When The Wheels Come Off

 Things will have to change a whole lot more and quickly for me to point to Viktor Orbán's defeat as a tide that is turning. Much in the same way that the number of special election wins for Democrats here in the United States does not suggest that we are out of the proverbial woods. 

That being said, let me take a moment to run a few laps around the loss of one of the convicted felon's authoritarian all-stars. Just before Sunday's election, the Orange Worst took a break from ignoring the war he started in Iran to post, “My Administration stands ready to use the full Economic Might of the United States to strengthen Hungary’s Economy, as we have done for our Great Allies in the past, if Prime Minister Viktor Orbán and the Hungarian People ever need it.” Just prior to dropping by Pakistan to foul up negotiation with the aforementioned Iran war, Jeffery Depstien Vance popped by Budapest to place an ill-fated thumb on the scale of international politics. 

For the record, Josh Duhamel Vance went 0 for 2 on his globetrotting mission, failing to re-elect his boss' fellow despot and not being able to get Iran to back down from their commitment to repel the Christian invaders. Maybe somebody should have mentioned John Deere Vance's track record with foreign leaders, like the Pope, one of whom died shortly after his visit and the new guy who declined any visit to the United States while the adjudicated rapist is still in charge. 

Meanwhile, back in Budapest, a record voter turnout helped bring an end to the sixteen year rule of former Prime Minister Orbán. European Union leaders as a group exhaled as this Putin Puppet was pushed aside for a renewed commitment to the EU and its member nations in hopes of turning around years of corruption and stagnation for the Hungarian people. Along with the defeat of Orbán, the reform party headed by new Prime Minsiter Péter Magyar, Tisza, is expected to gain a supermajority in the Hungarian parliament. 

Notable in this development: Orbán managed to do something that his American counterpart could never do. He conceded defeat.

This is what happens when you send Jiminy Doofus out to do a big boy's job. 

It's also what happens when people vote.

Vote as if your life depended on it. 

Because it does. 

Club

 I was being asked by the media to care about a golf tournament. 

With baseball just starting and the basketball season winding down, this has always been a tough spot for sports. The Stanley Cup is still months from being given away to the hockey team that manages not to succumb to the tedium of two months of playoffs. The Masters is the best chance we are told to see the pageantry of trophy celebrations on full display for spectators. 

Maybe we are supposed to care because Tiger Woods will not be playing in this year's tournament. Who will rise to that occasion and take Tiger's place? Who will get all hopped up on goofballs and drive his very expensive SUV into oncoming traffic before calling his "good friend" the "president" when authorities arrive to take him into custody? 

Then there's this other major challenge getting me to care about golf. There's this little matter of the more than one hundred million dollars American taxpayers are paying so that the aforementioned "president" could whack a ball and chase it on courses that (checks notes) the aforementioned "president" owns. Compound this financial burden with the seemingly unrelenting images of this convicted felon out on the greens while the country falls deeper and deeper into a dystopian caricature of itself thanks to his "leadership." I suppose we should be happy that he isn't actually playing a fiddle instead of whacking a ball and chasing it. 

So this Masters thing. It's been a big deal for a long time. Ninety two years, with only a two year break for that little inconvenience called World War II. The World Series, that's baseball, has a longer stretch than that, and Lord Stanley's Cup has been awarded more than one hundred times. But I guess we should give some appreciation to this pantheon of championships. Providing that we don't bother mentioning that it wasn't until 1990 that the golf club where the tournament has been held all those years allowed its first black member admission. Or that it took until 2012 for women to be allowed into the club. Of course that skews a little different when you consider that club rules stated that players would be assigned caddies by the club, all of whom were black. 

Ah, the storied tradition of The Masters. Aren't you glad you asked me to pay attention? 

I won't be watching. 

Again. 

A Break

 What I wanted was a break. 

What I got was food poisoning. 

For those of you who have been reading this blog from the beginning, the phrase "last piece of lasagna" might bring with it a faint air of nostalgia, or perhaps a little sympathetic nausea. It was not, to paraphrase Carl Denham, the lasagna that got me. 'Twas burrito that killed the beast. 

Carne asada will now be added to the list of phrases that will give me pause when considering my meal choices. 

Some four days after the Burrito Express came rushing out of me with all the urgency one might imagine a digestive system stuck on reverse could manage, solid food was something that my vacation was sadly missing. There was one day when I felt as if I had proceded to the normal lane, but my guts did not approve. They let me know that dry toast and Gatorade would be on the menu until everything was all settled down there, thank you very much. 

This meant that even day trips to some nearby bed and breakfast were off the table. So was my daily exercise regimen. As I spent those days sitting around my house waiting for the next gastric eruption, waiting for the scourge to fully depart, I felt the enforced low-key staycation weighing on my soul. Sure, I had made it out into the yard before the cursed burrito experience to trim up the trees, making way for Spring's renewal, but the reality of my situation was embedded in my diminished physicality. 

I watched a lot of TV. I tried not to bother my wife or my cat with my needs. I was only moderately successful with this, as my usual tireless approach to maintaining order took a miss and I spent a lot of time wondering just exactly how long it would take until I was "all better." 

There is no reset button. It takes time. Thankfully Spring Break allowed me this luxury. For this I have decided to be thankful. And as far as breaks go, I will be taking a break from Burrito Express. 

Women's Work

 Okay. 

So maybe it's the patriarchy. 

In spite of our best efforts, it seems as though white males make up the majority of leadership spots on our landscape. For example, we don't tend to flinch when we make a list of "the richest men in the world." We just assume that women lag so far behind that it's not worth including them in this accounting. Contrastingly it is unfortunate to note that the only two members of the convicted felon's current cabinet to be tossed out of that clown car were women. Idiots like Pistol Pete Hegseth and Robert "guess what the F stands for" Kennedy Jr. continue to hold down office space in the Kremlin West. 

This ruling party to which I have no interest in an invitation from continues to carry on in its boys' club way, denigrating and destroying anything that does not fit in their cartoon version of a masculine world. 

What about Hillary's emails? What about Kamala's laugh? There are still far too many knuckle-draggers willing to insist that we would not be better off currently if either of those women had won election. 

Or if that's too big a setting for you, let's take the confrontation between coaches Geno Auriemma and Dawn Staley in the aftermath of Staley's South Carolina women's team win in the NCAA semifinals. Coach Geno used the opportunity to fly off the handle criticizing the officiating and then had an angry interaction with Coach Staley before stalking off the court without shaking hands with the winning team. 

The one coached by a woman. 

Since then, Coach Geno has been apologetic about his part of the ugliness, but the question remains: would he have gone screaming after an opposing male coach? 

Given the current global uptick in wars and "military operations," I noticed that in spite of there being thirty countries with women as heads of state, not one of those countries is currently involved in armed conflict outside of their own borders. If you're looking for examples of that, you would have to search bac.k a few decades to Margaret Thatcher and her little escapade in the Falklands. 

Meanwhile, in spite of that seemingly "large" number of women in charge of the globe, they only comprise eight percent of all head of state or government positions worldwide. Contrast that to the stunning number of women named in the Epstein Files. 

As victims. 

Sleep tight, America. 

Risk Management

 From Al Gore's Internet: Threatening children, such as using empty threats or fear-based ultimatums, in an ineffective parenting style that damages trust, breeds resistance and causes anxiety.

For the sake of those of you who may feel that you have stumbled on some of my wife's work regarding family dynamics, I will say that I am working in a more metaphorical vein. In this particular model, the "parent" will be played by the convicted felon and nominal "president" of the United States. We will be the children.

Have you felt anxious over the past ten months? Ten years? Do you experienced trust issues with the current regime? How about the breeding of resistance? 

If you answered "yes" to any of these then you may be an American citizen. 

Unfortunately in this version of family discord, the "co-equal" branches of our parenting scheme seems to be broken. "Wait 'til your father gets home," is a pretty solid non-starter here since the problem is that even when daddy is on the golf course or sitting on the toilet late at night, the threats keep coming. More promises of punishments alternating with assurances of some sort of intangible reward that benefits only those in positions of power. Meanwhile, our economy continues to circle the drain while daddy's friends get rich on speculation that the threat of nuclear was is just a threat. 

Nothing more. 

While we sit alone in our metaphorical bedrooms, wishing that daddy would die, imagining a savior will ride in and save us all from the terror in which we currently live. Someone who will stand up to daddy and make him stop being so awful. "Don't you worry about it honey," with a reassuring pat on the head, "That bad man won't be able to hurt us anymore." Right after they write a strongly worded social media post with the caveat that unless daddy's friends move out first that there's not much to be done, but if we could just send a little more money to the committee to keep mommy safe we'll see what we can do. 

Not a very healthy dynamic. 

Another two weeks? 

Out

 I understand why we won't have Eric Swalwell to kick around anymore. Won't be running for governor of California. Won't be warming a chair in the United States House of Representatives. And most of all, according to one of the women who accused former Representative Swalwell of sexual abuse and harassment, "For me, justice won't be until he can't ever harm a woman ever again, and he has faced the consequences for the women that he has harmed."

Meanwhile, just a few doors down in Congress, Buildings and Grounds are busy scraping the name of the door of the offices of Ernest Anthony "Tony" Gonzales, former Representative from Texas. "Tony" also chose to resign after he admitted to an affair with a former aide who later committed suicide. 

By resigning before they were expelled, both men will be allowed to keep their pension benefits. 

And, if you were to listen to South Carolina's Representative Nancy Mace, you might expect to hear about more potential expulsions and/or resignations in the coming months. "Congress is not above the law. It never was," she said. "Two down, more to go."

All of this housecleaning takes place in the shadow of what used to be The People's House. That huddled Orange Mass over there continues to slither behind something every time the lights come on. There are loads of evidence tying this convicted felon to abuse of his office, federal funds, and harassment and sexual abuse that would make Messrs. Swalwell and Gonzales blush. Just a reminder that this felon was convicted of falsifying business records in connection with a case involving paying an adult film star to keep quiet about the affair he was having with her while his third wife was locked away in The Tower, caring for his infant son. And in spite of all the efforts to obscure the release of the files pertaining to the sex trafficking empire of Jeffery Epstein, one of the bits that managed to squeeze out into public view was credible evidence that the Orange Mass raped a thirteen year old girl. 

Former Representatives Swalwell and Gonzales don't have access to the machinery available to the Orange Mass to distract the public, but this is the sort of thing that should fall under the category, "No one is above the law." 

Representative Mace, a rape survivor herself, has stated she wants to see "anyone who raped underage girls in handcuffs and behind bars," including calling for the prosecution of Prince Andrew. She believes that Mister Epstein was murdered. Out of the other corner of her mouth, however, she finds the Orange Mass to be a "wonderful leader," perhaps because he has endorsed her campaign for governor of South Carolina. 

Confused? 

You probably shouldn't be. 

Full Stop

 I have one video game that I play, aside from the somewhat tedious and OCD repetitions of computer solitaire. It is called "Civilization." There are a lot of newer versions of this game, but I tend to favor the one that I started playing a couple decades ago. It was a reaction to kicking free from the first-person shooters that we had discouraged my son from playing. The very high-minded concept of this set of code is that starting thousands of years BC you are charged with guiding one of several tribes through centuries of development, hoping to survive drought and disease and other warring tribes to eventually create a modern world in which these former barbarians to inhabit. You could win the game through diplomatic means, or by beating those other civilizations to outer space. Or through do mination, crushing those other poor unfortunate peoples' lives under my cyber-despotic bootheel. 

Which raises the question, "So, if you don't want your son roaming around the universe with a ray gun, zapping aliens, why is okay for you to destroy other civilizations with a moderately superior military technology?" Well, I have spent a good deal of time rationalizing my motives, but I can say that my high-minded response centers around the notion that this is Civilization after all. Kill or be killed, isn't that the way?

The Orange Worst has been ramping up his rhetoric as his marbles continue to disappear. On the morning of his threatened destruction of the infrastructure of Iran, he let this one fly: "a whole civilization will die tonight." Not eliminating the war machinery or retaking the Strait of Hormuz by force. "A civilization will die tonight." Speculation has run rampant over the past few days as the countdown to meet the convicted felon's demands. The war crimes for which this idiot is already culpable continues to grow. This is the guy who somehow has his tiny hands on the buttons not just for Diet Coke on Demand, but the second largest nuclear arsenal in the world. Billions of dollars and thousands of lives have already been thrown into the flames in attempts to, what do we keep saying, distract from the horrors that this infantile tyrant who couldn't run a casino in Atlantic City or keep his trousers zipped.

Why hasn't anyone run into the Oval Office, or onto the golf course, thrown this enfeebled failure to the ground, handcuffed him and taken him someplace where he cannot harm another human being? 

We used to have a Congress. We used to have a sense of morality. 

I hate to say it, but we let this happen. And even if tomorrow shows up and the literal Cradle of Civilization is still standing, we should have done something different. The fate of the planet should not be left up to a Narcissistic doddering old fool with delusions of grandeur. 

"Oh, he didn't really mean it." Or, "What he really meant was..."

It should stop. 

Now. 

Hey, the stock market went up. 

Or in two weeks. 

Whatever. 

Oh, Really?

 What a horrible, awful, frightening mess this country would be in had we stuck with that addled old man who stuttered. 

Or if we had gone with that lady who laughed like a hyena and had ties to law enforcement. 

And what about Hillary's emails, anyway?

Sorry. I'm having a moment here. Alex Jones, who would most definitely know a sociopath when he sees one, has declared the former game show host and golf cheat unfit to lead. “This is what I’m talking about, the way Trump’s behaving. Way more erratic. His speech, you know, is not coherent a lot of the time. You can’t deny this is happening.” 

Well heck, Mister Jones, thanks for pointing this out. Of course it's not as if this guy's rants about electric boats and shark attacks weren't out there on display for everyone to see on the days and weeks leading up to the 2024 election. Speaking of stupidity on parade, this is the guy who spent forty-five million dollars to get a poorly planned and executed display of military might for his birthday. That same day I participated in an event on the other side of the continent that ended up costing me just a few pennies for cardboard and magic markers for the sign I made, reminding anyone who cared to listen that America is no place for kings. 

Twice more since that day back in June of 2025 I have taken to the streets to point out the vacuum of leadership we are experiencing while the convicted felon sleeps through cabinet meetings because he has stayed up past his bedtime hammering out alternately offensive and nonsensical social media posts. Now, as the adjudicated rapist's approval ratings have begun to flirt with negative territory, Alex Jones would like us all to know that the Orange Worst has lost his way. “We’ve never seen rhetoric out of presidents like this when we go to war, even if you’re for this war. This is really bad PR, folks,” warned the man who insisted that the Sandy Hook Massacre was a hoax. 

Stupid is a stupid does, indeed. 

Hate Speech

 It is difficult to focus on "the one thing" that makes me most upset about having a former game show host for a "president." 

Today I will choose this: The announcement of national and international policy on the social media network owned by this coward of a cretin. 

This past Saturday, he made this threat: “Remember when I gave Iran ten days to MAKE A DEAL or OPEN UP THE HORMUZ STRAIT. Time is running out - 48 hours before all Hell will reign down on them. Glory be to GOD! President DONALD J. TRUMP,””That was followed on Sunday, Easter morning by, "Tuesday will be Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, all wrapped up in one, in Iran. There will be nothing like it!!! Open the Fuckin' Strait, you crazy bastards, or you'll be living in Hell - JUST WATCH! Praise be to Allah." 

One might expect that this came from the basement of some MAGAt's home he shares with his mother, rather than the "leader of the free world." Difficult to find anything particularly "presidential" in the vicious and ultimately racist threats against a country with whom he is the reason the conflict exists in the first place. 

The fact that his own administration routinely has to race to catch up on whatever late-night rants he fires off from the fancy new toilets in what is left of the White House. It is worth noting that he and his rabid War Czar Pistol Pete Hegsbreath seem to be in some terrifying game of who can generate more war crimes while his handlers struggle to explain "what the president meant." 

It's actually pretty simple: The "president" meant that he is full-goose bozo. One or two bricks shy of a load. He's all oatmeal north of the eyebrows. The Trump trolley has jumped the track. Over the weekend, there were rumblings across many different Internet platforms that the convicted felon may have been rushed to the hospital. The response, as you might imagine was less concerned that anticipatory. Would this be the weekend that the solution to all our problems came? Some sort of holy intervention brought forth as a reminder that there is something bigger than (small h) him? 

It was not, of course, to be as the rumors of his demise had been exaggerated, but not without some merit. 

Sleep tight, America. 

Luna Sea

 Sorry. 

Amid all the other distractions here on Earth, I have failed to acknowledge the flight of Artemis II. Four astronauts are on their way to the moon. Or near it, anyway. 

What with all the things blowing up these days, it's hard to pay attention to the controlled burn of a NASA launch that didn't explode like so very many of the Space X firework shows. 

This certainly points to a degree of talent and tenacity on the part of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Strapping four humans into what is essentially a high explosive and aiming it not just into the upper atmosphere, but into the space between us and our moon? That must make all those billionaires selling tickets to their zero-gravity carnival rides blush. 

To be transparent, this is a reboot of a show that NASA put on more than fifty years ago. Back when these missions were named for Artemis' brother, and the rockets were named Saturn. 

We're not sending men to Saturn. Or Mars for that matter. Not yet. We have picked up this gauntlet laid down by (checks notes) the uncle of the guy who likes taking cold plunges with faux rock stars while wearing his jeans. We are moving ahead with a space program while wars rage on across the globe. 

Just like they did when the first Apollo missions were being launched. 

Now we're headed back to the stars. Or the moon. But we're doing it with a sense of hope for the future. Or maybe just as an exit strategy. 

Inevitable Collapse

 I tried to remember how things looked and felt during those Final Days of the Nixon Administration. As the Watergate hearings continued to cave in the protective web of lies surrounding his administration, Richard Nixon continued to isolate himself as the walls came tumbling down.

Metaphorically speaking. the ruins of the White House became solidly less metaphorical some fifty years later when a failed businessman tried to run much of the same playbook on a country that naively believed that they had seen the worst. It speaks volumes to me that the antics of George W. Bush and his crew seem petty and cute when placed beside the crimes of the Second Trumpreich. It was George W., whom I routinely referred to in this space as "President Pinhead," that suggested, "I don't want s, me mom whose son may have recently died to see the commander-in-chief playing golf." 

A pretty sad state of affairs when you could stand to take an optics lesson from the lesser of two Bushes. 

And yet, here we are. The firings have begun just ahead of the criminal charges. KristICE Barbie Noem left her position as head of the Department of Homeland Security so she could spend more time being embarrassed at home. Pam "It's Bondage With An I" Bondi cleared out her desk at the Attorney General's Office with what we can only assume is a box full of overlooked Epstein Files. These two may be the lucky ones, as their boss continues to insist that, “It’s not possible for us to take care of day care, Medicaid, Medicare, all these individual things. They can do it on a state basis. You can’t do it on a federal. We have to take care of one thing: military protection. We have to guard the country.”

Well, that and erect a monstrosity of a ballroom designed to cover up a super secret underground military base. So secret, in fact, that he shared pictures of it with the press. 

If this show lasts all the way until the scheduled Ultimate Fighting Championship scheduled for the South Lawn on our nation's 250th birthday, it will be a miracle. 

A painful, bitter and all but unbearable miracle. 

Errant

 I understand that the life of one innocent victim stacked up next to the hundreds of deaths occurring every day in Iran may not be politics as usual, but the loss of seven month old Kaori Patterson-Moore in Brooklyn last week still strikes a chord. 

An ominous one. 

While it is true that my own sight has been diverted to atrocities such as the bombing of a girls' school in Minab Hormozgan at the opening of the war, Neil Young's refrain is never far from my mind: There's one more kid that'll never go to school - Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool

Kaori was being pushed in a stroller when shots rang out. Her parents looked down, terrified to see that their baby was bleeding. Her father rushed her to the nearest hospital where she was pronounced dead. 

Seven months old. 

It should be made clear that Kaori was no more the target of those gunshots than the hundreds of children who died in the unlawful attack on Shajareh Tayyebeh Elementary School. The truly misguided notion of "stray bullets" and "smart bombs" does not cover up the loss of life. It merely reminds us that all those bullets and bombs have to go somewhere. Those errant shots do not excuse the murder of innocent victims. 

In Brooklyn, authorities continue to hunt for the gunman who killed little Kaori. 

In Washington, Senators led by Georgia's Raphael Warnock have begun their investigation into the deaths of all those little girls in Iran. 

Meanwhile, across the globe, "mistakes" are being made with deadly weapons. Someone really needs to take these toys away. 

Forever. 

Marking Period

 It is no coincidence that my irrational fear of Sharpies is connected to my very rational fear of the Orange Worst. As a teacher, I am constantly on the lookout for children with indelible markers. Most of your standard pens and pencils, including those water-based smelly marking pens can be wiped away with a damp cloth. And for those fledgling taggers who use the teacher's dry-erase marker to leave their wit or wisdom on school property might consider another line of delinquency. 

Then there's the convicted felon and war criminal who is so fond of the permanent Brand Name Sharpie that he spent nearly five full minutes of a televised Cabinet Meeting to discuss his fixation on this particular writing instrument.  It was, perhaps, an attempt to create some sort of allegory about government waste, but ended up becoming an ironic counterpoint: While we're busy kibitzing about what pen we should use to hand out during document signings, people are dying across the globe in a war that this pinhead started. 

Then there's the actual marking of territory, which my mother always used to say when describing the behavior of "taggers" was bad toilet training. When it comes to the former game show host, however, he is not content to merely scrawl his name in Sharpie or even spray paint. He hires crews of people to go out and attach new letters using tarps and scaffolding to slap his name on government buildings like the John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the US Institute of Peace. And now he wants to put his scribbled signature on all our currency. 

A former opponent and now full-on MAGA supplicant, Florida Governor Ron "of the Satan" DeSantis has declared that the Palm Beach Airport will now bear the name of an adjudicated rapist. John Oliver did a whole segment on how the National Park Service annual passes will now be defaced with the face of the Orange Worst. He then offered a solution: stickers to cover the unwanted visage of the accused pedophile with something, anything, better. 

And yes, someday this folly will all come to an end. The next administration will have their hands full scrubbing off all that marking. A ridiculous and unfortunate task compared to fixing the economy and returning any semblance of our international standing, but necessary to be rid of any remnants of the Sharpie King. When that time comes, I suggest you give a public school teacher a call. We're pretty clever when it comes to getting rid of "permanent" marks. 

Strait Talk

 "All ​of those countries that can’t get jet fuel ​because of the Strait of Hormuz, like the United Kingdom, which refused to get involved in the decapitation ​of Iran, I have a suggestion for ​you: Number 1, buy from the U.S., we have plenty, ‌and ⁠Number 2, build up some delayed courage, go to the Strait, and just TAKE IT."

These were the suggestions the Orange Felon offered up to those countries who were unwilling to join in the illegal war started by (checks notes) the Orange Felon. 

Just for amusement's sake, let's pretend that you were a world leader from, oh let's say a country in Europe and you were trying to decide to get involved in a war in the Middle East. Would you have come along if you were asked nicely? A coalition of the politely asked, perhaps? 

Or maybe he could have asked in the first place, before he started "decapitating" and "obliterating" things. Or if there had been some sort of plan in the first place.

I dunno, maybe one that provided continencies for one of the most vital waterways on the planet?

Instead, the Orange Worst and his cronies flew in, guns and bombs ablazin' without giving the Strait of Hormuz a second thought. The military capabilities, rumored to be destroyed by the Trumpreich, still managed to put together a nice bit of a blockade on the pinch point of most of the world's oil supply. In case you missed this tidbit, the next time you're driving past a gas station in the United States, take a peek at the price per gallon.

Oh. That's right. You can't drive past a gas station because you can't afford to drive past a gas station. 

Meanwhile, the great nations of Europe and elsewhere are being held hostage by an accused pedophile while he tries to work on his short game. It seems the infantile pyromaniac would now like help putting out the fire he started. 

Come on! Build up some delayed courage and help me clean up this mess I made. 

With all due respect, which is the tiniest bit I can assure you, no. 

Thank you for your attention this matter. 

J-Dop Demon Hunter

 Due to the demands of "the economy and national security and things like that," Julius Domingo Vance hasn't had a chance to take a peek at the concern in which he is most invested. "I've already had a couple of times where I'm like, 'All right, we're going to Area 51. We're going out to New Mexico. We're gonna sort of get to the bottom of this.' And then the timing of the trip just didn't work out. But trust me, anybody who's curious about this, I'm more curious than anybody, and I've got three years of the very tippy top of the classification. I'm gonna get to the bottom of it,"

Hear that folks? The very tippy top of the classification. 

Juan Demarco Vance is going to figure out what all this fuss is about extraterrestrials. Don't you worry about it. 

Or maybe you should worry about it. 

A little bit. 

"Celestial beings, who fly around and do weird things to people" are not necessarily otherworldly visitors. According to Jose Delecata Vance, "I don't think they're aliens. I think they're demons."

This one goes out to all those who feel comfortable with using the twenty-fifth amendment to get the convicted felon out of office, just to be replaced by someone even scarier. Jimmy Dean Vance continued, "I think that the desire to describe everything celestial [as] otherworldly, to describe it as aliens - I mean, every great world religion, including Christianity, the one that I believe in, has understood that there are weird things out there. And there are things that are very difficult to explain .And I naturally go, when I hear about sort of extra-natural phenomenon, that's where I go to, is the Christian understanding."

This is how the recently released UFO files will be dealt with if Jaime Dingus Vance ever gets a chance to break away from his pressing calendar events like berating visiting world leaders and killing popes. Which makes one wonder how Jerry Douglas Vance might use his "Christian understanding" to get to the bottom of those unredacted Trumpstein Files. 

If only the former game show host had been molesting underage extraterrestrials. 

Insert Your Golf/Driving Joke Here

 You cannot make stuff like this up:

Tiger Woods has been forbidden to drive President Donald Trump’s grandchildren around.

Mister Woods' most recent experiments in testing the aerodynamic properties of his black Range Rover was apparently an afterthought. Clear thinking Secret Service agents figured that Tiger might not be the ideal chauffer for the children of (checks notes) one Donald Trump Junior, who claims to be "the other son" of the convicted felon. His ex-wife, Vanessa, has been "dating" the golf legend and it would seem that not everyone is pleased with this coupling, including the Secret Service who are charged with keeping those with that easily identifiable surname. 

In case you don't follow golf, or TMZ, a man identified as "Tiger" was involved in a rollover crash late last Friday on Jupiter Island. That's in Florida. This is the fourth such incident involving "Tiger" since 2009. When asked for his take on the relative safety of his grandchildren, the former game show host and noted golf cheat said, “I feel so badly. He’s got some difficulty. There was an accident and that’s all I know. Very close friend of mine. He’s an amazing person, amazing man. But some difficulty.” The alleged pedophile's comments suggest that he is not good at feeling, which makes perfect sense, but I don't know if anyone bothered to ask "Tiger" about his pal in the ruins of the White House. 

“I feel so badly,” Tiger said. “He’s got some difficulty. There was an incident and that’s all I know. Very close friend of mine. He’s an amazing person, amazing man. But some difficulty.”

Why isn't this billionaire hiring an Uber instead of keeping a lawyer on retainer to take care of hid DUIs? It's like the old saying, "Better to ask for forgiveness instead of waiting for a ride." 

Meanwhile, it sounds like Vanessa and Tiger's relationship might be headed for splitsville, but one has to wonder why her dating app keeps coming up with these losers. 

When Enough Just Isn't Quite Enough

 Three times. Three different weekends. I have gone out and stood on the same street corner with many of the same folks, screaming at passing cars. 

Bruce Springsteen did not make an appearance. He was busy in Minneapolis. 

I was there, armed with a few new signs with pithy slogans and a few of the old hits. Along with a corner filled with friends and family, we waved at traffic and cheered whenever we got a honk. It wasn't until after I had been there for about an hour that it occurred to me that beyond my aforementioned pithy signs. 

I started to beg for drivers to respond to my presence on the corner. "Please honk at me and my signs! This has a direct connection to my self-esteem." Vroom. "I don't think I'm making myself clear," I continued to shout, "How are we going to solve this problem without you honking your horn?"

The problem is the same one we had months ago. The one where we were being forced to live with a king that no one, especially the gentlemen who wrote the United States Constitution, wanted. I suppose you might feel that just because the Orange Worst doesn't read maybe this could be excused. 

Except there are plenty of men and women in our federal government who have shown mild aptitude in the reading and writing department who seem to be having a difficult time grasping some of the basic tenets of the document that is supposed to be providing us with a blueprint for our representative democracy. You know, Schoolhouse Rock stuff. Checks. Balances. Following the rules and laws that had served us pretty well for two hundred fifty years. 

Hence, I find myself once again on that same corner, with a few hundred of my closest fellow Americans, trying to drum up support for dumping this dumb thing who slithered down an escalator a decade ago and keeps finding its way back into the White House. This in spite of the fact that he seems to know next to nothing about the operating instructions. 

I've been doing this for months now, and this past Saturday was the first time I was met with anything by indifference or enthusiastic honking. A gentleman rolled up to the stop light on his motorcycle, and with a sneer he asked, "Who ya gonna vote for? Gavin Newsom?" Momentarily caught unawares by this dissenting voice, I sputtered, "You mean instead of the convicted felon currently starting wars in the Middle East? You bet!"

The truth is, I am not certain that Gavin Newsom would get my vote for President, but if the choices were the convicted felon or the Governor of California, I think I could be persuaded to vote for the guy who has been in charge of the fourth largest economy in the world instead of the adjudicated rapist who used to host a game show. But the light changed and I didn't get to have anything that would have been described as an in-depth discussion with this weekend biker. 

Not that this was what the presumed MAGAt had in mind. 

Instead, I just started hollering louder. I wanted to believe that all my bellering and waving signs was going to rid our nation of the scourge and his cabinet of criminals. Standing there on a curb in Northern California, I understood that my voice was that of a majority, and the guy on the motorcycle was the one on the outside looking in. I knew that this one mild confrontation was a hiccup in the normal confluence of democratic thought found throughout the region. 

Which didn't keep it from feeling it like a bur under my metaphorical saddle, but I will be back out there for the next No Kings protest, with some new signs, and a renewed attitude. 

It's time for this to end. 

Teacher Appreciation

 It would be ridiculous for me to suggest that my job is a thankless one. I get plenty of thanks. Not always from the folks that I work for, but I kind of insist that first graders whose shoes I tie give me a "Thank you, Mister Caven," once I have stood back up and sent them on their way with properly fastened footwear. 

This might seem a little trite, but on certain days it is precisely what keeps my motor running for the next shoelace or runny nose or ball stuck on the roof or computer that "won't work." It's those moments of appreciation that keep me coming back, and perhaps why I tend to shy away from those big award assemblies with plaques and testimonies. 

That is why the dinner I attended last Thursday was such a unique exception. My principal, who works much harder than I ever do and has to endure all the backlash that comes with being the one sitting in "that chair," nominated me for a tribute sponsored by the nearly local basketball franchise. I was named a Golden Icon. I was never fully clear on exactly what made me outstanding, though I figured it probably had something to do with the shoelaces, balls and broken computers. 

And my dedication. My education dedication. 

The evening marked the first time in more than a calendar year since I had worn a suit, since the invitation insisted on "formal wear." This pleased my date, my wife, who relishes opportunities to look nice. Parking was paid for, as was the dinner, so we toddled off across the bay and drove to our reserved spot underneath the Chase Center. After we checked in, and name tags were dispersed, we were ushered down to the floor. The same floor where the night before the Golden State Warriors had battled the Brooklyn Nets. The hoops were still standing, but the rest of the floor had been transformed into a festive dining arrangement for a hundred or so teachers and their plus ones to enjoy an evening for being lauded. And fed. And lauded some more. 

There was even some dancing, which for which I received special recognition from the MC for "trying so hard."

Then it was all over. On the drive back across the bridge, I asked my wife, my date, how she enjoyed the evening. She said that she really enjoyed getting all gussied up. And then she paused before sharing her misgivings. "Do you feel like they were just trying to make themselves feel better?"

I said that I could certainly understand that feeling, the one where corporations with money to burn toss out a chunk of their disposable income to appreciate educators. Educators who had to paw through their closets to find "formal wear" because they don't spend a lot of time in formal wear. Or going out to catered dinners. Their time and money is almost always ploughed back into their job: buying supplies and treats for the kids they serve. Did I feel patronized?

Not after all these years. I was pleased and happy to take the "free dinner" and was grateful that I did not have to sit through a sales pitch for educational software or a timeshare offer. I got to hang out on the floor where Steph Curry plays, where I will soon be seeing Bruce Springsteen perform. 

I appreciate that. 

Money, It's A Gas

 It seems to me that "citizens united" would be a good name for a group of concerned citizens who would like to make a stand against some sort of malfeasance on the part of their government. 

It's not. Instead, it's the name of a Supreme Court decision from earlier this century that somehow granted corporations personhood. "Corporations are people." This allowed big business to funnel massive amounts of cash into elections of all shapes and sizes. The Federal Elections Commission had wanted to keep that from happening, but somehow the First Amendment got tossed into the mix and it was determined that limiting those giant contributions from giant companies would be an infringement on Free Speech. It was not clear from my reading whether or not it was okay with the Supreme Court for corporations to carry semi-automatic weapons. 

Which left us where we have been lodged for quite some time. "Get money out of politics" is a phrase that gets tossed around before during and after the Citizens United decision. All that money tends to warp the results of what should be a contest of ideas and ideals. Candidates for offices of all stripes and size have been bowled over by the sledgehammer that is mass media. And lobbyists. And consultants. And badges, posters, stickers and T-shirts. One need look no further than the struggle of one Jefferson Smith, the junior senator who was suddenly thrust into the limelight for his hope to build a boys' camp. A boys' camp that would have sat squarely in the way of a dam-building project being foisted on the public by Boss Jim Taylor and his political machine, of which the senior senator from Jefferson's state is a part. 

The money and influence afforded Senator Paine and his cronies by Mister Taylor threatens to unseat the naive Mister Smith with a flood of lies propagated and promoted by bad people doing bad things.

With lots of money. 

It isn't until the dormant conscience of Senator Paine lurches back into life, causing him to nearly blow his own head off and confess to all his misdeeds in front of a packed Senate Gallery that the day is saved.  

And wouldn't it be grand if after that film was made that money and the corruption it brings was kept in check? Starting in 1939? Just like it would be nice to think that that old Savings and Loan in Bedford Falls hadn't been engulfed and devoured by development in Potterville. That one was from 1946. 

Eighty years ago. 

It's a wonderful life. 

Drawing On Experience

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

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

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

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

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

And to draw. 

The Nobbling Of Nancy

 Nancy Guthrie.

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

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

Perhaps. 

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

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

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

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

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

Stairway To The Stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Sale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry. No sale. 

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

Letting Go

 I have mentioned in previous episodes what an easy touch I am for a free T-shirt. I have made a habit, over the years, or collecting all manner of "souvenirs" from experiences that will provide me with yet another shirt that I have to stuff into a drawer along with all those other mementos of experiences that are marked not by a photo or a plaque, but a cotton-blend extra large wad of cloth for me to turn inside out each time I wash them and fold neatly when its time to return them to their resting place. 

This describes only part of the problem. I also feel compelled to purchase a "souvenir" from each concert, performance or sporting event I attend. couple these with the previously mentioned "free" shirts and suddenly you find yourself with a storage problem. Last spring I made it a project to sort through my full and overflowing four drawer dresser, of which three were jam packed with all that ephemera. Each one I held up brought a rush of nostalgia. I remember holding on to that as I made my way back to my seat at Oracle Arena. When it was Oracle Arena. Or the ones that are tied to nights that became more memorable as time passed. Like the hemp shirt I purchased on a trip to my hometown, making me a walking advertisement for Magnolia Road Cannabis in Boulder, Colorado. 

I held on to that one. I figured if I ever give up my drug-free lifestyle, I can smoke the shirt. 

Two garbage bags stuffed full were not so lucky. Those are the ones that did not make the cut. There were some jewels in that mix, such as four Bruce Springsteen tour shirts. I kept the ones that had better graphics, and tried to cull out the extremely high volume of black tees in hopes of leaving a wider rainbow for those around me to appreciate. 

When I took them out of the drawer. 

Those bags were carried up the street to our neighborhood clothes and shoes recycling bin. I paused as I closed the lid behind the second one. The hoarder in me winced, but the guy who likes a clean slate sighed in relief. There's only one of me. I can only wear one shirt at a time. I reminded myself of a time a couple years back when I spent an entire month wearing only Springsteen tour shirts. 

No repeats. 

I let them go. 

Not all of them. 

Just enough to be able to open the drawer again. 

Looking Back

 The hardest part was watching the video.

There was a time when our school didn't have security cameras. We lived on our wiles and the hopes that an eyewitness would show up and spill the beans. Now we just roll back the tape. Except there is no tape. Just digital time-stamped video that our principal can access in the case of an incident like last Thursday. 

Two girls decided, in what I am sure they don't appreciate was the most cliche possible choice, to fight one another in the bathroom. A third grader and a fourth grader, whom I am also sure would not be able to fully express the reasons behind their need to come to fisticuffs. Generally speaking, the boys tend to act more impulsively and square off pretty much wherever they might be when their tempers flare. To the tiniest bit of credit for these young ladies, they chose a spot where the security cameras don't see. 

However, what we did witness, with the aid of technological hindsight, was the stream of mostly girls who packed in behind the two adversaries and the gaggle of boys who gathered just outside the door to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening in the little girls room. Not sugar and spice. That is certain. 

Once that was sorted out and cold water was thrown on the conflict by the adults, it was imagined that the fight was over. Nobody won. Everybody lost. 

Until the school day ended.

And the same gaggle of gawkers found another place out of the watchful camera eye: the elevator room downstairs. But, as in the case of the girls room, this didn't keep us from seeing the gaggle streaming down the stairs with wild abandon. They were about to witness what they must have assumed was going to be the fight of the century. 

Except it never happened. Before any of the video evidence was ever examined, the after school program supervisor noticed that a dozen or more of the students in her care had run off. Their trail was not hard to follow, and before any sort of physical violence could take place, grown ups showed up once again to keep the opponents separated. 

Parents were called. A the two potential fighters were sent home with caregivers. The grandmother of the fourth grade girl wondered how she might help. She had some old school ideas, but she was pretty sure her daughter wouldn't want her to mete those out on the youngest generation. 

We were left of the video. And the blood lust on the faces of those kids who were there to egg them on. What do we do about them? 

Do-Over

 If the Orange Worst was chased from the ruins of the White House today, it would take years to scrub off all the nonsense and graffiti he and his brood of underlings have generated over the past ten years. When Joe Biden was in office he spent a great deal of his time with a paint scraper and yes an autopen just to try to mitigate some of the damage done to our great republic. 

If the Second Trumpreich was driven out of Washington via any means necessary, it could take another eight years and a lot of apologies to get ourselves back to anything we might recognize as normal. 

But what if this were the playground, and not in the metaphorical sense? What if the convicted felon was called into the principal's office and told that he needed to make amends for bombing a girls school in Iran. What sort of apology would that require? 

Or how about those rebate checks consumers were supposed to be getting for the ill-advised and illegal tariff scam? Is there any amount of money that might save us all from the gouging we have taken at the grocery store, gas pump and just about everywhere else major credit cards are accepted? 

Who pays back the billion dollars a day that Private Bone Spurs is spending to keep us from paying attention not just to the Trumpstein Files but every other major boondoggle he and his misadministration has dropped on us? Who can bring back Alex Pretti and Renee Good and all the other hostages taken by masked goons in the name of racial purity? 

If anyone out there suggests that Julie Diana Vance might have a hand in reparations, please lower your hand and do some recalculating. 

This whole scheme has worked on the theory that everything that the bloated sack of protoplasm has ever done is brilliant. He is just misunderstood. We will all be told what to think and when, and as far as the principal's office is concerned if that turns out to be the Supreme Court he selected, things could get pretty ugly. 

Fast. 

Simply put, there is no accountability. We, the people, are left to clean up after the worst "president" in our two hundred fifty year experiment in democracy. The truths we had once been told were "self-evident" turn out to be less than that. Rights and assumptions about our freedom can no longer be taken for granted, even though that is precisely what our founding fathers were doing: granting us freedom from despots with a predilection for gilding things. And lining his own pockets. 

On second thought, just skip the apology. It would be like trying to teach a pig to fly. 

I've Got Some Questions

 What's up with my wife's frozen shoulder?

Why does the stereo in our car short out on one side?

Is there a cat food that our cat will eat consistently?

How do I keep the kids at school from tearing up the playhouse we built for them?

Will I have enough saved away to survive retirement?

When will I find the time to fix the basket that holds our toothbrushes off the counter?

Do we really need all those board games?

What am I going to write about today?

These are all questions that should be in the front of my mind as I face each new day. Along with the proper length the grass in my lawn should be just before I mow it, I would much rather be contemplating answers and solutions to these quandaries. 

And many more. 

Instead I find myself preoccupied with these:

What happens if the United States leaves NATO?

What could we possibly gain from trying to take over Cuba?

Why hasn't any American been arrested since Ghislaine Maxwell for the horrors committed by the secret society of pedophiles run by the suspiciously deceased Jeffrey Epstein? 

What will be left of the White House when the Orange Worst is removed from office?

Why worry about school shootings anymore when we seem to have escalated to military strikes on schools?

What will be left of the world when my son and his generation are left with it?

How do I sleep at night?

Actually, I know the answer to that last one. 

Fitfully. 

Refrain

 I'm definitely getting old. I yet to fully embrace my father's weepiness. He used to cry every time he heard Stars and Stripes Forever. Or Amazing Grace. Or a car horn. 

Okay, that last one might be stretching it a bit, but as I grew up in that shadow, I was sometimes embarrassed by those displays of emotion and later I found that I could relate to them quite well. John Philip Sousa doesn't do it for me, but I do get a lump in my throat when I hear The Dropkick Muphys' version of Amazing Grace, and whenever I sing along with Mister Springsteen's Badlands I've got tears in my eyes at the end. 

"It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive."

My wife made a little framed bit of calligraphy that hangs over my desk reminding me of this sentiment. 

Because that's what all of that compressed joy is about. Feeling all the feels and holding on until it bubbles up to the surface. The wife that made me that nice memento will cry at just about any wedding. Reruns of Friends or The Big Bang Theory, it doesn't matter if she's seen them dozens of times before. Have a tissue ready for her. And you'll need a whole box if she goes to the nuptials of a friend or family in person. 

I will also admit that as I fill up with my own memories of fatherhood and domestic bliss, I feel that dam behind my own eyes tested. Looking back and remembering the way we were, or imagining how things might turn our for my son and his posse. They've started to marry off. And have kids of their own. 

In just a few weeks I will be going to see Bruce Springsteen in concert for the (checks notes) kerjillionth time. I will make a point of standing between my wife and my son who will be there with me. In my heart I know that my father will be getting all misty as he watches me sing along with the Boss. 

It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive. 

Awarding

 I understand that while I am calling for us all to rise up that I would pause the struggle for four hours on a Sunday night to stare at a group of folks who can afford to rent a tuxedo to sit in the Dolby Theatre, formerly the Kodak Theatre when movies were shot on "film," and pass out awards for art. 

Yes, I watched all of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences annual Self-Congratulatory Celebration of folks who, for the most part, can afford to buy themselves the Rolex they found in their Swag Bag. My mother raised me this way. She was the first in her little town of Granby, Colorado to read the newest movie magazines when they arrived at her parents' drug store. She sat me down at the foot of her bed late one night to show me something called "King Kong," and my life was aligned with her ever after.  

Throughout the seventies, eighties and nineties, compared notes with my mom as we filled out our Oscar ballots. When I moved to California, there were lengthy phone calls to discuss the way things turned, back when the show originated from the Shrine Auditorium or the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Bob Hope and Johnny Carson presided over the festivities and it never occurred to me that with all the horrible things that were happening in the world maybe watching a bunch of stiffs in formalwear take their bows for the performances they had made with the support of hundreds was a waste of time. 

Like the Super Bowl, it became a tent post, an event that marked the passage of another year. When there were "important" movies that had been stamped by the Motion Picture Association such that I would be barred form entry without a parent or guardian, I had a parent who would make sure I didn't miss One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or Blazing Saddles. 

Those were the days of Nixon. And the Energy Crisis. And Inflation. And the Middle East. Those were the days when I was at the movie theatre. Those were the days when I took it as a matter of pride that I had seen all the nominated best pictures. 

And I knew that the world was at a tipping point. Taking those hours away from worrying about Armageddon didn't seem like a bad choice. In fact, it made the whole mess just a little easier to take. When it was time to hand out golden statues for recognition of the stories being told on those silver screens, I was there.

I still am. There was some mild vindication in seeing One Battle After Another win the big prize. The revolution may not be televised, but at least I got to see it on the big screen. 

Not Me

 This is a story about a little orange hen.

The little orange hen lives in the ruins of the Big White House. He works hard all day long: He Plays golf. He looks for worms. He sits in a bush. And sometimes… He lays an egg.

The little orange hen has three friends: a cat, a dog, and a horse. These animals don’t work hard at all.

The cat likes to run his government and maintain alliances. The dog likes to maintain alliances and run his government. And the horse likes to Stay in touch with the country he governs and watch out for global threats. 

One day the little red hen sees what he believes to be a holy war.
“Holy War!” he squeals. “Yum yum yum! We can make a Holy War!”

The little orange hen runs to tell his friends.
“Guys! There's a Holy War over there! I can take the minds of all the voters off all my crimes!”

The dog drools. “No!!”
The cat licks her lips. “Absolutely not!”
The horse flicks his tail.  “What a terrible idea!”

“So… who wants to help me in this Holy War?” asks the little orange hen.

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. So he launches the missiles, one by one, all by himself. 

“Ok, now we need more missiles, and guns, and tanks, and troops,” says the little orange hen. “Who wants to help me get them?”

“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself,” says the little orange hen. He goes all the way to the cabinet and gets the missiles, and guns. She goes all the way to the Pentagon and gets the tanks, and troops. 

Then he forgets to ask Congress, all by himself. 

“Who wants to help me blow up the girls school?” asks the little orange hen. 

‍“Not me,” says the dog, “I’m too busy.”
“Not me,” says the cat, “I’m too tired.”
“Not me,” says the horse, “I’m watching TV.”

“Then I will do it myself!” says the little orange hen. He pushes the button until hundreds of civilians are dead. Then he gently reminds us all that in war people die. 

He goes golfing.. Then he hosts a big dance party.  All by himself. 

(Tick tock, tick tock)
Soon there are flag-draped coffins coming from the war zone.. The dog can smell it. The cat can smell it. The horse can smell it too. They all rush to what's left of the White House. 

The little orange hen pulls a baseball hat with gold letters on it. He looks serious and sad. 

“So… Who wants to help me with this Holy War?” asks the little Orange hen.

“Not Me!” says the dog. 
“Not Me!”  says the cat. 
“Not Me!” says the horse. 

“I didn't think so,” says the little orange hen. “You would not help me make this war…  so you should have to help me fight it.” 

He runs away with the stolen Nobel Peace Prize and goes golfing. All by himself.