"So they caught Fake News CNN cold, but what about NBC, CBS & ABC? What about the failing @nytimes & @washingtonpost? They are all Fake News!" Our "President" attacking the major news outlets as a group after three journalists resigned from the Cable News Network because of a retracted story about a Trumpite meeting with a Russian investment team. It should be noted that CNN never broadcast the story on any of its outlets. This little bit of what amounts to editorial responsibility is being hailed as a victory by those who rally 'round the Orange One.
It also points to a challenge that will, no doubt, exist for the time being while reporters of most every size, stripe and shape look to become the new Woodward and Bernstein. What sort of ratings/circulation boost might one expect from being the one who brought the whole house of cards down on the King of Tangerines?
This is the dynamic being set up currently in our newsrooms. Where it the thread that will bring the whole mess to light? Investigations on top of inquiries on top of testimony. Our "President" made things more interesting by first claiming to have tapes of his discussions with fired FBI Director James Comey, and then turned around to let us in on his big joike: "With all of the recently reported electronic surveillance, intercepts, unmasking and illegal leaking of information, I have no idea whether there are "tapes" or recordings of my conversations with James Comey, but I did not make, and do not have, any such recordings." All of which could constitute a crime, but someone would have to take time out from investigating all the other alleged crimes that may or may not be taking place in and around the White House currently.
All of which makes me wonder what sort of job this blustering mass of Twit could be doing in our nation's highest office while consumed with the tracking of television news ratings and other celebrities' social media feeds. How about health care? How about immigration reform? How about NATO?
At least we know the next time he'll be on Fox & Friends.
Twit.
Friday, June 30, 2017
Thursday, June 29, 2017
Tag Along
I would like to suggest that we make Tag an Olympic event. It could be held during the winter, but I expect an open field in the bright sunshine would make it a much better sell. The spectacle. The challenge. The pageantry. I haven't got the exact IOC rules in mind just yet, but I think it would go a long way toward bringing peace to the world through competition.
The initial notion I had came from a somewhat romanticized view of warfare between Native American tribes. Counting coup is the historical genesis of the game of tag. Rushing up to your enemy not to kill them, but to touch them and get away safely was considered the highest form of bravery. And it didn't involve mass destruction. It was all about making your enemy "it." Along with the running and jumping that can be found in the Olympics are events that mimic war in obvious ways: throwing spears, shooting rifles, archery. Why not wind the clock all the way back to the most civilized form of combat? Sure, judo and karate and wrestling have their roots in history before gunpowder, but this would allow the United States a chance to show off some of its heritage.
I am suggesting this because I have always admired the way the Olympics bring out the best in all of us, and how the nations of the world set aside their differences to settle their hash on the courts, fields, tracks and pools of athletic competition. Except for that dust-up in Munich back in 1972. And the bomb going off in Atlanta. And the various boycotts by various country's teams for various reasons over the years. Mostly it's not armed conflict. It's athletic contests that reduce rivalries between nations to something that NBC can use to fill a couple weeks of their broadcasting schedule.
Better, faster, stronger would have to be accompanied by wily. It might also give kids a new role model or two. They might never get to be as fast as Usain Bolt, or as dominant as Michael Jordan, but staying just out of reach of that outstretched hand or becoming a world-class "it" is something any kid on any playground in the world could aspire.
It's also the kind of lesson that can be taught to a world looking in: There is no real end to the game, after all. It ends when the group runs out of interest. Like the computer taught us in WarGames: The only winning move is not to play.
The initial notion I had came from a somewhat romanticized view of warfare between Native American tribes. Counting coup is the historical genesis of the game of tag. Rushing up to your enemy not to kill them, but to touch them and get away safely was considered the highest form of bravery. And it didn't involve mass destruction. It was all about making your enemy "it." Along with the running and jumping that can be found in the Olympics are events that mimic war in obvious ways: throwing spears, shooting rifles, archery. Why not wind the clock all the way back to the most civilized form of combat? Sure, judo and karate and wrestling have their roots in history before gunpowder, but this would allow the United States a chance to show off some of its heritage.
I am suggesting this because I have always admired the way the Olympics bring out the best in all of us, and how the nations of the world set aside their differences to settle their hash on the courts, fields, tracks and pools of athletic competition. Except for that dust-up in Munich back in 1972. And the bomb going off in Atlanta. And the various boycotts by various country's teams for various reasons over the years. Mostly it's not armed conflict. It's athletic contests that reduce rivalries between nations to something that NBC can use to fill a couple weeks of their broadcasting schedule.
Better, faster, stronger would have to be accompanied by wily. It might also give kids a new role model or two. They might never get to be as fast as Usain Bolt, or as dominant as Michael Jordan, but staying just out of reach of that outstretched hand or becoming a world-class "it" is something any kid on any playground in the world could aspire.
It's also the kind of lesson that can be taught to a world looking in: There is no real end to the game, after all. It ends when the group runs out of interest. Like the computer taught us in WarGames: The only winning move is not to play.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Proud
I saw a young man walking down a hill waving his butterfly wings, teetering on eight inches of platform heels. Wings and heels were emblazoned with the symbol of the day: A rainbow. In the moment it took him to cross the street in front of us, I was able to compartmentalize this event as something not wholly unique on Pride Weekend in San Francisco. What made it unique was the fact that there was not a flock of young men in similar costume trailing behind him.
Travelling down Market Street, I noticed rainbow flags hanging from poles, in windows, in public and private places. It wasn't a secret. It wasn't one neighborhood. It was the city that was coming out to say that we're here, we're queer, and we're having a parade. A parade that was going to be joined by a protest. Not from the Westboro Baptist Church. The LGBT community is currently under fire from groups who believe that Pride is too white. Too male.
Like so much about what is wrong with the world: too white, too male. Finding a way to get things not white or male or both leads to more inclusion. As the stranglehold white males have had over all manner of things in these United States begins to recede, white rage increases. Nice that the rage that has been engendered by white males all these years has finally come back to them. And yes, it is difficult to imagine that gay men might be included in this equation, at first. Then I remember my first gay pride rally.
In the spring of 1975, my family took a trip back east to visit a friend in New York. Wandering with my father and brothers through the theater district in Manhattan in search of tickets for a show that folks from Colorado might enjoy, we rounded a corner and ran smack into a dance party or protest or something that was unfamiliar to our Rocky Mountain senses. Young men in short shorts and fishnet tank tops and all manner of colorful attire were gathered in a throng, yelling and exhorting and making an enthusiastic fuss. I don't remember what was written on their signs, but I do remember one of them offering my father lip gloss. I also remember that most, if not all, of these young men were white.
My parents were friends with a number of white men back in Boulder. Some of them were gay. This was one of the ways we were able to show off how open minded we were. We understood their struggle for acceptance, though we didn't attend the rallies, not that there were any back in those days.
Now I live in the Bay Area, and all that acceptance is tested by the rainbow of diversity that exists here, surrounding this white male. I thought we had that whole LGBT thing figured out here, just like I imagined that electing Barack Obama fixed that racism deal.
I guess not. Time to open the door just a little wider and let everyone in, regardless of race, creed, color, sexuality, or shoe size.
Travelling down Market Street, I noticed rainbow flags hanging from poles, in windows, in public and private places. It wasn't a secret. It wasn't one neighborhood. It was the city that was coming out to say that we're here, we're queer, and we're having a parade. A parade that was going to be joined by a protest. Not from the Westboro Baptist Church. The LGBT community is currently under fire from groups who believe that Pride is too white. Too male.
Like so much about what is wrong with the world: too white, too male. Finding a way to get things not white or male or both leads to more inclusion. As the stranglehold white males have had over all manner of things in these United States begins to recede, white rage increases. Nice that the rage that has been engendered by white males all these years has finally come back to them. And yes, it is difficult to imagine that gay men might be included in this equation, at first. Then I remember my first gay pride rally.
In the spring of 1975, my family took a trip back east to visit a friend in New York. Wandering with my father and brothers through the theater district in Manhattan in search of tickets for a show that folks from Colorado might enjoy, we rounded a corner and ran smack into a dance party or protest or something that was unfamiliar to our Rocky Mountain senses. Young men in short shorts and fishnet tank tops and all manner of colorful attire were gathered in a throng, yelling and exhorting and making an enthusiastic fuss. I don't remember what was written on their signs, but I do remember one of them offering my father lip gloss. I also remember that most, if not all, of these young men were white.
My parents were friends with a number of white men back in Boulder. Some of them were gay. This was one of the ways we were able to show off how open minded we were. We understood their struggle for acceptance, though we didn't attend the rallies, not that there were any back in those days.
Now I live in the Bay Area, and all that acceptance is tested by the rainbow of diversity that exists here, surrounding this white male. I thought we had that whole LGBT thing figured out here, just like I imagined that electing Barack Obama fixed that racism deal.
I guess not. Time to open the door just a little wider and let everyone in, regardless of race, creed, color, sexuality, or shoe size.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Rhet or ick
Who is to blame for the sorry state of discourse in our nation? Is it the Democrats and their obstructionist ways? Is it the Republicans and their hate-filled speech? Is it Hollywood and their privileged denizens spouting invective and salacious rumors? Is it ISIS and their wicked terrorist ways seeping into the fabric of our culture? Is it Russia, hacking America in ways we cannot fully understand yet?
Is it us?
All of us?
Yup. Johnny Depp made a joke that an actor hasn't assassinated a president in a long time. It was a bad joke, not in construction, but in timing. Like Caitlyn Jenner suggesting that liberals can't shoot straight. It follows the functional rules of humor, but fails to consider the audience.
All of us.
We are all currently walking around barefoot on broken glass, elbows extended and eyes straight forward. And somewhere out there, Kathy Griffin is wandering about apologetically with the severed head of Donald Trump and Ted Nugent is asking us to forget about all that "suck my machine gun" business and get back to civility. While the "President" continues to tweet about tapes of conversations that may not have occurred or existed and Hillary Clinton says passing this new version of health care will make Republicans the party of death, we wait for the next shoe to drop. Who will say something regretful this today? What will pundits be vigorously debating over the coming week?
Why would we argue about the suggestion that Black Lives Matter? Of course they do. Fighting over what doesn't get said these days is almost as big a fuss as the trials of the things that do get said. Written. Replayed. Endlessly in a loop until something more upsetting comes down the wire.
Twenty-five years ago, Rodney King asked, "Can we all get along?" That was before Waco. Before Oklahoma City. Before Columbine. Before 9/11. Before Sandy Hook. Before Orlando.
Judging by the evidence, I would say, "No."
Which is a shame, since when we do, life is so much better.
Is it us?
All of us?
Yup. Johnny Depp made a joke that an actor hasn't assassinated a president in a long time. It was a bad joke, not in construction, but in timing. Like Caitlyn Jenner suggesting that liberals can't shoot straight. It follows the functional rules of humor, but fails to consider the audience.
All of us.
We are all currently walking around barefoot on broken glass, elbows extended and eyes straight forward. And somewhere out there, Kathy Griffin is wandering about apologetically with the severed head of Donald Trump and Ted Nugent is asking us to forget about all that "suck my machine gun" business and get back to civility. While the "President" continues to tweet about tapes of conversations that may not have occurred or existed and Hillary Clinton says passing this new version of health care will make Republicans the party of death, we wait for the next shoe to drop. Who will say something regretful this today? What will pundits be vigorously debating over the coming week?
Why would we argue about the suggestion that Black Lives Matter? Of course they do. Fighting over what doesn't get said these days is almost as big a fuss as the trials of the things that do get said. Written. Replayed. Endlessly in a loop until something more upsetting comes down the wire.
Twenty-five years ago, Rodney King asked, "Can we all get along?" That was before Waco. Before Oklahoma City. Before Columbine. Before 9/11. Before Sandy Hook. Before Orlando.
Judging by the evidence, I would say, "No."
Which is a shame, since when we do, life is so much better.
Monday, June 26, 2017
We Know Who We Are
The words were: “Who do you think you are?” They landed on
my spinal cord with a load of past memories that made the weight initially
painful. These words, spoken by a marching band director, came over the field’s
public address system, making me initially complicit. I was part of the public,
after all. We had arrived at this place to watch a rehearsal of our steadfast
friend from high school. She was taking this moment to relive a bit of her
youth, appearing in the color guard of the alumni drum and bugle corps with
whom she had spent summers with so many years ago. She was back, as were her
friends who had marched with her back in a previous century. In high school. A
place and time that had brought us together initially.
The sound of a director’s voice gave us all a twinge of
post-traumatic stress. We had all grown used to that sound as members of a high
school band. Marching band. I have often referred to this period as the time I
was involved in a paramilitary organization, one that brought me closer to a
group of folks who continue to hold very special places in my life. Including
the woman I married. All of which does not fully explain the trauma part. That
was a function of being led through our learning experience through high
expectations and competition. I didn’t play team sports in high school. Except
for band, and that was plenty when it came to the ritual humiliation of
adolescents who were already on shaky ground. They were in marching band, for
heaven’s sake.
When I grew up and went to teacher school, one of the things
I was taught was that students learn best when the compliment to criticism
ratio is kept at a pretty solid five to one. Five encouraging things to one get
to work on that. Building confidence aids learning. This was not something our
high school band director had encountered on his way to being in charge of a
group of teenagers. Or if he had, he had made other choices about how to handle
them. Breaking those fragile egos in the service of getting a core group of
like-minded members seemed to be his ethos, and constant haranguing seemed to
be his best hope of getting our spirits broken. The intent, it seemed to come
out the other side a lean, mean, marching machine. Clipboards and bullhorns
were thrown. As were tantrums. Not by the kids, but by the nominal adult in
charge. “That’s wrong! Can someone please tell me when we will start getting
this right?”
And so it went. We shed our uniqueness for a uniform
determination to be the best of die trying. We won some of our competitions. We
came in second or third in others, and each result was met with sparing
approval. We shouldn’t ever get too proud of ourselves. There was always
something we could improve.
As I sat there in the stands, watching this group of
dedicated grown-ups perform with drums and flags and horns at a level I had
never attained myself, I was struck by the notion that their dedication was
never in doubt. These were folks who had shown up years after they had aged out
with the hope of leaving one more great show on the field. What made this guy
think he was going to get better results by hollering at them?
The good news is that after that rehearsal, some of the
adults took it upon themselves to speak to the adult “in charge.” They didn’t
like being talked to that way, especially after donating their lives and limbs
to the cause one more time. Knock it off with the “Who do you think you are?”
jabber. They knew. They would be successful. On their terms. It made me happy
to know that someone had spoken up, if not for me, then for the bandies who
came before and after me. Who did he think he was? My high school band
director? Too bad. That past is buried now.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Dude?
I have a goal this summer. I want to be blocked by the "realDonaldTrump" on Twitter. I want to get far enough under the skin of the "President" that he or his handlers push that button that says "please stop." I suppose I could accomplish this in any number of ways, but I won't be making threats or cursing unnecessarily. Probably won't curse at all, even though there are moments or tweets that bring some of those notions to the surface. "I certainly hope the Democrats do not force Nancy P out. That would be very bad for the Republican Party - and please let Cryin' Chuck stay!" This was our nation's leader poking fun at Democratic leaders Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer in the wake of the special elections in Georgia and South Carolina. The attempt at humor was that Democratic leadership needs help right now. The potential for the blue guys to pick up a red seat somewhere along the line didn't happen.
And now our "President" is gloating. And name calling. The Cryin' Chuck reference dates back to a speech Senator Schumer gave back in January in response to the "President's" immigration ban. Chuck Schumer teared up when he recalled his own family's immigrant experience. A human reaction. For the record, Senator Schumer still refers to Donald Trump as "Mister President." It is true that he and his staff took a pretty wide swing at the Cabinet meeting fawn-a-thon on social media. He didn't call any names. He hasn't dipped as low as I have, constantly putting quotations around "President." Or calling him a Creamsicle. I do call names. In this way, Senator Chuck Schumer of New York has more dignity than I do. Not a huge surprise.
But I will try and use some of that discretion when staking my claim to being blocked by the realDonaldTrump on Twitter. I do refer to our commander in chief almost exclusively as "Dude." I do point out when he is being overly aggro about this or that. Which is most of the time. The confounding thing is that months after the election that put him in office and gave him majorities in both the House and the Senate, he continues to behave as if he needs to keep winning. Have you seen his maps? Meanwhile, no substantive legislation has passed. All this winning and no real wins. Whining, yes. Winning, no.
Now the "President" wants us to get behind building a wall on our southern border with solar collectors. "Pays for itself." Clean energy and isolationist. A match made in that big empty space between his ears. “Think about it, the higher it goes, the more valuable it is. Pretty good imagination, right, good?“ My idea.”
It will be on Twitter soon. And so will I. Working on my own special project, Dude.
And now our "President" is gloating. And name calling. The Cryin' Chuck reference dates back to a speech Senator Schumer gave back in January in response to the "President's" immigration ban. Chuck Schumer teared up when he recalled his own family's immigrant experience. A human reaction. For the record, Senator Schumer still refers to Donald Trump as "Mister President." It is true that he and his staff took a pretty wide swing at the Cabinet meeting fawn-a-thon on social media. He didn't call any names. He hasn't dipped as low as I have, constantly putting quotations around "President." Or calling him a Creamsicle. I do call names. In this way, Senator Chuck Schumer of New York has more dignity than I do. Not a huge surprise.
But I will try and use some of that discretion when staking my claim to being blocked by the realDonaldTrump on Twitter. I do refer to our commander in chief almost exclusively as "Dude." I do point out when he is being overly aggro about this or that. Which is most of the time. The confounding thing is that months after the election that put him in office and gave him majorities in both the House and the Senate, he continues to behave as if he needs to keep winning. Have you seen his maps? Meanwhile, no substantive legislation has passed. All this winning and no real wins. Whining, yes. Winning, no.
Now the "President" wants us to get behind building a wall on our southern border with solar collectors. "Pays for itself." Clean energy and isolationist. A match made in that big empty space between his ears. “Think about it, the higher it goes, the more valuable it is. Pretty good imagination, right, good?“ My idea.”
It will be on Twitter soon. And so will I. Working on my own special project, Dude.
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Dog Trip
It was not so very long ago that we would pack up the family and head out on adventures, sometimes without a specific destination in mind. Then we got a dog. That meant that we needed to find someone to look after our best friend while we traveled the highways and byways. That meant we needed to have someone we could trust with our best friend as well as our house. Mostly we had house/dog sitters. This enhanced our sense of security as we traveled those previously mentioned highways and byways.
Road trips with a dog make me think of John Steinbeck. Not because they give me suicidal thoughts, but because of Travels With Charley. If you haven't read that one, it's about an author who takes his "mind-reading" dog with him on a journey to reconnect with America. Charley was a poodle, so that probably wouldn't happen with me anyway, but having made a number of trips in my youth with a dachshund to our cabin in the mountains, I can say that this method of travel is always more amusing for the dog who is consumed with the wind rushing past his or her ears and up his or her nose. There are also potty stops that are more difficult to anticipate than those of a child. Generally speaking.
Then there's the practical matter of finding pet-friendly motels along the way. I have some memories of waking up early on some of those family road trips and seeing someone else taking their dog on a walk around the parking lot. It always looks as artificial as the plants in the lobby.
Still, that option of being the owner who gets to tell his or her dog that they are going for a ride, a really long ride, in the car would be very gratifying. Mind-reading dog or not. And yet, we didn't take our best friend on any of those sojourns we took back when we had a dog of our own. Sometimes we took her to a friend's house for an evening, or to the dog park. We even took her to the beach a few times. That was more than just a little gratifying. In retrospect, a part of me wonders why we didn't bother to try to bring her along on some of our other adventures.
Then I remember how much I like being at home, and how much I wanted to share that value with my pet. That feeling of the wind rushing past versus the comfort of that nice warm bed. I spent a week with a neighbor's dog, taking care of him at our house. It was just long enough for him to become accustomed to all the best places to plop down on the floor. He went for a couple rides, and plenty of walks, but mostly he curled up next to us on the couch when we would let him. He missed his owner, and he didn't even mind not going to Hawaii. Hanging his head out of a 737 would have been Nirvana.
Road trips with a dog make me think of John Steinbeck. Not because they give me suicidal thoughts, but because of Travels With Charley. If you haven't read that one, it's about an author who takes his "mind-reading" dog with him on a journey to reconnect with America. Charley was a poodle, so that probably wouldn't happen with me anyway, but having made a number of trips in my youth with a dachshund to our cabin in the mountains, I can say that this method of travel is always more amusing for the dog who is consumed with the wind rushing past his or her ears and up his or her nose. There are also potty stops that are more difficult to anticipate than those of a child. Generally speaking.
Then there's the practical matter of finding pet-friendly motels along the way. I have some memories of waking up early on some of those family road trips and seeing someone else taking their dog on a walk around the parking lot. It always looks as artificial as the plants in the lobby.
Still, that option of being the owner who gets to tell his or her dog that they are going for a ride, a really long ride, in the car would be very gratifying. Mind-reading dog or not. And yet, we didn't take our best friend on any of those sojourns we took back when we had a dog of our own. Sometimes we took her to a friend's house for an evening, or to the dog park. We even took her to the beach a few times. That was more than just a little gratifying. In retrospect, a part of me wonders why we didn't bother to try to bring her along on some of our other adventures.
Then I remember how much I like being at home, and how much I wanted to share that value with my pet. That feeling of the wind rushing past versus the comfort of that nice warm bed. I spent a week with a neighbor's dog, taking care of him at our house. It was just long enough for him to become accustomed to all the best places to plop down on the floor. He went for a couple rides, and plenty of walks, but mostly he curled up next to us on the couch when we would let him. He missed his owner, and he didn't even mind not going to Hawaii. Hanging his head out of a 737 would have been Nirvana.
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