On The Clock

 I know. "We've only been at war for," checks watch, "seventy-eight days." 

Pragmatists will tell you that the United States has been at war with Iran since November of 1979. That's when sixty-six Americans were taken hostage by Iranian militants. Many of those same pragmatists will suggest this is why Jimmy Carter failed in his bid for re-election, especially since the kidnappers chose the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated to release their captives. This was such a great story that they gave Ben Affleck another Oscar for it. It is this kind of animosity that has been held mostly in check by our two countries for forty-five years, only for some doofus to come stumbling along and start up the bombing and the shooting and the killing. 

Thus far, no one has suggested that any trophies should be awarded to the convicted felon who has threatened an entire civilization. 

However, it is worth noting how creative the Second Trumpreich has been with the naming of their "excursion" into the Middle East. Most of you remember Operation Epic Fury, which made one think somewhat abruptly of "Epstein Fury." That one lasted until those babies on side of the aisle started complaining about some "obscure" article in the U.S. Constitution that doesn't allow armed conflict to go on in foreign countries for more than sixty days without Congress having a say in such matters. But those folks in the bunker with their Fuhrer are so very clever, they decided to put a new name on the mess that they created, thereby in their tiny little minds a totally new conflict. So while the ghouls counted the dead and weighed their options during a "ceasefire," they looked for new names to label the ongoing "notawar." This episode fueled by the former gameshow host insisting that Iran's ceasefire agreement was "a piece of garbage," and the lull in hostilities was "on massive life support."  An extremely gruesome image for a peace process. 

Which is why he felt compelled to rally his distraction forces around, drumroll please, Operation Sledgehammer. Without any sense of irony or offer to pay Peter Gabriel royalties. Keeping in mind of course that his one is only good for another sixty days since Congress seems to have no real intention of making things really difficult for the orcs in charge. 

Stay tuned for the next exciting and very expensive episode!

Fifty-One

 Anybody else out there wondering how Nicolás Maduro and his wife Cilia are doing?

It seems like a war ago that the U.S. Armed Forces invaded Venezuela and kidnapped its president. Compared to the quagmire that has become the "Expedition to Iran," the military operation in Venezuela seems positively quaint by comparison. Sure, shots were fired in anger, but no girls schools were harmed during that incursion. 

Now the convicted felon is musing once again aloud about how he believes that Venezuela would make a nice fifty-first state. Assistant press secretary Olivia Whales announced on behalf of her boss, "As the President has said, relations between Venezuela and the United States have been extraordinary. Oil is starting to flow and large amounts of money, unseen for many years, will soon be helping the great people of Venezuela."

Oil and money are flowing. Don't you worry your pretty little heads about economic and political stability. 

Which raises certain questions for me: Does a military invasion count as a path to statehood? If this is the case, how worried should the citizens of California and New York be about Federales rolling into their historically blue settlements? Or if the adjudicated rapist follows through with his plan for Venezuela will he just be guaranteeing yet another blue headache? 

Of course, all of this requires some mild forward thinking and planning. The quagmire in Iran suggests that this is not the strong suit of the current administration. Running out of missiles and time, the oil and money in that corner of the globe doesn't seem to be flowing in the direction the twice-impeached Orange Worst had in mind. And all of that Venezuelan money and oil doesn't seem to have found its way to the American consumer, who are experiencing the worst inflation in three years. 

Meanwhile, former president Maduro and his wife are living a life of relative calm and safety in the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn until their case can be tried. As for that whole fifty-first state fuss, the rules concerning that sort of thing are laid out in the U.S. Constitution. Which, for this group of idiots, means that they don't have to worry about the details. Not right now. 

We've got a ballroom to build!

On The Timeline

 In this spot twenty-one years ago, I wrote about The Worst Sunburn I Ever Had. If you have a penchant for remembering such tales, then you probably recall how I went out to a baseball game while my wife waded through those last hours of labor. The sunburn of song and story came as a result to sitting my lily-white thighs out in the California sun as I spent the last few hours of being a child before having one. 

Now that baby is all grown up and facing his own transition to adulthood. This has included becoming ever more responsible and buying himself a second motorcycle. When I turned twenty-nine I had begun to believe that relationships were things other people had, and I was going to spend my golden years visiting friends who had gotten married and had their own kids. I would be Uncle Dave to the world, and I was on my way to unconditional surrender to this idea. 

Then I fell in love. And got married. And my dad died. And there was a parking spot in the world's lot available. My wife and I decided we could test our own freshly minted adult skills by growing an incipient grown up all on our own. 

We needn't have worried. The support we received from those around us was instantaneous and amazing. When I say "we" I mean my wife who is primarily the one that seeks out and creates community. Left to my own devices, I might have stopped instructing our little boy after I instilled in him an appreciation for Bachman Turner Overdrive. When he was less than a year old. 

These days, I am happy that I didn't stop trying to give him life lessons. That mild commitment has had the slingshot effect of having him return the favor. I know what a hemi powered drone is. And the secrets of mustard-fried burgers at In 'n' Out. 

Every so often, my son broaches the subject of becoming a father himself. This fills me with pride and sends me into flights of speculation, imagining what adventures await him and his progeny. I look forward to hearing the story of the worst sunburn he ever had. 

Happy Birthday, son. 

A Colorful Individual

 “The last time I checked, I owned the films that we're in the process of colorizing. I can do whatever I want with them, and if they're going to be shown on television, they're going to be in color.” 

This is the quote from a bygone era, one in which Ted Turner and his single-minded vision for "preserving art" brought us to the crossroads where MGM and Warner Brothers movie catalogs were bought up by this four-time Yachtsman of the Year. Casablanca. Adam's Rib. Father of the Bride. Arsenic and Old Lace. And the list goes on. And on.

In 1986, I took this as a personal affront. As someone who had grown up watching these and hundreds of other black and white films with my mother, I found Ted's cavalier attitude toward the treasures he felt compelled to release onto an unsuspecting world in a washed-out blast of sepia and pastel in order to "improve them." Many of these films, such as The Bad And The Beautiful, were made long after color became readily available and making them in black and white was a conscious choice by the artists creating their vision. 

"Last time I checked, I owned 'em," is the reason why all these years later I found it hard to work up a tear for Ted Turner's passing. He gave us Cable News Network and World Championship Wrestling. His was the first "superstation," paving the way for the explosion of cable TV in the 1980's. Twenty-four hour news meant that suddenly we were forced to pay attention to events that had never needed the attention they were getting. As for WCW, Ted's brash take on "professional wrestling" allowed fading stars like Randy "Macho Man" Savage and Hulk Hogan a new lease of life. 

Thanks a lot, Ted. 

Of course, he was also the guy who gave a billion dollars to start the United Nations Foundation, and his purchase of all those black and white films led to the creation of Turner Classic Movies, where those movies are shown uncut and commercial free, in their correct aspect ratio and, if I might add, in the colors in which their directors envisioned them. Then there's the decade long marriage to Jane Fonda, and the subsequent friendship between the two that lasted for decades after that. 

Did I miss something? 

Maybe we could make this right by taking all the video of Ted's Terra-stomping and drain them of all color, just for safe-keeping. 

Aloha, Ted. 

Wheels

 I am glad my son got to ride a Big Wheel at his preschool. As a matter of fact, Big Wheels were such a big deal at my son's preschool that eventually the T-shirts they sold for fundraising came with a picture of one emblazoned on the back. Anyone who spent any amount of time there knew the routine: all the various cycles and scooters would be rolled out to the top of the hill behind the school, where kids would take turns rolling at what seemed like incredible speeds for the toddlers and the parents charged with watching them via the co-op management program. But the bottom line, literally, was that if you rode a Big Wheel all the way down the hill, you would of course roll it back up to the top. 

This was the world into which my son grew. A co-op preschool that honored both speed and personal responsibility. It is where I first gathered in the expression, "Use your words." This admonition has served me well in my elementary education career, as well as a great many of my adult relationships. It was okay to be mad. It was okay to be sad. It was okay to share those feelings. It was not okay to take those feelings out on others. 

Our son, an only child, was gifted with an immediate sea of friends, some of whom remain close to him even as they approach middle age. 

Imagining a world where the philosophy of those formative years could be shared with every child in the city of Oakland, the state of California, the United States. A world full of humans who learned to share, to cope with disappointment, to belong to a community. It gives me pause and it makes me happy to remember that we gave this to our son all those years ago. 

Life got so much more complicated once he landed in kindergarten. He missed those rides down the hill on a Big Wheel. It's probably what brought him eventually to the purchase of a motorcycle of his own. He knows that if he gets all the way to the bottom of the hill it's his job to get it back to the top again. 

And to be properly insured. 

Pay Me

 My older brother will be acknowledging the fiftieth year of his graduation from the public school system of Boulder, Colorado. He was part of the one hundredth senior class of Boulder High School. By the time I came traipsing along four years later, the hoopla had died down considerably. Numbers with zeroes in them tend to get folks worked up. 

I say this as preface to the article he shared with me as the auspicious anniversary approaches. According to the Boulder Daily Camera, the school district in my hometown has begun handing out fifteen thousand dollars to veteran teachers to entice them into retirement. It seems that those educators at or near the top of the pay scale are causing things at the Boulder Valley School District to get a little tight financially. More than half of the district's teachers are in the top two tiers of compensation, while those at the entry-level make up only five percent. "We have a skewed distribution," says Superintendent Rob Anderson.

Two things stick out for me here: First of all, this news comes to me during the glorious fete that is Teacher Appreciation Week. Secondly, I have a very clear and distinct memory of school districts around the country working feverishly to get a "highly qualified teacher" in every classroom. This was part of a little program called "No Child Left Behind." That edict is now some twenty years in the past, and we currently find ourselves shutting down the department of education in order to buy more bombs to blow up girl's schools in Iran. 

I was offered a "deal" earlier this year to show myself to the door in order to help close a gap in the eternally messed up finances of the Oakland Unified School District. My circumstances were not exactly ripe for the picking of this particular "windfall," but I couldn't quite shake the feeling of an invisible hand in the middle of my back "encouraging" me to wrap up my vaguely illustrious career as a teacher here in California. California, the state whose governor held on to nearly two billion dollars in money earmarked for education, and has proposed to keep another five billion in this coming year. 

It would seem that budgetary woes are being felt throughout this great land of ours, as the Department of Education experiences the same respect as the East Wing of the White House. Things have become so odd and desperate that the powers that be are willing to pay teachers not to teach in order to save money. 

For a ballroom. 

Lift Us Up

Mothers are the ones

who care for us

they bend and stretch 

make room for us

They bring us into the world

and turn out the light

when it's time for bed

time for sleep 

Those nine long months 

end in labor

but it's only

just beginning. 

 I'm pretty sure

if they put mothers in charge

there would be no wars

and a whole lot of people 

would be sent to their rooms

to think about it

Endangered

 Wind back the clock.

That's the program. The convicted felon has never felt fully comfortable in this age of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. Women should be kept in their place. Busy decorating the ruins of the White House in shades of red or buried somewhere on a golf course in New Jersey. He routinely refers to African Americans as "thugs" and "low IQ." His obsession with tariffs remind us of a bygone era when William McKinley was President, and so many things were gilded. Like his toilet. 

Tangentially, I wonder if there is someone out there who would be able to name a major accomplishment of the McKinley administration. Outside of the fact that he was assassinated near the beginning of his second term in office. And he led the American half or the Spanish-American War. And he annexed Hawaii, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines. He never invaded Canada. That may have been his plan had he not been shot.

Okay, that's probably enough creepy comparisons for now.

Except this new one strikes me more of Andrew Jackson, another fave of the Orange Worst. For those of you presidential scholars out there, you might remember Andrew as the "first America First." And you might also remember he's the guy who oversaw the Trail of Tears, the forced relocation of Native Americans beginning in 1830. Without any significant Native American presence left to herd, the Second Trumpreich is looking for force hundreds of bison off public lands in Montana. This overturns forty years of peaceful grazing under the auspices of the Bureau of Land Management, also known creepily enough as BLM. This move has led to a protest by the Coalition of Large Tribes, Over the course of white folks pushing west from 1800 to 1890, the bison population of North America diminished from a high of one hundred million animals to just a thousand. Now there's a discouraging word. 

In 2026, it is estimated that there are half a million bison on this continent, brought back from the brink of extinction through protection and conservation. They are not currently considered an endangered species, just "Near Threatened."

But then again, aren't we all?  

Tired

 I understand.

You're tired. 

Tired of hearing his name. 

Tired of hearing his voice.

Sick and tired of seeing his face. 

Even as he continues to stick it on our passports and airports and bath towels. 

When you click on over here, you don't want to be reminded that we have a yam for a "president."

And yet, that's where we are in the year of our lord 2026. 

Not just a "president," but the worst possible example of a "president." 

During the First Trumpreich, I made it a habit to respond to each and every one of the Orange Worst's tweets, back when he was allowed on that platform. My wife begged me to stop, fearing that prolonged exposure to such stupidity would cause my own cognitive powers to turn fallow. Since that time, I have made repeated efforts here at Entropical Paradise to look away from the swirling vortex of greed and pain. 

Let's talk about pets!

Let's talk about school!

Let's talk about anything that doesn't have that faint patina of filth engendered by the convicted felon and former game show host. There hasn't been many days in the past ten years that did not carry some new outrage brought on by the existence of this bloated sack of protoplasm. 

How about that Met Gala, huh?

I'm tired too. But we have a job to do. 

We have to right this ship. We have to get back on course. Any course other than the one on which we currently find ourselves. Time to take our reality back. 

Reptilicus Humanas

 I woke up in the middle of the night with a vision of Wally Gator in my head. As you might imagine, if you are a not also afflicted as I was with late night visions of animated characters, Wally was a cartoon alligator from the Hanna-Barbera Studios back in 1962. 

Certainly there have been plenty of dramatis personae from the minds of Hanna Barbera that were more preeminent in my childhood than Wally and his pals Hardy Har Har and Touché Turtle. Dick Dastardly's dog Muttley comes to mind most readily, but for some reason my visions on this particular night were focused on that cartoon alligator from sixty-plus years ago. 

Why?

I suspect it has something to do with the discussion I was having a couple weeks ago with some colleagues about cartoon animals and their approaches to fashion. Mickey Mouse wears pants, but his pal Donald Duck does not. Donald does not wear shoes, but his gal pal Daisy squeezes her webbed feet into a wide variety of colored pumps. Porky Pig tends to sport a jacket and bow tie, but tends to eschew trousers. Daffy Duck is generally seen in his birthday suit, while Bugs Bunny is a well-known cross-dresser. 

Which brings me to Wally Gator. The first thing that occurred to me is the very unnatural way that his creators chose to have him stand upright, with his head tilted down to approximate the stance of a human being. Then there is the attire. Perhaps borrowed from stablemate Snagglepuss, Mister Gator is gifted with cuffs at his wrists, as well as a collar, perhaps to keep his spine in alignment with the cruel intentions of his animators. This outfit is set off by a hat that seems to have been borrowed from Ed Norton of Honeymooners fame. Perhaps this is some subliminal link to alligators living in the sewers of New York City. 

I don't know. 

But, as you can see, there are plenty of things keeping me awake at night. 

Sweet dreams. 

Bits

 Recently I found myself in a post-modern moment when I asked my wife if everyone else in the world takes time and energy out of each day to work on "bits."

If you happen to be on the deficit end of the concept of "bits," I will excuse your lack of insider knowledge and presume that this is not because you and those close to you don't operate in this sphere, but rather you and those close to you do not refer to these things as "bits." 

"Bits" are funny things that get passed around from person to person, not unlike unwanted viruses or opinions, but hopefully these are things that help make the day just a little more surreal. A great portion of what you read here on a regular basis is me taking what life has brought me to turn into lemonade. It is generally helpful to start this process with lemons, but most citrus will do in a pinch. As will dairy, but we try not to mix them. Nor do I advise attempting this just after you have brushed your teeth. 

For as long as I can remember, my brain has been wired to make fun of all the low-hanging fruit that comes my way, and to extend this metaphor still further, I will say that some of these end up being rotten. You know when this happens because you will not be greeted with gales of laughter but rather with a stern look of disapproval. 

Actually, now that I think about it, those disapproving looks might not have anything to do with the relative freshness of your jape. It may instead be the outward response for a "bit" that has hit its mark squarely. Certainly it can also be the problem of a "bit" being too fresh, which might cause those who encounter your jest to flinch. 

Honestly, any sort of reaction is preferable to the staid and boring discourse that presents itself to us each and every day. This attitude of mine is precisely the kind of thing that got me kicked out of Elementary Functions back in high school, as illustrated by the dozen or so blog entries in which I have previously referred to this ignominious exit.  

What did I learn from that experience? Oh, I suppose I leaned that it's probably best to know your audience, to "read the room" as they say. Of course, if you're always playing it safe, you might miss out on that one great "bit." 

You'll never know unless you try. 

What Happens When Non-Stop Flights Stop?

 “We regret to inform you that Spirit Airlines has ceased global operations. All Spirit flights have been cancelled, and customer service is no longer available.” This is how travelers were greeted at the Spirit Airlines counter in Terminal A at LaGuardia Airport. A cardboard sign in front of vacant terminals, just below a list of cancelled flights. 

This past Saturday, one of America's pioneers in budget air travel closed up shop, leaving thousands of travelers stranded across the country in various locales with pending refunds for trips they never quite finished. 

I felt a great deal of empathy for these folks as I was once on the receiving end of an airline going under, not the sort of thing you hope to hear about a company that is supposed to fly over things. My family was on an elaborate vacation to Mexico City and eventually Acapulco with our choice of carrier being Braniff, the airline with the whimsically painted planes. We were jet setters, with my older brother's junior high Spanish as our key to travel south of the border. 

Except Braniff chose this moment in time to have a little financial hiccup. Once we landed in Mexico City, it became apparent that due to circumstance beyond their control, they would be unable to bring us back. A corporate restructuring was taking place somewhere in Texas, and we were told that we would have to find our own way from there. 

Keeping in mind this was a long time before things like cell phones and Al Gore's Internet, so all of the communications needed to make these transactions were done with pay phones and garbled interactions at ticket counters with employees who may or may not have just lost their jobs. Suddenly the appeal of flying around in a great purple 727 had lost all its appeal, and all we really wanted was a way home. 

Eventually it was Mexicana Airlines that jumped into the breach in which we found ourselves. They picked us up and got the five of us where we were headed, and eventually safely back to Estados Unidos. It pains me to tell you that Mexicana stopped flying in 2010, no doubt leaving some other families in the middle of their dream vacations, so they won't be there to pick up the pieces for the stranded travelers left in Spirit's wake. 

If man were meant to fly, he'd been given better customer service. 

Numbers Game

 86 47

There. Now I've done it. It will only be a moment or two before the so-called Department of "justice" breaks down my door and takes me away in handcuffs. 

Eighty-six forty-seven

Those numbers have been used to indict former FBI Director James Comey who used seashells to form those numbers in a social media post. The brain trust at the "DOj" having determined that this message was sent as a threat on the life of the convicted felon and adjudicated rapist. The convicted felon made his feelings, such as they are, known on his platform: “‘86’ is a mob term for ‘kill him.’ They say 86 him! 86 47 means ‘kill President Trump.’ James Comey, who is a Dirty Cop, one of the worst, knows this full well!”

Well, if you were to believe what you read on Wikipedia, 86 is a term that originated in the hospitality industry, meaning that an item is no longer available, or that a person or people is not welcome on the premises. 

As a brief aside, I will relate the story of the crew I worked with late nights at Arby's. Rather than endlessly repeating punchlines such as "that's what she said," we gave them numbers. "That's what she said," for us became simply "3," causing us to go into paroxysms of laughter as our generally inebriated customers waited patiently for us to recover and complete their order. Our system was based on three, so we didn't have an 86, but now I kind of wish that we had. 

There is a competing suggestion that is based on a 1970's mob term to describe when Las Vegas gangsters would take victims eight miles out into the desert and bury them six feet under. This is the one that the convicted felon chose to highlight as he began fluffing up his "justice" league to go out and arrest James Comey. For arranging seashells on the beach in a pattern that might or might not suggest that the restaurant at which he was working was out of cheesecake. 

Or perhaps he was going to drive eight miles into the desert and bury the cheesecake six feet under. 

Who is that pounding on my door? 

Crisis Management

 Okay, let's start with some simple math: Gas is expensive. If you buy gas for your car for a bunch of money, you won't have enough money to buy things like video games and food. 

Everybody with me so far?

Let's try something a little harder: In 2026, U.S. oil companies are enjoying record profits. Some of them have experienced thirty million dollars profit hourly. Please note that last adverb. Hourly. If you don't have a calculator on you or have never accessed that particular app on your device, I will tell you that this means some of these companies have had days when they made three quarters of a billion dollars. In. A. Day. That's not all of them combined together. That's just one, like Chevron. Or Exxon/Mobil. It is a wonder that they continue to find places to shove those wads of cash. 

But volume is more of a geometry problem, isn't it?

So let's hop on over to the way back machine to a movie that made Michael Keaton a star. Did you ever see Mr. Mom? Not to burden you with a lot of plot details, but Mike loses his job and his wife has to go out and get a job. She lands a pretty keen gig with an advertising agency. It is her idea to start up an ad campaign for a tuna company that recognizes the struggles of a family during a recession. She suggests that the tuna company, Schooner Tuna, put the company's president in front of the camera to announce that they are lowering the price of their cans of tuna by fifty cents a can until the economic crisis is over. It's a masterstroke, and eventually Mike gets his job back and she can tell her lech of a boss to take a hike. As the economic crisis passes by. 

All that's left is for some whip-smart creative type to whip up a script for the CEO of one of these great oil beasts that promises to lower the price of gasoline fifty cents a gallon "until this crisis is over." 

"My fellow Americans. I'm Michael K. Worth, CEO of Chevron Corporation. All of us here at Chevron sympathize with those of you hit so hard by these trying economic times. In order to help you, we are reducing the price of our gasoline by fifty cents a gallon. When this crisis is over, we will go back to our regular prices. Until then, remember, we're all in this together. Chevron, the Oil Beast with a heart."

By my reckoning, the brand loyalty associated with this move will more than offset any and all corporate losses accrued in the interim. Trust me. I'm a blogger. 

The One True King

 “On this occasion, I cannot help noticing the readjustments to the East Wing, Mr. President,” said the king while just a few feet from where the "president" and first lady Melania Trump were seated. “And I’m sorry to say that we British, of course, made our own small attempt at real estate redevelopment of the White House in 1814.”

Careful readers may have noted that the previous paragraph referred to both a "king" and a "president." The "king" was making a little jest regarding the time that invading British soldiers came storming back to America and burned down the White House. The "president" in this account didn't need a regiment of invading troops, he just tore down one third of what is colloquially known as The People's House. 

Over in England, they have palaces and castles and ballrooms to spare. 

For his part, the "president" recently whined to Sixty Minutes, "The reason you have people like that is you have people doing 'No Kings.' I'm not a king. If I was a king, I wouldn't be dealing with you."

Apparently his pretend-highness has issues with subtleties such as dealing with Congress before tearing down the White House, or declaring war. A waste of valuable time that could be spent on the golf course. 

For his part, the real king spent his time addressing the long history of cooperation between his country and its former colonies. "Ours is a partnership born out of dispute, but no less strong for it," he said. "Our two countries have always found ways to come together. And by Jove, when we have found that way to agree, what great change is brought about, not just for the benefit of our peoples, but of all peoples." A statement that doesn't jive well with the Orange Worst's assertion that  Canadian, British and other troops on the ground in Afghanistan as part of the American war on terror "stayed a little back" from the front lines. When NATO chose not to rush into Iran to help out in an illegal war, the Worst huffed  that NATO "wasn't there when we needed them and won't be there if we need them again."

Perhaps it's best to close out this account of The King's visit with this little chestnut he dropped into his address to Congress: "Our destinies as nations have been interlinked. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘We have really everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language!'" One need not spend any time comparing a BBC broadcast to Faux News to agree on that. 

Just A Joke

 I do not watch Jimmy Kimmel on any kind of regular basis. 

This is probably how I missed the joke he made on his show two days before the White House Correspondents Dinner, which has now become an acronym: WHCD. Which I think is an NPR station in Delaware. 

I digress. 

Last Thursday during his monologue, Mister Kimmel made this jape referencing an event that had not happened yet: “Of course, our first lady, Melania, is here. Look at her, so beautiful. Mrs. Trump, you have a glow like an expectant widow.” 

It was not kind, I grant you, but the humor embedded in that line was based on the age difference between the two, which happens to be twenty-four years. The convicted felon's health issues help to fuel this degree of concern, insincere as it may be. 

The day after the kerfuffle at the Washington Hilton, the First Lady who is the third wife of the Orange Worst so I don't fully understand the numbering system, took to social media to call for the removal of Mister Kimmel from the airwaves. “Kimmel’s hateful and violent rhetoric is intended to divide our country. His monologue about my family isn’t comedy- his words are corrosive and deepens the political sickness within America. People like Kimmel shouldn’t have the opportunity to enter our homes each evening to spread hate.”

This statement proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that irony is dead. I don't mean to cause anyone any alarm, since it has been on life support for at least a decade, but Melanomia's tweet suggests that "people like" Jimmy are responsible for the division in our country. People like her husband, it should be pointed out, who has called for the execution of Mark Milley, the former chief of staff. He has also suggested beating and shooting protesters who dare raise their voice against his draconian policies. He has declared that his political rivals be arrested or removed. 

Oh, and he started a war without saying, "Congress, May I?"

Then, a few weeks into that conflict, he threatened to destroy an entire civilization. 

Violent rhetoric? Honey, you married it. And god willing, you'll live to regret it. 

Questions To Everyone's Answers

 "When did you stop beating your wife?"

This is the kind of question that journalists don't get to ask, but every so often, a situation presents itself that is too hard to pass up. I present to you, for your consideration, 60 Minutes correspondent Norah O’Donnell interviewing the Orange Worst the day after the alleged attack on the White House Correspondents Dinner. 

Referencing the "manifesto" allegedly written by the suspect in the very theatrical assault on the Hilton Ballroom, O'Donnell read,  “I am no longer willing to permit a pedophile, rapist, and traitor to coat my hands with his crimes.” Looking up from the text, she asked the Worst,“What’s your reaction to that?” 

The convicted felon and adjudicated rapist huffed, “Well, I was waiting for you to read that because I knew you would, because you’re horrible people. Horrible people. Yeah, he did write that. I‘m not a rapist. I didn’t rape anybody.”

“Oh, you think—do you think he was referring to you?” O'Donnell interrupted.

Mic drop. 

Because, among other things, the angry old man currently squatting in the ruins of the White House is in fact a rapist. Guilty. By a judge and jury. In 2023. The "president" is a convicted felon and a rapist. 

Why do you suppose that anyone would doubt the veracity of anything out of that mouth? That some mouth that assured us that he was "The Peace President." That some mouth that told us he was "totally exonerated" in the matters concerning the Epstein Files. That same mouth that insisted that we would all get tired of so much "winning."

"When did you stop lying?"

To Fly

 On and on. 

School shootings. 

Schools blown up by war. 

Schools closed from lack of funds. 

I work at a school named for the "Father of Public Education," and it was recently on a list set forth by our district to be closed. Families in our city are frequently caught unaware by the way the school they have chosen for their children just stopped. No classes. No lunches. No safe place to learn. 

Meanwhile, a billion dollars a day is being spent to destroy those schools in Iran. The sad irony of my least favorite poster of all time, "It will be a great day when our schools get all the money they need and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber" is lost. Finding our way back to a world in which the ideal Horace Mann set forth, “Education is our only political safety. Outside of this ark all is deluge.”

We are currently lost in the flood. 

Schools are expendable for those who cannot afford it. The notion of public education has been subverted and chopped into pieces to buy those smart bombs that still need someone to guide them. 

I am on the cusp of retiring from a thirty year career in public education, but when people look at me sideways and ask, "Can you really just walk away?" I tell them that I don't think I will be far away from the institution that gave me the wings I have to fly. 

I'll be returning to the nest. To protect it. To keep it safe. To keep it open. For another generation of those in need of feathers. 

Voices Crying Out In The Wilderness

 As the realization that perhaps electing a convicted felon who had been impeached twice in his first term begins to dawn on America as a whole that it may have been a bad choice, the rest of the world nods in affirmation. 

America as a hole. 

"This isn't what I voted for." 

Really? You believed all the spin and hype that came tumbling out of the former game show host's mouth? Now you're questioning your choices?

I'm looking at you Marjorie Taylor Green. 

And you, Tucker Carlson.

It was all fun and games while the bloated sack of protoplasm was taking wide swings at those things that you hate. Then he started chopping up the White House. And starting wars to cover up the facts hidden in the Trumpstein Files. All of a sudden, there is a rush by some of those big mouths that had once hung out with the would-be-king at his golf resort. That was before they "realized" that maybe all wasn't well in that dark space between his ears. 

Poor Marge. "I wanted so much for President Trump to put America First. That’s what I believed he would do. All I heard from his speech tonight was WAR WAR WAR," wrote the former congressperson from Georgia after the Orange Worst's April 1 address to the country. "Nothing to lower the cost of living for Americans. Nothing to reduce our near forty trillion dollars in debt. Nothing to save Social Security, which goes bankrupt in just a few years. Nothing to lower the cost of insurance. Nothing to address jobs for Americans. Nothing about education for our children. Nothing about our children’s future. Nothing for America’s future."

Poor Tucker. “You know, we’ll be tormented by it for a long time – I will be,” Young Tuck said. “And I want to say I’m sorry for misleading people. It was not intentional, that’s all I’ll say.” But of course it wasn't really all. Speaking with his brother on his podcast, “In very small ways, but in real ways, you and me and millions of people like us are the reason this is happening right now.”

Even now as thirty-some percent clings to approval of the way this monster has shredded the Constitution and turned our system of government into a Demock-racy, we look to those mildly sentient beings left in positions of authority who might bring an end to this charade. Tucker is a podcaster, for heaven's sake, and Marge is an ex-congressperson. Not exactly our first line of defense. 

But then again, they never really were. 

Limited Attention

 The world economy is in a shambles because of the Orange Worst's poor decision making, or lack thereof. I learned a new term as a result of this narcissistic mishandling: Stagflation, a combination of economic stagnation and inflation. Countries are running out of jet fuel. The closure of the Strait of Hormuz is having the ugliest possible effect, superseding those felt by the capricious tariffs he put in place to start his second term. The invasion of Venezuela, the threats he has made against Canada, Greenland and Cuba have only compounded the unchecked angry whimsy of the Second Trumpreich. 

Oh, and he wants to fight the Pope. 

With all of this bizarre behavior and his approval ratings in the toilet, what do you suppose the Master of Disaster has in store for us next?

How about getting his pool guy to come out and re-tile the reflecting pool for the Lincoln Memorial? 

Yes, the former game show host has set his attention deficit on coating the hundred year old water feature "American flag blue." 

The Orange Worst said he was inspired to oversee renovations after a friend visited from Germany and noted its decay."He said, 'it's filthy, dirty. The water is disgusting looking. It's not representative of the country.'"

To which I could only reply, "Well, it certainly reflects the current state of our country."

On the Worst burbled, "In another couple of weeks, we're going to have the most beautiful reflective pool between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial that you've ever seen."

First of all, there is only one "reflective" pool between the Washington and Lincoln Memorials, so the one I have seen is and will continue to be the most beautiful. Secondly, I am immediately suspicious of any timeline offered up by the alleged pedophile. Especially the ones that span "about two weeks." Considering his diminished capacity and attention span, he probably believes that the rest of us will forget what he was talking about eight minutes from now.

No? You still remember the random war crimes and the Epstein Files? Looky over here at the pretty reflective pool. Isn't it a calming shade of American Flag Blue? Maybe he'll stock it with sharks and throw ICE captives into it for sport to celebrate the 250th birthday of our great nation. 

Yeah, like that's so ridiculous. This is the guy who wants to have a UFC arena built on the South Lawn of the ruins of the White House. 

Time to wake up, America. 

Conflict Resoluion

 Never fear. Just because you read something about a "California teacher with a beef against the president opens fire..."

That was not me. 

Rather instead I spent this past Saturday evening at my home in California, along with my wife and cat, whom also have a beef with the president, but chose to ignore this year's White House Correspondents Dinner, the one that ended in gunfire. 

I was alerted to the disturbance like many of you when alerts started coming across various media. Mine came from Al Gore's Internet where I was abruptly assured that, once again, the convicted felon had not been harmed in this latest attempt on his life. 

This would be the hat trick, if I may borrow the hockey parlance for a third shot on goal. The suspect, that teacher from California who had a beef with the president, was subdued and taken into custody. The officer who was shot was wearing a buttetproof vest and was reported to be "doing great" at a local hospital. 

The rest of us? 

It seems that the overwhelming sentiment was that folks who were trying to watch the NBA playoffs were upset because their game was interrupted with an appearance by the former game show host assuring us that he was unscathed. This was the kind of announcement that used to bring a sigh of relief to those of us who hold the office of the President as something to regard with honor and pride. This is not the current climate in the United States. Someone tried to kill the president. Allegedly. Contrast this with the coverage of JFK's assassination or even the attempt made on Ronald Reagan. How quickly can we just get back to our sportsball coverage? They were wrapping up the NFL draft, for heaven's sake. 

The question to everyone's answer would be "will this change the national discourse away from affordability, the war in Iran, or the Epstein Files?" The most scurrilous sentiment that I encountered in my own mind was that the "very stable genius" had not quite finished composing his prepared remarks for the gala, and was relieved when he didn't have to be heckled by members of the press corps who have suffered his indignation for the past decade. 

Even more likely is that we have arrived at a point in history when we are confronted by a Congress that does little else but wrings their hands and waits for the next election to deal with the Orange Worst. I continue to maintain that no one deserves to be shot. I am a proponent of non-violent action, but I am a porponent of action. 

And yes, I am a teacher from California who has a beef with the "president." 

ChatDOA

 In the big book of frivolous lawsuits, this one just might not be.

The Florida Attorney General is opening a criminal investigation into Open AI. 

Not because someone used it to fake their resume, I'm looking at you Kevin Warsh. Nor is it because some undergrad used AI to fake a term paper linking Barbie to Wuthering Heights. 

But we're getting closer. 

Nope, instead the Attorney General's office is starting a probe to uncover just how much help ChatGPT gave the shooter at Florida State University a year ago. Two people died when a nutjob with a gun in the student union, wounding several more who were attempting to flee the scene. The alleged nutjob started his day by pointing a shotgun at a passerby in a parking garage. That weapon did not fire, so the alleged nutjob went back to his car to retrieve his mother's handgun. The carnage took place in the span of about ten minutes. Authorities shot and wounded the alleged nutjob three minutes after the first shot was fired. 

Pretty standard stuff, as school shootings go. However, the addition of Artificial Intelligence being involved makes this whole thing even uglier. “ChatGPT offered significant advice to the shooter before he committed such heinous crimes,” Attorney General James Uthmeier said, adding “that the chatbot advised the shooter on what type of gun to use, on which ammo went with which gun, on whether or not a gun would be useful in short range.” Uthmeier continued, “If this were a person on the other side of the screen, we would be charging them with murder.”

Meanwhile, OpenAI spokesperson Kate Waters said, “In this case, ChatGPT provided factual responses to questions with information that could be found broadly across public sources on the internet, and it did not encourage or promote illegal or harmful activity.” 

Ms. Waters did not say that ChatGPT tried to convince the alleged nutjob to seek professional help, or discourage his inquiries. The alleged nutjob was in communication with the chatbot just minutes before the shooting began. 

I used to think that Microsoft Word's Clippy was annoying. 

Now I miss Clippy. Those were simpler times. "It looks like you're writing a suicide note. Would you like some help with that?"

Legacy

Let's not worry just now about America's cultural impact on the rest of the world. You can get Pop Tarts in Canada and the United Kingdom. 

Also, you can get shot and killed while visiting the ancient ruins in Mexico, just like you could here at home.

A sixty-one year old Canadian tourist was murdered by a lone gunman at the pyramids of Teotihuacán. Several other visitors were wounded by gunfire and even more were injured trying to escape the hail of bullets. 

There might be some comfort in knowing that the nutjob with a gun was part of a drug cartel, aiming to increase the terror among world travelers. Sadly, this is not the case. Preliminary investigations suggest that the aforementioned nutjob was identified as a twenty-seven year-old Mexico City resident who had expressed admiration for Hitler and for the perpetrators of the 1999 Columbine High School massacre in Colorado. Monday’s attack occurred on April 20, Hitler’s birthday, and also the anniversary of the Columbine attack.

For those of you in the know, there were many connections made between April 20 and its connection with cannabis use that dates all the way back to 1971 in California. Eric and Dylan may or may not have been avid users of marijuana, and their fascination for all things Hitler is well-documented. 

As is the picture left behind by the Mexico gunman who used AI to include himself in a gun-toting tableau with the long-since dead murderers of Columbine. Like his mentors, the Mexican gunman turned his gun on himself after authorities responded. This incident occurred twenty-seven years to the day of the Columbine massacre. 

I guess I wish you could get Pop Tarts in Mexico instead. 

Slipping

 Trying to make a case for the tragedy of gun violence here in the United States of America right now is a challenge. Hundreds and hundreds are being killed across the globe each day by weapons far more fierce and effective than handguns or even semi-automatic rifles. I would expect that if you were to drop by a village in Ukraine, or the remnants of a school in Iran, you might find it difficult to get a group discussion together regarding gun laws here in Estados Unidos. 

So, forgive me while I digress briefly into a problem that predates the Orange Worst.

Wouldn't it be amazing if a cease-fire would hold anywhere in the world? This past Sunday, a man in Shreveport, Louisiana shot and killed eight children between the ages of three and eleven. He wounded the mother of his seven children as well as her sister, the mother of the eighth child. A thirteen year old boy ran up the stairs and jumped from the building's roof. He has some broken bones, but is "expected to recover."

Those bones will knit, and the casts will be removed, but "recover" is a very big stretch. The father and murderer of those children fled, leading local police on a chase after a carjacking. He was shot and killed by authorities. 

And now the community in and around Shreveport begins the long journey back from that abyss. "Nothing like this has ever happened around here," said the locals who can no longer say that. Shreveport joins a long and unfortunate list of cities that never experienced anything like a mass shooting. 

Until now. 

There have been one hundred fourteen mass shootings in the United States so far this year. That's just a little over one a day. With numbers like that, how can there be any more communities to be scarred by gun violence? 

I am sad thinking that this kind of carnage has become background noise in the cacophony of the Second Trumpreich. Even sadder to think that gun violence has slipped even further down our list of priorities. When a convicted felon and alleged pedophile is running the country, can we afford to forget the innocent victims, aged three to eleven? 

Standard Standard

 If you were to listen to James Brown, you would believe that "It's a Man's Man's Man's World."*

Then again, if you had never heard of James Brown, you might reach this same conclusion. One need only look at the sports pages to get a sense of just how correct the Godfather of Soul really was. 

Dianna Russini, a sportswriter, was photographed holding hands with the head coach of the National Football League's New England Patriots, Mike Vrabel. 

Big deal? Well, to hear Page Six, the celebrity gossip column of the New York Post, tell it Ms. Russini and Mr. Vrabel who are both married to other people, may have been canoodling with one another shortly before those photos were taken. Or shortly after. Consenting adults, but consenting adults the public might recognize. 

At least Coach Vrabel, anyway. 

One could make the supposition that this indiscretion was a way for Ms. Russini to give herself a share of the spotlight that comes with the aforementioned canoodling with the coach of the NFL's second place team from last year. 

But would it be worth losing your job? 

Dianna Russini resigned from her position at The Athletic, the New York Times' sports magazine. Those in the know, which seems to be quite a few individuals given the nature of this story, suggest that she resigned just ahead of being fired after a rather abrupt investigation into the alleged canoodling. 

You can bet that the NFL got straight to work investigating their employee, but you would lose that wager not unlike the way the Patriots lost the Super Bowl back in February. After what seemed like minutes of consideration, the powers that be at the National Football League chose to send the following message regarding Vrabel's conduct: "None of our business." 

How and why is this not the very same issue for both individuals? I need only point to the Godfather of Soul.*  The picture painted here is not a pretty one. But it is very familiar. 

Sadly. 

Necessary Trouble

 "Progressivism seeks to replace the basic premises of the Declaration of Independence, and hence our form of government." And so began Clarence Thomas' speech to students at the University of Texas this past week. He continued, "In my view, we must find in ourselves that same level of courage that the signers of the Declaration have so that we can do for our future what they did for theirs."

Historical note: forty-one of the fifty-six signers of that Declaration owned slaves. This ratio improved somewhat by the signing of the Constitution, with just under half of the fifty-five delegates keeping other human beings for their servitude. There were no black signers of either document. 

In 1967, Lyndon Johnson appointed the Thurgood Marshall  first black man to the Supreme Court, paving the way for (checks notes) Clarence Thomas. What I am about to suggest is not a truly revolutionary statement, but I believe that Clarence was a DEI hire. 

Not that there is anything wrong with that. I believe that our country has spent most of its history trying to live up to its ideals. The fact that our nation was thirteen years shy of its one hundredth birthday before the slaves that were owned by those who could afford them were freed. It would be another hundred years before a civil rights lawyer named (checks notes) Thurgood Marshall argued a case in front of the Supreme Court called Brown vs The Board of Education that the flawed notion of "separate but equal" was unconstitutional, paving the way for integration of our public schools. 

Lots of paving going on in these here United States. 

That paving has been done thanks to progressive voices for the past two hundred fifty years. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." You know who wrote that? A slave owner.  Some would argue, myself included, that this promise is still unfulfilled, especially for women, who are still waiting for some sort of constitutional mention of their rights being equal. 

So Clarence Thomas believes that progressivism is a threat to America? I suppose he might want to sit down for a heart-to-heart with Ketanji Brown Jackson, the first African-American woman to be appointed to the Supreme Court. I would expect this would be a lively debate. 

Keep fighting those good fight, and remember the words of John Lewis: "Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America."

Broken

 The village was strained last week. 

Returning from Spring Break with our principal on sick leave made us all step up our game. The expected brain drain that occurs in teachers and students alike had to be ignored so that we could push on into the last two months of school. 

The first day back was calm enough to give us all hope. A number of key student absences gave us confidence in what lay ahead. 

By Tuesday afternoon, we had discovered that we were facing a larger challenge than we might have expected. Behavior that had been quietly suppressed on that first day came pouring out in what we can only assume was a reminder to us all that we are teaching expectations. Therefore we cannot expect those expectations to be embedded. 

Not yet. 

For those of us who believed that we might just slide into our time-tested routines and start preparing our little darlings for that big push called standardized testing, fate had something different in store: Business as usual. 

Fourth graders who had a week to forget their primordial feuds reignited their petty conflicts primarily for the purposes of missing class time. Kindergartners who had mastered the art of waiting in line returned to their habit of making a swirling mass of arms and legs, unable to move without screeching or touching one another. A wave of amnesia struck most of the school when it came to remembering one another's names as well as those of staff members who were tirelessly attempting to maintain some order in the chaos. 

By Friday, everyone had used up most of their best selves. Many had stuck around for the Thursday night STEM gathering, with parents, teachers and students celebrating those science-y things that look like fun but carry hidden learning. Catapults. Paper airplanes. Robots. The Eat, Learn, Play Bus rolled onto our campus at lunch on Friday, and it was all we could do to get our young charges lined up to receive their bag of books and vegetables. 

But we made it. 

Hopefully the weekend will be kinder to us all heading into next week. 

It's elementary. 

Faith

 Business as usual. Three more people were killed in a US strike on an alleged "drug boat" in the eastern Pacific. The more colorful description came from our Department of War: This operation was “a lethal kinetic strike on a vessel operated by Designated Terrorist Organizations, (T)hree male narco-terrorists were killed during this action.”

Congratulations to those of you who had 177 on your dead alleged narco-terrorist bingo card, a number that have been killed since this administration has started their policy of shooting first and looking for survivors later. 

Couple this with the prayer led by Pistol Pete Kegsbreath who brought his order together this past Wednesday: So the prayer is CSAR 25:17 and it reads, and pray with me please, “The path of the downed aviator is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of camaraderie and duty shepherds the lost through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to capture and destroy my brother, and you will know my call sign is Sandy 1 when I lay my vengeance upon thee. Amen.” 

If you're looking in your King James for this verse, you might look for Ezekiel 25:17: “And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.” You know, from the Old Testament. It probably sounds familiar to those of you who have seen Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction. Samuel L. Jackson's character, Jules, may have taken the time to memorize Sam's version: “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord, when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”

It would seem as though Pete has been cribbing not from the Bible so much as a fictional hitman from a thirty-two year old movie. 

It should further be noted that it was just a day before that when Jaime Doucet Vance said, "I think it’s very, very important for the pope to be careful when he talks about matters of theology.”

Perhaps he should stick to matters more suited to the Vatican, such as appropriating quotes from Quentin Tarantino movies. 

Sunsihne!

 So, once upon a time Jimmy Carter had solar panels installed on the White House. That was back in 1979, when the technology for solar energy was still in its early stages. “A generation from now, this solar heater can either be a curiosity, a museum piece, an example of a road not taken, or it can be a small part of one of the greatest and most exciting adventures ever undertaken by the American people.”

Sadly, it didn't take a generation for judgement to be called in. In spite of Jimmy's whish that “the power of the sun to enrich our lives as we move away from our crippling dependence on foreign oil,” the guy that came in behind him in succession had the panels torn down as part of "roof repairs." They were not replaced. The tax credits initiated by the Carter administration were removed at this same moment in history. Ronald Reagan's attorney general, Edwin Meese, felt that solar panels were not an image befitting of a super power. 

Those same solar panels sat in a warehouse in Maine, where they stayed even during the "Green" Clinton/Gore administration. In 2006, one panel made it down to the Carter Library in Atlanta, delivered there, fittingly, by two students in a vegetable oil-powered vehicle. Somewhere in the middle of all that mess, George HW Bush had a nine kilowatt, rooftop solar electric or photovoltaic system, as well as two solar thermal systems that heat water used on the premises.

In 2013, President Barack Obama had new solar panels installed, with the goal of generating six kilowatts. We might call this a "nice start." The one hundred thrity-two room White House is still far from being energy efficient. 

One might imagine that the current resident tore down an entire wing of the mansion to make the People's House more energy efficient. But that would be an imagining, since the proposed replacement for that structure has a great big roof with no plans for any sort of solar array. 

For a bit of history, gasoline during the crisis point of Jimmy Carter's presidency was one dollar per gallon. Adjusted for today's economy, that would be three dollars. Most of the planet would like to see three dollars a gallon again. 

Just like most of the planet would like to see renewable energy become the path to energy independence. I don't have any evidence of a war being started because of solar energy. 

Now there's a bright idea. 

Church

 "Your flag flyin' over the courthouse

Means certain things are set in stone.

Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't"

It was this moment that I looked over at my son, taking in Bruce Springsteen singing "The Long Walk Home" for us and a few thousand of our new closest friends, imparting the words of a father to a son. I had made peace with the fact that he might spend a little time peering at his phone, but not at this moment. He was staring directly down at the stage where that beacon of hope and dreams was giving us his all.

There were tears in his eyes. 

And I felt so lucky to be there with him. 

After the show, walking with his mother and I, he explained his phone distraction. "I was looking up the songs on Wikipedia. I wanted to remember them and what they were about." 

And I felt so lucky to be there with him. 

Like those moments when we walk under the trestle in Disneyland, stepping out onto Main Street, and looking over to see his smile. In these moments, I can see our bond. I used to worry about dragging my family out to see Bruce Springsteen each time he would come around on tour. 

I'm not worried anymore. All the magic that is carried in those songs, in those words, they have been passed along. They live on in his heart and his soul. 

In the row in front of us, a younger version of the father and son dynamic was taking place. Dad was up, singing and dancing, then sitting down briefly to cajole his son into the music of this night. I silently wished them the same success I have had. 

We have had. It's gonna be a long walk home, but at least I know we'll be going there together. 

Worst

 “I will not enter into debate. The things that I say are certainly not meant as attacks on anyone. The message of the Gospel is very clear: ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’” This is how the first U.S. born Pope chose to respond to the vitriolic attack by the convicted felon currently taking refuge in the ruins of the White House. 

In case you missed it, the convicted felon took to his social media to insist that “Pope Leo is WEAK on Crime, and terrible for Foreign Policy. I don’t want a Pope who thinks it’s OK for Iran to have a Nuclear Weapon.” This came from the same account that threatened to destroy an entire civilization a week ago, and had also included an image that depicted the aforementioned user in white and red robes with one hand resting on the forehead of a sick man while the other emanated light. 

So, first of all, posting horrendous things online is not a crime, per se, but one does wonder how it is that any respectable social media platform would allow that kind of ugliness. 

Unless the social media platform in question was being run by a thirty-four time convicted felon. Currently holding steady at twice impeached, adjudicated rapist owner of a social media platform named, as ironically as possible, Truth. 

What is Truth? Some would tell you that truth is that which corresponds to reality. Given the haphazard nature of the Orange Worst's views on the world including sharks, windmills and other living things, one could probably make a case that he wouldn't know truth if it walked up and handed him a subpoena. 

The Vice President, Jimmy Duggan Vance, is a practicing Catholic who already had the distinction of killing a Pope. He is currently trying to figure out how his eternal future will be affected by serving a boss who seems to care so little about other humans and peace on this plane. The sins of the Orange Worst are already written down, annotated and ready for release as soon as the Department of Justice starts following the law signed by (checks notes) the Orange Worst. 

Meanwhile, any actual judgement awaits for the Worst. 

Have your popcorn ready. 

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.