Sacrifice

 Welcome to that part of the year in which an alternate universe would find the felon we elected "president" being sentenced for his crimes. The conventional wisdom I suppose was that the prosecutors didn't want to run afoul of any of that "presidential immunity" nonsense, so they steered clear of putting a guy who was found guilty on thirty-four separate counts of fraud in jail while he was trying to run for the highest office in the land. The original sentencing date was in July, just days before the Republican National Convention. That didn't happen in this universe. Nor did it happen at any point after that. As a matter of fact Jack Smith, once seen as the pit bull who was going to finally bring the big orange blob of nefarious protoplasm down, dropped the rest of the bag of charges against the big orange blob of nefarious protoplasm.

I think of Bluto Blutarsky, before he became a United States Senator, as he wondered whatever became of the Delta he used to know. This is the Democratic Party, not given to stirring up a fuss or insurrection, after all. It is quite likely that a strongly worded letter will be written on behalf of those of us left with the wreckage of what we believed would be the big push to locking up the former game show host. 

And if that leaves a sour taste in your mouth, feel free to join the club. For those among us who believe the chief reason for Hannibal Lecter's biggest fan to run for "president" in the first place was to stay out of jail, this comes as yet another reminder of just how awful the scales of justice can be tweaked for those in a position to tweak them. 

For us, the furious, I offer you the solace of seeing Rudy Giuliani chopped up into little pieces and fed to the masses. Never mind that this is the fall guy for the "president elect." The guy who once organized a news conference at a landscaping company to insist that the 2020 election had been "stolen" four years ago is not in jail. But he has had his money, his cars, his license to practice law and just about everything else of value stripped from him over the past few months. 

Because he seems to be the sacrificial lamb. He's the one that got left behind when the circus moved on to 2024. I am incapable of feeling anything remotely like sympathy for Rudy, but I do wonder how he got picked to take the legal beating for the rest of those crooks. 

In another universe, Rudy Giuliani decided to dump everything and turn state's evidence on his old boss. Before he ever had a chance to run for office. 

Another time. Another place. Maybe another landscaping company. 

Cost

 Shortly after the smoke from the election began to clear, my son announced that he was going out to buy himself a new television. As mentioned her on several occasions, he is a clever lad, and he is capable of seeing the forest for the trees. In this particular version of that metaphor, the forest was the tariffs proposed by the "president" elect, and the trees were televisions. Made in China. My son understood the basic economic principle that tariffs would cause consumer prices to rise, since the taxes levied on imported goods would be passed along to consumers. And if you know anything about my son, it's that he is a good little consumer. 

I'm writing this in case you were one of those folks who heard that Felonious Monk and his gang of MAGAts were going to use tariffs on foreign made products and you figured he must know what he's doing. 

Spoiler alert: He doesn't.

But that didn't stop him from promoting this like it was some newfangled notion that will solve our trade deficit. 

Spoiler alert: It won't.

So much so that Walmart's Chief Financial Officer, John David Rainey, announced that once these tariffs go into effect prices on "certain items" might go up. "We never want to raise prices. Our model is everyday low prices. But there probably will be cases where prices will go up for consumers." Sorry folks, but the Walton family needs new shoes too, and they don't do all their shopping at Walmart. They've got to put bread on the table, and neither the table nor the bread is coming from Sam's Club. If you're paying a little extra to keep the Waltons on the Forbes 400 list, well I guess that's just part of doing business in the dystopian hellscape into which we are about to plunge. 

And it's probably only an odd coincidence that in that same announcement, Walmart is now rolling back DEI policies like they used to do with prices. I guess that's just the price of doing business in Felonious Monk's Amerika. 

No Thanks?

 It would be easy enough

to say "thanks for nothing."

To forget all the amazing things

that happened before

and since

and in spite of.

It would be easy enough

to say "thanks for nothing" 

as we wander through 

the impending doom.

It is a bigger challenge to remember

things like silver linings

or the dawn of each new day.

Sometimes it's difficult to recall

that all things must pass

when you're standing in line

or waiting for the light to change.

It's time to do the difficult thing

It's time to dig down deep

Be glad you're a live

to face another day

And prepare for the next

Thank you for reading. 

Out Of Reach

 "We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too."

I chose these words, not long ago, to highlight the indefatigable spirit of this great land of ours. I was echoing the sentiments of John F. Kennedy Jr. to remind us all what is possible when we set our minds and hearts together. We were on a mission. And yes, there were doubters, but we were coming together in a moment of strife. We did go to the moon. So many times that, for some, it became a bore. 

Fifty years later, we have a group of billionaires who, not unlike Charles Foster Kane, think "it would be fun to run a space program." The highlight of these excursions thus far has been taking the fictional Captain of the Starship Enterprise into outer space for real, and returning him to a massive fit of depression. Some might argue this is karma payback for all those times William Shatner, in the guise of James T. Kirk, thumbed his nose at convention and dared to boldly go blah, blah, blah. 

If it seems a little hypocritical of me to cast aspersions at Elongated Mush's lust for glory that is tied to the colonization of Mars, I can accept that. I can accept it because I will cop to just about anything that brings more attention to the fragile ego and overall creepiness of the man who never invented anything. He used his daddy's money to buy into growing concerns and acted like they were his ideas all along. 

This is why I was glad to have my favorite science guy and yours, Neil deGrasse Tyson make the following pronouncement on Bill Maher's show: “My read of the history of space exploration is such that we do big, expensive things only when it’s geopolitically expedient, such as we feel threatened by an enemy. And so for him to just say, let’s go to Mars because it’s the next thing to do. What is that venture capitalist meeting look like? ‘So, Elon, what do you want to do?’ ‘I want to go to Mars?’ ‘How much will it cost?’ ‘$1 trillion.’ ‘Is it safe?’ ‘No. People will probably die.’ ‘What’s the return on the investment?’ ‘Nothing.’ That’s a five minute meeting. And it doesn’t happen.”

Which, coming from a die-hard fan of space exploration myself, is still the kind of reality check that needs to happen a lot more often for puffy, arrogant know-it-all. Which reminds me of a quote from another great science guy, Isaac Asimov: :"Those people who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do."

Hey Elon: Go back to doing what you're really good at. Destroying Twitter and jumping up and down like a dork.  

Practice

 Okay kids, gather 'round the table. Let's all share the things for which we are thankful this year.

Crickets chirp.

A tumbleweed rolls by. 

Somewhere down the street, you can hear one of the neighbors drop a pin. 

This one is going to be extremely difficult. That's why I'm suggesting to look outward this year for the ritual that will be difficult on a day full of family and friends. You might even discover a previously undiscovered MAGA skeleton among your relations. 

"You know, having RFK Jr. in there will really help get our country's health back on the right track."

Or maybe, "I think it's high time we had a Department of Efficiency in our government, and who better to lead it than those two billionaires?"

You might even get, "I don't know if we gave Trump a chance back in 2016. Maybe we just need to be more open minded."

If these kind of conversation starters pop up during your holiday meal, feel free to do what I do whenever I see a Cybertruck anywhere in the world: Laugh out loud. Not just a "lol" but a full-on gut busting guffaw. One that might make the neighbors wonder if you might need to up your medication. As the freak show continues to assemble in anticipation of what will most likely be the most dysfunctional administration since the one headed by the convicted felon the first time. While I understand the impulse to mourn what might have been, please keep this foremost in your mind: Donald Trump has never won the popular vote in any election in which he has participated. The "mandate" of the people just isn't there. If that doesn't give you room for a hearty chuckle or at least another slice of pie, just remember Matt Gaetz no longer has a job. 

Signage

mace (noun 1) : an aromatic spice consisting of the dried external fibrous covering of a nutmeg

mace (noun 2) a: a heavy often spiked staff or club used especially in the Middle Ages for breaking armor

b: a club used as a weapon

mace (verb) : to attack with the liquid Mace

Mace (noun 3) : an irritant, used to drive people away and provoke unnecessary torment

Okay, with the definitions out of the way, let's talk bathrooms. Many of these meanings could and possibly will be important during this discussion. Let's begin with the election of 2024. You may be completely sick and tired of hearing about it, but there were a few bright spots. Sarah McBride became the first transgender person to be elected to Congress. Representing the Blue Hen State, ushering in a new age of equity and diversity in that august body. 

Sorry. I had to pause because of the sheer weight of the sarcasm inflected by that last sentence. 

Of course not. Suddenly everyone's concern went to the bathroom. The tired and ugly phrase "biological sex" was trotted out not just in an angry tweet or Facebook screed. This time it was a member of Congress who chose to make it her mission to cleanly avoid any discussion of gender and just plough straight into the hysterics about men invading "women's places." Her name is Nancy Mace. 

The representative from the Palmetto State decided to write a bill of her own to back up her position. Then she told anyone who would listen: “Sarah McBride doesn’t get a say. I mean, this is a biological man,” adding that McBride, "does not belong in women’s spaces, women’s bathrooms, locker rooms, changing rooms, period, full stop." Her plan, such as it is, invites the Sergeant At Arms of the House to enforce this petulant bit of legislation. It only took a few moments for the Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, to fall in line with that and issued a policy that he was going to use his "general control" of the facilities of the House to bar people from using bathrooms that he and his pal Nancy don't believe they should be using. 

For her part, Ms. McBride responded, “This is a blatant attempt from far right-wing extremists to distract from the fact that they have no real solutions to what Americans are facing. We should be focused on bringing down the cost of housing, health care, and child care, not manufacturing culture wars. Delawareans sent me here to make the American dream more affordable and accessible and that’s what I’m focused on.”

Sarah McBride will attempt to show us what happens when you bring a reasoned argument to a mace fight. 

People Who Need People

 I was, and continue to be, challenged by doing business with corporations and people and corporations who it turns out are people. I have struggled with the assertion made that ordering a new pair of work pants from Amazon is feeding the beast that is killing our country. I do not have a clever answer that tips the guilt out of that interaction. Clicking on a button that makes those simple transactions as easy as clicking on a button is hard to resist when you consider the time and expense of going to a real store and making that same purchase.

And not shoving more money into the overstuffed pockets of Jeff Bezos. 

Then there's the matter of our solar energy. Years ago when my wife and I chose to invest in the future of our planet by installing solar panels on the roof of our house, we picked Solar City to do the job. A local company that did a great job and made us feel like we were on the right side of history. 

Until they were devoured by Tesla. 

Suddenly, our troubleshooting calls were rerouted through a series of chutes and bots and real people were taken out of the loop. We were encouraged to try to find answers on the Tesla website which was much more geared toward selling visitors a new electric car than helping support owners of a product purchased by one of their subsidiaries. Worst of all, from my vantage point, the icon for the monitor of our system on my phone changed to that creepy satanic T that stands for Tesla and all the evil that it embodies. 

It was during this same wedge of time that I decided to join Twitter, seeing as how my blogs were such a hit with ten to twelve readers, why not take the opportunity to join a community where I could pass off my tiny bon mots as tiny modular bits of what you might find here if you looked. But Twitter gave me a group of fellow snarks with whom I could relate. 

Then came the dark times. When that same evil empire choked down that little blue bird in one gulp and turned it into a big black X. I told anybody who would listen that I was going to stick around and watch that house burn down around me. I watched as this purported bastion of free speech became a breeding ground for far-right parasites anxious to further their MAGAt aggenda. 

So last Wednesday, I packed up my metaphorical bags and left. I went to the much more tranquil cyberspread called Bluesky. Bye bye, Elongated Mush. So long ads for Bible Belt Buckles. Auf Wiedersehen Nazis. I don't think this is the kind of change that will make the world a better place, but at least my little corner will be a little less controlled by evil. At least that's what I want to tell myself. 

Learning

 As I prepare to wander off over the river and through the woods to my eventual Thanksgiving, I will try and set down the mantle of responsibility that comes with being one of the soldiers in the war against ignorance. I am one of those folks who stand by ready to correct the spelling of "restaurant." I can explain prime numbers. I know the three branches of the United States government. And how they work. 

It sometimes feels a little arcane, being a human hard drive, part of a meat cloud deployed across this great land of ours with the expressed intent of downloading my contents to those willing and able to sit still in front of me long enough to make a meaningful connection. Though it seems as though this was always my purpose, I had to grow into the position of oracle. Finding new and different ways to coax and cajole those shorter than me to stay interested in what I had to say turns out to be an art. All that time spent practicing turns out to have been a worthwhile investment. It's not for everyone, but the rewards I have gathered are the smiles I get at the end of the day and the fact that a former student of mine brought his daughter back to our school years after he attended my class because he remembered the lesson I had shared with him about being line leader. 

There are gifts along the way, and plenty of frustrations, but I keep returning to the promise of another chance to make a connection with those vessels ready to be filled with knowledge. 

Until someone comes along and tells me I should stop. 

The second Trumpreich comes with it a mandate, of sorts, to close up the Department of Education. This is ostensibly under the heading of curtailing all the "woke curriculum" being forced on the children of this not nearly great enough nation. Part of the way they hope to Make America Obedient Again is to make the Department of Education disappear. To do this, they went out and found the co-founder and CEO of World Wrestling Entertainment Linda McMahon. Why wouldn't the person who helped come up with the idea of fake wrestling be the perfect choice for taking over fake education? 

The incoming regime would like to "send education back to the states." Which of course is just a little ridiculous since this is exactly how the folks in Oklahoma have become burdened with the need to put bibles in all their schools. States have been setting their own curriculum for their classrooms as well as the standards by which their students are measured. 

See? I knew that, and I'm happy to share even more about it. But not right now. I'm taking a week off. 

Okay...

 There are plenty of ways to encourage prayer in school. The first one that comes to mind is pop quizzes. Not about religion necessarily, but their mere existence tends to get students to ask for intervention from a higher power. Much in the same way indoor recess causes teachers to request the weather machine to change its course or duration of any atmospheric disturbance that might keep the little darlings in the room for prolonged periods of time. We'll figure out that whole drought thing later. Please let these little creatures outside. 

The less popular version of this exchange can be found in Oklahoma, where Superintendent of Public Education Ryan Walters has decreed that there will be a Bible in every classroom and insists that his "Prayer for the Nation" be played not only to all enrolled students but to any and all parents who would hold still long enough to take in all that glory. Religious liberty, as the narrow mind of Mister Walters describes it, will not be infringed in the Sooner State. Nor will he allow patriotism to be mocked. 

Hold on, Mister Walters, because here comes some mocking:

The state of Oklahoma currently sits just one step above the very bottom of fifty states ranked by academic achievement. If you aren't clear on the way that works out, that means that Ryan Walters' state is forty-ninth. The suggested solution to this trend is to spend money on bibles, preferably the ones printed in China and endorsed by Lee Greenwood, and producing videos to be played for the empty chairs in their classrooms. This will probably eat into the funding that all those woke schools had planned to use on sex change operations for their students, but this is just the beginning of the return to the past by Oklahoma's educational system. 

The Bible, as regularly pointed out by those who have actually read the book (including the author of this post) is chock full of sex and violence. And a whole lot of outdated dogma. Which did not earn The Good Book a spot on the list of books banned by Oklahoma public schools. 

And interestingly enough, those very expensive bibles touted by Mister Walters come with a copy of the United States Constitution tucked neatly inside along with the revealed word. The United States Constitution which includes an amendment that promotes religious freedom and allows all Americans to practice their deeply held beliefs in private and in public. Unfortunately, coming as it does just before the constantly touted Second Amendment, the First Amendment of the United States Constitution provides a separation between church and state. And last time I checked, Mister Walters, the office you currently hold is one created by the state. 

Not by god. 

Stay in your lane. 

Don't Panic

 When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

When in a clown show, do as the clowns do. 

I'm not sure I can follow that last bit of advice, but I can try to laugh.

Because it might be the thing that saves me. And the rest of us. 

Reacting to the flood of absurdity pouring in torrents out of Mar A Lago (literally translated, "Bad Log") one could continue to rail and stress over each new announcement and proclamation. Please understand that I feel this is a completely natural reaction to the suggested appointments and policy directions espoused by the once and future "president." It is a certainty that a percentage of decisions made by the incoming regime will disappoint, nay infuriate, the sensibilities of the American public. Even those hardcore MAGAts will no doubt end up in a lather because of something that issues forth from the brain trust currently being assembled. 

Whether it is mass deportation or tariffs, the removal of fluoride from our drinking water or the abolition of women's right to choose, someone's going to be upset. 

Because I believe that is the intent of the Second Trumpreich. There's something for everyone. To hate. And becoming incensed at those things that get trotted out expressly for that purpose seems like a surrender to the powers that be. Not that any or all of the things I have mentioned are not worth being upset about. But now is the time to start preparing an agenda for the future. 

I am a big fan of democracy and its resilience. It appears likely that our nation's sesquicentennial will be presided over the occupants of the clown car, and in the same way that I white knuckled my way through the administrations of Nixon, Reagan, Bush and the first Trumpreich, I expect we will come out of the next four years with the pendulum swinging hard back in the direction we who are currently fretting consider correct.  This is how I plan to get through until 2028. Laughing at the absurdity and making plans for the future. 

The Bit

 I believe that many of us were on the lookout for a win. 

I know I was. 

The past couple of weeks since the election have been filled with the kind of news that makes rational people shiver. That rattling sound you hear is what is left of my shattered nerves. As the parade of nitwits continue to file into the Cabinet of the Convicted Felon, all hope may have been abandoned by ye. Ye know who ye are, right? 

Then along comes The Onion. You may be familiar with their satirical online presence, or even the once upon a time print version that first appeared back in the latter part of the twentieth century. Perhaps you have a favorite piece or article, such as "Rotation Of Earth Plunges Entire North American Continent Into Darkness." It should come as no surprise that when Jon Stewart began his stewartship of the Daily Show back in 1996, Jon cherry-picked an Onion editor to be head writer for his "fake news show."

For nearly thirty years, The Onion has been one of the darkest corners of the humor universe, and during this time they have continued to grow. Book sales and movie deals have been accompanied by cash influxes and ownership changes, but all along The Onion has continued to keep its edge.

And this all came to a head this past Thursday when it was announced that together with support from the families of Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting victims The Onion had successfully won the auction for the alt-right media empire that was Alex Jones' InfoWars. It was hoped that by doing this, the Onioners would be able to, in the words of CEO Ben Collins, make the former InfoWars "a very funny, very stupid website." 

The comedian inside of me wonders how the level of stupidity could be higher, but at the same time I have nothing but respect for The Onion's commitment to the bit. 

Smiles, everyone, smiles!

Born To Be Mild

 "They don't make 'em like they used to."

This phrase went through my head as my wife noticed the "New Mustang" zipping past us on the highway. "That's not a Mustang," she muttered. I agreed with her, and I was proud to have passed this sentiment along to her. Coming from a woman who still makes a little squeal each time she sees a Nissan Leaf on the road, it is a little surprising that she could maintain any kind of disdain for an electric vehicle. It is my conviction, and the one that I passed along to my bride, that if you've got in your head to make a fancy new electric car, come up with a fancy new electric name instead of trying to get us to fall for this bit of chicanery. A Ford Mustang is a relic of a bygone era, "Before the Motor Law" as Neil Peart once put it. A sports car. A muscle car. A beast that could only be made in Detroit during the 1960's. Preferably in red. 

But this is another age, and I understand that we are all making do with the reality in which we now live. Like in the mid-seventies when Ford unleashed the Mustang II. America was wrestling with an energy crisis, and the lines to buy gas went around the block. Something had to break. So they broke the Mustang. In two. After a period of time where cars like Camaros and Challengers started to bring back that big V8 feeling, the Mustang returned to a facsimile of its former size and shape. In red, even. But of course, this machine came with the asterisk of *fuel efficiency and the potential of purchasing carbon offsets to chase that climate guilt away. 

Then they went and did that EV thing, and I haven't been able to get past it. 

And apparently, neither has my wife. 

We are a one car family. That car is a pre-owned Toyota Prius. The fact that the Electric "Mustang" zipped past us in the fast lane may have had something to with the bad taste left in our collective mouth. Any latent drag racing impulses we might have were left behind us long ago. 

Which didn't keep us both from laughing out loud when we saw a Cybertruck ambling its boxy way out of the shopping center parking lot. They never used to build them like that, and they should probably stop right now. 

Home Team

 So, not for the first time, it occurs to me that my appreciation for professional sports may be misplaced. 

I was just reading how the repairs to Tropicana Field, those made necessary by Hurricane Milton, will not be finished until after the 2025 baseball season. The Tampa Bay Rays who have called Tropicana Field home since 1998. Now they will have to play baseball someplace else until 2026. 

So the Rays made a deal with the New York Yankees, losers of the most recent World Series, for fifteen million dollars to play their home games in the Yankees' Spring Training stadium. The minor league Tampa Tarpons (read that one carefully) will make "other arrangements" for their home games. 

This one strikes close to home for me, since the ****Athletics fled Oakland not because their stadium was destroyed by a hurricane, but by its ownership. The stadium in Oakland is most certainly in need of a facelift and perhaps even a replacement, but just up the road in Sacramento there is a minor league baseball stadium where the ****A's can play their "home games" until such time as the folks in Las Vegas get around to building a new ballpark in which they will become known as the Las Vegas Tax Breaks. The plot of land upon which that Vegas stadium will sit is the former home of (wait for it) The Tropicana Hotel. 

Millions of dollars are being tossed around at solutions to the problems of billionaires who own sports franchises. New stadiums spring up because the public and those billionaires demand their sacrifice. Meanwhile, the Oakland Unified School District languishes in yet another budget deficit. Talks about how to eliminate the shortfalls once again center on the "need" to close schools in order to save money. The money and movements made available to professional sports franchises do not exist for public education. That kind of money is reserved for the really important things. 

Like baseball stadiums. 

Maybe we could open up a few satellite campuses in Tampa or Sacramento and teach the kids how to fill out a scorecard. 

Go Ask Alice

 "The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. 'Off with his head!' she said, without even looking around." If these words sound familiar, you have perhaps recently been reading Lewis Carroll's Alice In Wonderland or maybe you have merely been living through the past eight years watching this loud orange playing card shouting his "policy" demands at anyone within earshot. 

It is difficult to imagine how Mister Carroll, the right honorable Deacon Charles Dodgson, might have chosen to depict the events of the past three presidential elections. The easiest answer might come from Chapter Two of Wonderland in which Alice describes her initiation into her strange new reality with the words, "Curiouser and couriser." How else to describe a playing card that not only speaks but insists on the decapitation of those who make the offhand mistake of crossing her path? 

Or an former game show host and failed businessman who somehow gets elected "president." Twice. And then proceeds to defame and debase anyone and everyone who manages to disappoint him in the most ridiculous ways? Virtually all of the characters from that first attempt at a regime have been kicked to the side, not so much beheaded as "you're fired." This refrain is as easily associated with the convicted felon of a "president"-elect as "off with your head" is to the Queen of Hearts. 

What is even more troubling is that in this sequel, we find ourselves unwillingly shoved through the Looking Glass into a land devoid of rational thought. Picking Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum as a pair to run the newly imagined "Department of Government Efficiency" for example. Or appointing The Knave of Hearts, accused of sex trafficking along with years of unwholesome conduct and resigned from the Senate just two days before a House Ethics Committee report was set to be released describing said unwholesome behavior. Appointing him to head up the office of Attorney General. 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

So much so that online accounts of Representative Lauren Boebert being named Secretary of Education became oddly credible. This new stratagem of putting porcupines in charge of balloon factories skips right past being Orwellian and straight into Wonderland. 

Remember what the dormouse said
Feed your head
Feed your head

Get Away

 Back in the nineties, another century, a comedian once suggested that a kid looked like the barber had sais to him: "Look, I'm going to try and cut your hair. You try to get away." I found this amusing enough to keep it in my bag of go-to bits concerning the tonsorial arts. I apologize to the comedy powers that be for not remembering the laughmaster who gave me the bit, but I deeply appreciate it. 

That said, I found myself reflecting on these words as I tumbled out of the three day Veteran's weekend and into the following week. But I wasn't thinking about the various hairdressing choices of the students I teach. There have been a number of confounding choices made in that arena, but rather I was considering the art of education as it stands in the early twenty-first century. 

When I was in teacher school, I was told over and over about how important it was to have a vibrant, captivating curriculum in order to grasp and maintain your students' interest. Many of us took this with a grain of salt, coming as it was from a series of overhead transparencies delivered in an evening presented to a group of us who had already spent the day in our own classroom, in desperate need of some sort of spark. We found it ironic, but it still reinforced the need to keep things lively. 

As the computer teacher, I was in good stead since so much of what was being produced at that time was in the realm of edutainment. Mario Teaches Typing. Kid Pix. And everyone's favorite, "the shooting game," Oregon Trail. I did not need to be particularly captivating. I just needed to keep those CD-ROMs spinning. 

Eventually technology caught up to me, and I found myself scrambling to keep things fresh. Then I took a detour into fourth grade, where I discovered just how terrifying it can be when a group of nine and ten year olds stare at you as you try and make long division captivating. For the record, Dracula's Mother Sucks Chicken Blood. Reading Charlotte's Web worked, and continues to work. Leaving you with another four or five hours to fill in a day with children whose worlds are infinitely more compelling and trauma filled than young Fern and her adopted pig. 

Sometimes it felt like, "I'm going to try and teach you. You try and get away." Finding new and different ways to trick kids into sitting still long enough to stuff learning into their heads is a never-ending challenge. This is especially true of those who come to school with a chip on their shoulders about school, placed there by the parents who had a less than satisfactory experience with education themselves. 

So we show up each morning with the intent of keeping it fresh, but all too often get lost in the ruts that living in a world run by a bell system generates. Nevertheless, we persevere. Each new success is celebrated. New ideas are welcomed like a full canteen in the middle of a desert. As we continue along the path to knowledge, trying not to lose anyone along the way. 

Only The Best People

 Here they come folks: The Best and The Brightest*.

The new and improved MAGAt administration is forming as we watch, and I facetiously cannot imagine a more competent and well-rounded team. 

Let's start with former Ambassador to the United Nations, Nikki Haley. She will not be returning to this or any post in the second Trumpreich. Even though she put her limited reputation on the line by making a late-stage endorsement of the convicted felon who was once her boss, she had already garnered his displeasure and was therefore ineligible for a cabinet level position. 

This position requires some groveling.

Like that of "Little Marco" Rubio. Little Marco has had the position of Secretary of State bestowed upon him by the tiny hands of the Orange One. Little Marco learned his lesson by running against his master back in 2016, and has had ample time to drink the Kool-Aid and get his mind right. He was one of fifteen Republican senators to vote against the Ukraine Aid package that went through Congress back in April. Look for the MAGAts to honk their diversity horn by pointing out that Little Marco will be the first Latino to hold the office of America's top diplomat, even as Latinos are herded into mass deportation stations. 

How about putting Kristi Noem in charge of Homeland Security? This is a comeback for the Governor of South Dakota who has years of experience dealing with border security what with all those North Dakotans sneaking down to catch a glimpse of Mount Rushmore. And we can be pretty sure that no recalcitrant puppies will be allowed into our country without the proper papers. 

An exception to the back-talking exclusion rule seems to be the "President" elect's Vice President, who will be remembered for his affinity for upholstery as well as his referring to his new boss as "reprehensible," an "idiot," and compared him to Hitler. Adolf Hitler. The fascist ruler of Germany during the thirties and forties. This position was famously left open by the former Governor of Indiana, Mike Pence whom the red-capped legions were (checks notes) ready to hang four years ago.

And the hits keep coming. I am not suggesting that ye should abandon all hope who enter here, but at least put your hope in a safe place until the fire and brimstone settles down a bit. 

*contents may have shifted during shipping but should be suitable for everyday use

Longview

 I am no stranger to losing. 

I had an older brother, after all. 

I say this not in any particularly spiteful way. As a matter of fact, hindsight suggests that the competition that I felt was natural between us turns out to be more of a delusion on my part than anything else. At the same time, this didn't mean that I wasn't often on the short end of the stick when it came to most of the trials that presented us. Again, if anything, my older brother showed some remarkable patience with me when it came to my need to try and assert myself beyond the bounds of our birth order. He had a three year and nine month head start and my best efforts to usurp that advantage were generally met with frustration. 

And then there was the kid down the street. The one who I latched onto as my best friend starting in kindergarten, but couldn't imagine leaving behind until I was in eighth grade. For him, the world was a staged version of Survivor before reality TV ever existed. Collecting prizes from cereal boxes, playing basketball on his driveway, board games of any stripe, and anything that might have appeared to include an element of chance became a way to impress his domination over me and most of the other kids in the neighborhood. I was his patsy. I worried that if I declined the chance to be humiliated in the contest of his choosing that I might lose my tenuous standing in the overall scheme of things on our street. 

What I never took into account at the time was the reason for this kid's compulsion to be in direct competition with his peers. Upon reflection, it seems that the distance between him and his older brothers were both more than eight years older than he was, leaving him little in the way of traditional sibling rivalry. On those rare occasions when his older brother would come out to the back yard to play football with us, he took special care to pound and humiliate his much smaller kin. I can remember one instance that ended up with the smaller one in tears, causing him to take a lap around the house and upon his return he suggested that we do anything else but play football. 

He wasn't there to be humiliated. 

However, it seemed that I was. And so for years I kept showing up thinking that I could somehow get the upper hand in some game or tournament. It never occurred to me that I was more than a match for him academically, and if his world was so great, why was he always hanging around my house looking for a handout of Snickers bars and Kool-Aid? Never, that is, until my world began to open up to kids with similar interests and backgrounds when I moved on to junior and senior high school. 

By this time, the challenges I had once felt between my older brother and I had dissipated into a much friendlier rivalry. A supportive version that brought me to where I am today. I don't mind losing so much anymore because I have discovered that on a long enough timeline, it all evens out. 

What a relief. 

The Cave

 There are few places on the planet more enlightened and forward thinking than Sesame Street. This is the place, after all, where they chose to deal directly with the death of Mister Hooper. In December 1982, rather than glossing over the fact that the actor, Will Lee, had passed away the folks at the Children's Television Workshop decided to mourn the loss of the neighborhood grocery store in an episode about loss and grief. The grown-ups came together to help Big Bird sort out his emotions about the departure of his good friend, "Mister Looper." 

Heartbreaking. 

But if you're looking for something really off center, one need step just a few years past mourning a beloved cast member and zoom in on the realization that after fourteen years of blissful ignorance, these same "grown-ups" could finally see Mister Snuffleupagus. After a decade and a half of simply ignoring Big Bird's insistence that he had a big brown fuzzy friend the size of a wooly mammoth, these enlightened New Yorkers finally opened their eyes long and wide enough to see the giant Muppet elephant in the room. 

Understand that I am not knocking the CTW or PBS or any of the powers-that-be for taking so long to reveal one of the most beloved characters on Sesame Street to the people who live on the street with this floppy Eeyore facsimile. It was a bit that played. "What do you mean there's a big brown elephant living on the street with us? You must be crazy, Big Bird." Cue sad trombone sound. 

But for fourteen years, Big Bird kept his feathers together while those around him treated him like he must be looney. Then, in just a few minutes of confronting the reality that had been there all along, Bob and the rest of the gang decided that "From now on, Big Bird, we'll believe you whenever you tell us something." Hugs and apologies all around. 

And this made it okay for everyone, including Mister Snuffleupagus, to live together in harmony on Sesame Street. 

I believe there is an allegory in here for us all to reflect on and share for the next four years. Reality is not always easily accepted by grown-ups. We're much better with death. 

Go figure. 

Evidence

 I watched a fourth/fifth grade confrontation unfold in real time thanks to the cameras we have mounted throughout the building. It happened on the playground during lunch, and the group of students involved seemed to be pretty savvy about where grownups tend to focus their attention during recess. 

The action began with a few girls lingering around the soccer goal at one end of the field. One of them broke away to rush to the cafeteria where we can only assume she was off to tell one of her "friends" about what was being said about. The "friend" came storming out shortly after, hands on hips, chin stuck way out. 

This entrance delighted the crowd of boys and girls who caught wind of this potential altercation and some of them were actually bouncing up and down in anticipation. This swirling mob continued to grow as the action moved toward the bathrooms. Progress stalled when the offended girl cornered the girl who was making the comments. 

There was no sound, but since this is where I actually made my way into what had become a fracas, I can tell you that the volume and the tenor of the discussion had reached very inappropriate levels. This is where and when the adults, including myself, stepped in. Layers of eager bystanders were peeled back until the central figures were found somewhere in the middle of all that blood frenzy. 

Disappontment rained down as the very heightened girls were escorted to the principal's office. 

The video only lasted a couple of minutes, but it told a tale that had been brewing for a week. Rather than accepting any of the advice given to them by adults, parents and teachers alike, the students in fourth and fifth grade seemed willing to sacrifice their classmates to the god of war. Fourth grade girls, it would seem, come from Mars. 

By the end of the week, after many phone calls and meetings had been made, the grudge seemed to be settled. But those images of how it all blew up will linger in my mind for some time to come. 

Signs

 I suppose I could blame myself. I don't have a lot of luck with yard signs. 

My wife and I did not choose to stick a metal stake in our lawn to support Kamala Harris, so maybe that's where this thing fell apart. Contrastingly, however, we did have a couple asking our neighbors and fellow Oaklanders to turn back the wave of recall elections stirred up by those who are unhappy with the state of affairs here in our fair city. Current results have called for recall elections for both our mayor and the county's district attorney. 

Pamela Price, elected in 2022, was swept into office along with a wave of progressive prosecutors looking to reform criminal justice across the country. A spike in crime has put the brakes on that movement in the East Bay. Turns out that maybe when it comes to crime, Oaklanders aren't as patient with reform as our liberal reputation might lead one to believe. 

Mayor Sheng Tao has experienced similar criticism after she fired Oakland's chief of police and California's governor was moved to send a phalanx of Highway Patrol officers to stem the tide of malfeasance. Add to that an FBI raid on her house as part of a scandal that has yet to be fully reckoned by anyone involved and the loss of the Oakland Athletics to (shudder) Las Vegas and you have the recipe for recall. 

Which is pretty tough news coming to an office who had just balanced an historically unruly budget and in the month of October, while those pro-recall voices were being echoed and amplified by yard signs on other people's lawns there were no homicides in Oakland suggesting that finally violent crime was on the decline. 

No matter. Now the city and county will be have to foot the bill for an additional election expected to cost in the neighborhood of ten million dollars. At a time when cash is tight across the region, including here at the Oakland Unified School District that is starting to make noises about closing schools again to save money. 

That sound you hear is the creaking of Oakland's politics and the seemingly impossible task of pleasing the profoundly diverse constituency and all of their interests. Loud enough, it seems to drown out the giggles of the people who seem to be the only ones making anything out of this distress: The makers of all those yard signs. 

Necessary?

 In a previous century, a very long time ago, I spied a T-shirt in a crowd at a rock concert that gave me a chuckle. It read, "Is Quincy Really Necessary?"

For those of you who were not alive/aware when this moment took place, there was once a television show, named for its main character, called Quincy M.E. The series starred Jack Klugman, late of Oscar Madison fame, as a Medical Examiner whose forensic talents made him indispensable to his local police force. Quincy was solving all manner of complex cases based on his experience with dead people. When there was no one else to turn to, the constabulary turned to the guy in the morgue. 

Which, for me, is where the humor arose. What sort of lame investigative force would one have to have in order to use the guy who deals with stiffs as your best and most trusted resource? Dead, as Doctor Fronkenstien would tell you, is dead. Cause of death? Sure. That makes sense. But the active rushing about town, car chases and the like? Leave that kind of thing to a really good cop. Like TJ Hooker. 

Now, at last I bring you to my point: What sort of Quincy does it take to unravel the death of democracy? Weren't we all watching it in real time? Didn't we all have at least a chance to participate? All of these pundits and talking heads doing post mortems on the most recent presidential election are possibly only marking time while they still have jobs. Those who are out there stirring a pot best kept for those we have only recently referred to as "nuts" are seemingly very anxious to uncover some kind of nefarious scheme that would make sense as to how things could have slipped off the rails for the Democrats.

It's really quite simple, and I offer up this clever bit as an analogy: Do you know why when you see a flock of geese flying in formation there is one side that has more geese than the other? Well, as it turns out, there are more birds over there. The geese on the long side happened to be MAGA. This is not rocket science, even though the incoming regime is bringing along Sissy Space-X. The other seemingly incalculable question is "where did those fifteen million Democrat votes go that were there from the 2020 election?"

You may not want to consider this, but every bit of math I can muster up suggests that these people did not vote. At least they did not vote for the Democratic candidate. More geese on one side. 

Is Quincy really necessary? 

Who's Sorry Now?

 I suppose many of you out there may be wondering what I thought or felt about the results of the 2024 Presidential Election. You may have come here Wednesday morning, hoping that I would have some solace or outrage for you. Instead you found me whining about the onset of my decrepitude. Maybe on Thursday.

Nope. 

You see, the reality of this blog is that it runs on the pre-digested thoughts and feelings of an obsessive individual. Hence, I write these things days in advance. Usually three. By the time you read my eulogy of Quincy Jones and yet another wide shot at Young Tucker Carlson and his lunatic ravings, you might be wondering what happened. 

Did I just straight up ignore how the United States as a squirming mass got in line to vote for the misogynistic, libelous, narcissist who used to have a TV game show? 

No. I did not. The words you are currently reading come straight from the early morning realization that we, as a nation, chose to give the convicted felon a chance to pardon himself and fully implement Project 2025, becoming the self-proclaimed "dictator on day one." The depth of this event will be felt over the next few months as the second Trumpreich lurches into action. All of those hateful, ignorant things that have been shouted form the stage in rallies across the country over the past few months are on their way to becoming policy. 

I don't blame Kamala Harris.

I don't blame Joe Biden.

I don't blame Donald Trump.

The blame lands squarely on us. U.S.

We elected the guy who announced years ago that he could shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue and his poll numbers would go up. Ignoring that warning and standing pat by letting him continue to "weave" his wicked spell over those he frightened and riled up was not, as it turns out, a good choice. Laughing at his antics while preparing a rational response was a bad choice. 

Who's laughing now? 

Demons

 Hey folks. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but stupid people have always existed. Like the genius who decided to glue that first square of toilet paper to the rest of the roll? They continue to exist, and it would seem that we are not supporting Darwin by giving many of these empty vessels their own shows on TV and other media. 

"I have never met a person who can isolate the moment when nuclear technology became known to man. So, where did it come from exactly? It's very clear to me these are demonic." Thus is the confused jabber that slithered out from the slit beneath Young Tucker Carlson's nose just a few days ago. It was part of a free-wheeling exchange with ex-convict Steve Bannon who resumed his podcast after being released from prison. Young Tuck's insistence of the existence of demons comes shortly after he shared an account of being "physically mauled" by otherworldly forces a year and a half ago. He claimed that he awoke scarred and bloody, with claw marks across his body.

The former Fox News Idiot was supporting his belief that "Nuclear weapons are demonic, there’s no upside to them at all, and anyone who claims otherwise is either ignorant or doing the bidding of the forces that created nuclear technology in the first place, which were not human forces obviously.” Which is not a series of viewpoints that I feel the need to argue with, until that last sentence. The forces involved in creating nuclear weapons were indelibly human. Finding new and different ways to obliterate is a time-honored tradition among homo-sapiens. Part of the way we prove our dominance over other smart monkeys is to pick up that jawbone of a tapir to club them into submission. 

Nuclear weapons just happen to live somewhere on the far end of the evolutionary spectrum from the jawbone of a tapir. 

Now, the next question might be, "Are there demons among us?" 

Sure there are. And many of them are former Fox News employees who have felt some inexplicable calling to the Word. Or maybe they just needed an explanation for that rough night they had a few months back and their spouses needed an excuse that sounded contemplative. 

Or perhaps Young Tuck is looking to take over for Robert Morris. 

Listen

 If you were to make a recording version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, you could make it a lot harder by using someone other than Quincy Jones as the Nexus. 

Mister Jones passed away at the ripe old and seemingly indestructible age of ninety-one. Over a career that spanned seventy years, he worked with just about anyone of note in the music business. And he made everyone with whom he worked sound better. Even the Beatles, whom he once referred to as "the worst musicians in the world." 

Which did not stop him from working with Ringo on his Sentimental Journey album. And supplanting Mister Starr's drumming with a studio musician. Because he was a perfectionist, artists trusted Quincy to deliver their best work. From Frank Sinatra to Snoop Dogg, Lesley Gore to Chaka Khan, Quincy Jones' influence is a mile wide. 

If the only project he ever worked on was We Are The World, he would be one of the faces on the pop music Mount Rushmore. If all he did was produce Michael Jackson's Thriller, he would have access to the throne. If all he had had ever done was write the music that would eventually play beneath the opening credits of Austin Powers - International Man Of Mystery, his greatness could not be measured.

He did all that and more. He was a film and television producer. He brought Alice Walker's Color Purple to the screen. Twice. And once on Broadway. He has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and was named one of the most influential jazz musicians of the twentieth century by Time Magazine. He nominated for an Oscar for the score for In Cold Blood. He ran out of space on his mantle for the Grammys he has won. Twenty-eight of them. Nominated for a Grammy eighty times. You can't win 'em all. But a pretty fair share. 

And now he's gone to that big recording studio in the sky. I'm guessing that the heavenly choirs will be just a little more in tune and sing with just a little more groove from now on. Quincy Jones stomped, sang, danced and paraded across the Terra. I would say that he will be missed, but you'll still be able to here him. 

Everywhere. 

Disintegration

 It does occur to me now that I have some decisions to make.

I have spent my adult life with those closest to me kidding about how "you'll never stop working, will you?" I chuckle, knowingly, and push the comment to the side. They understand something about me which I have not fully reckoned. 

One need look no further than this blog for evidence of just how correct this assertion is. What started as a lark nineteen years ago has become essentially an avocation. Eleven years ago I was interviewed for a documentary short about "megabloggers." At that time I said that the reason I kept on writing and writing was that no one had bothered to tell me to stop. 

Apparently, this is still the case. Which translates roughly into the realm of my chosen career. As yet, no one has come up to me and asked me to stop teaching. Part of my plan has always to be "value added." Sure, I can teach kids how to use computers and keep them from jumping off the top of the play structure, but I will also pick up the occasional rodent corpse and climb up on the roof to try and figure out where that last soccer ball went. As an elementary school teacher I have found that there is not much that is beneath me. This is how I believe that I have become invaluable. 

But to be honest, the last time I was up there, looking down on the playground, faces of children staring up at me, I heard their words more distinctly: "Mister Caven, what are you doing up there?"

Sixty-two years old, creaky knees and a growing sense of my own mortality at the top of a ladder that for some reason I seem to be the only person who knows how to use it. Plummeting from this precipitous height would probably not kill me, but the damage to my vintage frame would be significant. Perhaps enough to keep me from climbing back up on the roof.  

Because eventually I really should stop doing that. Like clambering up in the trees in our yard to mount our holiday lights, there will come a day when my part of this grand experiment will be that of consultant rather than the astronaut. As I find each time that I bend over to pick something off the floor, I discover that the ground has moved further away. I indicate this by making one of those not-so-discrete groans that have become more a part of my catalogue of sounds. 

Which doesn't mean I will actually stop doing any of these gymnastics. It just means that I can start to ponder how to cope with the appearance of those folks with the clipboards, wearing their sad faces and politely showing me the way to the door. 

Over? Did You Say Over?

 Election day. 

Finally. 

All that doom-scrolling and all that shock and all that dismay comes to a head.

At last. 

Except none of us really expects there to be a moment at which today's proceedings will result in a peaceful transfer of power. Four years ago, a new and despicable trend began to gain traction in this great land of ours: election deniers. It was an easy enough shift for many to make after the doubt that was sown by deniers of science in the wake of COVID-19. Those who were convinced that the pandemic was a hoax were easily nudged into the belief that a presidential election could be stolen. 

I was speaking to a friend over the weekend about about how quickly this flat surface became a slippery slope. I compared it to Richard Reid, the shoe bomber. Because this would-be terrorist decided to try and blow up a plane with the soles of his kicks, we have all been forced for nearly a quarter century to take our shoes off when we want to board an airplane. Because a former game show host and enfant terrible could not conceive that the second election he participate in would result in a loss, we have all been taken for a ride on the exception express, the one that says we can't trust the results of our democratic process. Because that former game show host can't do math.

Or understand science.

Or think of anyone but himself. 

So we sit. And we wait. For the storm to pass. 

And wait.

And wait. 

For a new day. 

Choice

 If you are reading this now and have yet to make your choice for who will be our next President of the United States, first of all, you must be new. Secondly, if you have been with me all along and perhaps been sitting on the fence thinking, "I don't know, there's so much good on both sides," then maybe you haven't been actually reading this blog so much as looking at the pictures. 

Ha, ha. Just a little Entropical Paradise humor there. This is the place where my thousand words tend to take up the space where a picture might be. For a sadly great majority of the past eight years, those words have been that of a warning: Warning against letting our country fall prey to the xenophobia and misogyny promoted by the big Orange Cabal. 

Which is not to say that I want you to simply vote against a convicted felon and his "concepts of a plan" to Make America A Dystopian Wasteland. I want you to vote for Kamala Harris, a woman who has spent her life working for the people. District Attorney. Attorney General. Senator. Vice President. There is an arc to her story that is precisely the kind that we hope to celebrate with our children when we tell them, "If you work hard and stay true to your vision, someday you could be President of the United States."

And let's be honest about just what that means: Taking over the reins of our troubled nation at this point will be a lot like being in charge of The Reconstruction after our Civil War. The divides that exist within our people and its institutions could not be more stark. But Kamala Harris continues to insist that those things that threaten to tear us apart are insignificant compared to those that bring us together. 

This is what I believe. This is what I believe Kamala Harris can do for our less-than-united states. The American Dream belongs to all of us, and yes it needs to be made available to those who seek to become a part of it. The contributions of black, brown, Muslim, female, LGBTQ+, left, right, white, red and blue are all significant and need to be brought together not in a literal snapshot of what our founding fathers imagined two hundred forty-eight years ago, but a living, moving panorama of possibility. 

We won't go back. 

Nor should we. 

As the poets from Akron once urged us, "It's time to go forward, move ahead, and give the past a slip."

Vote as if your life depended it on it. And your children's life. 

And your cat's. 

Whose Idea Was This?

 "I've got it!"

"What is it this time?"

"The perfect photo op."

"That's what you said about getting him into an apron inside a closed McDonald's and having him pretend to make french fries."

"No really. This one's going to be a huge hit."

"It had better be. That debacle at Madison Square Garden is all anyone wants to talk about right now."

"It's not about dogs and cats."

"Or geese, right?"

"Yeah, well I'm not the one who suggested that we get 'that guy from the Tom Brady roast' to come and make racist jokes about everyone we're trying to convince that we aren't racist."

"True. And maybe holding a 'white guys' rally at the site of the biggest Nazi rally in American history may have been a little short sighted."

"At least we kept the swastikas to a minimum."

"I'm pretty sure Elon was just a yelp or two away from shouting 'Sieg Heil'..."

"That's why this one is such a slam-dunk. It won't take any additional special guests. Just our guy."

"Okay, lay it on me."

"Picture this: Our guy is standing out on the tarmac -"

"In front of a big jet -"

"No, no, no. We want to appeal to the common man."

"So what do you have in mind?"

"We get him to stand out there and give a few minutes of 'weave,' then the truck shows up."

"Truck? The boss loves trucks!"

"Don't you know it. But here's the spin: It's a trash truck."

"Trash truck?"

"Yeah. With the logo painted big across the side."

"Where the trash goes?"

"Exactly."

"I don't know how this could miss." 

Tears For Teri

 I believe that Michael Dorsey should have ended up with Sandy Lester. 

If you are unfamiliar with those names, you might recognize the actors who portrayed these characters from Tootsie: Dustin Hoffman and Teri Garr. If you are familiar with the film, you know that the movie, as played on screens for more than forty years has Michael/Dustin finally getting a chance with the object of his desire played by Jessica Lange. He does this with one of the most ham-handed flurry of "romantic" dialogue committed to celluloid: "You don't have to. She's right here. And she misses you. Look, you don't know me from Adam. But I was a better man with you, as a woman... than I ever was with a woman, as a man. You know what I mean? I just gotta learn to do it without the dress. At this point, there might be an advantage to my wearing pants. The hard part's over, you know? We were already... good friends."

(retching sounds) 

And not just because it seemed like a completely fantastical leap even for a romantic comedy, but because of the way Michael/Dustin just casts his other friend Sandy/Teri aside in order to be with this ridiculous only in Hollywood longshot. 

Full disclosure: I love Teri Garr, and while I am impressed with the classic beauty and acting chops of Ms. Lange, I know that I would have made a different choice than Mr. Hoffman. I would have picked Sandy in a heartbeat, not just because of my not-so-latent affection for Ms. Garr but because of the sacrifices Sandy made for her pal and not-so-secret crush Michael Dorsey. 

I was familiar with Teri Garr from her numerous TV appearances, including appearing in an episode of the original series of Star Trek that might have become a spin-off. And she was Phoebe's mom on Friends. But mostly she was and will always be in my heart for her sweet and naïve turn as Froodrick Fronkensteen's lovely assistant, Inga. I was twelve, and I was smitten. 

She added just the right flustered feminist counterpoint to Michael Keaton's Mr. Mom. She was the reason I bothered to take a peek at Mom And Dad Save The World. Teri Garr's appearances on the David Letterman Show were appointment television. 

Teri went to her reward this past Tuesday. She stomped on the Terra, but I guess not hard enough to get through that thick skull of Dustin Hoffman's. She will be missed. Aloha, Ms. Garr. 

Show Stopper

 The quiet part isn't quiet anymore. 

The Republican Party, in their continued and impassioned mistake of going all-in on backing a convicted felon, has become in words of (checks notes) Hillary Clinton "deplorable." To be more specific, the former New York Senator, First Lady and Secretary of State once referred to "half" of Trump supporters as fitting a "basket of deplorables," while the other half are people who feel the government has let them down and need understanding and empathy.

Eight years later, I am not sure if that ratio still holds, and I don't know how much understanding and empathy I have left for the crew that put together the rally in Madison Square Garden last weekend. A parade of speakers showed up on the stage that was already being referred to as a "Nazi Rally" to confirm these assertions. One of the lowlights of the show was "comedian" Tony Hinchcliffe who let this one fly: “There’s a lot going on. I don’t know if you know this but there’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now. I think it’s called Puerto Rico."

In a city that more than half a million Puerto Ricans call "home," this little jibe was met with immediate blowback not just from those who live there, but across the country. And it wasn't just Puerto Ricans who were outraged. Human beings from across the rainbow of our great nation voiced their displeasure. Which didn't keep Tony from falling back on the lamest response possible: "Can't you guys take a joke?" 

Well, Tony, here's the deal: If it were a joke in the first place, then we might stand a chance of "taking it." And if on your way out you hadn't managed to tick off a list of other minorities to degrade, then maybe there would be some claim to "humor."  Another speaker said that Kamala Harris was managed by “pimp handlers” and said of Democrats that “we need to slaughter these other people.” Very former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani said, as did several others, that Democrats were behind attempts to kill Donald Trump. Another speaker called Harris “the devil” and “the antichrist.”

Stop it guys. You're just too darn funny. 

Get it? That was a joke. I was being ironic. I was suggesting that something was happening in the opposite way to what is expected, and typically causing wry amusement because of this. 

Counting the days.