Art Schmart

 One of dozens of things that I find oppressively annoying is that this is the Bozo who put his face and name on a book called The Art of the Deal. 

I will not recommend this tripe to you, but I do think it's telling to take a peek at a few of the quotes from inside: “I discovered, for the first time but not the last, that politicians don’t care too much what things cost. It’s not their money.”

How about, “good publicity is preferable to bad, but from a bottom-line perspective, bad publicity is sometimes better than no publicity at all. Controversy, in short, sells.”

Perhaps, “The point is that if you are a little different, or a little outrageous, or if you do things that are bold or controversial, the press is going to write about you.”

Or, “The worst of times often create the best opportunities to make good deals.”

Then there's, “I try to learn from the past, but I plan for the future by focusing exclusively on the present.”

So let's fast forward a few years, where all this business acumen will be brought to bear on the world stage, as the former game show host attempts to negotiate a settlement in the war he started in Iran. As things fell apart once again over the weekend, the dealmaker complained, “If they’re over, they’re over. If they’re not, you know, I think they took too much time. Frankly, I thought they started to get very boring.”

But what about, “Leverage: don’t make deals without it?"

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit that this sad individual would not know leverage if it fell on his head and pretended to be yet another hair treatment. And to all those Bozo fans out there who opined, "That's what we need: a guy who will run this country like a business." 

Remember the ugly disdain this adjudicated rapist had for John McCain? Well, to paraphrase the former game show host himself, I like dealmakers who don't go bankrupt. Or community organizers from Chicago. 

Building Resentment

 You'll forgive me if I feel like the removal of the convicted felon's name from the Kennedy Center from the Performing Arts is a pyrrhic victory. 

In the simplest terms, the outrage that accompanied this nominal usurpation of a national treasure left me tired and hopeless. I believed that this would be the new normal, with the former game show host marking his territory in the only way that he and stray dogs do. 

It would be nice to feel some of that zeal that we all felt when those Confederate statues started coming down a decade ago, but it's more complicated than that. Like when that statue of Saddam Hussein was lassoed and yanked to the ground back in 2003. It would have been such a relief to connect that moment to the notion of "Mission Accomplished." 

But we knew this was not the case. It would be another eight years of suffering and confusion before Americans were able to extricate ourselves from this misguided excursion into the Middle East. 

Scraping the letters off the Kennedy Center that were placed there in a fit of pique by the Orange Worst will not remove the stain that it will leave behind. If the Second Trumpreich were to end tomorrow, there will still be years of recovery and plastering over the holes he has driven into our country. 

He tore down one third of the White House, leaving a hole and caution tape with nothing more than a curious set of circumstances that allowed him to legitimize his party palace when crazy people somehow got close enough to take a shot at him. Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe those crazy people wouldn't be shooting at him if he wasn't tearing holed in our country? 

So here we go: A UFC cage match will be held on the lawn of what used to be The People's House, along with the gaudy arena and lighting rigs that appear so inappropriate on what used to be a symbol of dignity and decorum. If we're lucky, maybe another judge will be able to step into the fray and be able to keep the Arc de Trump from being foisted upon us, dwarfing the monuments to real presidents whose reflecting pools have become sitcom versions of arguing with contractors. 

At the same time, he's having his attack dogs at the "Department of Justice" go after the woman he raped. 

And who is paying for all of this mess? 

I'll give you a hint: It's not King Pyrrhus. 

It's you and me. Hand me the paint remover. 

I Confess

 Confession Time:

I don't really believe that they asked only five dentists about Trident gum. I never bothered to chew it because it felt like a conspiracy of gigantic proportions. 

Not all things go better with Coke. Pepsi, for instance, does not go better with Coke. 

Happily ever after is a death sentence. Who really wants that kind of life? 

All that fuss about Malcolm Gladwell made about ten thousand hours isn't really that big a deal once you realize that adds up to just over a year. 

I forgot to water the plants last week. 

I thought the phrase was "for all intensive purposes" until I was over thirty. 

I have eaten tuna past its expiration date. On more than one occasion. 

There aren't enough days in the week.

Donating blood makes me feel superior. 

I have never blown the roof right off of this joint. Not once.

The Rolling Stones kind of creep me out. 

"Having it your way" at Burger King just feels like a lot of pressure to me. 

Don't wanna be an American Idiot. 

My sense of balance does not extend to my diet. 

If given a choice, I think I would prefer disorganized sports. 

I would be more likely to obey Stop signs if they asked nicely. 

The Big Bill

 Suppose you gave a party and nobody came?

The celebration being promoted by the convicted felon seems to be going the way of his big Birthday Parade from a year ago. Empty seats and squeaky tanks were the highlight of that particular escapade. The price tag on all this military hardware on display for the amusement of the Orange Worst cost was an estimated forty-five million dollars. 

Now, a year has passed, and the big deal we were all told about was the Great American State Fair, featuring performances by (checks notes) Morris Day, Young MC. Milli Vanilli, The Commodores, Martina McBride, and Bret Michaels. 

Oops. Pardon me. I'm just being told that this list is the performers who have, in some cases, politely declined the invitation from the adjudicated rapist's Freedom 250 cabal. Some not so politely. Which pretty much leaves MAGAt stalwart and music thief Vanilla Ice. 

Get your ticket now! I can assure you that operators are not standing by. 

Instead, stay at home and savor the irony of a concert promoted by the former game show host being connected in any way to the concept of Freedom. 

Or perhaps, as you look forward to the back yard picnic that you might possibly afford for your family this summer, you can be galled by the fact that Don "Junior" had his wedding paid for not by him or his mobster daddy, but by the local billionaires in Bermuda who are "very fond" of the second in a series of wives for little Donnie. It was a "charity" event. Like those celebrities who never have to pay for a meal even though they could buy the restaurant. These are not the folks who need free meals. 

Instead, we're sentenced to another summer of waiting for bad news to find its way to us as we look back fondly on the days when forty-five million dollars seemed like a lot of money. 

If the ballroom ever does get finished, I expect Vanilla Ice will set up a residency there. 

Get your tickets now!

Promotional Material

 "Are you gonna miss me?"

This was the question I was asked by a good number of rising middle schoolers. Not just this year, but it seems that this is a test that I always hope to pass. 

Invariably, I say much the same thing: "Of course."

Because this is the core of truth. Will I miss many of the group-inspired hijinks and behaviors that caused me undue stress and discomfort over the course of the one hundred eighty days of their fifth grade campaign?

Of course not. 

But I am clever enough to understand after all these trips to the cafeteria to watch the promotion of our "big kids" to the next level. 

Where they will once again be the "little kids." 

I do what I can to soften the reality into which they will be thrust. Middle school in any of its varied forms can be a harsh landing spot. Urban Oakland may be at the tip of that spear. 

"Are you gonna miss me?"

Well, I'm expecting given my somewhat lengthy experience in these climes that you are the one who will be missing me. The quantum difference between a once-weekly game-infused PE class with yours truly compared with your standard middle school Phys Ed class that meets daily requiring a change of clothes has not been fully revealed to these scholars. 

A media arts curriculum that allows them essentially six years to become accustomed to what a fifty minute period with transitions feels like will become their norm. The comforting scaffold of one teacher all day long will be removed. Showing up on time becomes the coin of the realm. 

Yes. I will miss them. All of them. After spending six years with most of them, I have become familiar with their good and bad days. I know what makes them smile. I know what makes them grumpy. I know there is another group right behind them with their own tastes and foibles. 

I look forward to that first minimum day next year when the new sixth graders will parade past their old school, and I can hear all about the next leg of their journey. 

I will miss them. 

Cha-Ching

 Out of many, one. 

E pluribus unum. 

That's the Latin you get to learn if you're a kid like me growing up in the sixties. It was the suggestion of Pierre Eugene du Simitiere, patriot and artistic consultant, that this become the newly United States' motto to the Founding Fathers in 1776. For one hundred seventy years, this worked out just fine, reminding us all that the castoffs and mutts from across the globe landed here to steal the Native Americans' land. It should be noted for accuracy's sake that this phrase seems to have an origin in the Roman poet Virgil's recipe for pesto. 

It wasn't until 1956 that President and steward of the Interstate Highway system that covers this great land of ours decided to make "In God We Trust" as the country's official motto. This was to draw a distinction between the U.S. and the godless Bolsheviks in the Soviet Union. 

Well, in hopes of making America great again, the U.S. Mint is going to pound out a whole bunch of sesquicentennial quarters featuring both mottos. For now we'll just revel in the specialness of our aging republic and ignore the fact that twenty-five cents isn't what it used to be in form or function. This one, besides having lots of mottos, will feature the visage of Thomas Jefferson. Which seems mildly appropriate considering he wrote the Declaration of Independence without Chat GPT. And if you're searching the change in your pocket to see who Tom replaced, I'll tell you that it has been George Washington since 1932. Since 1999, the flipside eagle has been replaced by commemorations to states and various natural wonders. Add to this the Mayflower quarter that features two pilgrims embracing and coming to a sidewalk soon in your area is the Gettysburg Address quarter featuring none other than Honest Abe after he had been so ingloriously cancelled from being the face of the penny. 

And speaking of pennies, just when you thought they were gone forever, the Mint will be pressing a bunch of Sesquicentennial coins worth an ever-diminishing value of one cent. Which reminds me: I have a bunch of bicentennial quarters I saved for fifty years. Any idea how much each one is worth now?

If you guessed twenty-five cents, you'd be correct.  

Questions

 Questions about the "president's" health persist. 

He's almost eighty years old. 

He's prone to fits of paranoid rambling.

He falls asleep during meetings in his own office.

His hands and ankles appear as though something is trying to claw its way out from the inside. 

He does not exercise. 

He eats McDonalds.

Did I mention that this guy is almost eighty? 

Oh, and should I mention the fact that he is currently assigned one of the most high stress jobs imaginable? 

And people seem to have taken up shooting at him as a hobby.

He's almost eighty years old. 

Yes. Questions about this subject's health persist. 

On Memorial Day, he spent six minutes "transfixed" by one of the columns in front of the White House after he got out of his limousine. 

But he can distinguish a squirrel from an elephant. 

Just in case that comes up.