Putting Up Streamers

 I do remember the Bicentennial of the United States. I was old enough to enjoy all the red white and blue of it while maintaining a certain degree of cynical skepticism about it. 

Back in 1976, our country was still licking its collective wounds brought on by a war in Vietnam and the searing revelations of Watergate. We were limping toward what we assumed would be better days, but not without reservation. 

Still, there were lots of parties. Lots of ways to celebrate. There was a quiet understanding that we could argue with each other after the big barbecue, but the summer of 1976 was going to be a special one. 

Now, fifty years later, we find ourselves on the brink of another great celebration, but this one feels more like the kind where you get fifty percent off that mattress you've been looking at. Not the kind of feel-good experience where we can set aside our differences for a few days and take a look at all those crazy new quarters. 

The summer of 2026 finds us in the middle of a very unpopular war. The corruption in the White House is laid bare just about every single day, with hourly reminders of just how awful things have become since we last gathered together to look at all those crazy new quarters. The spectacle that might have been hosting the World Cup soccer extravaganza has been dulled by the stream of racist and xenophobic attempts to keep the world from coming and sharing their cup with us. The outdoor concert on the mall has been turned into your hateful uncle's vision of how such and experience "should be." 

This is no longer a celebration for the land of the brave and the home of the free. This has turned into an exercise in self satisfaction and self aggrandizement for one man. Who cares if no one else wants to see any of this? Who cares if no one can afford a plane ticket much less a tank of gas to travel across this great land of ours to take any of it in. 

We are stuck in the Orange Worst's vision of America with nearly constant reminders of just how far away we have drifted from the ideals we once held dear. Trapped like rats on a sinking ship, we can only hope that we can scare off all the billionaires who have stolen the American Dream and take back our country and run it like the good Democratic rats we know we can be. 

Who's Got The Button?

 Do as I say, not as I do. 

I can tell you as both a parent and a teacher how empty this guidance is. 

For me, this shows up most often as I find myself staring at my phone while I stroll across the playground. This behavior is verboten among my young charges, in spite of the fact that we live in a world where cellular devices are as prevalent as kickballs. They're everywhere.

But I am busy checking my emails and texts, making sure that all communication is going on as it should. These young people with cerebral cortexes that are still developing cannot begin to understand how important my phone is to me. Compared to theirs. 

Moments like these are the ones that make me reflect on our country's insistence that no other countries acquire atomic weapons. Certainly the world becomes exponentially more dangerous each time another nation becomes the proud owner of a nuclear device. 

But who are the real threats here? The fledgling territories who are seeking to protect themselves through the threat of having bombs that will destroy their enemies in a much larger capacity, or the one country that has used such weapons in war already. 

Twice. 

There was some wild talk a while back about limiting our own nuclear stockpile. That turned out to be mostly talk. The United States sits on an estimated five thousand nuclear warheads, some of them actively targeted while others lay in wait. Another group is scheduled to be dismantled. We have so many atomic bombs we hardly know what to do with them. 

Just don't let us catch any of those kids fiddling with plutonium or they'll be grounded. Or bombed back into the stone age. 

Which crazy authoritarian regime do you feel comfortable having their finger on the button? 

If You Build It, They Will Come

 When I was born, there was already a professional football team in the area for which I could root. I grew up rooting for the Denver Broncos because they were literally the only game in town. I lived through more than my share of ups and downs with this franchise. By the time they reached their first Super Bowl, I was seventeen years old. 

The Denver Broncos did not win that Super Bowl. Through the 1980s, they struggled to remain relevant and flirted with success, appearing in three more championship games before finally coming out on the winning end of things. 

By this point, I was no longer a resident of the Denver Metro Area. I had moved to Oakland, California where I wore my orange and blue with pride and a little bit of fear in the heart of Raiders Country. Just for good measure, the Denver Broncos went ahead and won a second Super Bowl the very next year. I felt pretty smug about having a hometown team with those credentials. 

If you've spent any time poking around here, you've probably heard this song before. Again and again. But what struck me this week was the news that the Chicago Bears were moving ahead with plans to relocate their team to Hammond, Indiana. For perspective's sake, the Chicago Football Bears were founded in September 1920. For more than one hundred years, "da Bears" have been a cornerstone of what we understand as the National Football League. Those first couple of years, they played their games in Decatur, Illinois, so they weren't exactly Chicago Bears. In 1922, they moved to Wrigley Field to play their home games on the same grass where their ursine baseball counterparts on the North Side played. 

That's where you would find them, most autumn Sundays since. Until they move to another state. 

I have a great deal of sympathy for fan bases that lose their sports teams to new locales. Oakland has a somewhat tragic track record of misplacing their football, basketball and baseball teams. The Raiders have left Oakland twice, once for Los Angeles, and once again for Las Vegas. There are still plenty of folks hanging on desperately to their silver and black gear with the notion that the team somehow owes them something. Or they owe the team something. 

Like loyalty? 

When the 2026-27 NFL season starts, the Chicago Bears will still be the Chicago Bears. The Denver Broncos will still the Denver Broncos. The San Francisco Forty-Niners play in Santa Clara. The Baltimore Colts now play in Indianapolis. The Cleveland Browns now play in Baltimore with a new mascot: The Ravens. St. Louis had the Cardinals but gave them up to Arizona. Then St. Louis had the Rams, but they gave them back to Los Angeles. Houston has their Texans, but they probably don't notice that the Tennessee Titans bear more than a passing resemblance to what used to be the Houston Oilers. 

There is no crying in baseball, according to the guy who used to sell hot dogs at Oakland A's games. But I'm guessing a few tears will be shed in Chicago. 

Palace Revolution

 Where are the Epstein Files?

Where is the peace agreement between Ukraine and Russia?

Where is the replacement for the Affordable Care Act?

Where is that cap on credit card interest rates?

Where are those tariff rebate checks?

Where is all that affordable housing?

Where is the reduction to the country's deficit? 

Instead of those things, we've been given a flurry of construction projects designed not to improve any of the infrastructure of this country, but to pad and glorify the boor who needs constant validation to prop up his fragile ego. We have another installment of war in the Middle East. We have the repeal of the Voting Rights Act. We have a real estate agent in charge of National Intelligence. 

Seventy-seven million Americans voted for a convicted felon to be their "president," to end the war in Ukraine in twenty-four hours and to Make America Great Again. They bought the red hats. They drank the Kool-Aid. Now they are waking up and discovering just like the Whos down in Whoville that no Christmas is coming. The Grinch has stolen Democracy, and even if they gather together hand in hand and sing along with Lee Greenwood at the top of their lungs, they aren't going to get what they were promised. 

Instead we get a daily dose of social media rants and threats. We get more footage of the former game show host falling asleep during his own meetings shortly before he wakes up long enough to berate a female reporter or two. 

We'll keep reading about those voters who cast their ballot for damaged goods in 2024 who now regret their decision, but that ship has sailed. If we want our Democracy back, we're going to have to take it back. 

Hey, think the time is right
For a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play
Is compromise solution

The Mass Of Media

 I am being asked to boycott the Columbia Broadcasting System and all its various media tentacles. This would mean that I would no longer be availed the opportunity to take in the pithy left-wing observations of Jon Stewart and those nutty kids from South Park. This is a conundrum for me since these voices are fundamental to the ongoing fermentation of my own particular world view. 

What message would eliminating these viewing choices from my menu? 

I suppose I would be saying that I do not approve of the corporate maneuvers that brought CBS and its aforementioned tentacles to this decidedly right-leaning position in the world. The cancellation of Stephen Colbert's Late Show is perhaps the most visible signpost on this road to ruin. The powers that be signaled the elimination of a thirty-three year late night television institution as "purely financial," but since that decision was made fast on the heels of Mister Colbert pointing out that his new corporate nannies had paid what amounted to a "big fat bribe" of sixteen million dollars to the big fat Orange Worst so they would be allowed to go ahead with their big fat merger, maybe there was some triggering. 

My bedtime has become a pretty standard nine thirty on weeknights, with the very rare exceptions for Bruce Springsteen concerts. The idea that I would be watching any of these programs live is a pretty amusing stretch. This includes the NFL broadcasts of my favorite team which can often be found on CBS, which I tend not to stare at not because they come on past my bedtime but rather because of my own ridiculous superstitions about fan rays. 

So what would I be missing? 

The relative freedom I tend to enjoy with all that content out there. Larry and David Ellison, the new father and son behind the controls of the Paramount Skydance Corporation have quite a laundry list of an Empire: Nickelodeon, Showtime, Comedy Central, MTV, BET, and the aforementioned CBS. Oh, and then there's the soon-to-be-finalized merger with Warner Brothers which will have the still further antagonizing effect of putting John Oliver and his wilderness voice crying out from under this seemingly endless corporate umbrella. 

No Loony Toons? No Turner Classic Movies? Will CNN be put through the same right-wing meat grinder that CBS News and Sixty Minutes has been? It makes the mighty Disney-ABC-ESPN empire look quaint by comparison. 

In the interest of transparency, I should let you know that Blogger, the platform upon which I mount the daily rant, is a wholly owned subsidiary of Google and has been since before I set up shop here. Google owns FitBit and Nest and YouTube and maybe even the phone upon which you are reading this. They are the reason that you get all those clever suggestions for gifts and services that you don't even remembering searching for. They are one of the leading purveyors of AI. 

It's only a matter of time before you all will have to be boycotting me. 

Last Bell

 After a week with sporadic meetings and check-ins with school, I have reached the point in my career that my wife has observed is my "last summer vacation." 

This hits harder than I thought it might, considering I set this Wile E Coyote process of retirement in motion nearly two years ago, and I am still a year away from making it in any way official. There is a part of it that I recognize in that I have always started off June with a certain amount of anxiety. How can I possibly fit all the fun and relaxation that I need into two short months? The sound of a ticking clock is hard to ignore, and I wonder if I will ever fully silence it.

I am used to answering the bell. One of my jobs at school is to stand out on the playground on most recesses and remind kids that playtime is over and it's time to line up. In this way I am the de facto bell. Will I be able to find my own snooze button? 

At one of the meetings I attended over the past week, I had the opportunity to introduce myself to a few of my fellow educators. We were asked by the moderator to share our school site and years of experience in the classroom, and when it was my turn, I told my colleagues that I would be starting my thirtieth year. Lots of appreciation for that number, and even more when I mentioned that all of this educating had taken place at one site. "This makes me something of a unicorn in this district," I confided. 

Then one of them asked me, "How much longer will you keep going?"

When I answered, "One more year," the reaction I got was resigned acceptance.

"What will you do then?" inquired the five year veteran across from me.

Then there was that flinch. The one that I am now confronting more and more. What will I do? Moving up into the mountain vacation home is out of the question since I don't own a mountain vacation home. Spending more time with the grandkids is currently a hypothetical since the grandkids exist in the same plane as that mountain vacation home. 

The easiest thing to do would be to keep rolling. Stay at my school until they cart me out on a stretcher. This does not seem that appealing, especially against the backdrop of this past year when my friend and fifth grade teacher was unable to answer the bell coming back from Christmas. Not his choice, I assure you. 

I want to have a choice. I want some life left to live. 

Now I just have to figure out what that might be.  

Comfortable

 Let's start with an easy one: Just about any sandwich someone makes for you. 

That's comfort food. 

Another seemingly universal component of this corner of the world's diet is the plate of crackers and ginger ale brought to you when you were sick in bed by your mother. 

A great deal of the food I was served by my mother qualified as comfort food. I grew up in a household where mom spent an hour or two each day in the kitchen, preparing a meal for my father, my brothers and me. It was a casserole-based menu that kept us boys running to the kitchen most nights, and I wish now that I had paid more attention to the recipes that passed by in front of us. 

I know that they were written down. I remember the tin box that served as her guide. Filled with three by five cards penned with her cramped but impeccably neat handwriting, the exact details of which were known primarily to herself and the occasional family friend who wanted to swap meal ideas for their hungry brood. 

I have never eaten a bowl of cream of mushroom soup. Not all by itself, but I know that the magic my mother performed in the kitchen on a regular basis had me ingesting gallons of the stuff through combinations of chicken and tuna and noodles and rice that made us come back for more. 

Most nights.

There were those dinners that turned out to be favored by one of my brothers, and I would patiently wade through those because I could expect with a solid degree of certainty that tomorrow night would be one of my favorites. 

Add to this steady stream of dinners the very unique and simple pleasure of buttery cinnamon toast on the occasional chilly morning. And the cakes. And the cookies. The output from my mother's kitchen would have had you believe that she was chained to the stove all day every day, but she managed to find time to escape to the living room on regular occasions to play piano and read books and magazines like they were the fire stoking the furnace of her mind. 

And occasionally, she might run across a recipe. 

And her legend grew. 

She also made a pretty amazing tuna fish sandwich.