Histor-ick

 Every day is history. Those of us who survived the pandemic and the terrifying abuses of power by the "president" who came before Joe Biden will be reckoning with this for the rest of our lives. Those of us who may have thrown our votes away in 2016 because they felt that Hillary Clinton was just another in a series of bad choices will have to watch as our country digs itself out of the blizzard of scandal that swirled around a certain former game show host and slumlord who seemed to so many like "a change of pace."

No other president has been impeached twice. No other president has been indicted for felonies. This includes bad men like Richard Nixon and Warren G Harding and Andrew Johnson. These former presidents slunk out of office and lived in ignominy while history judged their misdeeds. But not in a court of law. Never in a court of law. 

Until now. The MAGAt in chief, who continues to play his greatest hits about winning the 2020 election and how he was never guilty of anything ever and how sending him money is the best way to show that you care about the poor little rich boy. This cad who has a lengthy history of misogynistic behavior who insists that he never had an affair with a porn star no matter how precisely on brand it turns out to be and if he did she was a "horseface" and was doing it all for the publicity. Meanwhile, his supporters vacillate between defending him as completely innocent and insisting that hush money and non-disclosure agreements are used all the time so it's really Stormy Daniels on whom we should be focusing our attention. 

Bill Clinton's affair with Monica Lewinsky was a messy one, but by ramping up the stakes to a porn star and paying her one hundred thirty thousand dollars to keep her mouth shut gives the "advantage" to the most corrupt Cheeto ever to hold public office. 

Meanwhile, the media continues to document his every move because we don't want to miss a second. Richard Nixon had the good sense to crawl back to San Clemente and wait a few years to creep back into the light, begging for understanding. The placeholder between Obama and Biden hasn't shut up for a minute since he lost the popular vote for the second time and was sent to the disgraced former presidents box. But he wouldn't stay there. He used the press and social media to continue to stir a pot of self-promotion and lies that brought about the insurrection of January 6, 2021. There has been not a single quiet moment of reflection, just endless misinformation and self-pity pouring out of the gilded golf club in Florida. 

For the first time in our history, people are asking the question, "Can a convicted felon be elected President of the United States?" I'll save you the trouble of looking it up: Yes, he or she can. And that's not the kind of history I am interested in living through. 

A Space Odyssey

 I went to see 2001: A Space Odyssey when it first came out. It was an event. My family piled into the station wagon and drove down to Denver to see it on the biggest screen in our region: The Cooper. Watching a movie in Cinerama was a big enough deal for my five year old brain to comprehend, but the story of man's evolution through time and space was a visual treat that transformed my mind. 

I was five at the time. 

As I suggested, the trip to Denver was an event in and of itself, but the movie that was unleashed on all of us was a trip none of us had fully anticipated. Hearing all that Strauss pumped through the newly developed transistorized sound system was awesome without anything to look at, and the low rumble of Also Sprach Zarathustra was a revelation that would eventually attach itself to Elvis Presley, Peter Sellers, and The Simpsons. But nothing before or since rocked me back in my seat like Stanley Kubrick's bombastic vision all those years ago. 

I was five at the time. 

America was still on its way to the moon. Mister Kubrick got me there first. Not content to stay in the neighborhood, he pushed on to the moons of Jupiter. And beyond. I stared in wide wonder as the story of man's voyage through the solar system unfolded before me an my family. When the intermission came, we were just a little too stunned to jump up and take advantage of the concession stand. There was so much to try and piece together, and where was this voyage taking us? 

I was five at the time. 

Settled back in our seats, my parents had purchased my older brother and I souvenir space capsules full of watery orange drink, but my eyes never left the screen. HAL, that paranoid android, proved to be as cold and calculating as any movie villain I had ever seen. 

I was five at the time.

When the psychedelic slit screen sequence erupted in front of my eyes, I figured this must be what going to heaven must be like. 

I was five at the time. 

On the way home, my older brother and my parents tried to make sense out of what happened in the end. I was focused on my now emptied space capsule. I dreamed of making my own trip to to the stars. I dreamed of making my own movie someday. 

I was five at the time.

Rules, Rules, Rules

 Rule 2.00 defines the Infield Fly as, “a fair fly ball (not including a line drive or a bunt) which can be caught by an infielder with ordinary effort, when first and second, or first, second, and third bases are occupied before two are out."

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, theright of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Here we have two cornerstones of the American Way of Life. Up top, in case you're unfamiliar, is the Infield Fly Rule. Below is the Second Amendment to the US Constitution. The Infield Fly Rule is more than one hundred years old. The Second Amendment is older by about a century. And yet, these two bits of American ephemera continue to puzzle those who encounter them after all this time. 

Go ahead and ask someone attending a Major League Baseball game to explain Rule 2.00. There will be those exceptions who can quote it in its entirety, but most will tell you that it has to do with flies on the infield. Just because they can't explain it doesn't mean they don't know and love the game any more or less. 

You'll get a similar response outside an NRA rally. There are those who can recite the Second Amendment as if it were a tattooed on their chest, which in some case it is. If you ask them what it means, they will most likely tell you that it means that we can all own guns. As many as we want. And the government cannot take them away because nobody infringes on their guns. 

So the good news about the Infield Fly Rule is that, as far as my research can make out, no one has ever died because of its improper application. It is up to the Umpire's discretion as to whether or not "ordinary effort" was used by the infielder. 

The Second Amendment? Well there have been a lot of folks buying guns "legally" and later using them to kill others "illegally." And while those buying these boatloads of guns insist that it is their Right, there hasn't bee much discussion of how the "well regulated Militia" fits into all this. Does it mean that when you buy your nine millimeter or your AR-15 that you are joining up to an ad hoc army of citizens ready to defend us all from invading enemies? It seems like most of those tattooed individuals begging us to pry their weapons from their cold dead hands are not interested in foreign invaders as much as they are in those who would keep them from having those killing machines in the first place. The parents of dead school children. The families of church goers who were mowed down by the Right not to just Bear Arms but to use them to break the First Commandment. Thou shalt not kill. 

My most morbid take here would involve a mass shooting at a baseball game. Of course, Major League Baseball has a rule that prohibits weapons from being carried into their stadiums, so if you brought a gun to kill the umpire, you'd be breaking the rules. 

In The Lab

 I'm not sure why I didn't see it coming from a little further away. My wife was admiring a sentence from a recent blog of mine, and I took some prideful satisfaction in the knowledge that these were mere words that I selected out of many and purposefully strung them together. And they made sense, after a fashion. That is my aim, after all, on most days: To make sense. 

It was only a little more than a week ago that I was confronted with the wonders of ChatGPT. If you are unfamiliar, I can describe it pretty simply: It does what I do most days but it's a computer. A program. An app. An artificial intelligence that strings words and ideas and images together that in many ways simulate what writers and artists do. On demand. 

For free. 

That's because it's still in research mode, and a friend of mine asked this machine to make a story about Donald Trump eating so much that he exploded. The results were quite amusing and, because I sometimes write stories about Donald Trump, I figure I'm a pretty decent judge. 

Then a week passed, and it was in those idle moments when I start conjuring up what I might like to write about for this day's entry that it occurred to me that I could just as easily ask ChatGPT to belch out something clever while I finish that especially tricky level of Candy Crush. And no one would have to be the wiser. I just come up with a phrase or premise and push the On button. There's your three paragraphs comparing the Second Amendment to the Infield Fly Rule. I could even argue that the output was my creation because I went to all the trouble of coming up with the grist for the cyber-mill. And I had the presence of mind to push the Enter key. 

But that's not why I am here. I am here to cobble together those pithy bits of wisdom and fanciful bits of prose that hopefully fill that three minutes in your day when you're looking for what goes on in my head. Not what gets skimmed off the top of the murky pond we call Al Gore's Internet. It's not the real thing. It's CheatGPT. 

At least that's my take for now. I used to insist that I would only attend movies if they had a web site. Now I feel compelled to support those that don't have any web presence at all. I used to write everything on big yellow pads with a series of black Bic Stick pens. I used to look things up in the dictionary, or thesaurus. Now I use the tools at my disposal, just a click away. How many hops, skips and jumps am I away from churning these things out via Artificial Intelligence? 

Time will tell, but for now I have set myself a task that I must eventually rise to: Comparing and contrasting the Second Amendment and the Infield Fly Rule. 

Stay tuned. 

Witch Hunt

 Do you remember the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail when they are trying to determine whether the woman the angry mob has brought before Sir Bedevere is a witch or not? After some strenuous logical gymnastics, it is determined that since wood floats in water and a duck floats in water if she weighs the same as a duck...She's a witch. 

Once the pylons beneath the scales are removed and the duck and the woman balance, it is determined by the witch's own admission that the mob was correct. "It's a fair cop," she sighs, resigned to her fate of being burned at the stake. 

I bring this little whiff of comic nostalgia your way because I can't help but reflect on all this talk about Witch Hunts. Once upon a time, people (mostly women) were put to death when they were found to be acting outside of some prescribed mode. That "normal" was what a male hierarchy put in place to keep things (women) from getting out of hand. It would be cool if there was some ongoing record of the varied and few instances in which there was a real witch. Which would make all this fuss seem worthwhile. As it did for Monty Python back in the day. 

Donald Trump and his minions like to place themselves in the victicm's role when they holler about how they are being oppressed by The Deep State Woke Radical Liberal Antifa Mob. He might also want to insinuate himself with the place of those who were blacklisted in the late forties and fifties. Unjustly accused! Weaponized  Prosecution Persecution! Two-tiered justice system! The most innocent man in history!

Except he's a witch. 

He turned me into a newt.

I got better. 

But he is a witch.

Burn him. 

Imminent Part 2

 Apologies to those who figured they would tune into this space around this time for accounts of the Trump Indictment, perp walk and all the attendant drama that would unfold as the MAGAt in chief is finally dragged before a court. 

But fear not, true believers, I have scoured the news for a replacement legal drama: The Trial of The Mistress of Goop. If you have not been keeping track of all the drama taking place in Park City, Utah I figure I owe you all this reportage to take your mind off the fact that the twice-impeached former game show host is still at large. 

In 2016, it is alleged that Gwyneth Paltrow, semi-retired actress and face of Goop crashed into another skier on the slopes knocking him out, breaking four of his ribs, and causing a traumatic brain injury. The alleged victim is suing her Goopness for three hundred thousand dollars. Ms. Paltrow is countersuing for one dollar and the connected legal fees generated from this vicissitude. The courtroom intrigue has been nothing if not salacious. As part of his complaint against Paltrow, the victim's lawyer explained that his client, Terry Sanderson, was no longer to enjoy the activities that he had before the collision. This included wine tasting. 

Ouch.

He went on: “Before this crash, Terry was a charming, outgoing, gregarious person. After the crash, he’s no longer charming.”

Double ouch. 

For her part, Ms. Paltrow described her torment:  “Well, I lost half a day of skiing.” No word as to how her wine tasting was affected. She was also asked about the time she was on Jimmy Kimmel's show and mentioned that she was "accident prone." She was also asked about her relationship with Taylor Swift. Under oath, Gwyneth Paltrow allowed that the two were "friendly, but not close friends." 

Talk about your fireworks!

When the smoke finally cleared, Paltrow was awarded her one dollar, and sweet vindication. So, I guess what I'm suggesting here is that if you don't think waiting around for an arrest of the former "president" is painful enough, I could continue to dish on the litigation going on in Park City. 

Fool's Paradise

 In the midst of all this insanity and darkness, let me be the quiet voice of reason: The only thing that really matters is having a full tube of toothpaste.

I know, it's April Fool's Day and you might be looking for something a little lighter to even up your day. Confronting a planet that is slowly burning itself to a cinder, and the ones who can't contain their political disagreements to talk shows are taking up arms and killing one another. It's not pretty or safe out there. Which is why you should stay home and revel in the comforts available to most every American.

I spent a couple weeks pinching, squeezing and begging that last bit of Crest out of the tube, but when I finally allowed myself to look under the sink, I found a brand new tube of toothpaste waiting for me. Opening the cap and giving the tiniest nudge filled my brush with dentifrice and my heart with joy. The next couple of minutes brought me a peace I hadn't felt for a long time. It was serene. 

I feel much the same way when I notice that the toilet paper has recently been changed. No fretting about the number of squares used. No inward conservation measures. Just knowing that comfort awaits just an arm's length away is tranquility and calm in a rough sea. If you happen to be my wife, this moment of peace can be interrupted by the way the roll hangs on the spindle. She is an "over" girl, and she won't settle for anything less. Toilet paper that rolls out from beneath is not soothing. It is an affront and must be dealt with summarily. 

Outside the bathroom, there are still some moments of quietude. A full cookie jar. A clean rug. Folded laundry safe in its respective drawers. Watered plants. Outside the wars can rage on, but if the vacuuming is done there is peace in the valley. The valley of our little oasis. 

Sooner or later, of course, I will be coaxed out of my cave for want of a nail or a deli sandwich. And the disappointments that lay out there in wait never sleep. They're going to try their best to get at me when I look at the television or Al Gore's Internet, but as long as I stick with Turner Classic Movies, I'll probably be okay.

For a while. 

Until I run out of toothpaste.