Media Matters

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

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

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

At the time. 

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

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

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

You Can't Spell Leave Without Leavitt

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

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

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

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

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

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

The facts.

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

Pop Goes The Culture

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

I eat what I click.

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

And that should be enough quotation marks for now. 

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

It can. 

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

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

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

Courage Under Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And golf courses around the world. 

Boom!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If ever. 

Futility

 It is an exciting time. 

Back to school. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resistance is indeed futile.  

Big Deal

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

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

I digress. 

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

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

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

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

BOTD

 Born on this day:

My wife

The mother of my child

Writer in residence at Joaquin Miller Park

Daughter of Jan and Louise

Sister of Felix and Damian

Cousin to seemingly countless more

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look Out, 'Cause Here It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Best Shot

The beat goes on. 

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

Evil nitwit. 

Evil. 

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

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

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

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

And beyond. 

Grand Haven, Michigan.

Denmark, Tennessee. 

East Saint Louis, Illinois.

Rittman, Ohio.

Livonia, Michigan.

Cheektowaga, New York. 

Muscatine, Iowa. 

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

And that's a 

Exit Strategy: Here's The Door

 Her boss says that vandals were responsible. 

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful Noise

 I spent last weekend by the sea. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But mostly we listened to the sound. 

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

I dreamed of the sea. 

Parting With Part D

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

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

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

Nothing. 

Zero.

Zilch. 

Nada. 

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

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

Is it? 

Fare And Square

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Yet

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

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

Struggling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gone But Forgotten

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

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

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

It's about closure, right?

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

I blame Fonzie. 

Passing Through

 Many years ago

I considered myself a poet

Because of all the thoughts

That could not be contained

In a sentence or paragraph

I once wrote a poem entitled

You Can Come And Go In My Life

I did this for two main reasons

To express how deep I was

And how much I was willing to grow

As it turns out all those years ago

I was not kidding around

You have come and gone in my life

And the good news here is that

Each time you have gone

You found your way back

So here we are decades later

Having created a center

Around which we can orbit

Navigating our way through

Space and Time and Always

With a sense of place

A place we call home