Suckage

 Did she jump or was she pushed? 

This past week, Tulsi Gabbard gave up her seat in the clown car as she resigned from the former game show host's cabinet. The former Director of National Intelligence can now spend more time perfecting her Capoeira technique. 

And trying to figure out where she went wrong. 

Some might point to the moment when the convicted felon was furiously planning an invasion of Venezuela and Tulsi was busy posting photos of herself on a beach in Hawaii. She really should have known that in this administration the only approved conspicuous waste of time allowed is golf. 

Or maybe it was when she insisted that Iran was not trying to create a nuclear weapon in spite of her boss' insistence otherwise. 

Perhaps she never got fully comfortable being a "recovering Democrat" in a cage full of MAGA chimps. She called her former party an "elitist cabal of warmongers."

What about that time that she got caught lurking around the FBI raid on Fulton County's ballots from 2020? 

She says that she will be leaving her post at the end of June to support her husband who is battling bone cancer. 

I think the most likely reason is that distinct lack of a Y chromosome. The four departures from the Orange Worst's cabinet during this Second Trumpreich have all been women. For those of you keeping score at home, you've got your Bondi, Noem, Chavez-DeRemer, and now Gabbard. 

And you're just going to have to believe me when I tell you that the boys in that band are every bit as bad at their jobs as the girls. They just happen to have the Bro Code working in their favor. Why none of these morons have been let go only goes to show how precisely bad off we are in terms of a leadhership vacuum. 

To wit: it sucks. 

Memorials

 Memorials are found in Washington D.C;

They are also found on sections of our Interstate Highway system. 

Or in front of libraries. 

On benches. 

Or scrawled in spray paint on the wall of a neighborhood store. 

People die every day. Lots of them. But not all of them get a memorial, save for the moment of silence afforded some at the beginning of a sporting event. 

My mother in law likes to share her feelings about such rituals when the topic comes up, suggesting that all those monuments and kind words are often wasted on those to whom they would matter the most. 

I want to believe now that I spent a good deal of my time with my parents sharing how much they mattered to me while they were alive. I believe it was our practice to end all of our conversations with "I love you," as a way to ward off the inevitable. The fact that this has been passed along to the interactions my wife and I have with our son is not lost on me. I hope to limit the chances of feeling like the last time we talked didn't include that reminder. 

The idea that people in our lives might drift away without an appreciation for all that they have done and meant to us infuriates me. I'm big into completion. And summing up. And tying up loose ends. 

And building memorials. 

My father has a rock next to the creek that runs behind the high school that we all attended. That creek is near the bottom of a watershed that begins high up in the hills above Boulder where the trickle of a stream where I sprinkled the ashes of my father so many years ago. There is a blue spruce tree that still stands in the back yard of my childhood home. It was brought down the mountainside by my mother and I, much to the bemusement of the rest of our family as a tiny sapling. These markers remind us of where we came from, and give us a place to rest our memories. 

Which reminds me of a song by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band that my older brother likes to quote: "Gravestones cheer the living, dear, they're no use to the dead."

I suppose I truly hope that I am the monument to my parents. Along with my brothers and our families, we continue to point in the direction on which we were set by them. 

Renovation

 An "American Flag Blue" coat of paint on the bottom of the reflecting pool between the Lincoln and Washington Monuments. 

A helipad on the South Lawn of the White House, or rather what is left of the White House, apparently the new models of Marine One have downward facing exhaust and could scorch the grass. Currently, the older models are being used to ferry the Orange Worst to the nearest Air Force base where he can be shoveled into the cargo bay of Air Force One. 

The helipad stands in contrast to most of the other wild hairs that the convicted felon seems to obsess on daily. 

Paving over the what-was-once-a-rose-garden seems to be another such project.

Or gilding every available vertical surface with which the former game show host might come in contact.

How about the two hundred fifty foot "Victory Arch" that Jeffrey Epstein's pen pal wants to erect near the Arlington National Cemetery, featuring gilded ornamentation, four lion statues, a winged figure crowning the top and the inscription “One Nation Under God” emblazoned across its facade. If plans go ahead as scheduled, this monstrosity will loom nearly one hundred feet taller than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. 

Because bigger is always better. No matter what Stormy Daniels would tell you. 

Which brings us to the ballroom. The focus of all his faux-highness' attention while he ignores the peasants rioting in the streets. Just like Paris. Only bigger. 

I am referring to the unrest. 

And the ridiculous ballroom which seems to be a product of a childhood spent with a large golden spoon shoved in his mouth. Suddenly, even some Republicans are starting to question the adjudicated rapist's priorities. He says himself that he does not think about American's financial situation, "Not even a little bit." Why should he? Up until now, he barks and the rest of the clown car leaps into action, sparing no expense. Joe Biden loves golf. It cost taxpayers nearly eleven million dollars over the course of his administration to keep him on the links. The Orange Worst has frittered away more than thirty million dollars in the first year and a half of the Second Trumpreich. 

He should be thrown in jail not just on principle, but as a money-saving alternative to the HGTV plague he has visited upon us all. 

Season Ender

 As I stood there, medium deep in left field, I told myself that I was guarding the foul line. The red ball was making its way directly toward me. 

Directly to me. 

This annual rite of passage for the fifth graders has become more of a chore each year as I have grown older and more stiff while the competition has stayed the same. Playing kickball against the soon-to-be-promoted ten and eleven year olds is something that has caused me to lose sleep. Not a lot, since I have also rationalized the brief moment in time that it encapsulates. Last year, after a string of ignominious defeats, the fifth grade class rose up and broke a streak that went back several years. To hear this years incipient middle schoolers, the teachers and staff were "gonna get beat."

I wasn't thinking about all of that exactly as I watched that red ball hurtle through the air. 

I was thinking about the one I had missed the inning before. I didn't get my hands on it, but my inability to sprint to the place where it landed caused much amusement among the assembled student body. Mister Caven doesn't get around as well as he used to.

I took some comfort in the knowledge that much of the rest of our team was younger and more spry than I, and whatever deficiencies I might have would be amply made up for by them. 

I spent a lot of time when I was in elementary school praying that the ball would come nowhere near me. I just wanted the game to be over. I could see that same expression on the faces of some of the fifth graders as they took to the field. 

Forty-five minutes to glory.

Now the ball was making its descent, and I thought about the number of other "easy" fly balls I had seen my teammates bobble. Playground balls are notoriously bouncy, and I had seen them careen off my teammates outstretched arms and fingers. Would I be able to corral this one chance at personal triumph?

If I dropped it, I could become part of a rally for the fifth graders. If I caught it, I would put an end to their inning and we would have another chance to add to what was becoming an insurmountable lead. 

I set my feet and put out my hands, remembering to grab the incoming rubbery missile in the air, then bring it into my chest, securing the catch. 

Then it was over. 

There were some cheers, and some jeering from the crowd whose allegiance became apparent as the game wore on. 

When it was all over, the teachers and staff had triumphed, thirty to twelve. I probably didn't need to relive all that childhood trauma. I probably could have enjoyed the game just a little more. But I will keep that one fly ball in my personal highlight reel. 

Wait til next year.

Welcome Home

 There's a lot of awful news out there.

Do I need to tell you about the $1.776 billion dollar fund that the convicted felon has set aside for other convicted felons? Mister Spray Tan believes that the January 6 rioters were unfairly prosecuted by the Biden administration, and these poor insurrectionists deserve to be paid for their "suffering."

Closer to home, a teenage driver plowed into a crowd on a sidewalk here in Oakland, killing three and injuring several more. The teenaged driver was traveling at more than fifty miles an hour. The bright spot? Bystanders apprehended the driver after he attempted to flee the scene. 

And just down the coast in San Diego, three people were shot and killed in that area's largest mosque. Then the gunmen turned their weapons on themselves, in an apparent act of civic pride that was poorly timed, since they could have shot themselves before harming innocent victims. 

I do not need to tell you these things, and yet, here I am, reiterating just a fraction of all the ugliness that surrounds us all every day. 

So I will tie this all up by telling you this story: On Monday, the Bay Area was experiencing a period of gusty winds. One of these breezes blew our front door open. My wife, who was preparing to leave herself, initially closed the door and prepared herself to head out on the rest of her day. When she left, it did not occur to her that our cat might have found his way out that previously open door. 

Consequently, our cat spent the day outside. This used to be his natural state, having grown up as the neighborhood stray before we acquired his newly toothless, recovering beast after a bout of painful dental surgery funded by our local cat lovers. I was busy at work, and my wife was rambling around doing errands around town as she often does, not keeping an eye on the feline. 

When I came home later that afternoon, imagine my surprise when our wayward kitty was sitting on the back porch, looking quite contrite when I went out the door to dispose of some recycling. I welcomed him back in, and he trotted past me without looking up. This interaction stood in stark contrast to what had been a ritual for the first few years of his stay with us when we would spend hours tracking him down, searching in his old haunts and alerting the neighbors to his escape. 

Not this time. He seemed relieved to be back inside. Home. 

I understand. 

What's His Deal?

 The big fluff about the Orange Worst was that he was some sort of brilliant businessman, and that he would "run the United States like a business." 

What they failed to mention that he might just end up running the United States like one of his businesses. 

On this spot, I have made the point many times that this is a guy who managed to bankrupt not one, not two, but five of his own casinos in Atlantic City and Gary, Indiana. If this is the first you've heard of a casino in Gary, Indiana, you are not alone. My guess is that the former game show host probably found out that he had a casino in Gary shortly before it closed down. Maybe he gave away too many King Crab legs at the buffet. Or maybe he just couldn't figure out how to make a business that should print money work. As he has done his entire life, he leaves one smoking heap of wreckage for the next potential failure. 

Now he's doing this with house money. Our house money. Just this week he has decided to "drop" the ten billion dollar lawsuit he filed against the Internal Revenue Service for failing to keep his tax records safe, after never bothering to release his financials ahead of any of the presidential elections in which he has participated. In the modern era, this failed casino owner is the only major candidate not to do so. The fear, it seems, is that if we ever saw the unholy mess this "deal artist" has made of his family fortune, we might not think as highly of his business acumen. 

Slide this right up next to his ongoing obsession with creating monuments to himself across our nation's capital. The ballooning estimates to complete the wreck he started by tearing down the East Wing of the White House in favor of a glitzy, bulletproof ballroom and bingo parlor continues to embarrass members of his party as well as confound even those who were sure he needed such a monstrosity. 

Right behind that is the very expensive spray painting of the reflecting pool between the Lincoln and Washington monuments and the Arc De Trumpf that will interfere with air traffic in the area, and you have the tip of the iceberg. 

What lies beneath is the destruction of our American economy. The war with Iran has done little to solve the unrest in the Middle East, but has made inflation jump to critical levels while the deficit grows not unlike the giant grasshoppers in a fifties science fiction movie. Billions of dollars are being spent each day not to achieve our diplomatic or military goals, but to keep firing missiles at another country's military that was supposed to be "obliterated." 

Once the Oval Office started to look like the bathroom, we should have noticed. There is no art in his deal. 

Medium Well

 There was a couple years there where I used to stand around in my living room with a plastic guitar strapped to my chest as I flicked a control bar with my right hand and maneuvered my left across a series of colored buttons. I was pretending to play guitar. 

I have mentioned here before how much I enjoyed Guitar Hero.  

On Medium. 

Like so much of my video game experience, I don't feel like I need to push myself needlessly to extremes. This was also the case with my masquerade as a guitar hero. Every so often a guest would appear in our living room and ask if they could dial up the difficulty. "Go right ahead," was my response, and I was frequently amazed by their prowess manipulating a toy guitar and following those rainbow dots that came streaming across the screen. On all those occasions, I never met a single "real" guitar player. Friends who played "real" guitar scoffed at the charade I had made my avocation. 

It was all a vast conspiracy created to get pikers such as myself the vague feeling of playing loud music, becoming a facsimile of a rock star in the comfort and privacy of my own home. Wish fulfillment in the most clunky possible way. 

Which is pretty much how I feel about AI. Like going to an improv show and having the performers ask, "Okay, give us a situation." Then, "Alright, give us a couple characters." Finally, "Now give us a bunch of funny things to say and do." 

Creating amusing videos to fill up your stream? Memes that you were too lazy to create yourself? How about give that bit of imagination you have an extra creative shove? No matter that the end product is the result of every funny bit created before it, but we'll just call that homage.

Not theft. 

My wife and I will soon be marketing our own version called "Novel Hero." Right from that same living room where you once pretended to play guitar, you too can be a "novelist." Don't have the time or energy to push yourself to near madness looking for that perfect sentence? Don't worry. Artificial Intelligence has your back. Heck, half an idea is better than no idea at all. And if you're more inclined to the visual arts, coming next fall, "Paint Hero." You don't have to be a Picasso, especially since we've already got all his best bits right here in a box. 

On Medium.