Come Together

 The guy who was my first manager at Arby's way back when I spent my gap year slinging roast beef sandwiches at an unwitting public had this little piece of non-beef related wisdom for me: "Don't go to college to party. It costs too much."

The following year I went to college and callously avoided his advice. These were the eighties, after all. I wasn't going to be stuck in my dorm room studying art history when it was Beatles Night at Bennie's Basement. Dollar pitchers all night long. There was a life waiting for me to live/destroy out there. What were grades but an arbitrary judgement placed on my by the man for some bureaucratic record keeping that was no true measure of the depth of my knowledge. 

If I had been that self-aware at nineteen, I probably would have found some other way to display it. 

Like protesting. 

No friends, I am sad to tell you that all that youthful idealism was wasted on my youth. I did not attend anything resembling a protest until after I had graduated and had all that time to pursue my political and social activism. 

Right about the time I sobered up. 

Which brings me to the youth of today. It seems that I am currently reading daily reports of youth unrest on our college campuses. Protests at Columbia University have brought the institution the kind of national attention that no administrator wants. A surge last week in antisemitism on campus and pro-Palestinian protests on and near campus have proved to be a focal point in our nation's fractured ability to "just get along." So much so that Rabbi Elie Buechler, associated with Columbia University’s Orthodox Union Jewish Learning Initiative on Campus, sent out this warning to the school's mostly Orthodox Jewish students: “It deeply pains me to say that I would strongly recommend you return home as soon as possible and remain home until the reality in and around campus has dramatically improved." 

Improved reality. Sounds like something I was working on when I was an undergrad. 

Or maybe they should bring back Beatles Night at Amity Hall Uptown. 

Where Will You Sleep Tonight?

 It would be great if we could elevate the thinking about homelessness in these United States. The number of conservative voices who see fit to assume that not having a place to sleep at night is a moral defect, a choice made by folks who just got tired of having a roof over their head. Very few of these pinheads are making these claims based on any actual experience. Instead, they pontificate from the steps of their summer cottages as they try to decide which bedroom they would like to muss up this weekend. 

Without the hyperbole: The town of Grants Pass, which has no public homeless shelters, effectively banned homelessness by imposing escalating fines starting at one hundred eighty dollars for those who sleep outside. One of the original plaintiffs in the case against the city had over five thousand dollars in penalties before she died. The United States Supreme Court is now hearing the case of the City of Grants Pass, Oregon v. Johnson, in which the justices will determine whether localities can criminalize homelessness by punishing those who sleep out on streets using tents, blankets, or even a piece of cardboard. The court must weigh if doing so when no beds are available violates the Eighth Amendment and constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

Maybe we should start with the level of ridiculousness this discussion entails. If someone is homeless, one expects that they lack the money to pay rent, or to buy a house, or to pay for a room. Fining these individuals is as crass as it is unnecessary. The city of Grants Pass Oregon began aggressively enforcing penalties for sleeping outside on public property, like issuing two hundred ninety-five dollar fines that increase to five hundred thirty-seven dollars if unpaid. Following two citations, the police could then find the homeless person guilty of criminal trespassing, which could lead to up to thirty days in jail and a new one thousand two hundred fifty dollar penalty. 

From people who have no money. The attorneys for Grants Pass argued that they were regulating the "conduct" of sleeping outside, not the "status" of sleeping outside. It was their assertion that  the government could criminalize homelessness, because it is not “a status like drug addiction” but a series of acts that can each be outlawed. 

There are more than half a million Americans who fit the description of homeless as laid out by this case. Breaking the law because they have nowhere to sleep. Human beings. Conduct? Status? Grants Pass has approximately six hundred homeless people living in their midst. Grants Pass has no homeless shelter. How can that be legal? 

That's One More Kid That'll Never Go To School

Eric Harris would have been forty-three years old. Would have been if he hadn't taken his own life after murdering twelve of his classmates and a teacher at his high school in suburban Colorado. His friend and partner in death, Dylan Klebold, was also a victim of the rampage. Dylan would be forty-two. 

It's an exercise in futility, but I wonder sometimes if there is a universe in which they were stopped in the parking lot of Columbine High School, disarmed, and sent to reform school or detention of some kind. Something that would have offered them copious amounts of counseling and time to reflect on their plans to become famous murderers. 

Once they were released, perhaps in their twenties, would they be rehabilitated? Could they have assumed a "normal life?" They might even have been able to get their jobs at Blackjack Pizza back. Some patient young thing could eventually have tumbled into their life, offering the chance for love that they missed as teenagers. 

By now, they would probably be settled down, with family of their own. Kids in high school. Eric and Dylan pontificating on how "it's not like when we were kids." Would they be able to use their troubled past to help this new generation find their way? 

Since April 20, 1999 there have been more than one thousand school shootings in the United States. Jaclyn Schildkraut, the executive director of the Regional Gun Violence Research Consortium at the Rockefeller Institute of Government would like us to know that school shootings with mass deaths are "a statistically rare form of crime." 

And yet, I can't help but wonder if Eric and Dylan would have found themselves on the side of gun control after their scrape with the law. A quarter of a century later, with the faces of all those kids burned into our collective memory, would we be in a different place if they had never started the fire? 

Twenty-five years ago, the elementary school kids I taught never had to experience an active shooter drill. Even though this kind of crime is "statistically rare," we remain vigilant. 

Even though Eric and Dylan have been dead for twenty-five years. 

Heart Burn

 Here is a little background: My father died as a result of burns he suffered when the small plane he was in crashed on approach to an airport in Northern Colorado. Because my father was a hearty soul and in pretty good shape for a sixty-one year old, he survived for several days after the accident. He was kept under sedation during this time because the severity of his condition would have been far too brutal to experience if he was awake. For those days, shortly before Thanksgiving until just after, the doctors and nurses at the University of Colorado Medical Center Burn Ward did everything they could to keep him alive. During this time, I wondered what the future might be like if he survived. What would his quality of life be like once he had endured all that suffering, rehabilitation, surgeries for repair and reconstruction? 

And it boggled my mind. 

He never regained consciousness. I was grateful that I had a chance to say my goodbyes at the airport in Oakland when he left. I was glad that I had a chance for last tag on his corporeal form at his bedside before he shuffled off to the afterlife. I miss him and I adopted a bias against small aircraft after his passing. 

All of this is prelude to saying that I don't care what Max Azzarello was trying to prove last week when he set himself on fire outside of the courthouse where the former game show host with more indictments than entire crime families is on trial for misuse of funds to pay an adult film actress to stay quiet about their adulterous hook up. Mister Azzarello was seen tossing pamphlets about just before he poured flammable liquid over his head and lit himself on fire. 

Was he protesting the proceedings inside the court? Was he sharing his paranoid views about something connected to current events outside? Making a statement about global warming? 

Don't care. 

My father died as the result of an accident. Dedicated medical professionals worked to save his life. For days. This guy showed up where the TV cameras were and took full advantage of the media. First responders arrived within moments and tried to save Azzarello, and he was rushed to a New York hospital where he passed away later that night in spite of all the efforts of all those who tried to save his life. 

Good riddance. 

I miss you, dad. 

What Is It Good For?

 I know, it's hard to keep track of what is happening across the globe when things are so very tumultuous here within our own borders. The Middle East is continuing in its near eighty year run of having some sort of armed conflict going on. Currently it is Iran and Israel who are shooting at one another, with the ongoing ugly mess in Gaza has been pushed briefly to the back burner. Those folks are in a tie with the Civil War in Myanmar, where a seemingly never-ending series of insurgencies have been taking place since the end of World War II. 

Then there's the war in Ukraine. A relative newcomer to this list, but they can lay claim to an eight year conflict that began with Ukraine's Revolution of Dignity back in 2014. The full-on Russian invasion of Ukraine began in February, 2022. You may remember that just a little before that Americans learned the Latin phrase "quid pro quo" as it related to the then US "president" trying to make a deal with the President of Ukraine. "I'll give you weapons if you give me help me get some dirt on my political rival." 

Since then, aid to Ukraine has been a political hot potato here in the United States, with many in the Republican Party seemingly happy to have Russia continue on blasting its way to overwhelming the recently dignified sovereign state of Ukraine. Now, with the rock in Israel and the hard place in Ukraine coming together to create a diplomatic conundrum that sometimes seems more like a game show than a policy discussion. The previous Speaker of the House, Republican Kevin McCarthy was deemed "unsuitable to govern" by members of his own party and removed from his seat. The unsuitable part was apparently that he was actively courting Democrats to collaborate on solutions to the country's problems. Like the War in Ukraine. 

So along comes Mike Johnson, deemed to be just the right amount of god-fearing conservative to fill McCarthy's chair. With an election swarming into this mix to make things even more confounding, Speaker Johnson has suddenly found himself in quite the pickle. Honor his party's increasingly bozo demands, or work across the aisle to find actual solutions to the country's and by extension the world's problems. “I think that Vladimir Putin would continue to march through Europe if he were allowed. I think he might go to the Balkans next. I think he might have a showdown with Poland, or one of our NATO allies.” 

What? This won't make Marge Greene happy. She's going to want to turn the Speakership over again until she lands in it. Or her favorite dictator wins the election in November. Then maybe we can look forward to the beginning of our won civil war. 

Sleep tight, America!

Youth Brigade

 Ah, youth. It gives me solace to know that the generation that is coming up now is ready to take the reins of not just this nation of ours, but of the world as we know it. Whether it is climate change or the crisis in the Middle East, these kids have the power and they know how to use it. Not content to sit idly by while their planet becomes a place where they do not want to live, they are taking to the streets.

Like the students from Mount Nebo Middle School in Payson, Utah. Were they trying to get their administration to take threats to student safety and promote gun control on and around their campus? No. Were they hoping to generate awareness about waste disposal and recycling? No. Perhaps they wanted to get more student involvement in grass roots political movements within their state? Not exactly. 

The walkout that occurred this past week at Mount Nebo was regarding the school's dress code. 

Okay. Fair enough. Let's stick it to the man. Nobody's going to tell me what to wear!

Except that wasn't the way it went down. The students who staged a walkout at the middle school were hoping that the powers that be would more strictly enforce the dress code.

To discourage furries. 

According to WebMD, a furry is someone who has an interest in animals with human qualities, and who sometimes dresses up as a cartoon-like version of an animal. According to the protesters, the school’s “furry” population is accused of biting, scratching, spraying air freshener on, barking at and chasing other students. As for the "powers that be,"  Nebo School District Public Information Officer Seth Sorensen explained the reports of students dressing as animals are “a little bit inaccurate,” saying students wearing headbands with ears are similar to students wearing bows and sports jerseys. Sorensen said dressing up is “just what students of this age do.” He insists that it's more about misinformation and rumors than real trouble. 

What do the real furries think? A local Furry named Strudel showed up to speak to the media, insisting that “School is for learning. It’s a place of education, first and foremost.”

And learning to pitch a fuss, apparently. 

Uber Alles

 The idea that a carmaker, a captain of industry, could become a leading voice for anti-Semitism in the United States is not a new one. Once upon a time there was this guy who revolutionized the creation and proliferation of automobiles across this great land of ours. He is generally considered to be one of the great American innovators. The fact that his company survives to this day and dominates the market for light duty trucks as well as sports utility vehicles and passenger cars is a testament to the tire track he put on the planet. 

Henry Ford was also considered by many to have been sympathetic if not collaborating with Nazis to produce German weapons and war machines leading up to what would become World War II. It might not be a surprise then to discover that Henry Ford, like many magnates of his era, owned a newspaper which he used to promote his world views. The Dearborn Independent, with its somewhat ironic masthead, produced such journalistic gems as "Jewish Power and America's Money Famine" and a series written by Henry himself called "International Jew." This was in the 1920s. Is it any wonder that Adolf Hitler was an admirer of Mister Ford? From Mein Kampf: “It is Jews who govern the stock exchange forces of the American Union,” Hitler wrote. “Every year makes them more and more the controlling masters of the producers in a nation of one hundred and twenty millions; only a single great man, Ford, to their fury, still maintains full independence.” In 1938Ford accepted the Grand Cross of the German Eagle, the Nazi regime’s highest honor for foreigners.

This is history. It is not a well-kept secret. And neither is the current reality of the "innovator" and "carmaker" who is currently attempting to force his ideals not just on the consumers of his "best selling car in the world," but to anyone who happens to stumble blindly into his somewhat newly acquired "newspaper," the once proud blue bird, Twitter. He is currently embroiled in a lawsuit that is bringing to light just how he goes about spreading his anti-Semitic rants through anonymous accounts while attempting to stem the tide of consumers fleeing both his newly acquired social media machine and the suddenly detestable car brand. Which may explain his eventual exit strategy of fleeing to Mars. 

But in the meantime, Americans could really use what he seems to be so very bad at selling: Electric cars and social media as a means of spreading connection rather than conspiracies. Alas, this doesn't seem to be where Mister Musk's path diverges from that of Henry Ford. Henry Ford was accepting medals from Adolf Hitler and he could still sell cars. 

Anybody want to buy a slightly used social media platform? 

Family Man

 A great man once said, "A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.” Keeping in mind that this was a fictional character whose greatness is primarily measured by those in the film history community, not the parenting workshop folks. 

Yes, the Corleone family was a close-knit bunch, and they were big into celebrations: weddings, birthdays, and the occasional christenings. The youngest son of Don Corleone eventually took over the family business, a multi- tiered affair with dealings across the globe. And he still found time to make his son's first communion and his nephew's baptism. The latter of which coincidentally took place while all the rival gangs were being murdered across the city, but that's the kind of multi-tasking it takes to be a Godfather. 

That was, as I said, fiction. In real life, when you do bad things sometimes you have bad things happen. Like when you cheat on your wife. Repeatedly. With current and ex-wives. And you have a business that involves all manner of ongoing possibly nefarious schemes. And sometimes your family life gets in the way of your extracurriculars. Heaven forbid they should keep you from your tee time. 

Or your depositions.

Or your many and varied courtroom appearances. 

So this guy, who has previously expressed his devotion to family in varied and interesting ways, like suggesting that "if she wasn't my daughter..." or cheating on his most recent wife and his most recent offspring. With an adult film star. Whom he ended up paying an exorbitant amount of money to keep her quiet, especially when he was trying to be not only a respectable family man but the President of the United States. 

Well, as it turns out, this second fella is not fictional. Nor are his legal problems. Like the hush money thing that went to trial this week, because the way he paid the adult film actress involved falsifying business records. Because he wanted to keep it secret. Kind of the way he has periodically kept his youngest son, Barron secret. 

Now this guy is complaining because he "won't be able to attend Barron's graduation." The good news here is that he remembered his son's name. Now, if I were a betting man, I might wager a considerable amount of money that this guy cannot name his son's school. Or his grade. Or his age. 

But since I'm not a betting man, I'll just say that I don't believe that Donald Trump is much of a "family man."   

Gettysburg Address

 Crimes? You want crimes? How about crimes against history?

When I was eleven years old, my family traveled across the country to visit historical sites, eventually landing in Washington DC, where we were immersed in all that city had to offer in terms of our past and our present and what would eventually become "the good old days." 

But first, we stopped in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. For those of you who are not familiar, this was the site of the bloodiest confrontations of the American Civil War. Over fifty thousand soldiers perished over the course of the three day battle. Anxious to achieve a victory north of the Mason-Dixon line, Confederate General Robert E. Lee pushed ahead into Pennsylvania in hopes of forcing a negotiated surrender from the Union. For historical purposes, we have generally referred to the Confederacy as "the bad guys" and the "losers" not just of this battle but of the Civil War. They were the ones who wanted slavery. 

The Union was led by General George Meade, who chased Lee and his battered army south again, but failed to surround them, thereby missing the potential Union victory. The US Civil War went on for another two years after that, with the Union eventually securing that delayed victory and slavery was abolished in the United States. 

I was able to take most of this in when I was in elementary school. One might imagine that a grown man, born and raised not far from the site of that piece of history might be able to assimilate some of this information, especially in preparation for a speech to be given on those hallowed grounds. But if you're a former game show host, twice impeached and facing multiple indictments, maybe your mind isn't fully on your history lessons: “Gettysburg. Wow. I go to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to look and to watch. And the statement of Robert E. Lee ― who’s no longer in favor, did you ever notice that? No longer in favor ― ‘Never fight uphill, me boys, never fight uphill.’ They were fighting uphill. He said, ‘Wow, that was a big mistake.’ He lost his great general, and they were fighting. ‘Never fight uphill, me boys!’ But it was too late.”

Sounds a little like the bloated sack of orange protoplasm might have missed the memo. Points for getting the city and state correct. And naming one of the major players. But this is the guy who would like to Make America Great Again, but he can't even remember what made America great in the first place. 

Maybe he should stick to selling bibles and sneakers. 

Rock On

 I don't generally do requests, but I got a text from a college friend that tweaked that nerve. That nerve that drives the word-linking process to the actual sitting down and generating sentences. He started, cleverly enough, with a link to a Bruce Springsteen performance of his song Ghost of Tom Joad. Tom Morello, guitarist for Rage Against the Machine appeared with Bruce in this clip, and it raised the question of guitars and noises made with them. From there, it was my friend's opinion that auto-tune is a "technology with great potential that has been abused horribly by subpar vocalists." 

I could not argue with that viewpoint. But I felt more inclined to discuss the noises made with electric guitars. This was the guy who introduced me to Robert Fripp, Adrian Belew and all the wonderful sounds of King Crimson. It was his passion for six strings and his understanding of the way they could be used to make music that simultaneously crushed my dreams of playing rock guitar at the same instant the furthered my passion for the music other people were making. He showed up in this blog once upon a time before. See if you can pick him out. 

There are two profound memories of this man's guitar prowess that come to the fore in my mind: Him sitting in the hallway of my apartment, straddling the front wheel of a bicycle, plucking at the spokes in a contemplative re-imagining of the way Mr. Spock played his Vulcan lute. The other vision is that of lugging his amp into the bathroom of our freshman dorm, turning it up to eleven and watching the terrified faces of the boys reacting to the power chords he slammed into that tile echo chamber. 

Ultimately, he grew up to be a physician. Not a musician. Not professionally anyway. Which brings some of the same pains I feel when people watch me make cartoons. "Why did you give it up?" 

I didn't give it up. Neither did he. Those things slipped down the ladder to avocation. The talent to make interesting sounds or shapes does not die an easy death. On the contrary. They live on in our hearts and minds while our hands are busy writing today's assignment on the board or saving the lives of those who need saving. 

And when I hear that roar of a guitar, even if it's through the speaker of my phone as I remember that time when I saw it. I heard it. I felt it. In the hallway of my apartment. In the dorm bathroom. 

Auto-tune sucks. Rock and roll is forever. 

Return

 Three weeks is a long time to do anything. 

Three weeks, interestingly, is also a long time not to do anything.

Or something.

Specifically, the recent injury to my knee forced me to curtail my exercise regimen. The doctor told me that it would probably take "about three weeks" to recover from the sprain that initially had me limping about wherever I went, grabbing onto hand rails and making unfortunate sounds as I lurched from one spot to another. Having a week off school for spring break probably helped support the healing process, as well as eschewing the voice in my head that insisted that I really should be out there running. 

Somewhere. 

But clever me, I was able to show uncharacteristic restraint by restraining myself from trying to go out for a run before I was recovering from what I had initially assumed was the harbinger of my left leg being amputated at the knee. Finish it off. I'll figure it out. Just take it and I'll move on with the one good knee. 

I just did not want to have to go through the rehab.

And yet, there I was, a three weeks and a day after the initial injury, plodding along like nothing ever happened. Except for the choppy little strides I was taking and the challenge I was experiencing getting any sort of rhythm to my steps. The voice in my head that has always chimed in at the half-mile mark suggesting that I would be much better off sitting on the couch was righteous with indignation this time, but that was also right about the time that what I remembered about this running thing turned out to be true: I don't have to go fast, I just have to keep going. 

Which is what I did. 

Until I stopped. I took the brace off my left knee and didn't see any swelling or blood or bones sticking out. I was able to walk to the shower and balanced without any additional support. 

I was back. 

When Legends Die

 OJ Simpson's death is not breaking news. Orenthal James Simpson, The Juice, has been dead to me for thirty years. I understand this is a cruel assessment of a situation that had effectively nothing to do with me. But I made up my mind right about the time that Mister Simpson's life became a media circus that did not include football, rental cars, or limp attempts at acting in major motion pictures. All of that, prior to the low-speed chase that became the new media mode that would surround him for the rest of his stay here on Planet Earth. 

As a junior at the University of Southern California, OJ rushed for 1415 yards, scoring eleven touchdowns in a ten game season. For his effort, he was awarded second place in the race for the 1967 Heisman Trophy. The next year, he ran for 1709 yards and scored twenty-two times. In 1968 he was awarded the Heisman Trophy. This success allowed him to be the first selection in the 1969 NFL draft. He spent nine years playing for the Buffalo Bills. In 1973, he rushed for 2003 yards in fourteen games, becoming the first running back in the National Football League to eclipse the two thousand yard mark. After that high water mark, his production remained impressive for a few more years, but in 1977 an injury kept him sidelined for most of the season, and the next year saw him traded to San Francisco, where he played two more less than glorious years. In all those years, OJ Simpson played in a grand total of one playoff game with the Buffalo Bills, scoring one touchdown. 

All of which suggests that OJ was a great college athlete, and then played on some very mediocre teams in Buffalo who relied on him for his star power and efforts. Until he was unable to perform. But he was able to parlay his successes on the football field into becoming a celebrity spokesrunner for Hertz Rent-A-Car. He was part of the galaxy of stars who appeared in The Towering Inferno. He had a little part in Roots. He played a doomed astronaut in one of my favorite guilty pleasures, Capricorn One. Then after he was officially retired from professional football, his screen appearances were limited to playing a slapstick foil to Leslie Nielsen in the Police Squad Trilogy. 

By 1994, fame had slipped away from OJ Simpson. Then came the Trial Of The Century. If you missed the end of that one, one of the most expensive and coordinated defense teams in history managed to get the former football star acquitted. Which would have been sensation enough, but then he had to go and get himself mixed up with a bunch of thugs who needed his "help" stealing a bunch of sports memorabilia. For his part in this crime, The Juice was sent to prison for nine years. He was released in October 2017. Fifty years after his initial gridiron fame. 

Did OJ Simpson stomp on the Terra? Well, it's kind of a mixed bag. Certainly the mess he made was caused by all the stomping he did. Does he deserve to be remembered? I will go ahead and say yes, but primarily as a cautionary tale. Will he be missed? I'll leave that to you. 

Plan 9 From Arizona

 Greetings, friends. We are all interested in the future for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. Criswell predicted this way back in 1957. Back then we had only recently discovered the power of the atom, and dreamed of one day traveling to outer space. We hadn't even unraveled the mystery of acid washed jeans. There was so much out there to be imagined. 

Flying cars.

Personal jet packs. 

Dating apps. 

I remember watching Frankenstein 1970 right around the time I turned eight. And the movie turned twelve. In 1970. The major advance that the filmmakers were able to put forth at that time for the "future" was that the guy who once played the Frankenstein monster was now playing Doctor Frankenstein. Pretty fantastic, right?

That disappointment was nothing compared to the news that came out of the Arizona Supreme Court this past week. The justices upheld a law from 1864 that banned virtually all abortions. For you history buffs out there, this was a law that was put in place fifty-eight years before The Grand Canyon State became a state. Once the US Supreme Court blocked the 1973 Roe v Wade decision, states went right to work creating their very own frameworks. 

Arizona did this by taking a peek in the Way Back Machine. You might remember the Way Back Machine from the early sixties when it was featured in a series of cartoons starring Mister Peabody and his boy Sherman. Who would have guessed that this mechanism would become a tool for legislation in the twenty-first century? 

And how do you suppose this happened? Well in 2016 the Arizona Supreme Court was expanded from five justices to seven, all appointed by Republican governors. You might remember 2016. That was the year that a former game show host was elected president and proceeded to do everything he could to tear up the United States Constitution and install himself as the self-appointed savior of the land. Just before the global pandemic that killed millions of people while he worked on his golf game. And installed his own set of Supreme Court Justices. 

Then the flying saucers landed. 

Warning Label

 Judge not lest ye be judged. Those were the words, more or less, from the Sermon on the Mount. Pretty heady stuff. Which is why I was taken aback just a little when I heard this odd echo from my father centuries later: "People can be so judgmental." Not that my father was particularly Christ-like, but it did give me pause to consider the way I go through my life. I don't get out of bed without making some sort of judgement, rational or otherwise. Will this day be worth my time? Judgement. Should I feed the cat? Judgement. Shall I wake my wife up and ask her for a ride to school? Judgement. All of this takes place before I set one foot out the door. 

Once I am outside, the rest of the world seems to beg for my judgement. The easiest target is quite obviously the motorists who careen across the lanes of traffic as I make my way to my destination, seemingly oblivious to the rules of the road and my own careful example. This is only the beginning of my day. 

Which is why, once I sat down at my desk to take a look at the headlines I took notice of an article that stated: Mother Of School Shooter Issues Warning. You may remember from previous episodes that I have been following the story of the Crumbley family of Oxford, Michigan. Over the past two and a half years as the parents were brought to trial on manslaughter charges connected to their son's murderous rampage in November of 2021 at his high school. After being found guilty, Jennifer Crumbley issued a statement that read in part: “This could be any parent up here in my shoes. Ethan could be your child, your grandchild, your niece, your nephew. … Your child could make a fatal decision, not just with a gun, but a knife, a vehicle, intentionally or unintentionally."

Judgement time: No, Jennifer. It could not happen to any parent. Parents who do not purchase guns for their teenaged sons probably won't fall into this category. Parents who buy cars for their teenaged sons won't fall into this category, providing they don't simply hand them the keys without having them go through the necessary education and testing that is required to operate a motor vehicle. Parents who live in a country plagued by gun violence and continue to ignore the signs socially and maternally are much more likely to leave their son at school with the gun they bought him for an early Christmas present. The gun that was not properly secured. The son whose warning signs were ignored. 

Judgement? Yes, I have a bundle of them. And I apologize to my father who art in heaven for tossing them around with such callous disregard. But I also appreciate that he raised three sons, one of whom became a peace officer and never fired his weapon in anger. The other two have lived a life free of guns and knives, and to a fair degree, cars. You want another judgement? I think my parents did a fine job. 

Upon Reflection

 Discussion of retirement has become something of an obligation lately. Friends and family want to know when I am going to "hang it up." 

Having just enjoyed my week and a day long Spring Break, I have some thoughts on this matter. 

First of all, I am not good at "doing nothing." Not at all. Invariably I find projects or commitments that don't allow me to hold still for very long. A fine example of this was the day I spent temporarily eradicating my yard of acacia. The potential that my house and yard present as opportunities to expend a day's energy is certainly worth noting. When I think about the projects my wife and I took on in our "spare time" back in the day, it makes me wonder how I have lasted as long as I have. There is always something that needs to be trimmed, propped, tightened, loosened, drilled or removed. 

But is that really how I see my golden years occupied? 

The alternative, it seems, is to plan all manner of travel and visits to those in far flung places. And after all that gadding about, return to the place we call home and set to work on all the deferred maintenance that was missed due to the previously mentioned gadding about. 

So it seems that retirement requires that I spend more time working on my house and the grounds that surround it. Or I could spend a chunk of the money that I have been putting aside for lo these many moons to buy my way into a retirement community where all that deferred maintenance is taken care of by the people who are employed by the facility to do just that. 

Which begs the question, where do those people go when they have worked long and hard enough? 

Perhaps this is where I would spend those golden years: Thinking about how employees of retirement communities will spend their golden years. This and other universally confounding problems will finally meet their match once I have more time to devote to their dissection. 

Again, it might just be easier to keep on going to work. 

Heed These Words

 So most of you know that I write these bits days in advance. I like to keep a cushion just in case something should happen between the date I write and the date I post. This allows me the relative comfort of being able to miss a day if other commitments or technical issues come to the fore. 

That said, I hope you all enjoyed the Rapture this past Monday. I hope that there is Internet access left for those of us left stranded by the ascension of all those Christians who did their due diligence and repented ahead of the actual event. We were, to be fair, warned by such noted theologians as Marjorie Taylor Greene whose now eerily prescient Tweet: "God is sending America strong signs to tell us to repent. Earthquakes and eclipses and many more things to come. I pray that our country listens." Which is nice of her to give us all the warning about an astromical event that has been mathematically plotted and observed for hundreds of years, as well as the occurrence of approximately fifty-five earthquakes a day. And before you go and think that Marge has somehow switched her allegiance in any way to science, she followed that up with a reminder that God created earthquakes and eclipses, so her reasoning remains impeccable. 

I only wish that I wouldn't have scoffed at this dire warning from one of the nation's leading voices of reason. It was especially nice how she focused on Americans who need to repent just before a series of events that affect the entire planet, with slightly less than one third of the population who identify as Christians. Even here in America only two thirds of all of us identify by that label. I suppose this could be seen as a great recruiting ploy just ahead of Armageddon. 

Reports are still sketchy, but the guy who famously looked up from the White House balcony to stare into a solar eclipse and conveniently claimed to be god-fearing while living a life more along the lines of the seven deadly sins has not been heard from yet. 

Unless this turns out to all be a lot of hooey, in which case I'll be back to making fun of it all tomorrow. 

Marathon

 The past few weeks have found my wife and I in a variety of venues, watching a variety of artists sharing their thoughts and sounds and wisdom. It began with a trip to the Palace of Fine Arts. Now, some might quibble about the "fine art" of standup comedy, but we were there to listen to the mildly thought-provoking ramblings of Demetri Martin. It was his run-up to what he announced would be his new Netflix special, and we were there as part of his dress rehearsal. This meant we were not getting the "greatest hits" that some less-inspired comics might run through. We waded through his freshest bits. Some of them landed, some of them were merely chuckles and were noted as he checked the list he kept in a notebook next to his water bottle. 

This was just a few days before our appointment with Mister Springsteen. A very different experience, not merely in size but in reverence. There wasn't much new to see and hear in that basketball barn. That wasn't the point. This was what a friend referred to as "a revival meeting." We sang along to songs we knew by heart, and laughter came with tears. Among eighteen thousand of our closest friends. Had it not been for a peptic ulcers, this show would have stood alone at the end of December, but rescheduling landed it somewhere just shy of Good Friday.

Another week passed and now it was time for us to head on our to the local Jazz Spot, Yoshi's to see a concert put on by the cult favorite Squirrel Nut Zippers. We danced and swayed to the faux Dixieland stylings of this band of talented musicians as we sipped our overpriced cocktails and nibbled on sushi in a room that was by far the most intimate of the three we had entered over the past few weeks. I was taken back to a time when I played in a band myself. Not the rock group that I may have once aspired to, but to the Pep Band in high school. Playing trombone and blasting my way through brass renditions of music meant to promote school spirit. 

And then, it was over. This flurry of adult nights out came to an end. It made me remember when I always had a ticket waiting for me after the last show I had seen. Something for which I could look forward. It was a lifestyle that fit well in a world of a twenty-something who was only paying twenty-something per ticket. This was different. These were events that were expensive enough that they really couldn't disappoint. They had to entertain as well as inspire. No pressure guys. 

In the end, I am happy to say that re-inserting myself into that lifestyle was a truly fun and relaxing ride, but it was a reminder that all that stimuli was a challenge to my tired old nervous system. But it was three weeks of a reminder of the times I remember oh-so-well. 

Safe

 Went for a walk in the neighborhood on Easter.

Not our neighborhood. 

Our son's neighborhood. 

We took a stroll around the blocks that he calls home. He showed us houses that he admired. The ones he wished, in another phase in his life, that he might like to own. He pointed out to us the places where trees had fallen in the last storm. We saw streets that had been blocked by falling branches and debris. He pointed out a patch of land that had a story to go with it. Amid a sea of upscale McMansions, this one seemed to be falling into disrepair. Maybe it was haunted?

So we continued to wander, coming upon a house with a driveway full and overflowing with BMWs. Our son, ever the car enthusiast, spotted a guy coming out of the house preparing to get into one of the upscale autos. "Nice 328," he called out to the owner. The guy stopped, nodded and replied: "Thanks."

And suddenly I was ten years old again. Once more I was hostage to an interaction with a stranger about something I knew nothing about. My father, my son's namesake, was gifted with the ability to chat up unknown visitors that his grandfather used for decades in sales and being an overall bon vivant. I stood on plenty of curbs and in a lot of hallways as my dad connected with people he could add to his internal rolodex. 

My son was networking with the car enthusiasts in his neck of the woods. The conversation meandered into more model numbers and engine sizes and at some point my eyes began to glaze over as I shifted my weight from one leg to another, very conscious of the fact that I had an urge to pull on the hand that I was holding. Which was my wife's. When I was a kid, I would have tugged on my father's arm in hopes of dislodging him and breaking the spell of this encounter. 

We waited patiently for the young men to shake hands with assurances of connecting up at some point later to talk even more cars. When it was over, I felt relief wash over me as my stomach unclenched. I was an adult again. My son led us down a few more lanes and eventually back to his house where he made us some pasta and we relaxed and ate dinner on his couch. 

Safe at home. 

Late Night Habits

 I was one of those punk kids who actually preferred SCTV to Saturday Night Live. You read that right. I was one of those who stayed up searching the dial for what was, for the masses, that second string Canadian show that came on after the Not Ready For Prime Time Players were on their way out to whatever post-show drug fueled orgy were shuttled off to. The trick here was that the folks over at Second City TV weren't performing live. Or even on tape delay. They were cobbling together their little comedy show north of the border and churning out a consistent barrage of satire that was neither as "edgy" or "groundbreaking" as their counterparts in the lower forty-eight. 

SCTV was best when it was poking fun at the very medium in which they chose to to work. All those odd characters were just trying to put on the best show possible. Whether it was Johnny LaRue, as portrayed by John Candy or Lola Heatherton, played by Catherine O'Hara, or station owner Guy Caballero embodied by the late Joe Flaherty. Somewhere in there, as a tweak to the Canadian Broadcasting Company who insisted that there be two additional minutes of strictly "Canadian Content," Bob and Doug McKenzie sprang from the imaginations of Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas. All of  these bits were making fun of television, the very medium that was responsible for putting them on the air in the first place. It felt, in its polite Canuck way, a slice more rebellious than what was happening on Saturday Nights in New York City. 

Which is interesting, since so much of the DNA came from the same comic spores. Lorne Michaels, a Canadian, raided the Chicago cast of Second City for his SNL group, as well as snapping up many of the writers and performers from National Lampoon's Radio Hour. Toronto's Second City group was where many of the SCTVers came from, with the mild exception of Dan Aykroyd who served his apprenticeship in both Toronto and Chicago. 

Time has been more kind to the Canadian comics than those who chose the fast lane down south. No John Belushis or Chris Farleys at SCTV. Even though many of them found their way into Hollywood, the tragic ends of some of the Saturday Night cast could only find a faint echo in the early passing of John Candy in 1994. The rest of the gang continues to hang around, showing up just often enough for us all to say, "Hey. Isn't that the guy who..." 

Joe Flaherty, who will also be remembered by me as Sam and Lindsay's dad on Freaks and Geeks, passed away last week at the age of eighty-two. He played bits in Back to the Future, Stripes, and Happy Gilmore. He was "that guy." Hewas "that guy" for nearly fifty years. And while it wouldn't be too terribly Canadian to suggest that he stomped on the Terra, he was originally from Pittsburgh where that sort of behavior is expected. 

He will be missed. 

Nearer My Dog To Thee

 When I got up from the Great Padded Recliner at the blood donation center, I was feeling very alturistic. I had, once again endured the strain of having each arm stabbed with needles and squeezing a spongy piece of rubber with my left hand for two hours while sharing the gift of my platelets. 

The text came through on my way to the restroom just after I had been disconnected from the apparatus. It said that Sami was very sick. She didn't have much time left. Her kidneys were failing. 

Suddenly I was back in the autumn of 1985. Earlier that summer I had, in a fit or good feeling for my fellow man, sent off a check to the folks putting on the Live Aid concert. I was helping out those who were suffering from the devestating famine in Africa and for my act of kindness I was going to get a free T-shirt. In those interveining months, my friend and roommate died in a car wreck. When I returned home from his funeral, waiting for me in the mailbox was that T-shirt. On the back was the slogan: "This Shrit Saved A Life." 

I just didn't get to choose which one. 

Flashing back to the present, I stood outside the blood donation center, with yet another "free" T-shirt. A thank you for making my life-saving gift. But I didn't have any choice about who received it. Sami was dying. My good friend and constant reader was losing her doggie sister. She who had dyed her hair to match the auburn fur of her canine companion. She who had recently endured so much health chaos around her. She who had only recently lost her mother. She was now on the edge of losing her doggy soulmate. 

And there was nothing I could do. The T-shirt. The platelets. My prayers and best wishes. Sami was going to join all the dogs in heaven and I was left with the memories of crawling about the floor with her, as we built trust and a friendship of our own. Sami never stomped on the Terra. She was far too lithe for that. She danced on the planet where she was loved and cared for. She brought comfort and joy to those around her. 

And now Sami is gone. She will be missed, and I will think of her often. Especially when I am wearing my free T-shirt. 

Calendaring

 Okay. I tried to avoid writing about it. I set it aside for days.

But the outrage that exists in tiny brains cries out to be mocked. 

I am speaking to the outrage among "conservatives" who cannot hold their collective water because Joe Biden issued a proclamation declaring March 31, 2024 a National Day of Visibility for Transgender Americans. All those voices you heard this past Sunday screeching and hollering "blasphemy" because this President saw fit to take this holiest of holy days and use it to promote perversion and godlessness. One of those shrieks came from right wing nut Caitlyn Jenner: "I am absolutely disgusted that Joe Biden has declared the most Holy of Holy days - a self proclaimed devout Catholic - as Transgender Day of Visibility. The only thing you should be declaring on this day is ‘HE is Risen’."

You may remember Ms. Jenner as the star of her own reality TV show in which she portrayed herself, a proud (checks notes) transgender American. And, like so many other right wing nuts she callously drove right past the reality that National Transgender Visibility Day has been celebrated on March 31 since 2009, not just in this country but in nations around the world. It came about in the wake of a previously generated day of Remembrance for those who had been murdered because of transphobia. Why not celebrate those who are still among us? 

Except this year that date happened to fall on the same day as the well-traveled Christian rite of Easter. For those of you unfamiliar with the slightly occult process by which Easter lands, it falls on the first Sunday after the full Moon that occurs on or after the spring equinox. Somewhere right around the time the lamb's blood is drying on the doorways of the first born. 

Meanwhile everyone's favorite game show host out on bail is hawking bibles that include copies of the Declaration of Independence, the complete lyrics to Lee Greenwood's hit "God Bless The USA" and the United States Constitution. You might remember the Constitution as the place you find the First Amendment, the one that assures a separation between Church and State. History suggests that this guy probably doesn't have a solid working knowledge of any of these documents, so maybe that's why he figures it's probably worth sixty bucks for you to have one in your home. Even if he can't quote a single verse, or pretends to mumble his way through the Lord's Prayer. Do you suppose this guy knows when Easter is? 

The Old Man And The Tree

 I walked out into the back yard at ten thirty. The morning sun was warming, but I put gloves on to handle the tools I would need. A battery powered reciprocating saw, a pry bar, a sledge hammer, and a rope. The acacia stood in the far corner, behind the lemon tree it had been oppressing for lo these many moons. The acacia's top had come down a month earlier, the victim of severe wind and rain that had snapped off the highest four feet. It was now time to bring down the rest of the beast. 

Once upon a time we had taken down a small stand of acacias for the expressed purpose of sharing them with the giraffes at the zoo. A nice man backed a dump truck into our driveway and we loaded it up with limbs and leaves. It was our thought that perhaps we might have that experience once again. My wife called the zoo. They weren't taking any outside foliage. 

And so the acacia continued to grow. Until that tree-topping incident. Now we had a snag that was far more established and root bound than any of the others we had eradicated previously. 

My mind drifted back to those days in the mountains above Boulder, Colorado when I spent summers managing the forest that surrounded our cabin. Pine, spruce, and aspen by the cord. I learned the ways of the chainsaw and ax from my father who we lovingly referred to as Beaver. Now, decades and half a continent removed from those trees I faced my own challenge. In my own back yard. 

My wife was quietly skeptical about my ability to bring ten feet of standing wood down safely between all the other saplings and shrubs that we wanted to keep. I tried not to listen to those doubts as I set to work. I began by cutting a wedge out of the front, nominally facing the direction I had strung a line from the upper branches to a sturdy fence post. It was slow going because the wood was so young and green. When one battery was used up, I swapped for another, returning the dead solider to the charger. When I had gone through all three, I busied myself with the pry bar and sledge hammer. When they had done their work and there still wasn't a battery ready, I went out front to move dirt around for our planter boxes. 

Somewhere in there my wife made me lunch. I went back to work. She went to visit her mother. And somewhere in the late afternoon, after sawing and struggling and pulling and pounding, the acacia gave way. No longer vertical, it left a bright patch of blue in the sky behind where it had once stood. 

I looked at my watch. It was four thirty. Now I had a stump. And a horizontal acacia in need of trimming. 

My dad would have been proud.  

Back To His Roots

 One of the things I learned about the movie business before I really knew about the movie business came to me while I was working at a video store. Actually, working at a video store was my first true brush with show business, so there were plenty of lessons to be learned. The most apparent among them was promotion. 

A movie without a poster would not rent. Sure, there were those customers who would accept recommendations from yours truly, but your standard Friday night interaction started with "What's new that's good that's in?" Some people were clever enough to reserve those lightly sought after new releases in advance. How did they know about them? Primarily from the Point of Purchase materials that we had placed in the windows and in any spare space we had. Posters were good, but companies that were anxious to see their movies do well sent along cardboard standees that needed to be erected from their folded size to their full size to seven foot glory.

One in particular sticks in my memory: It was a beast of a thing in yellow and gold that featured the stars of the film Firewalker: Chuck Norris and Louis Gossett Jr. Released in 1985, this pastiche of Raiders of the Lost Ark and other swashbuckling type adventures was released three years after Mister Gossett's Academy Award winning performance in Officer and a Genrleman. What good did that Oscar do his career? Here he was billed below Chuck Norris in a feature that now boasts an eighty percent fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes. 

Please understand I was a Louis Gossett fan before he started berating Richard Gere. I had seen his work on television, most significantly as Fiddler in the ABC production of Roots in 1977. It took a while for the rest of the world to catch up to the talent of this hard-working actor whose credits went all the way back in TV and film to 1960. 

I knew how good an actor Louis Gossett Jr. was. So what was he doing on that gaudy chunk of cardboard that was never quite out of my field of vision every shift I worked at the video store? 

Stomping on the Terra. Breaking down barriers and doing his job. And being very good at it. Whether he was an offiecer, a gentleman or an alien from another planet, as he was in Enemy Mine, Louis Gossett Jr. brought it. 

He died this past week at the age of eighty-seven. That might be enough to get me to watch Firewaker. That's how much he will be missed. 

I'll See You In My Dreams

 Eight years turns out to be quite a long time. 

The last time I saw Bruce Springsteen, COVID had not happened. Barack Obama was still president. My mother was still alive. 

This past Thursday, I heard Bruce sing those lines from "Atlantic City," - Everything dies baby, that's a fact. But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

I burst into tears. All that grief and loss came flooding back in that moment and for the first time that evening, I was quiet. I felt the music take me away to a place where there was hope once again. 

And I thought about how much I wish that I had been able to drag my mom to a Springsteen show. 

All the music she shared with me for all those years: show tunes, operas, classical interludes, piano duets. And when it came time for her to listen to my music, she was as open as anyone could be. She was always excited to experience what her sons were excited about. I was able to convert her without ever getting her to a concert. Three hours of "earth-shocking, hard-rocking, booty-shaking, earth-quaking" rock and roll might not have been the best plan for a woman of her age. 

Yet, there I was, last Thursday night, standing in a crowd of men and women in their sixties and older watching a seventy-four year old man lead us all in a cathartic ritual of anthems and hymns to redemption. On the way in, I compared notes with my fellow attendees. My first Springsteen concert was in 1981. The guy I was sitting next to had me beat by five years. We welcomed a young lady in her forties to her first show. 

With the exception of those moments mentioned earlier, and the occasional comments shared with my wife, I sang along. As I always have. Because this was my church, and these were the people. The only thing missing was the steeple. 

The last time I saw Bruce, he and I shared a deep connection with our mothers. Time had recently changed that connection. Not severed, but altered. He sang songs about friends that had left and passed. I sang along. From my seat in the basketball stadium, I had a night of catharsis. And after all the big noise was done, and the encores were complete, he sent the band away and returned to sing one last song: 

Yeah, up around the river bend
For death is not the end
And I'll see you in my dreams

Who Is More Foolish, The Fool Or The Fool Who Follows Him?

 “Right now, a number of state laws allow a baby to be born from his or her mother’s womb in the ninth month. It is wrong. It has to change.”

“I could have banned TikTok. I had it banned just about, I could have got that done. But I said, ‘You know what? But I’ll leave it up to you.’ I didn’t push them too hard because, you know, let them do their own research and development, and they decided not to do it. But as you know, I was at the point where I could have gotten it done if I wanted to. I sort of said, ‘You guys decide, you make that decision.’ Because it’s a tough decision to make.”

"We don't even have teachers of some of these languages. Who would think that? We have languages that are, like, from, from the planet Mars? Nobody, nobody knows how to, you know, speak it."

“When you go into these new homes with showers, the water drips down slowly. You have suds.. beautiful nice wonderful suds. A lot of money. Proctor and Gamble. All that crap that they sell. It takes you ten minutes to wash your hair.”

“All I know about magnets is this, give me a glass of water, let me drop it on the magnets, that’s the end of the magnets.”

“When I listen to people talk about global warming, that the ocean will rise, in the next three hundred years, by 1/8th of an inch – and they talk about, ‘This is our problem.’ Our big problem is nuclear warming, but nobody even talks about it. The environmentalists talk about all this nonsense.”

“When you look at the people that are being allowed to come all over the world, they’re emptying their prisons. They’re emptying their mental institutions into the United States of America.”

“Eighty-two percent of the country understands that (the 2020 election) was a rigged election.”

“They want to make our Army tanks all electric.”

“NATO was busted until I came along I said, ‘Everybody’s gonna pay.’ They said, ‘Well, if we don’t pay, are you still going to protect us?’ I said, ‘Absolutely not.’ They couldn’t believe the answer.”

He's hawking Bibles now. Because the four hundred dollar sneaker didn't sell. 

Happy Day of the Fool. 2024. 

This Is A Test

 Here we go.

The big turn we take each year into the End of the Year: Spring Break.

When we come back in a week, we'll start all the motions that send a message to the staff and students that we are preparing to close up shop. This is nowhere more apparent than the preparations we make for our mandated state testing. 

Over the years I have become less agitated by the specifics of high stakes testing and more philosophical about the way we turn children into points of data after a year of treating them as individual intertwined successes and challenges, each one capable of so much in so many different ways, but lacking in others. But, sure as the days are getting longer and the pollen count goes up, we're going to toss them all into the centrifuge and see what the computer spits out. 

As the computer teacher I do my best to prepare our seemingly unsuspecting young victims for the onslaught that awaits them. We look at practice tests and take them for a spin in the simulations. We let them know that no matter how much we try to get them ready that week of sitting in front of a screen will most certainly have an impact on them. 

I'm not talking about "your permanent record here." I stopped believing in that a long time ago. Instead I try and prepare them for a reality in which the effort they put in will be expected and the impression that they care is what we are really looking at. It's those who idly click on random answers and finish in record time that upsets the whole apple cart. 

These are children, after all. They are part of the mass that looks up after writing a sentence and asks, "Is this enough?" They would like to believe that there is a bell somewhere that will ring, signaling time is up and they can move on to the next ridiculous task put in front of them by grownups. Or maybe recess?

But here we are all complicit. We know that the true measure of each student will not be found in those hours spent testing. It will come as a composite of all the hours spent in classrooms and on the playground and in the hallways and the cafeteria. 

But we still hope they do really well. 

Con-Sense

 My family and I drove across the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Maryland. Once. A long time ago. There was a small part of me that shuddered upon seeing the video of its collapse early Tuesday morning. A cargo ship lost power and crashed into one of the supports, bringing the entire structure down. Two people were rescued, and another six were feared lost as the connector for Baltimore's urban and suburban districts was gone in a matter of seconds. The victims were on the bridge. None of the cargo ship's crew were injured. 

It could have been much worse. Had the accident taken place during daylight hours. This branch of I-695 carried significant shipping traffic as well as commuters. Things could have been much worse. Which made me think about another bridge collapse a long time ago. 

When the Loma Prieta Earthquake struck the Bay Area back in 1989, the double-deck Cypress Street approach to the Bay Bridge pancaked, trapping motorists in their cars, and the Bay Bridge itself experienced a massive failure as a section of the top deck broke and fell down on the lower. Forty-two people died at the Cypress site, only one died as result of the Bay Bridge collapse. This loss of life would have been far greater had there not been a World Series game taking place in San Francisco at the time. People altered their commutes to avoid traffic or missing any part of the game between the Giants and the Athletics. 

That was in another time. No one suggested that the deep state was somehow to blame for the tragedy. No one claimed that government agencies had plotted together to make something happen to its own citizens. 

Welcome to 2024, when every catastrophe has a conspiracy lining. Utah State Representative Phil Lyman had this to say: "This is what happens when you have governors who prioritize diversity over the wellbeing and security of citizens." You would not be alone if you were left scratching your head in wonder about this assertion. Speaking of heads, the pointy heads that come up with this kind of malarkey have also suggested that Boeing's recent trouble has everything to do with Diversity, Equity and Inclusion and not corporate greed. 

Of course, they might have taken the opportunity to connect the once upon a time trip the author of this lefty blog took to the events in Maryland. That makes about as much sense. With apologies to sense. 

Down But Not Out

 I hurt my leg last Friday.

I did it bowling. 

Yes it hurts. 

For a while this past week I felt that I should get those three phrases printed on a T-shirt for me to wear in order to some of the caring but institutionally redundant questions about the brace on my left knee. The concern was legitimate, but over the course of a trip down a hallway I would be asked a dozen different times by a dozen different people, old and young about the limp I was showing as I hobbled from place to place. Several times, because of the attention span of your standard elementary school age child, I would answer the same questions from one bright upturned face just steps away from where I had given the exact same answers. 

All of which speaks to the relative excitement generated by the smallest tweak in Elementary School Reality. Most often this is found in the reactions students have to haircuts. Over the weekend someone shows up with bangs, or a fade, it's big news. And seemingly everlasting torment for the child who was simply trying to improve their personal grooming. 

As for my knee, it's kind of an old story. It's the same one that I wrecked nearly forty years ago by jumping out of a swing. That cautionary tale was apparently not enough to get me to consider just how vigorous I needed to be when it came to our faculty bowling night. When I woke up the morning after, the stabbing pain I felt around my tibial plateau was a reminiscence I did not need. Nevertheless,  I persevered. I went to school, but left for an hour to go see a doctor. 

Put through my paces over the course of a brief but thorough examination, it was determined that I had a sprain. No permanent damage. Just a reminder of that once upon a time when I thought I was indestructible. 

I'm not. And now I'm paying the price for believing that I was. 

Every time I limp down the hall. 

Rules Of Engagement

 You know me and massacres. I try not to miss an opportunity to ring the "guns are bad" bell. 

There was a shooting last Friday that left at least one hundred thirty-three dead and scores more wounded. This was not the act of a lone gunman. The motive in this particular case was clear, a departure from the standard. And this one didn't occur in a mall or a church or a school in the heartland of America. 

It didn't happen in America. 

It happened in suburban Russia. At a concert hall, packed with people. A number of gunmen, as yet undetermined, burst in and sprayed the crowd with automatic gunfire. On the way out, the assailants set fire to the place, hampering rescue efforts and creating even more chaos. 

Firearms are allowed for private citizens over eighteen with a registered permit in Russia. Of course if the bad guys with guns are from Isis, originating in Afghanistan, those rules don't matter as much. Contrary to many of the U.S. shootings, officials were quick to make the link between the massacre and terrorism. The war in Ukraine is now in its third year, so government types in both Moscow and Kyiv were quick to point fingers at one another in spite of the Isis statement on Saturday in which they said the attack had come in the “the natural framework” of the ongoing war between the extremist group and countries they accuse of fighting Islam. 

You may remember Isis as the bad guys in the United States' decade-long slog through Iraq. U.S. intelligence types had been monitoring potential retaliation by the group after a series of airstrikes by Russia. These were not considered terrorist attacks. These were attacks on terrorists. These are the justifications made for killing during wartime. 

Meanwhile, over here in the relative calm of these United States, we continue to average a hundred men, women, and children dying from gun violence each day. Sometimes the motives are known. Sometimes the assailants are terrorists, or act like them. Russia doesn't tend to keep score the same way we do, but the last time data was extracted, they came in at about one tenth the number here in America. 

So we mourn the dead and wait for the day when the killing stops.

Everywhere.

 For any reason. 

Missing Link

 Looking back, I wonder if my life would have been radically different if I had participated in either the Boy Scouts or Little League. Certainly for many young men, these were rites of passage when I was coming of age. But not for me. 

The Boy Scouts were deemed unnecessary by me because of my participation in Y Indian Guides. This group was founded on the father-son bond, which was very strong in my family. My dad was invested enough to take all three of his sons with different tribes through this experience, and eventually became a big chief of cultural appropriation, wearing a feathered headdress and everything. My older brother was a Boy Scout. He was way into all the wilderness and knots and so forth. I was far too much of a homebody, not willing to spend weekends away from mom and dad to go out and pitch a tent. If I was going to do that, I would just as soon do it a few dozen yards away from the back door of our mountain cabin. Where the comic books were. 

It was that same mountain cabin that worked against any of us participating in Little League as well. We spent our summers tucked away in the woods, living that somewhat pioneer life and taking time out for practices and games with a thirty mile round trip each time would have done absolutely nothing for the isolation vibe we were trying to instill. I suppose had any one of us three boys shown a predilection toward baseball that my parents would have made the sacrifice. My mom was a champion room mother and both mom and dad were band parents in the extreme. They sewed uniforms and sold concessions at the football and basketball games. They showed up and turned out. They were devoted to their sons' extracurriculars. Baseball just didn't fit in that mix. I was, myself, prone to dropping the very occasional pop fly that might find its way to right field where I was inevitably assigned due to my almost criminal lack of ability. 

Which didn't stop us from playing a lot of softball down in the meadow. The whole family would amble on down the driveway from the cabin to the sloping green field where we would take turns bashing the ball that would eventually be retrieved by one of the neighbor dogs who made their way over the hill to see what all the fuss was about. We knew that it was time for a break when the golden lab who was our most persistent outfielder wandered off with the ball in his mouth to lounge in the creek. 

So maybe I didn't miss much after all. Maybe all those pledges and uniforms. And all that potential ridicule and hazing. 

Not that much at all. 

Long, Sad Trip

 Apparently there are a bunch of folks up in arms about the way things went down around the turn of the century at Nickelodeon Studios. For those of you unfamiliar, Nickelodeon is a cable TV channel catering primarily to younger viewers. Maybe you watched some of these shows: Drake and Josh, All That, Boy Meets World, The Amanda Show. A new documentary has brought to light a great many unsettling behind the scenes experiences that would not fit in the category of "safe for kids." 

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, making those funs shows for a youth audience was anything but safe for the kids who were manipulated and preyed upon by producers and other adults left "in charge" of this group of young people. All manner of harassment and unsafe work environment accusations are coming to light as the victims, now adults, are coming forward to shed light on the pitfalls and struggles of young performers at the turn of the century. 

But it's not exactly news, is it? My mother told me stories of the horrible ways Judy Garland was treated when she was just a little girl. A little girl with a dream of someday flying over the rainbow. Instead she was put through a mill and ground up until she couldn't sing anymore. Her onscreen pal Mickey Rooney wasn't treated much better, given pills and shots to keep him up and working, then more drugs to get him to sleep at night. And then the cycle would start right back up again. 

Then there's the story of Michael Jackson, whose talents were wrung from him all while being kept in isolation without ever being given a chance at a real childhood. Who or what he might have become if he had been allowed to live life outside the bubble created for him by his parents and his handlers will never be known. And it takes a special kind of torment to turn a member of the Mickey Mouse Club into the freak show that would become Britney Spears. 

Toss in a little Tatum O'Neal and Drew Barrymore, and you've got a pretty compelling case against children ever being allowed anywhere near showbiz. Ironically, Patty Duke's "coming of age" was on the big screen in the form of Valley of the Dolls, and what would have been Judy Garland's last film appearance. From which Judy was fired because "she couldn't keep up with the pace." 

What a long, sad trip it's been. 

Awful

 Change is bad. 

I am very unhappy that the closest In 'N' Out to my house is closing. It's closing because of crime in the area. The Taco Bell in my neighborhood is now closed to dine-in patrons. Only drive thru, thank you very much crime in the area. I can still drive not too far out of my way to get a Double-Double, and if the charm of Taco Bell was found in its dining area, I must have missed something along the line. 

So that will have to be. 

But now I understand that they are coming for my Chips Ahoy. According to reports, the bakers of one of America's favorite cookies are "reimagining their ingredients." 

Sorry folks, but I live through the New Coke debacle of 1985. This was back when Coca Cola was a staple of my bachelor diet, and when it was announced that there would be no return to "old Coke," it made me want to do something radical, like writing a strongly worded letter. Happily, before things got too far out of hand, there was Coke Classic, and then the final surrender to the relegation of New Coke to the stuff of nightmares and furniture refinishing. 

I retired from swilling Coke by the liter some time ago, and my peanut M&M habit was mitigated by substituting Chips Ahoy. Which his why this development stings. I bake my own chocolate chip cookies from scratch, so I know how they are supposed to taste. Not like Chips Ahoy. They are the McDonald's version of the cheeseburger. It is referential to the one you might make at home, but the vaguely graham cracker aftertaste and the chips are mostly there to break up the monotony of the cookie. They taste more like Chips Ahoy than they taste like chocolate chip cookies. 

Which is fine with me. Because that is how they have always tasted. Now some Gen Z executive is going to refine the cocoa and introduce Madagascar vanilla into my sea of sameness. 

Why? Aren't things confusing enough? It's enough to turn a guy to a life crime, breaking into Taco Bell dining rooms to have a cheeseburger. 

Depdendable

 You can stop wasting your time going to the cinema. There is nothing worth seeing anymore. That is if you believe Roger Ebert. “No movie featuring either Harry Dean Stanton or M. Emmet Walsh in a supporting role can be altogether bad." Harry Dean passed away back in 2017. M. Emmet Walsh followed him into forever this past week. 

No more movies. 

Which turns out to be okay. That is if you are currently scratching your noggin or stroking your chin about to whom I am referring, you can look forward to a list of more than two hundred television and film appearances from Mister Walsh, and another two hundred some from Mister Stanton. You would be fine starting with either man's oeuvre, but since M. Emmet passed so recently, let's begin with him. 

Any man who showed up with speaking roles in both Escape From The Planet of the Apes and Blade Runner must be onto something. Go ahead and toss Blood Simple and Raising Arizona on top of that. And he was the guy who tried to shoot Navin Johnson in The Jerk. There's only a couple hundred more to choose from, but this would be a career for just about anyone else. 

M. Emmet Walsh showed up in the late sixties. His first screen appearance was in Midnight Cowboy. He played a bus passenger. Very convincingly. He did a lot of television too. A rumpled couch of a man, he showed up looking world-weary and then just got more and more fed up. Whether he was a cop on the beat or a neighbor who had seen just a little too much, Walsh was the definition of a working actor. For nearly sixty years, he was "that guy" in movies and on TV that stayed just this side of exasperated. And then someone would push him just a little too far. Or not far enough. 

But Roger Ebert was right, as far as that dependability goes. Or maybe he was the coach, or the PE teacher who had stuck around a little too long. Not long on compassion, especially with that Jarrett kid. But I might remember him best for his portrayal of an addict in Clean And Sober, describing the anxious waiting for another fix. 

Still a couple hundred left to go. M. Emmet Walsh stomped on the Terra, and he will be missed. Tremendously. 

Born To Ride

 Ride bikes. 

That was an activity. When I was a kid in the suburban seventies there were many weekends, afternoons and vacations that were spent doing just that. 

We lived on a cul-de-sac so the concern about cars and other traffic aside from our two wheeled conveyances was minimal. Hours of my youth was spent on the banana seat of my Schwinn Stingray, pedaling from one end of the block to the other. My brothers and the rest of the neighborhood kids swarmed around me on their bikes, and we didn't need a destination. 

We just needed to ride. 

"Go outside and play," was a both a command and a suggestion. The actual activity that would fill up the rest of our day was yet to be determined, but since I had a couple of built-in playmates in my brothers and access to more than a dozen more once I walked out the front door, being alone was not a concern. But contrast, finding a moment alone was something that was at a premium in those days. Once I hit the front walk, someone was there abruptly, wanting to know what the day's activity was going to be. 

Ride bikes. 

Certainly this was the low end of the creative spectrum, but once we had all saddled up, there was plenty that could be accomplished aside from just rushing furiously form one end of the street to the other. There was Chase. And Bike Tag. And Cops and Robbers. All of these were made instantly more dangerous because of the varied level of skill among the kids who were playing. Riding a bike full tilt at another kid only to pull up short, skidding to a stop next to them and reaching out: Tag. Many times the simple physics of these interactions went awry and resulted in trips to someone's mom to administer a swab of hydrogen peroxide and a band-aid. Or two. That kid or kids would be champing at the bit to get back outside to show off their wounds with a peek behind that adhesive strip. They wanted to get back out there. 

To ride bikes.  

From The Inside

 In news that yours truly found significant, James Crumbley was found guilty. In Michigan last week a jury found James, the father of school shooter Ethan Crumbley, guilty of four counts of involuntary manslaughter. This was the second time a parent was found guilty essentially as an accessory to the murders committed by their children. The first was a few weeks back when Ethan's mom, Jennifer, was convicted of the same crime. 

The message sent here is that ignoring your child's homicidal attentions and intentions can get you into trouble. The old saw about how "we had no idea" did not hold sway here as the trial spelled out all the ways that the Crumbleys as a family mismanaged the potential of their son's murderous rampage. Highlighting this list would be the part where school administrators called the parents to an emergency meeting at the school to discuss the picture young Ethan had drawn of a gun and a person being shot. Neither of them told staff members he had access to a weapon, and they said they couldn’t take him home, citing a busy work schedule. This with full knowledge of the murder weapon their son had purchased just days before. 

At his sentencing, the youngers Crumbley had this to say: "We are all here because of me today, what I did. Because of what I chose to do. I could not stop myself," he said, adding: "My parents did not know what I planned to do, they are not at fault."

For his crimes, Ethan was sentenced to life without parole. His parents face fifteen years each not for pulling the trigger, but for making it a lot more likely. 

For his part, James Crumbley told his sister that he was going to make it his goal in life to destroy Oakland County Prosecutor Karen McDonald, saying that she was going to hell soon, that she better be scared and that she was done. 

Done. In the same way the Ethan's four classmates were "done" back in 2021? 

Something about rotten apples not falling far from a rotting tree. 

Speaking Their Minds

 Okay, after the State of the Union speech, there was a lot of talk about how we were stuck with the choice between two old duffers. Those same voices were the ones who marveled at how tough Joe Biden sounded. 

But you know what? I checked the transcript. Nowhere in the State of the Union address did Joe Biden refer to a "bloodbath" if he didn't win the upcoming election. Nor did he say that he would be a dictator if he did win. Not for a day. Not at all. 

The guy with multiple indictments facing him spouted this at a rally last weekend: “Now if I don’t get elected, it’s going to be a bloodbath for the whole — that’s gonna be the least of it,” he added. “It’s going to be a bloodbath for the country. That will be the least of it." The former game show host was regurgitating in front of a crowd in Ohio, trying to make a distinction about the auto manufacturing business but he couldn't find any better words than "bloodbath." Until he landed on this one: “If this election isn’t won, I’m not sure that you’ll ever have another election in this country.”

To be clear, Joe Biden has made a point of making sure elections in our country are safe and fair. He did not foment insurrection, starting a years-long delusion about how we count. Which wouldn't be so bad except for the legions of red-baseball cap wearing lemmings who lick up whatever bile he spews. 

And ask for more. 

Worse still is the fact that it is not just he rank and file rally-goer that seems powerless to resist the man who cheats at golf more than he cheats on his wives. Republicans in Congress continue to dance and dodge around any legislation that might solve the very problems that they insist are destroying our country. 

"For the good of the party." The Grand Old Party. The elephants whose memory seems to have failed them. The ones who seem to have traded in their jobs as legislators for full-time campaign shills for the man voted by scholars as the worst president this country ever had. 

Worst. Bloodbath. Dictator. Some of this really should start to sink in.