Inevitable

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

Our soccer ball. 

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

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

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

They want to see the ball go over the fence. 

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

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

It worked yesterday. Why not today?   

After Math

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

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

For them. 

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

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

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

Only The Beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

It was just beginning. 

What's That Sound?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Potbelly Legacy

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

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

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

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

Our mother and father would be so proud. 

I Swear

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

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

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

Liz Cheney did her job. 

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

Swear to God. 

Empty

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

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

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

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

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

And so it goes. 

Sorry, Saint Jimmy.