Fractally Speaking

I have a deep and abiding respect for physics. You can see it in the title of this blog: Entropical Paradise. Not just a clever play on words, but a solid description of the world in which we live. Things continue to move from an ordered state to a less ordered state seemingly without fail. You could tell yourself that you're staying on top of chaos by sweeping up on a regular basis, but those dustpans full of debris have to go somewhere, and the bristles on your broom eventually wear down until you need to get a new one. And what do you do with the old one? 

More debris. 

There was a time when I was more of a fan of the world breaking down. I found myself rooting on the gradual breakdown of our place in the galaxy. I was amused by the idea that we might somehow slow the disintegration of our planet by conserving or taking care of the nice things we have. In the 1980s, hedonism seemed to have reached some sort of logical extreme, and the notion that the Berlin Wall came tumbling down for freedom was tempered by the need for free enterprise. It was the poet and philosopher Notorious BIG who suggested, "mo' money, mo' problems." Mo' anything means mo' problems. 

We knew about global warming. We knew about polluting the land, the sky, the water. America led the charge: Go big or go home! 

Except we were home. Which might explain all these vain efforts by billionaires to flee our third rock from the sun in hopes that we could find another rock to abuse for a few thousand years. 

Now that I am a parent with a sense of just how badly I have messed up the earth for my son to take it on the next leg of our tour of expiration, I feel bad about every plastic bag I wasted. I wish that I would have considered mortality more fully when it still seemed hypothetical. Like the fact that we are running out of helium. Humans consume it far faster than it can be made. When I think about all the balloons that I inhaled only to make my voice rise momentarily while that precious gas disappeared into space, it gives me pause. It makes all that terror of Mylar balloons seem a little ridiculous since soon there won't be anything to put inside of them.

And someday I expect that I will have a moment left to apologize to my grandchildren and their friends as they sit around their birthday table stacked high with Soylent Green wafers and decorated with worn out brooms. Sorry kids, I'm the reason you can't have nice things. 

Hidden From View

 I have it on very good authority that one cannot cause a pot of water to boil by staring at it. 

I re-learned this immtable fact, save for the stray Kryptonian wisegu.y who might beg to differ, by sitting in front of a screen for several hours last Friday night, watching a Livestream of a crew of workers assemble a scaffold. Along with several hundred thousand others, I started at my computer screen in hopes of seeing something more: The removal of the Orange Worst's name from the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. 

Crowds began to arrive before noon on June 12 at the actual site where the defenestration of the MAGAt in chief was taking place. Onlookers were initially quiet, but as the deadline of midnight on the east coast approached, those who had committed to be there when the defacement of a national landmark was eradicated grew more unruly. The expectation that the court order that had mandated the handful of words to be physically stricken from the record approached and then passed. 

I sat at my desk as I watched the minutes tick by. A rainstorm blew through Washington DC, hampering the efforts of the workers for a spell, then they returned to their task. Surely but slowly. It became increasingly apparent that there was another force beside a court order and weather involved. There was this matter of waiting for the paperwork to be completely crossed and dotted with no room for last minute appeals. 

Shortly after midnight arrived, the crew began to drape their very impressive scaffold with an equally impressive white and blue tarp. Not American Flag Blue as some might have expected, but a screen to keep the crowd from seeing what was inevitably going to take place. 

It was at this point, approaching eleven o'clock in my neighborhood, that I took my leave of the situation. The schadenfreude I was hoping to experience would have to wait. The minor exultation I might have enjoyed would have to be of the more vicarious sort. The next morning, I reflected on the mild assurance that there are still limits to the authority of the Orange Worst. Even if those limits need to be shielded by a tarp. 

Proof

 As I sat in my seat enjoying the storytelling talents of Mister Steven Spielberg, I found myself once again struck by how many movies you can cram into one. Not unlike my experience watching Project Hail Mary back in March, I was struck by just how many hours I have spent in darkened movie theaters and in front of a television set staring at other people's notions about what lies out there in the vastness of space. 

There's a lot of it. Space, don't you know. 

It's been nearly thirty years since this same guy, Steven Spielberg, had me transfixed with a story of a visit from visitors outside our solar system. That was the first time that I considered the possibility that extraterrestrials might not be looking to vaporize us, or worse yet, to lecture us like Klaatu in The Day The Earth Stood Still. We had all just better wise up and start getting along or Gort would come back and vaporize the lot of us. Which is what those nasty aliens did on Independence Day, with little or no provocation. Maybe that was just pent up aggression left over from the first time they were able to catch reruns of the Lawrence Welk Show. You know, like when the space guys caught Hitler's first televised speech in Contact. Who'da guessed that the space guys were antifa? 

When I was much younger, I read local newspaper accounts of cattle mutilations, and the potential for them to be committed by little green men or great hulking purple monsters was never fully discounted by the reportage I could find. What would happen as soon as the otherworldly travelers got tired of their bovine experiments and decided to move on to more complex organisms? I had seen It Came From Outer Space by then and I had hope that whatever shape they came from that aliens were maybe just misunderstood, frightened and just trying to get home. 

Spielberg gave us one of those. ET just needed to phone home. And just like Roy Neary, the government wasn't going to let anyone here on Earth get in the way of us figuring out exactly what these voyagers were after. Were they here to enslave us? To make room for the galactic throughway? 

I confess that I tried to take in some of the recently released UFO files. I find it patently ridiculous to believe that "the truth is out there" when it's coming from the Trumpreich. Why not hand over the Epstein Files while you're at it? 

Someday, maybe Steven Spielberg will direct a movie about it. I'll believe it when I see it. 

Summer Reruns

 Flag day. This may or may not be Sheldon Cooper's favorite holiday. 

It just so happens to fall on the same day that some narcissistic twit celebrates his crawling out into the light. I hesitate to refer to this as a "birthday," but will entertain references to spawning or being disgorged in some way or another. I would like to rise above the need to wish this convicted felon anything but the most standard returns of the day. I have plenty of issues with what he is and the things he does and his capacity for making everything he touches turn to the sludge previously referenced from whence he crawled. A happy birthday would be a stretch, but I do hope that he is aware of just how much life goes on in spite and without him.

Flag day. Which causes me to wince remembering the image of this adjudicated rapist fondling the Stars and Stripes. Is his overt attraction to a piece of fabric a window into his soul? Every year on is birthday there were flags flying everywhere, all for the spoiled little prince. And certainly his ability to show interest or affection for other things and people is certainly suspect, so maybe this makes some sort of horrible sense. 

This summer will be full of celebration. World Cup. The Sesquicentennial of the United States. Prime Days. All of these events will no doubt be sullied by the continued existence of the man with the sludgy touch. The New York Knicks were on a thirteen game winning streak in the NBA playoffs. Then the Orange Worst decided to take a nap at Madison Square Garden during game three of the Finals and whaddya know? Knicks lose. 

How about last summer when he sat in the nearly empty grandstand watching squeaky tanks roll by while the rest of the country took to the streets to remind ourselves that we are a country without a king. 

So this year, he didn't bother to make any pretense. It's really all about him, mostly because that noise that you hear is not squeaking tanks this time but the wheels on his clown car coming off. Yes, sports fans, the winner of the one and only FIFA peace prize spent the weeks leading up to the World Cup bombing one of the competing nations. 

Change cannot happen fast enough for some of us. Because this summer will sadly still be all about him. 

I want our flag back. 

Summer Camp

 It is quite possible that what with all this fuss about war and inflation and the petulant slob inviting himself to basketball games to nap that you may have missed the continuing saga of ICE detention centers. 

You remember ICE, don't you? They are the ones who got their boss fired because they couldn't make the excuses for killing American citizens stick? The masked goons who terrorized the streets of Minneapolis, Portland, and Los Angeles over the past year, just to name a few of the municipalities that experienced the occupational force of the poorly trained posse of Stephen Miller's schock troops. 

Perhaps you thought that since they spent a couple months without being paid for that their mission had been blunted in some way. Maybe they got tired of abusing the rights of Americans and went back to playing Superman on TV or simply quit after their puppy-killing boss was let go.

Nope. 

They're still out there, trampling on the Constitution. A recently released report from theNo  Government Accountability Office outlined a myriad of problems and abuses found in the largest Camp East Montana, oddly located in Texas. Three detainees have died there in the past six months, and in one case the evidence regarding the death of a fifty-five year old Cuban migrant who was being held down by ICE goons went missing. Justice for Renee Good and Alex Pretti has been painfully slow, but at least there were witnesses and cell phone video to contradict the "official narratives" put out by the goons. 

Inside Camp East Montana, this kind of oversight has been tough to come by. Construction of the tent city was rushed by all accounts while contractors made millions without ever providing safe and sanitary facilities for the detainees. One such error in oversight had inmates filling out a written questionnaire to check for tuberculosis, rather than an actual medical test. This resulted in an outbreak because someone carrying the infection into the general population. No effort was made to accommodate those in wheelchairs in compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act, which I assume can only have happened because in the goons' accounting these were not Americans, wheelchairs or not.

So, you can rest assured that while the rest of the country continues to fall apart, Immigration and Customs Enforcement is doing everything they can to uphold the pathetic standard set by their convicted felon of a boss. 

Sleep tight, America.

What's News?

 A former reality TV villain running as a Republican is not news. The fact that this same "Republican" chose to run for mayor of one of the most predominantly Democratic strongholds in the country and did not win is not news. 

Additionally, another former reality TV villain who managed to get elected twice to the highest office in the land chose to show his face back in his former home town after making ugly noises as he fled for safer waters in south Florida got lustily booed by fans of his former home town's basketball franchise is not news. Nor is the fact that he fell asleep while "watching" the game that had been specially secured for him to find a seat while lifetime fans of that team had been shut out is not news. 

Here is some news: About a week ago after the party I hosted for the staff of my school, I noticed that the ice maker on our refrigerator had stopped working. As is my custom I went straight to YouTube to see if there was a troubleshooting video that would help me sort out this problem. 

There was.

This is not news.

I followed the directions carefully and fiddled with the control panel inside the door of my very fancy fridge. Lights blinked and beeps were heard, but I could not get the ice maker to start back up. Somehow I had managed to lock up the functions of my refrigerator to the point where nothing I did made any difference. I even went to far as to take the troubleshooter's suggestion of unplugging the appliance, waiting five minutes and then starting fresh. I tried this twice and got the same parade of lights with no change in function. At this point I surrendered. I scheduled an appointment with a technician to service my machine. 

This is not the news, but it does qualify as a revelation, of sorts. 

So I waited. 

A whole week. This is not the news, but it does give you a sense of how the tension built for me. In the meantime, our ice maker decided to start working again. The lights inside on the control panel: no change.

The night before the scheduled appointment, I did not sleep. I dreamed of all the ways that this could go wrong, from waiting for the tech in the middle of the street outside in the rain to discovering the expense of the replacement of that one sticky button. 

When the tech finally arrived, he apologized for making us wait until almost noon for him to show. I ushered him into the kitchen and introduced him to the refrigerator, along with a short dissertation on all the attempts I had made to revive it. He thanked me and opened the door where the control panel sat there, all lit up. 

I left hi to his work. 

Moments later, I heard the tech call, "You're not going to like this." I hastend back into the kitchen, fearing my dreams had come true. He pointed to the control panel. "All fixed," he announced. 

This is not the news, but we're getting there. 

I leaned in, surprised and embarrassed. "What did you do?"

He showed me the button combination that I was sure that I had tried a number of times before giving up. His magic touch had returned our appliance to normal function. 

I thanked him profusely. Now here comes the news: He didn't charge me. Normally a house call would run at least one hundred eighty dollars, but he didn't feel like he could do that to me. We agreed that if the company called that I could say that he talked me through the fix over the phone and there would be no charge. 

No charge.

That's the news. 

If this guy ever runs for office, he's got my vote. 

Putting Up Streamers

 I do remember the Bicentennial of the United States. I was old enough to enjoy all the red white and blue of it while maintaining a certain degree of cynical skepticism about it. 

Back in 1976, our country was still licking its collective wounds brought on by a war in Vietnam and the searing revelations of Watergate. We were limping toward what we assumed would be better days, but not without reservation. 

Still, there were lots of parties. Lots of ways to celebrate. There was a quiet understanding that we could argue with each other after the big barbecue, but the summer of 1976 was going to be a special one. 

Now, fifty years later, we find ourselves on the brink of another great celebration, but this one feels more like the kind where you get fifty percent off that mattress you've been looking at. Not the kind of feel-good experience where we can set aside our differences for a few days and take a look at all those crazy new quarters. 

The summer of 2026 finds us in the middle of a very unpopular war. The corruption in the White House is laid bare just about every single day, with hourly reminders of just how awful things have become since we last gathered together to look at all those crazy new quarters. The spectacle that might have been hosting the World Cup soccer extravaganza has been dulled by the stream of racist and xenophobic attempts to keep the world from coming and sharing their cup with us. The outdoor concert on the mall has been turned into your hateful uncle's vision of how such and experience "should be." 

This is no longer a celebration for the land of the brave and the home of the free. This has turned into an exercise in self satisfaction and self aggrandizement for one man. Who cares if no one else wants to see any of this? Who cares if no one can afford a plane ticket much less a tank of gas to travel across this great land of ours to take any of it in. 

We are stuck in the Orange Worst's vision of America with nearly constant reminders of just how far away we have drifted from the ideals we once held dear. Trapped like rats on a sinking ship, we can only hope that we can scare off all the billionaires who have stolen the American Dream and take back our country and run it like the good Democratic rats we know we can be.