If You Build It, They Will Come

 When I was born, there was already a professional football team in the area for which I could root. I grew up rooting for the Denver Broncos because they were literally the only game in town. I lived through more than my share of ups and downs with this franchise. By the time they reached their first Super Bowl, I was seventeen years old. 

The Denver Broncos did not win that Super Bowl. Through the 1980s, they struggled to remain relevant and flirted with success, appearing in three more championship games before finally coming out on the winning end of things. 

By this point, I was no longer a resident of the Denver Metro Area. I had moved to Oakland, California where I wore my orange and blue with pride and a little bit of fear in the heart of Raiders Country. Just for good measure, the Denver Broncos went ahead and won a second Super Bowl the very next year. I felt pretty smug about having a hometown team with those credentials. 

If you've spent any time poking around here, you've probably heard this song before. Again and again. But what struck me this week was the news that the Chicago Bears were moving ahead with plans to relocate their team to Hammond, Indiana. For perspective's sake, the Chicago Football Bears were founded in September 1920. For more than one hundred years, "da Bears" have been a cornerstone of what we understand as the National Football League. Those first couple of years, they played their games in Decatur, Illinois, so they weren't exactly Chicago Bears. In 1922, they moved to Wrigley Field to play their home games on the same grass where their ursine baseball counterparts on the North Side played. 

That's where you would find them, most autumn Sundays since. Until they move to another state. 

I have a great deal of sympathy for fan bases that lose their sports teams to new locales. Oakland has a somewhat tragic track record of misplacing their football, basketball and baseball teams. The Raiders have left Oakland twice, once for Los Angeles, and once again for Las Vegas. There are still plenty of folks hanging on desperately to their silver and black gear with the notion that the team somehow owes them something. Or they owe the team something. 

Like loyalty? 

When the 2026-27 NFL season starts, the Chicago Bears will still be the Chicago Bears. The Denver Broncos will still the Denver Broncos. The San Francisco Forty-Niners play in Santa Clara. The Baltimore Colts now play in Indianapolis. The Cleveland Browns now play in Baltimore with a new mascot: The Ravens. St. Louis had the Cardinals but gave them up to Arizona. Then St. Louis had the Rams, but they gave them back to Los Angeles. Houston has their Texans, but they probably don't notice that the Tennessee Titans bear more than a passing resemblance to what used to be the Houston Oilers. 

There is no crying in baseball, according to the guy who used to sell hot dogs at Oakland A's games. But I'm guessing a few tears will be shed in Chicago. 

Palace Revolution

 Where are the Epstein Files?

Where is the peace agreement between Ukraine and Russia?

Where is the replacement for the Affordable Care Act?

Where is that cap on credit card interest rates?

Where are those tariff rebate checks?

Where is all that affordable housing?

Where is the reduction to the country's deficit? 

Instead of those things, we've been given a flurry of construction projects designed not to improve any of the infrastructure of this country, but to pad and glorify the boor who needs constant validation to prop up his fragile ego. We have another installment of war in the Middle East. We have the repeal of the Voting Rights Act. We have a real estate agent in charge of National Intelligence. 

Seventy-seven million Americans voted for a convicted felon to be their "president," to end the war in Ukraine in twenty-four hours and to Make America Great Again. They bought the red hats. They drank the Kool-Aid. Now they are waking up and discovering just like the Whos down in Whoville that no Christmas is coming. The Grinch has stolen Democracy, and even if they gather together hand in hand and sing along with Lee Greenwood at the top of their lungs, they aren't going to get what they were promised. 

Instead we get a daily dose of social media rants and threats. We get more footage of the former game show host falling asleep during his own meetings shortly before he wakes up long enough to berate a female reporter or two. 

We'll keep reading about those voters who cast their ballot for damaged goods in 2024 who now regret their decision, but that ship has sailed. If we want our Democracy back, we're going to have to take it back. 

Hey, think the time is right
For a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play
Is compromise solution

The Mass Of Media

 I am being asked to boycott the Columbia Broadcasting System and all its various media tentacles. This would mean that I would no longer be availed the opportunity to take in the pithy left-wing observations of Jon Stewart and those nutty kids from South Park. This is a conundrum for me since these voices are fundamental to the ongoing fermentation of my own particular world view. 

What message would eliminating these viewing choices from my menu? 

I suppose I would be saying that I do not approve of the corporate maneuvers that brought CBS and its aforementioned tentacles to this decidedly right-leaning position in the world. The cancellation of Stephen Colbert's Late Show is perhaps the most visible signpost on this road to ruin. The powers that be signaled the elimination of a thirty-three year late night television institution as "purely financial," but since that decision was made fast on the heels of Mister Colbert pointing out that his new corporate nannies had paid what amounted to a "big fat bribe" of sixteen million dollars to the big fat Orange Worst so they would be allowed to go ahead with their big fat merger, maybe there was some triggering. 

My bedtime has become a pretty standard nine thirty on weeknights, with the very rare exceptions for Bruce Springsteen concerts. The idea that I would be watching any of these programs live is a pretty amusing stretch. This includes the NFL broadcasts of my favorite team which can often be found on CBS, which I tend not to stare at not because they come on past my bedtime but rather because of my own ridiculous superstitions about fan rays. 

So what would I be missing? 

The relative freedom I tend to enjoy with all that content out there. Larry and David Ellison, the new father and son behind the controls of the Paramount Skydance Corporation have quite a laundry list of an Empire: Nickelodeon, Showtime, Comedy Central, MTV, BET, and the aforementioned CBS. Oh, and then there's the soon-to-be-finalized merger with Warner Brothers which will have the still further antagonizing effect of putting John Oliver and his wilderness voice crying out from under this seemingly endless corporate umbrella. 

No Loony Toons? No Turner Classic Movies? Will CNN be put through the same right-wing meat grinder that CBS News and Sixty Minutes has been? It makes the mighty Disney-ABC-ESPN empire look quaint by comparison. 

In the interest of transparency, I should let you know that Blogger, the platform upon which I mount the daily rant, is a wholly owned subsidiary of Google and has been since before I set up shop here. Google owns FitBit and Nest and YouTube and maybe even the phone upon which you are reading this. They are the reason that you get all those clever suggestions for gifts and services that you don't even remembering searching for. They are one of the leading purveyors of AI. 

It's only a matter of time before you all will have to be boycotting me. 

Last Bell

 After a week with sporadic meetings and check-ins with school, I have reached the point in my career that my wife has observed is my "last summer vacation." 

This hits harder than I thought it might, considering I set this Wile E Coyote process of retirement in motion nearly two years ago, and I am still a year away from making it in any way official. There is a part of it that I recognize in that I have always started off June with a certain amount of anxiety. How can I possibly fit all the fun and relaxation that I need into two short months? The sound of a ticking clock is hard to ignore, and I wonder if I will ever fully silence it.

I am used to answering the bell. One of my jobs at school is to stand out on the playground on most recesses and remind kids that playtime is over and it's time to line up. In this way I am the de facto bell. Will I be able to find my own snooze button? 

At one of the meetings I attended over the past week, I had the opportunity to introduce myself to a few of my fellow educators. We were asked by the moderator to share our school site and years of experience in the classroom, and when it was my turn, I told my colleagues that I would be starting my thirtieth year. Lots of appreciation for that number, and even more when I mentioned that all of this educating had taken place at one site. "This makes me something of a unicorn in this district," I confided. 

Then one of them asked me, "How much longer will you keep going?"

When I answered, "One more year," the reaction I got was resigned acceptance.

"What will you do then?" inquired the five year veteran across from me.

Then there was that flinch. The one that I am now confronting more and more. What will I do? Moving up into the mountain vacation home is out of the question since I don't own a mountain vacation home. Spending more time with the grandkids is currently a hypothetical since the grandkids exist in the same plane as that mountain vacation home. 

The easiest thing to do would be to keep rolling. Stay at my school until they cart me out on a stretcher. This does not seem that appealing, especially against the backdrop of this past year when my friend and fifth grade teacher was unable to answer the bell coming back from Christmas. Not his choice, I assure you. 

I want to have a choice. I want some life left to live. 

Now I just have to figure out what that might be.  

Comfortable

 Let's start with an easy one: Just about any sandwich someone makes for you. 

That's comfort food. 

Another seemingly universal component of this corner of the world's diet is the plate of crackers and ginger ale brought to you when you were sick in bed by your mother. 

A great deal of the food I was served by my mother qualified as comfort food. I grew up in a household where mom spent an hour or two each day in the kitchen, preparing a meal for my father, my brothers and me. It was a casserole-based menu that kept us boys running to the kitchen most nights, and I wish now that I had paid more attention to the recipes that passed by in front of us. 

I know that they were written down. I remember the tin box that served as her guide. Filled with three by five cards penned with her cramped but impeccably neat handwriting, the exact details of which were known primarily to herself and the occasional family friend who wanted to swap meal ideas for their hungry brood. 

I have never eaten a bowl of cream of mushroom soup. Not all by itself, but I know that the magic my mother performed in the kitchen on a regular basis had me ingesting gallons of the stuff through combinations of chicken and tuna and noodles and rice that made us come back for more. 

Most nights.

There were those dinners that turned out to be favored by one of my brothers, and I would patiently wade through those because I could expect with a solid degree of certainty that tomorrow night would be one of my favorites. 

Add to this steady stream of dinners the very unique and simple pleasure of buttery cinnamon toast on the occasional chilly morning. And the cakes. And the cookies. The output from my mother's kitchen would have had you believe that she was chained to the stove all day every day, but she managed to find time to escape to the living room on regular occasions to play piano and read books and magazines like they were the fire stoking the furnace of her mind. 

And occasionally, she might run across a recipe. 

And her legend grew. 

She also made a pretty amazing tuna fish sandwich. 

Art Schmart

 One of dozens of things that I find oppressively annoying is that this is the Bozo who put his face and name on a book called The Art of the Deal. 

I will not recommend this tripe to you, but I do think it's telling to take a peek at a few of the quotes from inside: “I discovered, for the first time but not the last, that politicians don’t care too much what things cost. It’s not their money.”

How about, “good publicity is preferable to bad, but from a bottom-line perspective, bad publicity is sometimes better than no publicity at all. Controversy, in short, sells.”

Perhaps, “The point is that if you are a little different, or a little outrageous, or if you do things that are bold or controversial, the press is going to write about you.”

Or, “The worst of times often create the best opportunities to make good deals.”

Then there's, “I try to learn from the past, but I plan for the future by focusing exclusively on the present.”

So let's fast forward a few years, where all this business acumen will be brought to bear on the world stage, as the former game show host attempts to negotiate a settlement in the war he started in Iran. As things fell apart once again over the weekend, the dealmaker complained, “If they’re over, they’re over. If they’re not, you know, I think they took too much time. Frankly, I thought they started to get very boring.”

But what about, “Leverage: don’t make deals without it?"

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit that this sad individual would not know leverage if it fell on his head and pretended to be yet another hair treatment. And to all those Bozo fans out there who opined, "That's what we need: a guy who will run this country like a business." 

Remember the ugly disdain this adjudicated rapist had for John McCain? Well, to paraphrase the former game show host himself, I like dealmakers who don't go bankrupt. Or community organizers from Chicago. 

Building Resentment

 You'll forgive me if I feel like the removal of the convicted felon's name from the Kennedy Center from the Performing Arts is a pyrrhic victory. 

In the simplest terms, the outrage that accompanied this nominal usurpation of a national treasure left me tired and hopeless. I believed that this would be the new normal, with the former game show host marking his territory in the only way that he and stray dogs do. 

It would be nice to feel some of that zeal that we all felt when those Confederate statues started coming down a decade ago, but it's more complicated than that. Like when that statue of Saddam Hussein was lassoed and yanked to the ground back in 2003. It would have been such a relief to connect that moment to the notion of "Mission Accomplished." 

But we knew this was not the case. It would be another eight years of suffering and confusion before Americans were able to extricate ourselves from this misguided excursion into the Middle East. 

Scraping the letters off the Kennedy Center that were placed there in a fit of pique by the Orange Worst will not remove the stain that it will leave behind. If the Second Trumpreich were to end tomorrow, there will still be years of recovery and plastering over the holes he has driven into our country. 

He tore down one third of the White House, leaving a hole and caution tape with nothing more than a curious set of circumstances that allowed him to legitimize his party palace when crazy people somehow got close enough to take a shot at him. Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe those crazy people wouldn't be shooting at him if he wasn't tearing holed in our country? 

So here we go: A UFC cage match will be held on the lawn of what used to be The People's House, along with the gaudy arena and lighting rigs that appear so inappropriate on what used to be a symbol of dignity and decorum. If we're lucky, maybe another judge will be able to step into the fray and be able to keep the Arc de Trump from being foisted upon us, dwarfing the monuments to real presidents whose reflecting pools have become sitcom versions of arguing with contractors. 

At the same time, he's having his attack dogs at the "Department of Justice" go after the woman he raped. 

And who is paying for all of this mess? 

I'll give you a hint: It's not King Pyrrhus. 

It's you and me. Hand me the paint remover. 

I Confess

 Confession Time:

I don't really believe that they asked only five dentists about Trident gum. I never bothered to chew it because it felt like a conspiracy of gigantic proportions. 

Not all things go better with Coke. Pepsi, for instance, does not go better with Coke. 

Happily ever after is a death sentence. Who really wants that kind of life? 

All that fuss about Malcolm Gladwell made about ten thousand hours isn't really that big a deal once you realize that adds up to just over a year. 

I forgot to water the plants last week. 

I thought the phrase was "for all intensive purposes" until I was over thirty. 

I have eaten tuna past its expiration date. On more than one occasion. 

There aren't enough days in the week.

Donating blood makes me feel superior. 

I have never blown the roof right off of this joint. Not once.

The Rolling Stones kind of creep me out. 

"Having it your way" at Burger King just feels like a lot of pressure to me. 

Don't wanna be an American Idiot. 

My sense of balance does not extend to my diet. 

If given a choice, I think I would prefer disorganized sports. 

I would be more likely to obey Stop signs if they asked nicely. 

The Big Bill

 Suppose you gave a party and nobody came?

The celebration being promoted by the convicted felon seems to be going the way of his big Birthday Parade from a year ago. Empty seats and squeaky tanks were the highlight of that particular escapade. The price tag on all this military hardware on display for the amusement of the Orange Worst cost was an estimated forty-five million dollars. 

Now, a year has passed, and the big deal we were all told about was the Great American State Fair, featuring performances by (checks notes) Morris Day, Young MC. Milli Vanilli, The Commodores, Martina McBride, and Bret Michaels. 

Oops. Pardon me. I'm just being told that this list is the performers who have, in some cases, politely declined the invitation from the adjudicated rapist's Freedom 250 cabal. Some not so politely. Which pretty much leaves MAGAt stalwart and music thief Vanilla Ice. 

Get your ticket now! I can assure you that operators are not standing by. 

Instead, stay at home and savor the irony of a concert promoted by the former game show host being connected in any way to the concept of Freedom. 

Or perhaps, as you look forward to the back yard picnic that you might possibly afford for your family this summer, you can be galled by the fact that Don "Junior" had his wedding paid for not by him or his mobster daddy, but by the local billionaires in Bermuda who are "very fond" of the second in a series of wives for little Donnie. It was a "charity" event. Like those celebrities who never have to pay for a meal even though they could buy the restaurant. These are not the folks who need free meals. 

Instead, we're sentenced to another summer of waiting for bad news to find its way to us as we look back fondly on the days when forty-five million dollars seemed like a lot of money. 

If the ballroom ever does get finished, I expect Vanilla Ice will set up a residency there. 

Get your tickets now!

Promotional Material

 "Are you gonna miss me?"

This was the question I was asked by a good number of rising middle schoolers. Not just this year, but it seems that this is a test that I always hope to pass. 

Invariably, I say much the same thing: "Of course."

Because this is the core of truth. Will I miss many of the group-inspired hijinks and behaviors that caused me undue stress and discomfort over the course of the one hundred eighty days of their fifth grade campaign?

Of course not. 

But I am clever enough to understand after all these trips to the cafeteria to watch the promotion of our "big kids" to the next level. 

Where they will once again be the "little kids." 

I do what I can to soften the reality into which they will be thrust. Middle school in any of its varied forms can be a harsh landing spot. Urban Oakland may be at the tip of that spear. 

"Are you gonna miss me?"

Well, I'm expecting given my somewhat lengthy experience in these climes that you are the one who will be missing me. The quantum difference between a once-weekly game-infused PE class with yours truly compared with your standard middle school Phys Ed class that meets daily requiring a change of clothes has not been fully revealed to these scholars. 

A media arts curriculum that allows them essentially six years to become accustomed to what a fifty minute period with transitions feels like will become their norm. The comforting scaffold of one teacher all day long will be removed. Showing up on time becomes the coin of the realm. 

Yes. I will miss them. All of them. After spending six years with most of them, I have become familiar with their good and bad days. I know what makes them smile. I know what makes them grumpy. I know there is another group right behind them with their own tastes and foibles. 

I look forward to that first minimum day next year when the new sixth graders will parade past their old school, and I can hear all about the next leg of their journey. 

I will miss them. 

Cha-Ching

 Out of many, one. 

E pluribus unum. 

That's the Latin you get to learn if you're a kid like me growing up in the sixties. It was the suggestion of Pierre Eugene du Simitiere, patriot and artistic consultant, that this become the newly United States' motto to the Founding Fathers in 1776. For one hundred seventy years, this worked out just fine, reminding us all that the castoffs and mutts from across the globe landed here to steal the Native Americans' land. It should be noted for accuracy's sake that this phrase seems to have an origin in the Roman poet Virgil's recipe for pesto. 

It wasn't until 1956 that President and steward of the Interstate Highway system that covers this great land of ours decided to make "In God We Trust" as the country's official motto. This was to draw a distinction between the U.S. and the godless Bolsheviks in the Soviet Union. 

Well, in hopes of making America great again, the U.S. Mint is going to pound out a whole bunch of sesquicentennial quarters featuring both mottos. For now we'll just revel in the specialness of our aging republic and ignore the fact that twenty-five cents isn't what it used to be in form or function. This one, besides having lots of mottos, will feature the visage of Thomas Jefferson. Which seems mildly appropriate considering he wrote the Declaration of Independence without Chat GPT. And if you're searching the change in your pocket to see who Tom replaced, I'll tell you that it has been George Washington since 1932. Since 1999, the flipside eagle has been replaced by commemorations to states and various natural wonders. Add to this the Mayflower quarter that features two pilgrims embracing and coming to a sidewalk soon in your area is the Gettysburg Address quarter featuring none other than Honest Abe after he had been so ingloriously cancelled from being the face of the penny. 

And speaking of pennies, just when you thought they were gone forever, the Mint will be pressing a bunch of Sesquicentennial coins worth an ever-diminishing value of one cent. Which reminds me: I have a bunch of bicentennial quarters I saved for fifty years. Any idea how much each one is worth now?

If you guessed twenty-five cents, you'd be correct.  

Questions

 Questions about the "president's" health persist. 

He's almost eighty years old. 

He's prone to fits of paranoid rambling.

He falls asleep during meetings in his own office.

His hands and ankles appear as though something is trying to claw its way out from the inside. 

He does not exercise. 

He eats McDonalds.

Did I mention that this guy is almost eighty? 

Oh, and should I mention the fact that he is currently assigned one of the most high stress jobs imaginable? 

And people seem to have taken up shooting at him as a hobby.

He's almost eighty years old. 

Yes. Questions about this subject's health persist. 

On Memorial Day, he spent six minutes "transfixed" by one of the columns in front of the White House after he got out of his limousine. 

But he can distinguish a squirrel from an elephant. 

Just in case that comes up. 

Feeding Frenzy

 I spent the long holiday weekend as I have on many occasions: feeding the cat. 

There was some concern raised recently about the relative health of the feline member of our family. To be clear, we got him from the scratch and dent sale in our neighborhood. All those other kind souls had gathered funds to pay for this infamous area stray to have all his teeth removed. Seeing an opportunity, my wife leapt at the chance to be the place where Fluffy would convalesce. 

Most of you know the story from there: How this wandering tom came to live in our home and hearts as our "forever cat." Or at least our "for the foreseeable future cat." 

Having arrived on our doorstep with a few thousand miles already on his kitty odometer, we have puzzled from time to time coming up with any sort of verifiable age for Mister Fluff. My suggestion of cutting him in half and counting his rings was dismissed as "horrible" and "insensitive." A point of clarification here: these remarks were made one morning after a particularly busy night of our cat stomping around our bed, demanding late-night attention, which makes sense since his kind are naturally nocturnal. Much in the same way that I am naturally cruel and sarcastic. 

There was not much on my Memorial Day agenda, save for the regularly scheduled runs and sitting down in front of a computer to compose another in a series of hysterical and insightful blogposts. With the school year winding down, there wasn't much in the way of lesson planning or classroom prep. This meant I had no solid excuse for ignoring the needs of my not-so-feral friend. 

Approximately every three hours, he would rise from whatever piece of furniture upon which he was ensconced, and wander about the house, yowling to let me know that it had been just about enough time since his last feeding and that if his bowl sat empty for another few minutes there would be 

Trouble. 

So that's how I spent my holiday weekend: being at the beck and call of a creature who by design turns up his nose at every third bowl of whatever I put in front of him and by circumstance has no teeth to do much about it. 

Boy, am I looking forward to summer vacation!

Victims

 I took the bait. I read with some prurient interest the story of an elderly California couple that ended in an apparent murder/suicide. Authorities believe that a months-long association with a Tom Selleck impersonator who bilked Karen and Donald Whitaker out of tens of thousands of dollars. Karen was convinced by one or more individuals who said they were Mister Selleck that she would be helping out the star's manager whose wife had recently passed away, leaving him destitute. Exactly how this became Karen's responsibility and not "Tom's" is a good question, probably answered best by the revelation that Karen suffered from early-stage dementia. 

For his part, Donald intervened along with the couple's adult children, eventually going so far as to cut up Karen's credit cards, but she went on to ask other family and friends to help in her mission of misguided mercy. The strain this put on the Whitaker's marriage ultimately proved to be too much, and on May 15 a welfare check at the couple's residence revealed their bodies. 

Karen's initial contributions began around eighty dollars, but soon grew into the thousands. In spite of numerous attempts to limit Karen's access to funds, she kept finding ways to send ever larger amounts of money. Donald confessed to friends that he had considered taking his own life, but didn't want to leave Karen alone and even more vulnerable. Donald was eighty. Karen was seventy-nine. 

Roughly the same age as the guy currently residing in the ruins of the White House. 

I don't think it's too big a stretch to suggest that some foreign actor with access to humiliating and/or incriminating evidence connecting the convicted felon to any number of embarrassing acts or incidents could be manipulating the feeble-minded former game show host. Unable to make the payments to his blackmailers through Target gift cards, the twice-impeached former slum lord decided to run for president again in order to keep the truth about his sordid life from making headlines. Need cash quick? Just have the Department of "Justice" put together a two billion dollar slush fund. Don't worry about Congress. They'll let you start a war without valid ID. 

I would say, "Poor Melania," but I think she's getting a cut from this whole scam. How else to explain that documentary? 

Suckage

 Did she jump or was she pushed? 

This past week, Tulsi Gabbard gave up her seat in the clown car as she resigned from the former game show host's cabinet. The former Director of National Intelligence can now spend more time perfecting her Capoeira technique. 

And trying to figure out where she went wrong. 

Some might point to the moment when the convicted felon was furiously planning an invasion of Venezuela and Tulsi was busy posting photos of herself on a beach in Hawaii. She really should have known that in this administration the only approved conspicuous waste of time allowed is golf. 

Or maybe it was when she insisted that Iran was not trying to create a nuclear weapon in spite of her boss' insistence otherwise. 

Perhaps she never got fully comfortable being a "recovering Democrat" in a cage full of MAGA chimps. She called her former party an "elitist cabal of warmongers."

What about that time that she got caught lurking around the FBI raid on Fulton County's ballots from 2020? 

She says that she will be leaving her post at the end of June to support her husband who is battling bone cancer. 

I think the most likely reason is that distinct lack of a Y chromosome. The four departures from the Orange Worst's cabinet during this Second Trumpreich have all been women. For those of you keeping score at home, you've got your Bondi, Noem, Chavez-DeRemer, and now Gabbard. 

And you're just going to have to believe me when I tell you that the boys in that band are every bit as bad at their jobs as the girls. They just happen to have the Bro Code working in their favor. Why none of these morons have been let go only goes to show how precisely bad off we are in terms of a leadhership vacuum. 

To wit: it sucks. 

Memorials

 Memorials are found in Washington D.C;

They are also found on sections of our Interstate Highway system. 

Or in front of libraries. 

On benches. 

Or scrawled in spray paint on the wall of a neighborhood store. 

People die every day. Lots of them. But not all of them get a memorial, save for the moment of silence afforded some at the beginning of a sporting event. 

My mother in law likes to share her feelings about such rituals when the topic comes up, suggesting that all those monuments and kind words are often wasted on those to whom they would matter the most. 

I want to believe now that I spent a good deal of my time with my parents sharing how much they mattered to me while they were alive. I believe it was our practice to end all of our conversations with "I love you," as a way to ward off the inevitable. The fact that this has been passed along to the interactions my wife and I have with our son is not lost on me. I hope to limit the chances of feeling like the last time we talked didn't include that reminder. 

The idea that people in our lives might drift away without an appreciation for all that they have done and meant to us infuriates me. I'm big into completion. And summing up. And tying up loose ends. 

And building memorials. 

My father has a rock next to the creek that runs behind the high school that we all attended. That creek is near the bottom of a watershed that begins high up in the hills above Boulder where the trickle of a stream where I sprinkled the ashes of my father so many years ago. There is a blue spruce tree that still stands in the back yard of my childhood home. It was brought down the mountainside by my mother and I, much to the bemusement of the rest of our family as a tiny sapling. These markers remind us of where we came from, and give us a place to rest our memories. 

Which reminds me of a song by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band that my older brother likes to quote: "Gravestones cheer the living, dear, they're no use to the dead."

I suppose I truly hope that I am the monument to my parents. Along with my brothers and our families, we continue to point in the direction on which we were set by them. 

Renovation

 An "American Flag Blue" coat of paint on the bottom of the reflecting pool between the Lincoln and Washington Monuments. 

A helipad on the South Lawn of the White House, or rather what is left of the White House, apparently the new models of Marine One have downward facing exhaust and could scorch the grass. Currently, the older models are being used to ferry the Orange Worst to the nearest Air Force base where he can be shoveled into the cargo bay of Air Force One. 

The helipad stands in contrast to most of the other wild hairs that the convicted felon seems to obsess on daily. 

Paving over the what-was-once-a-rose-garden seems to be another such project.

Or gilding every available vertical surface with which the former game show host might come in contact.

How about the two hundred fifty foot "Victory Arch" that Jeffrey Epstein's pen pal wants to erect near the Arlington National Cemetery, featuring gilded ornamentation, four lion statues, a winged figure crowning the top and the inscription “One Nation Under God” emblazoned across its facade. If plans go ahead as scheduled, this monstrosity will loom nearly one hundred feet taller than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. 

Because bigger is always better. No matter what Stormy Daniels would tell you. 

Which brings us to the ballroom. The focus of all his faux-highness' attention while he ignores the peasants rioting in the streets. Just like Paris. Only bigger. 

I am referring to the unrest. 

And the ridiculous ballroom which seems to be a product of a childhood spent with a large golden spoon shoved in his mouth. Suddenly, even some Republicans are starting to question the adjudicated rapist's priorities. He says himself that he does not think about American's financial situation, "Not even a little bit." Why should he? Up until now, he barks and the rest of the clown car leaps into action, sparing no expense. Joe Biden loves golf. It cost taxpayers nearly eleven million dollars over the course of his administration to keep him on the links. The Orange Worst has frittered away more than thirty million dollars in the first year and a half of the Second Trumpreich. 

He should be thrown in jail not just on principle, but as a money-saving alternative to the HGTV plague he has visited upon us all. 

Season Ender

 As I stood there, medium deep in left field, I told myself that I was guarding the foul line. The red ball was making its way directly toward me. 

Directly to me. 

This annual rite of passage for the fifth graders has become more of a chore each year as I have grown older and more stiff while the competition has stayed the same. Playing kickball against the soon-to-be-promoted ten and eleven year olds is something that has caused me to lose sleep. Not a lot, since I have also rationalized the brief moment in time that it encapsulates. Last year, after a string of ignominious defeats, the fifth grade class rose up and broke a streak that went back several years. To hear this years incipient middle schoolers, the teachers and staff were "gonna get beat."

I wasn't thinking about all of that exactly as I watched that red ball hurtle through the air. 

I was thinking about the one I had missed the inning before. I didn't get my hands on it, but my inability to sprint to the place where it landed caused much amusement among the assembled student body. Mister Caven doesn't get around as well as he used to.

I took some comfort in the knowledge that much of the rest of our team was younger and more spry than I, and whatever deficiencies I might have would be amply made up for by them. 

I spent a lot of time when I was in elementary school praying that the ball would come nowhere near me. I just wanted the game to be over. I could see that same expression on the faces of some of the fifth graders as they took to the field. 

Forty-five minutes to glory.

Now the ball was making its descent, and I thought about the number of other "easy" fly balls I had seen my teammates bobble. Playground balls are notoriously bouncy, and I had seen them careen off my teammates outstretched arms and fingers. Would I be able to corral this one chance at personal triumph?

If I dropped it, I could become part of a rally for the fifth graders. If I caught it, I would put an end to their inning and we would have another chance to add to what was becoming an insurmountable lead. 

I set my feet and put out my hands, remembering to grab the incoming rubbery missile in the air, then bring it into my chest, securing the catch. 

Then it was over. 

There were some cheers, and some jeering from the crowd whose allegiance became apparent as the game wore on. 

When it was all over, the teachers and staff had triumphed, thirty to twelve. I probably didn't need to relive all that childhood trauma. I probably could have enjoyed the game just a little more. But I will keep that one fly ball in my personal highlight reel. 

Wait til next year.

Welcome Home

 There's a lot of awful news out there.

Do I need to tell you about the $1.776 billion dollar fund that the convicted felon has set aside for other convicted felons? Mister Spray Tan believes that the January 6 rioters were unfairly prosecuted by the Biden administration, and these poor insurrectionists deserve to be paid for their "suffering."

Closer to home, a teenage driver plowed into a crowd on a sidewalk here in Oakland, killing three and injuring several more. The teenaged driver was traveling at more than fifty miles an hour. The bright spot? Bystanders apprehended the driver after he attempted to flee the scene. 

And just down the coast in San Diego, three people were shot and killed in that area's largest mosque. Then the gunmen turned their weapons on themselves, in an apparent act of civic pride that was poorly timed, since they could have shot themselves before harming innocent victims. 

I do not need to tell you these things, and yet, here I am, reiterating just a fraction of all the ugliness that surrounds us all every day. 

So I will tie this all up by telling you this story: On Monday, the Bay Area was experiencing a period of gusty winds. One of these breezes blew our front door open. My wife, who was preparing to leave herself, initially closed the door and prepared herself to head out on the rest of her day. When she left, it did not occur to her that our cat might have found his way out that previously open door. 

Consequently, our cat spent the day outside. This used to be his natural state, having grown up as the neighborhood stray before we acquired his newly toothless, recovering beast after a bout of painful dental surgery funded by our local cat lovers. I was busy at work, and my wife was rambling around doing errands around town as she often does, not keeping an eye on the feline. 

When I came home later that afternoon, imagine my surprise when our wayward kitty was sitting on the back porch, looking quite contrite when I went out the door to dispose of some recycling. I welcomed him back in, and he trotted past me without looking up. This interaction stood in stark contrast to what had been a ritual for the first few years of his stay with us when we would spend hours tracking him down, searching in his old haunts and alerting the neighbors to his escape. 

Not this time. He seemed relieved to be back inside. Home. 

I understand. 

What's His Deal?

 The big fluff about the Orange Worst was that he was some sort of brilliant businessman, and that he would "run the United States like a business." 

What they failed to mention that he might just end up running the United States like one of his businesses. 

On this spot, I have made the point many times that this is a guy who managed to bankrupt not one, not two, but five of his own casinos in Atlantic City and Gary, Indiana. If this is the first you've heard of a casino in Gary, Indiana, you are not alone. My guess is that the former game show host probably found out that he had a casino in Gary shortly before it closed down. Maybe he gave away too many King Crab legs at the buffet. Or maybe he just couldn't figure out how to make a business that should print money work. As he has done his entire life, he leaves one smoking heap of wreckage for the next potential failure. 

Now he's doing this with house money. Our house money. Just this week he has decided to "drop" the ten billion dollar lawsuit he filed against the Internal Revenue Service for failing to keep his tax records safe, after never bothering to release his financials ahead of any of the presidential elections in which he has participated. In the modern era, this failed casino owner is the only major candidate not to do so. The fear, it seems, is that if we ever saw the unholy mess this "deal artist" has made of his family fortune, we might not think as highly of his business acumen. 

Slide this right up next to his ongoing obsession with creating monuments to himself across our nation's capital. The ballooning estimates to complete the wreck he started by tearing down the East Wing of the White House in favor of a glitzy, bulletproof ballroom and bingo parlor continues to embarrass members of his party as well as confound even those who were sure he needed such a monstrosity. 

Right behind that is the very expensive spray painting of the reflecting pool between the Lincoln and Washington monuments and the Arc De Trumpf that will interfere with air traffic in the area, and you have the tip of the iceberg. 

What lies beneath is the destruction of our American economy. The war with Iran has done little to solve the unrest in the Middle East, but has made inflation jump to critical levels while the deficit grows not unlike the giant grasshoppers in a fifties science fiction movie. Billions of dollars are being spent each day not to achieve our diplomatic or military goals, but to keep firing missiles at another country's military that was supposed to be "obliterated." 

Once the Oval Office started to look like the bathroom, we should have noticed. There is no art in his deal. 

Medium Well

 There was a couple years there where I used to stand around in my living room with a plastic guitar strapped to my chest as I flicked a control bar with my right hand and maneuvered my left across a series of colored buttons. I was pretending to play guitar. 

I have mentioned here before how much I enjoyed Guitar Hero.  

On Medium. 

Like so much of my video game experience, I don't feel like I need to push myself needlessly to extremes. This was also the case with my masquerade as a guitar hero. Every so often a guest would appear in our living room and ask if they could dial up the difficulty. "Go right ahead," was my response, and I was frequently amazed by their prowess manipulating a toy guitar and following those rainbow dots that came streaming across the screen. On all those occasions, I never met a single "real" guitar player. Friends who played "real" guitar scoffed at the charade I had made my avocation. 

It was all a vast conspiracy created to get pikers such as myself the vague feeling of playing loud music, becoming a facsimile of a rock star in the comfort and privacy of my own home. Wish fulfillment in the most clunky possible way. 

Which is pretty much how I feel about AI. Like going to an improv show and having the performers ask, "Okay, give us a situation." Then, "Alright, give us a couple characters." Finally, "Now give us a bunch of funny things to say and do." 

Creating amusing videos to fill up your stream? Memes that you were too lazy to create yourself? How about give that bit of imagination you have an extra creative shove? No matter that the end product is the result of every funny bit created before it, but we'll just call that homage.

Not theft. 

My wife and I will soon be marketing our own version called "Novel Hero." Right from that same living room where you once pretended to play guitar, you too can be a "novelist." Don't have the time or energy to push yourself to near madness looking for that perfect sentence? Don't worry. Artificial Intelligence has your back. Heck, half an idea is better than no idea at all. And if you're more inclined to the visual arts, coming next fall, "Paint Hero." You don't have to be a Picasso, especially since we've already got all his best bits right here in a box. 

On Medium.  

All Over Again

 As this school year winds down, I have been asked by numerous friends and acquaintances how I feel about my decision to call it quits after the upcoming year. 

"Are you starting to count down?"

"Do you find yourself thinking, 'This will be my last summer break,' or stuff like that?"

Well, yes. And yes. It's pretty difficult not to hear the clock ticking when so much of what we do in Elementary School is counting up, and then counting down. The hundredth day of school is a big event. I have no recollection of this being the case when I was a  student at Columbine Elementary, but it not only serves the very practical purpose of giving kids a sense of what one hundred feels like. It also lets teachers know that they have rounded the corner of your standard one hundred eighty days of instruction. Upon the return from any three day weekend or extended break, students and staff are equally curious about how many days until the next interruption. 

I have a very salient memory of our former cafeteria manager, commenting on the days leading up to Christmas Break. Before she retired, I was in second place longevity-wise at our school. She reminded us all, "You'll wake up and it'll be January." Initially I flinched at that reckoning, but I can now see the wisdom of her assessment. Thirty years at one location will give you that sense of being on a merry-go-round. Another trip around the sun, as my older brother has often pointed out about birthdays. 

But to come to that point where getting off the merry-go-round is a real possibility is becoming very real. This past Saturday, I went over to the school to join students, families, and staff for a morning of painting a mural on the wall adjacent to our playground. It was a highly organized affair, and we were done with the big patches of color before noon. It wasn't the first time I have splashed paint on and around the school where I work. Leaving my mark in some mildly permanent fashion has a mild appeal to me. 

I was there. 

Soon, I won't be. And one day I'll wake up and it will be January. 

All over again. 

Does Not Work And Play Well With Others

 The convicted felon continues to abuse women. Mostly reporters at this point. He took the opportunity to rail on Norah O'Donnell about a 60 Minutes interview back in April while talking to his lapdog Sean Hannity. He began to answer Seanity's question about progress in talks with China, then began to wander. See if you can catch where things went off the track: “Yeah, I mean, it is progress, but I also tell people that, you know, I was in an interview with a very bad, you know, stupid reporter. She works for CBS. You saw that ’60 Minutes.’ Stupid person. Just an average person. You could take anybody off the street, and it’d be as good as she is. You know, just, very average.”

Which, for the adjudicated rapist is mild compared to his treatment of another woman reporter who dared question the doubling the size of an already unnecessary ballroom. MS NOW’s Akayla Gardner was the target of the Orange Worst's most recent outburst. Most of the exchange has been jettisoned in order to show the misogynist in Chief in all his gory glory. Here is the question Ms. Gardner asked in advance of the spiteful response from the "alleged" pedophile: “You wanted Jerome Powell fired for cost overruns,” Gardner pointed out to Trump, referring to the Fed’s ongoing renovation project of its Washington headquarters. “How is that different than your ballroom and the reflecting pool?”

If you haven't visited our nation's capital recently, you may have missed the terrible mess his pool guy has been making out of the reflecting pool located between the Washington and Lincoln Memorials. He's got a bunch of confused individuals spray painting the bottom of the pool "American Flag Blue," according to his bulginess' wishes. It is quite a sight. 

And besides subverting the calm aesthetics of the original architecture, in comes the former game show host's "vision," the kind that tends to paint things and attach gold bric-a-brac as costs go unchecked. All the while, a war rages on in Iran in spite of the insistence that there is a somewhat meaningless cease-fire. Gas prices climb ever higher as the Worst's approval numbers reach historic lows. Which might explain his continued frustration with the press, who seem to be aware of this. Of course, this does not keep him from making the following statement: “I don’t think about Americans’ financial situation. I don’t think about anybody."

With that one possible exception. 

What a stupid person. 

Typical

 If you've been reading this blog for more than a little while, you are probably familiar with my more than a little mild antipathy for jury duty. From the moment I pull that summons out of the box, I become anxious and feel put upon for the request by my government to help fulfill the Sixth Amendment. I am not one of those who crumple up that piece of paper, daring the local authorities to come and find me. After all, I like voting, so I will accept the call.

Begrudgingly. 

Contrast this to the choice made by Elongated Mush last week when he chose to skip out of his own trial, the one he set into motion with a lawsuit against artificial intelligence startup OpenAI. Mister Mush testified in an Oakland courtroom, perhaps one of the very same in which I have cooled my heels waiting to be called up, back on April 30. At that time, U.S. District Judge Yvonne Gonzalez Rogers asked the parties if there was any reason to hold Musk in “recall status,” meaning that he should be available to testify again if called upon to do so. OpenAI lawyers said, “Yes.” The judge instructed him: “OK, Mr. Musk, you are not excused, but you can leave for the day.”

Which is odd since Mushie packed his valise and hopped aboard Air Force One with his frenemy the Orange Worst. They went to the other side of the world to curry favor with the powers that be in China, a fourteen hour flight away from Oakland. While these Mister Mush grovels in front of the world's biggest consumer of electronic components, the one hundred thirty-four billion dollar lawsuit he filed against his old pal Sam Altman may remains unsettled. Jeffrey Bellin, a law professor at Vanderbilt University and an expert in the rules of evidence suggests, “A typical witness would not leave the country if they were subject to recall."

Sorry, Mister Bellin. You fail to see the internal fallacy of your assertion. Elongated Mush is a lot of things, but "typical" is not among them. Go ahead and try to conjure up the image of Mushie standing in front of his mailbox, frowning at the jury summons. 

I'll wait. 

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.