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. 

Drawing On Experience

 I was in the fifth grade when I drew my first political cartoon. Okay, I did not draw it on my own, I had a collaborator. It was a mildly vicious caricature of Richard Nixon standing atop a pile of rocks over a pile of voters who had been crushed under the Landslide Victory of 1972. Two things strike me about that time: first the hollow eyes my associate drew on our cartoon president were something that would stick with me forever. Second, we had no idea at that moment just how much scarier things would get over the next two years, leading up to the resignation of that Landslide Winner. 

Before that time, I had been an observer of politics, spurred on by my parents' liberal bias and my own skeptical vision of the world that featured a war in Vietnam and a two-term Republican president who had promised to deliver safety to those he referred to as "the silent majority." My family was not part of that group, nor was most of the city in which I lived back then, Boulder, Colorado. I waded in the headwaters of the tie-dye river that flowed through Chicago to New York City and west to the shores of that mystical oasis known as The Bay Area. 

Fifty-plus years later I find myself picking up signs that I have drawn myself to participate in yet another No Kings Day march. I realized as I picked up my marker to try and capture the essence of the convicted felon who has usurped King Richard the Crook as The Worst President Ever that I had never attempted to capture the visage of The Orange Worst. 

And those hollow eyes came to mind. Lifeless eyes. And I remembered how hard it was for me to comprehend that Nixon had been elected to a second term. With those hollow eyes. And how we had re-elected another crook fifty years later. Then I thought of all the life that had been strained from the eyes of all those crushed voters by both these "presidents." 

My avocation as an editorial cartoonist and op-ed creator began back in those dark days, and somehow I have found something to write and draw about ever since. Something is always out there, waiting to rear its ugly head. I suppose I should be grateful that currently evil is so easy to spot. 

And to draw. 

The Nobbling Of Nancy

 Nancy Guthrie.

Why don't we talk about her for a while as we wait for the Orange Felon to make up more lies.

If you have missed all the news about the mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie, it could be that the abduction of an eighty-four year old woman from a suburb in Tucson, Arizona is not on your priorities list. Maybe figuring out how to sell your own blood in order to buy a gallon of gas to drive to the store to pay for the groceries that cost even more than they did when you decided to sell your blood for that gallon of gas did has obscured your concern for the eighty-four year old mother of Today Show anchor Savannah Guthrie. 

Perhaps. 

Or maybe this "celebrity kidnapping" doesn't hold the same kind of panache as those "celebrity kidnappings" of the past. Like the Lindbergh baby. Or J. Paul Getty's grandson. Or Bunny Lebowski. If you're keeping score at home, it has been nearly two months since Nancy was seen. Law enforcement agencies including the local sheriff's office, the FBI, CBP and an army of volunteers have yet to find the culprits or return Nancy to her home and all those who hope and pray for her safety. 

A one million dollar reward was offered for information regarding Nancy's whereabouts. 

Savannah has given up her hosting duties, and stayed home from her network's coverage of the Winter Olympics. 

In 1963, Frank Sinatra Jr. was kidnapped at gunpoint and held for a few days until Frank Sr. paid two hundred forty thousand dollars to get him back. Junior's abductors insisted that Senior respond to them only via payphones, requiring Old Blue Eyes to go everywhere with a roll of dimes in his pocket, an affectation he continued until the end of his life. 

There are no payphones anymore, and since the current reward is five times more than the ransom paid for Frank Sinatra Junior, one might wonder how this will all shake down. Unless Nancy's kidnappers are hoping to finance their next trip to the grocery store. 

Stairway To The Stars

 I enjoyed my trip to the moving picture show. My wife and I went out to see the much ballyhooed Project Hail Mary last weekend. There was a certain element of peer pressure involved, since it seems that a great many Americans chose to go see a movie rather than doom scrolling as we await the next tick of the Doomsday Clock. The good news here was that the challenges facing science officer Grace were environmental and not human. The future in which he found himself was one of a dying sun, but with a worldwide collaboration to try and save the planet, not unlike the mission featured in Contact.  Or the one in 2001: A Space Odyssey and its sequel, 2010:The Year We Make Contact. 

Honestly, I do not want to spoil the experience for any of you who may not be as committed to divining influences in feature film, but Hail Mary has some baggage and isn't afraid to share it. 

One of the first movies ever made was science fiction. Le Voyage dans la Lune by George Méliès predates both NASA and Stanley Kubrick, and gives us a glimpse of extraterrestrial life long before Steven Spielberg thought of phoning home. Perhaps it was ironic that the hopeful can-do story of Hail Mary was offset somewhat by the preview we saw before the feature, Spielberg's "scary alien" movie Disclosure Day. I suggest this was ironic because, spoiler alert, embedded in the story of science officer Grace is a direct reference to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. 

Establishing communication with beings from another planet is not a new notion. Michael Rennie came to Earth seventy-five years ago to attempt such connection. Klaatu was here to foster cooperation with his race and ours, even if he had to make the Earth stand still to do it. Aliens put Amy Adams through a lot to teach her a language that she could use to move about in space and time. Drew Barrymore at five years old had a much easier time teaching English to an ET. 

When it was Ryan Gosling's turn to be the scientist faced with using all that knowledge for the betterment of mankind, he stood on Matt Damon's broad shoulders to do so. Of course, long before Good Will Hunting was solving equations at MIT Robinson Crusoe landed on Mars. Crusoe didn't make friends with a rock, but he did get to hang around with a space hippie named Friday. 

Again, I had a nice ride at the movie theater, and I would encourage those of you looking for a two and a half hour escape from the moribund existence we seem to be sharing currently to head on out to the movies. You might end up getting more than one movie all rolled into one. 

No Sale

 “Robert Mueller just died. Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!”

“Now with the death of Iran, the greatest enemy America has is the Radical Left, Highly Incompetent, Democrat Party! Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

These are the kinds of things that come tumbling out of the social media account of the alleged pedophile and convicted felon current occupant of the ruins of the White House. 

So here's my ongoing wondering: This is what his handlers allow to escape into the world. What sort of vile things must be lurking just below that thin veneer of what might be considered respectful? We have been made to understand that this is the calling card of the Orange Worst, "telling it like it is." Then leave it to Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson to sort out via the tried and not so true phrase, "What the president meant was..."

Sorry, but there doesn't seem to be any sort of adequate filter for wishing death on one's political rivals. That's just "how it is." Let the lamestream media and bleeding heart liberals figure it out for themselves. While we're at it, let's back up the family truckster just briefly to examine the "death of Iran" lead-in. What used to give us all pause here in the United States were the protesters in other countries shouting "Death to America." 

The business of this current administration is being carried out late at night via social media in between rushed interactions on the way to or from his golf club in southern Florida. The interest this nominally human has in being seen as a wartime "president" is all but obscured by the pictures of him on the golf course. Gas prices have risen thirty percent in just two weeks, while the pointy heads who are trying to solve the crisis of faith in the Department of Homeland Security have suggested sending ICE officers in to take over the places of TSA officers who are quitting in droves. There is no difference between the frying pan and the fire. Putting a bunch of poorly trained armed goons in charge of passenger screening at airports is an accident waiting to happen. 

Just Karoline Leavitt and Mike Johnson standing up and trying to make sense of it all for us. 

Sorry. No sale. 

This former game show host is as morally bankrupt as any of his casinos. If you're wondering how this guy sleeps at night, take heart: He doesn't. He's up tapping away on his phone. He waits until he's in policy meetings to sleep.