There is a moment, probably just a wink of time, during which thoughts turn into memories. Some of them don't stick very well, like when we say, "I don't remember saying that," or that other sock. Some of them get stuck way down deep and become the essence of everything that comes after that thought. Like the moment I decided to move to California. It really was just a switch that flipped. There may have been an audible click on that one.
But this past week was different. Up until oh-so-very-recently our son's toys lived in a corner of our basement. On the off chance that he may have needed access to the bits and pieces of his tangible childhood, it would be easy enough to rummage through a pile of boxes and assorted containers to find that thing that was pulled out of Random Access Memory. That access changed when my wife and I pulled all of that stuff through the space that used to be our chimney where it landed in our attic.
Including the Legos.
Those plastic tubs of plastic building blocks were the most significant item not simply because of the weight and volume, but because of the memories associated. Most every birthday, Christmas or occasion that might have been recognized by a gift has a Lego kit connected to it. Each new release of a Star Wars movie. Finally being old enough to take on the really complex models. And the cars. The ones he built right up until the time when his own real car began to overtake his building and repair attentions.
The day that we hauled all those Legos up through the center of our house, we got the news that our son had finally succeeded in putting a new engine into his Toyota Supra. That months-long project culminated at virtually the some moment that all those toys had come to rest in the attic. Just days after he had completed his coursework to become eligible for graduation from college. It is true that he has passed by the line of demarcation defined by his twenty-first birthday, but somehow this was the moment where his adulthood fully descended upon us all.
Not that he won't have access to it all. We didn't set it out on the street for people to pick through. It's up in the attic, for the time when he decides to pull the ladder down and crawl up into the dark to poke through that corner of the attic. The corner that is a four hour drive away. That implies that the newly restored Supra is up to the trip and doesn't require his more immediate attention.
And thoughts.
That will eventually be memories.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Monday, March 30, 2020
Shooting Star
It would be disingenuous to say that my favorite Globetrotter was Curly Neal. That distinction belongs to the late, great Meadowlark Lemon, the Clown Prince of Basketball. Curly was an easy choice for second, and gets extra points for sticking around to trot the globe just a little longer than Meadow. And he could dribble. And spin a ball on his finger. Or his head. Or most any surface. He was a magician with a basketball, especially the red, white and blue versions he and his teammates preferred.
So here's the thing: I would like to believe that I was clever enough to discern, even at an early age, that the games the Harlem Globetrotters played were really fixed exhibitions. The Washington Generals recorded wins in 1954, 1958, and 1971. The several hundred other games they played against their arch rivals, the Harlem Globetrotters, were losses. But the real winners were the crowds who attended these "contests."
A momentary aside: I have had to reckon along with a great many young men about whether or not professional wrestling is real. I tell them that these are tremendous athletes, who are dedicated performers and capable of a great many things. Wrestling, in its most traditional sense, is not one of those things. In this way, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson shared something with Curly Neal (aside from the bald head). In the words of David Letterman, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is not a competition, only an exhibition. Please, no wagering."
Because you would have to be a fool to bet against Fred Curly Neal and the Harlem Globetrotters. They were athletes of extraordinary talent. Half court hook shot? No problem. Dribbling circles around the competition? Easy. And that water bucket that we're all sure is probably full of confetti? Well, don't be so sure, because you never know.
But you knew that when Curly was on the court, you were going to get a show. So much so that he and the gang were easily transferable to such diverse locations as Peking, tagging along with Scooby and Shaggy, or even a visit to Gilligan's Island. For twenty-two years, Curly Neal amazed us all with his seemingly effortless basketball skill, entertaining millions as he trotted around the globe. Because that's what he did. Curly Neal trotted on the Terra, and dribbled around the globe. He made his final free throw last week at the age of seventy-seven. He will be missed, because he never did.
Aloha.
So here's the thing: I would like to believe that I was clever enough to discern, even at an early age, that the games the Harlem Globetrotters played were really fixed exhibitions. The Washington Generals recorded wins in 1954, 1958, and 1971. The several hundred other games they played against their arch rivals, the Harlem Globetrotters, were losses. But the real winners were the crowds who attended these "contests."
A momentary aside: I have had to reckon along with a great many young men about whether or not professional wrestling is real. I tell them that these are tremendous athletes, who are dedicated performers and capable of a great many things. Wrestling, in its most traditional sense, is not one of those things. In this way, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson shared something with Curly Neal (aside from the bald head). In the words of David Letterman, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is not a competition, only an exhibition. Please, no wagering."
Because you would have to be a fool to bet against Fred Curly Neal and the Harlem Globetrotters. They were athletes of extraordinary talent. Half court hook shot? No problem. Dribbling circles around the competition? Easy. And that water bucket that we're all sure is probably full of confetti? Well, don't be so sure, because you never know.
But you knew that when Curly was on the court, you were going to get a show. So much so that he and the gang were easily transferable to such diverse locations as Peking, tagging along with Scooby and Shaggy, or even a visit to Gilligan's Island. For twenty-two years, Curly Neal amazed us all with his seemingly effortless basketball skill, entertaining millions as he trotted around the globe. Because that's what he did. Curly Neal trotted on the Terra, and dribbled around the globe. He made his final free throw last week at the age of seventy-seven. He will be missed, because he never did.
Aloha.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Heads Up
It was more than twenty years ago when we had a global panic. Some of you may remember Y2K. When the calendar flipped from December 31, 1999 to January 1, 2000 there were plenty of folks who were certain it would be catastrophic. The power grid would fail. Banks would lose every scrap of data. Microwaves would no longer have a popcorn setting. Armageddon times.
Some people responded by purchasing duct tape and plastic sheeting. Some hoarded food. Some bought as much toilet paper as they could find. It was a frightening time. But let's push that clock back a couple years. Back in July, 1998, President Bill Clinton announced legislation that would guarantee that businesses sharing information about Y2K cannot be held liable if the information turns out to be inaccurate and a national campaign to promote partnership between industry groups and government agencies; and a job bank to help fill the need for programmers and information technology experts. This meant, essentially, that all that code for all those systems (even the microwaves) had to be checked to see if they would fail when all of a sudden that hundreds place began to matter again. Would we all be sent back to 1900 to pick up the pieces? Would there be any pieces left to pick up?
As it turned out. No. There weren't any major glitches. Not even the popcorn setting. We awoke to a new millennium, and things were pretty much as we left them. Phones worked. I know because I tested mine. I also turned on my computer. No sparks or noxious gas. I took this as reassuring.
By the afternoon of January 1, 2000 we had all had a good laugh and began to make plans for eating all those cans of tuna we had stored under the house.
Admittedly, we did not have two years' runup to the outbreak of COVID-19. There were those in the epidemiology field who warned us that it was only a matter of time that something like this could happen. But we waited. The "president" kept brushing aside fears of a pandemic, preferring instead to tout his stock market and any other numbers he found discouraging. Even now, as the virus races across our planet and people are dying, he wants to turn back the clock and get us all back to work. What a horrible shame that we didn't do the work we needed to back then. Suddenly I am reminded of a scene from Ghostbusters when Bill Murray is trying to sell the Mayor of New York on the idea that he could really use some ghost busting. The Mayor is skeptical, but Bill reassures him: "If we're wrong, then nothing happens. We'll go to jail. Peacefully. Quietly. We'll enjoy it. But if we're right, and we can stop this thing... Lenny... you will have saved the lives of millions of registered voters."
Ghostbusters was released in 1984. How about that for fair warning?
Some people responded by purchasing duct tape and plastic sheeting. Some hoarded food. Some bought as much toilet paper as they could find. It was a frightening time. But let's push that clock back a couple years. Back in July, 1998, President Bill Clinton announced legislation that would guarantee that businesses sharing information about Y2K cannot be held liable if the information turns out to be inaccurate and a national campaign to promote partnership between industry groups and government agencies; and a job bank to help fill the need for programmers and information technology experts. This meant, essentially, that all that code for all those systems (even the microwaves) had to be checked to see if they would fail when all of a sudden that hundreds place began to matter again. Would we all be sent back to 1900 to pick up the pieces? Would there be any pieces left to pick up?
As it turned out. No. There weren't any major glitches. Not even the popcorn setting. We awoke to a new millennium, and things were pretty much as we left them. Phones worked. I know because I tested mine. I also turned on my computer. No sparks or noxious gas. I took this as reassuring.
By the afternoon of January 1, 2000 we had all had a good laugh and began to make plans for eating all those cans of tuna we had stored under the house.
Admittedly, we did not have two years' runup to the outbreak of COVID-19. There were those in the epidemiology field who warned us that it was only a matter of time that something like this could happen. But we waited. The "president" kept brushing aside fears of a pandemic, preferring instead to tout his stock market and any other numbers he found discouraging. Even now, as the virus races across our planet and people are dying, he wants to turn back the clock and get us all back to work. What a horrible shame that we didn't do the work we needed to back then. Suddenly I am reminded of a scene from Ghostbusters when Bill Murray is trying to sell the Mayor of New York on the idea that he could really use some ghost busting. The Mayor is skeptical, but Bill reassures him: "If we're wrong, then nothing happens. We'll go to jail. Peacefully. Quietly. We'll enjoy it. But if we're right, and we can stop this thing... Lenny... you will have saved the lives of millions of registered voters."
Ghostbusters was released in 1984. How about that for fair warning?
Saturday, March 28, 2020
Terpsichore
In the very dark basement of a bunch of shops across from the University of Colorado, there was a place where kids could go and drink beer. And dance.
That second part wasn't necessarily the feature I was after when I first made my way down the stairs into Pogo's. It was the cheap beer. Or what seemed like cheap beer to me. I suppose the fact that they advertised their pitchers as a bargain at a dollar apiece. It also made accounting pretty mindless. If I went in with ten dollars, I was pretty sure that I would weave by the time I walked out.
But first I would dance.
Somewhere in the haze of that fourth pitcher of Coors Light, the deflector shields of my inhibitions lowered to the point where the music that poured into the club from speakers that were far too large to be in anyone's basement took hold. Initially, I made the casual but fatal mistake of asking girls that I did not know to dance with me. Later I discovered that bringing along a group of friends, some of whom were girls, I could avoid this sloppy interpersonal connection and assume that one of them would probably be willing to sacrifice their dignity for the sake of a twirl across the floor with your truly. Not that there were lots of eyes on individuals there. In the cellar named Pogo's, there wasn't enough light or distance between sweaty bodies to discern who was making a fool out of whom.
I knew.
I was the one flailing around in my own hysteric tribute to Elwood Blues and David Byrne. I was the one who was not making scene so much as creating one. Not that anyone else seemed to care. I was just one of the herd of hungry drunk boys, shaking what might have been loosely defined as "my groove thing."
This went on for several years. Eventually two things happened to affect the course of events: I stopped drinking, and Pogo's the new wave dance club became Ground Zero the goth and industrial music club. One night, for old time's sake, I went down those stairs with some friends who were a shade younger than I. A whole new generation to embarrass.
Except I wasn't drinking. I was moved by the swirling sounds of The Cure and Ministry to toss my body around in many of the same ways I had when it was Thomas Dolby and Billy Idol, only now there was some thought behind it. Not a lot, but I was no longer simply acting out the videos I had seen on MTV. I had new inspiration, like the African Dance class my friend was taking. And the dance floor was never quite so crowded, leaving me to work up a sweat all on my own. There was no need for a partner. A partner would just get in the way. There were plenty of times that I had to floor to myself. The same black and white floor that had been filled with undergrads dancing to Rock Lobster by the B-52s was now a relatively vast expanse for people like me to thrash out their inner demons.
And it was this place where my future wife and I descended some twenty-eight years ago. I proceeded to do my thing and she stared in wonder. She had no idea I could dance. Well, maybe a little, but it put her in mind of how we might even find ourselves going out on the weekends to dance clubs and tripping the light fantastic.
Which isn't exactly what happened. I got older. I became a husband and then a father, and my dancing days fell behind me. But every so often, when the mood strikes me or I have that cheap beer flashback that everyone warned me about, I get up and move.
It's not a pretty sight, but it's all mine.
That second part wasn't necessarily the feature I was after when I first made my way down the stairs into Pogo's. It was the cheap beer. Or what seemed like cheap beer to me. I suppose the fact that they advertised their pitchers as a bargain at a dollar apiece. It also made accounting pretty mindless. If I went in with ten dollars, I was pretty sure that I would weave by the time I walked out.
But first I would dance.
Somewhere in the haze of that fourth pitcher of Coors Light, the deflector shields of my inhibitions lowered to the point where the music that poured into the club from speakers that were far too large to be in anyone's basement took hold. Initially, I made the casual but fatal mistake of asking girls that I did not know to dance with me. Later I discovered that bringing along a group of friends, some of whom were girls, I could avoid this sloppy interpersonal connection and assume that one of them would probably be willing to sacrifice their dignity for the sake of a twirl across the floor with your truly. Not that there were lots of eyes on individuals there. In the cellar named Pogo's, there wasn't enough light or distance between sweaty bodies to discern who was making a fool out of whom.
I knew.
I was the one flailing around in my own hysteric tribute to Elwood Blues and David Byrne. I was the one who was not making scene so much as creating one. Not that anyone else seemed to care. I was just one of the herd of hungry drunk boys, shaking what might have been loosely defined as "my groove thing."
This went on for several years. Eventually two things happened to affect the course of events: I stopped drinking, and Pogo's the new wave dance club became Ground Zero the goth and industrial music club. One night, for old time's sake, I went down those stairs with some friends who were a shade younger than I. A whole new generation to embarrass.
Except I wasn't drinking. I was moved by the swirling sounds of The Cure and Ministry to toss my body around in many of the same ways I had when it was Thomas Dolby and Billy Idol, only now there was some thought behind it. Not a lot, but I was no longer simply acting out the videos I had seen on MTV. I had new inspiration, like the African Dance class my friend was taking. And the dance floor was never quite so crowded, leaving me to work up a sweat all on my own. There was no need for a partner. A partner would just get in the way. There were plenty of times that I had to floor to myself. The same black and white floor that had been filled with undergrads dancing to Rock Lobster by the B-52s was now a relatively vast expanse for people like me to thrash out their inner demons.
And it was this place where my future wife and I descended some twenty-eight years ago. I proceeded to do my thing and she stared in wonder. She had no idea I could dance. Well, maybe a little, but it put her in mind of how we might even find ourselves going out on the weekends to dance clubs and tripping the light fantastic.
Which isn't exactly what happened. I got older. I became a husband and then a father, and my dancing days fell behind me. But every so often, when the mood strikes me or I have that cheap beer flashback that everyone warned me about, I get up and move.
It's not a pretty sight, but it's all mine.
Friday, March 27, 2020
Full Stop
Growing up in Boulder, Colorado I was the recipient of a very open worldview. It was what a lot of folks got from living in a college town in the seventies. It was easy to be a left-wing nutjob because so many of those who surrounded me were left-wing nutjobs as well. Encountering racism or classicism was fearful for me as a burgeoning liberal. I was provided with a very solid sense that one helped his neighbor because it was the right thing to do. Not because there was a profit in it. Because it was the right thing to do.
So here I am some fifty years later, wondering how to cope with a government that seems intrinsically motivated by a bottom line. The Bottom Line, as in a financial ledger. A government that is happy to let deficits balloon while the stock market soars. Them that gots gots lots and them that don't don't. As we shrieked and cried at the mention of socialism, we rode that bull market right into the wall called pandemic.
Real life descended upon the party that was taking place at country clubs across the country. There was no insulation for this calamity. Except for money. It should be noted that we are updated regularly about the rich and famous who have been tested for COVID-19. Those most susceptible, the ones who cannot shelter in place because they have no shelter, are the ones who will most likely die without ever being diagnosed.
Meanwhile, senators who have the security of a job and a place to go when things go crazy, argue over the details of who gets what and how much of a bailout. With the emphasis always on keeping our economy afloat. This representative democracy runs on dollars, after all. According to some, we've all had plenty of time to suck up all the quarantine we need and it's time to get back to the work that makes the engine run.
Lieutenant Governor of Texas, Dan Patrick announced the other day, “No one reached out to me and said, ‘as a senior citizen, are you willing to take a chance on your survival in exchange for keeping the America that all America loves for your children and grandchildren?’ And if that’s the exchange, I’m all in. And that doesn't make me noble or brave or anything like that. I just think there are lots of grandparents out there in this country like me... that what we care about and what we love more than anything are those children." Noble? Brave? No. That makes you a sociopath. So invested in the notion of the United States as the land of those who can afford it that he is willing to let a generation die to jumpstart an economy that was tearing at the seams before anyone got sick.
The left-wing nutjob that grew up to be an elementary school teacher marvels at those who are taking the time and energy to reach out to their neighbors young and old. I am gratified by the millions of dollars shoved down into the places where it is needed most from those who can afford to. The heroes are the ones who are listening to the doctors and scientists, waiting until it's safe to go out and be a good capitalist again.
So here I am some fifty years later, wondering how to cope with a government that seems intrinsically motivated by a bottom line. The Bottom Line, as in a financial ledger. A government that is happy to let deficits balloon while the stock market soars. Them that gots gots lots and them that don't don't. As we shrieked and cried at the mention of socialism, we rode that bull market right into the wall called pandemic.
Real life descended upon the party that was taking place at country clubs across the country. There was no insulation for this calamity. Except for money. It should be noted that we are updated regularly about the rich and famous who have been tested for COVID-19. Those most susceptible, the ones who cannot shelter in place because they have no shelter, are the ones who will most likely die without ever being diagnosed.
Meanwhile, senators who have the security of a job and a place to go when things go crazy, argue over the details of who gets what and how much of a bailout. With the emphasis always on keeping our economy afloat. This representative democracy runs on dollars, after all. According to some, we've all had plenty of time to suck up all the quarantine we need and it's time to get back to the work that makes the engine run.
Lieutenant Governor of Texas, Dan Patrick announced the other day, “No one reached out to me and said, ‘as a senior citizen, are you willing to take a chance on your survival in exchange for keeping the America that all America loves for your children and grandchildren?’ And if that’s the exchange, I’m all in. And that doesn't make me noble or brave or anything like that. I just think there are lots of grandparents out there in this country like me... that what we care about and what we love more than anything are those children." Noble? Brave? No. That makes you a sociopath. So invested in the notion of the United States as the land of those who can afford it that he is willing to let a generation die to jumpstart an economy that was tearing at the seams before anyone got sick.
The left-wing nutjob that grew up to be an elementary school teacher marvels at those who are taking the time and energy to reach out to their neighbors young and old. I am gratified by the millions of dollars shoved down into the places where it is needed most from those who can afford to. The heroes are the ones who are listening to the doctors and scientists, waiting until it's safe to go out and be a good capitalist again.
Thursday, March 26, 2020
They Killed Kenny
It wasn't the carnivorous rats. Or the toxic waste. Or any of the myriad of painful deaths visited upon Kenny from South Park, Colorado. This was Kenny Rogers from Hitsville, USA and he died from cancer.
Kenny won't be getting the crowded memorial service that he might have if not for the current state of the world. Mourning will have to be done in the relative calm and safety of our homes. Mister Rogers, the one with the beard, will be remembered for all the music he put into the world. He will also be remembered, much to everyone's chagrin, as a Gambler. It took just moments from the announcement of Kenny's passing before Twitter and other online outlets began to suggest that he knew when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. Inevitably, it was time for him to walk away because he could no longer run. He was a presence on the American music scene beyond that, and upon reflection I would like to share my own Kenny Rogers experience.
It was his time in The First Edition that sparked my interest. This was back when he was known affectionately by the group as Hippie Kenny. It could be argued that even back then, in the late sixties, Kenny and his group was heading into territory known as Country. The First Edition was spawned from creatively stifled former members of The New Christy Minstrels. Hard to imagine that anyone would feel creatively stifled in The New Christy Minstrels, but shortly after departing that group, the newly-formed First Edition put out a track called "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)." It was a hit, but for me it never reached its full artistic vision until it was included in the Coen Brothers' film, The Big Lebowski.
Oh, I know that there were herds of hits that came in the wake of that one, from Mel Tillis' "Ruby (Don't Take Your Love To Town)" to "Something's Burning" to "Tell It All Brother." And this was before 1971 and Kenny's solo career began. There would be time enough for gambling and islands in the streams and duets and TV movies, but these earliest tunes are the ones that stick with me. And from my quarantine I will be playing tribute to Kenny and those early days. He stomped on the Terra and he will be missed.
Aloha, Kenny.
Kenny won't be getting the crowded memorial service that he might have if not for the current state of the world. Mourning will have to be done in the relative calm and safety of our homes. Mister Rogers, the one with the beard, will be remembered for all the music he put into the world. He will also be remembered, much to everyone's chagrin, as a Gambler. It took just moments from the announcement of Kenny's passing before Twitter and other online outlets began to suggest that he knew when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. Inevitably, it was time for him to walk away because he could no longer run. He was a presence on the American music scene beyond that, and upon reflection I would like to share my own Kenny Rogers experience.
It was his time in The First Edition that sparked my interest. This was back when he was known affectionately by the group as Hippie Kenny. It could be argued that even back then, in the late sixties, Kenny and his group was heading into territory known as Country. The First Edition was spawned from creatively stifled former members of The New Christy Minstrels. Hard to imagine that anyone would feel creatively stifled in The New Christy Minstrels, but shortly after departing that group, the newly-formed First Edition put out a track called "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)." It was a hit, but for me it never reached its full artistic vision until it was included in the Coen Brothers' film, The Big Lebowski.
Oh, I know that there were herds of hits that came in the wake of that one, from Mel Tillis' "Ruby (Don't Take Your Love To Town)" to "Something's Burning" to "Tell It All Brother." And this was before 1971 and Kenny's solo career began. There would be time enough for gambling and islands in the streams and duets and TV movies, but these earliest tunes are the ones that stick with me. And from my quarantine I will be playing tribute to Kenny and those early days. He stomped on the Terra and he will be missed.
Aloha, Kenny.
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Denial, Anger - Wake Me Up When We Get To Acceptance
It was about the time I watched the video of the "president" haranguing Peter Alexander from NBC. His Royal Highness called Mister Alexander a "terrible reporter" because he deigned to ask him what we should be telling all the Americans who are afraid. That's when I got angry. Not at poor Peter Alexander, who looked shocked and hurt by the personal attack, but at the COVIDIOT in charge. Not because he had a tough week and was showing signs of the stress that has to be felt across the globe currently, but because at this moment in history, he was responding in exactly the way he has been responding since he took office: By taking exception at anything that doesn't fall in line with his dictatorial vision of the world.
We have a game show host in charge of a planet being overrun by a virus that is killing people. Humans. Not Chinese. Not Americans. Not black or white or any specific group. Humans. His once vaunted economy is in the toilet, and the only people who seem to have been able to make lemonade out of that toilet water were the senators who dumped their stock weeks before the real panic started. Republicans and Democrats, padding their quarantine nests in what may be the most grotesque examples of insider trading imaginable.
And all the while, the bankrupt casino owner continues to drone on from his podium, addressing the press who have to sit six feet apart to observe social distancing guidelines, but all the while making themselves easier targets. Meanwhile, the bloated sack of protoplasm that keeps trying to assure us that all is well lies. He tells us that tests are available. They are not. He tells us that there are drugs that can be taken to ward off the infection. There are not. Starting back in January when he wanted us all to believe that he had things under control: "And we have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China, and we have it under control. It’s going to be just fine.”
Everything is most decidedly not fine, and the COVIDIOT in chief continues his time-honored tradition of destroying everything he touches: businesses, marriages, countries. As he completed his news conference at the expense of Peter Alexander, T-Rump insisted, “That’s really bad reporting, you ought to get back to reporting instead of sensationalism. Let’s see if it works. It might and it might not. I happen to feel good about it, but who knows? I’ve been right a lot.”
A lot?
I suppose that's for us to decide. While we shelter in place from "the latest Democratic hoax."
We have a game show host in charge of a planet being overrun by a virus that is killing people. Humans. Not Chinese. Not Americans. Not black or white or any specific group. Humans. His once vaunted economy is in the toilet, and the only people who seem to have been able to make lemonade out of that toilet water were the senators who dumped their stock weeks before the real panic started. Republicans and Democrats, padding their quarantine nests in what may be the most grotesque examples of insider trading imaginable.
And all the while, the bankrupt casino owner continues to drone on from his podium, addressing the press who have to sit six feet apart to observe social distancing guidelines, but all the while making themselves easier targets. Meanwhile, the bloated sack of protoplasm that keeps trying to assure us that all is well lies. He tells us that tests are available. They are not. He tells us that there are drugs that can be taken to ward off the infection. There are not. Starting back in January when he wanted us all to believe that he had things under control: "And we have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China, and we have it under control. It’s going to be just fine.”
Everything is most decidedly not fine, and the COVIDIOT in chief continues his time-honored tradition of destroying everything he touches: businesses, marriages, countries. As he completed his news conference at the expense of Peter Alexander, T-Rump insisted, “That’s really bad reporting, you ought to get back to reporting instead of sensationalism. Let’s see if it works. It might and it might not. I happen to feel good about it, but who knows? I’ve been right a lot.”
A lot?
I suppose that's for us to decide. While we shelter in place from "the latest Democratic hoax."
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