Stasis

 In Stand By Me, one of the young searchers makes note of a TV program that was popular back when the movie was set: "Wagon Train's a really cool show, but did you notice they never get anywhere? They just keep wagon training." This musing, posed by Will Wheaton in the role of Gordie, tends to be obscured by the very vehement discussion that is taking place around the same time between Corey Feldman and Jerry O'Connell pondering whether Mighty Mouse could beat up Superman. 

But it was Gordie's observation that came to me as I watched an episode of HBO's Stuart Fails To Save The Universe. For those of you who may not have fallen under the spell of episodic television as it now occurs in limited chunks on streaming services, this is a spin-off of the now settled Big Bang Theory. In this "new" series, a phalanx of secondary characters from the old show are put into a situation for comedy that involves a machine that allows them to hop from one reality to another. This very literal plot device has them moving from one set of circumstances to another, each one conveniently tailored to fit the half-hour format. Once I got to the fourth episode with my wife, I began to wonder exactly what the point was. They just kept wagon training. 

Sadly enough for me, this troublesome bit of ennui surrounding television does not exist solely in my relationship to Stuart and his dimension-tripping pals. I feel it more and more as I watch any show that pretends to prolong the contractual obligations to the network upon which it appears. Sitcoms by their very nature are stuck with a group of players whose predicaments tend to torment them for twenty-four minutes only to be resolved just before that last commercial break. This format is periodically skewed by a "special two-part episode," not to be confused with "a very special episode," which tends to be less about extending a story but instead providing a thoughtful examination of a serious social problem with special guest Henry Winkler. 

Shortly after that, the denizens of that TV neighborhood will get right back to wagon training. 

I have considered what might have happened if the castaways on Gilligan's Island had ever really been rescued. What sort of post-traumatic syndrome would await those seven victims of a shipwreck once they were returned to the relative comfort and safety of "the mainland?" My guess is that they would eventually have found a way to retreat back to the isolation and anonymity of that deserted island. After fifteen years of living off of coconuts and pineapple, I suspect that their intestines might explode upon ingesting their first cheeseburger after a decade and a half. 

I'm guessing they would have been better off if they had just kept wagon training. 

Over The Top

 Dolly Parton didn't pass away. 

She ascended. 

Singer. Songwriter. Movie Star. Queen of Country. Philanthropist. Spokesperson for anyone who needed a voice. 

And what a voice it was. 

When I was in high school, I didn't get it. She showed up in my world as too much. 

But that was the thing. She was too much. That was her thing. When the world needed help, she pitched in. She didn't care if speaking out on the plight of HIV/AIDS patients back in the eighties and nineties might rock the traditionally conservative boat of country music. When the COVID epidemic struck, she donated a million dollars to Vanderbilt University to fund vaccine research. Her Imagination Library has gifted more than three hundred million books to kids who might not have one otherwise. 

Oh, and she was funny. She's the one who said, "Yes, I support gay marriage. They have every right to be as miserable as straight people." And she was always willing to point that Tennessee twang on herself: "You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!"

It took a while for me to understand that this was not just a cartoon but a diamond disguised as a rhinestone. The Mayor of New York City posted this tribute: "This is truly heartbreaking. Dolly Parton was an extraordinary person and an irreplaceable champion of the working class. We are a better country because of her."

Did I mention she was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

A very good friend of mine and constant reader texted me to say the words that would necessarily come at the end of this post: She stomped on the Terra. In high heels and a denim jumpsuit with a wig that weighed as much as a German Shepard. With a song in her heart and a smile on her face. Dolly made us all better by being in this world, and it will be just a little darker each day without her in it.

Too much? How about not enough?

Dissonance

 So, among the enemies of our Great Nation that the Second Trumpreich is interested in bringing to their collective knees is the Islamic Republic of Iran and (checks notes) Canada. 

Yes. By now you are probably fully aware of our interest in bringing our neighbors to the north to heel. While we are busy figuring out how to blow up more of Iran without reloading, the not-so-United States is picking a fight with The Great White North. Since we have spent our munitions stockpile on "obliterating" Iran's navy, air force and girls schools, the Orange Worst is now attempting to induce surrender by announcing an "economic D-Day" in hopes of bringing these villains to the bargaining table in hopes that they might accept our terms of surrender once and for all. Our surrender. 

Meanwhile, when negotiations broke down after the minions of the convicted felon introduced last-minute demands concerning the auto sector, third-party trade deals, and cultural protections, leading the U.S. to impose fifty percent tariffs on roughly twenty billion dollars of Canadian goods. 

Just to break in here: One of the participants in the real D-Day invasion of Normandy back on June 6, 1944 was (checks notes) Canada. According to historical records, the third Canadian Infantry Division fought through heavy German defenses, securing their objectives and pushing deeper inland than any other Allied force that day. 

This might come as a shock to the star of Road Rules Challenge and current Secretary of Transportation Sean "The Duff" Duffy. The Duff let fly with this assessment of Canada:  "It's a country that doesn't have a military." Then he went in an even more interesting direction, "they have record-high euthanasia rates." Summing up, the Duff proclaimed, "And so to think that they're gonna go to war with Donald Trump and actually win that war with the U.S., I think it's foolish on their part."

Folks from above the border were quick to point out, "That non existent military that patrolled your skies on 9/11 and were one of the 1st nations to join you in Afghanistan." 

This kind of playing fast and loose with reality is nothing new. For several months now the "obliterated" armed forces of Iran have made it difficult to support claims by the Second Trumpreich that the Strait of Hormuz is now "controlled" by (checks notes) the United States. 

Meanwhile the U.S. deficit continues to balloon and our international standing shrinks. While the rapist in chief watches Indy cars race in circles around our nation's capital. In the writing business, we call this "an apt metaphor." 

Perchance To Dream

 I have a very visceral memory of carrying my newborn son around the house in the middle of the night when he could not, would not, go to sleep. I showed him the darkness in every corner. We looked out the windows and I told him that all those people out there were asleep because it was time to be asleep. We sometimes went out in the back yard where I showed him that even the birds had closed their eyes to get some rest before a new day began. 

All of this was mostly performative since what I was truly after was a few extra hours of shuteye for myself. The sun would be coming up soon and I had no vested interest in greeting it. In the big picture, it wasn't long before he was sleeping through the night, and not long after that he became a special project to wake up when it was time to face the world of middle school. 

It was during this time of transition that my own sleep schedule started slipping back as my morning responsibilities at school began to require earlier rising. As days grew shorter, I began to need a light on my bike to find my way depending on how much daylight was being saved. This has necessitated me climbing into bed shortly after the sun has gone down in order to find that elusive and somewhat arbitrary eight hours. 

The thought of "getting enough sleep" seems like something that I can aspire to once I have actually become a retired person. Now that my son is all grown up and discovering his own circadian rhythms I try not to let on that since I am more than twice his age and I have yet to unlock the secret to "a good night's sleep," I am just pleased as punch to face the day feeling somewhat refreshed. 

It pains me just a little when I consider that the guy who once sang a song called "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead," is no longer among the living. 

I can always take a little walk into the back yard to listen to those snoring birds. 

Allegedly

 Maybe in all this fuss about ballrooms and wars with Iran you may have imagined that things in Florida had calmed down.

Not really. 

It's just that the "Florida Man" who tends to get all the press currently spend a great deal of time squatting in the ruins of the White House and voting in Sunshine State elections by mail. A process he insists is "inherently corrupt." 

Which by itself tends to overshadow some of the awful things that happen in the distended tumor hanging off our east coast, but indulge me for a moment while I lay this out: A former Florida state legislator, currently serving  as clerk of court and comptroller for Palm Beach county has been arrested. If that address seems familiar, it's the county where you might find a pleasuredome called Mar-a-Lago. The suspect, Michael Caruso, was taken into custody on five felony charges of kidnapping, child molestation, lewd exhibition, luring or enticing a child and child abuse causing mental injury.

This is a Republican. A close personal ally of Florida's governor, Ron "Remember Me?" DeSantis. So close that Ron referred to Mister Caruso as "my representative," in part because of his support of a bill that became law in their state that allows prosecutors to seek the death penalty or life without parole for adults convicted of sexual battery on a child under twelve years old. 

After appointing Caruso to his current position, Governor Ron told reporters this week, “It was a very easy decision for me to yank him from that position.” In that same press conference, DeSantis said Caruso was “well regarded in the community.” He coached little league baseball for decades and was a volunteer with boy scouts. But, DeSantis said, he “is going to be in a world of hurt” if he is convicted. Lethal injection being at the top of that hurt list. 

What Governor Ron could not do was remove Caruso's name from the ballot for the November election. Only Caruso can do that. The deadline for that to happen is just two weeks away. If he doesn't do anything then regardless of what happens, his name will show up there as the Republican candidate. 

So, now we've driven this far into the swamp, I am going to leave you to sort out your own feelings and conclusions about how things are shaping up for the midterms. Careful on your way out. This place is full of predators.

If you know what I mean. 

What Happens When You Break The Rules?

 The call came in after the school day was over. Even though I was technically still on campus, I chose to define the rule about no cell phones as being over when that last bell rings. 

So I answered. 

The gentleman on the other end introduced himself and inquired as to my well being, which is always a great way to begin. After we exchanged pleasantries, he introduced himself by saying that he represented a program called Upgrade California. He asked if I might be a homeowner, to which I answered in the affirmative. 

At this point, he launched into a description of all the various ways that this state funded initiative might benefit me in terms of upgrades to the home that I own. I confess that I was not listening with my full attention, since I was still nominally at work and in case there were any children that required my immediate attention, I wanted to remain vigilant on their behalf. 

When he finished his schpiel, he asked if there were any outstanding projects that might be suitable. With no students around, and only a couple of colleagues nearby to enjoy my continued performance, I launched into Phase Two. 

"So, if I wanted to build a lab of some sort in my garage, this would be a good use of some of that money?"

I was assured that this would fit within the parameters of the program.

"I just wanted to be sure, you know, since sometimes the government frowns on that kind of thing."

Again, I was assured that all I needed to do was schedule an appointment for an initial inspection.

"And during this inspection, I don't need to explain exactly what kind of lab it's going to be?"

All he wanted to know was what day would work best for me. 

"I'm just thinking that if they found out that I was using my garage as a meth lab, well, you know."

He kept pressing me for the best date and time for my free inspection.

It did occur to me that I was speaking to an extremely pleasant artificial bit of intelligence, so I clarified: "You're saying that I could take these government funds to build a methamphetamine lab in my garage, and there would be no repercussions?"

"Would Sunday work? Or Monday?"

I told him that those tended to be my busiest days, since cooking took place on Saturday nights, that left Sunday and Monday for distribution to keep my customers satisfied.

"How about later in the day on Monday?"

I told him how much I appreciated his understanding and flexibility, but as it turned out, he was more committed to his bit than I was to mine. I congratulated him on his persistence and asked if it was okay to call him back at the number registered on the caller ID just as soon as I hoped that he had a pleasant rest of his day. 

And I hung up. 

Crime And Punishment

 Okay, okay. I know that recently I have been prattling on here about the wonders of socialism and how it's not so awful. 

Into that pleasant conversation blows the boisterous opinion of one Emily Gallagher, New York State Assembly person from Brooklyn. It is Ms. Gallagher's assertion that shoplifting should be legal for products connected to "biological need." 

I will let her explain: “Most of what we saw were crimes of poverty-people who are stealing things like toothpaste, people who were stealing things like, you know, soap. And that means if you’re stealing those things, you need them,” she said at a news conference outside a Manhattan Criminal Court. She continued, “And we are choosing to protect billion-dollar companies, like CVS and Walgreens, over the people who are struggling to get by. So I would say that the true crime is that there is such incredible wealth disparity in this city that there are people who can be thrown in jail simply for having a biological need.”

Okay. Valid point there with the "wealth disparity" thing. The trouble arises when it comes time to figure out how we go about dealing with it. My guess is that the employees of the local CVS or Walgreens are living somewhere right around the poverty level. The money they bring home each week for "biological needs" is a means for survival, not buying a mansion or a yacht. If those ginormous profits from these billion-dollar companies are affected, it will not be the millionaires who feel the pinch. It will be those employees who are let go, or the stores in which they work will be shuttered, creating even more "biological needs" that might not be met. 

On a purely bourgeois level, I can also attest to the ridiculousness of having to wait ten to fifteen minutes in the aisle of my local "convenience store" after I have pushed a button summoning one of these hard-working wage slaves to some and open the plexiglass case where the Crest is kept safe so that I might take some toothpaste to the register to pay for it. This experience coupled with the price increases on these basic-needs items are the other side of the story. 

Like the corner stores that sell products for "biological needs" that are routinely the scene of multiple and sometimes extraordinary theft. These events are often pitched in a tone of "us versus them," but they are really "us versus us." I don't know how much toothpaste you would have to score in order to decrease that previously mentioned wealth disparity. Food banks and local assistance organizations for housing are sometimes forgotten in this chain of injustice. They attempt to bridge the gap that all of us eventually feel. Maybe now would be a bad time to bring up Ms. Gallagher's annual salary of one hundred forty-two thousand dollars a year. I can only assume that she is parting with a sliver of that each month to help support the "biological needs" of her constituents. Unless she needs the cash to pay for her traffic tickets. 

Crisis

 Just after seven o'clock on Monday evening, I asked Google for the time.

"Hey Google, what time is it?"

I was preparing to set our cuckoo clock, which tends to drop five to ten minutes over the course of the day. It is a nighttime ritual at my house for me to try to catch up.

Our Google assistant never answered. 

I asked again, "Hey Google, what time is it?"

Nada. 

So I went to another room where we have a colorful puck of all-knowing and asked it the same question. This was by no means a challenge for this machine in most cases. Not compared to some of the inane requests my wife and I have made of it over the years. Opening the pod bay doors, Hal being one of the most frequent. 

I leapt into problem solving mode and power-cycled two of the previously all-knowing pucks in hopes of getting them back to their all-knowing selves. No such luck. 

That's when panic set in. How were we supposed to turn off lights? How was I going to wake up the next morning? Would our robot vacuum know when to start its rounds? And most importantly, how was I going to know what time it was in order to reset our cuckoo clock? 

I turned to our IT specialist. Our son. Sitting at his desk in his home an hour away, he took my call while playing a video game. To his credit, he took my request and made an immediate test. He hollered across his bedroom to his all-knowing puck: "Hey Google, what time is it?" 

No response. 

We were in big trouble now. Breaking away from his game for a moment, he did a cursory search of Al Gore's Internet with his gaming computer to ask the rest of the planet if Google Assistant was having issues. Moments later, he found a Reddit post that suggested that pucks across the globe were losing their minds. How was anyone going to be able to reset their very-not-digital cuckoo clocks?

Sensing my panic, my son soothed me with the notion that the folks at Google made a boo-boo and were working feverishly to correct the problem, since that is their business, after all. I went to bed with my cellular device tucked in beside me, hoping it would have a reliable alarm for the next morning.

I slept fitfully, but somewhere in the middle of the night, I called out: "Hey Google, what time is it?"

"The time is two forty-eight." 

I breathed out for what felt like the first time in hours. 

I made a mental note to set the cuckoo clock once the sun came up.

All was right with the world again.

Reality Check

 Communism is bad.

Communists are the bad guys.

This is why MAGAts are all up in arms about Communists running for office here in the Communist-Free United States of America. 

And winning. 

It is difficult, if not impossible, to explain the concept of consequence to someone who does not understand cause and effect. These so-called Communists are showing up as a result of the past ten years of authoritarian MAGAt rule. New York City now has a *gasp* socialist mayor. This minor revolution is what happens when you can show up with a plan and a promise to serve the community, and the community responds by voting for that promise. No blood was spilled. No shots were fired. 

Which is more than we can say for the Second Trumpreich. 

Who, by the way, seem more than happy to cozy up to (wait for it) real and true Communists. This past week the convicted felon whose fondness for other authoritarian dictators is well known, chose to renew his bromance with Kim Jong Un. As with so many of the policy decisions made by this regime it was announced on social media: “Based on my very good relationship with Kim Jong Un, of North Korea, I am not happy with the fact that the United States has, long ago, agreed to participate in Joint Military Exercises with South Korea. These exercises are not only costly, with much of these costs paid for by the United States of America (as usual!), but send a signal that is totally inappropriate and hostile, to a Country that, as long as Donald J. Trump has been President, has been unthreatening and respectful.” 

In case you haven't watched a M*A*S*H rerun in a while, the North Koreans were the bad guys. 

The Communists.

Which seems to suggest that we are more than happy to nuzzle up to Communist dictators from other countries, but a mayor of a major metropolitan city here in the United States or a candidate for a Michigan Senate seat who holds values left of the incredibly right vision of MAGAts will earn everlasting condemnation from Vladimir Putin's bear wrestling buddy. 

For the record: Pedophiles are bad. Rapists are bad. Business frauds and slum lords are bad. Take a look in the mirror, MAGAt. 

Funny How Time Slips Away

 I dreamed that I was being asked to perform at a college standup comedy event. 

The trouble was, I had no material. 

So I started scribbling. What could I possibly have to say into a microphone that would elicit the slightest amusement in a crowd of moderately inebriated liberal arts majors? 

I decided to highlight my own journey through higher education, focusing on the notion that binge drinking is the exact wrong hobby to take up once you start paying for those eight AM classes. Pretty hysterical, right? 

It was my hope that I wouldn't come off as some old guy lecturing the youth of today. Instead, I was looking for some sweet spot between laying out a sermon and pointing out just how ridiculous it is to believe, as I did, that everyone in their twenties is indestructible. 

Because it turns out we are not. Searching for those anecdotes that rang true without overt moralizing became more and more difficult as I waited for my name to be called by the Master of Ceremonies. Why didn't I have that job? A quick two-minute bit before I announced the next victim to be ushered to the stage. That was where I would have shone. Now I prepared to be booed off the postage stamp-sized riser in the spotlight. Or worse: to be greeted by complete silence. 

As luck would have it, I woke up before that moment became part of my sleep baggage. was shortly before I reflected on my return to the classroom. Standing in front a group of intense and inquiring faces, waiting for instruction, inspiration, or both. What could I say that would not sound like the lessons I have been spouting for three decades already? I wasn't being tasked with getting big laughs from nine year olds, but I knew that part of my mission was to be a notch more interesting than anything they might find on the phones they were now officially forbidden to look at during the school day. 

I was transported back to those bygone days of yesteryear, when I was first writing a blog, before it ever became a daily event. I was reflecting on Gabe Kaplan, the star of Welcome Back Kotter. He began his career in standup comedy after he dropped out of high school, eventually hitting on a popular bit about the kids he knew from his days in remedial studies. He created his role as a teacher to pitch a TV series. Now he is a professional poker player. 

Isn't that funny. 

Why?

 "This is a very small community, and this type of incident — and it obviously has rocked and crushed that community at this point. They're looking for answers, and they want to know why."

Why would someone roar through a sleepy little community in northern Michigan, killing teenagers and adults before turning the gun on himself? This was the questions local officials were asking.

"This type of incident" is called a mass shooting. According to the government, our government, this is the definition that kicks in once the body count reaches three or more. Our Federal Bureau of Investigation refers to an incident that clocks in at four or more fatalities as a "mass murder." 

The killings in the Missaukee County community of Lake Township ticked both those boxes. 

The question remains.

Why? 

Preliminary reports suggest that the murderer had a "troubled past" and had been involved in a "contentious divorce." 

Oh, and this just in: He had access to guns and ammunition. One of his intended victims, a thirteen year old girl, was shot four times but managed to call 911 and identify the gunman. Authorities were able to track him down, but not before he took his own life. 

"How could this happen here?" Contentious divorces and individuals with troubled pasts can be found in just about every city, county, and town across this great land of ours. Land of the free, home of the brave and home to the glorious Second Amendment. 

In just about every city, county and town in this great land of ours there are goons with and without masks, some of them trained, some of them not, to kill. This is how we remind our citizens "thou shalt not kill." At the end of last month, the state of Florida executed two murderers on the same day. For some, this was a moment worth celebrating. One of them was eighty years old, the oldest inmate ever executed in the Sunshine State. The other one was a former police officer. 

Why?

I want to know too. 

Generational Upgrade

 The guy at the bike shop reminded me of the Ship of Theseus.  It is a paradox that poses the question: is a ship that has had all of its wooden planks replaced piece by piece over time remains the exact same ship? He brought it up to me in reference to "Archimedes' Ship," which is a bit confusing, since Archimedes did a lot of work on buoyancy, but wasn't much of a philosopher. Then again, there are those who would insist that Matt Damon has nothing to do with Ulysses. 

That's not me, mind you, but I digress. 

The discussion was based on the top to bottom, over and under, side to side reclamation of my bicycle. After parking my bike in the basement after the last day of school before summer break, I didn't pedal a block on it for two months, moving it from left to right as we hauled things out to give or throw away in an effort to reduce the surplus of stuff and junk down there. It was not until the week before my return to school that it occurred to me that I might want to check out the condition my bike's condition was in. 

A quick ride down the street let me know that I had forgotten just how bad things had gotten in spoke and sprocket land. 

Really bad. 

So I loaded my Dawes Eclipse City  flat bar hybrid two-wheeler on the bike rack and drove it to the bike shop. A brief assessment from an expert let me confirmed what I had already imagined: the patient was critical, and the outlook was better than terminal, but not by much. Chain, derailer, crank, tires, brakes, shifters and overall deportment were all part of a laundry list of maladies that needed treatment. 

I left it there with the understanding that the deposit I had left was going to be a fraction of what it would take to get me back on the road. Sails replaced. Planks replaced. Rigging replaced. When I once again tossed a leg over the frame, would it still be my bike?

In thirty years of teaching elementary school, I have had four bicycles. I bought the first one from one of the accountants at my old job at a book warehouse for fifty bucks. The next one came to me as a gift from my wife who announced that, "We may never own a new car, but you can have a new bike." The third was a replacement for the second which was "donated" to the community after I left it in the front hallway at school while the door was propped open. That was a Wal-Mart special that only lasted a few months. It was not up to a daily commute. 

The Dawes Eclipse City was. It served me well for a good long time, and endured all the DIY fixes I could throw at it until one day it didn't. All the inner tubes and brake pads and WD-40 that I had used up on my trusty steed just wasn't enough. In the end, I paid enough to buy several old accountant's bikes to get mine back on the road. 

The second week of school, I was back in action. On my nearly new bike. 

Media Matters

 Doctors Oz and Phil got their starts under the umbrella of HARPO productions. "Harpo," in case you missed the cleverness, is "Oprah" backwards. 

And doctors Oz and Phil are about as backward as any two medical practitioners could be from the ideals and principles espoused by Harpo. Backwards. 

What does the subject of each monthly issue of O magazine have to say about this disparity? "Everybody has their own path in life, and it has not one thing to do with me, and I don't have one thing to do with them. At the time, the reason and intention behind me giving them their breaks was I thought they had valuable information to share that had been meaningful to me."

At the time. 

That time was the early 2000s, up until just prior to the launch of the Second Trumpreich. Ultimately, Doctor Oz found a spot in the administration, currently overseeing the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services. Just where you'd expect a guy who plays a doctor on TV to land. He's the guy who decided to end the drug subsidies for elderly Medicare recipients by eliminating Part D. But for fifty bucks a month qualifying Medicare patients can now obtain weight-loss GLP-1 medications. Sure, you're still sick, but you'll look great!

Doctor Phil, who became a multi-millionaire thanks to the start that Ms. Winfrey gave him, now serves as a "commissioner" in the Second Trumpreich, advising the convicted felon on such matters as religious expression in areas like education, healthcare, and the military as well as promoting administration goals regarding faith, traditional values, and government transparency. He also got to ride along with a bunch of ICE goons in Chicago. Which might make more sense on an episode of South Park than on NBC news. 

Come to think of it, this whole mess might be funny if it took place in that mystical construction paper cut-out world of South Park, Colorado. Ms. Winfrey could not be reached for comment on this. But I do believe that Eric and Kyle and Kenny and Stan probably had valuable information to share that had been meaningful to her. 

You Can't Spell Leave Without Leavitt

 Karoline Leavitt is stepping down from her post as Information Dispersal Officer for the Second Trumpreich. To her credit, she has outlasted Kristi Noem and Tulsi Gabbard. Lori Chavez-DeRemer and Pam Bondi. If these names don't ring a bell, you may not have been paying attention to the exodus of people leaving the White House. Or what's left of it. Jeanine Pirro has taken to walking around with most of the stuff in her office boxed up just in case she "chokes" again. Once again I feel the need to point out the similarities behind all of these departures: A Y chromosome. 

Ms. Leavitt says that she is ending her tenure as the Orange Worst's mouthpiece because she wants to spend more time lying directly to her family. The family she started back in the dark days before the election of 2024, and added to in May of this year. The demands of generating a steady stream of fabrication while raising a toddler and an infant seems to have become too overwhelming for Karoline. 

If you're a fan of the way the convicted felon treats the press, you're going to miss Ms. Leavitt. Like the time she argued with Associated Press reporter Josh Boak about her boss' focus on tariffs, culminating with, "I think it's insulting that you're trying to test my knowledge of economics, and the decision that this President has made. I now regret giving a question to The Associated Press."

Or maybe it was the time she went after reporter Jasmine Wright's inquiry regarding protests, asking Karoline to "clarify what kind of protest President Trump does support or find acceptable." Karoline shot back, "Of course the President supports peaceful protests. What a stupid question."

How about the time she abruptly ended a press conference after being asked about the former game show host's support of Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick. The same guy who earlier that same day told a Senate panel that he had visited the private island of the late convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein in 2012de, spite the fact that he had previously claimed to have ended his relationship with Epstein years before. Ms. Leavitt wound things up by insisting, "I will just point out that there are a lot of wins in the news this week that people in this room have not asked about because you continue to ask questions about the same subject so let me point them out for you." After mentioning gains in the stock market and a few other trifles, she closed her big book of lies. "So," she said when she walked off the stage, "we're going to get back to business. The President is very busy today and you will see him all tomorrow at the event in the East Room touting his Administration's energy policy."

In January of this year, a week after Renee Good was murdered by ICE goons, a reporter questioned how this could have happened if the ICE goons had been "doing everything correctly." Karoline's respsone? "Okay, so you're a biased reporter with a leftwing opinion. Because you're a leftwing hack. You're not a reporter, you're posing in this room as a journalist. And it's so clear by the premise of your question. And you and the people of the media who have such biases but fake like you're a journalist—you shouldn't even be sitting in that seat. You're pretending like you're a journalist, but you're a leftwing activist," she continued. "The question that you just raised and your answer proves you're biased. You should be reporting on the facts."

The facts.

Karoline Leavitt is leaving her job. That's a fact. My opinion is that the weight of all those lies were finally too much. Woman. New Mother. Man. Doesn't matter. That sort of thing will crush one's soul. 

Pop Goes The Culture

 I understand that I am a victim of my own feed. 

I eat what I click.

If, for example, temptation gets the best of me and I am curious which "Friends A-Lister" has "amazing chemistry with David Harbour," I will end up paying for it in loads more celebrity tea being dumped into my stream. To save you the somewhat inglorious suspense, I will tell you now that it was none other than Courtney Cox who showed up on the set of the movie "Evil Genius" which is currently in production and hit it off immediately with the "Stranger Things" star. Insiders would like us all to know that this is merely a "talent crush."

And that should be enough quotation marks for now. 

So I understand that I was gifted this bit of Hollyweird gossip because of some previous dalliance with articles about showbiz. Shocked as you might be to find out that when I am not tracking all the nefarious schemes taking place in our government and boardrooms across this great land of ours, I am more than just a little curious about who is dating or breaking up with whom and who will have to go to movie jail because their blockbuster underperformed at the box office. This can make for lively banter out on the playground with my fellow teachers. 

It can. 

And sometimes these conversational gambits fail miserably. They tend to fall into the somewhat soulless vein of "did you know?" Apologies for that brief return to quotation marks. I live at what could be considered the far end of the demographic when it comes to elementary type teachers. In order to stay current, I have found that keeping up with Tom Holland and Zendaya makes it easier to communicate with this younger generation. Attempting to stay current in an endless river of pop culture is no easy task, and I want to believe that I am doing my absolute best. 

But did I really need to read that whole article about Courtney Cox and David Harbour? And why do you suppose I found it necessary to bore you with the details here? I suppose if you've made it this far, I can tell you that I believe that it is a direct result of the genetic connection between my mother, who used to pore over every movie magazine in her parents' drug store, and even though she would eventually go on to be a voracious reader of all manner of literature, she still had one foot in the scandal sheets. Clark Gable's halitosis was legendary. He used to chase Vivien Leigh around the set of "Gone With the Wind" with his false teeth in his hand. 

And if that's not a "conversational gambit," I don't know what is> 

Courage Under Fire

 Discretion, we are told, is the better part of valor.

What I am about to relate to you is what some of us in the business refer to as "irony." I would also encourage you to listen to Lalo Schifrin's theme to Mission: Impossible as you contemplate the events of July 8, 2026. 

Under the veil of threats from Iran, the convicted felon boarded Air Force One as usual in Turkey. Then he proceeded to head out the door on the other side of the plane into a waiting catering truck. You know, the ones that rise up on on a scissor lift to load an aircraft with nominally edible refreshments before your flight takes off to destinations known and unknown. But mostly known if you're a real person. The former game show host does not fall into that classification, so in order to save the Orange Worst from potentially being shot down in that big blue and white plane, they snuck him off and put him and Pistol Pete Hegseth on another, smaller military aircraft that was neither the old blue and white version of Air Force One nor the fancy-schmancy Qatari upgraded version. 

Once back in the United Kingdom, the adjudicated rapist was loaded back into the old version of the 747 he had narrowly avoided riding in from Turkey to Suffolk, England. Reporters and other staff were told they needed to make the four hour flight with the blinds pulled on the plane "for security reasons." When asked about this strategy after the decoy flight had landed, the MAGAt in chief reminded us that in spite of his outward indifference to the death threats from the country he started a war with to distract from his nefarious dealings back home: "Well, yeah, because you’re probably on a dangerous flight because of the sleaze bags that we have to deal with."

Dangerous? Not for catering trucks. But certainly for the members of the press on board that big blue and white target up in the sky. 

Which brings me to my lingering question: If this was supposed to be such a big secret, how is it that a month after the fact it becomes worldwide news? What gaping hole in military intelligence allowed the details of this bait and switch that saw the twice-impeached "president" taken off his hyper-secure Oval Office in the sky and stuffed in a bin with Chex Mix and cans of V-8 juice? Is there a need amongst us all to know just how limited this buffoon's authority really is? 

Coming from the guy who has repeatedly called for the extermination of an entire country, dating back to April when he issued his version of a fatwa: "a whole civilization will die tonight." He's also the guy who blew up a school full of little girls in February. All that tough talk has him hiding in catering trucks.

And golf courses around the world. 

Boom!

Someone on social media recently asked if we would all be so kind to let them know when it is safe to eat lettuce again. 

From what I have been reading, this won't be anytime soon. Explosive diarrhea would be the consequence for finding out that perhaps you may have rushed that transaction. I don't know about you, but it's the explosive part of that phrase that gives me the most pause. "Explosive" anything seems like a bad idea in general, but if it involves your gastrointestinal tract, especially so. 

So, if eating lettuce has become a chance operation, what sort of alternatives does that leave us with? Well, if you're concerned about where your daily allowance of fiber is coming from, you might want to steer clear of products from Taylor Farms. For a good long time.

You might remember Taylor Farms from their company CEO's White House visit earlier this summer. the one that came just before the report that was going to be issued linking Taylor Farms with the previously mentioned explosive diarrhea. Somewhere in there a very large donation was made by Taylor Farms to MAGA Inc. Large to the tune of one million dollars. If you are not a gastroenterologist, you may not have pieced together the effects of a million dollars on explosive diarrhea. It doesn't make it any less explosive, but it can make it seem like less of a big deal to the consumer. Which didn't keep them from recalling all their iceberg lettuce this summer.

And now this same company, Taylor Farms, is recalling a dozen more of its products, including salsa and guacamole, for concerns about possible salmonella bacteria. If you're still curious about all things gastronomical, salmonella is the bug that can give you painful food poisoning. This time it wasn't the lettuce, but rather the jalapenos that were to blame. 

Or maybe that visit to the White House should have included a little negotiating with the Food and Drug Administration. The Second Trumpreich saw fit to cut thousands of positions within the FDA, including many who were overseeing food safety. Eliminating their jobs did not have the magic effect of making our food more safe. Instead, it would seem that the result was, in a couple words, Explosive Diarrhea. 

For now, I'll just skip the lettuce. And the jalapenos. Let me know when I can have Taco Bell without Explosive Diarrhea. 

If ever. 

Futility

 It is an exciting time. 

Back to school. 

I can remember how upset my son would be the first time he saw a reminder from retailers that it was time to stock up on binders and glue sticks. Or one of those snappy adverts reminding everyone it was time to go out and grab the latest cool looks for the return to the classroom. This eventually transferred to, in his senior year of high school, one of the more amusing things he did as the student in charge of the reader board stationed outside his last stand in public education. In the two weeks prior to classes coming back into session, he posted a reminder of the dates along with the warning: "Resistance is futile." 

I thought of this bit of chicanery as I worked long hours in the week leading up to this year's back to school day. Moving furniture. Lifting boxes. Repairing desks. And putting brightly colored and border up on the acres of bulletin boards that line the hallways of my school. Being a teacher has a great many long days, sometimes without breaks or respite from the grind, but these days of preparation bring their own level of stress and strain. 

I would have loved a chance to head out to Target to take advantage of all those Back To School values. 

Instead, I was honor bound to make sure that our school was ready for that moment when the front gates open and first graders would magically morph into second graders. Last year's fourth graders would suddenly find themselves at the top of the food chain in fifth. Would they notice the way the border on the bulletin board outside their classroom complemented the color of the paper behind it? Or would their attention be drawn to their friends' new backpacks and sneakers? 

I was once again surprised by the accordion folds in time and how close each one of these first days seem to cram together. I expect that those long weeks before Winter Break will still tempt me to rethink my understanding of infinity, as will the days preceding those Last Days of the year. Each of these countdowns will have meaning for me as what will be most likely the last to impact me in the same way as I waltz toward retirement. 

It is a force I may never be able to ignore.

Resistance is indeed futile.  

Big Deal

 I know. We're supposed to stand in awe of the deal-making prowess of the convicted felon squatting in the ruins of the White House. He got elected, twice, on this illusory power of negotiating and generating transactions that would create the kind of economy that only seems to exist in his tiny little mind.

That being said, the most recent revelation of the twice-elected and coincidentally twice-impeached very stable genius' business acumen caught me a little off guard. German energy company RWE has said it will abandon its offshore wind projects in the United States after reaching a 1.2 billion dollar payout deal with the Second Trumpreich's  Department of the Interior. Pardon me for just a moment as I muse briefly about the fact that the department that deals with the stuff in our country that is outside is called "Interior."

I digress. 

Instead of wind, RWE said that it will now reinvest that great big wad of cash  into conventional gas projects, including nine hundred million dollars in a liquified natural gas export terminal project in Louisiana. This switch will no doubt please the knuckle-draggers in the fossil fuel business, who have been ever-so-pleased to rake in record profits as a result of the Epstein Files distraction disguised as a war with Iran. 

More opportunities to make money from dead dinosaurs. Meanwhile, China continues to embarrass us with their willingness to build and switch over to renewable forms of energy. Their onshore and offshore wind farms currently supply ten percent of their country's energy. 

The former game show host is paying companies not to do just that for the United States. RWF is not the only being paid to switch from wind projects to more "conventional" forms of energy such as liquified natural gas. Coincidentally, those massive data centers that seem to be popping up everywhere are often run on (wait for it) natural gas. As of 2017, gas emissions from stationary sources led to more deaths than coal in at least nineteen states. 

While we're struggling to gather the seventy dollars it takes to fill our gas tank, and watching as our utility bills continue to spiral out of control, the Orange Worst is paying companies to make our lives more expensive. That's what the tiny brain that bankrupted his own casinos four times came up with. High crimes and misdemeanors? I'd say this is yet another batch of evidence for the third impeachment. 

BOTD

 Born on this day:

My wife

The mother of my child

Writer in residence at Joaquin Miller Park

Daughter of Jan and Louise

Sister of Felix and Damian

Cousin to seemingly countless more

Speaking of countless, the number of personas and pen-names inhabiting this one soul defies easy accounting. 

But mostly, she's America's Friend, Polly Polka Dot. 

If you're planning a brief stroll or a visit to the local mall, you can expect to stop and chat with a great many human beings. Some she knows. Some she has met before. And then a great many who happen to fall within that great ray of interest that emanates from her. She wants to know what you're up to. She wants to be, as her title suggests, your friend. 

Now, this can make progress toward a goal difficult at times. Don't expect that getting from point A to point B to be a quick change. If you're along for the ride, you will be introduced because this is the way we grow a community. She will, on occasion, approach a person who she believes is already on her list just to make sure that the contact remains intact. "Do I know you?" 

If she doesn't, she will after she's done. 

Once upon a time, I gave an interview about this blog and suggested it existed to connect with strangers who were friends I haven't met yet. I said this was a quote from Fred Rogers. As it turns out, I was actually referencing a quote from Will Rogers. Such a tangled web of Rogers out there. Now that I have set that record straight, I would like to wish America's Friend, Polly Polka Dot, a happy birthday and appreciate her for all those strangers she has turned into friends. Sometimes it slows us down, but it's all worth it. 

Look Out, 'Cause Here It

 There seems to be a lot of concern these days about the looming specter of communism. This is a lot easier to manage than the looming specter of socialism. After all, we have embedded in our fiercely anti-communist society little reminders of things like Social Security. And public schools. And a great many other programs that seem to have been created with the citizens of our nation in mind. Public health care, food relief, and a great many things that have "care" somehow connected to them by implication or in the title. Which is why the conservatives cling to the name "Obamacare" instead of the Affordable Care Act, since it gives them a chance to double down on their hate. 

This is the big threat to our way of life, the MAGAts will tell you: Communists. This brought me back to my seventh grade geography teacher, Mister Clements. He passed out to his class a piece of paper titled "Isms Defined." 

• Fascism: If you have two cows, you keep the cows and give the milk to the government; then the government sells you some milk.
• Nazism: If you have two cows, the government shoots you and keeps the cows.
• Socialism: If you have two cows, you give one to your neighbor.
• Communism: If you have two cows, you give them to the government and the government then gives you some milk.

Back in 1974, this seemed completely adequate to describe conditions on the planet, with the kicker being that Democracy was supposed to allow everyone, including the cows, to live and thrive in peace. Which is essentially what the oligarchy we have now continues to push at us as the narrative we should believe. 

Except that none of us down here seem to own cows, and the corporations who do seem completely invested in the idea that we will pay just about anything for a quart of milk. Or a steak. 

Meanwhile, these folks calling them democratic socialists have started to show up as a stark contrast to the establishment. Most notable in this wave is the new Mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani. In the first eight months in office, he has secured state funding and rollout plans for universal child care for two-year-olds, won thirty-four million dollars in tenant settlements and repairs from landlords, securing nine  million dollars in worker and small business restitution, and filled one hundred thousand potholes across the five boroughs. 

No word on what's happening to New York City's cows. 

Our Best Shot

The beat goes on. 

An In 'n' Out got shot up in Idaho. In what has become standard lone gunman procedure, the lone gunman died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Three innocent victims were shot and killed by this nitwit with an assault rifle. 

Evil nitwit. 

Evil. 

Twenty-three year old Ashley Garibay was killed while assisting in the training of new crew members at the burger joint that now serves as a crime scene. She used to live in Stockton, California. Now she doesn't live. 

Christopher Claunch, whose life ended at fifty-nine, had recently gotten sober. Two years ago, he started his life over and was hired by the rehab center he had attended as a patient. Christopher wanted to help others start their lives over. 

Dale Schultz was also passing through Idaho when his life was cut short by an evil nitwit. An artist and pickleball player, Dale was a husband, father and grandfather. His wife, Reinette, was wounded in the melee and remains in the hospital. Her life is forever changed as well. 

Six others were injured. Their lives as well as those throughout the community of Twin Falls, Idaho. 

And beyond. 

Grand Haven, Michigan.

Denmark, Tennessee. 

East Saint Louis, Illinois.

Rittman, Ohio.

Livonia, Michigan.

Cheektowaga, New York. 

Muscatine, Iowa. 

That's a list of communities in which a mass shooting has occurred, with the number of casualties set as three or more victims. Since June 1, 2026. Two months and change here in the United States. Lives cut short and lives changed. Forever. 

And that's a 

Exit Strategy: Here's The Door

 Her boss says that vandals were responsible. 

She has come to the conclusion that it was a "botched installation." As for those vandals,  "it is difficult to attribute the widespread damage to the Reflecting Pool to vandalism, let alone to establish that fact beyond a reasonable doubt." The fact that former Olympian David Hearn's case was dropped after being indicted by a grand jury back in July is not a surprise. The fact that this voice of reason is coming from longtime MAGA sycophant and former Faux News celebutroid, Jeanine Pirro, is the shocking part. 

Ms. Pirro was, after all, one of the loudest voices amplifying her channel's insistence that the 2020 election was stolen. None of that blathering required any specific evidence beyond the parroting of talking points delivered by a convicted felon. The manipulation of facts in this case eventually resulted in her old boss, Rupert Murdoch, being saddled with a seven hundred eighty-seven million dollar judgement to be paid to Dominion Voting Systems. Back then, even the folks at Faux News referred to Jeanine as a "reckless maniac." Who better, then, to appoint to the office of U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia?

This is an administration that already has its share of reckless maniacs: Pistol Pete Hegseth, Stephen Naziferatu Miller, and the previously mentioned convicted felon in the big office. What makes this rather high-profile embarrassment different than, say, starting a war in the Middle East without provocation or exit strategy, is the fact that Jeanine Pirro shares something in common with Second Trumpreich members Tulsi Gabbard, Krist Noem, Pam Bondi and Lori Chavez-DeRemer: a Y chromosome. 

The reality that has risen up to shove these women toward the door does not seem to affect the boys in the club, and certainly the qualifications Ms. Pirro brought to her appointment were always a little suspect, but since when has being qualified have anything to do with getting a job with this administration? Her current boss insists that she "choked" and "folded like an umbrella," while promises of  a quick end to the war in Iran sit out there as shining examples of incompetence from the testosterone side of the room. 

Firing a woman in an administration that insists that DEI should be abolished, doesn't come as any sort of shock, but it does make you wonder who will take the blame once all the women have been let go. 

Beautiful Noise

 I spent last weekend by the sea. 

Which is a little ridiculous since I live in a city by the bay, which is just a hop skip and a San Francisco from the sea. 

I just do not make my way over there very often. 

This past weekend, my wife and I slept with the patio door to our hotel room open pretty much day and night to hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. All day. All night. In the morning, I awoke to the sight of pelicans gliding over the rocks, looking for their breakfast. In the evening, we watched the sun drop into the ocean, and waited for the lines of orange, yellow and purple to fade into the darkness. 

I suppose I can explain this fascination by explaining that I grew up in the extraordinarily landlocked land of the Continental Divide. Before my clan settled in Colorado, they were ensconced for generations in Kansas. A sea view was nothing if not a curiosity. The closest I came to cavorting an natural bodies of water outside of the local swimming pool was the beaver dams in the creek near our family's cabin before the beavers packed up and left because of all those kids spoiling their nice work. 

The Pacific Ocean is a different thing entirely. It gave me a sense of the infinite. Staring off into the distance, I had to imagine that there were people and places over the edge somewhere, but for my purposes, this was forever. This did not stop the waves from attempting to make their presence known at the other edge of their reach. Tides came in. Tides went out. I stared at them in awe and appreciation. As we made our way down the shore, my wife and I saw the signs reminding us of riptides and currents that would sweep us away if we were foolish enough to go wading or, heaven forbid,  attempt to a swim in all that churning. 

So we walked until we found a beach where the waves raced up to our feet, and we felt the chill of water that nobody bothered to heat. We were mindful of all the ways that this mass of salty water could make our lives difficult or sad.

But mostly we listened to the sound. 

Not the traffic on the highway four blocks from our home back in Oakland. Not the jets overheard. Just the endless churning, the slow attempt at changing the coast line. Someday, the hotel in which we took all this in would drop off the cliff and into the sea. But not last weekend. We listened to the sound and it lulled us to sleep. 

I dreamed of the sea. 

Parting With Part D

 The Second Trumpreich wants to end Medicare Part D Premium Stabilization Demonstration at the end of 2026. This temporary program was termed a "bailout" by the weasels in the ruins of the White House, with the assurance that, "Premiums will go up by less than ten dollars for most ⁠Medicare recipients, with many even seeing lower premiums." 

How about that? Just before I get to dip my toe into all that Medicare goodness. All those phone calls in the middle of the day, asking what plans I have: A, B, C and D? I have cruised along for most of my adult life with pretty solid health care coverage, thanks to my employers. Now as I begin to ponder life out from under that protective wing, I have to consider what life will be like on a "fixed income."

Meanwhile, the orange sack of protoplasm skips off to Walter Reed for a cognitive test and proof of his continued existence every time he breaks wind. Paid for by you and me. The guy who has grown his personal fortune by more than two billion dollars in the past year and a half pays nothing out of pocket. 

Nothing. 

Zero.

Zilch. 

Nada. 

Eighty years old and billions in the bank, how is this thick slab of meat ever going to understand that a change of "just ten dollars a month" could mean a meal or two? Not that this slob ever seems to miss a meal or the nap that seems to follow shortly thereafter. 

Of course, two billion dollars raised from a sketchy bit of crypto business would go a long way toward solving this shortfall, but I guess that's just not the way these things work. 

Is it? 

Fare And Square

 Recently as I have traversed the highways and byways of Oakland, I have noticed that city buses flash, in addition to their destination, a message on their front reader boards. They all read, "Fare Required." 

My initial reaction was a grumbly, "Well, duh." 

Then I started to think about it. Not too terribly long ago, when this city and the rest of the world struggled with the realities of a global pandemic, people hopping on busses without paying their three dollars seemed like an unnecessary bit of contact for a ride across town. As long as everyone remembered to sit more than six feet apart, there shouldn't be any trouble. Bus drivers were essential workers and helped ferry other essential workers to their essential work. The notion being that once COVID was over, we would settle up. 

A quick check with Alameda County Transit tells me that these headsigns are there to promote folks helping to stave off the budget deficit that currently exists within the company. We are reminded that further losses could result in reduction of services. Further reduction of services. That previously stated price point of three dollars per ride comes as a result of people sneaking on the bus for free. 

Not really. Like many government agencies, the way that money is spent by AC Transit on things that may or may not result in a more efficient or, heaven forbid, cost effective bus ride. For example, the media campaign currently underway to remind citizens that you are required to pay your fare as you get on the bus. 

Of course you do know that paying fares are not the sole funding source for city bus lines. Which is why just up the road from Oakland in Petaluma, California they have a fare-free bus system. Consider for a moment that those buses are running along their predetermined route on a predetermined schedule at times when there is no one aside from the driver on board. Should the bus driver just pull over until someone pops up with a couple of bucks to get it back on the road? 

Well, for the time being, Oakland is raising its fares and reminding us all that it is required. Meanwhile there are other large cities across the globe, including the entire country of Luxembourg that has done away with bus fare. Entirely. 

I suppose buses in Luxembourg can use those signs at the front to remind people to floss. 

Not Yet

 The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of other things. Of shoes and splits and ten K times, of cabbages and kings. For the purposes of this discussion, the Walrus will not be Paul. The walrus will be me. 

Or I will be the walrus. Which is I find a little odd, since this was the way a grade school classmate described me when she was accusing me of ruining our class picture. Connected to this mild derision was the feeling I have endured for most of my life: being the round kid. The one who got picked last. The one at the back of the pack. 

Struggling. 

When my father invited me to join him running the Bolder Boulder race with him back in 1982, it seemed like a lark, of sorts. That's when I took up the sport, and I have been running ever since. 

Except now it's not really "running." To "run," one must have an aerial phase, or a moment when both feet are off the ground. There was a time when this was something I accomplished with relative ease. It provided me a means to the end of not being quite so round, and though I had already passed the phase of life in which teams were being picked on a regular basis, I flattered myself that I would no longer be the last one waiting to be selected. 

These days, I still head out every day with the intent of covering two to five miles, depending on how much locomotion I have experienced or will experience throughout the day. In my mind, I am still churning out the miles. Every so often a neighbor or friend will encounter me along my selected route, and lately they ask the same question: "Out for a walk?"

And I know they aren't far wrong. There was a time when I was committed to a mile in under ten minutes. Now I creep along somewhere in the fifteen minute area. Chugging along. I don't stop, unless someone needs to ask me directions. Then it's back to plodding. 

Ultimately it's about the cardiovascular, which I have been assured by medical professionals is just fine thank you. This does not keep me from noticing when someone else breezes by me as I am making my way toward my destination. In my head, I tend to do a quick assessment: how old do you suppose that guy is? how many miles has she run already? how did that seventy year old guy just pass me by walking when we were both going downhill? 

I take comfort in knowing that it's not a race. As long as I lace up my sneakers each day and head out to perambulate in some fashion or another, there is no finish line. Not yet. Not for me. 

Gone But Forgotten

 Ron Howard has taken a lot of abuse over the course of his career for what happened to his brother. Not his real brother, Clint, who has received ample support from the roles big brother Ron has been able to send his way over the years. Seventeen of them at last count. Instead of real life, I prefer to turn our focus to life on the little screen: Whatever happened to Richie Cunningham's older brother Chuck on Happy Days? Somewhere along the early episodes of the second season of that very popular series, Chuck just ceased to be. The Chuck Cunningham Syndrome may not get the attention that Richie and the gang brought Jumping The Shark, but it is a very real thing. 

Don't believe me? How about if I were to ask you about Carol Geller? You know, Ross Geller's wife. On Friends. Now for the bonus round: How did the show's writers and producers wind up her story? What about their son, Ben? They eventually disappeared into TV ether somewhere around the eighth season. Rachel and Joey and Monica and Chandler and Phoebe just went on without any real notice or care. Besides, by this time Ross had been married a bunch of times and became a father all over again with Rachel. What's an ex-wife and and her wife going to do to compete with all that? And young Ben? He would be thirty-one years old by now. 

What do you suppose he got into in all those intervening years? I get it that the struggles of a young man growing up in Manhattan being raised by two mothers could never compete with the seemingly endless hijinks and hilarity brought to us by the gang of Friends, but the powers that be did see fit to bring Gunther on for the final episode. 

It's about closure, right?

So I think there's a play or a Netflix series that could be made out of all those discarded characters from various TV shows a la Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Chuck, Ben, Carol and Mandy from the West Wing could all hang out somewhere in a hazy ill-determined reality in which their characters are waiting for a call to return to work. Back to the life they had been living until some executive decided they weren't "gelling" with the rest of the cast. 

I blame Fonzie. 

Passing Through

 Many years ago

I considered myself a poet

Because of all the thoughts

That could not be contained

In a sentence or paragraph

I once wrote a poem entitled

You Can Come And Go In My Life

I did this for two main reasons

To express how deep I was

And how much I was willing to grow

As it turns out all those years ago

I was not kidding around

You have come and gone in my life

And the good news here is that

Each time you have gone

You found your way back

So here we are decades later

Having created a center

Around which we can orbit

Navigating our way through

Space and Time and Always

With a sense of place

A place we call home

Gravity Isn't Just A Good Idea, It's The Law

 Forty years give or take a month ago, I experienced what has become over time a defining moment for me as a human being. 

I jumped out of a swing. 

Many of you have heard this story before. It is significant in the annals of "Why Doesn't Dave Drink?" Because I did. 

A lot. 

And on that one particular July night in the year of our lord 1986, I polluted my brain chemistry enough that the relatively simple act of jumping out of a swing, which I had been doing since I was a small child in a variety of settings, caused me to question not just my place in the universe but also my participation in the prevailing culture. 

Whew. 

That was the first week, anyway. It would still be another few years of bacchanalia for yours truly as the laws of physics seemed to need my attention as did the status quo. Jumping out of that swing meant that I would spend another semester in college to complete the fringes of what would become my Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing. It would still be those few more years figuring out that knee surgery was probably the least intrusive way that I could have received the message: Slow down. 

I wasn't listening then. 

I'm listening now. Each time I have to manage my hop down from a set of stairs or the dull ache that comes when the weather changes I think back to that night and wonder why I needed to live so close to the edge for so long. Nothing that I couldn't bounce back from. Not back in the day. The payback, as it turns out, came much later. 

George Bernard Shaw once suggested that youth was wasted on the young. I'm guessing there was a swingset somewhere in George's past. 

Strays

 The bluest skies I've ever seen are in Seattle. 

Just not today. 

Or for the foreseeable future. 

Last Sunday night, while the community gathered around the iconic Space Needle in the Emerald City, shots rang out. The Bite of Seattle festival ended abruptly as two young men fired guns, nominally at each other, while thousands of attendees looked on in horror. 

As quickly as this tragedy began, it was over. Bodies lay on the ground as the crowd fled the scene. Three people ranging in age from nineteen to fifty-six years old were dead. Four more, including a toddler, were injured. Police on the scene took one of the shooters into custody while another fled. Authorities provides some good news: none of the officers on at the site fired their weapons. Who knows how many more injuries and fatalities might have resulted in more shots being fired?

Because this is the bottom line: You have to have a little something wrong in your head to imagine that you might show up at a large community gathering and "settle things" with a gun. Why would anyone choose to carry a loaded gun into a throng of people who came together to enjoy the flavors of their city? It is the kind of thing that harkens back to our wild west heritage, when gunslingers would roll into town in time for the big square dance, looking for the guy who done them wrong. 

To kill them. 

In the stories we tell and make into movies, the gunslingers are generally really good shots, and they tend to shoot up the scenery rather than innocent bystanders when they miss. The fact that both of the assailants in Seattle managed to shoot everyone but each other speaks volumes about just how ridiculous this scenario turns out in real life. Revenge is not exacted out of the death of innocent victims. 

The Bite of Seattle Festival may go on next year. With increased security and measures to keep this kind of tragedy from occurring again. But it's already too late. Like the Garlic Festival in Gilroy. Or the Pride Festival in Berlin. Or any of the hundreds of other senseless killings that take place every day. 

Whether its the guns or the people that are doing the killing, one thing remains true: If there were no guns, three people would still be alive in Seattle. 

As The World Burns

 For some time, Google has been placing a proud bit of brag at the bottom of their search page proclaiming how long they have been carbon neutral. If you look for it now, it's not there. It was removed because of  "the rapid expansion of power-hungry artificial intelligence caused Google's overall carbon emissions to surge, making it unfeasible to claim operational neutrality without making misleading claims."

Want to know how I found that out? I looked it up on Google. 

Meta, also known as The Facebook, recently kicked aside their clean energy pledge as they surged forward in their efforts to build gas-powered data centers. The agreement, known as RE100, is "a global initiative bringing together the world’s most influential businesses committed to using 100% renewable electricity in their operations." This initiative proudly names more than four hundred companies that have signed on to be a part of this program, including Apple, Microsoft, and the aforementioned Google. Facebook used to be part of that list, but not if it means they would have to give up building giant, smelly data mines. 

So, as it turns out, data seems to have overtaken climate as a concern. The ability to turn your family photos into cheap cartoon renderings of themselves is not more important than our ability to live and breathe on the earth. 

This past week I struggled with my own version of this type of schadenfreude as I read of the struggles of our first paper trillionaire. All of a sudden it seems as though he can't sell an electric dumpster fire of a truck to save his empire. Additionally, the flock of greedheads who gathered to snap up stock in his spaceship program have also given up interest. This pains me because there was a time when I would have been actively rooting for anyone who said they were going to get us all to drive electric cars and fly to outer space. Now I am happy to see him his empire disappear. 

Here I sit, waiting for the billionaire who will come along and save us all. 

No Laughing Matter

 Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. 

Depending on where you look, this quote is attributed to either Edmund Kean in 1823 or Edmund Gwenn in 1959. The one hundred thirty-six years that separate them suggests two things: First of all, British actors seem to always have just the right thing to say, and that after more than a century this sentiment rings true. 

Also true is the way that death and pain seem to run throughout our experience with comedy. Knee slapping and gut busting are just two of the ways that funny things might attack us. A comedian who is having a very successful show might describe it later by saying, "I killed tonight." Contrastingly, someone who is having a less-than-triumphant experience might say, "I died up there tonight." Or perhaps you might say they "bombed." 

This last one is intriguing to me given the convicted felon's recent appearance at the rescheduled White House Correspondents Dinner. You may remember back in April when an attempt at an assassination attempt spoiled what was supposed to his first appearance at the annual event. You might expect that with a few extra months of prep time that maybe the former game show host would be able to work up some solid material. Maybe he might take a chance at having a little fun at his own expense?

Not to worry. The man who has been impeached twice as many times as he has attended the White House Correspondents Dinner spent most of an hour blathering on as he tends to do, poking fun at others and detailing all of the perceived injustices that have been cast upon him. He even tossed out some jabs at his own cabinet: ""I hope that everyone finally got to enjoy their entire very delicious beef tenderloin, very special beef, and I want you all to know that Bobby Kennedy is right here, personally ran over the cow in his car." Which would have been funnier if he hadn't really made a habit of scraping dead things off the road for his study and amusement. 

Another feature of the yearly fete is the presentation of awards to reporters who have covered the White House over the previous year. The adjudicated rapist continued his running "gag" about the recipient of  the Excellence in Presidential News Coverage Under Deadline Pressure, Kaitlin Collins. "I said Kaitlan, do you ever smile?" Trump said. "Smile. You have a nice position. You are at CNN Fake News. You should be a happy person. So smile, Kaitlan, just smile."

Crickets chirping. 

An hour of this. 

When it was all over, the Orange Worst summed up his experience. "They said, 'Would you do it next year? I said I will be back next year. If you get really, really nasty, maybe not. But we are going to be back next year."

Might I suggest taking the easy way out. 

Sum Zero

War, we have asked here before, what is it good for?

Well, if you happen to be in the business of selling arms and munitions and missile defense systems, then the answer would be "our bottom line." These would be canonically known as "war profiteers." These are the folks whose business is injure, maim and kill other human beings, preferably in large numbers so as to further the spread of an ideal. Currently that ideal comes under the heading of nuclear non-proliferation, but is often short-handed to "Democracy." 

Profits. 

Oops. How did that get in there? 

The War Pigs have recently been selling us this idea that the soldiers who have been killed in and around Iran were making a "sacrifice." Chief among these aggro voices is the Chief War Pig, Pistol Pete Hegseth who used the opportunity to memorialize those who died by saying, "Godspeed, heroes. Their sacrifice only stiffens our resolve." Feel free at this moment to insert your own joke about the phrase, "stiffen our resolve."

Additionally, we were told by the convicted felon who never bothered to serve because of his made-up bone spurs, “They said, and all of them said very strongly, ‘We can’t let, we cannot let Iran have a nuclear weapon. They won’t have a nuclear weapon.’” Yes, Dear Leader, I am certain that is exactly what they all said. In unison. As they consecrated the oath of obedience. 

You may not have heard about the three billion dollar federal and Pentagon investments made to 1789 Capital, a venture company run by the son of the convicted felon. This is separate from the two billion dollars daddy has raked in since he returned to squatting in the ruins of the White House. The families of the fallen soldiers will not see any part of that. They will, most likely, be stuck arguing with the folks at the Veterans Administration about the compensation they are due for their deceased sons and daughters. The two thousand dollars they get for burial "benefits." 

That's what war is good for.

Absolutely nothin'. 

Say it again.