response to a friend who suggested that writing a blog might be a good use of my need to leave some sort of mark on the world, utilizing the skills and impulses I have. It turns out he was right. 

I can say "more than twenty years" because once that weekend was over way back when, I started to crank out one of these little ditties a day. 

For twenty years. 

I've been married longer than that. I have a son who will soon turn twenty-eight years old, which is just about equal to the time I have spent teaching in this same elementary school. To be nominated to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, you have to have at least twenty-five years between that moment and your initial commercial release. 

Twenty years? I'm just a baby.

A baby with a blog that is two decades old. 

Today. And lucky you are here to see it.

I understand that to a large extent I am pausing in this moment to fill space with a tab, a marker to which I can return and will someday wonder why I didn't have something more profound to say on this occasion. This is especially true for my son, who has insisted that he will be using this blog as the story of his father's life once the old man has shuffled off his mortal coil. Sorry, son. This one is mostly just your dad patting himself on the his metaphorical back for having the persistence to stick with something for this long. 

I confess that more than once I considered making this the last one. Bidding you all a fond adieu and turning my attention to anything or everything else in the world. "That's enough," said the little voice in side my head. But I have grown accustomed to arguing with that little voice. Tomorrow there will be more things to comment on. Tomorrow there will be more thoughts and opinions. Tomorrow there will be another opportunity to come up with one terrific sentence to be surrounded by a bunch of others that aren't quite up to that high standard. 

So I continue on. Tomorrow will be a new day. A new blog. Another opportunity for us to spend some quality time together. 

At least for that one sentence, anyway. 

Don't Stop

 My wife and I went out last weekend to see the new Marvel movie.

What?

You thought I might miss one? 

That's not the way I live my life. I continue to read Stephen King books nearly fifty years after I read my first. I continue to mow the lawn, front and back in shapes that please me rather than the rudimentary rows and columns that might seem more orderly to those passing by. I put my socks on before my pants because the little booklet that came along with my Big Jim All Star Action Figure suggested it when dressing Jim in his various uniforms "for that neat look."

I am a creature of habit. Some might say I am a victim of my own ruts. This subject was broached this past weekend when, before my wife and I went out to the moving picture show, we ran into the woman who started teaching at the elementary school where my son would eventually go at the same time I began my teaching career at Horace Mann. She is getting ready to retire in three weeks. She asked me if I had any plans. I told her no.

"And you're still at Horace Mann?"

Still. 

Still riding my bike. Still showing up early to help open the school. Still staying late to support the after school program and tie up any loose ends before the next day begins. Pulling on my socks before putting on my pants. 

Going to see the latest Marvel movie. 

Reading the latest Stephen King novel. 

Doing all those things that make me feel alive. 

What might happen if I just stopped? 

Everything Is Broken

 I talked to a friend the other day about our shared disgust with Breaking News. 

Please understand that a great portion of my life is spent looking outward, trying to anticipate how "things will go down." This helps me maintain my solid series of ruts and habits that keep my life from becoming a reactionary circus. 

Breaking news does not allow for this. 

Each day my phone chirps at me to let me know that something has broken, news-wise. I steel myself to some degree for the occasional passing of a celebrity. Like Ruth Buzzi. Ms. Buzzi was a comedic presence in my life during the early seventies on Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. At this point I might launch into an elegy for Ruth that would wind up with me paying tribute to her and all the players on Dan and Dick's show that stomped on the comedy Terra. 

But I'm feeling that the real joke continues to be delivered from the tangerine terror currently taking up space in the Oval Office. While he insists that there is no mainstream media in that can possibly deliver his message about making America "Great," he continues to show up to interviews with these same supposedly nefarious individuals. 

And proceeding to break the news. 

Like this past Sunday when he sat down to Meet The Press, and proceeded to break minds, hearts and the United States Constitution all in the span of less than fifteen minutes. Specifically when the Oligarch of Orange was asked in the interview whether U.S. citizens and noncitizens both deserve due process as laid out in the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution, the former game show host was noncommittal. “I don’t know. I’m not, I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know," he burbled after being pressed by The Press in the form of NBC's Kristen Welker. 

This, by the way, is coming from a guy who pleaded the Fifth more than four hundred times during a deposition about his family business in New York. 

What doesn't he know? 

I know. I know that on a cold day in January, America watched the first convicted felon sworn into the highest office in the land. Somewhere in there he "swore" to preserve, protect and defend The Constituton of the United States. A couple of things stand out to me there: First of all, this guy has put his hand on bibles before and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth "So Help Me God." It hasn't amounted to much. This is a guy who doesn't know which way is up when it comes to bibles. For him, The Bible is just another book, which is just another chance to make a buck. And he'll even throw in the Delcaration of Indiependence and the Constitution as part of that package.Secondly, the oath contains the loophole phrase "to the best of my ability." 

Maybe this is the best a seventy-eight year old trust fund crybaby can do. 

Nevertheless, he keeps breaking the news and his oath, and I'm tired of it. 

My apologies to Ruth Buzzi. You deserved better. 

Rong

 I suppose at this point the question remains: How far wrong can a guy who claims to be far right be?

A man who claims to be "a very stable genius" confuses Harvard with Harlem. 

A guy who openly admits mistakes were made in his mass deportation scheme, only to double back by holding up someone's beginner Photoshop project as evidence for why he was right all along. 

A convicted felon who has been sued for defamation to the tune of eighty-eight million dollars is now going after news organizations and suing them for doing their jobs: reporting the news. 

A group of big-name retailers including Wal-Mart, Target, Home Depot and Lowe's met with the former game show host to express their concerns that the Trade War set off by the "author" of The Art of the Deal is going to result in empty shelves at their stores as soon as this summer. To this His Big Orange Highness replied, “You know, somebody said, ‘Oh, the shelves are going to be open. Well, maybe the children will have two dolls instead of thirty dolls. So maybe the two dolls will cost a couple bucks more than they would normally.”

Normally. Is it normal to charge four hundred dollars for cheaply made gold sneakers? The answer from those who bought them? Who cares? Is it normal for a US President to redecorate the Oval Office after they are elected? Sure, but does the People's House really need to look like the lobby of one of his bankrupt casinos? 

Which brings me to this point: Should we leave a man who has spent his life burning through more money than he has made in his entire life in charge of our economy? 

I'll bet you the price of one of those keen red baseball caps that are made in China that you know my answer. 

Machine

 If you've been here a while, you have probably noticed a trend. 

Back in the early days of this blog, I spent a good deal more time reflecting on my past. To that tune, I once titled an entry "Nostalgia Machine." That one was from May 2005. 

I am currently in the midst of looking back fondly on those initial musings and noting that I didn't even bother to cite the song by Soft Cell of the same title. This is most likely because that pop confection was not released until 2022. This would mean that I arrived at this clever notion nearly two decades before Marc Almond and David Ball decided to revive their one-hit career with an EP some forty years in the making. 

See, I remember their cover of "Tainted Love," not like it was yesterday but maybe the day before yesterday. I recall dancing the night away at the under-21 nightclub just off campus in Boulder, waiting for that extended dance remix. That place was called Pogo's. It occupies such a significant part of my hippocampus that I have written not one, not two, but three separate paeans to this little slice of my life. Which is just a little less than I have written about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Pyle but thankfully more than I have written about the birth of my son. 

Back in 2005 I was already pretty well ensconced in my op-ed wheelhouse, having suffered through the first four years of President Pinhead and his lust for blood and oil. Things in that arena got a little easier once Barack Obama came along, and my axe got a little dull from lack of grinding. By the time 2016 rolled around, I was pushed back into service for all mankind, documenting the initial Trumpreich, with its renewed sense of fear and loathing. 

The break I thought I would be getting on the political beat this past November turned out to be a tightening of the screws and not a respite from stupidity. Heaven knows I have my own litany of stupid stories to tell, so getting a convicted felon for "president" turned out to be overkill.

Which is why you aren't reading as much nostalgia around here as you used to.

Remember when I used to write more about the past? 

Candy From Babies

 "After, we'll meet back at the hideout and divvy up the loot."

"Yeah, those guy's will never know what hit 'em."

"Like takin' candy from a baby."

This is the kind of dialogue I imagine takes place during robberies. Taking things without asking is stealing, but this kind of talk is inexcusable. It's all too familiar and not up to the standards that their teachers taught them. Unless they were taking Forties Gangster Chat 101.

But in the real world, I continue to puzzle over the need for children at a public school to create any sort of elaborate scheme in which the only "loot" they end up with are bags of chips and some candy. They aren't looking for cash or jewelry, not even cell phones. They are after the junk that some teachers hand over as the tiniest recognition of being clever, polite, or simply able to follow the rules at school. 

To be clear, the rules at our school do not encourage groups of boys to climb into an open window and ransack the office of our child therapist. The nice lady who comes and takes our troubled youth to that same office to give them a place to talk about the world they endure and how about a nice snack on the way out? 

Unless the boys mentioned have burglarized the drawers and closets of that office and made off with all the snacks. 

I have written in this space a number of times about the relative ease with which one could break and enter a public school. There is no armed security. The response time to alarms that go off range in the hour range to the next day. In the case of the purloined treats, the investigation was conducted entirely on site by our principal and her ability to pick the third grader who would break first, then going after the fourth and fifth graders he gave up. 

Parents were called. Tears were shed. Not by all, but by some of the thieves. And that nagging thought that grownups have in these situations came ringing through once again: "If they would do this when they are nine and ten, what will they be doing once they hit middle school?"

Middle school has a way of hitting back. It's bigger. It's tougher. It's on the way to the big time. It would be a whole lot easier if the pretend world of being master thieves was an embarrassing memory of "when we was little." 

What a relief that would be.