A Crack In The Ice

 What is the surest sign that a thaw is coming? 

A break in the ice. 

Not ICE, necessarily, but that's just part of the tumbledown of the once all-powerful Orange Wurst. 

On Friday the Supreme Court struck down the convicted felon's oppressive and periodically whimsical tariffs that had served as the backbone of the concept of a plan he had apparently dreamed up while taking one of his office catnaps. The highly touted one hundred thirty-three billion dollars raised from this tax on imports has long been described as a tax on consumers and not on foreign countries, but that didn't keep the Magical Misery Tour from rolling across the country spouting how other countries would pay. 

In a word, "no."

The Supreme Court, most of which was bought and paid for by the former game show host, gave him the same answer. Which must come as something of a shock to an administration that has up until now been rubber-stamped by the highest court in the land to do pretty much whatever came into its tiny, nasty collective head. Want to lock up brown people for absolutely no reason? Go right ahead. Want a new plane from your friends in Qatar? Don't mind if you do. Want to tear down a third of the People's House to build Barbie's Dream Ballroom? Sure, why not? 

At the end of the day, this is all about survival. Please don't imagine that somehow those Supreme Court justices installed in a rush by the adjudicated rapist have your best interests in mind. They'll still be able to buy the name brand of peanut butter. But what happens when the Awfulness finally recedes, and they want to avoid being removed with the rest of the cabal? The spine they seem to be exhibiting is merely a flex in the direction of keeping the job they are supposed to have for life. 

As witnessed twice prior, presidents can be impeached. Especially this one. 

And so can Supreme Court justices. 

Bye Bye Bobbie

 Hard as it is to pin down a "favorite role" of an actor who spent most of his career in "character" parts, I would have to go with Bull Meechum. You might know him better by the sobriquet The Great Santini. It was from this film that I snagged the phrase, "Hey, sports fans," when referring to innocent bystanders. It was also a starring role for Robert Duvall, who had spent decades showing up as the name just below the title. Or maybe even a little further down than that. 

Lieutenant Colonel Meechum won't probably make the finals for Father of the Year, but that was not the story. It told the story of a dinosaur stomping his way into a world that had passed him by, and the family that loves him in spite of the nasty roars and pointy teeth. This role was obscured for many by the much showier version Duvall played in Apocalypse Now, Lieutenant Colonel "Bill" Kilgore. You might remember him from his "I love the smell of napalm in the morning," speech. Very memorable, but not much of an arc.

Not everyone remembers that Robert Duvall was the original Major Frank Burns in the movie version of M*A*S*H. It seems that he spent a good deal of his career in uniform. As a cop or a military man, Robert Duvall's presence brought instant cred to most any movie in which he appeared. This might be his association with The Godfather and its sequel, which created a pedigree of sorts to which American actors could aspire. Having Bob around your set just added a little class to the production.

All that energy made it possible for Robert Duvall to extend his reach into smaller films, allowing him to win his second acting Oscar for Tender Mercies, the tale of a country music star who has left the big time. That was kind of the godfather, if you'll pardon the pun, of Crazy Heart, the tale of a country music star who has left the big time.  That one ended up winning Jeff Bridges a best actor Oscar. 

Of course, not all the films of Robert Duvall were Oscar Bait. Some were just straight up popcorn buckets, like Days of Thunder and Deep Impact. This would be expected from a career that spanned some sixty years. Mister Duvall lived to be ninety-five years old and his last screen appearance came at the ripe old age of ninety-one. How about that, sports fans?

To say that he stomped on the cinema Terra would be an understatement. There will not soon be another like him. Aloha, Robert Duvall. You will be missed. 

Punchline

 A very long time ago, in the scheme of things relating to my employment in an elementary school, I worked with a very nice lady who taught fifth grade, then second grade. She found her way to the teaching profession much in the same way I did: via the intern credentialling program sponsored by the Oakland Unified School District. She had come from the world of middle management, not unlike me, her experience being more corporate having spent years in the Hewlett Packard machine. Interestingly enough, she got her job through the same organization that recruited me. I suppose she figured if the partnership worked for me, it could work for everybody. 

And so we began a partnership, of sorts, with her classroom just a couple doors down from my own. When things went sideways, like another teacher being absent without a substitute or rainy day recess, her admonition was always the same: "Keep hope alive." 

This was some years ago, mind you, and I used these opportunities to lean on a bit that I had heard a comedian use once upon an even longer ago: "Keep Hope alive? Bob Hope is like a hundred and ninety years old, and he hasn't bee funny for a hundred and fifty of those. I think it's time we let Hope go." 

Yes, dear readers, this was a time when show business legend Bob Hope was still alive. He lived to see a few years of the twenty-first century, which I used as an ax to grind whenever anyone who was even slightly younger than show business legend would pass on. There were plenty of those. At the same time, I knew that she was reiterating a statement made famous by the Reverend Jesse Jackson, a voice that was familiar to me as well, but I could not pass up the chance to make some dark fun of the experience. 

Bob Hope went first, followed a few years ago by my friend and co-worker Brenda Mapp. And just a few days ago, the Reverend Jesse Jackson went to that big revival meeting in the sky. At least I'm pretty sure that's where they hold those things. Jesse was a civil rights leader with a passion to make things right. I know this primarily because my father was entranced enough by the Reverend to become a delegate for him at the 1984 Colorado Democratic Convention. In many ways, he paved the path for Barack Obama some twenty years later. His business was all about keeping hope alive. Jesse perhaps more than my father, but it was enough to leave a cultural mark.

One that would give me a sarcastic punchline whenever I needed it. 

My dad is gone too. 

And now I find myself asking you all to keep hope alive. 

Life is funny that way. 

Jesse Jackson stomped on the Terra. He will be missed. 

Eyes Of The Beholder

 The Olympics are on. 

The ones that take place during the winter: skiing, bobsled, luge, and plenty of ice skating. I read somewhere that this kind of thing takes place very four years or so. Recently the powers that be in Olympia, where such a things are determined I guess, decided to move the summer version of this sporting Cavalcade up by two years so some version of the Olympiad will take place every two years in an alternating fashion.

This means the swimming and running and basketball stuff will happen just about the time the average viewer wonders, "Hey, are the Olympics on this year?"

There is some sad news to report from the frosty hills of Milan, Italy where the twenty-fifth Winter Olympics are being held. Apparently there are some questions about the accuracy of the judging involved in certain events. Some of the contests have pretty clear outcomes, like downhill skiing. If you strap slippery boards to your feet and hurl yourself down a mountainside faster than the other slippery boarded speed freaks, you win. Contrastingly, there are a whole passel of events that rely on scores for style and grace which have been left to be argued about for the past hundred years or so. Like whether or not someone "stuck the landing" or if their music choice somehow didn't resonate with the finicky "experts" sitting at the edge of the rink. Lately there has been some discussion about whethere or not artificial intelligence might do a better job of discerning whose triple axle is better than whose. 

This sort of talk probably has its origins way back before there were machines that could do it, but memories of the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan debacle back in 1994 make it seem all the more likely that attempts to manipulate the scoring in figure skating are probably going on all the time. Only now the emphasis might not be on breaking your challenger's kneecaps to win the gold medal. 

All of which brings me back to the lack of patience we humans have with other humans. Leaving one of us in charge of watching a group of athletes to determine the outcome of any sporting event is a fool's errand. Referees, umpires, judges and officials of all stripes are the recipients of all manner of hate and ridicule based on their split second in the moment observations. So much so that have felt compelled to supplement their eyes and ears with electronic eyes and ears to make things "better." You can't argue with instant reply, but I'll be darned if we don't all give it a shot on a regular basis. 

Which for me begs the question: How much longer before we start sending machines out on the ice to compete so that there can be no question about the mechanics of the Salchow just witnessed? And why not fill up the stands with humanoid robots that won't boo and jeer when things don't go the way they had hoped? 

This is exactly the kind of thing that would keep Elon Musk out of trouble for a few years. 

Just sayin'. 

Sale-A-Bration

 For a while, there was a festival in the mountain town of Nederland, just up the canyon from where I grew up called "Frozen Dead Guy Days." It continues its celebration of "life" in the slightly larger tourist haven a little further up the road in Estes Park. This three day fiesta centers around the story of Grandpa Bredo, whose frozen remains were shipped to the United States from Norway back in 1989 to a cryogenics firm in Oakland, California. Eventually Grandpa was moved to Nederland, Colorado where he was cared for by locals. As much as a frozen dead guy needs care. It was in 2023 when the still very stiff Mister Bredo was moved to the old ice house at the Stanley Hotel, the inspiration for the Stephen King best seller, The Shining. 

So?

It was Grandpa Bredo to whom my thoughts began to wander as I approached Presidents Day. Most of these guys are dead. As far as I know, few if any of them were kept on ice. And yes, perhaps more to the point, these were all guys. Hopefully it won't be too long before this epithet needs some sort of inclusionary reworking, however it should be pointed out that I am one of those people who routinely refers to a group of people of various genders as "guys." 

Sue me.

But after years of celebrating the Best of the Best, Washington and Lincoln, it was decided in 1971 that we should acknowledge the dozens of guys who had held the office with the inclusion of such luminaries as William Henry Harrison, who only managed thirty-some days in the Oval Office before succumbing to pneumonia. If you're keeping score at home, he was the ninth in a series of chief executives of the United States, but even his stubborn insistence to brave the elements at his inauguration without a coat still doesn't qualify him as "frozen." Joe Biden loved him some ice cream, but his choice of dessert does not qualify him, especially since most reports suggest that he is still alive. 

Reaching Out

 This May my son will celebrate his twenty-ninth birthday. I expect that his mother and I will have something to to with that mark in his book. He will be three hundred forty-eight months old, so we may have to add a few pages to his baby book. 

Or not.

Over the past decade we have spent less time together on those actual dates of his entrée into this sphere. He has a life of his own, after all. 

But why twenty-nine, and why months ahead of the actual nativity? 

Glad you asked. I was out running around the city streets where so much of those earlier years prior to his twenties were spent. A mile or two to the east where he went to preschool. Up the hill to elementary school. Down the street to middle school. Over another hill across town to high school.  By the time he was in high school he graduated from taking the bus to driving his own car. On a line, those institutions could be visited in six miles. Returning to my running brain, I noted a vanity license plate on the back of a shiny black SUV. EKKA20. A birthday gift, perhaps. A prize for completing undergrad studies early. 

We helped our son buy his first car. Since then, he has bought, traded and swapped titles for any number of vehicles via his own wiles and automotive knowledge. I can say without fear of reprisal that I had nothing to do with those. Swapping cars with a neighbor for a weekend makes me nervous. My son has learned to negotiate and navigate the Department of Motor Vehicles, an entity I consciously avoid. 

So as our little boy rounds out his first three decades, I wonder what is left for me to give him. On trips to Target his mother and I still send him pictures of Hot Wheels and Nerf guns that we think he might like. He takes this all in with good humor and aplomb, as he charts his own course into the adult world that includes things like health insurance and appliances that just stop working. It is his parents who are now calling him for help. We try to make it sound better for us by reminding him to eat more vegetables or wear a raincoat. 

He's got this, but every so often the phone rings and my son will ask me for the tiniest bit of advice. I try not to spend too much time going on and on about how glad I am he called to ask me about whatever minor inconvenience has him stuck. I am the boy's father, after all. Why shouldn't I be impressed with the job his mother and I did getting him this far? 

Even if we didn't get him that Black SUV. With vanity plates. 

Glimmer

 My very thoughtful older brother sent me an article from what is now his, and what was once my, local newspaper. It came to them via a Professor of Philosophy at California State University, Fresno named Andrew Fiala. It suggested that the worst outcome of the "Trump Era" might be pervasive cynicism. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand metaphorically here today to suggest to you that this may be exactly right. 

As a lifelong cynic, I have always attempted to keep my underbelly slightly soft in the event of an actual need for human connection. I will say that potential weakness in my otherwise impermeable scoffing attitude has become smaller over the decade. I have been worn down with the seemingly exponential expansion of suffering among those who don't happen to have the same last name as the convicted felon and winner of the “undisputed champion of beautiful clean coal" award for the (checks notes) first time ever. 

Not that I was never capable of a high degree of snark before 2016, but there was always that secret wish to be proven wrong melted into my candy coating. I truly enjoyed the Obama presidency, coming as it did as a palate and spirit cleansing sorbet after the Bush years. And yes, when I cast my ballot for Kamala Harris in 2024, I truly believed that we were on our way to electing our first woman president and flushing all the rot connected to the MAGAts down the drain. 

Whoops. 

Since that last election, I have learned to expect disappointment from elected officials, courts and companies as Project 2025 has been taken as a literal handbook for tearing up the Constitution. Watching all of this, I find it difficult to come up with a different response that one hundred percent Grade A cynicism. 

Which is where I need to remind myself, and you dear reader, to remember that there still is an up out there. It is very difficult to find, but the protesters on the streets of frigid Minneapolis risked life and limb to kick ICE out of their city. 

And they prevailed. 

Each new voice from the right that begins to break ties with this broken shell of a dictator is a glimmer of hope. Each red baseball hat burned in rage and disappointment from the snake oil they were sold is a turn back toward reality. 

My older brother is not one to send out a lot of links and memes, so when he sends me something, I listen. 

I hope you do too.