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. 

The One True King

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just A Joke

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

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

I digress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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