#MeToo and Gender and 2018

Me too. For a long time, that phrase described a woman's place in the world. An afterthought. A casual, last-minute addition. 

Today, it means something very different. It is a forum where women detail the sexual abuse and manipulation they have received at the hands of men.

Like so much else that surfaced in 2017, it is ugly.

Heading the list is Harvey Weinstein, an immensely powerful Hollywood mogul who held in his hands the futures of alluring young women eager to taste Hollywood's fame and riches. Judging from the available evidence, it appears that Weinstein had no compunction whatsoever about taking advantage of that position.

These allegations are serious and are being taken in kind. Dozens of accused men have surrendered their jobs, their public standing and conceivably, their marriages. It is a very high price to pay.

My concern is that so many of them are merely that—allegations. Only a tiny percentage have seen the inside of a courtroom, where they would be held up to the bright light of examination and proven or disproven.

Women, like men, are capable of holding grudges. Of crafting agendas. Of seizing opportunities. Of lying. And what better way to soothe a wounded ego than to accuse a powerful and well-connected man of withholding a coveted role because you didn't put out?

There is a faint whiff of the sordid Tawana Brawley – Al Sharpton affair, which was one of the more distressing events of my lifetime. I remember thinking you mean there isn't enough genuine racism in the world? We have to manufacture it???

And yet, having witnessed firsthand the depths my sex can sink to in the pursuit of female, um, companionship, they aren't terribly hard to believe, either. And after folding in the intoxicating multipliers of celebrity and wealth, imagining the worst requires the same stretch that reaching for the remote does.

As a man raised by a mother who had “...and to obey” stricken from her marriage vows, and as one who came of age in the sensitive male seventies, I was taught to respect women as fellow human beings. They were neither superior nor inferior; they existed alongside me.

All of which made perfect sense.

But in the divisive twenty-first century, where everything has become a war, those attitudes would be roundly mocked by half of the population. Men reach for extreme expressions of masculinity in a changing social and economic landscape that increasingly favors women, while feminism becomes less about equality and more about control.

As an age-enhanced individual, I find it ironic when I encounter women who remind me of the men feminists once railed against. They are dismissive, arrogant and possess the same sense of gender-based entitlement my forebearers did.

When I don't find it ironic, I find it sad. This is progress?

I love the French expression vive la difference. I can only wonder how it plays out in French culture. Are relationships between men and women really better there? Do French men and women truly love and respect one another for who they are?

In America, life is about winning. And there can only be one winner. It isn't about co-existing, it's about emerging victorious. About control. Contentment is frowned upon. One must always seek the promotion. Desire the bigger house. Have and want more.

Sadly, this seeps into our personal relationships as well.

This competition was once the exclusive property of men in the workplace. But again, times have changed. Women, historically denied the opportunity to buy into that and become part of it suddenly do. And are.

How funny is it that in a country as homophobic as the United States, women are assuming the qualities of men? And must do so if not for respect, then equality?

The aforementioned age-enhanced individual laments that as a society, we refuse to recognize traditional feminine characteristics as different—but equal—strengths. One sex gets to dominate, the other is made subservient.

We refuse to celebrate our differences. To appreciate and regard each gender for their unique qualities and what each brings to the world. To understand how vital each is to an ongoing, functional civilization.

Before I am labelled a Bible-toting chauvinist, I should add that we also refuse to allow women opportunity when traditional roles don't appeal.

While not a knee-jerk supporter of girl power (I don't remember the last male boss I had nor do I make a third more than the woman working next to me simply because I have a penis), I have to admit the societal model is broken.

Women shouldn't ever be put through what so many have been, be it in Hollywood or on Wall Street.

Seventies feminism provoked the frequently-asked question “What do women want?”, which was, in retrospect, entirely the wrong question. Women are individuals. They are diverse and want as many different things as men do.

Maybe a better question was (and is) what can women want? 

With democracy on life-support, my wish for 2018 is that both sexes can live fulfilling lives unconstrained and undefined by gender.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

Incontrovertible Evidence

I have called Donald Trump a whore. I have called him spoiled, petulant and selfish. In place of human attributes such as integrity, maturity and morality, Donald Trump has, well, ego.

So very much ego.

I have wished for his death. I have accused him of everything except being a leader. If the human being exists whom I have less regard for, I have not been made aware of his (or her) existence.

You can, of course, argue that this is merely opinion. Conjecture. The wounded feelings of someone who mourns the passing of our democracy.

You might even be correct.

So it is with that in mind that I search for absolute proof. The convincing, unassailable fact that will convert the nonconvertible and make believers of those who do not.

It has taken nearly a year, but I believe I finally have that which will confirm Donald Trump's standing as an insensible, unintelligible, craven, immoral sub-human:

When asked how the president prefers his steak, a local restaurateur revealed that Mr. Trump likes it well-done—with ketchup.

Nothing more need be said.

The anti-christ is upon us.

It's Bear Season

My hometown NFL franchise continues to struggle. As they have most of my life.

They were once the terrors of the NFL. But I spent my formative years watching as the team's legendary founder (George Halas) struggled to adapt to the realities of the post-expansion NFL and wasted draft choice after draft choice pursuing not the best available talent, but talent he could sign on the cheap.

It resulted in some of the most desultory football ever to soil a network television camera.

True, a world championship eventually followed the 1974 hire of the brilliant Jim Finks and the 1982 hire of Mike Ditka. Another Super Bowl visit followed the drafting of a once-in-a-lifetime linebacker. But not to worry—those successes have been thoroughly extinguished.

Torpor and incompetence have assumed their assigned seats.

The thirty-two years since the Bears' last championship dwarfs the twenty-two year wait which preceded that, and was considered a public indignity punishable by hanging.

One long-term drought is a fluke. Two bear an uncomfortable resemblance to a pattern.

As is usually the case, the defense is good enough. They play hard, and despite the woeful 4 - 10 record the team has rarely been blown out. In fact, the Bears have been outscored by just 4.2 points a game.

The common denominator stretching back over half a century is the absence of a potent offense. The franchise fails at this aspect of football as reliably as water douses fire.

Yes, the Ditka-era offenses were strong, but they were inevitably hobbled by a great quarterback who was usually disabled come playoff time. It's no coincidence that the only year the Bears went all the way was one of just two post-seasons in which Jim McMahon was available.

The remaining contenders were left in the hands of Steve Fuller (1984), Doug Flutie (1986), Mike Tomczak (1988 and 1990) and Jim Harbaugh (1991), none of whom are a threat to darken the doorway to the Hall of Fame anytime soon.

There was no confirmed sighting of a goat, but even the 2001 Bears, who came out of nowhere to go 13 - 3 behind quarterback Jim Miller, lost his services late in the season and for the divisional playoff game.

The Bears post-season quarterback? Shane Matthews.

True, Erik Kramer had an amazing 1995 and remained healthy throughout all of it, but that's mostly because those Bears never threatened to make a playoff appearance.

The Bears have had great runners (Matt Forte), great receivers (Brandon Marshall), great kickers (Robbie Gould) and even great kick returners (Devin Hester), but the offense rarely gels. Only for a single season after the tenured quarterback (Jay Cutler) is reunited with his favorite offensive coordinator.

When we're talking the Bears and offense, chemistry is something that happens only in a textbook. Were I a legal scholar, I would be checking the record for legislation prohibiting the Bears from point-scoring prominence. They are—once and for all—O-averse. 

This from the franchise that created the forward pass. 

Fast forward to 2017. The confused brain trust heading the Bears signed a career back-up quarterback to a very generous contract before trading up in the draft for a promising youngster.

It has mostly been a quarterback controversy in reverse.

The Bears stumbled onto a fifth-round running back (Jordan Howard) who has performed admirably—especially considering the unsettled line in front of him. And offensive tackle Kyle Long has performed at an All-Pro level throughout his brief career.

But the lack of a threatening or even dependable receiver corps allows opposing defenses to stack up against the run, further exposing the weak line. And the Bears best threat—tight end Zach Miller—is out with an injury.

So games end with single-digit first down totals. Drives that amount to a trip to the corner 7-11. And play-calling as predictable as a Supreme Court vote. It adds up to a Ph.D. dissertation in feeble.

Football is the most reciprocal sport out there. A great defensive line makes a secondary look good. A great secondary make a defensive line look good. A great offensive line makes a quarterback look good. And a running back. And vice versa.

Running opens up the passing game. And passing opens up the running game. It goes on and on. A great defense allows an offense to play without inhibition. And a great offense sustains drives, which keeps the defense fresh.

Football is a game that rewards balance.

Perpetually out of balance, the Bears remain the also-rans they have been for the better part of the last fifty years. Without a curse to market, attention is focused entirely on performance. In other words, the McCaskeys are fine administrators but come up short at talent acquisition.

A stream of executive-level football personnel has come and gone. Only the results remain stable. There is a blind spot.

True and incisive change starts at the top. Without it, the Bears will continue to flounder.

I'd love for the McCaskeys to prove me wrong.

The Tax Cuts and Jobs Act

Twenty-some years ago, conservatives were fond of using the phrase “transfer of wealth” to scare the Republican base into voting lest the country be overrun with poor people driving Italian sports cars and buying homes in affluent suburbs.

So it is ironic, then, that our current infestation of Republicans is presiding over that which they wielded as a threat all those years ago.

The latest installment of their ongoing effort to hand the country over to the one-percent is their tax reform, a hastily-written proposal composed in shadow to keep we the people from seeing it for the outrage it is. 

(But not to worry. I have it on good authority that the half-eaten bag of Doritos in your kitchen and that basket of dirty laundry are, for the moment, safe.)

First off is the nearly fifty-percent reduction in the corporate tax rate.

Anyone with even the faintest knowledge of corporate America knows businesses routinely employ armies of tax attorneys to reduce their tax burden. And they succeed, wildly. No company able to keep its head outside its rectum pays the listed rate—none.

This reduction has the added benefit of relieving corporations of that need to keep tax attorneys around, which come to think of it must be frightfully expensive. *sniff*

To further assuage our put-upon corporations, they will be allowed to repatriate their offshore cash reserves to the U.S. at a suggested tax rate of just 10%. To ensure they aren't too inconvenienced by our largesse, they have eight years to pay up. 

To those of you made inconsolable by our immigration policy, which seemingly rewards illegal aliens for not getting caught, please explain to me in excruciating detail how this is different. It is certainly interesting that our pillars of pilferage sit on historic amounts of cash—even despite the strangulating regulation forced upon them by the big, bad—and presumably liberal—government.

Someone is getting screwed, and it doesn't appear to be the folks with the mountain of offshore tender, does it? 

But the biggest, most-lavishly-wrapped gift is a change in the methodology of taxation. Our beleaguered corporations are no longer required to report overseas income, the likely outcome of which will be said cash returning to these shores virtually untaxed.

If the facts aren't horrific enough, Trump's stooges are actually attempting to sell this tax bill as a stimulus package. It's right there in the title: Tax Cuts & Jobs Act. Citizens of a certain age will recognize it as the Reagan Administration's trickle-down theory of economics.

You will be excused for proffering tart and unappreciative comments such as “Hey! It didn't work then, so maybe it won't work now, either!” 

As a twentieth-century wit once noted “Republicans are people who believe nothing should be done for the first time.”

Donald? Mitch? Paul? I'm pretty stupid. But I'm not vote Republican stupid.

Granted, your tax overhaul gives middle Americans a break in the same sense that—technically—I'm employed. But I shouldn't ever confuse 'employed' with 'self-supporting'.

Non-partisan summations universally conclude that middle-America's cut is not only faint, it's also temporary. By contrast, the parasite class receives cuts that are deep and full and also—to quote Trump's stooges—permanent.

If our homegrown corporations didn't routinely exhibit the venal and self-serving behavior they dismiss their employees for, I might actually be inclined to believe the money they save will fund infrastructure investment and job growth.

But we all know where it's going, don't we?

And we haven't event touched on the ugliness of how these cuts are going to be paid for.

To compensate for lost revenue, Republicans will be forced to reduce costs. They will also want to avoid being seen as growing the deficit, which this bill does—in spades. And I'm guessing oil company subsidies aren't on the table.

More likely, frivolities like Medicaid, Medicare and Social Security will be.

The many will fund the few.

The most contentious, immature, hostile and sociopathic president in American history will oversee the most draconian tax reform in memory.

But like the suspense thriller with multiple red-herring endings, this show ain't over. Not yet.

There is one final indignity.

We must listen to the fortunate son, the spoiled, petulant, ungrateful recipient of an undue amount of life's blessings inform us that he is screwing himself because, as our president, he has discovered a higher calling.

Even higher than grabbing women by their pus... well, never mind.

Yes, his accountants are “going crazy” as Donald inexplicably directs his chauffeur to the poor house because the Republicant tax reform is going to break him.

(Do the room temperature IQs who voted for this cretin really believe this shit?)

I know of a waitress who posts regularly on Facebook. After Trump's election, she ardently, stridently and obnoxiously announced that “America got its balls back.”

Pity those selfsame balls will soon be slapping her on the chin.

The Cold, Unvarnished Truth

This is a distinctly un-Christian thought, but every morning I wake-up hoping our president has been found dead on the floor of a White House bathroom, a half-finished tweet sitting forlornly on his phone. 

He is a repugnant man, the product of unending privilege and good fortune. He is the nation's very own Little Lord Fauntleroy, the unhappy and bored scion of wealth who desperately seeks happiness in ever-increasing amounts of that which no longer satisfies him: money, status and power.

Failing that, he has turned to torturing ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass.

As a member of the ninety-nine percent, it is desperately hard not to feel like a Jew watching the Nazis come to power.

Fuck you Donald Trump. 

May you rot in the worst hell of your imagination.   

A Christmas Story

Apologies for the blatant sentimentality, but even a bitter cynic like myself has a soft spot 'round this time of year.

For long-time readers, yes, you've seen this before. I originally published this on MySpace in 2008.

I was very fortunate as a boy. I loved to eat cookies, and in a divine act of convergence was born to a mother who loved to bake them. And Christmas brought out the best in both our talents.

My favorites were dates wrapped in strips of cream cheese dough, followed closely by cookies made of the same and dusted with powdered sugar. So good were her cookies that eventually I couldn't wait for the finished product. I organized clandestine raids on the refrigerator, looking for the melon-sized ball of tin foil that held the stuff dreams were made of.

My dough-based despoilment reached such proportions that one year my mother was forced to concoct a second batch. I was given stern warning that this second batch would remain untouched—or else.

As I grew older, I learned the virtues of consideration and patience, and waited for the transformation of dough into cookie before letting my appetite loose. But with the bottomless hunger of a teen-aged boy, this created another problem. How to have actual cookies to serve on Christmas Eve and Christmas?

The answer was obvious: hide them. But even despite my modest academic achievements, this answer was abundantly clear to me as well.

And so began a cold war-like escalation of confectionery hide-and-seek. The usual places (the closet, under the bed) were tried and quickly abandoned. My craving demanded more-sophisticated hiding places.

And they were found. The well at the bottom of the grandfather clock. The crawl space. And even the oven. 

But ultimately, all yielded their treasure.

Out of necessity, cleverness was discarded in favor of locks. It shames me deeply to admit that owing to my lack of self-control, cookies in my home were kept in a state of permanent lock-down.

One Sunday afternoon, my parents and two sisters left on what I knew would be an extended shopping trip. Industrious lad that I was, I seized the opportunity to conduct an all-out search of the premises.

It unearthed a basement storage cabinet that was suddenly and without warning locked. 

In yet-another moment of incisive clarity, I realized there must be a key and set about finding it. My search took me to my father's dresser, where in one of those slightly criminal acts of desperation I searched it. 

In the top drawer I came across an ancient leather case, that when unzipped revealed a treasure Howard Carter himself couldn't have been more awed by: two utilitarian and slightly oxidized keys that shone against the worn leather like the Holy Grail.

Excited beyond description, I rushed downstairs and tried them. Voila! Before me sat a Fort Knox of Christmas confectionery. Shelf after shelf was stuffed with cookie tins, each carefully lined with wax paper and oozing calorie-laden goodness.

My sixteen-year-old brain told me I could outsmart everyone by removing just a few cookies from each tin, thereby minimizing the appearance of theft and prolonging my access. 

Tragically, what I did not understand is that “few” is relative—especially to someone in the grips of an adolescent metabolism.

While talking to my parents many years later, they relayed a story how one of my sisters was storing cookies for a neighbor because the neighbor's kids found them everywhere they had been hidden. 

This of course revived my parent's memory of an earlier Christmas, a Christmas where they had been forced to store cookies under lock and key—only to find a sizeable portion missing.

“Was it you?” they asked.

You reach a point in life, perhaps called adulthood, where you realize the magnitude of your parent's selflessness; of the profound sacrifices they made so you could attend a good school and live in a safe neighborhood.

And after coming to that realization, you absolutely, positively cannot lie to them.

“Yes” I replied.

Afterwards, I reflected upon our conversation. And it occurred to me that after so many years without a viable cookie thief in the house, security must be very lax.

Yeah, that joint would be a piece of cake. A piece of cake I tell you.