Over The Top

 Dolly Parton didn't pass away. 

She ascended. 

Singer. Songwriter. Movie Star. Queen of Country. Philanthropist. Spokesperson for anyone who needed a voice. 

And what a voice it was. 

When I was in high school, I didn't get it. She showed up in my world as too much. 

But that was the thing. She was too much. That was her thing. When the world needed help, she pitched in. She didn't care if speaking out on the plight of HIV/AIDS patients back in the eighties and nineties might rock the traditionally conservative boat of country music. When the COVID epidemic struck, she donated a million dollars to Vanderbilt University to fund vaccine research. Her Imagination Library has gifted more than three hundred million books to kids who might not have one otherwise. 

Oh, and she was funny. She's the one who said, "Yes, I support gay marriage. They have every right to be as miserable as straight people." And she was always willing to point that Tennessee twang on herself: "You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!"

It took a while for me to understand that this was not just a cartoon but a diamond disguised as a rhinestone. The Mayor of New York City posted this tribute: "This is truly heartbreaking. Dolly Parton was an extraordinary person and an irreplaceable champion of the working class. We are a better country because of her."

Did I mention she was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

A very good friend of mine and constant reader texted me to say the words that would necessarily come at the end of this post: She stomped on the Terra. In high heels and a denim jumpsuit with a wig that weighed as much as a German Shepard. With a song in her heart and a smile on her face. Dolly made us all better by being in this world, and it will be just a little darker each day without her in it.

Too much? How about not enough?

Dissonance

 So, among the enemies of our Great Nation that the Second Trumpreich is interested in bringing to their collective knees is the Islamic Republic of Iran and (checks notes) Canada. 

Yes. By now you are probably fully aware of our interest in bringing our neighbors to the north to heel. While we are busy figuring out how to blow up more of Iran without reloading, the not-so-United States is picking a fight with The Great White North. Since we have spent our munitions stockpile on "obliterating" Iran's navy, air force and girls schools, the Orange Worst is now attempting to induce surrender by announcing an "economic D-Day" in hopes of bringing these villains to the bargaining table in hopes that they might accept our terms of surrender once and for all. Our surrender. 

Meanwhile, when negotiations broke down after the minions of the convicted felon introduced last-minute demands concerning the auto sector, third-party trade deals, and cultural protections, leading the U.S. to impose fifty percent tariffs on roughly twenty billion dollars of Canadian goods. 

Just to break in here: One of the participants in the real D-Day invasion of Normandy back on June 6, 1944 was (checks notes) Canada. According to historical records, the third Canadian Infantry Division fought through heavy German defenses, securing their objectives and pushing deeper inland than any other Allied force that day. 

This might come as a shock to the star of Road Rules Challenge and current Secretary of Transportation Sean "The Duff" Duffy. The Duff let fly with this assessment of Canada:  "It's a country that doesn't have a military." Then he went in an even more interesting direction, "they have record-high euthanasia rates." Summing up, the Duff proclaimed, "And so to think that they're gonna go to war with Donald Trump and actually win that war with the U.S., I think it's foolish on their part."

Folks from above the border were quick to point out, "That non existent military that patrolled your skies on 9/11 and were one of the 1st nations to join you in Afghanistan." 

This kind of playing fast and loose with reality is nothing new. For several months now the "obliterated" armed forces of Iran have made it difficult to support claims by the Second Trumpreich that the Strait of Hormuz is now "controlled" by (checks notes) the United States. 

Meanwhile the U.S. deficit continues to balloon and our international standing shrinks. While the rapist in chief watches Indy cars race in circles around our nation's capital. In the writing business, we call this "an apt metaphor." 

Perchance To Dream

 I have a very visceral memory of carrying my newborn son around the house in the middle of the night when he could not, would not, go to sleep. I showed him the darkness in every corner. We looked out the windows and I told him that all those people out there were asleep because it was time to be asleep. We sometimes went out in the back yard where I showed him that even the birds had closed their eyes to get some rest before a new day began. 

All of this was mostly performative since what I was truly after was a few extra hours of shuteye for myself. The sun would be coming up soon and I had no vested interest in greeting it. In the big picture, it wasn't long before he was sleeping through the night, and not long after that he became a special project to wake up when it was time to face the world of middle school. 

It was during this time of transition that my own sleep schedule started slipping back as my morning responsibilities at school began to require earlier rising. As days grew shorter, I began to need a light on my bike to find my way depending on how much daylight was being saved. This has necessitated me climbing into bed shortly after the sun has gone down in order to find that elusive and somewhat arbitrary eight hours. 

The thought of "getting enough sleep" seems like something that I can aspire to once I have actually become a retired person. Now that my son is all grown up and discovering his own circadian rhythms I try not to let on that since I am more than twice his age and I have yet to unlock the secret to "a good night's sleep," I am just pleased as punch to face the day feeling somewhat refreshed. 

It pains me just a little when I consider that the guy who once sang a song called "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead," is no longer among the living. 

I can always take a little walk into the back yard to listen to those snoring birds. 

Allegedly

 Maybe in all this fuss about ballrooms and wars with Iran you may have imagined that things in Florida had calmed down.

Not really. 

It's just that the "Florida Man" who tends to get all the press currently spend a great deal of time squatting in the ruins of the White House and voting in Sunshine State elections by mail. A process he insists is "inherently corrupt." 

Which by itself tends to overshadow some of the awful things that happen in the distended tumor hanging off our east coast, but indulge me for a moment while I lay this out: A former Florida state legislator, currently serving  as clerk of court and comptroller for Palm Beach county has been arrested. If that address seems familiar, it's the county where you might find a pleasuredome called Mar-a-Lago. The suspect, Michael Caruso, was taken into custody on five felony charges of kidnapping, child molestation, lewd exhibition, luring or enticing a child and child abuse causing mental injury.

This is a Republican. A close personal ally of Florida's governor, Ron "Remember Me?" DeSantis. So close that Ron referred to Mister Caruso as "my representative," in part because of his support of a bill that became law in their state that allows prosecutors to seek the death penalty or life without parole for adults convicted of sexual battery on a child under twelve years old. 

After appointing Caruso to his current position, Governor Ron told reporters this week, “It was a very easy decision for me to yank him from that position.” In that same press conference, DeSantis said Caruso was “well regarded in the community.” He coached little league baseball for decades and was a volunteer with boy scouts. But, DeSantis said, he “is going to be in a world of hurt” if he is convicted. Lethal injection being at the top of that hurt list. 

What Governor Ron could not do was remove Caruso's name from the ballot for the November election. Only Caruso can do that. The deadline for that to happen is just two weeks away. If he doesn't do anything then regardless of what happens, his name will show up there as the Republican candidate. 

So, now we've driven this far into the swamp, I am going to leave you to sort out your own feelings and conclusions about how things are shaping up for the midterms. Careful on your way out. This place is full of predators.

If you know what I mean. 

What Happens When You Break The Rules?

 The call came in after the school day was over. Even though I was technically still on campus, I chose to define the rule about no cell phones as being over when that last bell rings. 

So I answered. 

The gentleman on the other end introduced himself and inquired as to my well being, which is always a great way to begin. After we exchanged pleasantries, he introduced himself by saying that he represented a program called Upgrade California. He asked if I might be a homeowner, to which I answered in the affirmative. 

At this point, he launched into a description of all the various ways that this state funded initiative might benefit me in terms of upgrades to the home that I own. I confess that I was not listening with my full attention, since I was still nominally at work and in case there were any children that required my immediate attention, I wanted to remain vigilant on their behalf. 

When he finished his schpiel, he asked if there were any outstanding projects that might be suitable. With no students around, and only a couple of colleagues nearby to enjoy my continued performance, I launched into Phase Two. 

"So, if I wanted to build a lab of some sort in my garage, this would be a good use of some of that money?"

I was assured that this would fit within the parameters of the program.

"I just wanted to be sure, you know, since sometimes the government frowns on that kind of thing."

Again, I was assured that all I needed to do was schedule an appointment for an initial inspection.

"And during this inspection, I don't need to explain exactly what kind of lab it's going to be?"

All he wanted to know was what day would work best for me. 

"I'm just thinking that if they found out that I was using my garage as a meth lab, well, you know."

He kept pressing me for the best date and time for my free inspection.

It did occur to me that I was speaking to an extremely pleasant artificial bit of intelligence, so I clarified: "You're saying that I could take these government funds to build a methamphetamine lab in my garage, and there would be no repercussions?"

"Would Sunday work? Or Monday?"

I told him that those tended to be my busiest days, since cooking took place on Saturday nights, that left Sunday and Monday for distribution to keep my customers satisfied.

"How about later in the day on Monday?"

I told him how much I appreciated his understanding and flexibility, but as it turned out, he was more committed to his bit than I was to mine. I congratulated him on his persistence and asked if it was okay to call him back at the number registered on the caller ID just as soon as I hoped that he had a pleasant rest of his day. 

And I hung up. 

Crime And Punishment

 Okay, okay. I know that recently I have been prattling on here about the wonders of socialism and how it's not so awful. 

Into that pleasant conversation blows the boisterous opinion of one Emily Gallagher, New York State Assembly person from Brooklyn. It is Ms. Gallagher's assertion that shoplifting should be legal for products connected to "biological need." 

I will let her explain: “Most of what we saw were crimes of poverty-people who are stealing things like toothpaste, people who were stealing things like, you know, soap. And that means if you’re stealing those things, you need them,” she said at a news conference outside a Manhattan Criminal Court. She continued, “And we are choosing to protect billion-dollar companies, like CVS and Walgreens, over the people who are struggling to get by. So I would say that the true crime is that there is such incredible wealth disparity in this city that there are people who can be thrown in jail simply for having a biological need.”

Okay. Valid point there with the "wealth disparity" thing. The trouble arises when it comes time to figure out how we go about dealing with it. My guess is that the employees of the local CVS or Walgreens are living somewhere right around the poverty level. The money they bring home each week for "biological needs" is a means for survival, not buying a mansion or a yacht. If those ginormous profits from these billion-dollar companies are affected, it will not be the millionaires who feel the pinch. It will be those employees who are let go, or the stores in which they work will be shuttered, creating even more "biological needs" that might not be met. 

On a purely bourgeois level, I can also attest to the ridiculousness of having to wait ten to fifteen minutes in the aisle of my local "convenience store" after I have pushed a button summoning one of these hard-working wage slaves to some and open the plexiglass case where the Crest is kept safe so that I might take some toothpaste to the register to pay for it. This experience coupled with the price increases on these basic-needs items are the other side of the story. 

Like the corner stores that sell products for "biological needs" that are routinely the scene of multiple and sometimes extraordinary theft. These events are often pitched in a tone of "us versus them," but they are really "us versus us." I don't know how much toothpaste you would have to score in order to decrease that previously mentioned wealth disparity. Food banks and local assistance organizations for housing are sometimes forgotten in this chain of injustice. They attempt to bridge the gap that all of us eventually feel. Maybe now would be a bad time to bring up Ms. Gallagher's annual salary of one hundred forty-two thousand dollars a year. I can only assume that she is parting with a sliver of that each month to help support the "biological needs" of her constituents. Unless she needs the cash to pay for her traffic tickets. 

Crisis

 Just after seven o'clock on Monday evening, I asked Google for the time.

"Hey Google, what time is it?"

I was preparing to set our cuckoo clock, which tends to drop five to ten minutes over the course of the day. It is a nighttime ritual at my house for me to try to catch up.

Our Google assistant never answered. 

I asked again, "Hey Google, what time is it?"

Nada. 

So I went to another room where we have a colorful puck of all-knowing and asked it the same question. This was by no means a challenge for this machine in most cases. Not compared to some of the inane requests my wife and I have made of it over the years. Opening the pod bay doors, Hal being one of the most frequent. 

I leapt into problem solving mode and power-cycled two of the previously all-knowing pucks in hopes of getting them back to their all-knowing selves. No such luck. 

That's when panic set in. How were we supposed to turn off lights? How was I going to wake up the next morning? Would our robot vacuum know when to start its rounds? And most importantly, how was I going to know what time it was in order to reset our cuckoo clock? 

I turned to our IT specialist. Our son. Sitting at his desk in his home an hour away, he took my call while playing a video game. To his credit, he took my request and made an immediate test. He hollered across his bedroom to his all-knowing puck: "Hey Google, what time is it?" 

No response. 

We were in big trouble now. Breaking away from his game for a moment, he did a cursory search of Al Gore's Internet with his gaming computer to ask the rest of the planet if Google Assistant was having issues. Moments later, he found a Reddit post that suggested that pucks across the globe were losing their minds. How was anyone going to be able to reset their very-not-digital cuckoo clocks?

Sensing my panic, my son soothed me with the notion that the folks at Google made a boo-boo and were working feverishly to correct the problem, since that is their business, after all. I went to bed with my cellular device tucked in beside me, hoping it would have a reliable alarm for the next morning.

I slept fitfully, but somewhere in the middle of the night, I called out: "Hey Google, what time is it?"

"The time is two forty-eight." 

I breathed out for what felt like the first time in hours. 

I made a mental note to set the cuckoo clock once the sun came up.

All was right with the world again.