When Enough Just Isn't Quite Enough

 Three times. Three different weekends. I have gone out and stood on the same street corner with many of the same folks, screaming at passing cars. 

Bruce Springsteen did not make an appearance. He was busy in Minneapolis. 

I was there, armed with a few new signs with pithy slogans and a few of the old hits. Along with a corner filled with friends and family, we waved at traffic and cheered whenever we got a honk. It wasn't until after I had been there for about an hour that it occurred to me that beyond my aforementioned pithy signs. 

I started to beg for drivers to respond to my presence on the corner. "Please honk at me and my signs! This has a direct connection to my self-esteem." Vroom. "I don't think I'm making myself clear," I continued to shout, "How are we going to solve this problem without you honking your horn?"

The problem is the same one we had months ago. The one where we were being forced to live with a king that no one, especially the gentlemen who wrote the United States Constitution, wanted. I suppose you might feel that just because the Orange Worst doesn't read maybe this could be excused. 

Except there are plenty of men and women in our federal government who have shown mild aptitude in the reading and writing department who seem to be having a difficult time grasping some of the basic tenets of the document that is supposed to be providing us with a blueprint for our representative democracy. You know, Schoolhouse Rock stuff. Checks. Balances. Following the rules and laws that had served us pretty well for two hundred fifty years. 

Hence, I find myself once again on that same corner, with a few hundred of my closest fellow Americans, trying to drum up support for dumping this dumb thing who slithered down an escalator a decade ago and keeps finding its way back into the White House. This in spite of the fact that he seems to know next to nothing about the operating instructions. 

I've been doing this for months now, and this past Saturday was the first time I was met with anything by indifference or enthusiastic honking. A gentleman rolled up to the stop light on his motorcycle, and with a sneer he asked, "Who ya gonna vote for? Gavin Newsom?" Momentarily caught unawares by this dissenting voice, I sputtered, "You mean instead of the convicted felon currently starting wars in the Middle East? You bet!"

The truth is, I am not certain that Gavin Newsom would get my vote for President, but if the choices were the convicted felon or the Governor of California, I think I could be persuaded to vote for the guy who has been in charge of the fourth largest economy in the world instead of the adjudicated rapist who used to host a game show. But the light changed and I didn't get to have anything that would have been described as an in-depth discussion with this weekend biker. 

Not that this was what the presumed MAGAt had in mind. 

Instead, I just started hollering louder. I wanted to believe that all my bellering and waving signs was going to rid our nation of the scourge and his cabinet of criminals. Standing there on a curb in Northern California, I understood that my voice was that of a majority, and the guy on the motorcycle was the one on the outside looking in. I knew that this one mild confrontation was a hiccup in the normal confluence of democratic thought found throughout the region. 

Which didn't keep it from feeling it like a bur under my metaphorical saddle, but I will be back out there for the next No Kings protest, with some new signs, and a renewed attitude. 

It's time for this to end. 

Teacher Appreciation

 It would be ridiculous for me to suggest that my job is a thankless one. I get plenty of thanks. Not always from the folks that I work for, but I kind of insist that first graders whose shoes I tie give me a "Thank you, Mister Caven," once I have stood back up and sent them on their way with properly fastened footwear. 

This might seem a little trite, but on certain days it is precisely what keeps my motor running for the next shoelace or runny nose or ball stuck on the roof or computer that "won't work." It's those moments of appreciation that keep me coming back, and perhaps why I tend to shy away from those big award assemblies with plaques and testimonies. 

That is why the dinner I attended last Thursday was such a unique exception. My principal, who works much harder than I ever do and has to endure all the backlash that comes with being the one sitting in "that chair," nominated me for a tribute sponsored by the nearly local basketball franchise. I was named a Golden Icon. I was never fully clear on exactly what made me outstanding, though I figured it probably had something to do with the shoelaces, balls and broken computers. 

And my dedication. My education dedication. 

The evening marked the first time in more than a calendar year since I had worn a suit, since the invitation insisted on "formal wear." This pleased my date, my wife, who relishes opportunities to look nice. Parking was paid for, as was the dinner, so we toddled off across the bay and drove to our reserved spot underneath the Chase Center. After we checked in, and name tags were dispersed, we were ushered down to the floor. The same floor where the night before the Golden State Warriors had battled the Brooklyn Nets. The hoops were still standing, but the rest of the floor had been transformed into a festive dining arrangement for a hundred or so teachers and their plus ones to enjoy an evening for being lauded. And fed. And lauded some more. 

There was even some dancing, which for which I received special recognition from the MC for "trying so hard."

Then it was all over. On the drive back across the bridge, I asked my wife, my date, how she enjoyed the evening. She said that she really enjoyed getting all gussied up. And then she paused before sharing her misgivings. "Do you feel like they were just trying to make themselves feel better?"

I said that I could certainly understand that feeling, the one where corporations with money to burn toss out a chunk of their disposable income to appreciate educators. Educators who had to paw through their closets to find "formal wear" because they don't spend a lot of time in formal wear. Or going out to catered dinners. Their time and money is almost always ploughed back into their job: buying supplies and treats for the kids they serve. Did I feel patronized?

Not after all these years. I was pleased and happy to take the "free dinner" and was grateful that I did not have to sit through a sales pitch for educational software or a timeshare offer. I got to hang out on the floor where Steph Curry plays, where I will soon be seeing Bruce Springsteen perform. 

I appreciate that. 

Money, It's A Gas

 It seems to me that "citizens united" would be a good name for a group of concerned citizens who would like to make a stand against some sort of malfeasance on the part of their government. 

It's not. Instead, it's the name of a Supreme Court decision from earlier this century that somehow granted corporations personhood. "Corporations are people." This allowed big business to funnel massive amounts of cash into elections of all shapes and sizes. The Federal Elections Commission had wanted to keep that from happening, but somehow the First Amendment got tossed into the mix and it was determined that limiting those giant contributions from giant companies would be an infringement on Free Speech. It was not clear from my reading whether or not it was okay with the Supreme Court for corporations to carry semi-automatic weapons. 

Which left us where we have been lodged for quite some time. "Get money out of politics" is a phrase that gets tossed around before during and after the Citizens United decision. All that money tends to warp the results of what should be a contest of ideas and ideals. Candidates for offices of all stripes and size have been bowled over by the sledgehammer that is mass media. And lobbyists. And consultants. And badges, posters, stickers and T-shirts. One need look no further than the struggle of one Jefferson Smith, the junior senator who was suddenly thrust into the limelight for his hope to build a boys' camp. A boys' camp that would have sat squarely in the way of a dam-building project being foisted on the public by Boss Jim Taylor and his political machine, of which the senior senator from Jefferson's state is a part. 

The money and influence afforded Senator Paine and his cronies by Mister Taylor threatens to unseat the naive Mister Smith with a flood of lies propagated and promoted by bad people doing bad things.

With lots of money. 

It isn't until the dormant conscience of Senator Paine lurches back into life, causing him to nearly blow his own head off and confess to all his misdeeds in front of a packed Senate Gallery that the day is saved.  

And wouldn't it be grand if after that film was made that money and the corruption it brings was kept in check? Starting in 1939? Just like it would be nice to think that that old Savings and Loan in Bedford Falls hadn't been engulfed and devoured by development in Potterville. That one was from 1946. 

Eighty years ago. 

It's a wonderful life. 

Drawing On Experience

 I was in the fifth grade when I drew my first political cartoon. Okay, I did not draw it on my own, I had a collaborator. It was a mildly vicious caricature of Richard Nixon standing atop a pile of rocks over a pile of voters who had been crushed under the Landslide Victory of 1972. Two things strike me about that time: first the hollow eyes my associate drew on our cartoon president were something that would stick with me forever. Second, we had no idea at that moment just how much scarier things would get over the next two years, leading up to the resignation of that Landslide Winner. 

Before that time, I had been an observer of politics, spurred on by my parents' liberal bias and my own skeptical vision of the world that featured a war in Vietnam and a two-term Republican president who had promised to deliver safety to those he referred to as "the silent majority." My family was not part of that group, nor was most of the city in which I lived back then, Boulder, Colorado. I waded in the headwaters of the tie-dye river that flowed through Chicago to New York City and west to the shores of that mystical oasis known as The Bay Area. 

Fifty-plus years later I find myself picking up signs that I have drawn myself to participate in yet another No Kings Day march. I realized as I picked up my marker to try and capture the essence of the convicted felon who has usurped King Richard the Crook as The Worst President Ever that I had never attempted to capture the visage of The Orange Worst. 

And those hollow eyes came to mind. Lifeless eyes. And I remembered how hard it was for me to comprehend that Nixon had been elected to a second term. With those hollow eyes. And how we had re-elected another crook fifty years later. Then I thought of all the life that had been strained from the eyes of all those crushed voters by both these "presidents." 

My avocation as an editorial cartoonist and op-ed creator began back in those dark days, and somehow I have found something to write and draw about ever since. Something is always out there, waiting to rear its ugly head. I suppose I should be grateful that currently evil is so easy to spot. 

And to draw. 

The Nobbling Of Nancy

 Nancy Guthrie.

Why don't we talk about her for a while as we wait for the Orange Felon to make up more lies.

If you have missed all the news about the mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie, it could be that the abduction of an eighty-four year old woman from a suburb in Tucson, Arizona is not on your priorities list. Maybe figuring out how to sell your own blood in order to buy a gallon of gas to drive to the store to pay for the groceries that cost even more than they did when you decided to sell your blood for that gallon of gas did has obscured your concern for the eighty-four year old mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie. 

Perhaps. 

Or maybe this "celebrity kidnapping" doesn't hold the same kind of panache as those "celebrity kidnappings" of the past. Like the Lindbergh baby. Or J. Paul Getty's grandson. Or Bunny Lebowski. If you're keeping score at home, it has been nearly two months since Nancy was seen. Law enforcement agencies including the local sheriff's office, the FBI, CBP and an army of volunteers have yet to find the culprits or return Nancy to her home and all those who hope and pray for her safety. 

A one million dollar reward was offered for information regarding Nancy's whereabouts. 

Savannah has given up her hosting duties, and stayed home from her network's coverage of the Winter Olympics. 

In 1963, Frank Sinatra Jr. was kidnapped at gunpoint and held for a few days until Frank Sr. paid two hundred forty thousand dollars to get him back. Junior's abductors insisted that Senior respond to them only via payphones, requiring Old Blue Eyes to go everywhere with a roll of dimes in his pocket, an affectation he continued until the end of his life. 

There are no payphones anymore, and since the current reward is five times more than the ransom paid for Frank Sinatra Junior, one might wonder how this will all shake down. Unless Nancy's kidnappers are hoping to finance their next trip to the grocery store. 

Stairway To The Stars

 I enjoyed my trip to the moving picture show. My wife and I went out to see the much ballyhooed Project Hail Mary last weekend. There was a certain element of peer pressure involved, since it seems that a great many Americans chose to go see a movie rather than doom scrolling as we await the next tick of the Doomsday Clock. The good news here was that the challenges facing science officer Grace were environmental and not human. The future in which he found himself was one of a dying sun, but with a worldwide collaboration to try and save the planet, not unlike the mission featured in Contact.  Or the one in 2001: A Space Odyssey and its sequel, 2010:The Year We Make Contact. 

Honestly, I do not want to spoil the experience for any of you who may not be as committed to divining influences in feature film, but Hail Mary has some baggage and isn't afraid to share it. 

One of the first movies ever made was science fiction. Le Voyage dans la Lune by George Méliès predates both NASA and Stanley Kubrick, and gives us a glimpse of extraterrestrial life long before Steven Spielberg thought of phoning home. Perhaps it was ironic that the hopeful can-do story of Hail Mary was offset somewhat by the preview we saw before the feature, Spielberg's "scary alien" movie Disclosure Day. I suggest this was ironic because, spoiler alert, embedded in the story of science officer Grace is a direct reference to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. 

Establishing communication with beings from another planet is not a new notion. Michael Rennie came to Earth seventy-five years ago to attempt such connection. Klaatu was here to foster cooperation with his race and ours, even if he had to make the Earth stand still to do it. Aliens put Amy Adams through a lot to teach her a language that she could use to move about in space and time. Drew Barrymore at five years old had a much easier time teaching English to an ET. 

When it was Ryan Gosling's turn to be the scientist faced with using all that knowledge for the betterment of mankind, he stood on Matt Damon's broad shoulders to do so. Of course, long before Good Will Hunting was solving equations at MIT Robinson Crusoe landed on Mars. Crusoe didn't make friends with a rock, but he did get to hang around with a space hippie named Friday. 

Again, I had a nice ride at the movie theater, and I would encourage those of you looking for a two and a half hour escape from the moribund existence we seem to be sharing currently to head on out to the movies. You might end up getting more than one movie all rolled into one. 

No Sale

 “Robert Mueller just died. Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!”

“Now with the death of Iran, the greatest enemy America has is the Radical Left, Highly Incompetent, Democrat Party! Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

These are the kinds of things that come tumbling out of the social media account of the alleged pedophile and convicted felon current occupant of the ruins of the White House. 

So here's my ongoing wondering: This is what his handlers allow to escape into the world. What sort of vile things must be lurking just below that thin veneer of what might be considered respectful? We have been made to understand that this is the calling card of the Orange Worst, "telling it like it is." Then leave it to Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson to sort out via the tried and not so true phrase, "What the president meant was..."

Sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any sort of adequate filter for wishing death on one's political rivals. That's just "how it is." Let the lamestream media and bleeding heart liberals figure it out for themselves. While we're at it, let's back up the family truckster just briefly to examine the "death of Iran" lead-in. What used to give us all pause here in the United States were the protesters in other countries shouting "Death to America." 

The business of this current administration is being carried out late at night via social media in between rushed interactions on the way to or from his golf club in southern Florida. The interest this nominally human has in being seen as a wartime "president" is all but obscured by the pictures of him on the golf course. Gas prices have risen thirty percent in just two weeks, while the pointy heads who are trying to solve the crisis of faith in the Department of Homeland Security have suggested sending ICE officers in to take over the places of TSA officers who are quitting in droves. There is no difference between the frying pan and the fire. Putting a bunch of poorly trained armed goons in charge of passenger screening at airports is an accident waiting to happen. 

Just Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson standing up and trying to make sense of it all for us. 

Sorry. No sale. 

This former game show host is as morally bankrupt as any of his casinos. If you're wondering how this guy sleeps at night, take heart: He doesn't. He's up tapping away on his phone. He waits until he's in policy meetings to sleep. 

Letting Go

 I have mentioned in previous episodes what an easy touch I am for a free T-shirt. I have made a habit, over the years, or collecting all manner of "souvenirs" from experiences that will provide me with yet another shirt that I have to stuff into a drawer along with all those other mementos of experiences that are marked not by a photo or a plaque, but a cotton-blend extra large wad of cloth for me to turn inside out each time I wash them and fold neatly when its time to return them to their resting place. 

This describes only part of the problem. I also feel compelled to purchase a "souvenir" from each concert, performance or sporting event I attend. couple these with the previously mentioned "free" shirts and suddenly you find yourself with a storage problem. Last spring I made it a project to sort through my full and overflowing four drawer dresser, of which three were jam packed with all that ephemera. Each one I held up brought a rush of nostalgia. I remember holding on to that as I made my way back to my seat at Oracle Arena. When it was Oracle Arena. Or the ones that are tied to nights that became more memorable as time passed. Like the hemp shirt I purchased on a trip to my hometown, making me a walking advertisement for Magnolia Road Cannabis in Boulder, Colorado. 

I held on to that one. I figured if I ever give up my drug-free lifestyle, I can smoke the shirt. 

Two garbage bags stuffed full were not so lucky. Those are the ones that did not make the cut. There were some jewels in that mix, such as four Bruce Springsteen tour shirts. I kept the ones that had better graphics, and tried to cull out the extremely high volume of black tees in hopes of leaving a wider rainbow for those around me to appreciate. 

When I took them out of the drawer. 

Those bags were carried up the street to our neighborhood clothes and shoes recycling bin. I paused as I closed the lid behind the second one. The hoarder in me winced, but the guy who likes a clean slate sighed in relief. There's only one of me. I can only wear one shirt at a time. I reminded myself of a time a couple years back when I spent an entire month wearing only Springsteen tour shirts. 

No repeats. 

I let them go. 

Not all of them. 

Just enough to be able to open the drawer again. 

Looking Back

 The hardest part was watching the video.

There was a time when our school didn't have security cameras. We lived on our wiles and the hopes that an eyewitness would show up and spill the beans. Now we just roll back the tape. Except there is no tape. Just digital time-stamped video that our principal can access in the case of an incident like last Thursday. 

Two girls decided, in what I am sure they don't appreciate was the most cliche possible choice, to fight one another in the bathroom. A third grader and a fourth grader, whom I am also sure would not be able to fully express the reasons behind their need to come to fisticuffs. Generally speaking, the boys tend to act more impulsively and square off pretty much wherever they might be when their tempers flare. To the tiniest bit of credit for these young ladies, they chose a spot where the security cameras don't see. 

However, what we did witness, with the aid of technological hindsight, was the stream of mostly girls who packed in behind the two adversaries and the gaggle of boys who gathered just outside the door to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening in the little girls room. Not sugar and spice. That is certain. 

Once that was sorted out and cold water was thrown on the conflict by the adults, it was imagined that the fight was over. Nobody won. Everybody lost. 

Until the school day ended.

And the same gaggle of gawkers found another place out of the watchful camera eye: the elevator room downstairs. But, as in the case of the girls room, this didn't keep us from seeing the gaggle streaming down the stairs with wild abandon. They were about to witness what they must have assumed was going to be the fight of the century. 

Except it never happened. Before any of the video evidence was ever examined, the after school program supervisor noticed that a dozen or more of the students in her care had run off. Their trail was not hard to follow, and before any sort of physical violence could take place, grown ups showed up once again to keep the opponents separated. 

Parents were called. A the two potential fighters were sent home with caregivers. The grandmother of the fourth grade girl wondered how she might help. She had some old school ideas, but she was pretty sure her daughter wouldn't want her to mete those out on the youngest generation. 

We were left of the video. And the blood lust on the faces of those kids who were there to egg them on. What do we do about them? 

Do-Over

 If the Orange Worst was chased from the ruins of the White House today, it would take years to scrub off all the nonsense and graffiti he and his brood of underlings have generated over the past ten years. When Joe Biden was in office he spent a great deal of his time with a paint scraper and yes an autopen just to try to mitigate some of the damage done to our great republic. 

If the Second Trumpreich was driven out of Washington via any means necessary, it could take another eight years and a lot of apologies to get ourselves back to anything we might recognize as normal. 

But what if this were the playground, and not in the metaphorical sense? What if the convicted felon was called into the principal's office and told that he needed to make amends for bombing a girls school in Iran. What sort of apology would that require? 

Or how about those rebate checks consumers were supposed to be getting for the ill-advised and illegal tariff scam? Is there any amount of money that might save us all from the gouging we have taken at the grocery store, gas pump and just about everywhere else major credit cards are accepted? 

Who pays back the billion dollars a day that Private Bone Spurs is spending to keep us from paying attention not just to the Trumpstein Files but every other major boondoggle he and his misadministration has dropped on us? Who can bring back Alex Pretti and Renee Good and all the other hostages taken by masked goons in the name of racial purity? 

If anyone out there suggests that Julie Diana Vance might have a hand in reparations, please lower your hand and do some recalculating. 

This whole scheme has worked on the theory that everything that the bloated sack of protoplasm has ever done is brilliant. He is just misunderstood. We will all be told what to think and when, and as far as the principal's office is concerned if that turns out to be the Supreme Court he selected, things could get pretty ugly. 

Fast. 

Simply put, there is no accountability. We, the people, are left to clean up after the worst "president" in our two hundred fifty year experiment in democracy. The truths we had once been told were "self-evident" turn out to be less than that. Rights and assumptions about our freedom can no longer be taken for granted, even though that is precisely what our founding fathers were doing: granting us freedom from despots with a predilection for gilding things. And lining his own pockets. 

On second thought, just skip the apology. It would be like trying to teach a pig to fly. 

I've Got Some Questions

 What's up with my wife's frozen shoulder?

Why does the stereo in our car short out on one side?

Is there a cat food that our cat will eat consistently?

How do I keep the kids at school from tearing up the playhouse we built for them?

Will I have enough saved away to survive retirement?

When will I find the time to fix the basket that holds our toothbrushes off the counter?

Do we really need all those board games?

What am I going to write about today?

These are all questions that should be in the front of my mind as I face each new day. Along with the proper length the grass in my lawn should be just before I mow it, I would much rather be contemplating answers and solutions to these quandaries. 

And many more. 

Instead I find myself preoccupied with these:

What happens if the United States leaves NATO?

What could we possibly gain from trying to take over Cuba?

Why hasn't any American been arrested since Ghislaine Maxwell for the horrors committed by the secret society of pedophiles run by the suspiciously deceased Jeffrey Epstein? 

What will be left of the White House when the Orange Worst is removed from office?

Why worry about school shootings anymore when we seem to have escalated to military strikes on schools?

What will be left of the world when my son and his generation are left with it?

How do I sleep at night?

Actually, I know the answer to that last one. 

Fitfully. 

Refrain

 I'm definitely getting old. I yet to fully embrace my father's weepiness. He used to cry every time he heard Stars and Stripes Forever. Or Amazing Grace. Or a car horn. 

Okay, that last one might be stretching it a bit, but as I grew up in that shadow, I was sometimes embarrassed by those displays of emotion and later I found that I could relate to them quite well. John Philip Sousa doesn't do it for me, but I do get a lump in my throat when I hear The Dropkick Muphys' version of Amazing Grace, and whenever I sing along with Mister Springsteen's Badlands I've got tears in my eyes at the end. 

"It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive."

My wife made a little framed bit of calligraphy that hangs over my desk reminding me of this sentiment. 

Because that's what all of that compressed joy is about. Feeling all the feels and holding on until it bubbles up to the surface. The wife that made me that nice memento will cry at just about any wedding. Reruns of Friends or The Big Bang Theory, it doesn't matter if she's seen them dozens of times before. Have a tissue ready for her. And you'll need a whole box if she goes to the nuptials of a friend or family in person. 

I will also admit that as I fill up with my own memories of fatherhood and domestic bliss, I feel that dam behind my own eyes tested. Looking back and remembering the way we were, or imagining how things might turn our for my son and his posse. They've started to marry off. And have kids of their own. 

In just a few weeks I will be going to see Bruce Springsteen in concert for the (checks notes) kerjillionth time. I will make a point of standing between my wife and my son who will be there with me. In my heart I know that my father will be getting all misty as he watches me sing along with the Boss. 

It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive. 

Awarding

 I understand that while I am calling for us all to rise up that I would pause the struggle for four hours on a Sunday night to stare at a group of folks who can afford to rent a tuxedo to sit in the Dolby Theatre, formerly the Kodak Theatre when movies were shot on "film," and pass out awards for art. 

Yes, I watched all of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences annual Self-Congratulatory Celebration of folks who, for the most part, can afford to buy themselves the Rolex they found in their Swag Bag. My mother raised me this way. She was the first in her little town of Granby, Colorado to read the newest movie magazines when they arrived at her parents' drug store. She sat me down at the foot of her bed late one night to show me something called "King Kong," and my life was aligned with her ever after.  

Throughout the seventies, eighties and nineties, compared notes with my mom as we filled out our Oscar ballots. When I moved to California, there were lengthy phone calls to discuss the way things turned, back when the show originated from the Shrine Auditorium or the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Bob Hope and Johnny Carson presided over the festivities and it never occurred to me that with all the horrible things that were happening in the world maybe watching a bunch of stiffs in formalwear take their bows for the performances they had made with the support of hundreds was a waste of time. 

Like the Super Bowl, it became a tent post, an event that marked the passage of another year. When there were "important" movies that had been stamped by the Motion Picture Association such that I would be barred form entry without a parent or guardian, I had a parent who would make sure I didn't miss One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or Blazing Saddles. 

Those were the days of Nixon. And the Energy Crisis. And Inflation. And the Middle East. Those were the days when I was at the movie theatre. Those were the days when I took it as a matter of pride that I had seen all the nominated best pictures. 

And I knew that the world was at a tipping point. Taking those hours away from worrying about Armageddon didn't seem like a bad choice. In fact, it made the whole mess just a little easier to take. When it was time to hand out golden statues for recognition of the stories being told on those silver screens, I was there.

I still am. There was some mild vindication in seeing One Battle After Another win the big prize. The revolution may not be televised, but at least I got to see it on the big screen. 

Not Me

 This is a story about a little orange hen.

The little orange hen lives in the ruins of the Big White House. He works hard all day long: He Plays golf. He looks for worms. He sits in a bush. And sometimes… He lays an egg.

The little orange hen has three friends: a cat, a dog, and a horse. These animals don’t work hard at all.

The cat likes to run his government and maintain alliances. The dog likes to maintain alliances and run his government. And the horse likes to Stay in touch with the country he governs and watch out for global threats. 

One day the little red hen sees what he believes to be a holy war.
“Holy War!” he squeals. “Yum yum yum! We can make a Holy War!”

The little orange hen runs to tell his friends.
“Guys! There's a Holy War over there! I can take the minds of all the voters off all my crimes!”

The dog drools. “No!!”
The cat licks her lips. “Absolutely not!”
The horse flicks his tail.  “What a terrible idea!”

“So… who wants to help me in this Holy War?” asks the little orange hen.

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. So he launches the missiles, one by one, all by himself. 

“Ok, now we need more missiles, and guns, and tanks, and troops,” says the little orange hen. “Who wants to help me get them?”

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. He goes all the way to the cabinet and gets the missiles, and guns. She goes all the way to the Pentagon and gets the tanks, and troops. 

Then he forgets to ask Congress, all by himself. 

“Who wants to help me blow up the girls school?” asks the little orange hen. 

‍“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself!” says the little orange hen. He pushes the button until hundreds of civilians are dead. Then he gently reminds us all that in war people die. 

He goes golfing.. Then he hosts a big dance party.  All by himself. 

(Tick tock, tick tock)
Soon there are flag-draped coffins coming from the war zone.. The dog can smell it. The cat can smell it. The horse can smell it too. They all rush to what's left of the White House. 

The little orange hen pulls a baseball hat with gold letters on it. He looks serious and sad. 

“So… Who wants to help me with this Holy War?” asks the little Orange hen.

“Not Me!” says the dog. 
“Not Me!”  says the cat. 
“Not Me!” says the horse. 

“I didn't think so,” says the little orange hen. “You would not help me make this war…  so you should have to help me fight it.” 

He runs away with the stolen Nobel Peace Prize and goes golfing. All by himself. 

I Saw It On TV

 When we elected a former game show host to the highest office in the land, it was only a matter of time before he started asking other TV personalities to come along in the clown car we call the Second Trumpreich. 

There was a time when Jeanine Pirro was referred to as a "former prosecutor and judge." These days she is called a "former Fox news personality."

And what a personality she is. 

When District Court Chief Judge James Boasberg tossed out the subpoenas Judge Jeanine had sent to Federal Reserve Chairman Jerome Powell she had what my mother would have referred to as "a hissy fit." 

The current Attorney General for Washington DC, Ms. Pirro, insisted that the judge's ruling, “has neutered the grand jury’s ability to investigate crime. As a result, Jerome Powell today is now bathed in immunity, preventing my office from investigating the Federal Reserve. This is wrong, and it is without legal authority.”

A government official "bathed in immunity." That's an interesting metaphor. Mayhaps a bit of projection on her boss? 

She finished the press conference by screaming at reporters who were there to do their job: asking questions. “Oh cut it out, do you know how many convictions we’ve—cut it out!,” she yelled. “You’re in one lane! We have cleaned up this city.” With the possible exception of the convicted felon and war criminal who is currently tearing down the White House. 

And those in his cabinet. 

Like another "former Fox News personality," Pistol Pete Hegseth. He was once referred to as Major. Now he's playing Secretary of War on televisions across our country and is in charge of blowing up Iran. His insistence on "Peace through strength" can be distilled down to its essence, "Peace through war." And all he asks is that we follow him on a crusade to the Holy Land and kill the infidels. Just don't question him. 

Of course this all began when we let a former slumlord and bankrupt casino owner trick us into believing that he was a great businessman and he could teach us a thing or two about business via a "reality" show on TV. It was a short hop from there to the Oval Office where he now issues edicts such as the following: “We have unmatched firepower, unlimited ammunition, and plenty of time. Watch what happens today to these sick and low-life individuals. They have been killing innocent people around the world for 47 years, and now I, as the 47th President of the United States, am killing them. What a great honor it is for me to do this!”

As governance goes, I suppose it makes great TV. As real life goes, they should be locked up. I am looking forward to seeing that. 

All We Are Saying...

 My wife was relating a story to me about her past: She remembers sitting in her elementary school cafeteria with her classmates when suddenly one of them stood up and announced that it was his birthday. "And I can't imagine a better present: the war is over."

The conflict he was addressing was the Vietnam War. 

This anecdote came to me on the heels of my wife asking me if "things" were affecting the kids at my school. The school where I teach. The "things" were the stateside reaction to a war that is taking place half a world away. 

It happened that she was asking on the morning after a particularly trying day in which several of our young charges had missed the mark of expected behaviors in and around school. What we were expecting was scholarly behavior. Safe, Champion, Helpful, Original, Loving, Awesome, Respectful. The near-fight on the basketball court came to mind. The stomping and cursing from the fourth grade class whose field trip had been rescheduled at the last minute. The third graders who took their chance to go on a field trip and embarrassed their class and teacher with behavior best described as "off the hook." 

Would any or all of that taken place on any given day at our educational oasis in East Oakland? Possibly. But tracking the range and severity of episodes, it occurred to me that I am teaching a generation that has never lived on a peaceful planet. The looming specter of terrorism is one that I am certain that the kids I teach do not consider for a heartbeat. The World Trade Center came down a quarter of a century ago. These kids have never been to the airport without going through a metal detector. They have been on a heightened state of alert since before they were born. 

And now the guy who has made war on his own country is taking his show on the road. This didn't stop the deportations and the protests. It just gave us all something to fear while we should be busy being afraid of fear itself. 

I remember hearing those patriotic tales of my mother's youth, during the Second World War. Scrap drives and sending care packages to soldiers fighting across the sea. This is the same woman who told her oldest son that she would ride with him on his motorcycle to Canada if the draft came looking for him. 

Happily, the kid in the cafeteria where my wife sat more than fifty years ago got what he wanted for his birthday. 

Ignore Alien Orders

 At some point, it is incumbent for all of us to do the things that will save our country from falling into ruin. 

Making memes to encourage all those people who already agree with you to release the Trumpstein Files will probably not be enough. 

Talking loudly about how there is such a thing as the Twenty-fifth Amendment will not be sufficient. 

Pointing and laughing should no longer be the actions that carry the day. 

We have passed too many mile markers on the road to chaos. 

The time has come for us to start looking at those who are in charge and start weeding out the weeds from the not-weeds. Agreeing with me is great, but what are we the people willing to do to ensure that a government by the people and for the people does not perish from this earth. 

I have taken my modest form of the fight to those elected officials whose job it is to change the metrics of our nation. When there are kinks in the hose, or when that hose that used to exist ceases to exist metaphorically, I take it as a personal attack. I have started sending more and more emails to the folks who represent me and my concerns in Congress. 

Being a squeaky wheel is probably not going to be sufficient. Showing up quarterly with cleverly worded signs to insist that we are a nation without kings may not be enough. Acts of protest that let the powers that be know that they aren't really the powers after all become more pressing. 

Vote. 

I sat in a classroom at the end of a long day and listened to a group of my co-workers confess that they did not vote in the last election. Their reasoning was based on a somewhat prevalent  notion that Kamala Harris was "just as bad" as Donald Juliet Trump. These folks insist that we would be in the precise situation that we find ourselves in had there been a different outcome to the 2024 election. I pressed a little to check to see if any of them had voted on California's recent re-districting plan. 

I followed that thread to ask them if there was anything that would get them off the couch to put their ballot in the mail. 

How about someone telling you that it should be more difficult to vote? Or that only certain folks should be allowed to vote? "Is that what they're saying?" came the moderately confused response. 

Use it or lose it. Question authority. We don't need to make America great again. We need to make America ours again. 

Terror At Thirty-Five Thousand Feet

 So here's an interesting situation: With a war going on that costs a ballpark figure of one billion dollars a day and the Department of Homeland Security currently shut down due to (checks notes) the former director having sex with her deputy on the plane she needed to (checks notes again) have sex with her deputy, over three hundred TSA agents have quit. 

This means that lines at the airport have gotten longer to get through security to take flights to places that can still be considered "safe" for Americans to travel. It also means that the potential for someone's underwear or shoes or oversize bottle of shampoo slipping through the safety net we put in place the last time that things blew up here in our country. 

But you can rest easy, America, because the only president to be impeached twice is on the case. When asked if US citizens should worry about attacks from Iran on our soil, he replied, "I guess." 

Meanwhile, the term "sleeper cells" returned to our lexicon. Local police are now wondering just what sort of help they might receive when foreign agents suddenly spring to action like hydra's teeth to commit terrorist plots in and around your neighborhood. 

Sorry. 

Was that scary? 

It was meant to be. One of the ballyhooed reasons for us to go and stir up the hornets' nest that is Iran is because they are the number one sponsor of state terrorism in the world. They're kind of like the Dark Side of the Moon of terrorism. To paraphrase the nuns whose job it was to watch over Julie Andrews in Sound of Music, how do we deal with a problem like Iran? 

I'm not guessing that blowing up their leaders and killing a school full of little girls was in everyone's playbook. All of this must be written down somewhere in Project 2026. In crayon. Right after, "buy a nice plane or ICE Barbie to get her Mile High Club merit badge."

Gang Agley

 Hector was in the tenth grade. He has a one year old baby, living with his girlfriend and her mother. 

A while back, Hector was our challenge. In elementary school, we negotiated and reminded and encouraged and at times spoke harshly to him. We reminded Hector that he was someone's big brother and his younger siblings were watching him for clues about how to manage his deportment. At that time, keeping him in class was the challenge. Hector had a tendency to simply walk out of the classroom when the mood struck him. School work did not captivate him. As is the case for many of our young scholars, Hector's skills had not risen along with his progress through the grades. 

Rather than slowing down and accepting the help that was available to him, Hector pressed on and made his frustration everyone else's. 

At the outset, I mentioned that Hector was in tenth grade. He is no longer enrolled. Not in public education. Another system has him now. 

Hector will be serving three years for crimes he committed. His baby boy won't see him until he is just about ready to start Kindergarten. 

If he is allowed any contact with him at all. 

Part of me pines for the days when tearing up a bulletin board or eloping from class after recess was the biggest challenge in Hector's life. Is there something we all might have done differently to break the cycle before it repeated? 

Part of me sighs and takes stock of all the successes that I have witnessed before and since Hector. 

Hector's little sister is finishing up fifth grade this spring. Many of the challenges Hector has encountered are there for her as well. Add to those she has an older brother who is locked up for the next three years. We will do our best to set her on a course that will bring her more opportunities, more chances to succeed. 

We can provide all the support we can, and then we watch as they head off on the path they choose. 

The future is out there. 

And it can be terrifying. 

Worst

 “I guess the worst case would be we do this, and then somebody takes over who’s as bad as the previous person, right? That could happen. We don’t want that to happen.”

This is how the orange felon responded when the press asked him for what he believed would be the worst-case scenario in Iran would be. 

Over the weekend, Iran selected fifty-six-year-old Mojtaba Khamenei to be its new supreme leader. If that name looks a little familiar, it's probably because he is the son of that "previous person." 

Oops. 

What do you suppose the chances are that the son of the man the United States murdered will come to this conflict with open eyes and a clear head? Heck, if he had a spare Nobel Peace Prize sitting around, he might even offer it up as a token of his newfound respect and admiration for the guy who invaded his country. 

And we might see oil being sold for less than one hundred dollars a barrel in the next week. 

"We will be greeted as liberators," insisted the late "Dick" Cheney while introducing the 2003 invasion of Iraq. This proved to be a slight miscalculation. One that kept us there for nearly nine years, "liberating" a country that seemed less than interested in our "liberation." 

This is the portion of today's entry in which we point out that not a single arrest has been made as a result of the Trumpstein Files being released. Not here in the United States, anyway. Meanwhile, bodies have begun to return to these shores after having paid the ultimate price for the pedo-in-chief's fear of being "found out." 

I'll just go ahead and add that to the worst-case scenario. 

What's That Spell?

 It was a Sunday morning on the campus of the University of Colorado. Across the street from the football stadium, services were beginning at the Lutheran church. Inside the football stadium, a full day of rock and roll was on tap. May 1, 1977 the headliner was Fleetwood Mac, with support acts that included Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band and Boulder's own Firefall. John Sebastian, former leader of the Lovin' Spoonful was slated to open the show with his autoharp and his theme from Welcome Back Kotter. Mister Sebastian who was already the object of much angst simply because he stood on a stage that would eventually be full of rock legends Fleetwood Mac antagonized the crowd still further by referring to the crowd as a group as being from Denver, some thirty miles down the turnpike. 

But before all of that excess unfolded, the promoters ran a special guest out on the stage: Country Joe McDonald. Joe was there ostensibly as a link to the days of Woodstock, and he proceeded to unleash a very loud and enthusiastic version of The Fish Cheer into the Sunday morning air. "Give me an F," he shouted, "Give me a U!" And suddenly we knew we weren't spelling out FISH. When we finished with the fourth letter he asked, "What's that spell?" Into that bright Colorado sky sixty thousand of us yelled the answer. Joe asked us again, "What's that spell?" Obligated as we were, the crowd screamed back in response. Once more for good measure, "What's that spell?" I know that every member of that Lutheran Church heard exactly what that spelled as Joe unleashed the rest of the song. 

Yeah, come on all of you, big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again
He's got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Vietnam
So put down your books, pick up a gun
Gonna have a whole lot of fun

Suddenly we were connected up to the thousands who filled Max Yasgur's fields back in August of 1969. Vietnam was over, but the cold war raged on, and the neo-hippies in the crowd felt the vibe. 

Come on fathers don't hesitate
Send them off before it's too late
Be the first one on your block
To have your boy come home in a box

I have been to a lot of rock shows since that Sunday morning, but this was something special. Country Joe went to that big stadium in the sky this past weekend. His musical contributions may have been slim, but they were powerful, and he stomped on the Terra. I will think of him every time I pass a Lutheran Church. 

Amen. 

More Of The Same

 I know: We're supposed to believe that all this mess is a distraction from the Epstein Files.

"All this" being the seemingly endless stream of Wrong that is the governance of the United States. 

The suggestion that the "president" of the United States is attempting to cover up the fact that he is a pedophile is almost certainly becoming a non-starter. Not that the victims of all of the convicted felon's previous crimes don't deserve air, but the list of crimes has done nothing but grow since he took over for his father the slumlord back in 1971. Ten years after that, he bought a fourteen-story building on prime real estate facing New York City’s Central Park. His plan was to tear down the building and replace it with luxury condos. But first he needed to get the small band of rent-stabilized tenants out of there. They reported that he cut off heat and hot water, and even proposed sheltering homeless people in the building. That didn't happen, but the rat infestation was real. 

Eight years later, he took out a full-page ad in Newsday calling for the so-called Central Park Five to be executed for their alleged crimes. Never mind that the teenagers were convicted via coerced confessions but eventually exonerated after spending years in prison. Nor the fact that New York did not at the time have a death penalty, but these black and latino boys needed to die for the crimes they didn't commit. 

Fast forward to this past week when his (checks notes) third wife wanted the world to know that the man who had an affair with a porn star just after the star of the documentary Melania had given birth to their son, "He would like to have a country where all of the people can walk down the street and not be harassed or murdered, or women raped." As for the harassment and rape, let's take a peek at fifty years of harassment and rape brought to you by none other than the husband of (checks notes) the same guy who would like to have a country where all of the people can walk down the street and not be harasses or murdered. Or raped. Like the former game-show host's first wife who testified in divorce proceedings that her soon-to-be ex-husband raped her. 

Now he's graduated to blowing up school children. He's moved right on past the harassment and rape and moved straight on to murder. 

Distracted? 

Nope. 

Just more of the same. 

Too Many Puppies

 The easy chop was "Ding dong, the witch is dead."

Except she's not. Kristi the puppy killer wasn't fired. She was transferred. This was not the fate Renee Good or Alex Pretti experienced. Kristi "With an I" was sentenced to a new post as Special Envoy to The Shield of the Americas. Her focus will be on implementing the Donroe Doctrine, a wholly imaginary policy from the enfeebled mind of the Orange Felon who felt the need to shuffle the once and future ICE Barbie off to a cushy job out of the public eye where her cosplay could be limited to whatever it is that envoys wear. Whatever happened to "you're fired?" 

Cricket was executed for the crime of being "untrainable."

Meanwhile, the dysfunctional Department of Homeland Security will most certainly have their hands full with what will most certainly be an influx of possible terrorist activity exacerbated by the intentional stirring of the hornets' nest we call the middle east. The current response from what's left of the White House when asked if we should worry about an attack on American soil: "I guess." 

Because two words has never been sufficient to fully explore the depth of his stupidity, the former game show host continued: "But I think they're worried about that all the time. We think about it all the time. we think about it all the time. We plan for it. But yeah, you know, we expect some things. Like I said, some people will die. When you go to war, some people will die."

And as nonchalant as that response might have been, Pete "The Pistol" Hegseth got his knickers in a twist when the initial U.S. casualties from Operation Epstein Fury were announced: “When a few drones get through or tragic things happen, it’s front page news. I get it. The press only wants to make the president look bad. But try for once to report the reality. The terms of this war will be set by us at every step.”

Stupid news. 

Stupid protesters. 

Stupid puppies. 

Ding dong. 

How The Mighty Have Fallen

 Britney Spears was arrested for DUI in California. 

At first glance, this story might seem like a real puff piece. A bit of click bait to start the morning, but I am here to tell you that I believe it is part of a larger conspiracy. 

Having found no real way to circumvent the public's fervent and voracious interest in the contents of the Trumpstein Files, this administration has set about kidnapping its own citizens off the streets. They have shot innocent bystanders in the process of their ethnic cleansing agenda. They have abducted the president of another country via a military operation and declared that he stand trial as the oil reserves of that country become ours because of the tried and true Art of War strategy, "Invaders keepers, losers weepers." They have gone to war with a Middle Eastern country for the purpose of destroying their nuclear capabilities that were supposedly destroyed the last time we were blowing things up with very expensive bombs. Oh, and we managed to kill the president of that country too without the flourish of flying him to New York in chains to stand trial for some sort of drug-related charge shortly after another South American president was pardoned by the same bright orange idjit that didn't want us looking at the Trumpstein Files because the adjudicated rapist has so very much left to hide. 

And let's not forget the destruction of one third of The People's House in order to construct Barbie's Dream Ballroom, complete with hot and cold running irony that no one there will notice. 

But let's get back to Britney. Having recently sold her music catalogue, estimated to be worth between two hundred million dollars, Ms. Spears was out doing what any forty-four year old with money to burn does after ending a thirteen year-long conservatorship that had kept her constrained from doing things like (checks notes) selling her music catalog and shaving her head. Then she did something really awful. 

She deleted her Instagram account. 

How can we possibly keep track of all Britney's scandalous life choices? 

Wait for it. 

She's probably in the Trumpstein Files.

Everything

 In my tales of the workplace, I have spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time discussing my experience as a purveyor of sliced "roast beef" sandwiches clad in brown polyester. Not the kind of attention my career as an elementary school has garnered, but you might imagine that I spent a decade there. 

Not even. 

But I do carry a scar from that tour of duty. 

The scars I carry from working on the loading dock of Target are all internal. A few days back I felt that emotional tissue tingle just a bit when I read the headline: "Target shifts away from being an 'everything store.'" Quelle surprise! As a grown up, my wife and I have a habit of making a date out of our trips to what we had believed was "an everything store."

Not anymore. 

Quelle damage.

Where might I have gotten this impression? 

Perhaps from those nights I spent in my youth in the back room of my local Target, unloading forty foot trailers. We took merchandise off the trucks and organized them according to the department that each item belonged. Housewares. Toys. Hardware. Automotive. Electronics. And so forth. Sometimes we would run across a something that defied categorization. This gave us on the crew a moment of consideration before one of us would say, "Notions." We had a pallet for "Notions." And if we filled it up, we would get a pallet jack and drag it off into the cavernous warehouse to be set aside for whenever we run out of "Notions." Then it would be the job of someone else with a red vest, which would distinguish them from the urchins in the back room unloading the trucks, to deliver those items to the shelves in that mystical realm located somewhere in the store. 

Somewhere. 

I knew where Garden was. I knew where Electronics was located. 

Notions? That was the place where Everything was unloaded. Did you need a desk organizer? Look for it in Notions. What about those felt pads that you stick on the bottom of your chair legs to keep them from scuffing the floor? That's a Notion. 

And that's why you go to Target. Because Target is not just an Everything Store. It's a Notion Store. 

And that's Everything to me. 

Back Nine

 "Sir, are you sure?"

"Yes, I want the nine."

"Well, okay. But that's not exactly what I was asking about."

"Ah, thank you. The big nine." 

"I was talking more about playing golf, you know, after the thing."

"What thing?"

"With Iran."

"Oh that thing. Stand back now. I've got quite a back swing."

“If I didn’t terminate Obama’s horrendous Iran Nuclear Deal, Iran would have had a Nuclear Weapon three years ago. That was the most dangerous transaction we have ever entered into, and had it been allowed to stand, the World would be an entirely different place right now. You can blame Barack Hussein Obama, and Sleepy Joe Biden.”

"Well, sir, if I may: Some of our servicemen are dead."

"What do you think that is, about forty yards?"

"I'm wondering if seeing the President out on the golf course the day after he sends our military into harm's way..."

"Whose military?"

"Sorry sir. Sorry. Your military."

“The Radical Left Democrats, a Party that has completely lost its way, are complaining bitterly about the very necessary and important attack, by the United States and Israel, on Iran. What most people understand is that they are only complaining BECAUSE I DID IT and, if I didn’t do it, they would be screaming — Why didn’t ‘TRUMP’ attack Iran, he should do it, IMMEDIATELY? Do you think the breeze is from the north?"

"I think it's coming from the Middle East."

"How's that?"

"Nothing."

"Look son, some people are going to have to give up their lives. That's just the way it is."

"Yes sir."

“Sleepy Joe Biden spent all of his time, and our Country’s money, GIVING everything to P.T. Barnum (Zelenskyy!) of Ukraine - Hundreds of Billions of Dollars worth - And, while he gave so much of the super high end away (FREE!), he didn’t bother to replace it. Fortunately, I rebuilt the military in my first term, and continue to do so. The United States is stocked, and ready to WIN, BIG!!!”

"Of course, sir."

"And did you see the drapes I picked out?"

"Drapes?"

"For the ballroom." 

"No."

"No?"

"No sir."

"Alright then. Forty yards t the cup. I should be able to knock this in and still get back to the club in time to watch Real Housewives."

"Yes."

"What's that?"

"Yes sir." 

Optics Ad Infinitum

 When a convicted felon announces from a perch safely hidden within the cavernous Xanadu of his own golf club that, “Sadly, there will likely be more before it ends. That’s the way it is. Likely to be more. But we’ll do everything possible where that won’t be the case,” we have passed the point of no return. 

He can only say this ice cold drivel if someone out there is listening. And believing. 

When an adjudicated rapist can tell anyone who wants to listen that he has been "completely exonerated" of charges connected to the sex trafficking ring that his good friend Jeffrey Epstein ran for decades, he is speaking to the faithful. 

That's not faith in anything in heaven's creation. It comes from someplace much darker. 

The Orange Worst is counting on there being still another place he can take his rabble where they can't hear the voice of reason. The voice of diplomacy. The voice of peace. There can be no regrets in his army of lemmings. Forward into the abyss. 

What are the alternatives? I spent the weekend contacting my elected representatives. I continue to talk to anyone who will listen, including you dear reader, of the existential threat being poised by this one man. There is no right left in this administration. It contains only rage and fear. That is the fuel that keeps him awake and alive. Let that noxious gas out of the balloon that he inhabits and you would be left with nothing. No apologies. No regrets. 

He will stand in front of a group of people looking for relief from the strain of living their lives here in the country he nominally controls, and he can give them only more fear and rage. Blame for everyone and everything that he has brought on. All by himself. 

A man who dodged serving his country and promoted himself as "the peace president" is sending Americans into war with the assurance that there will be more because, "that's the way it is." 

I implore you not to accept this. It is not the way it is outside of his deranged myopathy. The world is waiting for this to end. 

Sooner. 

Not later. 

What's Going On?

 Coming out of the tunnel that was my union's negotiations with our school district, relieved to not having to walk a picket line in order to receive a raise that will essentially keep up with the cost of living over the next two years, I find the sound of gears out of alignment keeping me awake. 

What is causing that irritating noise? The sound of the Pentagon, the newly minted "Department of War" scurrying about trying to figure out how to spend the additional five hundred billion dollars that the head of the Trump Crime Family has demanded for its upcoming budget. This goes on top of a trillion dollars already earmarked for the purchase of guns and bombs. 

Make no mistake: These guns and bombs are no longer being used in our "defense." These purchases are for weapons of war, which is precisely why some one hundred million dollars was spent on websites and documentation for the name change. 

That and to satisfy the blood lust of a group of people who wouldn't know actual war if it landed on their heads and started to wiggle. This is a cabal of individuals clustered together to support the ego and lies of one person. They are tasked with creating enough noise to drown out all the other distractions from uncovering the convicted felon for exactly what he is: A charlatan sociopath with delusions of grandeur. 

And we get stuck paying the bill. 

I contacted both my senators and my congressperson to let them know that I consider it the highest priority for them to stop this illegal war and to remove this snake-oil salesman from office. I would encourage you all to do the same. I still cling to the belief that there are more than enough sane Americans left to turn this ship around before it becomes an uninhabitable hellscape, regardless of the pittance offered up by the powers that be to keep us on our knees. 

I want free elections. I want peace. I want to let freedom ring. 

The Price Of Peace

 My wife insists that all responsible journalists should stop using the tag "said" when printing quotes from the Orange Worst. Instead, use a universal replace with the word, "lied." 

Like all that talk about peace. The Boared/Bored of Peace requires all permanent members contribute one billion dollars in cash in the first year of their enrollment. Argentina, Armenia, Azerbaijan,Bahrain, Bulgaria, El Salvador, Hungary, Indonesia, Israel, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kosovo, Mongolia, Morocco, Pakistan, Paraguay, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, United Arab Emirates, United States, and Uzbekistan have all poinied up that big wad of cash to be part of what is supposed to be promoting global stability, restore governance, and secure peace in conflict-affected areas. Like Gaza, a place the convicted felon and adjudicated rapist once hoped to turn into "The Riviera of the Middle East." Fellow real estate developer and son-in-law Jared Kushner sits at the top of the organizational chart for this Bored, so the chances are good that there will be a championship golf course installed, aided by the countless numbers of shell craters created by the three years of nearly incessant bombing of the area. 

You may notice that there are a number of countries missing from that list, partly because they can't afford the membership fee because they are currently under attack from other invading nations. Like Ukraine. And Greenland. And Veneauela. And Iran. Those last two are "our bad," since the peace that those countries might be enjoying was disrupted by (checks notes) The Trumpstein Regime. 

The suggestion that the former game show host and owner of four bankrupt casinos will be up to the task of promoting any sort of stability seems like a stretch if not a bald faced lie. The nominal purpose of the most recent attacks directed by the Chairman of the Board of Peace was to re-obliterate the nuclear capabilities of Iran, but also managed to target key member's of that nation's leadership. Not for capture and return to the United States for trial like we did for Nicolas Maduro, but the not-so-subtle attempt of regime change via high explosives. Meanwhile, Board of Peace member Pakistan called for the U.S. attacks to stop and ”an immediate halt to escalation through urgent resumption of diplomacy to achieve a peaceful, negotiated resolution to the crisis.” Russia also took time out of their invasion of sovereign nation Ukraine to complain about the United States' invasion of a sovereign nation. 

There was no immediate response from the guy who pulled the trigger and/or the Chariman of the Bored. 

That's what a billion dollars will get you these days.