Marking Period

 It is no coincidence that my irrational fear of Sharpies is connected to my very rational fear of the Orange Worst. As a teacher, I am constantly on the lookout for children with indelible markers. Most of your standard pens and pencils, including those water-based smelly marking pens can be wiped away with a damp cloth. And for those fledgling taggers who use the teacher's dry-erase marker to leave their wit or wisdom on school property might consider another line of delinquency. 

Then there's the convicted felon and war criminal who is so fond of the permanent Brand Name Sharpie that he spent nearly five full minutes of a televised Cabinet Meeting to discuss his fixation on this particular writing instrument.  It was, perhaps, an attempt to create some sort of allegory about government waste, but ended up becoming an ironic counterpoint: While we're busy kibitzing about what pen we should use to hand out during document signings, people are dying across the globe in a war that this pinhead started. 

Then there's the actual marking of territory, which my mother always used to say when describing the behavior of "taggers" was bad toilet training. When it comes to the former game show host, however, he is not content to merely scrawl his name in Sharpie or even spray paint. He hires crews of people to go out and attach new letters using tarps and scaffolding to slap his name on government buildings like the John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the US Institute of Peace. And now he wants to put his scribbled signature on all our currency. 

A former opponent and now full-on MAGA supplicant, Florida Governor Ron "of the Satan" DeSantis has declared that the Palm Beach Airport will now bear the name of an adjudicated rapist. John Oliver did a whole segment on how the National Park Service annual passes will now be defaced with the face of the Orange Worst. He then offered a solution: stickers to cover the unwanted visage of the accused pedophile with something, anything, better. 

And yes, someday this folly will all come to an end. The next administration will have their hands full scrubbing off all that marking. A ridiculous and unfortunate task compared to fixing the economy and returning any semblance of our international standing, but necessary to be rid of any remnants of the Sharpie King. When that time comes, I suggest you give a public school teacher a call. We're pretty clever when it comes to getting rid of "permanent" marks. 

Strait Talk

 "All ​of those countries that can’t get jet fuel ​because of the Strait of Hormuz, like the United Kingdom, which refused to get involved in the decapitation ​of Iran, I have a suggestion for ​you: Number 1, buy from the U.S., we have plenty, ‌and ⁠Number 2, build up some delayed courage, go to the Strait, and just TAKE IT."

These were the suggestions the Orange Felon offered up to those countries who were unwilling to join in the illegal war started by (checks notes) the Orange Felon. 

Just for amusement's sake, let's pretend that you were a world leader from, oh let's say a country in Europe and you were trying to decide to get involved in a war in the Middle East. Would you have come along if you were asked nicely? A coalition of the politely asked, perhaps? 

Or maybe he could have asked in the first place, before he started "decapitating" and "obliterating" things. Or if there had been some sort of plan in the first place.

I dunno, maybe one that provided continencies for one of the most vital waterways on the planet?

Instead, the Orange Worst and his cronies flew in, guns and bombs ablazin' without giving the Strait of Hormuz a second thought. The military capabilities, rumored to be destroyed by the Trumpreich, still managed to put together a nice bit of a blockade on the pinch point of most of the world's oil supply. In case you missed this tidbit, the next time you're driving past a gas station in the United States, take a peek at the price per gallon.

Oh. That's right. You can't drive past a gas station because you can't afford to drive past a gas station. 

Meanwhile, the great nations of Europe and elsewhere are being held hostage by an accused pedophile while he tries to work on his short game. It seems the infantile pyromaniac would now like help putting out the fire he started. 

Come on! Build up some delayed courage and help me clean up this mess I made. 

With all due respect, which is the tiniest bit I can assure you, no. 

Thank you for your attention this matter. 

J-Dop Demon Hunter

 Due to the demands of "the economy and national security and things like that," Julius Domingo Vance hasn't had a chance to take a peek at the concern in which he is most invested. "I've already had a couple of times where I'm like, 'All right, we're going to Area 51. We're going out to New Mexico. We're gonna sort of get to the bottom of this.' And then the timing of the trip just didn't work out. But trust me, anybody who's curious about this, I'm more curious than anybody, and I've got three years of the very tippy top of the classification. I'm gonna get to the bottom of it,"

Hear that folks? The very tippy top of the classification. 

Juan Demarco Vance is going to figure out what all this fuss is about extraterrestrials. Don't you worry about it. 

Or maybe you should worry about it. 

A little bit. 

"Celestial beings, who fly around and do weird things to people" are not necessarily otherworldly visitors. According to Jose Delecata Vance, "I don't think they're aliens. I think they're demons."

This one goes out to all those who feel comfortable with using the twenty-fifth amendment to get the convicted felon out of office, just to be replaced by someone even scarier. Jimmy Dean Vance continued, "I think that the desire to describe everything celestial [as] otherworldly, to describe it as aliens - I mean, every great world religion, including Christianity, the one that I believe in, has understood that there are weird things out there. And there are things that are very difficult to explain .And I naturally go, when I hear about sort of extra-natural phenomenon, that's where I go to, is the Christian understanding."

This is how the recently released UFO files will be dealt with if Jaime Dingus Vance ever gets a chance to break away from his pressing calendar events like berating visiting world leaders and killing popes. Which makes one wonder how Jerry Douglas Vance might use his "Christian understanding" to get to the bottom of those unredacted Trumpstein Files. 

If only the former game show host had been molesting underage extraterrestrials. 

Insert Your Golf/Driving Joke Here

 You cannot make stuff like this up:

Tiger Woods has been forbidden to drive President Donald Trump’s grandchildren around.

Mister Woods' most recent experiments in testing the aerodynamic properties of his black Range Rover was apparently an afterthought. Clear thinking Secret Service agents figured that Tiger might not be the ideal chauffer for the children of (checks notes) one Donald Trump Junior, who claims to be "the other son" of the convicted felon. His ex-wife, Vanessa, has been "dating" the golf legend and it would seem that not everyone is pleased with this coupling, including the Secret Service who are charged with keeping those with that easily identifiable surname. 

In case you don't follow golf, or TMZ, a man identified as "Tiger" was involved in a rollover crash late last Friday on Jupiter Island. That's in Florida. This is the fourth such incident involving "Tiger" since 2009. When asked for his take on the relative safety of his grandchildren, the former game show host and noted golf cheat said, “I feel so badly. He’s got some difficulty. There was an accident and that’s all I know. Very close friend of mine. He’s an amazing person, amazing man. But some difficulty.” The alleged pedophile's comments suggest that he is not good at feeling, which makes perfect sense, but I don't know if anyone bothered to ask "Tiger" about his pal in the ruins of the White House. 

“I feel so badly,” Tiger said. “He’s got some difficulty. There was an incident and that’s all I know. Very close friend of mine. He’s an amazing person, amazing man. But some difficulty.”

Why isn't this billionaire hiring an Uber instead of keeping a lawyer on retainer to take care of hid DUIs? It's like the old saying, "Better to ask for forgiveness instead of waiting for a ride." 

Meanwhile, it sounds like Vanessa and Tiger's relationship might be headed for splitsville, but one has to wonder why her dating app keeps coming up with these losers. 

When Enough Just Isn't Quite Enough

 Three times. Three different weekends. I have gone out and stood on the same street corner with many of the same folks, screaming at passing cars. 

Bruce Springsteen did not make an appearance. He was busy in Minneapolis. 

I was there, armed with a few new signs with pithy slogans and a few of the old hits. Along with a corner filled with friends and family, we waved at traffic and cheered whenever we got a honk. It wasn't until after I had been there for about an hour that it occurred to me that beyond my aforementioned pithy signs. 

I started to beg for drivers to respond to my presence on the corner. "Please honk at me and my signs! This has a direct connection to my self-esteem." Vroom. "I don't think I'm making myself clear," I continued to shout, "How are we going to solve this problem without you honking your horn?"

The problem is the same one we had months ago. The one where we were being forced to live with a king that no one, especially the gentlemen who wrote the United States Constitution, wanted. I suppose you might feel that just because the Orange Worst doesn't read maybe this could be excused. 

Except there are plenty of men and women in our federal government who have shown mild aptitude in the reading and writing department who seem to be having a difficult time grasping some of the basic tenets of the document that is supposed to be providing us with a blueprint for our representative democracy. You know, Schoolhouse Rock stuff. Checks. Balances. Following the rules and laws that had served us pretty well for two hundred fifty years. 

Hence, I find myself once again on that same corner, with a few hundred of my closest fellow Americans, trying to drum up support for dumping this dumb thing who slithered down an escalator a decade ago and keeps finding its way back into the White House. This in spite of the fact that he seems to know next to nothing about the operating instructions. 

I've been doing this for months now, and this past Saturday was the first time I was met with anything by indifference or enthusiastic honking. A gentleman rolled up to the stop light on his motorcycle, and with a sneer he asked, "Who ya gonna vote for? Gavin Newsom?" Momentarily caught unawares by this dissenting voice, I sputtered, "You mean instead of the convicted felon currently starting wars in the Middle East? You bet!"

The truth is, I am not certain that Gavin Newsom would get my vote for President, but if the choices were the convicted felon or the Governor of California, I think I could be persuaded to vote for the guy who has been in charge of the fourth largest economy in the world instead of the adjudicated rapist who used to host a game show. But the light changed and I didn't get to have anything that would have been described as an in-depth discussion with this weekend biker. 

Not that this was what the presumed MAGAt had in mind. 

Instead, I just started hollering louder. I wanted to believe that all my bellering and waving signs was going to rid our nation of the scourge and his cabinet of criminals. Standing there on a curb in Northern California, I understood that my voice was that of a majority, and the guy on the motorcycle was the one on the outside looking in. I knew that this one mild confrontation was a hiccup in the normal confluence of democratic thought found throughout the region. 

Which didn't keep it from feeling it like a bur under my metaphorical saddle, but I will be back out there for the next No Kings protest, with some new signs, and a renewed attitude. 

It's time for this to end. 

Teacher Appreciation

 It would be ridiculous for me to suggest that my job is a thankless one. I get plenty of thanks. Not always from the folks that I work for, but I kind of insist that first graders whose shoes I tie give me a "Thank you, Mister Caven," once I have stood back up and sent them on their way with properly fastened footwear. 

This might seem a little trite, but on certain days it is precisely what keeps my motor running for the next shoelace or runny nose or ball stuck on the roof or computer that "won't work." It's those moments of appreciation that keep me coming back, and perhaps why I tend to shy away from those big award assemblies with plaques and testimonies. 

That is why the dinner I attended last Thursday was such a unique exception. My principal, who works much harder than I ever do and has to endure all the backlash that comes with being the one sitting in "that chair," nominated me for a tribute sponsored by the nearly local basketball franchise. I was named a Golden Icon. I was never fully clear on exactly what made me outstanding, though I figured it probably had something to do with the shoelaces, balls and broken computers. 

And my dedication. My education dedication. 

The evening marked the first time in more than a calendar year since I had worn a suit, since the invitation insisted on "formal wear." This pleased my date, my wife, who relishes opportunities to look nice. Parking was paid for, as was the dinner, so we toddled off across the bay and drove to our reserved spot underneath the Chase Center. After we checked in, and name tags were dispersed, we were ushered down to the floor. The same floor where the night before the Golden State Warriors had battled the Brooklyn Nets. The hoops were still standing, but the rest of the floor had been transformed into a festive dining arrangement for a hundred or so teachers and their plus ones to enjoy an evening for being lauded. And fed. And lauded some more. 

There was even some dancing, which for which I received special recognition from the MC for "trying so hard."

Then it was all over. On the drive back across the bridge, I asked my wife, my date, how she enjoyed the evening. She said that she really enjoyed getting all gussied up. And then she paused before sharing her misgivings. "Do you feel like they were just trying to make themselves feel better?"

I said that I could certainly understand that feeling, the one where corporations with money to burn toss out a chunk of their disposable income to appreciate educators. Educators who had to paw through their closets to find "formal wear" because they don't spend a lot of time in formal wear. Or going out to catered dinners. Their time and money is almost always ploughed back into their job: buying supplies and treats for the kids they serve. Did I feel patronized?

Not after all these years. I was pleased and happy to take the "free dinner" and was grateful that I did not have to sit through a sales pitch for educational software or a timeshare offer. I got to hang out on the floor where Steph Curry plays, where I will soon be seeing Bruce Springsteen perform. 

I appreciate that. 

Money, It's A Gas

 It seems to me that "citizens united" would be a good name for a group of concerned citizens who would like to make a stand against some sort of malfeasance on the part of their government. 

It's not. Instead, it's the name of a Supreme Court decision from earlier this century that somehow granted corporations personhood. "Corporations are people." This allowed big business to funnel massive amounts of cash into elections of all shapes and sizes. The Federal Elections Commission had wanted to keep that from happening, but somehow the First Amendment got tossed into the mix and it was determined that limiting those giant contributions from giant companies would be an infringement on Free Speech. It was not clear from my reading whether or not it was okay with the Supreme Court for corporations to carry semi-automatic weapons. 

Which left us where we have been lodged for quite some time. "Get money out of politics" is a phrase that gets tossed around before during and after the Citizens United decision. All that money tends to warp the results of what should be a contest of ideas and ideals. Candidates for offices of all stripes and size have been bowled over by the sledgehammer that is mass media. And lobbyists. And consultants. And badges, posters, stickers and T-shirts. One need look no further than the struggle of one Jefferson Smith, the junior senator who was suddenly thrust into the limelight for his hope to build a boys' camp. A boys' camp that would have sat squarely in the way of a dam-building project being foisted on the public by Boss Jim Taylor and his political machine, of which the senior senator from Jefferson's state is a part. 

The money and influence afforded Senator Paine and his cronies by Mister Taylor threatens to unseat the naive Mister Smith with a flood of lies propagated and promoted by bad people doing bad things.

With lots of money. 

It isn't until the dormant conscience of Senator Paine lurches back into life, causing him to nearly blow his own head off and confess to all his misdeeds in front of a packed Senate Gallery that the day is saved.  

And wouldn't it be grand if after that film was made that money and the corruption it brings was kept in check? Starting in 1939? Just like it would be nice to think that that old Savings and Loan in Bedford Falls hadn't been engulfed and devoured by development in Potterville. That one was from 1946. 

Eighty years ago. 

It's a wonderful life.