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. 

I've Got Some Questions

 What's up with my wife's frozen shoulder?

Why does the stereo in our car short out on one side?

Is there a cat food that our cat will eat consistently?

How do I keep the kids at school from tearing up the playhouse we built for them?

Will I have enough saved away to survive retirement?

When will I find the time to fix the basket that holds our toothbrushes off the counter?

Do we really need all those board games?

What am I going to write about today?

These are all questions that should be in the front of my mind as I face each new day. Along with the proper length the grass in my lawn should be just before I mow it, I would much rather be contemplating answers and solutions to these quandaries. 

And many more. 

Instead I find myself preoccupied with these:

What happens if the United States leaves NATO?

What could we possibly gain from trying to take over Cuba?

Why hasn't any American been arrested since Ghislaine Maxwell for the horrors committed by the secret society of pedophiles run by the suspiciously deceased Jeffrey Epstein? 

What will be left of the White House when the Orange Worst is removed from office?

Why worry about school shootings anymore when we seem to have escalated to military strikes on schools?

What will be left of the world when my son and his generation are left with it?

How do I sleep at night?

Actually, I know the answer to that last one. 

Fitfully. 

Refrain

 I'm definitely getting old. I yet to fully embrace my father's weepiness. He used to cry every time he heard Stars and Stripes Forever. Or Amazing Grace. Or a car horn. 

Okay, that last one might be stretching it a bit, but as I grew up in that shadow, I was sometimes embarrassed by those displays of emotion and later I found that I could relate to them quite well. John Philip Sousa doesn't do it for me, but I do get a lump in my throat when I hear The Dropkick Muphys' version of Amazing Grace, and whenever I sing along with Mister Springsteen's Badlands I've got tears in my eyes at the end. 

"It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive."

My wife made a little framed bit of calligraphy that hangs over my desk reminding me of this sentiment. 

Because that's what all of that compressed joy is about. Feeling all the feels and holding on until it bubbles up to the surface. The wife that made me that nice memento will cry at just about any wedding. Reruns of Friends or The Big Bang Theory, it doesn't matter if she's seen them dozens of times before. Have a tissue ready for her. And you'll need a whole box if she goes to the nuptials of a friend or family in person. 

I will also admit that as I fill up with my own memories of fatherhood and domestic bliss, I feel that dam behind my own eyes tested. Looking back and remembering the way we were, or imagining how things might turn our for my son and his posse. They've started to marry off. And have kids of their own. 

In just a few weeks I will be going to see Bruce Springsteen in concert for the (checks notes) kerjillionth time. I will make a point of standing between my wife and my son who will be there with me. In my heart I know that my father will be getting all misty as he watches me sing along with the Boss. 

It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive. 

Awarding

 I understand that while I am calling for us all to rise up that I would pause the struggle for four hours on a Sunday night to stare at a group of folks who can afford to rent a tuxedo to sit in the Dolby Theatre, formerly the Kodak Theatre when movies were shot on "film," and pass out awards for art. 

Yes, I watched all of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences annual Self-Congratulatory Celebration of folks who, for the most part, can afford to buy themselves the Rolex they found in their Swag Bag. My mother raised me this way. She was the first in her little town of Granby, Colorado to read the newest movie magazines when they arrived at her parents' drug store. She sat me down at the foot of her bed late one night to show me something called "King Kong," and my life was aligned with her ever after.  

Throughout the seventies, eighties and nineties, compared notes with my mom as we filled out our Oscar ballots. When I moved to California, there were lengthy phone calls to discuss the way things turned, back when the show originated from the Shrine Auditorium or the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Bob Hope and Johnny Carson presided over the festivities and it never occurred to me that with all the horrible things that were happening in the world maybe watching a bunch of stiffs in formalwear take their bows for the performances they had made with the support of hundreds was a waste of time. 

Like the Super Bowl, it became a tent post, an event that marked the passage of another year. When there were "important" movies that had been stamped by the Motion Picture Association such that I would be barred form entry without a parent or guardian, I had a parent who would make sure I didn't miss One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or Blazing Saddles. 

Those were the days of Nixon. And the Energy Crisis. And Inflation. And the Middle East. Those were the days when I was at the movie theatre. Those were the days when I took it as a matter of pride that I had seen all the nominated best pictures. 

And I knew that the world was at a tipping point. Taking those hours away from worrying about Armageddon didn't seem like a bad choice. In fact, it made the whole mess just a little easier to take. When it was time to hand out golden statues for recognition of the stories being told on those silver screens, I was there.

I still am. There was some mild vindication in seeing One Battle After Another win the big prize. The revolution may not be televised, but at least I got to see it on the big screen. 

Not Me

 This is a story about a little orange hen.

The little orange hen lives in the ruins of the Big White House. He works hard all day long: He Plays golf. He looks for worms. He sits in a bush. And sometimes… He lays an egg.

The little orange hen has three friends: a cat, a dog, and a horse. These animals don’t work hard at all.

The cat likes to run his government and maintain alliances. The dog likes to maintain alliances and run his government. And the horse likes to Stay in touch with the country he governs and watch out for global threats. 

One day the little red hen sees what he believes to be a holy war.
“Holy War!” he squeals. “Yum yum yum! We can make a Holy War!”

The little orange hen runs to tell his friends.
“Guys! There's a Holy War over there! I can take the minds of all the voters off all my crimes!”

The dog drools. “No!!”
The cat licks her lips. “Absolutely not!”
The horse flicks his tail.  “What a terrible idea!”

“So… who wants to help me in this Holy War?” asks the little orange hen.

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. So he launches the missiles, one by one, all by himself. 

“Ok, now we need more missiles, and guns, and tanks, and troops,” says the little orange hen. “Who wants to help me get them?”

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. He goes all the way to the cabinet and gets the missiles, and guns. She goes all the way to the Pentagon and gets the tanks, and troops. 

Then he forgets to ask Congress, all by himself. 

“Who wants to help me blow up the girls school?” asks the little orange hen. 

‍“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself!” says the little orange hen. He pushes the button until hundreds of civilians are dead. Then he gently reminds us all that in war people die. 

He goes golfing.. Then he hosts a big dance party.  All by himself. 

(Tick tock, tick tock)
Soon there are flag-draped coffins coming from the war zone.. The dog can smell it. The cat can smell it. The horse can smell it too. They all rush to what's left of the White House. 

The little orange hen pulls a baseball hat with gold letters on it. He looks serious and sad. 

“So… Who wants to help me with this Holy War?” asks the little Orange hen.

“Not Me!” says the dog. 
“Not Me!”  says the cat. 
“Not Me!” says the horse. 

“I didn't think so,” says the little orange hen. “You would not help me make this war…  so you should have to help me fight it.” 

He runs away with the stolen Nobel Peace Prize and goes golfing. All by himself. 

I Saw It On TV

 When we elected a former game show host to the highest office in the land, it was only a matter of time before he started asking other TV personalities to come along in the clown car we call the Second Trumpreich. 

There was a time when Jeanine Pirro was referred to as a "former prosecutor and judge." These days she is called a "former Fox news personality."

And what a personality she is. 

When District Court Chief Judge James Boasberg tossed out the subpoenas Judge Jeanine had sent to Federal Reserve Chairman Jerome Powell she had what my mother would have referred to as "a hissy fit." 

The current Attorney General for Washington DC, Ms. Pirro, insisted that the judge's ruling, “has neutered the grand jury’s ability to investigate crime. As a result, Jerome Powell today is now bathed in immunity, preventing my office from investigating the Federal Reserve. This is wrong, and it is without legal authority.”

A government official "bathed in immunity." That's an interesting metaphor. Mayhaps a bit of projection on her boss? 

She finished the press conference by screaming at reporters who were there to do their job: asking questions. “Oh cut it out, do you know how many convictions we’ve—cut it out!,” she yelled. “You’re in one lane! We have cleaned up this city.” With the possible exception of the convicted felon and war criminal who is currently tearing down the White House. 

And those in his cabinet. 

Like another "former Fox News personality," Pistol Pete Hegseth. He was once referred to as Major. Now he's playing Secretary of War on televisions across our country and is in charge of blowing up Iran. His insistence on "Peace through strength" can be distilled down to its essence, "Peace through war." And all he asks is that we follow him on a crusade to the Holy Land and kill the infidels. Just don't question him. 

Of course this all began when we let a former slumlord and bankrupt casino owner trick us into believing that he was a great businessman and he could teach us a thing or two about business via a "reality" show on TV. It was a short hop from there to the Oval Office where he now issues edicts such as the following: “We have unmatched firepower, unlimited ammunition, and plenty of time. Watch what happens today to these sick and low-life individuals. They have been killing innocent people around the world for 47 years, and now I, as the 47th President of the United States, am killing them. What a great honor it is for me to do this!”

As governance goes, I suppose it makes great TV. As real life goes, they should be locked up. I am looking forward to seeing that. 

All We Are Saying...

 My wife was relating a story to me about her past: She remembers sitting in her elementary school cafeteria with her classmates when suddenly one of them stood up and announced that it was his birthday. "And I can't imagine a better present: the war is over."

The conflict he was addressing was the Vietnam War. 

This anecdote came to me on the heels of my wife asking me if "things" were affecting the kids at my school. The school where I teach. The "things" were the stateside reaction to a war that is taking place half a world away. 

It happened that she was asking on the morning after a particularly trying day in which several of our young charges had missed the mark of expected behaviors in and around school. What we were expecting was scholarly behavior. Safe, Champion, Helpful, Original, Loving, Awesome, Respectful. The near-fight on the basketball court came to mind. The stomping and cursing from the fourth grade class whose field trip had been rescheduled at the last minute. The third graders who took their chance to go on a field trip and embarrassed their class and teacher with behavior best described as "off the hook." 

Would any or all of that taken place on any given day at our educational oasis in East Oakland? Possibly. But tracking the range and severity of episodes, it occurred to me that I am teaching a generation that has never lived on a peaceful planet. The looming specter of terrorism is one that I am certain that the kids I teach do not consider for a heartbeat. The World Trade Center came down a quarter of a century ago. These kids have never been to the airport without going through a metal detector. They have been on a heightened state of alert since before they were born. 

And now the guy who has made war on his own country is taking his show on the road. This didn't stop the deportations and the protests. It just gave us all something to fear while we should be busy being afraid of fear itself. 

I remember hearing those patriotic tales of my mother's youth, during the Second World War. Scrap drives and sending care packages to soldiers fighting across the sea. This is the same woman who told her oldest son that she would ride with him on his motorcycle to Canada if the draft came looking for him. 

Happily, the kid in the cafeteria where my wife sat more than fifty years ago got what he wanted for his birthday.