The Only Game In Town

 A couple days ago, as I was experiencing a lull in the activity at my computer support station, I chose to spend a few quality time sink moments with my phone's solitaire game. It's a habit of mine that keeps me busy for minutes at a time so I figured I could turn off my active mind for a few moments of shuffling virtual cards about. After completing the first game, an ad appeared on the screen. I am quite used to this corporate bumper between deals, knowing that if I ever opted to pitch in for the pay version I could avoid these reminders of capitalism and pain relievers and other apps that are far more stimulating than clunky old solitaire. But I don't, so I use it as part of the meditative experience. 

But not this day.

After the mild celebration that comes with completing a deck, the screen dropped down a banner with a question that asked in bold red letters, "Are you an American or a Socialist?" It is possible that these sort of interruptions had been coming my way before this, and I had simply ignored them, but this one struck me raw. American or Socialist? These are my choices? I knew in a flash who was behind this ham-handed bit of rhetoric, but I was still perplexed by the way the question was just hung out there. The Campaign to Re-Elect the "President" was asking me to sign on with the Americans in that equation, and shaming anyone who might have the temerity, or open-mindedness, to choose socialism. 

I wondered what the members of the American Socialist Party would answer. "American Socialist, please and thank you." Because it has become a dirty word, this "socialist" thing. Never mind that there are wags about who would tell you that the National Football League is a prime example of socialism in the USA. Not to mention agriculture and energy subsidies offered up by our government as a matter or course. Or Medicare. Or Social Security. It's right in there: Social-ism Security. 

And just like that, it was time to get back to solitaire. 

It's A Beautiful World

 I begin today by making a public appreciation to a friend and constant reader who recently sent me a pair of cloth face coverings. Considerate enough given the current circumstances, but these particular masks were emblazoned with DEVO's motto and logo: Duty Now For The Future. Safe, washable, and forward thinking. "It's time to go forward, move ahead, and give the past the slip." 

And now, the news: The man who co-wrote those words, Mark Mothersbaugh, almost died this past June. From the virus my good friend and constant reader was so very thoughtful to help keep me safe. When I read this, the entirety of 2020 passed before me and I thought, "Well, this year just missed being terrifically worse." For me. If not for you. Of his experience, Mothersbaugh had this to say: “Everything’s become more devolved than I would have imagined possible. For anybody that’s doubting whether the coronavirus and COVID-19 is real, it’s really real.”

I suspect that DEVO fans are not among the core group of virus deniers. If there are any spuds out there with doubts, you should know that the chief architect of de-evolution spent weeks in a hospital, on a ventilator, experiencing delusions and clinging to life. “I was convinced for about two weeks that I had been hit by a brick by somebody in Little Tokyo. I felt blood from being hit. I was handcuffed to a parking deck downtown. I had this whole elaborate story of how these kids sold me to an ambulance company that then got some sort of a payment for delivering COVID patients to their ICUs. I totally believed it,” While this sounds like a great set of images for a new wave song, or a post-modern collage, a world without Mark Mothersbaugh would not be so beautiful. 

For me. 

My wife, who read the article about my hero's near-death experience, had this to take away: "Mark Mothersbaugh is seventy?"

Yes. Mark Mothersbaugh is seventy. And I hope will see seventy-one, seventy-two, and so on. 

It's a beautiful world we live in
A sweet romantic place
Beautiful people everywhere
The way they show they care 

Thank you for the mask. Thank you for sparing one of my semi-major-demigods. 2020 needs all the help it can get. 

Psalm 69

 "The God I believe in isn't short of cash, mister." Bullet The Blue Sky - U2

That was Bono singing, well snarling actually, back in 1987. He was addressing the status of one Jerry Falwell. Senior. Pastor Falwell a fundamentalist and televangelist was busy amassing a fortune for himself and his family by asking for contributions to his church. And his university. He was the guy who got into it with Larry Flynt, publisher of Hustler Magazine. He stirred up something called the Moral Majority. And, as some suggested back then, it was neither. There was a time, back in the good old 1980's, when it was hard to tell where Jerry Falwell began and Newt Gingrich ended. Jerry had a lot of ideas about how our lives should look, feel and sound. Like how he figured out that the purple Teletubbie, Tinky Winky, was gay. And how "the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU" and others were to blame for the attacks of September 11, 2001. And there was this assertion he made about labor unions: "Labor unions should study and read the Bible instead of asking for more money. When people get right with God, they are better workers." Noting that at no time during all these pronouncements did Jerry Falwell ever stop asking for money. For his church. His megachurch. And his family, including young Jerry Jr. 

I give you all that preface to remind you that the apple does not fall far from the tree, as Junior took over for daddy after he passed and kept building the empire that was, perhaps ironically, called Liberty. You  may have heard some of the fuss kicked up over the past few weeks about how the sins of the father were visited on his son. And then some. Truly tacky business about his wife Becki and a pool boy named Giancarlo Granda. This, after all these years and all those millions of dollars going to pay for lavish lifestyles that included such glories as a pool boy would be the thing that would bring down the empire. Jerry, who reportedly liked to watch these pool boy encounters, resigned from his position as major domo of all things Liberty. There wasn't enough disgrace for him and his family to do anything like give back any of the money they have been given over the years. Or to apologize for the way they rushed students back to their campus after COVID-19 shut other institutions down. Like his good friend Donald Trump, Jerry Jr. seems to make his decisions based on the financial bottom line, with safety of others trailing far behind. 

Don't expect this most recent eruption of human frailty to derail the express train to Liberty and Dollars for the Falwells. Investigations will be launched. Stones will be overturned. More pool boys may be willing to come forward. But the Falwells will most likely never be short of cash, mister. 

Repast

 A couple weeks back, I could feel despair creeping up on me. This was before the death of Chadwick Boseman. The murder of two protesters in Kenosha. It was a Sunday afternoon and I have always felt an extra dose of dread as a new week begins to creep into view. I have spent most of my life fretting about what was going to happen Monday morning. One of the more visceral memories from my childhood was breakfast for dinner. On Sunday night.

My father, blessed with love in his heart and a mild sense of responsibility to the care and feeding of his family, took it upon himself to take over kitchen duty once a week. This would expand years later to two evenings when my mother started working as a bookkeeper for a travel agent, but that was a different trauma. This one was forged in the hearth of my youth and left a mark. Waffles and bacon. Sometimes sausages. There were eggs, but I have never been a fan. To be clear: as a syrup delivery system there are very few food items more capable than a waffle. And my father was no slouch when it came to the waffle iron. He was more than capable of feeding three boys, my mother and himself until we were full and overflowing. Getting stuffed was not the problem. It was the arrival of the waffles and bacon and sausage and so forth that signaled the close of the weekend. 

I should note here, as is the case with most childhood trauma, that my memories of "every Sunday" is a flawed one and is colored by the pain I suffered in silence. I knew what a good deal it was to have a father who would cook us dinner and do it in such a way that we enjoyed the abundance and care available. It was unfortunate that I began to associate with going back to school. Not that I didn't like school. School was great. It was the looming specter of what the other kids who happened to go to school with me might have in store for me that kept my stomach in knots. I was that weird round kid who liked to write and draw. I was an easy target. Sunday night was the reminder that I was going back to battle the lions. 

I suppose if I had been fed gruel or shards of broken glass this story might have made a better point, but the mistreatment I experienced even at the hands of school bullies was primarily of the mind. What I imagined was always much worse than anything that ever really happened. I know that now. Which is why, on that Sunday night a few weeks back, I got out the milk and butter and batter mix and made my wife and I a meal of waffles and syrup for dinner. Monday was a school day, as odd as those have been for the past six months, but I wasn't going to let the menu determine my mood. It was a triumph over breakfast food. 

That night, I slept soundly. When morning came, I was pre-breakfasted. A triumph at long last. 

The King Is Dead

 It would take some kind of inner fortitude to take on the role of James Brown, the Godfather of Soul. A very complex character with an ego as big as his talents, with fears and frailties to match. 

How about Jackie Robinson? How to portray a not just a baseball legend, but a civil rights icon without turning him into a cardboard cut-out without any doubts?

Then there's Thrugood Marshall, from crusading lawyer to Supreme Court Justice. Focusing on one career-defining case and give the world a glimpse into the story that made the man.

And Black Panther. The super hero movie that would be Hamlet. A make believe story that made us want to believe. 

Chadwick Boseman did all of that. And more. But if his career contained only those four roles, it would be titanic. Mister Boseman died over the weekend, yet another frustrating punctuation mark in a year that has been full of heartbreak and disillusionment. But somehow, his passing couldn't help but lift us up at the same time. It was just this weekend that Major League Baseball players chose to honor the memory of Jackie Robinson by draping his number 42 jersey next to home plate as players stood in solidarity with black lives lost. Chadwick Boseman, a graduate of Howard University, must have smiled.

Here in Oakland, we felt as if we had lost one of our own. It was Oakland native and Oakland Tech grad Ryan Coogler who directed Boseman in the first super hero movie to receive an Academy Award nomination for best picture. It is no simple coincidence that the story of Black Panther begins and ends in Oakland. 

Don't think I didn't notice that. On opening night, it was a premiere event like few had ever seen, at least on this side of the bay. Finally, kids at my school had a hero who looked like them. Wakanda was a country full of possibilities and hope. And in the end, spoiler alert, T'Challa begins his mission to spread that hope to the world starting in Oakland. That Halloween, there were more Black Panthers than Scream or Spider-Man combined. Which is why, on Saturday night just a few hours after word of his passing, a tribute to Boseman appeared in the form of a projected image of him staring into the heavens on the side of the Grand Lake Theater. We know where Wakanda is. 

Thank you, Chadwick Boseman. You stomped on the Terra and made us all remember heroes are made from the inside out. He will be remembered. Aloha, Mister Boseman. 

Role Call

 Ahmaud Arbery. Breonna Taylor. Trayvon Martin. Stephon Clark. Botham Jean. Philando Castille. Alton Sterling. 

Shall I go on?

Akai Gurley. Oscar Grant. Martin Luther King Jr. 

These are black lives that were ended too soon. Ended by guns. Guns that were purchase, owned and used by Americans taking their Second Amendment Rights to the ugliest possible extreme. Suddenly, and in most of those cases without warning, all the rights of these men and women were taken along with their lives. Your right to free speech. Your right to walk down the street. Your right to sleep in your own bed. Your right to sit on the couch and eat ice cream. For most of these folks, their main offense was the color of their skin. 

And they were unarmed. 

I am going to suggest that the absence of firearms would mean that all those lives, and hundreds more black, white, red, blue would be spared. Exhibit A would be Kyle Rittenhouse and his horribly misguided intrusion into the world of "peacekeeping." Killing two and wounding another does not constitute peace. The use of overwhelming force, including putting a knee on someone's neck, is not serving or protecting anyone. We call them "peace officers" much in the same way the Colt forty-five caliber revolver was nicknamed "The Peacemaker." Calling it ironic would be giving far too much credit. 

I am going to suggest that having a gun doesn't make anyone's job easier. Guns have a tendency to kill whatever is in front of them. Bullets have no brains and certainly no conscience. Brains and a conscience should be the first tools used to deescalate a situation. Far too often the questions are asked after the shots are fired. These are generally on their way to becoming excuses or rationalization. 

Certainly, when rolling up to a situation that has any number or unknowns attached to it, there is fear involved. We cannot expect human beings to be rational and fearless at all times. But is it a good idea to hand a gun to someone who is feeling anxious or tense? Police forces in England have specially trained firearms units. Their officers do not, as a matter of course, carry guns. When a situation requires one, a gun expert is dispatched. It should also be noted that these officers don't have to worry about everyone they encounter having a gun, because it's not part of their national identity. 

Now that institutional racism is being dragged out into the light, why not go ahead and ask some tough questions about our need for guns. Everywhere. All the time. Until we fix all that racism, maybe we should put the guns away. For a while. Maybe we won't need them at all once we're done. 

Because currently that list is not getting any shorter. 

Praise You

 I am a sucker for an "attaboy." As someone who routinely deflects praise and likes to shun attention outwardly, it is still part of what feeds me. 

Momentary digression: And "attaboy" is the specific praise given for a particular task or chore done by an individual, usually when the appreciator is surprised or short on tangible rewards. It is the biscuit for the dog or the fish for the dolphin. It is why we tend to jump through hoops. We have run out of biscuits or fish, so we can't just leave the hoop jumper hanging. It should be noted that this works best for individuals, since team "attaboys" are usually diffused and tend not to acknowledge group effort.

My wife knows these things and has certainly capitalized on them. Often, after spending hours in the yard or in the basement, grumbling to myself about how if I hired someone to do whatever drudgery has kept me occupied for hours at a stretch it would cost a pretty penny. Just about the time that I am ready to stomp off and spend the rest of the day being bitter about my lack of appreciation, along comes my adoring wife who gives me the "attaboy" that I need to shrug off all that antipathy. It is suddenly replaced by a renewed sense of purpose and a willingness to show back up again next week when this thing needs to be rearranged, planted, lifted or taken apart to make room for something new.

This past week, I was the recipient of an "attaboy" from the school district for which I work. It came in the form of a newsletter "shout out," which is ed code for "attaboy." My principal and I were the first bullet point in a list of a half dozen or so salutes to folks around the district caught doing their jobs: "The Horace Mann team worked long hours and even on weekends to ensure that all families have devices and are able to use them. Shout out to Principal Extraordinaire and Teacher/Computer Genius David Caven!" You'll notice that there was a mention of team there, but the focus on two individuals, me specifically, had just the right note of sincerity that suddenly I felt the week's mutterings drift away. I was gassed up and ready to go for another week of doing what I was going to be doing anyway, but without the veneer of resentment that sometimes comes with what Deadpool refers to as "maximum effort." 

And so it's back to work for this guy. I will be putting my metaphorical shoulder to the allegorical grindstone without a specific need for another "attaboy." Not for a while, anyway. I would hate to think that's why I'm doing this, after all.