In Defense

 I try not to fall for them, but certain bits of clickbait hanging out there on Al Gore's Internet are just too juicy for me to avoid. The example I can point to today is the story I was initially going to scroll past, but instead I ended up giving up a few moments of my valuable time I spend every day attempting to read only the harshest of realities on this article: "The 'World's Worst Tourist Trap' Is A Wildly Popular California Destination Full Of Shops And Attractions."

I have a similar affliction when it comes to seeing the word "Colorado" in a headline, but I confess that "news" regarding my adopted home here in Golden State will cause me to stop and find out the truth. The truth that can only be found in the overripe density of what passes for "news." I want to believe that I am saving you time here by encapsulating the article that I read, but I know that I am only furthering the problem created by my short attention span theater. The subject of this bit of investigative journalism was Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. 

You've never been? That's okay because according to the report, some thirty-three thousand people make the trek across the bay or the country or the globe to visit this tribute to San Francisco's fishing industry every day. These are not Disneyland type numbers, but given the rather confined space and the oddly limited theme for the shops and opportunities to itstare at sea lions. Overpriced T-shirts can be found at virtually every other door and you could be confused by all the choices that can be found for the "original" sourdough bread bowl of clam chowder. 

I have a confession in two parts: First, I will often suggest this as a destination for folks who come to visit us here by the Bay. Secondly, I avoid the place like a plague during my daily business by that previously mentioned Bay. 

This is not due to any particular aversion on my part to overpriced seafood, and it most certainly is not because of any personal disdain I have for "tourist traps." As a matter of fact, I was a little let down once I had clicked on the article and found that they were talking about Fisherman's Wharf and not The Mystery Spot. If one were to judge purely by the number of ubiquitous bumper stickers promoting the only true gravitational anomaly found in the Redwoods of Santa Cruz that sells bumper stickers, you might believe that everyone within the state of California has made the pilgrimage already. 

Or maybe they just have better promotion than Confusion Hill, located some two hundred fifty miles up the coast from The Mystery Spot. Or the Oregon Vortex found still further north, its Mystery House should not be confused with the Trees of Mystery located on that same highway, just a little further south. 

How do I know about all these places? Because my wife and I made special note on a trip north a few years back to stop at any and all so-called tourist traps primarily because we were adults who no longer had to listen to our parents complain about their existence. We could stop and admire all of the overpriced T-shirts and shot glasses while experiencing all of nature's wonders. And as for all those Mystery Spot bumper stickers? I've heard tell that employees of that destination used to go out into the parking lot there and affix them to cars of visitors who were otherwise occupied on the tour of gravitational anomalies. 

Nobody at Fisherman's Wharf is doing that.

Suspect

 A gunshot is heard. Then, "Halt or I'll shoot!"

This grim little bit of Americana first found its way to me back in the 1980s from the mouth of Robin Williams. At that time, it was a pithy observation of imporoper police procedure. It was a bit of a throwaway since Officer Involved Shooting had yet to become the acronym in current use, OIS. 

Last week there were three separate incidents involving ICE goons shooting unarmed citizens. Two of these were murders of individuals not under warrant or investigation. They just happened to make the ill-advised reaction of running for their lives. Joan Sebastian Durán Guerrero and Lorenzo Salgado Araujo were not the subjects of any ongoing immigration investigation. They were the recipients of gunfire for the crime of identity. They were identified as targets by poorly ttrained, trigger happy monsters.

So maybe you're thinking that these ICE monsters were attempting to maintain security on our Southern border. Mister Salgado Araujo was killed in Houston, six hundred seventy miled from the border. I don't suppose I need to explain how ridiculous the distance that same border is from Maine, where Mister Duran Guerrero was killed. 

Then there was the little matter of the protester in Colorado who was shot in the foot by an off-duty ICE monster who was attempting to "de-escalate" a situation. By shooting the protester in the foot. Emma Landis was wounded after a verbal confrontation outside a detention center in Aurora. The name of the "officer" was not released because he was arrested and booked on suspicion of attempted second-degree murder, first-degree assault and other charges by local police. Local police who did not shoot at their suspect or arrest him without probable cause. We don't get to know the off duty ICE monster's name because he is part of an ongoing investigation. 

We do, however, get to know the name of the goon who killed Joan Sebastian Durán Guerrero: David Brouillette. Mister Brouillette, it turns out, has a long history of violent behavior including threatening and assaulting the women in his life. According to one of his ex-wives, he once threw boiling water at her while she was holding their child. The happy news in this case is that Mister Brouillette did not have a gun at that time. 

I can understand if you read all this and wonder how I can make snap judgements about a person who I have never met. 

Just like these ICE monsters do every day. 

Evidence

 In a speech carried by several media outlets including (checks notes) The Home Shopping Network, a convicted felon who incited insurrection five and a half years ago insisted that we should all live in fear of an election process that is being run by China. 

Bad news there, chum. If it were being run by China, it would be oppressive but it would be efficient. 

Some of you may have lost track of just how ridiculous things have become. This guy, who got to live in the White House a second time and then proceeded to tear it up, wants us all to know that the election was stolen. Not the one that put him in a position to destroy and defame our national monuments and trust, but the one that was held in 2020. You know, the one that the pillow guy went bankrupt trying to prove that extraterrestrials came down from the stars and put us all in a trance that allowed that guy (checks notes) Joseph Robinette Biden to break up the monopoly the Orange Worst had on the office. Or maybe it was the voting machines that were manipulated by the electric car guy whose rockets keep blowing up and whose trucks can't go through a car wash. 

It was more than just a touch embarrassing to hear the convicted felon remind us that even though we somehow managed to find our way out of the nightmare that was the First Trumpreich that the election where we were cheated of the "correct" outcome was the one that stuck a slumlord and adjudicated rapist back into the Oval Office. The guy who has lost a lot more lawsuits than he has elections would like us to believe that the system that put him back in office is broken. Former Vice President (checks notes) Kamala Harris who (checks notes again) has a history of winning lawsuits, chose not to contest the outcome of the 2024 election, even though the results have been proven to be nothing short of catastrophic to our country and its standing in the world. 

A cursory look at the "evidence" that suggests that the only way this twice-impeached former game show host could keep himself out of jail was to get himself elected again and begin using the powers that a conveniently sympathetic Supreme Court allowed him to get to cover up his serial misdeeds. The two broadcast networks who are not fully insinuated within the feedback loop instituted by the ministry of disinformation, ABC and NBC, chose not to use up their valuable time with this summer rerun. NBC chose to continue airing its documentary series titled, The Americas. ABC filled their time with a game show called Press Your Luck. 

I leave that last bit as a bit of irony that could not, unlike the tales of fraud spun by the convicted felon, be made up. 

Puzzled

 What are words for? This is the musical question that was asked by Missing Persons in a previous century. 

This is a question I find myself returning to frequently as I wander through this tired existence, but I would like to reflect briefly on my own experience: I feel that words are pieces of a puzzle. 

And now, as I am prone to do so very often, I digress. One of my daily rituals is to sit in front of my computer and push myself through the five daily challenges presented by Microsoft's Casual Games version of solitaire. Each of these challenges comes from a different variety of the game. Klondike, Spider, Free Cell, Pyramid and Tri Peaks. Depending on the day, one of these variations is labeled "hard" or "expert." These are the ones that capture my attention first, but I will plod through all five games each day in the effort to gain a month's rating of perfect. This requires that all five challenges be completed each day for the entire month. This is yet another example of my obsessive compulsive nature, and it is also a series of tests of my brain function. These are mildly difficult puzzles that all have a solution, I just need to place the virtual cards in their proper order and I am free to go about the rest of my day. 

A little over a month ago, I happened upon a Free Cell game that announced itself as "Expert." I have been hammering away at this arrangement of fifty-two cards in order to solve the problem they present to my sense of order. To no avail. So each morning I have returned to the game, finish off the day's challenges and then return to that one game that has me stuck. 

I could just let it go. That would be rational. No one would know. Except you now. 

And this is what keeps bringing me back to these words. Arranging them in a particular order in hopes of solving the puzzle that is communication. Each morning I sit down with the intent of sharing thoughts and ideas in the hopes of creating more understanding. Each morning I push away from the keyboard secure in the feeling that I have expressed myself and brought more meaning into this confused world. 

Except when I don't. A missing word or misspelling can cause all that effort to tumble into jumbled code that cannot be deciphered. Sometimes I even make the mistake of sharing ideas that only I find compelling. All those words stacked up just to confuse and confound my readers. 

Sorry for that. But I suppose that is what tomorrow is for: One more puzzle. 

Gender Affirming Care

 Hey folks, just a reminder that these United States are currently at war with Iran. 

To that end, the Secretary of War, "Pistol" Pete Hegseth has decreed that all service members over the age of thirty will be screened for testosterone deficiency. "As we know, the modern battlefield is brutal and unrelenting. It requires and demands maximum psychological and mental readiness, and by addressing these health markers early, we're keeping you on the leading edge of lethality, and giving you the same level of support that you give this nation – the absolute best."

It's probably just me, but I'm thinking that keeping a group of human beings "on the leading edge of lethality" is pretty much what got us into this fracas in the first place. The eighty year old convicted felon lives on a lot of edges, dementia for one, but his bloodlust is not something that gets the attention it truly deserves. As for the rest of our enlisted "Warfighters" (Pistol Pete's term), if you fall below that killing level of testosterone, you are eligible for hormone replacement therapy to get us back to berserker levels. 

My guess is that the adjudicated rapist and former game show host would like his soldiers to be every bit as bloodthirsty as his secret police of ICE goons. We have become familiar with the arrest quota to which these goblins are charged, but l suspect there is probably a body count goal hidden just out of public view. 

Except we can see it. We have a much better window on the killing fields here in America than we do in Iran. After the initial casualties were announced, including the one hundred sixty-eight school girls were murdered at their school in Minab and the first wave of US military casualties, there hasn't been a lot to report in terms of human loss. 

All the more reason, it would seem, to get those soldiers in the field all juiced up for the purpose of taking lives. Maybe now would be a good time to bring up the other edicts made regarding our armed forces by the Second Trumpreich: No "Beardos," which includes no further exemptions for religious reasons or for medical conditions that make shaving difficult or painful. Interesting, since facial hair is one of the most significant signs of "proper" testosterone balance. And as far as hormone replacement therapy goes, the Orange Worst has declared that trans soldiers are no longer allowed in his army. Which seems to necessarily include those transitioning to male in hopes of living life on the leading edge of lethality. 

So I'll just toss this out there: A study published in the National Library of Medicine found that testosterone levels of your average rapist or child molester fell within the "normal limits." High levels of testosterone were found in inmates who were jailed for homicide. 

No mention of facial hair for any of those. 

Shazbot!

 What fresh outrage will the news bring me today?

How about the headline that threatens to blow the lid off "Why ABC Canceled Mork & Mindy After Just Four Seasons?"

If you have no memory of the spinoff series created by the appearance of the late Robin Williams on an episode of Happy Days, I wonder if you would call the era in which we are currently living as the Golden Age" of television. This might be especially true if you were to know that it was Happy Days, which ran for eleven seasons and was the progenitor of the phrase "Jumped The Shark." That particular episode was aired in the beginning of Happy Day's fifth season, making it all the more curious how that show hung on for another six years, in spite of having The Fonz literally jump a shark on water skis. 

To be clear, the shark was not on water skis. The Fonz was. 

But I digress. 

Mork, who had travelled to Earth previously and landed in Milwaukee where he battled tohis same "Fonz" character to a standstill, returned it our planet in what was then present day Boulder, Colorado. 

Yes, dear reader, you read that right: Boulder, Colorado. My home town. Each episode of Mork and Mindy began with a shot of Boulder Canyon and the University of Colorado, with Robin Williams cavorting with Pam Dawber in the city where I lived. What followed those credits was an explosion of comedic genius limited only by the format in which it was bound: prime time commercial sitcom. 

And here, I believe, I have answered the question posed by the headline. The rapid fire wit that was on display each Thursday night could not be contained in that half hour between commercials for Bufferin and Sanyo electronics. It was even more difficult when network executroids decided to shuffle the show around, moving it to Sunday nights. Is it any wonder that Robin Williams felt compelled to flee to Hollywood not long after those Milwaukee brewery gals Laverne and Shirley took their show there in an effort to shore up lagging ratings. Laverne and Shirley managed to run for eight seasons. Twice as many as Mork got. 

In the end, I was left with my memories and my rainbow suspenders. Yes, I really had rainbow suspenders. I watched as Mister Williams went on to bigger and better things, but I still missed those anarchic Thursday half hours where he stretched the bounds of TV comedy, and frightened network censors and executroids. 

I miss him today. 

Yard Sold

 Someone once said that "parting is such sweet sorrow," but I'm guessing he wasn't talking about having a Yard Sale. 

My family had put off having this suburban ritual for quite a while and when it came time to drag everything that we had carefully selected to be done with, we filled several tables and spread what would be our former belongings out for all to see. 

After more than fifty years of hanging on to Spider Man comics, I chose to make these available to anyone who found their way through our front gate. Initial perusals of this collection by early arrivals found one gentlemen select twenty-five of what he considered the best and the brightest. For him. This made only the tiniest dent. This is when my son, who was there to watch his childhood treasures find new homes and to assist his parents in that task, hopped up and began taking a few quick photos of what was left of the comic display. I had just begun to dread the piecemeal dissemination of my youth to those who might continue this pick and sneer process. That is when my son asked if I would take one hundred fifty dollars for the lot of them. It seems that he has sent along those digital photos he was taking to a friend of his who he knew collected such things, and without pawing through individual issues, he was going to pay us for whatever was left. 

I let them go. We put them in my son's car as a wave of relief swept over me. A couple hours later, a gentlemen strolled into the yard, He asked if we had any comics left for sale. My son, still fresh off his nominal sales triumph told him no, they were already gone. This brought on a series of offers that eventually stopped at three hundred seventy-five dollars. To my considerable relief, my son did not waver. He had made his deal and he wasn't going back. When the gentlemen finally shrugged and went on his way, we both breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't about the money as much as it was about finding a home for the treasures I had hauled around with me for half a century. 

Contrasting mightily to this exchange was the fellow who initially wandered past our front gate, but was lured in by the curious display of what was once our lives. We kept a banter up as he wandered through the tables, finally stopping at a set of plastic drawers. "There's a clown suit in there," I suggested. our j

"Really?" he asked as he pulled out one of the drawers, revealing the purple polka dot clown suit I knew was there. He held it up to admire its gaudy glory. "My son's going to clown camp next week."

"Really?" I returned. "How about a dollar for the clown suit?"

He faltered for a moment. "I don't have any money on me. I just stopped by to look," and he trailed off.

"I'll tell you what," I offered, "How about you just take the clown suit?"

His face lit up. "Really?"

"Really." 

He left with effusive thanks and we once again felt the joy of releasing our past into the wild again. It wasn't about the money. It was about spreading the joy.