Drawing On Experience

 I was in the fifth grade when I drew my first political cartoon. Okay, I did not draw it on my own, I had a collaborator. It was a mildly vicious caricature of Richard Nixon standing atop a pile of rocks over a pile of voters who had been crushed under the Landslide Victory of 1972. Two things strike me about that time: first the hollow eyes my associate drew on our cartoon president were something that would stick with me forever. Second, we had no idea at that moment just how much scarier things would get over the next two years, leading up to the resignation of that Landslide Winner. 

Before that time, I had been an observer of politics, spurred on by my parents' liberal bias and my own skeptical vision of the world that featured a war in Vietnam and a two-term Republican president who had promised to deliver safety to those he referred to as "the silent majority." My family was not part of that group, nor was most of the city in which I lived back then, Boulder, Colorado. I waded in the headwaters of the tie-dye river that flowed through Chicago to New York City and west to the shores of that mystical oasis known as The Bay Area. 

Fifty-plus years later I find myself picking up signs that I have drawn myself to participate in yet another No Kings Day march. I realized as I picked up my marker to try and capture the essence of the convicted felon who has usurped King Richard the Crook as The Worst President Ever that I had never attempted to capture the visage of The Orange Worst. 

And those hollow eyes came to mind. Lifeless eyes. And I remembered how hard it was for me to comprehend that Nixon had been elected to a second term. With those hollow eyes. And how we had re-elected another crook fifty years later. Then I thought of all the life that had been strained from the eyes of all those crushed voters by both these "presidents." 

My avocation as an editorial cartoonist and op-ed creator began back in those dark days, and somehow I have found something to write and draw about ever since. Something is always out there, waiting to rear its ugly head. I suppose I should be grateful that currently evil is so easy to spot. 

And to draw. 

The Nobbling Of Nancy

 Nancy Guthrie.

Why don't we talk about her for a while as we wait for the Orange Felon to make up more lies.

If you have missed all the news about the mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie, it could be that the abduction of an eighty-four year old woman from a suburb in Tucson, Arizona is not on your priorities list. Maybe figuring out how to sell your own blood in order to buy a gallon of gas to drive to the store to pay for the groceries that cost even more than they did when you decided to sell your blood for that gallon of gas did has obscured your concern for the eighty-four year old mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie. 

Perhaps. 

Or maybe this "celebrity kidnapping" doesn't hold the same kind of panache as those "celebrity kidnappings" of the past. Like the Lindbergh baby. Or J. Paul Getty's grandson. Or Bunny Lebowski. If you're keeping score at home, it has been nearly two months since Nancy was seen. Law enforcement agencies including the local sheriff's office, the FBI, CBP and an army of volunteers have yet to find the culprits or return Nancy to her home and all those who hope and pray for her safety. 

A one million dollar reward was offered for information regarding Nancy's whereabouts. 

Savannah has given up her hosting duties, and stayed home from her network's coverage of the Winter Olympics. 

In 1963, Frank Sinatra Jr. was kidnapped at gunpoint and held for a few days until Frank Sr. paid two hundred forty thousand dollars to get him back. Junior's abductors insisted that Senior respond to them only via payphones, requiring Old Blue Eyes to go everywhere with a roll of dimes in his pocket, an affectation he continued until the end of his life. 

There are no payphones anymore, and since the current reward is five times more than the ransom paid for Frank Sinatra Junior, one might wonder how this will all shake down. Unless Nancy's kidnappers are hoping to finance their next trip to the grocery store. 

Stairway To The Stars

 I enjoyed my trip to the moving picture show. My wife and I went out to see the much ballyhooed Project Hail Mary last weekend. There was a certain element of peer pressure involved, since it seems that a great many Americans chose to go see a movie rather than doom scrolling as we await the next tick of the Doomsday Clock. The good news here was that the challenges facing science officer Grace were environmental and not human. The future in which he found himself was one of a dying sun, but with a worldwide collaboration to try and save the planet, not unlike the mission featured in Contact.  Or the one in 2001: A Space Odyssey and its sequel, 2010:The Year We Make Contact. 

Honestly, I do not want to spoil the experience for any of you who may not be as committed to divining influences in feature film, but Hail Mary has some baggage and isn't afraid to share it. 

One of the first movies ever made was science fiction. Le Voyage dans la Lune by George Méliès predates both NASA and Stanley Kubrick, and gives us a glimpse of extraterrestrial life long before Steven Spielberg thought of phoning home. Perhaps it was ironic that the hopeful can-do story of Hail Mary was offset somewhat by the preview we saw before the feature, Spielberg's "scary alien" movie Disclosure Day. I suggest this was ironic because, spoiler alert, embedded in the story of science officer Grace is a direct reference to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. 

Establishing communication with beings from another planet is not a new notion. Michael Rennie came to Earth seventy-five years ago to attempt such connection. Klaatu was here to foster cooperation with his race and ours, even if he had to make the Earth stand still to do it. Aliens put Amy Adams through a lot to teach her a language that she could use to move about in space and time. Drew Barrymore at five years old had a much easier time teaching English to an ET. 

When it was Ryan Gosling's turn to be the scientist faced with using all that knowledge for the betterment of mankind, he stood on Matt Damon's broad shoulders to do so. Of course, long before Good Will Hunting was solving equations at MIT Robinson Crusoe landed on Mars. Crusoe didn't make friends with a rock, but he did get to hang around with a space hippie named Friday. 

Again, I had a nice ride at the movie theater, and I would encourage those of you looking for a two and a half hour escape from the moribund existence we seem to be sharing currently to head on out to the movies. You might end up getting more than one movie all rolled into one. 

No Sale

 “Robert Mueller just died. Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!”

“Now with the death of Iran, the greatest enemy America has is the Radical Left, Highly Incompetent, Democrat Party! Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

These are the kinds of things that come tumbling out of the social media account of the alleged pedophile and convicted felon current occupant of the ruins of the White House. 

So here's my ongoing wondering: This is what his handlers allow to escape into the world. What sort of vile things must be lurking just below that thin veneer of what might be considered respectful? We have been made to understand that this is the calling card of the Orange Worst, "telling it like it is." Then leave it to Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson to sort out via the tried and not so true phrase, "What the president meant was..."

Sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any sort of adequate filter for wishing death on one's political rivals. That's just "how it is." Let the lamestream media and bleeding heart liberals figure it out for themselves. While we're at it, let's back up the family truckster just briefly to examine the "death of Iran" lead-in. What used to give us all pause here in the United States were the protesters in other countries shouting "Death to America." 

The business of this current administration is being carried out late at night via social media in between rushed interactions on the way to or from his golf club in southern Florida. The interest this nominally human has in being seen as a wartime "president" is all but obscured by the pictures of him on the golf course. Gas prices have risen thirty percent in just two weeks, while the pointy heads who are trying to solve the crisis of faith in the Department of Homeland Security have suggested sending ICE officers in to take over the places of TSA officers who are quitting in droves. There is no difference between the frying pan and the fire. Putting a bunch of poorly trained armed goons in charge of passenger screening at airports is an accident waiting to happen. 

Just Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson standing up and trying to make sense of it all for us. 

Sorry. No sale. 

This former game show host is as morally bankrupt as any of his casinos. If you're wondering how this guy sleeps at night, take heart: He doesn't. He's up tapping away on his phone. He waits until he's in policy meetings to sleep. 

Letting Go

 I have mentioned in previous episodes what an easy touch I am for a free T-shirt. I have made a habit, over the years, or collecting all manner of "souvenirs" from experiences that will provide me with yet another shirt that I have to stuff into a drawer along with all those other mementos of experiences that are marked not by a photo or a plaque, but a cotton-blend extra large wad of cloth for me to turn inside out each time I wash them and fold neatly when its time to return them to their resting place. 

This describes only part of the problem. I also feel compelled to purchase a "souvenir" from each concert, performance or sporting event I attend. couple these with the previously mentioned "free" shirts and suddenly you find yourself with a storage problem. Last spring I made it a project to sort through my full and overflowing four drawer dresser, of which three were jam packed with all that ephemera. Each one I held up brought a rush of nostalgia. I remember holding on to that as I made my way back to my seat at Oracle Arena. When it was Oracle Arena. Or the ones that are tied to nights that became more memorable as time passed. Like the hemp shirt I purchased on a trip to my hometown, making me a walking advertisement for Magnolia Road Cannabis in Boulder, Colorado. 

I held on to that one. I figured if I ever give up my drug-free lifestyle, I can smoke the shirt. 

Two garbage bags stuffed full were not so lucky. Those are the ones that did not make the cut. There were some jewels in that mix, such as four Bruce Springsteen tour shirts. I kept the ones that had better graphics, and tried to cull out the extremely high volume of black tees in hopes of leaving a wider rainbow for those around me to appreciate. 

When I took them out of the drawer. 

Those bags were carried up the street to our neighborhood clothes and shoes recycling bin. I paused as I closed the lid behind the second one. The hoarder in me winced, but the guy who likes a clean slate sighed in relief. There's only one of me. I can only wear one shirt at a time. I reminded myself of a time a couple years back when I spent an entire month wearing only Springsteen tour shirts. 

No repeats. 

I let them go. 

Not all of them. 

Just enough to be able to open the drawer again. 

Looking Back

 The hardest part was watching the video.

There was a time when our school didn't have security cameras. We lived on our wiles and the hopes that an eyewitness would show up and spill the beans. Now we just roll back the tape. Except there is no tape. Just digital time-stamped video that our principal can access in the case of an incident like last Thursday. 

Two girls decided, in what I am sure they don't appreciate was the most cliche possible choice, to fight one another in the bathroom. A third grader and a fourth grader, whom I am also sure would not be able to fully express the reasons behind their need to come to fisticuffs. Generally speaking, the boys tend to act more impulsively and square off pretty much wherever they might be when their tempers flare. To the tiniest bit of credit for these young ladies, they chose a spot where the security cameras don't see. 

However, what we did witness, with the aid of technological hindsight, was the stream of mostly girls who packed in behind the two adversaries and the gaggle of boys who gathered just outside the door to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening in the little girls room. Not sugar and spice. That is certain. 

Once that was sorted out and cold water was thrown on the conflict by the adults, it was imagined that the fight was over. Nobody won. Everybody lost. 

Until the school day ended.

And the same gaggle of gawkers found another place out of the watchful camera eye: the elevator room downstairs. But, as in the case of the girls room, this didn't keep us from seeing the gaggle streaming down the stairs with wild abandon. They were about to witness what they must have assumed was going to be the fight of the century. 

Except it never happened. Before any of the video evidence was ever examined, the after school program supervisor noticed that a dozen or more of the students in her care had run off. Their trail was not hard to follow, and before any sort of physical violence could take place, grown ups showed up once again to keep the opponents separated. 

Parents were called. A the two potential fighters were sent home with caregivers. The grandmother of the fourth grade girl wondered how she might help. She had some old school ideas, but she was pretty sure her daughter wouldn't want her to mete those out on the youngest generation. 

We were left of the video. And the blood lust on the faces of those kids who were there to egg them on. What do we do about them? 

Do-Over

 If the Orange Worst was chased from the ruins of the White House today, it would take years to scrub off all the nonsense and graffiti he and his brood of underlings have generated over the past ten years. When Joe Biden was in office he spent a great deal of his time with a paint scraper and yes an autopen just to try to mitigate some of the damage done to our great republic. 

If the Second Trumpreich was driven out of Washington via any means necessary, it could take another eight years and a lot of apologies to get ourselves back to anything we might recognize as normal. 

But what if this were the playground, and not in the metaphorical sense? What if the convicted felon was called into the principal's office and told that he needed to make amends for bombing a girls school in Iran. What sort of apology would that require? 

Or how about those rebate checks consumers were supposed to be getting for the ill-advised and illegal tariff scam? Is there any amount of money that might save us all from the gouging we have taken at the grocery store, gas pump and just about everywhere else major credit cards are accepted? 

Who pays back the billion dollars a day that Private Bone Spurs is spending to keep us from paying attention not just to the Trumpstein Files but every other major boondoggle he and his misadministration has dropped on us? Who can bring back Alex Pretti and Renee Good and all the other hostages taken by masked goons in the name of racial purity? 

If anyone out there suggests that Julie Diana Vance might have a hand in reparations, please lower your hand and do some recalculating. 

This whole scheme has worked on the theory that everything that the bloated sack of protoplasm has ever done is brilliant. He is just misunderstood. We will all be told what to think and when, and as far as the principal's office is concerned if that turns out to be the Supreme Court he selected, things could get pretty ugly. 

Fast. 

Simply put, there is no accountability. We, the people, are left to clean up after the worst "president" in our two hundred fifty year experiment in democracy. The truths we had once been told were "self-evident" turn out to be less than that. Rights and assumptions about our freedom can no longer be taken for granted, even though that is precisely what our founding fathers were doing: granting us freedom from despots with a predilection for gilding things. And lining his own pockets. 

On second thought, just skip the apology. It would be like trying to teach a pig to fly.