Don't Panic

 I don’t know if it’s obvious, but I feel I should mention this:

It wasn’t a Haitian.

It wasn’t a Mexican.

It wasn’t a Guatemalan.

It wasn’t a rape victim.

It wasn’t an incest victim.

It wasn’t a black person.

It wasn’t Hannibal Lecter.

It wasn’t an Israeli.

It wasn’t a Palestinian.

It wasn’t an L.

It wasn’t a G.

It wasn’t a B.

It wasn’t a T.

It wasn’t a Q.

It wasn’t a +.

It wasn’t somebody from ABC News.

It wasn’t a woman.

It was a white guy.

A white guy with a gun.

A white guy who voted for Trump in 2016.

A white guy with a gun wandering around in an open-carry state.

A white guy with a gun in Florida.

Don’t panic. This is normal for Florida.

Riot Grrrls

 It's only rock and roll. 

And mostly, I like it. 

Last week's post-debate endorsement by Taylor Swift of Kamala Harris does not specifically amount to a surprise, but the timing was certainly an insult cherry on top of the injury sundae that was the convicted felon's evening. Not to be outdone, another of rock's queens let her feelings about be known about the possibility of an adjudicated rapist wiinding up in the White House. In case you missed it, Linda Ronstadt is against it. 

Which isn't to say that rock and roll as a community has not coalesced in the Harris/Walz camp. The other guys still have Rock in the forom of Kid. And apparently Kanye West, who may or may not be a musician anymore is a MAGAt. 

But let's face it: You won't expect to find many of those of the rock set hanging around with a would-be dictator. Sure, you could argue that millionaires would probably benefit from the policies of the potential oligarchy. Some folks wanted to point out how much money Ms. Swift stood to lose because of her choice. Add to that the all-caps post from the former game show host: "I HATE TAYLOR SWIFT!" I'm not guessing she's going to lose a lot of sleep over it. 

Or maybe it's marketing genius. Taylor's never gone bankrupt. 

Window Of Opportunity

 Science is good. It helps keep us safe. When disease comes and spoils our day, we can count on doctors and researchers to help us out, in a pinch. You might remember a little virus that made its way around the globe not too long ago that was on its way to eliminating the human race, but medical science jumped in and stopped it dead in its tracks. 

Mostly, anyway. 

Each day we are presented with new and exciting ways that we can live longer, happier lives because scientists are hard at work making it possible. 

Way to go science!

In keeping with this trend, I feel that it's important to pass along the research done by Dcotor Bryan Quoc Le. Doctor Bryan is a food scientist and author who would like us all to know that there is no such thing as a "Five Second Rule."

You read that right. When you drop that cookie on the floor but you scoop it up before you can get to five Mississippi, you're still going to die. According to Doctor Bryan, it does not matter if the Oreo is on the floor for five seconds or five minutes. Dropping food on the floor exposes it to bacteria. He cites a 2007 study in the Journal of Applied Microbiology found that Salmonella Typhimurium, a common cause of foodborne illness, can transfer to foods almost immediately on contact. “Bacteria, including pathogens, can transfer to the food within five seconds or less and grow on the food,” 

What if it's the last piece of pizza that you were saving for a late night snack and when you took it out of the refrigerator when no one else was looking and it landed crust side down? Research suggests that you're better off with a slice of pizza than a slice of watermelon, but there will still be contamination. 

So we're dealing with a risk factor here. You could eat raw steak or fish and be just fine. A swig of pickle brine from the jar you found but can't really place the time or date when you put it on the shelf probably won't kill you. 

And neither will the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you snatched up with a second to spare. Just don't let Doctor Bryan catch you doing it. 

Boat People

 Unless your ancestors walked across the Bering Strait Land Bridge tens of thousands of years ago, chances are they were Boat People. 

You may recall this term being used in the mid to late 1970s as a derogatory epithet to refer to refugees from Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. These were people who were fleeing their countries in fear for their lives and livelihood as their countries had suffered massive upheaval at the end of a war that had most recently featured the weapons and destruction of (checks notes) The United States of America. In attempts to free Southeast Asia from the grips of the tyranny of Communism, it seems we forgot to account for the massive wave of emigration that could occur in the wake of the departure of the American Armed Forces. 

So when those folks who fled their countries looking for freedom, they had their eyes set on the land of the brave and the home of the free. And did I mention immigrants? Oh yeah. There were quite a lot of those. With the exception of a small group of surviving Native Americans who had been scooped up and relocated to what I can only assume was ironically referred to as "reservations." The rest of us showed up in much the same way, fleeing oppression of one form or another, or in a bizarre turn of events as a part of oppression in the form of oppression called the Slave Trade. 

By boats.

From the 1960's through the mid nineties people fled the communist regime of Fidel Castro in Cuba. They faced the same hostile reception as their compatriots from Southeast Asia. It was easy to keep track of these interlopers because they looked different than the folks who came over in a boat called The Mayflower. It was around this same time that folks started to flee Haiti, making the somewhat longer trip to the shores of the United States in boats just as sketchy as those that made the ninety mile trip from Havana. 

Once a group of individuals arrive on our shores, they tend to do what most of us have done since John Smith stuck a flag in Jamestown: They huddle together in settlements where their culture and traditions can be shared in order to give the impression of homogeny, in spite of they way they look different from those surrounding their enclave. Chinatown. Koreatown. Little Havana. Little Saigon. And so on. 

Periodically these become focal points for xenophobia, in spite of the obvious hypocrisy. Meanwhile, those who continue in the vague tradition of the Bering Strait Land Bridge find themselves blocked not by a washed out span, but by fences, walls and armed checkpoints. How dare you try to find your way to freedom and bravery without a boat. 

Out

 One of the myriad of challenges of teaching games to young people with fragile egos is that of impressing on them the importance of a graceful exit. There is a great associated thrill in being able to climb the hill that leads to A square. Battling with your classmates all the way from the line, to D square, to C, then to B and at last: Valhalla. You have landed in A square. Now you control the game with everyone looking up to you and waiting for your serve. All it takes in Four Square is one extra bounce, a little slip, and then you're on your way to the back of the line. 

There are plenty of egos that can accept this kind of cycle. It is, after all, part of the game. The platitudes about sportsmanship are easy enough for most kids to handle. You win some, you lose some. It's just a game. You can't win 'em all. Which for most children is a simple enough lesson. The platitudes are unnecessary. 

But not for everyone. 

Some will cling to that chunk of asphalt in the same way they will hold on to their assertion that they were never tagged, never stepped out of bounds, never did anything that might mar their streak of success. Even when faced with the simple process of Ro Sham Bo, rock paper scissors, to decide the outcome of any dispute they insist that there is no reason for such a judgement. They did not lose. And if their peers surround them, waiting for resolution, if they pick rock and the other kid picks paper they will insist on doing the best two out of three. 

Sometimes I try and take the perspective of our kids who have this challenge. For many of them, being called out is a reminder of the place they spend so much of their lives: at the end of the line. Admitting to their classmates and the world that they are only as good as everyone else playing the game is a blow to their already fragile self esteem. Being the best at anything is a way to escape the struggle they face every day living so close to the edge of winning and losing. This might be their only escape from their circumstances, even if it's only for a recess or a PE class. 

By now, some of this might sound familiar to you. I would also like to champion those who understand that the game is more important than the arguments about the game. They take their place at the end of the line and look forward to their next chance. 

Joe Biden did that. Joe understood "out." He didn't like it, and if he had been left to his own devices he might have held on to the notion that he was in it to win it. But he didn't. He wasn't. He took his string of victories and a legacy of public service to the end of the line, where he could watch others compete secure in the notion that he had his time. Now it was time for another winner. 

As I said, not everyone understands this process. Instead they argue and dispute every moment, every decision. The game has to stop and wait for them. But not forever. 

Sooner or later, everyone gets out. 

Follow The Bouncing Ball

 I do not, as history will tell you, enjoy watching sports in real time. I tend instead to catch up after the players have left the field, court or pitch and catch the highlights at which I could not bring myself to stare. Field goals, no matter how hard I lean on my couch, do not alter their trajectory based on my wishes. Free throws go in or they don't, based not on my crossed fingers or hexes, but instead go through the hoop based almost entirely on the skills of the person throwing the ball in that direction. Or not. 

The belief that my watching any or all of these events might somehow alter the outcome of these contests is deeply ingrained in my American psyche and I have tried many times to shake it. Watching the random bouncing of balls does not bring me anything but more stress. This is why God created ESPN. 

This corollary of the Heisenberg principle was in play on Tuesday night when the candidates for President from the two major parties met for a televised debate. I explained my anxieties to my wife, who did not (to her credit) try and dissuade me from simply checking out and reading the memes the following day. But, brave little soldier that I am, I sat down and looked on as the future of our great nation was decided on the ABC television network. Coincidentally ABC is part of the same media mammoth that spawned ESPN. 

At some point, it became clear that this was not going to be a substantive discussion of policy, but rather an opportunity for one of the candidates to air the current stream of nonsense spouted at his "well-attended" rallies. Kamala Harris, at several points, seemed bemused by the performance of the gentleman to her right. The obverse could not be said of the gentleman on her right. He seemed committed to bringing the same bile and hate to the debate stage as he has to those assemblages of MAGAts.

Was it over when he started panting about Haitian immigrants eating dogs and cats in Springfield, Ohio? Maybe it was before that, but it was most surely a reminder of just how far off the track the convicted felon's trolley is when he flopped around and restated his claims that he had won the 2020 election. This was a return to form, but not necessarily in a good way for the twice-impeached former game show host. 

Across the way, it must have been difficult for Ms. Harris to not look to run up the score, finding more ways for the former "president" to dig himself a deeper hole. Back in June, I had watched the political career of Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.'s come to a somewhat unceremonious end. Try as I might back in those early days of summer, I attempted to piece together bits of meaning to the tired and slow responses to the hammering he took at the hands of this morally and financially bankrupt buffoon. 

Watching on Tuesday night felt like not just retribution, but a reminder of what a new generation of leaders looks like. 

Am I certain that our future is assured? Too many of the red-cap clan have already made up their tiny little minds. These are the ones who lap up and perpetuate the ugly racial stereotypes like the one about Ohio cats and dogs. The bright spot is this: The childless cat lady in chief, a (checks notes) Taylor Swift, has finally chosen to give her personal endorsement to Kamala Harris. 

I do not know if any of this sound and fury will change the outcome of the election. But I hope it does. 

Gravitas

 "dignity, seriousness, or solemnity of manner."

I believe that the Cable News Network might now be out of business if it weren't for the sonorous tones of James Earl Jones: "This is CNN." Not leaning in for what this station has to say would be a bad choice. There is an implied imperative in those three words. Thanks to the voice of James Earl Jones. 

Much in the way that we all learned about the Circle of Life. "Look Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom. A king's time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day Simba, the sun will set on my time here- and will rise with you as the new king. Everything you see exists together, in a delicate balance. As king, you need to understand that balance, and respect all the creatures-- from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope. When we die, our bodies become the grass. And the antelope eat the grass. And so we are all connected in the great Circle of Life."

For many of us, the story of Muphasa and his son was our introduction to Hamlet. James Earl Jones made the classics relatable. Like the story of Conan the Barbarian. Or that guy with a baseball diamond in his cornfield. Frightening or uplifting, if Mister Jones was saying it, it was important. Which is why George Lucas should probably have stopped making Star Wars movies once Darth Vader stopped being voiced by James Earl Jones. Hayden Christiansen take note: In space, no one can hear you whine. 

It was always a treat to discover that voice hidden in the mix of The Simpsons. Or anywhere else. He was bombardier Lieutenant Lothar Zogg in Doctor Strangelove. 

I discovered James Earl Jones not watching cartoons or some sci-fi epic, but viewing The Great White Hope. What was an eight year old doing watching the story of Jack Johnson and his ill-fated marriage to Etta Terry Duryea. Race relations in sports and relationships was a pretty heady mix for me, but I have my mother to thank for steering me through the experience. Things were not always black and white when it came to black and white. James Earl Jones showed me that struggle. 

Over the decades, his voice led me to places and ideas that I might have missed. And most importantly to me, he was not above making light of his own basso profondo. Which is why James Earl Jones will be missed. There is no doubt that he stomped profoundly on the Terra, and he made our lives a lot more interesting for it. He will be missed in the Circle of Life.