Futility

 It is an exciting time. 

Back to school. 

I can remember how upset my son would be the first time he saw a reminder from retailers that it was time to stock up on binders and glue sticks. Or one of those snappy adverts reminding everyone it was time to go out and grab the latest cool looks for the return to the classroom. This eventually transferred to, in his senior year of high school, one of the more amusing things he did as the student in charge of the reader board stationed outside his last stand in public education. In the two weeks prior to classes coming back into session, he posted a reminder of the dates along with the warning: "Resistance is futile." 

I thought of this bit of chicanery as I worked long hours in the week leading up to this year's back to school day. Moving furniture. Lifting boxes. Repairing desks. And putting brightly colored and border up on the acres of bulletin boards that line the hallways of my school. Being a teacher has a great many long days, sometimes without breaks or respite from the grind, but these days of preparation bring their own level of stress and strain. 

I would have loved a chance to head out to Target to take advantage of all those Back To School values. 

Instead, I was honor bound to make sure that our school was ready for that moment when the front gates open and first graders would magically morph into second graders. Last year's fourth graders would suddenly find themselves at the top of the food chain in fifth. Would they notice the way the border on the bulletin board outside their classroom complemented the color of the paper behind it? Or would their attention be drawn to their friends' new backpacks and sneakers? 

I was once again surprised by the accordion folds in time and how close each one of these first days seem to cram together. I expect that those long weeks before Winter Break will still tempt me to rethink my understanding of infinity, as will the days preceding those Last Days of the year. Each of these countdowns will have meaning for me as what will be most likely the last to impact me in the same way as I waltz toward retirement. 

It is a force I may never be able to ignore.

Resistance is indeed futile.  

Big Deal

 I know. We're supposed to stand in awe of the deal-making prowess of the convicted felon squatting in the ruins of the White House. He got elected, twice, on this illusory power of negotiating and generating transactions that would create the kind of economy that only seems to exist in his tiny little mind.

That being said, the most recent revelation of the twice-elected and coincidentally twice-impeached very stable genius' business acumen caught me a little off guard. German energy company RWE has said it will abandon its offshore wind projects in the United States after reaching a 1.2 billion dollar payout deal with the Second Trumpreich's  Department of the Interior. Pardon me for just a moment as I muse briefly about the fact that the department that deals with the stuff in our country that is outside is called "Interior."

I digress. 

Instead of wind, RWE said that it will now reinvest that great big wad of cash  into conventional gas projects, including nine hundred million dollars in a liquified natural gas export terminal project in Louisiana. This switch will no doubt please the knuckle-draggers in the fossil fuel business, who have been ever-so-pleased to rake in record profits as a result of the Epstein Files distraction disguised as a war with Iran. 

More opportunities to make money from dead dinosaurs. Meanwhile, China continues to embarrass us with their willingness to build and switch over to renewable forms of energy. Their onshore and offshore wind farms currently supply ten percent of their country's energy. 

The former game show host is paying companies not to do just that for the United States. RWF is not the only being paid to switch from wind projects to more "conventional" forms of energy such as liquified natural gas. Coincidentally, those massive data centers that seem to be popping up everywhere are often run on (wait for it) natural gas. As of 2017, gas emissions from stationary sources led to more deaths than coal in at least nineteen states. 

While we're struggling to gather the seventy dollars it takes to fill our gas tank, and watching as our utility bills continue to spiral out of control, the Orange Worst is paying companies to make our lives more expensive. That's what the tiny brain that bankrupted his own casinos four times came up with. High crimes and misdemeanors? I'd say this is yet another batch of evidence for the third impeachment. 

BOTD

 Born on this day:

My wife

The mother of my child

Writer in residence at Joaquin Miller Park

Daughter of Jan and Louise

Sister of Felix and Damian

Cousin to seemingly countless more

Speaking of countless, the number of personas and pen-names inhabiting this one soul defies easy accounting. 

But mostly, she's America's Friend, Polly Polka Dot. 

If you're planning a brief stroll or a visit to the local mall, you can expect to stop and chat with a great many human beings. Some she knows. Some she has met before. And then a great many who happen to fall within that great ray of interest that emanates from her. She wants to know what you're up to. She wants to be, as her title suggests, your friend. 

Now, this can make progress toward a goal difficult at times. Don't expect that getting from point A to point B to be a quick change. If you're along for the ride, you will be introduced because this is the way we grow a community. She will, on occasion, approach a person who she believes is already on her list just to make sure that the contact remains intact. "Do I know you?" 

If she doesn't, she will after she's done. 

Once upon a time, I gave an interview about this blog and suggested it existed to connect with strangers who were friends I haven't met yet. I said this was a quote from Fred Rogers. As it turns out, I was actually referencing a quote from Will Rogers. Such a tangled web of Rogers out there. Now that I have set that record straight, I would like to wish America's Friend, Polly Polka Dot, a happy birthday and appreciate her for all those strangers she has turned into friends. Sometimes it slows us down, but it's all worth it. 

Look Out, 'Cause Here It

 There seems to be a lot of concern these days about the looming specter of communism. This is a lot easier to manage than the looming specter of socialism. After all, we have embedded in our fiercely anti-communist society little reminders of things like Social Security. And public schools. And a great many other programs that seem to have been created with the citizens of our nation in mind. Public health care, food relief, and a great many things that have "care" somehow connected to them by implication or in the title. Which is why the conservatives cling to the name "Obamacare" instead of the Affordable Care Act, since it gives them a chance to double down on their hate. 

This is the big threat to our way of life, the MAGAts will tell you: Communists. This brought me back to my seventh grade geography teacher, Mister Clements. He passed out to his class a piece of paper titled "Isms Defined." 

• Fascism: If you have two cows, you keep the cows and give the milk to the government; then the government sells you some milk.
• Nazism: If you have two cows, the government shoots you and keeps the cows.
• Socialism: If you have two cows, you give one to your neighbor.
• Communism: If you have two cows, you give them to the government and the government then gives you some milk.

Back in 1974, this seemed completely adequate to describe conditions on the planet, with the kicker being that Democracy was supposed to allow everyone, including the cows, to live and thrive in peace. Which is essentially what the oligarchy we have now continues to push at us as the narrative we should believe. 

Except that none of us down here seem to own cows, and the corporations who do seem completely invested in the idea that we will pay just about anything for a quart of milk. Or a steak. 

Meanwhile, these folks calling them democratic socialists have started to show up as a stark contrast to the establishment. Most notable in this wave is the new Mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani. In the first eight months in office, he has secured state funding and rollout plans for universal child care for two-year-olds, won thirty-four million dollars in tenant settlements and repairs from landlords, securing nine  million dollars in worker and small business restitution, and filled one hundred thousand potholes across the five boroughs. 

No word on what's happening to New York City's cows. 

Our Best Shot

The beat goes on. 

An In 'n' Out got shot up in Idaho. In what has become standard lone gunman procedure, the lone gunman died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Three innocent victims were shot and killed by this nitwit with an assault rifle. 

Evil nitwit. 

Evil. 

Twenty-three year old Ashley Garibay was killed while assisting in the training of new crew members at the burger joint that now serves as a crime scene. She used to live in Stockton, California. Now she doesn't live. 

Christopher Claunch, whose life ended at fifty-nine, had recently gotten sober. Two years ago, he started his life over and was hired by the rehab center he had attended as a patient. Christopher wanted to help others start their lives over. 

Dale Schultz was also passing through Idaho when his life was cut short by an evil nitwit. An artist and pickleball player, Dale was a husband, father and grandfather. His wife, Reinette, was wounded in the melee and remains in the hospital. Her life is forever changed as well. 

Six others were injured. Their lives as well as those throughout the community of Twin Falls, Idaho. 

And beyond. 

Grand Haven, Michigan.

Denmark, Tennessee. 

East Saint Louis, Illinois.

Rittman, Ohio.

Livonia, Michigan.

Cheektowaga, New York. 

Muscatine, Iowa. 

That's a list of communities in which a mass shooting has occurred, with the number of casualties set as three or more victims. Since June 1, 2026. Two months and change here in the United States. Lives cut short and lives changed. Forever. 

And that's a 

Exit Strategy: Here's The Door

 Her boss says that vandals were responsible. 

She has come to the conclusion that it was a "botched installation." As for those vandals,  "it is difficult to attribute the widespread damage to the Reflecting Pool to vandalism, let alone to establish that fact beyond a reasonable doubt." The fact that former Olympian David Hearn's case was dropped after being indicted by a grand jury back in July is not a surprise. The fact that this voice of reason is coming from longtime MAGA sycophant and former Faux News celebutroid, Jeanine Pirro, is the shocking part. 

Ms. Pirro was, after all, one of the loudest voices amplifying her channel's insistence that the 2020 election was stolen. None of that blathering required any specific evidence beyond the parroting of talking points delivered by a convicted felon. The manipulation of facts in this case eventually resulted in her old boss, Rupert Murdoch, being saddled with a seven hundred eighty-seven million dollar judgement to be paid to Dominion Voting Systems. Back then, even the folks at Faux News referred to Jeanine as a "reckless maniac." Who better, then, to appoint to the office of U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia?

This is an administration that already has its share of reckless maniacs: Pistol Pete Hegseth, Stephen Naziferatu Miller, and the previously mentioned convicted felon in the big office. What makes this rather high-profile embarrassment different than, say, starting a war in the Middle East without provocation or exit strategy, is the fact that Jeanine Pirro shares something in common with Second Trumpreich members Tulsi Gabbard, Krist Noem, Pam Bondi and Lori Chavez-DeRemer: a Y chromosome. 

The reality that has risen up to shove these women toward the door does not seem to affect the boys in the club, and certainly the qualifications Ms. Pirro brought to her appointment were always a little suspect, but since when has being qualified have anything to do with getting a job with this administration? Her current boss insists that she "choked" and "folded like an umbrella," while promises of  a quick end to the war in Iran sit out there as shining examples of incompetence from the testosterone side of the room. 

Firing a woman in an administration that insists that DEI should be abolished, doesn't come as any sort of shock, but it does make you wonder who will take the blame once all the women have been let go. 

Beautiful Noise

 I spent last weekend by the sea. 

Which is a little ridiculous since I live in a city by the bay, which is just a hop skip and a San Francisco from the sea. 

I just do not make my way over there very often. 

This past weekend, my wife and I slept with the patio door to our hotel room open pretty much day and night to hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. All day. All night. In the morning, I awoke to the sight of pelicans gliding over the rocks, looking for their breakfast. In the evening, we watched the sun drop into the ocean, and waited for the lines of orange, yellow and purple to fade into the darkness. 

I suppose I can explain this fascination by explaining that I grew up in the extraordinarily landlocked land of the Continental Divide. Before my clan settled in Colorado, they were ensconced for generations in Kansas. A sea view was nothing if not a curiosity. The closest I came to cavorting an natural bodies of water outside of the local swimming pool was the beaver dams in the creek near our family's cabin before the beavers packed up and left because of all those kids spoiling their nice work. 

The Pacific Ocean is a different thing entirely. It gave me a sense of the infinite. Staring off into the distance, I had to imagine that there were people and places over the edge somewhere, but for my purposes, this was forever. This did not stop the waves from attempting to make their presence known at the other edge of their reach. Tides came in. Tides went out. I stared at them in awe and appreciation. As we made our way down the shore, my wife and I saw the signs reminding us of riptides and currents that would sweep us away if we were foolish enough to go wading or, heaven forbid,  attempt to a swim in all that churning. 

So we walked until we found a beach where the waves raced up to our feet, and we felt the chill of water that nobody bothered to heat. We were mindful of all the ways that this mass of salty water could make our lives difficult or sad.

But mostly we listened to the sound. 

Not the traffic on the highway four blocks from our home back in Oakland. Not the jets overheard. Just the endless churning, the slow attempt at changing the coast line. Someday, the hotel in which we took all this in would drop off the cliff and into the sea. But not last weekend. We listened to the sound and it lulled us to sleep. 

I dreamed of the sea.