Don't Stop

 My wife and I went out last weekend to see the new Marvel movie.

What?

You thought I might miss one? 

That's not the way I live my life. I continue to read Stephen King books nearly fifty years after I read my first. I continue to mow the lawn, front and back in shapes that please me rather than the rudimentary rows and columns that might seem more orderly to those passing by. I put my socks on before my pants because the little booklet that came along with my Big Jim All Star Action Figure suggested it when dressing Jim in his various uniforms "for that neat look."

I am a creature of habit. Some might say I am a victim of my own ruts. This subject was broached this past weekend when, before my wife and I went out to the moving picture show, we ran into the woman who started teaching at the elementary school where my son would eventually go at the same time I began my teaching career at Horace Mann. She is getting ready to retire in three weeks. She asked me if I had any plans. I told her no.

"And you're still at Horace Mann?"

Still. 

Still riding my bike. Still showing up early to help open the school. Still staying late to support the after school program and tie up any loose ends before the next day begins. Pulling on my socks before putting on my pants. 

Going to see the latest Marvel movie. 

Reading the latest Stephen King novel. 

Doing all those things that make me feel alive. 

What might happen if I just stopped? 

Everything Is Broken

 I talked to a friend the other day about our shared disgust with Breaking News. 

Please understand that a great portion of my life is spent looking outward, trying to anticipate how "things will go down." This helps me maintain my solid series of ruts and habits that keep my life from becoming a reactionary circus. 

Breaking news does not allow for this. 

Each day my phone chirps at me to let me know that something has broken, news-wise. I steel myself to some degree for the occasional passing of a celebrity. Like Ruth Buzzi. Ms. Buzzi was a comedic presence in my life during the early seventies on Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. At this point I might launch into an elegy for Ruth that would wind up with me paying tribute to her and all the players on Dan and Dick's show that stomped on the comedy Terra. 

But I'm feeling that the real joke continues to be delivered from the tangerine terror currently taking up space in the Oval Office. While he insists that there is no mainstream media in that can possibly deliver his message about making America "Great," he continues to show up to interviews with these same supposedly nefarious individuals. 

And proceeding to break the news. 

Like this past Sunday when he sat down to Meet The Press, and proceeded to break minds, hearts and the United States Constitution all in the span of less than fifteen minutes. Specifically when the Oligarch of Orange was asked in the interview whether U.S. citizens and noncitizens both deserve due process as laid out in the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution, the former game show host was noncommittal. “I don’t know. I’m not, I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know," he burbled after being pressed by The Press in the form of NBC's Kristen Welker. 

This, by the way, is coming from a guy who pleaded the Fifth more than four hundred times during a deposition about his family business in New York. 

What doesn't he know? 

I know. I know that on a cold day in January, America watched the first convicted felon sworn into the highest office in the land. Somewhere in there he "swore" to preserve, protect and defend The Constituton of the United States. A couple of things stand out to me there: First of all, this guy has put his hand on bibles before and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth "So Help Me God." It hasn't amounted to much. This is a guy who doesn't know which way is up when it comes to bibles. For him, The Bible is just another book, which is just another chance to make a buck. And he'll even throw in the Delcaration of Indiependence and the Constitution as part of that package.Secondly, the oath contains the loophole phrase "to the best of my ability." 

Maybe this is the best a seventy-eight year old trust fund crybaby can do. 

Nevertheless, he keeps breaking the news and his oath, and I'm tired of it. 

My apologies to Ruth Buzzi. You deserved better. 

Rong

 I suppose at this point the question remains: How far wrong can a guy who claims to be far right be?

A man who claims to be "a very stable genius" confuses Harvard with Harlem. 

A guy who openly admits mistakes were made in his mass deportation scheme, only to double back by holding up someone's beginner Photoshop project as evidence for why he was right all along. 

A convicted felon who has been sued for defamation to the tune of eighty-eight million dollars is now going after news organizations and suing them for doing their jobs: reporting the news. 

A group of big-name retailers including Wal-Mart, Target, Home Depot and Lowe's met with the former game show host to express their concerns that the Trade War set off by the "author" of The Art of the Deal is going to result in empty shelves at their stores as soon as this summer. To this His Big Orange Highness replied, “You know, somebody said, ‘Oh, the shelves are going to be open. Well, maybe the children will have two dolls instead of thirty dolls. So maybe the two dolls will cost a couple bucks more than they would normally.”

Normally. Is it normal to charge four hundred dollars for cheaply made gold sneakers? The answer from those who bought them? Who cares? Is it normal for a US President to redecorate the Oval Office after they are elected? Sure, but does the People's House really need to look like the lobby of one of his bankrupt casinos? 

Which brings me to this point: Should we leave a man who has spent his life burning through more money than he has made in his entire life in charge of our economy? 

I'll bet you the price of one of those keen red baseball caps that are made in China that you know my answer. 

Machine

 If you've been here a while, you have probably noticed a trend. 

Back in the early days of this blog, I spent a good deal more time reflecting on my past. To that tune, I once titled an entry "Nostalgia Machine." That one was from May 2005. 

I am currently in the midst of looking back fondly on those initial musings and noting that I didn't even bother to cite the song by Soft Cell of the same title. This is most likely because that pop confection was not released until 2022. This would mean that I arrived at this clever notion nearly two decades before Marc Almond and David Ball decided to revive their one-hit career with an EP some forty years in the making. 

See, I remember their cover of "Tainted Love," not like it was yesterday but maybe the day before yesterday. I recall dancing the night away at the under-21 nightclub just off campus in Boulder, waiting for that extended dance remix. That place was called Pogo's. It occupies such a significant part of my hippocampus that I have written not one, not two, but three separate paeans to this little slice of my life. Which is just a little less than I have written about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Pyle but thankfully more than I have written about the birth of my son. 

Back in 2005 I was already pretty well ensconced in my op-ed wheelhouse, having suffered through the first four years of President Pinhead and his lust for blood and oil. Things in that arena got a little easier once Barack Obama came along, and my axe got a little dull from lack of grinding. By the time 2016 rolled around, I was pushed back into service for all mankind, documenting the initial Trumpreich, with its renewed sense of fear and loathing. 

The break I thought I would be getting on the political beat this past November turned out to be a tightening of the screws and not a respite from stupidity. Heaven knows I have my own litany of stupid stories to tell, so getting a convicted felon for "president" turned out to be overkill.

Which is why you aren't reading as much nostalgia around here as you used to.

Remember when I used to write more about the past? 

Candy From Babies

 "After, we'll meet back at the hideout and divvy up the loot."

"Yeah, those guy's will never know what hit 'em."

"Like takin' candy from a baby."

This is the kind of dialogue I imagine takes place during robberies. Taking things without asking is stealing, but this kind of talk is inexcusable. It's all too familiar and not up to the standards that their teachers taught them. Unless they were taking Forties Gangster Chat 101.

But in the real world, I continue to puzzle over the need for children at a public school to create any sort of elaborate scheme in which the only "loot" they end up with are bags of chips and some candy. They aren't looking for cash or jewelry, not even cell phones. They are after the junk that some teachers hand over as the tiniest recognition of being clever, polite, or simply able to follow the rules at school. 

To be clear, the rules at our school do not encourage groups of boys to climb into an open window and ransack the office of our child therapist. The nice lady who comes and takes our troubled youth to that same office to give them a place to talk about the world they endure and how about a nice snack on the way out? 

Unless the boys mentioned have burglarized the drawers and closets of that office and made off with all the snacks. 

I have written in this space a number of times about the relative ease with which one could break and enter a public school. There is no armed security. The response time to alarms that go off range in the hour range to the next day. In the case of the purloined treats, the investigation was conducted entirely on site by our principal and her ability to pick the third grader who would break first, then going after the fourth and fifth graders he gave up. 

Parents were called. Tears were shed. Not by all, but by some of the thieves. And that nagging thought that grownups have in these situations came ringing through once again: "If they would do this when they are nine and ten, what will they be doing once they hit middle school?"

Middle school has a way of hitting back. It's bigger. It's tougher. It's on the way to the big time. It would be a whole lot easier if the pretend world of being master thieves was an embarrassing memory of "when we was little." 

What a relief that would be. 

Sense Of Humors

 “Before I even arrive at the Oval Office, I will have the disastrous war between Russia and Ukraine settled. It will be settled quickly. Quickly. I will get the problem solved and I will get it solved in rapid order and it will take me no longer than one day. I know exactly what to say to each of them.”

“And before I even arrive at the Oval Office, shortly after I win the presidency, I will have the disastrous war between Russia and Ukraine settled.” 

 “So when I say ‘end it,’ I’m going to get a settlement very quickly. And I know both people, and you can get it very, very quickly. You can only do it through the presidency, but you control the money coming in, coming out. You can get that. I will have that settlement done within twenty-four hours.”

“Before I even arrive at the Oval Office, I will have the horrible war between Russia and Ukraine totally settled. I’ll have it done in twenty-four hours. I say that, and I would do that. That’s easy compared to some of the things – I’d get that done in twenty-four hours. I know them both. I know them both. As the Bible says, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’ See that? And I will be your peacemaker. I was your peacemaker.”

The preceding has been just a sample of the wit of the former game show host and adjudicated rapist. All of those quotes came from the campaign trail back in 2023. Just part of the dozens of references to the statements he now says were "in jest" about the bloody conflict in Ukraine. 

If you've been keeping track, one hundred of those twenty-four hour periods have passed and then some. Russia continues to pummel the sovereign nation of Ukraine, while Ukraine continues to fight back. This is in spite of the Court Jester's social media platform insistence, “I am not happy with the Russian strikes on KYIV. Not necessary, and very bad timing. Vladimir, STOP! 5000 soldiers a week are dying. Lets get the Peace Deal DONE!”

That one reads more like a joke. A deadly missile strike on Ukraine's capitol is referred to as "not necessary, and very bad timing." Stop it, you big orange clown. 

You're killing me. 

How Long?

 Very soon now this spot in Al Gore's Internet will celebrate its twentieth year of taking up space. 

Two decades of what was on my mind that morning. 

Twenty years of writing a daily account of what I believe, or at least pretend to believe. 

This coincides pretty directly with the twenty-eight years my wife and I have spent living in our house. The one we bought. The one that has undergone a seemingly never-ending series of adjustments and improvements since we carted all our worldly possessions halfway across the city to barely fill the rooms in anticipation of our son, who would only be a couple weeks away. Much to our collective chagrin. 

On that day we were aided and abetted in the handling of our belongings by a number of people. Perhaps no one more than my younger brother who was willing to come along on this escapade even though he should have been celebrating his thirty-second birthday. 

This past week, my younger brother celebrated his sixtieth birthday. Just as I felt the need to reevaluate the term "little brother" when he grew to be a head taller than me, I feel now that "younger brother" is not the most accurate term to describe a sixty year old man. I get the math and all, but the relative distinction of being able to get his own AARP membership seems to suggest that none of us is getting any younger. 

Which brings me to the other chunk of twenty-eight years: My teaching career. My son. My house. My time in the classroom. Twenty-eight trips around the sun, just from slightly different starting point on the orbit. I felt this most keenly when recently I had a district tech come out to look at a couple of machines in my computer lab because they seemed to have leapt from my experience and pay grade. Of course, once the tech showed up, both computers had gone back to their own safe and sane operation. This gave me an opportunity to introduce myself to this new district employee. I went down a brief laundry list of the eras in which I have taught technology, beginning with a room full of Mac LCIIs and a couple tractor feed printers. We did a lot of KidPix and Oregon Trail in those days. 

It took me a few minutes of describing my journey through those twenty-eight years before it occurred to me that this person to whom I was talking was most likely not alive during a portion of the events I was unfolding. 

I tell stories about how things used to be. About how I wish things were. And about all the people and things I encounter along the way. Until someone tells me to stop.  

Bad Dream

 I guess that I shouldn't be surprised that the goof that wants to close up the Department of Education is continuing his efforts to make my job more difficult. 

The Tariff King made an executive order that struck down the work being done to limit the disparity between races when it comes to school suspensions. That order is modestly titled, "Reinstating Common Sense School Discipline Policies." The preamble goes a little like this: "The Federal Government will no longer tolerate known risks to children’s safety and well-being in the classroom that result from the application of school discipline based on discriminatory and unlawful 'equity' ideology."

If you didn't flinch a little at the phrase "discriminatory and unlawful 'equity' ideology," you might not want to read any further. 

I am one of those bleeding hearts who has experienced the reform of equity ideology and seen the effects. The positive effects. The work being done to shift from punitive discipline to restorative justice in our nation's classrooms has not been easy. The idea that there are "bad kids" flies in the face of everything that I have experienced as a teacher, parent, and a kid myself. It was my father who, back in the earliest years of conscious parenting used to announce that "there are no bad kids, just bad behavior." This coming from the man who helped raise me and my brothers carries some weight. 

How we treat those kids is the key. If they show up in our schools and neighborhoods as damaged goods, it becomes increasingly likely that they will adopt that persona. If we close one eye to the dangers of reinstituting this "color blind" approach ordered by a convicted felon, we run the risk of pushing kids farther away from the education they so desperately need to try and escape their circumstances. 

Let's not pretend for a moment that this is the racist pendulum swinging back after years of trying to correct the inequity that exists in our nation's schools. In our nation. Giving those backward enough to believe that somehow our kids will be "safe" because we "get rid of" the ones who are causing the trouble aren't looking at what the trouble really is. 

Imagine a world where orange people were looked upon with fear and derision. Instead, let's look at the content of their character. 

We can dream, can't we. 

Am I Blue?

 Maybe it's not arrogance. 

Maybe it's ignorance. 

The suggestion has been made, for some time now, that the former game show host and convicted felon cannot read. Those who know him best sometimes suggest that "he doesn't care to read." Little things like memos. And the United States Constitution. This might be why he could sit there with an orange craggy face and insist that he had no familiarity with Project 2025. Because he had not read it. 

Not because he didn't.

Because he couldn't. 

My most recent clue to this lack of reading ability comes from last Saturday's gathering of world leaders saying farewell to the recently departed Pope. If you look at a photo of the event, it is ridiculously easy to spot the adjudicated rapist and twice-impeached "president" of the United States. He's the one in blue. Not a dark midnight shade of blue, but rather the kind of blue that you would wear in front of a crowd if you were going to "dance" to a Village People song. Not the traditional black that the rest of the crowd at the memorial service in Saint Peter's Square seemed to favor.

Because they had read the invitation. 

Even Melania managed to pull it together and wear something fashionable but subdued. 

Because she can read. 

But not our former game show host. After insisting that he be given a seat in the front row of mourners, after having argued with Pope Francis for years, the King of Tariffs dressed all in sapphire and stood out like a big fat sore thumb. Oblivious. 

Waiting for someone to cue up YMCA. 

Glitch

 Convicted felons and serial liars should not be allowed to hold public office. 

They should be in jail. 

This was the message sent to a concerned citizenry this past week when former United States Representative George Santos was sentenced to eighty-seven months for what Judge Joanna Seybert referred to as "flagrant thievery." Careful readers may also notice that I used the term "former" to describe the end of a political career, rather than its continuation. 

Mister Santos cried when the sentence was handed down. The sentence came down in spite of the letter he wrote to Judge Seybert. A letter that read, in part: “Every sunrise since that plea has carried the same realization: I did this, me. I am responsible. But saying I’m sorry doesn’t require me to sit quietly while these prosecutors try to drop an anvil on my head.”

It should be noted here for the sake of accuracy that at no time was an actual anvil employed in some Tom and Jerry-like example of justice. This was a punishment meted out to make a point: an "arrogant fraudster" like the former congressman should not be allowed to skate free with a slap on the wrist. George was just the sixth member of the United States Congress to be expelled in our nation's history. Lying to bolster his unlikely rise to political fame, including fraud and identity theft, was a crime that George admitted to, believing perhaps that he would receive a lighter sentence. 

George received the maximum. 

Meanwhile, there are other convicted felons who have done much worse things out there in a world that is being shaped by their actions. Some convicted felons have not only been voted out of office, but by some strange twist of fate found their way back to the same place where they caught and sat in stony silence as judges have recounted their crimes. Only to be let loose on what can only be referred to as a glitch in the system. 

This glitch needs to be fixed. This glitch needs to be sent to prison. 

Full stop. 

Those Days

 I don't remember hating school. 

I can remember being anxious about going to school. 

I don't remember faking being sick.

I can remember exaggerating my symptoms to get an extra day of ginger ale and crackers in bed. 

These days I work in a business that is built around kids not hating school. I don't want kids coming to school when they are truly "infirma," but attendance on Mondays and Fridays suggest that maybe moms and dads aren't as inquisitive as to their children's health as my mom was. 

On the one hand, we have a funding issue in which the filled seats help fund our school. Coercing kids who don't have a strong urge to be one of those seat fillers to show up for recess with their friends is a real thing. Finding the reason not to hate school is the challenge. 

On the other hand, since that's what the metaphor insists, there is the responsibility to keep the customer satisfied. If being at school has become drudgery, it could be that competing with the world of TikTok and all things found on cell phones is not a fair challenge. 

To wit: During a week of standardized testing that is done primarily on school Chromebooks, I chose to open up the vaults a bit when classes came to the computer lab for their regularly scheduled Media Arts Class. I told them that I had no specific plan for them and that they could choose from one of the dozens of applications found on our school's web sign-in page. This came as a direct response to the number of requests I field over the course of a year being asked if we could do this instead of that. 

Given this wide berth, most of the kids went after those things that had been out of rotation for most of the year. They found things to enjoy. To work at. But in each class, there were at least a few voices of dissent: "Can't we do YouTube?" Not on the menu. "Can't we do Kahoot?" Not on the menu. 

If you give a mouse a cookie, they'll want to stay in bed and have crackers and ginger ale brought to them. 

While they stare at YouTube. 

Allegiance

 To no one's specific surprise, the Oakland Unified School District chose to send Superintendent Kyla Johnson-Trammell packing. This was done without a lot of public rancor or excessive drama, but it does put a great big question mark next to the "Unified" portion of the district. 

This action was made public at roughly the same moment that the Oakland Education Association, the teacher's union for this less-than-unified city announced that they "might" be gong on a one day strike on the first of May. To protest the firing of our superintendent? To show solidarity with the workers of the world on what is traditionally a celebration of the proletariat? 

Nope. The work action, which turns out to be more of a "non-work action" is being mounted because of "unfair labor practices." You mean unsafe working conditions like inhalation of chalk dust? Nope. We all have white boards now. How about the firing of a number of individuals whose only crime was that they came from diverse ethnic groups that make up Oakland itself? Nah. That's not it. The union, to which I belong, alleges that Oakland Unified School District leaders are not responding to OEA's requests for financial information about recent budget cuts. 

So here I am, once again set upon the brink of brinksmanship, waiting for the call to go out to all those affected. Keeping in mind this series of events unfolds in the wake of a highly contested mayoral election that itself happened in the shadow of a recall election that forced out the previous mayor and set the powers that be here in Oaktown at one another. The results of that election showed a less than unified city, with one side leaning to the victor, Barbara Lee while the other went primarily to her closest rival, Loren Taylor. When the dust settled, Lee had a sliver of an advantage and was awarded the prize of attempting to bring this contentious strip of land near the bay together. 

One of the things Taylor cited as a challenge to his campaign was "heavy spending" by labor unions. 

Uh, I guess that means me.

And yet, I do not recall at any point being asked by the leadership of my union whom I might ask them to endorse on my behalf. As it turns out, I did vote for the former United States Representative, not because Barbara Lee is thick with the labor unions, but because she was the lone voice of dissent against that rush to war after September 11, 2001. And she ahs the same first name as my dear departed mother. Which may not seem like a reasonable motive for making choices like this, but it worked for Batman and Superman. 

If it worked for Metropolis, why wouldn't it work for Oakland? 

Without A Clue

 When the contractor you hired packs up his truck with all his tools, leaving the much bigger hole in your foundation than the one he was brought in to fix, and exits in a huff insisting that he just can't work with "you people." 

After he has cashed the check.

This is how I feel Elongated Mush is responding to the hole he has been creating in our country over the past several months. This is a person for whom a billion dollars is an expense has suddenly confronted what he considers a crisis: Seventy-one billion dollars. That is how much profits of his electric car company have plummeted forty-four percent since January. Suddenly it's time to rethink that super-sweet government job he has that involves laptops and chainsaws alternately. 

Math is hard, but if the Wall Street Journal is reporting that the Second Trumpreich is spending more than the Biden administration, then I'm with the wonks over at the newspaper without comics. Spending more and losing billions at your neglected and mismanaged electric car company is sending a pretty clear message: Get out of D.C. Even if you have to drive one of those "futuristic trucks" of yours. 

And, while you're busy packing your bags, make sure that you point fingers at all the folks you believe let you down. Mush told analysts during an ironically named "earnings call" last Tuesday, "The actual reason (for the downturn in profits) is because those receiving the waste and fraud wish to continue receiving it; that is the real thing that’s going on here, obviously. The protests that you’ll see out there, they’re very organized. They’re paid for that.”

Obviously.

Or maybe the fact that even though you gave away million dollar checks to voters in hopes of convincing Wisconsin to elect a Republican to that state's Supreme Court, his candidate still lost. In addition to the two separate million dollar checks he handed to the lucky/gullible individuals who signed Mush's petition, he also dumped an additional twenty million dollars into that state's judicial campaign. And lost. 

So this foreign billionaire is showing up to elections in Green Bay wearing a cheddar cheese hat and making excuses for all the reasons that his grand scheme is failing to create efficiency has lost track of the business that helped make him one of the world's richest men? Time to pack up the Cybertruck, Mushie. We, the people, can take it from here. 

Without you. 

Regrets, I've Had A Few

 Karaoke.

This is my solution to the woes of the world. Since the 1970's singing along with a pre-recorded music track has been keeping human beings safe and happy for more than half a century. My own experiences with this quasi-art form have been nothing but joyful. 

But - 

Have you ever heard of any trouble brewing as a result of folks getting together to warble along with pop hits of today and yesterday? 

Well, I have. 

In the Philippines, where many believe Karaoke found its roots, there are a great many stories about how one particular song has caused all sorts of chaos. Back in 1998, a string of incidents connected to the song "My Way" occurred in that corner of Southeast Asia, culminating in the shooting death of one very sad crooner who lost his way and the tune and was summarily killed by a bouncer at the establishment.  A few years later, an alleged drug kingpin was gunned down during his performance of the Frank Sinatra standard. This one might have had more to do with the drug thing than the choice of song, but we can't rule it out. 

In 2018, just as he was about to launch into his version, a man was stabbed to death by his neighbor. This lead to the ongoing belief that "My Way" should be excised from the song list of any and all Karaoke bars and portable machines. The furor was so great that Japanese rock band Kishidan released an up-tempo version of the ditty as a single, with the accompanying video featuring the lead singer being shot numerous times. 

Get it?

Maybe it's the mobster/Sinatra affiliation. Or maybe it's Sid Vicious' fault. Before his death in 1979, Sid recorded a "solo" version of the chestnut originally written by Paul Anka. At the end of his version, Sid pulls a gun out of his white dinner jacket and begins shooting into the crowd. This would pre-date the incidents in the Philippines by a couple decades. The lesson here might be that if you're somewhere and somebody breaks into song, "And now, the end is near..." Duck. Or shoot back. 

So maybe Karaoke isn't the best plan for world peace.  

Catholic Schooled

 Julius Dominion Vance, practicing Catholic and spokesmodel for Maybelline, had one of the last audiences with Pope Francis. One might assume that "JD" was looking for some solace as Francis' time on Earth was running down, maybe even some forgiveness after being called on the carpet by the pontiff a couple months ago for his part in the denigration of migrants. Back in February his holiness  warned that the forceful removal of people purely because of their illegal status deprives them of their inherent dignity and “will end badly.”

In his attempt to get some sort of last tag on his adopted faith, Jangly Dan Vance managed to squeeze in an Easter meet and greet with the eighty-eight year old in what would be his last hours on this plane. For his troubles, Vance was awarded with three chocolate eggs, a few rosaries, and a Vatican tie. The Pope, whose patience and strength were tested, got his final reward. 

There was no absolution. 

Before becoming Pope Francis, Jose Mario Borgoglio was a priest from Buenos Aries, a member of the Jesuits. Jorge, later Francis, was a theological scholar who sought to reform his chosen religion through reform. He abolished much of the lavish spending by The Church, and continually invited women to be a part of ceremonies and celebrations. He used his first Easter address as pope to make a plea for world peace, specifically mentioning the Middle East, Africa, and North and South Korea. He also spoke out against those who give in to "easy gain" in a world filled with greed and made a plea for humanity to become a better guardian of creation by protecting the environment. In 2018, he called on oil executives to recognize the frailty of the planet and encouraged them to get on the climate change bandwagon. 

And way back at the beginning of his papacy, Francis was asked by a reporter a question about gay priests, the newly appointed pope quipped: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?” Around this same time, in reference to the First Trumpreich's plan to build a wall between the United States and Canada, The Pope said, "A person who thinks only about building walls, wherever they may be, and not building bridges, is not Christian," echoing what most of us were already thinking. 

So it is quite likely that Juan Domingo Vance got some forgiveness to go with his chocolate eggs and souvenir tie, but it wasn't the lasting kind. It was more likely the pro forma remissionem that comes as part of the standard Vatican final hours package. 

Papa conculcavit terram. Amittetur.

The Terrible

 Some of you will forgive me if I got busy sharing my outrage about all the other things about which I am currently outraged and did not turn my attention abruptly to the Sunshine State when gunfire broke out. 

I apologize if I gave anyone the idea that simply because a mass shooting takes place in Florida that I won't run up the blood red flag. The two students who died and the six who were injured last Thursday were no less innocent victims than those from any other state in the union where gun violence sadly and routinely breaks out. 

Campus police at Florida State University responded in minutes to the scene where a fellow student murdered two and wounded a half dozen more before he was taken into custody. The Voltaire-like comment that rings out in these incidents was reiterated once again: "Thank goodness law enforcement showed up because who knows how much worse the outcome could have been." 

I would encourage you to stay away from this particular aphorism when discussing mass shootings around any of the victims. Or their families. Or citizens of a country that continues to allow such tragedies to occur because their elected officials continue to believe that the solutions to guns is more guns. 

We have to have guns, right? 

We have to pretend that we're dead when a lunatic with a gun shows up and shoots innocents in hopes of not becoming dead. It's a part of life here in the United States. The part-time Florida resident and full-time convicted felon responded thusly: "These things are terrible. But the gun doesn't do the shooting, the people do. As far as legislation is concerned, this has been going on for a long time. I have an obligation to protect the Second Amendment. I ran on the Second Amendment, among many other things, and I will always protect the Second Amendment."

Yes, "these things" are terrible. And rolling back many of the additional restrictions placed on guns by the previous administration won't help make them go away. 

That's a terrible thing. 

Disappearing

 The Supreme Court. The highest court in the land. The check to all the other balances. The court that was bought and paid for by the convicted felon currently living his  gold-plated lifestyle in the People's House. 

That's the court that said Abrego Garcia should be returned to America from El Salvador, the country he was mistakenly deported because of an "administrative error" more than a month ago. 

Given the opportunity to act in the mildest form of good faith, the MAGAts have continued to pour gasoline on the fire they started. They have accused Mister Garcia of being a member of a transnational gang, and we all know how horrible anything trans can be for these tiny-minded individual. Especially the transfer of a man who has never been convicte much less charge with a crime. He has lived in the United States for thirteen years after crossing the border illegally back in 2012. Since then he has lived with his wife and children, making pupusas then getting a job as a sheet metal worker and joining a union.

Abrego Garcia was arrested in 2019 in the parking lot of a Home Depot store for "loitering." A common practice for many individuals looking for day work. At the time, Garcia was dressed in a Chicago Bulls hat and hoodie, which authorities suggested was "indicative of the Hispanic gang culture." He rode out that legal process in 2019, only to be arrested in 2025 in an IKEA parking lot where he was whisked away to El Salvador and subsequently labeled an international terrorist. 

Shortly after meeting with El Salvador's president and superfan of mass incarceration Nayib Bukele, the man who never met a court he couldn't ignore held up a photo that he claimed showed gang tattoos on the hand of Abrego Garcia. "Claimed" because the picture has been widely dismissed as a poor attempt at leaning Photoshop and yet another way to defame someone with thirty-four fewer felony convictions than he has.

In other news, the twice-impeached "president" suggested that he and his pal Nayib would be looking into deporting and jailing U.S. citizens in El Salvador. 

The country is on fire, ladies and gentlemen. That's not just smoke. 

Worser

 I had a shudder a couple of nights ago. While I was preparing to send an email, the helpful gremlins inside Yahoo Mail wondered if I didn't want to send this message along to my mother as well. At that moment, a goose walked over my grave. Actually I don't know exactly how the goose came to be walking over my grave when it is my mother who is now interred. I get the gooseflesh thing, but I suppose that it has something to do with a future grave and sending a chill of anticipation. 

Nonetheless, I was taken slightly aback. Those kind of shudders have become more infrequent. Still, my mother's passing continues to haunt me in weird and significant ways.

Like the way I react to the ongoing Three Card Monte game being played in the Rose Garden at the White House just about every day. Follow the red lady calls out the confidence man as he abruptly shuffles the cards face down. These are the crises of the day. Will it be immigration? Will it be the stock market? Will it be the war in Ukraine? 

Or something new? 

As Ferris Bueller once suggested, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” That assessment was given back in 1986. The year I graduated from high school. My mother was still alive. 

It was some time after that when my mother and I were discussing current events and she came up with a refrain that continues to rattle about in my skull decades later. She was reflecting on her own time on the planet, during which she watched the world go to war, and come back again. Then she witnessed the fight within our own borders for Civil Rights. And the search of hidden communists. And the election of a criminal to the highest office in our land. 

Nixon. Don't get ahead of us.

During the Reagan and Bush years, she would repeat her mantra: "Things can always get worse." Not exactly the airy aphorism Ferris brought us, but it turns out she wasn't far off.

Another Bush helped to lower our expectations, and all that Hope generated by Barack Obama wasn't enough to keep us from sinking as low as we might ever have imagined. Not satisfied with being fleeced by the confidence man in his first four years, we doubled down and brought him back for a repeat performance. What fresh torment will be on the menu today? It's anyone's guess, because that's all we can do. 

Guess. Where's the red lady? 

Shudder. 

Forward Into The Past

 Are tariffs impacting my life? 

The fact that someone would ask me in this the year of our lord 2025 I suppose I would have to answer in the affirmative. 

To be completely honest, as you know I endeavor to do at all times, I cannot distinguish prices from COVID from Joe Biden's inflation to the current regimes sacrifices to make America what it once was. Not that what it once was could best be described as "great."

I learned about tariffs starting way back in another century. I was in fifth grade and our teacher, Robert Conklin, had us all pair off to create our own lumber companies. My partner and I went so far as to build a Lego replica of our sawmill, complete with bottle caps as the tiny spinning saw blades. This was exciting enough, but along with the machinery of cutting wood into usable pieces of timber came the inevitable business side. We were tasked with making a profit on the two by fours we were making. 

Mister Conklin was a history buff, and he liked to insert as much social studies into our malleable little brains as he could along with the standard fifth grade curriculum. He gets points for directing me to the truth about Anne Frank as well as the Massacre at Sand Creek.  He was also the first person to introduce me to the concept of tariffs. 

On lumber. 

Once we got rolling with our sawmills, we needed to fins ways to sell our cut wood to bigger and better markets. It was at this point that wily old Mister Conklin dropped the tariff bomb on us. Foreign governments, we were told, might put a tax on our wood to make them more expensive. As producers, we had a few choices. One of them was to stop sending our product to those countries. This would drive up the demand and get consumers excited about buying our imported two by fours. We could also cut our price, limiting our profit to try and undercut the tariff imposed on our planks. Mostly I remember thinking that the whole tariff thing was an unfair complication to throw at a bunch of fifth grade entrepreneurs. 

Then, in sixth grade, I stopped thinking about tariffs because they were an olden days thing that existed primarily in history books and by the 1970's we were buying tape decks from Japan and cars from Germany so it seemed like that whole trade problem was pretty much solved by World War II. Which, as it happens, was also the time in which we discovered that Nazis are bad. 

Now, fifty years later, it turns out that bad ideas never die, they just get recycled in the minds of stupid people. Tariffs. Nazis. 

Sheesh. 

Closing One Eye Really Fast

 "Wink" is one of those words that you rarely describe. It's so much easier to just demonstrate. Kind of like when someone asks you what a goatee is, the first thing you do is reach for your chin. But, if you have access to any one of the nearly two dozen game shows hosted by Winston Conrad Martindale, you could just show them a clip from that. For the Wink, not for the goatee. 

Young Winston Conrad chose early on in his career as a broadcaster to jam his first and middle name together, hence "Wink." This is how he was known professionally, first as a disc jockey and eventually as a game show host. 

I know what you're thinking: Doesn't he have a more than just mild disdain for game show hosts? 

Well, it's true that certain members of this fraternity have gone on to land squarely on my list of less than favorite people, but there are plenty of exceptions. Alex Trebek would be one of them. Another would be Wink. 

Not everyone knows that Wink began his career as one of the earliest supporters of the music of one Elvis Presley, becoming pals with The King Of Rock And Roll after coercing him into his first radio interview way back in 1956. It was as a DJ that Wink found his calling, sticking with radio off and on for another forty years. 

Somewhere in there, he found his way to the TV studio where he became a fixture hosting game shows of all kinds. Starting in 1964, the briefly billed "Win" Martindale asked contestants "What's This Song?" In living color. In quiet hopes that no one noticed the similarities to that other show where folks were asked to Name That Tune. 

For parts of four decades, Wink could be found somewhere on your TV dial, giving away fabulous prizes, cash, and a home version of whatever game he happened to be running. It was somewhere in his stint with Tic Tac Dough during the early 1980's that I had my degree of separation with Wink reduced to two. My good friend and trivia pal Waldo managed to land a spot as a contestant on Wink's show. He figured himself a sure-fire winner with his arcane knowledge of most everything. He had not accounted for what would happen when the lights came up and the cameras went on. Out stepped Wink. All that acquired wisdom evaporated. 

Waldo lost. But he left with a lovely parting gift: a mini-vacuum which he brought back with the tiniest bit of bravado to the back room of Arby's, where it stayed until someone noticed that we never used a vacuum at Arby's. But for a while, it stayed there as a monument to what might have been. I took the trouble to scribble Wink's "autograph" on the side of it. 

Then it was gone.

Now, so is Wink. He went to the big studio in the sky last week, passing away at the ripe old age of ninety-one. From Elvis to Waldo, Wink stomped across the airwaves. He will be missed.

Aloha, Mister Martindale!

Fundamental

 I have an ultra-vivid memory of sitting in a circle on my chair with my second grade class. When I was in second grade, just so the time frame is clear. I was in the High Reading Group, which meant that I was excelling and not that I was in any way medicated. Just to be clear. I took great pride in my ability to read, having spent so much time doing just that morning, noon and night, starting with the back of cereal boxes at breakfast and comic books under the covers at night. 

I was good at reading. 

Which is why the word "drowned" continues to live in my memory as a blow to my fragile seven year old ego like few others. When it was my turn to read in the circle, I cleared my throat and  began reading away at a tremendous clip. Expression and fluency. When I came to that word, I do not recall having any particular difficulty. I finished up the paragraph and looked up for my customary approval. 

Ms. Hof, my guiding light on the journey through second grade said, "Very nice David. That next to last word is 'drowned.'" She paused for what I can only assume was obligation. "Not 'drownded."

I was crushed. There were snickers and grins from the other students in the circle. The "Best Reader" was hoisted on his own petard. Though it would be several years before I knew exactly what that idiom meant, I looked down at the word and felt my face flush and tried to make what I had just said the right thing. 

Decades later I understand that creating a past-tense verb often relies on putting an "ed" at the end. Sometimes you hear the short e. Sometimes you don't. I had done both. A simple mistake that still rings in my ear fifty-five years later. 

Which is why I understand why Harrison is angry so much of the time. He is in third grade, and having just given him his most recent mastery test, he is struggling to catch up to a level being passed by Kindergartners. And his little sister who is in first grade. Harrison is receiving a good deal of extra support, but his frustration often causes him to walk out of class, or to hide in the bathroom those times when instruction is directed specifically for him. Sadly, unless he is in a group of just one, his embarrassment gets the best of him and, in the parlance of video games, he rage quits. 

My experience with drownded is a tiny bump in the mountain range in front of Harrison. But we won't let that stop us. There's still so much left to read. 

This Island Earth

 "Wanna go for a ride?" This was the invitation that fictional S.R. Hadden dangled in front of scientist Ellie Arroway just prior to her taking a cross-dimensional trip through wormholes and other outer space anomalies to make contact with aliens who have constructed a galactic transport system. He does this after the initial machine that was built to do that was sabotaged and destroyed. This comes as a surprise to Doctor Arroway, who believed that her chance to make Contact with intelligent life outside our solar system was blown up. Hadden reminds her, "First rule in government spending: why build one when you can have two at twice the price?"

The movie Contact was made in another century. A simpler time when the idea of space travel being financed by billionaires was, well, science fiction. Now a quarter of the way through what used to be the future, we have no fewer than three billionaires who are making their way to the stars. One of them is currently distracted by the operation of a chainsaw instead of figuring out ways to charge travelers for oxygen on their voyage to Mars. Another has ceased operations in the wake of a catastrophic failure more of the financial kind rather than the exploding kind. 

Which leaves us with the guy who spends most of his time counting the money he's charging you to put commercials back into sitcoms that you want to watch on his streaming service. This past Monday, his space concession sent an all-female crew into space. Making the trip was pop star Katy Perry and CBS This Morning Host and Oprah Pal Gayle King. Where did they find the pilot? Well, by sheer coincidence, it happens that the fiancée of the owner of the company is a pilot. What exactly are the qualifications Ms. Sanchez brings to the project? Probably not best to compare hers to those of the fictional Doctor Arroway. Then again, Doctor Arroway was never on the cover of Vogue. 

So, if the passengers of Blue Origin mission NS-31 were not exploring strange new worlds and seeking out new life and new civilizations, just exactly where were they boldly going? According to Ms. Sanchez and Pop Song Mission Specialist Perry, they were going to "get glam" in space. 

This might just set the search for extraterrestrial life back another few decades. 

Safe landing, girls!

Mail Call

 Saturday afternoon I brought in the mail. Not a lot to see, just some last minute electioneering on the part of the candidates running for Mayor in Oakland. And a statement from one of my retirement accounts. Sometimes I feel a bit of solace in a world that seems ready at any minute to sever ties with Social Security. As a teacher, I live in a world that is essentially free from all this fearful speculation. I have a state pension to count on in addition to those previously mentioned retirement accounts. A 403(b) and a 401K left over from my stint as a warehouse manager. And a supplemental savings of one sort or another created at the behest of financial minds much more focused than my own. 

And here's the deal: Just about all of these metaphorical jars into which I have stuffed money for that day which will see me walking away from my day to day wage slave existence and live off the clever advice of those previously mentioned folks with the financial cleverness gene is based on the notion that money will continue to make more money. As I have mentioned here  with some regularity, I'm not much of a gambling man. And yet, here I am with a large chunk of my life savings sitting in a series of slots dedicated to the speculation that stocks and bonds will, over time, be "safe."

The statement that I opened this past Saturday afternoon suggested just the opposite. Over the past month, the balance of my account had dropped nearly one third of its value. Suddenly, the trade wars and overall nonsensical economic policies of the Second Trumpreich took a very sizeable chunk of my future and disappeared it. That ladder I had been climbing to financial independence got kicked out from under me. 

It should be noted here that I am not one of those day traders or one who seeks out risky investments with potential monstrous rewards. When it comes to finances, I'm the tortoise who will be more than happy to have the money he put away at the end of the slow and steady race. The tortoise who does not expect to be relieved of thousands of dollars because some convicted felon decided to show off how his diploma from the Wharton School isn't worth the crayon with which it was signed. This is a guy who is completely used to losing vast sums of money. It is the "Art" in his deal. 

I am not comfortable with it. As mentioned here even more frequently than my disdain for gambling I am not a young man anymore. Creating another big stack of chips to turn into survival funds for my ironically named "golden years" seems like it just got a lot more difficult. I understand that the former game show host was bragging about how he made his billionaire buddies a ton of cash by pausing his tariff barrage for ninety days. Once again, I was left on the outside, looking in while my losses were those fat cats' gain. The rich get richer. Me? I get back to work. 

Double Dare

 I'm not one for dares. I spent my youth struggling against what I felt was an impediment to my free choice. It took me years of dealing with the kid down the street who maintained a rule of terror in our neighborhood by setting up a web of peer pressure that had those of us with wearker wills doing his ridiculous bidding. 

"Go ring that doorbell," he would insist before adding the oppressive, "I dare you." 

And somehow, those of us caught up in his spell were honor bound  to do just that, even though we knew that doing so would necessitate a hasty retreat and the fear of being caught by the angry homeowner whose solace we had disturbed via our "ding-dong ditch" prank. 

Nonetheless, I find myself compelled to challenge each and every one of you to take some time out of your busy day to read in its entirety the April 9, 2026 Executive Order issued by the current resident of the White House. 

I dare you. 

The reason for this challenge is two-fold: The most obvious one is that misery loves company. I do not like the idea that I am the only American citizen who took the time to put themselves through the thirteen thousand word document that the convicted felon feels will finally put an end to the showerhead controversy. 

The man who would be king has spent his first hundred days wildly swinging for the fences in more ways than we can track, but this one feels like it could be the dopiest one yet. Water pressure seems to be pretty low on our nation's list of priorities, but this is the maguffin. Hidden within this screed about what one man perceives as a consumer protection issue is something much more insidious. 

If you are keeping score at home, this is the third in a series of Executive Orders regarding water pressure. The first one came during the First Trumpreich. Joe Biden wrote his own, implementing regulations on water flow. Not only does this third Exectuve Order from the newly ensconced regime reset that bunch of regulations, it includes a very troubling precedent. 

It includes this: "Notice and comment is unnecessary because I am ordering the repeal.  The rescission shall be effective 30 days from the date of publication of the notice." If you were dutiful and responsive to my demands/dare, you might have noticed this. If it slipped past your notice yor you were merely waiting for me to take the time to explain without doing your due diligence, I will explain what this means: The twice-impeached former president is attempting to alter the rules of Executive Orders. This brief window allows citizens and their representatives to respond to the new version of the rules and have them tossed out if necessary. The rest of the Showerhead Manifesto concludes by insisting that further repeals proceed without notice and comment. This puts an adjudicated rapist in the position of changing whatever he likes simply "because he said so." 

Now you probably don't even want to read the rest of it. 

Or maybe you have a stronger will than I had when I was twelve. 

Garbage Strike

Why am I suddenly drawn back to a time when I took my fourth grade class to the Alameda County landfill? I looked out on that sea of garbage, all the things that could not be reused or recycled. I could hear my students squawking about the stink, since apparently there were a great many things in that sea of waste that was rotting somewhere outside a compost bin. We all watched as bulldozers moved around the edges of the mass, made to look quite small in comparison to the pile they were attempting to massage into something resembling order. 

But it was, after all, just a pile of garbage. Maintaining and manicuring all that garbage did not change the fact that it was eventually going to be trucked off to a hole in the ground and buried. 

Which is essentially the feeling I have about the current administration. A shifting pile of smelly refuse without any distinct form or function, but you can see bits of what was once recognizable. Now rendered useless by contamination with the pile. 

All the tariffs. All the threats against our allies. All the promises to billionaires of even more riches to come. All the deplorable treatment of the citizens of this great land of ours. 

Garbage. Each time a bulldozer moves to corral one side, the mass shifts to the opposite direction. Here comes the tariffs. Crash goes the stock market. Just kidding. Boom goes the stock market. You have to be very careful about where you stand because you could end up buried in a moment of wildly shifting whims. 

If you thought that you were safe because they were only deporting vicious criminals, you better check your student visa because apparently studying here in the United States is now on a par with human trafficking. S

If you thought making trucks that fall apart all on their own would exclude you from being part of a made-up department overseeing government efficiency, think again. 

Garbage in, garbage out.

Look over there: I see a twisted chunk of metal that might once have been a tricycle. On the other side I see a former Space Force commander callously tossed aside. The physical and human wreckage that continues to pile up is almost impossible to track. 

Because it's all garbage. Indistinguishable from the garbage surrounding it. 

He's counting on that. 

Are You A Little Yippy?

 A great man once said, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself."

Someone else said, "Be afraid. Be very afraid." Of course, this person had just witnessed her scientist boyfriend slowly transform into a human fly. Upon further reflection, this seems a little entomophobic. 

But currently we seem to be living in a climate of fear: pantophobia. The former game show host and the "author" the book The Art of the Deal seemed patronizingly aware of the economic terror he had unleashed over the past week or so. "I thought that people were jumping a little bit out of line. They were getting yippy. You know, they were getting a little bit yippy, a little bit afraid." For those of you unfamiliar with the term "yippy," you can probably find it somewhere within the three hundred seventy-two "non-fiction" pages of the book that made the former slum lord a legend in the minds of so many unquestioning minions. And in the mind of the man who rode that wave right past game show host and into the White House. 

Twice. 

So, we're all a bit "yippy" because great portions of our retirement savings have disappeared> A bit "yippy" because the rest of the world that used to see us as a pillar of strength and a port in the storm for the world's economy have suddenly turned against us? Yes, I would say that if "yippy" was really a word that I would count myself among those who are "yippy."

I am also a little "yippy" about the way we are deporting American citizens. I am more than a little "yippy" about putting a billionaire in a baseball cap with a chainsaw in charge of "government efficiency." I am a little "yippy" about our Constitution being ignored and shredded as the Artist of the Deal continues to distort our country into some twisted vision of his very own. I am more than a little "yippy" about the way the Second Trumpreich has stepped up their fear-mongering machinery, insisting that we be frightened by our fellow citizens for the way they choose to live. 

Land of the Brave? Land of the "yippy." 

I'm pretty solidly with the lady who had a human fly for an ex-boyfriend. Be afraid. 

Be very afraid. 

Combat Pay

 Here's the analogy that will send my younger brother skimming to the end of this piece: Two National Basketball Association franchises just fired their head coaches. Not a surprise, exactly since it's closing in on the end of their season and that's usually a good time to "clean house." Except in this case, both of the coaches who were fired were leading their teams into the playoffs. The Denver Nuggets and the Memphis Grizzlies are both looking at extending their seasons with a chance at winning the "world" championship. Why would a winning team from all outward appearances want to set their captain adrift when there is still so much basketball left to be played?

I cannot answer that question with any degree of certainty. It definitely goes against what most people would refer to as "conventional wisdom." 

Which brings me to the turn my younger brother is probably trying to find: The Oakland Unified School District's School Board is currently trying to oust the current superintendent. The same superintendent who was only recently granted a contract extension. A three year extension. Granted this past August. 

Now the difference between a school district and a professional basketball team is a mighty gulf. I leave it to you to decide the relative cultural impact that each may occupy in our current zeitgeist. Certainly we put a large stake in our professional athletes compared to our professional educators. The annual salary of a superintendent of an urban school district versus that of an NBA head coach is an quick way to check that comparison. 

In sports, the hunger is for championships. In education, the hunger is for scholarship. Success in either relies on a myriad of factors. Winning isn't everything, as some folks would tell you. It's the only thing. In a world that elevates a very thin line of achievement, showing up and doing your job is rarely enough. That one reads, "What have you done for me lately?"

In the case of Oakland's superintendent, she has increased graduation rates, led the way in creating a model for community schools districtwide, and oh by the way has been in the job for over seven years. Which may not sound like a lot, but it turns out that it is the longest tenure for an OUSD superintendent in more than sixty-two years. 

And yet, things are not perfect. If you ask anyone, including Superintendent Tramell-Johnson, she would tell you that there are far too many kids who are on the brink of failure academically. There is also that nagging specter of debt that currently sits just above ten million dollars for the coming fiscal year. It used to be ninety-eight million. But it's not zero. The district is not making money. 

The irony in this moment is that if you were to have asked me how our superintendent was doing, I would have had plenty to crab about. Now suddenly I feel the need to defend her. Oakland has a way of chasing after an ideal that they don't fully understand themselves, as witnessed by the current race for mayor, necessitated by the recall of our last mayor. Is there any correlation between these attitudes and the departure of three major league sports franchises over the past two years from "The Town?" As opposed to "The City" across the bay? 

So let's just say that taking any one of these jobs requires a certain temperament and a willingness to duck the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You never know when the bell will toll for thee. 

Terribly

 The old joke: I have a dog without a nose.

How does he smell?

Terrible!

My life: I have a cat with teeth.

How does he eat?

Terrible.

The English teacher in me shudders just a bit at the lack of a suffix on those descriptors, since they should be adverbs, but you get the picture. My wife and I have developed quite the litany of discussions regarding our cat's diet. Rarely does a full day pass without one or both of us commenting on the consumption, digestion or combination thereof in reference to our little kitty buddy. 

Maybe I should have anticipated the struggle in which we find ourselves after spending my early years being inculcated by the lessons of Nine Lives Cat Food. Cats, in particular spokesfeline Morris, are finicky. Growing up in a canine household, it never occurred to me that a pet might eschew the slop set down in front of them. Most meals, snacks or stolen treats were inhaled upon presentation and the only question was is there more of that?

Not so with Mister C. Fluffington. He will mew at the top of his lungs for attention at or around scheduled mealtimes, but once a bowl of lovingly procured duck pate is placed in front of him, there is a fifty-fifty chance that it will catch his fancy. On those occasions which he does find himself pushing food around the dish, he will inevitably leave some portion to sit and become less than appetizing. Upon returning to his feeding station, "This? It's several minutes old. Bring me something fresh."

This is when my wife and I will begin the day's discussion of our cat's diet. We have cooked special diets. We have mixed in supplements. We have purchased special mouse-infused food that we hoped would satisfy our obligate carnivore. Chicken, lamb, salmon. The variety was not the concern. We know this because we have made a ridiculously careful study of it. Instead, it seems that the Fluff is most content when his caretakers are flustered by his habits. It is only those conversations carried out in hushed tones next to the sink that seem to give him contentment.

Finicky? How about Machiavellian?

Reentry

 Then I jumped out of bed and went to work again. 

That's the story I will tell my grandchildren. 

At the ripe old age of nearly sixty-three, the Monday after my highly anticipated Spring Break, I faced the new day with courage and vitality.

This is the way I will describe it to anyone who cares to listen. 

The strain I put on my body to "relax" over the course of the week of vacation was not enough to bring me low. I eagerly hopped on my bicycle and pedaled off to rejoin the workforce. The time and energy I put into creating a new retaining wall didn't put me in any sort of muscular deficit. I felt rejuvenated and prepared to launch myself into those last thirty-some days left in the school year. 

Or maybe I could tell the truth. 

When the alarm went off, there was an argument. I wanted to be asleep. The alarm wanted me awake. 

The alarm won. I rolled out onto the floor next to my bed, much to the amusement of the cat who saw this as an opportunity to be fed. As if this scenario hadn't been playing out pretty steadily over the past week. The difference being that I wasn't going to meander back to my bedroom and slide between the sheets after the cat had received his morning lump of nourishment. 

I kept going. Slowly. By the time I was dressed, my wife was snoring again. I woke her only briefly to tell her I was on my way. 

"Have a good day," were the words she left me with as I headed to the front door. Where the day lay in wait. 

Fresh and new. 

Yuck. 

Valhalla

 I have mentioned here a number of times that I once worked in a video store. Unlike Quentin Tarantino, I did not turn that job into a career that had me writing and directing feature films. It did give me a considerable depth of appreciation for the pop culture of the nineteen eighties. A sizable chunk of that came from repeat viewings of the films of that time. One of the stars of those movies was Val Kilmer. Starting with the wacky mashup of World War II and Elvis movies, Top Secret, I greeted each new offering from Mister Kilmer with mild anticipation. The following year he showed up in what could be considered the seed for the television series The Big Bang Theory, a college romp called Real Genius. Val's career was on a fast track that put him on the screen next to Tom Cruise in Top Gun. 

Shortly after that, his choices began to diverge. The same year that he appeared in a fantasy collaboration between Ron Howard and George Lucas called Willow, he brought his talents to the University of Colorado Shakespeare Festival, playing Hamlet.That same summer while he was probably busy signing copies of his book of poetry at local bookstores, a fellow video store employee walked in with a basket of laundry. She announced with enthusiasm that she would not be staying long, but as the assistant dresser to Mister Kilmer at the Shakespeare Festival, she had been next door at the laundromat with a load of his dirty clothes. Including his undies. 

That is a degree of separation I only have with one movie star: Val Kilmer's underwear. Plain white briefs for those of you who ponder such things. 

From there he went on to portray a vast array of characters, ranging from Doc Holliday to Jim Morrison to Batman. That last one came at a time when a lot of actors took a swing at being the Caped Crusader, but those other two gentlemen, Doc and Jim, those were closer to the center of who Val Kilmer was as an actor. Taking risks and reveling in the opportunities he had as an artist. His success as an actor allowed him to explore music, painting, photography and sculpture. 

It is perhaps ironic that one of his later roles had him appearing as the voice of KITT the car in the reboot of Knight Rider. Ironic since a few years after that, he was diagnosed with throat cancer. His acting career was curtailed, but he never stopped creating. Even his recent passing was marked by donning his modified Batman cowl one last time was a spritely artistic scene. It was there that he announced that he was "ready to go." 

Which he did. 

Val Kilmer stomped on the stage as well as the Terra, and he will be missed. Aloha, Mister Kilmer. 

Back To Reality

 Geez.  

I go away for a few days and everything just goes haywire. 

I'm not talking about the electric car we had to rescue, or the dishwasher that was full of soap suds upon our return. 

I'm talking about the full-on trade war instituted by the former game show host and the international fallout created by what might best be described as "reactionary tariffs." 

As my wife and I made a mad dash to the south end of the state, evil and misguided things were happening on the other side of the continent. These things went largely ignored because the intent of our trip was to vacate and shun. Vacation. We made a conscious effort to keep ourselves from doom-scrolling as we waited in line for The Jungle Cruise. We used our cellular phone connection to track our food orders and our relative location in The Happiest Place On Earth. 

It takes a very concerted effort to be an adult about having fun like a child. While we pondered over choices like Buzz Lightyear or Space Mountain, the world was mulling over how to deal with the enfant terrible who was alternately setting up tee times and destroying the global economy. The newest and most ugly revelations of the convicted felon's most recent attempts at "making America a laughing stock," or MALS as it appears on red baseball caps made in China was not made fully apparent to this vacationing couple until we headed north once again to return to our "quiet normal life." 

We unpacked. We got the electric car back on the charger. We rinsed the excess soap out of the dishwasher. We apologized to the cat for leaving him to deal with all the extra stress and got back to the business of real life in these "United" States. 

Breaking Stuff

 I am not a big fan of vandalism. Tagging and sideshows and the destruction of property is not uncommon here in Oakland. The vast majority of these crimes are not directed at any specific person or institution. The stem from the anguished cries of the oppressed. 

Perhaps that is overstating it, but these kinds of crimes fall into a bin that is not exactly "victimless." Somebody's got to clean up the mess. The paint. The broken glass. The hours spent doing what needs to be done to get things back into working order. I feel the frustration and pain on the end of a school that gets its fair share of abuse over the course of a year. We're not a particularly well-guarded institution. It's part of the business of being a public school. 

And so, it seems, is owning a Tesla. Lately the news is full of shocked owners of electric vehicles that just happen to share the same initial as the convicted felon who had his presidential election paid for by the world's richest man. Not content with the plummeting stock of Elongated Mush's car company, some miscreants have taken to the streets to disrupt the sales of any more of what was once seen as a liberal accessory. Then there are those who would be happy to take the next step. 

Recently U.S. Attorney General Pam Bondi has referred to the attacks on Tesla vehicles "domestic terrorism." Local law enforcement has been kept busy investigating all of the incidents involving what seems to have become America's least favorite carmaker. San Jose's mayor insists, "Keying a car because you don’t like the person who designed it is like breaking a clock because you don’t like the time it shows. If this crime was politically motivated, our residents can’t be held accountable for something Elon Musk is doing three thousand miles away." He finished up with this: "voice our opinions where they matter—at the ballot box, not in a parking lot."

And there's the rub. Nobody voted for the guy who bought everything without giving anything back. Elongated Mush is hurting people without the benefit of being held in any way responsible. The idea that some of those people are lashing out at objects that he hopes will further his position as the untouchable DOGE czar makes sense. Not to your average Tesla driver, of course. They're the ones left cleaning up the mess. 

Such are the wages of civil disobedience in 2025. 

Something Clicked

 Thirty-four years ago I decided to take a Spring Vacation. It wouldn't be fair to call it a Spring Break, since I had already graduated from college by that time. I was an adult making choices based on rhythms I had picked up back in my youth. 

I chose to fly out to California to meet up with an old friend from high school. Actually, she wasn't that old. She was two years younger than I was. Our relationship went back more than a decade before that, and we had stayed in touch, including a very pleasant reunion at a mutual friend's wedding the summer before. 

I did not know it then, but I was about to embark on a life-changing trip that would take me far outside my beloved comfort zone and put me on a path toward actual adulthood. 

This began with a trip to Disneyland. 

To emphasize just how patently naïve I was, my trip began by flying into San Francisco. My friend had asked if there was anything in particular that I wanted to do during my stay in the Golden State. I chose to go to the Happiest Place on Earth. 

Four hundred miles away. Down an Interstate Highway that locals referred to as "The Five." This was not the only adjustment I was going to make during my stay. 

We woke up early that first morning and piled into my host's car. We drove through the rain and eventually into the relative sunshine of Southern California. Just inside the gates of the House of Mouse, we met up with my old college roommate, his friend, and my younger brother. We spent the day doing those things that visitors to this theme park had done for decades: we waited in lines. We ate junk food. We went on rides. We waited in line for junk food. We waited in lines to go on rides. 

And somewhere in there I fell in love. Not the mild infatuation that had led me to make the trip halfway across the country in the first place, but a deep and abiding connection with this person who (spoiler alert) would become my wife. 

A week later, after having spent nearly every waking moment with this woman, I had quietly made up my mind to figure out how we could spend our lives together. 

Some people ask why I continue to visit Disneyland. 

I tell them this story. 

Connection Lost

 I remember when long distance was the next best thing to being there. I remember when phones were connected to walls and the only way you could use them was to be within the cord's radius. At my house if you wanted privacy you could go downstairs or step outside the kitchen into the garage. That long distance phone call was something I was raised to fear from a cost point of view. If someone called you from another state they had better have something important to say because it was costing them a mint, especially in the middle of the day. 

These days we have phones in our pockets everywhere we go, and if it occurs to us to ring up an acquaintance in a distant land, we just need to know the digits. The allure and excitement of getting a long distance call is now all but forgotten. When Stevie Wonder wanted us to know that he just called to say "I love you," it meant something. 

This was somewhere around the time that I had to carry around a little plastic card with my MCI number printed on it so I could take advantage of all the savings available to me if I spent the extra six to eight minutes punching in the digits before the number I was trying to reach. And every so often someone in my freshman dorm would show up with a code that he insisted was that of a celebrity who wanted to "mess with the system" by letting a bunch of hungry drunk boys in on what we could only assume was free long distance. The guys in my hall chose to use this information to call 867-5309 in as many different area codes as we could remember. We asked for Jenny. 

Of course we all understood the real purpose of long distance. It wasn't for dialing random numbers in hope of speaking to the woman who inspired the song. It wasn't for calling just to say we loved someone. It was for bad news. If someone got a call "long distance," a hush would come over the normally boisterous freshmen. We watched as the recipient of the call trudged down the hall to the one phone that was placed at the far end of the hall. We waited for the door to open again to see what sort of news was important enough to break up the general mayhem of a Thursday afternoon at a liberal arts college. Good news, for the most part, could wait until rates were cheaper. 

This was a time of pay phones and directory assistance. There were actual human beings waiting to connect your call if you needed help. It never occurred to us that they could be listening to everything we said once they had finished their official business. There used to be these keen glass booths that offered the privacy you needed when you weren't at home and able to step out into the garage. I never fully understood how one of these see-through structures was ideal for Clark Kent to change clothes in, but this was a different time. 

A time when a call home cost a dime, and if you wanted to chat with someone far away, you needed to bring a pocketful of change. Or you could just send them an email. In about twenty years.