Random Thoughts, Vol. 12

What a raucous, divisive year it's been. The country hasn't torn itself in two just yet, so that's a good thing. Hopefully we can all agree it's New Year's Eve.

Plus, we're nearly halfway through the Trump presidency. On the not-so-bright side, we're just halfway through the Trump presidency.

President Petulant created lots of headlines this year, and however appropriate it would be to close 2018 with an all-Trump edition of Random Thoughts, sepsis remains a very real and very serious health threat.

Instead, we offer this half-cocked edition which, given the circumstances, seems entirely appropriate.

Enjoy.

The nice thing about grocery shopping in January (and yes, there is one) is that you rarely have to worry about ice cream melting. Or frozen pizza thawing. Or worst of all, beer skunking.

Does Donald Trump have any idea he's the country's number-one source of fake news?

No one playing for the Colorado Rockies should ever be eligible for leadership in any offensive statistical category. Ever.

A hundred bucks to the soul who correctly predicts the date Donald Trump demands that his likeness be used on American currency.

Engineering students should be tested on the meaning and implications of Murphy's Law before beginning this course of study.

Donald Trump loves to pull the fire alarm, yet is always surprised when the fire trucks show up.

If everyone is shopping online, why the hell couldn't I find a decent parking space two weeks ago?

Who's the guy that tells Donald Trump when to inhale and when to exhale?

Friday—the original pain reliever.

I'm thinking Donald Trump must be on the Viagra and Ex-Lax diet, because it's hard to tell whether he's coming or going.

The Not-So-Merry Christmas

Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for clarifying who is to blame for our third government shut-down: the Democrats. 

Which is certainly interesting given that Republicans control two-thirds of the Executive branch. And that not so long ago, you publicly stated you'd be “proud” to initiate a government shutdown over funding for your border wall.

I understand your ire, Mr. President. Nothing like having to backpedal after running a campaign based on the exploitation of racist fears, is there?

Yes, you went all bravado in the summer of 2016, telling your base that not only were you going to build the Berlin Wall of immigration, but that Mexico was going to pay for it. And the high school drop-outs slash opioid-addicts who put you over the top ate it up.

Making America Hate Again, indeed.

And for a long time, all was well. Like the arena rock star who could count on a reaction merely by mentioning the city he (or she) was performing in, you could liven-up those dead spots in your rallies by asking “Who's going to pay for the wall?”

But for those of us not infected with the Trump virus, this was a load of fertilizer as obvious as it was odorous. It was only a matter of time before reality would rear its ugly head.

And here's the reality: After a botched trade war with China, speeding up—if not instigating outright—the end of the economic recovery, losing untold staffers because you are—to put it mildly—difficult, suffering public humiliation over the paucity of people willing to fill those vacancies and, finally, the ongoing pressure of the Mueller investigation, you have your Secretary of Defense not only resign but openly question your judgement and maturity in the process.

Good times, eh Mr. President?

But there was always the lectern-pounding distraction of The Wall. That would get the base going, wouldn't it?

Unfortunately, your base doesn't (and couldn't ever hope to) occupy seats in the House and Senate. And the faint support your wall enjoyed in an all-Republican legislature disintegrated still-further when those damn Democrats were voted in, probably by the millions of illegal aliens streaming across an unsecured border still bereft of your indomitable wall.

Which is both a good and a bad thing. Like the United States with a reinvigorated Russia, you now have a viable enemy. Someone outside of your party you can point to and blame all of your failures on, even if those failures are nearing their second birthday.

But who's counting?

So what's a billionaire president to do?

Tweet.

Yes, tweet about your solitary confinement. Tweet about your abandonment and your intractable enemies and the fake-news media. Everything is everybody else's fault. You are a genius none of us can see.

In an incredible and remarkably symbolic moment, a charter member of the one-percent is cutting off paychecks for roughly 800,000 workers. On Christmas. If that doesn't scream 2018 America, what does?

So while you, Mr. President, attempt to save face, the rest of us are left to enjoy the irony of our oldest-ever president acting like the youngest.

Santa? If you're out there, all I want for Christmas is a grown-up in the White House.

Josh Gordon

The child is father to the man. These words, found in William Wordsworth's poem My Heart Leaps Up (a full half-century before the birth of Sigmund Freud), articulated the idea that what so often happens to us in childhood—good or bad—can resonate within us for the remainder of our lives.

In the context of recently-suspended New England Patriots wide receiver Josh Gordon, this would appear to be true.

Gordon once confessed he never expected to live past the age of eighteen, such were the grim circumstances of the Houston neighborhood he grew up in. The only thing lower than his projected life expectancy were his expectations.

Without a foreseeable future, Gordon abused substances freely. Why not? It didn't matter. He was another kid in the ghetto destined to die young.

But Gordon didn't die. And owing to an unusual ability to simultaneously run and catch a football, he found himself forced to confront his autobiography. And it was tough.

It's easy to give up. It's easy to conserve energy and avoid the risk required to invest yourself in something and prove you can, even if the rest of the world seems hell-bent on proving you can't.

What's hard is believing in yourself. Putting it all out there and risking failure by believing in a dream. It is demanding in a way that abusing substances can never, ever be. It is an act that couldn't take Gordon further from his comfort zone.

This is the internal war Josh Gordon has been waging.

Despite his successes, Gordon is the sixteen year-old girl who looks in the mirror and sees a chubby, overweight loser. No matter how many people tell her otherwise. It is safe. It is familiar. Seeing anything else is too demanding.

It would mean the accepting the burden of great expectations, and Gordon absolutely cannot handle that.

I feel for him. I regret the distorted view he has of himself and the insidiousness that has encouraged him to accept it. I regret his inability to remove himself from the low-risk, low-reward dynamic of his childhood and put the low-quality fortune-telling depression and low self-esteem forces upon us behind him.

But most of all, I regret Gordon's inability to translate the freeing act of catching a football on the dead run and carrying it into the end zone into a physical manifestation of his ability to break-free.

It was an act that kept me from scraping the bottom of the barrel.

But Josh Gordon is not me. And I am not him. But the very best of me (and perhaps you, too) wishes it were different. That the child isn't necessarily the father to the man, but perhaps a knowing, caring big brother. One who could provide a gentle-yet-firm course reset when our internal nav spouts a glitch.

Good wishes aside, life is ugly. Good people suffer. And bad people feast on the succulent fruit of wealth and privilege. 

Gordon has never punched a woman in an elevator and dragged her from it by her hair. He's never been indicted on charges of murder and aggravated assault. And yet he is staring at the end of his career for enjoying a decriminalized substance many of us consume freely. 

At least his employer has its ducks in a row.

I'm hoping John Gordon not only finds the wherewithal to survive, but to thrive.

Supermarket Magic

While attempting to decompress after a particularly grueling day of caregiving, I began assembling the libation capable of soothing my frazzled nerves and restoring my weary body.

My anticipated reverie was interrupted when I realized my hands had grown out of all proportion to the carton of orange juice I was pouring from. My now-massive mitts covered three-quarters of the container! I felt like King Kong, capable of snatching bi-planes out of the the sky from atop the Empire State Building.

With puberty firmly in the rear view mirror, there was no way this was a growth spurt. No, something else was going on. After eliminating plastic surgery and exposure to radioactive materials, a more-mundane realization struck me: Florida's Natural had shrunk the carton.

Yes, the robust 64-ounce container of orange juice I previously enjoyed had been reduced 18.7% and now faced life as a 52-ounce welterweight. The real miracle is that the price remained the same. 

Florida's Natural is betting that harried moms grabbing a few groceries in between picking up the kids from school and rushing home to get something on the table for dinner are unlikely to notice.

So while you and I are getting a fifth-less orange juice, we're simultaneously paying 19.7% more per ounce for the orange juice we do get.

And who doesn't think that's the greatest thing ever?

So Florida's Natural: Trump's corporate tax-cut wasn't big enough for you? Pissed-off that you're unable to outsource jobs and receive that fifty-percent Republican-sponsored tax discount for sending jobs out of the country?

Alas, Florida's Natural isn't the only brand name playing this shell game. Frito-Lay, Jay's and

Dannon have been enthusiastic participants as well.

Speaking for myself, I'd rather see a simple, here-it-is price hike. You know, forthright. But clearly I'm in a minority. Which is why companies resort to this kind of nefarious subterfuge. 

Left to confront what is essentially a twenty-percent price-hike in the cost of my favorite beverage, I seek to turn this dynamic inside-out and insert it into the work world. (Preferably in the offices of the above-named offenders.)

Let's say your employer is, well, unenthusiastic about giving you a raise—as many are despite our supposedly booming economy and tight labor market.

How cool would it be if employees could approach their bosses and say “Gosh, Miranda. I know we're (cough) strapped for cash. So instead of embarrassing all of us by asking for more money, may I suggest that I work thirty-two hours a week instead of forty? You know, work four days a week and get paid for five? Kind of like we do with our facial tissue, orange juice, potato chips and/or yogurt?"

Yeah.

The response from the land of do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do would be memorable, I'm sure. I mean, how can our state-supported corporate giants prosper if their employees are allowed to pit their own business practices against them?

Just saying.

Basketball Without a Rudder

I remember the nineties. Which in and of itself isn't terribly significant, I'll grant you. Unless, of course, you're a fan of the Chicago Bulls.

The last of their six championships was just over twenty-years ago. And thanks to the space-time continuum it is moving ever farther away. After last night's historic fifty-six point loss to the Celtics, number-six seems centuries—not decades—ago. 

It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and yet it's hard to see anything but at the United Center these days.

The Bulls actually built a second title-contender, only to have it subverted by recurrent injuries to its best player and the prime of one LeBron James. When that window closed, another failed to open.

Things looked promising for a bit after the trade of Jimmy Butler, with three talented youngsters arriving from Minnesota in return. But the coach they were intended to play for is gone, and in his place one bent on restoring traditional franchise values (read defense) even if the roster doesn't quite skew that way.

President of Basketball Operations John Paxson and general manager Gar Forman represent a brain trust that would never keep Albert Einstein awake nights. Like the stock market, they zig and zag this way and that, hoping motion is a suitable substitute for planning.

Because there is no plan. There is no single, overarching scheme that guides what happens at 1901 W. Madison St.

The players know it. The coaches know it. And the fans, who routinely pack the UC like the Cub fans of yore packed Wrigley Field regardless of the results, appear to be on the cusp of a great understanding.

That is, if booing the local heroes is any indication.

The Bulls are the team your best player circles on the schedule because it either means a night off or an opportunity to pad his stats.

The Bulls are a car without a functioning steering wheel, with the road—not the driver—dictating the path. As the car weaves from one side of the road to the other, it's only a matter of time before it crashes.

Despite the abundance of young talent, the Bulls are one of the worst teams in the league.

A local columnist pointed out Jerry Krause's tenure yielded six championships in his sixteen years. In the same span of time, John Paxson and Gar Forman's has yielded none. 

Granted, creating a champion requires many things. A big, fat, can't-miss superstar. Luck. A plan. And unerring decision-making.

Jerry Reinsdorf once rescued the Bulls from the hopelessness of ownership-by-committee back in the bad old days of the early-eighties. Thirty-odd years later, he needs to rescue the Bulls again.

Only this time from blind loyalty and the hopelessness of his hand-picked management.

Remember the nineties, Mr. Reinsdorf?

Confronting #MeToo

If you need proof that anything can be taken to an unhealthy extreme, witness the removal of Baby, It's Cold Outside by Cleveland radio station WDOK from its holiday playlist. According to the station's general manager, this is in response to complaints that the song's lyrics are “inappropriate”.

If you're not familiar with the standard, it is a playful exchange between a man and a woman. The man wants his companion to stay the night, citing the undue cold and potential risk taking her home could subject her to.

The woman effectively pleads her case that this is not the right time, and the song draws to a close. There is no rape. There is no assault. There is no predation.

We don't even know if she stays or returns home. 

Apparently, the #MeToo community is privy to information the rest of us aren't.

Let me address the sexist hysteria responsible for turning this harmless song into an invitation to date-rape. (I should also apologize in advance for possessing a penis, which likely renders this yet-another unbearable example of mansplaining.)

Baby, It's Cold Outside is a vignette. An imagined dialogue between two people confronting the eternal question: I want to. Don't you?

Men express this thought. Women express this thought. There is no gender monopoly here. It is a song about the beautiful longing two human beings can feel for each other. It is a wry and poetic seduction. 

I hear it and smile at the memory of my own (mostly unsuccessful) attempts.

It is cute. Playful. Nothing more, nothing less.

I am of the opinion that the well-intentioned people who have issues with this song could find evidence of Satanic worship in a Norman Rockwell painting, or enticements to methamphetamine use in The Sound of Music. 

Look hard enough for something and you'll find it.

But beyond that, I'd like to know the whereabouts of the legions of fierce, strong women I hear so incessantly about. I mean, seriously? A guy cooing in your ear and inviting you to a sleepover is your kryptonite?

Sorry, but that's crazy.

For those of us with the broad and deep frames of reference age affords, this is the feminist equivalent of the Tawana Brawley scandal. A flimsy, cheap, over-reaching and ultimately damaging effort that will undermine, not strengthen, #MeToo.

Please. Keep your sexism out of my Christmas.

Performance Review

Cars, like houses, are never fully known until they're inhabited. Er, driven. But you get my drift. Only after repeated and extensive interactions are the strengths and weaknesses of a car (or house) ever known.

So after six months, I feel fairly qualified to comment on my Accord Sport sedan.

The good:

The 2.4 liter, four-cylinder engine is a joy. At 189 horsepower, it's not going to challenge an Alfa-Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. But unlike the troublesome Alfa, it works. Which is kind of nice. What good is 503 horsepower when it's sitting in a service bay at your local A-R dealer?

And while the Accord's torque peaks at a typically Honda-ish 3,900 RPM and horsepower at 6,400, its ample horses are easily accessed. Throttle tip-in is very smooth, with no hot or cold spots in pedal travel versus acceleration.

In a mix of highway and urban driving, the Accord reliably returns 34 MPG. That's dropped off a bit with the onset of winter temps here in the Land of Lincoln, but still laudable given the Accord's robust sense of git.

Continuously variable transmissions (or CVTs), don't enjoy sparkling reviews in car magazines. They are called uninvolving, vague and mushy—none of which imparts a feeling of precision and connection. And I was skittish until I drove one.

But I have to admit the unit in the Accord is surprising. It shifts smoothly and responsively, without the hunting the transmission in my sixth-generation Accord was prone to at low speeds.

The CVT equivalent of passing gear comes quickly and decisively, moving the 3,342-pound car with authority. I have yet to encounter a situation the Accord's drivetrain couldn't handle. Which, when you think about it, is a kind of safety feature.

Ditto a good suspension. The assembly responsible for keeping each of the four tires squarely and firmly pressed against pavement plays an enormous role in your car's driveability. The Accord features MacPherson struts in the front and a multi-link set-up in the rear.

I haven't had an opportunity to push my current Accord the way I did my '99 LX coupe, which is how it goes when you move from a sparsely-populated state to the nation's third most-populous metropolitan area.

I feel the additional three-hundred pounds the newer Accord has put on and miss the four-wheel double-wishbone set-up employed by the sixth-gen iteration. That car felt light and tossable in a way the new one doesn't quite match.

At the same time, the ninth-gen edition doesn't suffer from the wind and road noise its predecessor did. Pick your poison.

Taken on its own terms, I don't see the ninth-generation's suspension provoking any complaints. The steering is responsive, if not overly communicative. The car feels planted and secure regardless of road conditions and speed.

Interior room is excellent, and is made additionally so by the multiple configurations offered by the ten-way power driver's seat and tilt and telescope steering column. The dashboard isn't quite as intuitive and uncluttered as the six-generation's, but is nevertheless ordered very nicely.

I purposely avoided higher trim levels festooned with driver-assist tech, so I can't comment on the Honda's navigation system. But the functions contained within the Sport's infotainment unit are easily understood and accessed.

And if someone as tech-weary as I can sync his phone to the Bluetooth function without exasperated sighs, think of the stress-free fun you'll have. 

Furthermore, with eight cupholders, two power outlets and a USB port, it's unlikely you'll go unentertained—or thirsty.

The bad:

With a wife suffering from reduced mobility, the wide door sills in the Accord make ingress and egress more difficult than it should be. On the glass-is-half-full side, I'd like to think the thicker doors offer more in the way of side-impact protection.

The wiper stalk is largely hidden behind the steering wheel's cross-member and a paddle shifter. But even if it weren't, choosing an appropriate setting is far from the no-brainer it should be.

Instead of rotating a piece mounted on the stalk to the desired setting, the current lay-out asks that the driver move the stalk downward through multiple wiper speeds. Beyond the fact that they are not visible, the indents that should inform the driver of each setting are vague.

In a word, using the wipers is a pain. And when conditions turn suddenly, this is not a good thing.

Speaking of indents, the one separating normal window-down function from 'express' is discernible only to surgeons and classical pianists. No matter how lightly my fingers tread upon the driver's-side window switch, I too often end up with a portal to the outdoors when all I wanted was a sliver.

Finally, the switches for the door locks and power windows are only illuminated on the driver's door. Granted, this is a trifling complaint. But the entry-level '06 Nissan Altima I drove previously paid its passengers this nicety. Why couldn't the class-leading Accord?

So there you have it: the good, the bad and the not-so-ugly.

I would enthusiastically recommend the 2015 Accord Sport Sedan to just about anyone. Its mix of performance, reliability, utility, comfort, economy and value is hard to beat.

It's ironic that just as sedans have become so incredibly useful and multi-talented they're being crowded out of the marketplace by crossovers and SUVs which don't carry people and their stuff as efficiently as a van nor drive as well as a car.

Makes perfect sense.

But they're fashionable. Sexy. And like women and high heels, the motoring public will slavishly endure their shortcomings to remain in lockstep with the prevailing style.

At the risk of dropping off Mr. Blackwell's best-dressed list, I'll take the sedan. And more-specifically, the Accord. That's my sport utility vehicle.

Trying to Understand

Okay. 

So Ivanka Trump did the same thing her father's number-one political enemy did. She used a personal, unsecured e-Mail account to conduct state business.

Naturally, this begs a question.

When the Trump-whore's zombies chant “Lock her up!” at his next validation rally, are they referring to Hillary or Ivanka?

Just asking.

Taking FLAC

I need to chill. Between the twin outrages of Donald Trump and the continued existence of the NRA, I'm going to blow a gasket. I detest the unpunished societal offenses committed by these entities.

They are horrors the combined imaginations of Edgar Allan Poe, William Peter Blatty and Stephen King never could have conceived.

I need something soothing to write about. Something lacking the bell-clanging urgency of gun control and looming fascism.

I know—I'll take sides in the FLAC – MP3 debate. Yeah. That's it.

Go ahead. Call me a glutton for punishment. No worries—I've said it many times myself.

I was late to the downloading party. I never grabbed a file off of Napster. I was a good boy. A respectful music fan. My introduction to digital downloading was e-Music, a service which offered (in retrospect) insufferably slow downloads to a set number of LPs each month.

So when I wanted the new Mogwai or Decemberists or Bettye LaVette release, I'd cue up the download before I went to bed and voila! It was ready to be ripped to a CD-R and playable in my car the next day.

(Most of the time, anyway.)

But then the Great Recession hit. And e-Music quickly became—even for a musiholic like myself—a non-essential expense.

Recession or not, my thirst for music continued. It demanded satiation. What was I to do?

In between my desperate attempts at locating even not-so-gainful employ, I discovered music sites and deciphered the intricacies of downloading and file conversion. I quickly discovered that FLAC-encoded files weren't transferable to CD-Rs and also weren't playable in my car or at home.

So they weren't very practical. And they took up a hell of a lot of room. And since I wasn't the sole user of the computer, installing a FLAC player and storing them there was not an option. So I ignored them and the raging arguments which advocated for them.

FLAC remained a speed bump I needed to cross before enjoying the ear candy the Internet was foisting upon my person.

I was entirely content with the studio recordings available for download at 320-bits. And the bootlegs whose bit-encryption was all over the map. 

I heard one twenty-eights that sounded like three-twenties and one ninety-twos that sounded absolutely pristine. I heard VBRs that sounded better than any of them. Given the enormous range of bootleg sources, it was difficult to assign one hard and fast standard to what sounded best.

Of course, sound is highly-subjective. What sounds good to me might sound like crap to you.

Muddying the waters still further is the fact that I am old. Really old. And that I've attended way too many concerts and spent way too much time in bars featuring live music and in clubs blasting dance music at unhealthy decibel levels.

So despite (or perhaps because of) my love of sound, I have not enjoyed it responsibly. I have overindulged. I have committed assault and battery upon my tympanic membranes.

But I should add that while I frequently experience difficulty discerning my mate's requests to take out the garbage or change the furnace filter, my ability to hear music remains remarkably intact.

This was confirmed when one day after an OS upgrade, I could play FLAC files on my computer.

And I was shocked. What I call 'the sound field' was deeper and wider than anything I had encountered with MP3s. Detail, space—all of it was heightened. OK. It was—and is—a richer listening experience. 

Uncle!

But naturally, there's a downside.

I still can't listen to FLAC files anywhere but on my computer. And when I want to recline on the couch with the newspaper or my current read and get lost in a favorite album, that is inconvenient.

Then there's the question of storage space. A cynic might say that after taking up three to four times the space of a conventional MP3 file, the least a FLAC-encoded file could do was sound better.

And they'd be right. After taking up that much space they ought to fold my laundry and do a little light housekeeping, too.

Yet even in my short experience, I realize they are disinclined to do so.

So I'll use FLAC where it makes the biggest difference—bootlegs. Where it enhances my favorite and most-treasured boots, it stays. With the added advantage that I can always convert it to an MP3 file when I want to listen elsewhere.

But studio releases? Well, not so much. Yeah, FLAC makes Wrecking Ball and Arkology and In a Silent Way sound even more amazing, but with a storage expense that really isn't cost-effective.

It's a twist on those old Miller Lite beer commercials. Yes, FLAC tastes great. Too bad it's not less-filling as well.

Again?

What's left to say?

A noisy, selfish minority has brought carnage and mayhem to our streets. Fear into our homes. And terror into our hearts.

We are bleeding sorrow.

If this minority had recently crossed our borders, our president would be on the verge of a cardiovascular episode. He'd be apoplectic. The keypad on his phone would have fused from heated and incessant Tweeting.

But they didn't. This minority is a home-grown terrorist group. Ironically, it is also a reliable source of Republican funding.

The same party that wants to criminalize women for seeking abortions stubbornly refuses to curtail, much less acknowledge, these terrorist's leading role in our ongoing national tragedy.

If you can make that add up, would you please let me know what kind of calculator you're using?

Think about it: can you even imagine the law enforcement response to a organization that flooded our nation with firearms in the manner of the NRA? Much less if that organization were composed of Middle-Easterners or African-Americans or Latinos?

Neither can I.

Yet the NRA does. Unfettered. Undisturbed. Untroubled. The NRA has made its position clear: it doesn't care. Not about your life. Not about that of your spouse. And not about those of your children.

What the NRA does care about is maintaining its position as God's chosen moral authority and the country's supreme arbitrator on all things pertaining to the Second Amendment.

Our government is fond of saying it doesn't negotiate with terrorists. Yet we continue to negotiate with the NRA. We bargain in good faith and with well-intentioned empathy for the white-knuckled fear of its constituency.

But the NRA steadfastly refuses any accommodation whatsoever.

It's time to get tough with the NRA.

It's time for the tail to stop wagging the dog.

It's time to realize their absolute refusal to compromise means—and can only mean—one thing. 

Fuck off.

And we have. For such a very, very long time.

We deserve to come and go as we please. To attend movies and go dancing and hear concerts and go to church without the fear of ending up on a slab.

Amendments don't require thuggish, sociopathic businessmen to keep them viable. We must crush the NRA. And we must crush it now.

Nothing less than freedom—real freedom—is at stake.

The Afterglow

Okay. It wasn't a blue wave. And as a Democrat (or more specifically, an anti-Republican), I'm confused, saddened and disappointed. I mean, if our contempt for Donald Trump doesn't unite democracy-loving Americans, what will?

We have a fact-checking report that informs us that Donald Trump lies an average of thirty times a day. About his policies, their effectiveness, his political opponents and what he had for lunch.

We have a president on the verge of killing a potentially damaging investigation into his cozy relationship with a superpower politically hostile to us.

That's an impeachable obstruction of justice, right?

I get it that Trumpers would rather have body parts forcibly removed than admit their guy isn't the swamp-draining messiah he promised he'd be. And that they'd rather he sleep with their wives or abuse their children before they'd ever think of renouncing him.

But for what? Are y'all really that concerned about the financial well-being of the one-percent? Because that's what your boy is working on. That's agenda item number-one. He's toying with gutting your social security and medicare to pay for the latest round of billionaire-centric tax cuts.

Eighty-three percent of the benefits of the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act went to one-percent of the population. You know that's not you, right?

But golly—he did send the National Guard down to the border the day before the mid-terms. And that's gotta be worth something.

Exactly what has your hatred of immigrants and gays and women got you? Has it put you in different tax bracket? Are you tooling around in a brand-new BMW? Do you enjoy a heightened sense of satisfaction when you sense that those whom you hate are suffering the outrageous indignities you are?

Does it enrich your own impoverished existence? Does it nourish the parched earth of your soul?

Where is that indomitable Republican will, anyway? Where's that pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps self-sufficiency? Or are you just another example of American victimhood?

Oh that's right—you're a Republican. You can't be.

I've admitted that Republicans are expert marketers. And brilliant button-pushers. I laughed when I saw the Trump-whore's text alleging that Democrats had allowed cop-killer Luis Bracamontes into the country and then allowed him to stay.

I laughed even harder when I realized you'd believe it.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: you're a tool, bro. Wait until you see where the car you're riding in is headed.

A wise old man once said be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

The Black Heart of Republicanism

I loathe Donald Trump. Despite being seventy-two years-old, he is best described as our middle-schooler in charge.

Trump's towering immaturity reveals itself in the issuing of puerile nicknames to the delight of his equally-puerile supporters. Or claiming he was misquoted by the fake news media as he walks back another incendiary statement. Or denies saying it altogether.

Emotionally and intellectually, Donald Trump is a little boy.

So it goes when you're born into wealth and know nothing but privilege. So it goes when you get a pass from the expectations and demands of adulthood. So it goes when those around you consider that wealth an adequate substitute for maturity.

Not surprisingly, the qualities that inform his White House have trickled down to the rank and file, like the fifth-grader who sees a classmate pick his nose and wipe the result on the shirt in front of him and is helpless to try it himself.

But as the estimable Eric Zorn pointed out in Friday's Chicago Tribune, there are Republican office-holders who act remarkably grown-up. Who comprehend the scope and purpose of their position and seek to fulfill it. 

Holding up Illinois' own petulant billionaire (governor Bruce Rauner) in a highly-effective compare and contrast piece, Zorn illustrates the divergent paths he and another Republican governor, Massachusetts' Charlie Baker, took after their respective elections.

To quote Zorn “Rauner chose to go down...a confrontational path. His strategy was to browbeat and insult “corrupt” Democratic legislative leaders into passing items on his highly ideological 44-point pro-business agenda, and, when that failed, to wait until they blinked during a 736-day budget stalemate.”

Baker chose consensus-building. Give and take. Choosing his battles, instead of reflexively fighting all of them. A recent endorsement in the Lowell, MA. Sun said of Baker “Differences of opinion crop up all the time. (But) there is an attitude of respect and collegiality among lawmakers that says adults are at work and we'll get this done.”

You know, just like in Washington DC.

While Rauner's re-election campaign is on the verge of becoming a blood bath (he trails Democratic challenger J.D. Prtizker by sixteen points), Baker enjoys an astounding forty-point advantage over his Democratic challenger.

So everything's great, right? Bipartisan leadership is leading the way and setting an example. Effective and necessary legislation is getting passed. Aisles are being crossed. Partisan gridlock is a memory.

What could go wrong?

In a word—Republicans.

While only ten percent of Democrats hold a negative opinion of Baker, twenty-percent of Republicans do. Right-wing nut jobs (er, organizations) are upset with Baker because he has criticized Donald Trump—and worse. Like supporting the Affordable Care Act and stronger gun control legislation.

And what kind of asshole does that?

A Republican-In-Name-Only. That's who.

So despite the fact that the Republican Baker is successfully leading a historically Democratic state and has consolidated bipartisan support behind him (shining a very positive light on Republicans in the process), party taste-makers consider him a failure. They are furious, to the point where they're urging voters to um, intercourse him on Tuesday.

Yeah.

This is the odorous black heart of Republicanism. The one that doesn't play well with others. The one that doesn't want to cooperate. The one whose core belief seems to be it's my way or the highway. Like their string-pullers at the NRA, Republicans will brook no compromise. Tolerate no free thought. The party line is all.

Or else.

Never mind that Rauner's force-fed electorate is resoundingly rejecting him, or that Baker's newly-unified one is embracing him. It's a mirage. A glitch. Kindly move on.

Three-hundred thirty-two years ago, Sir Isaac Newton formulated his Third Law of Motion, which posited that for every motion there was an equal and opposite one.

Two-thousand years before that, Greek storyteller Aesop told of a struggle between the sun and the wind. Each wanted to prove it was the greater force.

To settle their dispute, they selected a man walking along a road in a coat. Whomever could remove the man's coat would be judged the more-powerful entity.

The wind went first. It summoned its fury and tore at the man and his coat. It howled and it railed and it tried to pry the coat from the man with everything it could muster.

But the harder it tried, the tighter the man drew his coat around him.

Exhausted, the wind stopped and allowed the sun its turn.

The sun gently warmed the air, eventually coaxing the man to remove his coat.

Thus it was proven the sun was the stronger force.

Translated, this means we need grown-ups in Washington DC—not middle-school bullies who feel Lord of the Flies is a how-to manual of governance.

If you give the tiniest fuck about democracy, vote Democratic November 6.

Guilty!

The Court of Trump has rendered its verdict: guilty!

Shame on you Cecil Rosenthal!

Shame on you David Rosenthal!

Shame on you Irving Younger!

Shame on you Melvin Wax!

Shame on you Rose Mallinger!

Shame on you Bernice Simon!

Shame on you Sylvan Simon!

Shame on you Jerry Rabinowitz!

Shame on you Joyce Fienberg!

Shame on you Richard Gottfried!

Shame on you Daniel Stein!

Shame on you for attending baby-naming services in an unprotected synagogue! Shame on you for your ignorance! Shame on you for your naivete!

Is this a pre-meditated attempt by left-leaning radicals to make the NRA, assault weapons and our president look bad? Is it?

How dare you get in the way of bullets fired by a licensed gun-owner exercising his second-amendment rights!

Let's be clear: the NRA is not the fall guy here. This is on you—one hundred percent.

It was your choice to attend services in an unsecured synagogue knowing the danger. Knowing that malcontents like Robert Bowers—with virtually unrestricted access to assault weapons—lurked somewhere...out there.

You should have had armed guards.

You should have had metal detectors.

You should have had face recognition software, even though it wouldn't have done any good.

You should have been paranoid.

So yes, this is on you. Don't you dare try and pin this on our president, who merely voices the feelings of our downtrodden white majority for political gain.

That is his right.

Maybe this will help you see the light: we don't have a gun problem—we have a security problem.

Maybe next time you will think twice before going out in public without armed guards, bulletproof vests and a cache of assault weapons of your very own.

This is America! Land of the free! 

Don't you understand?

Grabbing Power

While I regularly use this blog to deride, decry and diminish Republicans and their policies, at the same time I harbor a secret and perverse admiration for them.

While I steadfastly believe Republicans couldn't lead a flock of kindergartners to the bathroom, they possess a devious and cunning ability to seize power that I only wish was shared by my political party of choice.

They market and manipulate with a precision that is the envy of every ad agency on Madison Avenue.

Not so long ago, Republican policy-makers looked into their crystal ball and saw the future. With the steady erosion of America's white majority and knowing their policies would never appeal to anyone outside of that majority, Republicans sought alternate ways of holding on to power.

Naturally, option number-one was to shrink the power of the vote. And the best way to do this is to restrict its availability. To create obstacles that make the voting booth a difficult place to reach. Instead of pursuing the democratic ideal which holds that voting booths should be as available as tap water, access is placed high on a hard to reach shelf.

By enacting legislation which acts as a filter, Republicans can make it difficult for voters likely to be unreceptive to their policies to see the inside of a polling place. Which is why in states like Texas a handgun permit is an acceptable form of voter ID while a student ID is not.

Georgia has an exact match policy, which demands that information contained on voter registration rolls is identical to information held by the state's issuer of driver's licenses—even if that information is wrong. A hyphenated last name or the absence of a middle initial is enough to keep you from exercising your constitutional right.

If only buying an assault weapon at a gun show were as difficult.

Even the highly-respected League of Women Voters had its once-unassailable mission impacted by Republicans. Thanks to restrictive legislation passed by the state legislature in 2011, Florida chapters and their volunteer staffers were unable to register new voters without being subjected to fines and felony charges.

The message is clear: if they won't vote for you, don't let them vote.

When simple voter suppression doesn't work, Republicans diminish votes through their artful use of gerrymandering.

Gerrymandering is the manipulation of a district's borders which allow one party to dilute another party's advantage in a specific geographical area, either by dividing that population into two districts or packing it into a single one. While it is conceivable both parties do this, one has only to look at vote totals versus seated representation to know which party is the major player.

In fact, a 2014 study by the Washington Post concluded that eight of the ten most heavily gerrymandered districts in the United States were crafted by Republicans. 

So are Republicans more-likely to gerrymander or just better at it?

Yes.

With gerrymandering embedded in the political landscape, the average margin of victory in 2016 congressional races was over 37%. With such margins (not to mention re-election) practically guaranteed, there is little incentive to acknowledge the opposition. Or compromise. 

Needless to say, it entrenches our bipartisan divide.

Using 2016 House campaigns as an example, just eight incumbents were defeated out of the four-hundred thirty-five up for re-election. Eight. That works out to a microscopic 1.8%.

How much would you enjoy a casino where you stood just a 1.8% chance of losing?

The corrosive effects on voter participation shouldn't be ignored. What sentient person isn't disinclined to vote when the result has all but been assured, even with election day still weeks away?

Left unchecked, gerrymandering is the pancreatic cancer of democracy.

But it doesn't end there. No sir. The Republican toolbox is brimming with toxicity and malevolence.

It was ten years-ago that James Bopp, a Republican lawyer, filed the suit that eventually gave Republicans their greatest hit. So thorough and profound was its influence, I remain gobsmacked that we don't today refer to Republicans as Boppublicans.

The Citizens United decision was the product of a longstanding obsession of Bopp's to free-up Republican's biggest political advantage—money. Let's face it. When it comes to big, giant stacks of money, Republicans have it all over Democrats.

When we accumulate great gobs of money, it frequently changes us. Like a chimpanzee with a shiny new piece of glass, we want to protect it. Save it. Wall it off. We want to ensure that no one else can touch it, because it is ours.

Such selfishness is the antithesis of democracy, which is why Republicans so often find themselves in opposition to it. Turn on the TV, open your mail or log-on to Facebook and you will be inundated with Republican attack ads. And every one says precisely the same thing: Democrats will raise your taxes.

Translated, this means Democrats will steal your shiny new piece of glass. Er, money. It is a remarkably effective strategy, and one that has endured seemingly forever. It plays upon some very primal fears and creates anxiety and unease. The effects of having your shard of glass forcibly removed from your possession cannot be underestimated.

Despite any number of studies that show Republicans and Democrats raise taxes with equal vigor, Republicans have successfully pinned the raise-your-taxes tail on the Democratic donkey.

See what I mean about marketing?

But I digress.

So. Republicans—as a group—have a lot of money. And they want to make it an even bigger advantage than it already is. Since their political agenda runs counter to that of the electorate, they must buy power as opposed to winning it.

And Citizens United is the appliance that allows them to do so. Citizens United tears the roof off of the donor ceilings which existed before the decision by creating a kind of middleman called Super PACs.

Super PACs can collect unlimited amounts of money from anywhere and distribute it as they see fit—as long as the money doesn't go directly to a candidate. Super PACs create their own advertisements, reportedly without input from the candidate or their campaign. However, the source of donations must be shared with the Federal Election Commission.

The real game-changer is the formation of non-profit entities which can collect campaign money virtually anywhere and in any amount from donors who are able to remain anonymous. This is the source of the “dark money” we hear so frequently about. 

If you're Vladimir Putin and feel threatened by Hillary Clinton, you can slide a cool twenty-million dollars across the table—no questions asked. 

Of the Six-hundred million dollars spent by such organizations in federal elections between 2010 and 2015, five-hundred million (or 83%) originated from conservative organizations.

This torrent of dark money not only raises the cost of running for office exponentially, but in so doing further consolidates power in the hands of the (very) wealthy. And only a Republican would think that's a good idea.

Obviously, not everyone can be wealthy. With that in mind, how do you get house painters and construction workers to march lockstep with hedge fund managers and CEOs?

Social issues.

Republicans are expert button-pushers. As I have written before in this blog, Republicans could turn a group of Buddhist monks into a howling mob. Being masters at manipulation, Republicans know how to burrow into your psyche and exploit your deepest and most primordial fears. Death. Poverty. Violent crime. Foreigners. Homosexuals. Liberals.

Yes, Republicans pour this into a gigantic shaker and concoct the toxic martini that'll have you voting a straight ticket before you can question what became of your free will.

When you're marching in Charlottesville and sending explosives to Barrack Obama, the Clintons and George Soros and baiting gays, Jews and minorities on social media and seeking to charge women who don't wish to bear their rapist's baby with murder, it's expecting an awful lot that you also keep an eye on the never-ending stream of Republican giveaways to corporate America and the one percent.

If you're a basketball fan, this is the the equivalent of the player who stays behind to argue a call with a referee while the opposition enjoys a five-on-four advantage downcourt. Which is exactly what Republican leadership is counting on. While you're foaming at the mouth and chanting “Lock her up!”, the Republican elite are eating your lunch. And mine.

Republicans have succeeded in divide and conquer beyond Roger Ailes' and Karl Rove's and Rupert Murdoch's wildest dreams.

What do you suppose the rest of us can do?

The Premature Coronation

I frequently delude myself with the notion that Chicago is a baseball town. More specifically, a Cubs town. But even after four last-place finishes in a row, Bears' pre-season games knock the Cubs, who happen to be in the midst of a heated pennant race, off the front page.

Huh?

The Bears win three games in a row for the first time in five years and it is apparent they are headed to the Super Bowl. This is cycled endlessly by the media and on Facebook and even by sober people. The Bears are the talk of break rooms and bars and subway cars.

A lopsided win against a deeply-flawed Tampa Bay team etches it in stone. And thanks to an early bye week, the Bears and their fans have fourteen days to revel in the afterglow. And revel they do.

This is the best Bears defense since 1985. After one (that's one, as in less than two) big game from heavily-scrutinized quarterback Mitch Trubisky, the Bears are the '62 Packers, '84 Niners and '72 Dolphins all rolled into one.

So when does the Super Bowl start, anyway?

So it goes when you defeat the diminished Seattle Seahawks, forlorn Arizona Cardinals and Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who conveniently are minus their starting quarterback. This is all it takes to engorge the Bears and their fans.

As an admittedly fair-weather Bears fan (I will root for the Dallas Cowboys when Jerry Jones is gone), I can take the local heroes—and their fans—with a grain of salt. That goes for the overheated media coverage, too.

I smile when I realize that the same team which took down the high-flying '85 Bears on a Monday night also took these guys down last Sunday.

Oh sweet irony.

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for the Bears. The franchise that mostly wasted the services of Hall-of-Fame LB Brian Urlacher has done a serviceable job in the last two drafts. This is noteworthy when you consider the signing of QB Mike Glennon and dismissal of K Robbie Gould not so long ago.

Then there is the timely theft of Kahlil Mack from the Oakland Raiders. He has cemented an already talented defense, which bodes well for any team.

But the Bears are young. They are inexperienced. Like freshly-laundered sheets, there are plenty of wrinkles to iron out.

They are playing a last-place schedule and all concerned are convinced they're the New England Patriots. Let's be clear: a thrashing of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers does not a world champion make—even in a microwave culture like ours.

The Bears need to learn how to win. And how to lose. They need to learn how to sustain effort and focus and how to ignore the hyperbole.

The Bears need to learn how to respect each and every opponent. Every guy they face was The Man on his high school and college team. You get that, right?

We pull long and hard for our guys. But like the champions we envy, we shouldn't get too high after a win or too low after a loss.

Clear-eyed moderation is best.

Like my favorite GM says, if the Bears are truly pointed in the right direction we should give them a little time and enjoy the process.

The Bears are a work in progress—not a museum-ready masterpiece.

Driving Deregulation (remixed)

We've all seen them. Those outrageous thirty-foot long limousines created out of muscle cars, SUVs and pick-ups. Dodge Challengers, Cadillac Escalades and Jeep Cherokees have all gone under the knife. Er, welder's torch.

One such limousine (a refitted or "stretched" Ford Excursion) was involved in a horrific accident last weekend in upstate New York.

Watching the story unfold, I was struck by the conditions underlying the event: an unlicensed driver. A modified limousine which had failed not one, but two safety inspections. A small business cited for twenty-two violations in the previous twenty-four months.

Then it hit me. This is Trumpland.

The Trump-whore has whined long and loud about the undue burden regulation places upon our businesses, put there by socialist Democrats bent on punishing success. To hear Trump tell it, America's businesses are being systematically strangled.

Please ignore the current economic recovery, which is the second-longest in American history. You know, the one that has the Dow Jones Industrial Average setting new highs seemingly every other day?

Maybe it's just that Democrats are really crappy stranglers.

Or maybe the Trump-whore has overstated the ruinous effects of regulation.

Ya think?

Yes, this is a sneak peek at America—unregulated. No irksome licenses. Bothersome inspections. Government-imposed standards. Untenable protocols. No liability.

This is the Republican ideal: free-market capitalism. 

 

Caveat emptor, bro.

I'm sorry to politicize this tragedy. I'm sure the sense of loss felt by everyone connected to this collision is unbearable.

And yet, doesn't it nudge us towards a realization? Doesn't it kinda sorta show us that maybe 

regulation—no matter how stifling—protects us from the worst of us?

Scott Lisinicchia was not trained in, nor could he conceive of, the massive responsibility that accompanies conveying a big group of people from one place to another.

If he had, he would have noticed the upcoming three-way intersection. He would have noted his speed. And the inevitable conclusion he was hurtling towards.

Professional drivers do one thing—drive. Mr. Lisinicchia had his nose buried in his cell phone.

And yes, that is conjecture. But no skid marks? Really? Does that tell you anything? Anything at all?

Nauman Hussain was a typical businessman. Prestige Limousine Service was his personal ATM. And as we all know, ATMs don't ask for money, they give it.

So why stuff money into one?

Why spend money repairing and maintaining vehicles? Why spend money hiring and paying accredited drivers? Wouldn't that cut into Hussain's bottom line?

And isn't that unconstitutional or something?

Those twenty people didn't die in vain. Their deaths are human-scale proof that there is a very, very good reason we regulate our businesses, and a need for doing so.

May their gods care for them and the loved ones they left behind.

 

Happy to Be Wrong

Several months ago, I expressed doubt that Jason Van Dyke, the Chicago police officer who shot an eighteen year-old African-American male sixteen times in the back, would ever see the inside of a prison cell.

Given the numbing regularity that cops are exonerated in such cases, I had little reason to think otherwise. But justice prevailed, and Van Dyke was found guilty yesterday of second-degree murder and sixteen counts of aggravated battery—a count for each bullet.

This isn't a celebration. Perhaps 'relieved' would have been a better word choice for the title of this post. I wonder if Van Dyke had it to do over again, would he have reacted differently? He has to know that as a former cop in prison, his life will be very difficult. I pity him.

Yet it has become a cliche to say cops have tough jobs. We all know that. As officers of the peace, their job is to de-escalate situations, not escalate them.

And the behavior exhibited by the responding officers, from Van Dyke's over-reaction to the conspiracy of the cover up to the stream of lies about what transpired on Pulaski Road that night doesn't speak well of the Chicago Police Department.

To be sure, Laquan McDonald was a troubled young man with only a faint sense of direction and purpose. He is another victim of the most hideous incubator of young lives the United States can offer—the ghetto.

But that is not in and of itself a crime.

As is the nature of things, we don't hear about the school bus that safely delivered two dozen schoolchildren to their homes. Or the construction crew that successfully secured dozens of support beams to the framework of a sixty-story high-rise.

Or of the cops who routinely arrest the bad guys while safeguarding the good ones.

But like surgery, when police work goes wrong it is often fatal.

Consider the cost of this event. A young man dead. A cop's life destroyed. Families left with a giant hole at their center. Police who must routinely confront the worst our society has to offer left with a chip on their shoulder.

The best we can hope for is that this proves to be a watershed moment. One that shines a light on the ocean of men in our ghettos who have little to live for, and the effectiveness of the police who encounter them every day.