God I Love This Country!

In light of our most-recent NRA-enabled mass shooting (this one in Annapolis, Maryland), I humbly and respectfully submit that this should be the NRA's new tag line:

If You Don't Want to Die, Don't Be Born.

I will also send my most sincere and profound thanks to them for their assistance in ensuring that all Americans, regardless of age, class, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, gender or country of origin, have the right to die at any time in any place for no reason whatsoever.

Go ahead—ask yourself: where would we be without them?

The Tyranny of Social Media

It's an amazing bit of confluence, really. That on the thirtieth anniversary of James Hansen's press conference confirming the existence of global warming our latest and perhaps most-puerile example of overheated social media outrage should emerge.

First, let me be clear: I am not a fan of social media. It amplifies our worst characteristics and encourages our most anti-social impulses as it places thoughtless, knee-jerk rants from borderline lunatics alongside sober opinions and vetted facts and confers legitimacy upon each.

Go ahead. Call me a snob. Call me pretentious. Call me someone who thinks than he's better than everyone else. But here's the thing: I don't offer opinions and present them as facts. And when facts are presented, they're researched to ensure accuracy.

In other words, I am not Pete Gaines.

For those of you who don't know, Pete Gaines possesses an otherworldly ability to discern one's moral fiber simply by gazing at their license plate. Gaines' additional talents are put on display when he simultaneously acts as prosecutor, judge and jury and posts to social media the results of his exhaustive investigations.

Take the poor sap who was motoring along in a Tesla, his car unfortunate enough to bear a four-digit license plate. While the rest of us would have continued along, aiding and abetting this heinous criminal in happy ignorance, Pete Gaines knew better.

Because he is Pete Gaines. And we're not.

He just knew there was a white supremacist within. A white supremacist who needed to be called-out and harassed. Fortunately for Illinois taxpayers, Gaines could circumvent the twin inconveniences of law enforcement and our judicial system simply by tweeting his revelation worldwide:

Hey @ILSecOfState why do you allow Nazis to get Nazi slogans on their Tesla's personalized license plates?  

The denizens of the digital landscape (mostly unschooled in the art of critical thinking) could then devour the bait provided by Gaines and excrete their comments in kind. Among the considered remarks: “If you see this car in Illinois burn it.” “Bust his windows and slash his tires.”

Good ideas, all. And thanks for not letting the complete absence of facts and proof dissuade you. Because the fact that it appeared on Twitter is proof-enough, isn't it? You, like, have to prove everything you tweet, right?

If it even matters, it was later revealed the Tesla owner had never been, was not currently nor did he plan to be a white supremacist at any point in the future. But the damage was done. The story had crested. 

They're only facts, right?

Most importantly, the lizard-brained trolls who inhabit social media and fancy themselves as both the arbitrators and guardians of public morality even as they help to destroy it got to spew.

Sharing a half-baked conspiracy theory based on a decades-old fashion with the urgency of ISIS insurgents parading up your driveway is massively irresponsible. It makes you as spiteful and as paranoid as the people you purport to abhor.

I forget: who said we become what we hate?

Anyway, I think I finally understand how Donald Trump was elected. And why the massive ice sheets in Greenland, Antarctica and the Arctic are melting.

God help us.

Keep On Keepin' On

It's hard to feel for people who are some combination of wealthy, famous and attractive. This because they lead lives we imagine to be far superior to our own, immune from the problems the rest of us struggle with every day.

For instance, rush hour can't possibly be the enervating ordeal for LeBron James or Jennifer Lawrence or Jeff Bezos that it is for you and I, right?

Wrong. 

While fame and fortune can certainly cushion one from life's harsher realities, it doesn't ensure that it will be a blissful and serene float down the river of dreams. For proof, we need only look at Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain. Neither were sweating Republican threats to slash Social Security and Medicare. Yet both were so drastically unhappy they took their own lives.

But there is another, more inspiring example: Kevin White.

Unless you're a fan of the Chicago Bears, you probably have no idea who Kevin White is. He is a wide receiver from the University of West Virginia and was the seventh player selected in the 2015 NFL draft.

To put that in perspective, of the thousands and thousands of young men playing collegiate football at that time, just six (six!) were thought to be better NFL prospects to the folk who earned their livelihoods appraising them than Kevin White.

Pretty heady stuff. And an apparent head start on a rewarding, fulfilling life.

But three years removed from the glorious spring evening on which he was drafted, White has played in just five games. Caught just twenty-one passes. He has yet to score an officially-sanctioned NFL touchdown.

They're not the kind of numbers number-seven picks are supposed to put up.

But there are reasons for that. First there was the stress fracture in his very first training camp which effectively ended his rookie season. Then, four games into his second year a broken ankle ended it. And in game number-one of his third, the star-crossed receiver incurred a season-ending clavicle fracture.

Sports columnists and the general public have thoughtfully provided insult to these injuries.

White has been declared a wasted draft pick. His team's most overpaid player. And much, much worse. He has been cruelly derided for his lack of production as if he chose these injuries over playing the game that has been his passion since childhood.

I don't know White, but I'm reasonably sure the last three years have been torment. Imagine possessing the talent to play NFL football and after being fitted for a uniform and signing a great, big contract, being denied by a series of injuries for which the word 'freakish' barely suffices.

Kindly note these injuries happened despite the status that is accorded those whose names appear on NFL rosters. Kindly note his body was ravaged despite a guaranteed contract worth more money than I (and perhaps you) have made in forty-four years of wage-slavery.

Kindly note that despite the passion and the work and the time devoted to it, his dream has only intermittently appeared, drifting in and out like a radio station with a weak signal.

But even after that dream began to curdle like spoiled milk White did not give up. Even after his notoriety became a two-edged sword and his income an albatross White persevered. He has responded to each and every injury by rehabbing himself into game shape with an unswerving and profound relentlessness.

If I'm Bears' GM Ryan Pace, that is precisely the type of personality I want challenging psychotic dudes called linebackers who take powerful exception to footballs being caught in their midst.

White is not a wasted draft pick. White is not a malingerer. White is not (to quote the most-offensive fan comment) a pussy.

White is a role-model.

Despite his modest accomplishments on NFL gridirons, White is an All-Pro insofar as The Square Peg is concerned. And we will risk a hernia pulling for him in 2018.

The best of luck to you, Sir.

Donald Has a New Toy!

The Trump-whore has discovered the pardon. In this, he has unearthed a new way to stuff the yawning maw of his needy and insatiable ego.

For those of us not already rendered mute by the Trump-whore's general amazingness, we can watch as he waves his magic wand and changes lives. Sets people free. And rights the wrongs of Democratic administrations.

There are no congressional hearings. No nominating procedures. It's just like the good old days when all the Trump-whore had to do was issue a memo and boom! It was done.

No fucking around, right Donnie?

And just as surely as the Trump-whore knows how to write out a check to silence, he also knows—instinctively—whom to pardon. Which would be anyone attracting the attention of the media formerly known as 'fake'.

The Trump-whore can't lead a parade, much less a nation. But he knows how to pop the top on a nicely-chilled, twelve-ounce bottle of Feel Good and bask in the warmth of Aren't I Great?

And per his latest Tweet, thousands more are coming.

I once worked for a very wealthy man who engineered a hostile takeover of my employer. Inserted into his contract was a provision that stipulated his newest acquisition would pay for any and all legal expenses incurred by him.

After he was accused and later indicted for insider trading and stock manipulation (nearly destroying the company in the process), it became the pinnacle of irony that the company he had, in effect, raped was footing the bill for his defense.

Which brings me to the Trump-whore's latest declaration that since he is not just President of the United States but President-King, he is allowed to pardon himself.

Which causes me wonder why he'd want to. Or need to.

Can someone please dial 9-1-1?

Democracy has collapsed to the floor and is cyanotic.

...and the Other

Despite his occupation, Milwaukee Bucks guard Sterling Brown isn't that different from you and I. It was late. He was tired. He just wanted to pop into a Walgreen's for a couple of things and go home.

Given the hour and the empty parking lot, Brown yielded to temptation and slid his car into a 'Handicapped Only' parking space. He would just be a minute. It being 2 AM on a cold winter night, who was he realistically preventing from using the space?

Fortunately, the Milwaukee Police Department knew better.

The first officer to respond, after asking Brown how he was doing, requests to see his driver's license. The officer continues to advance towards Brown, yet curiously asks Brown to back-up as he places a hand on Brown and appears to lightly push him.

As Brown digs in his pockets, he asks the officer not to touch him. There is cross talk. The officer (later identified as Sgt. Jeffrey S. Krueger), voice rising, asks Brown again “You don't see the issue here?”

Brown doesn't deny that he's illegally parked. He acknowledges the accusations, saying “That's cool, that's cool”. As he hands Krueger his license, the officer radios for assistance and again asks Brown to back-up.

It is impossible to know what distance separates the two men. Judging from a video, it appears to be two or three feet. Nevertheless, Krueger again asks Brown to back-up.

Brown, clearly feeling sufficient space separates the two men, asks “For what?”

Krueger asks incredulously “Are you obstructing me?” The tension is mounting. Krueger again asks Brown to back-up. Brown extends his arms in frustration. “I ain't doing nothing.”

Krueger again asks Brown to back-up. Brown says “I just did.”

After a back-and-forth over who touched who first, Krueger aggressively asserts his alpha-male status as a police officer, saying “I'll do what I want, alright? I own this right here.”

Brown replies “You don't own me, though.”

The encounter is degenerating into a territorial struggle.

At the one-minute mark, there is at last a reference to the driver's license. Krueger asks for Brown's name twice.

“It's on there” replies Brown. “Sterling Brown.”

Krueger, again irritated, says ”I'm asking you.”

Equally irritated, Brown responds “I'm telling you. Sterling Brown.”

Krueger barks at Brown. “These are simple questions, man.” He accuses Brown of coping an attitude. Of using a fake name. Of possessing a fake ID. Of being threatening. Of trying to hide something.

Brown is frustrated that Krueger doesn't believe him.

They again return to the topic of who touched who first and who did or didn't back up. It is a child-like exchange befitting two boys in middle-school.

At the one-minute and fifty-second mark, Krueger again makes the point that Brown is illegally parked, asking “Can you explain this to me?”

For the second time Brown admits his guilt, adding he was “in and out” after Kruger oddly questions how long Brown's car was illegally parked.

I freely admit to being ignorant in the finer points of Milwaukee's handicapped parking statutes, but is being illegally parked for ten-minutes really a lesser crime than being illegally parked for fifty-minutes?

Because my experience (yes, again I have some) it's like being pregnant. You are or you aren't. Has a meter maid or police officer ever inquired of someone how long they were illegally parked before issuing a ticket?

Nope.

With another squad car approaching, Krueger answers Brown's question of what's next with a cryptic “We're going to wait.”

Brown is illegally parked and has freely admitted such. Krueger is cop, with a computer and presumably fully-loaded printer in his squad car. Why isn't Krueger asking Brown to return to his vehicle while he checks for outstanding warrants and writes-up a ticket?

This is where the interaction goes wholly and irretrievably wrong. This is where the Titanic meets the iceberg.

When Brown questions the delay, the now-relaxed Krueger says enigmatically “We're just going to figure it out, man.”

Brown correctly questions what else needs to be figured out before the ticket-writing can commence. Kruger tells him “We're going to figure out what we're going to do. Whether you're going to get tickets...(ominous pause) whatever.”

As a young black man, he seems to instinctively fear the 'whatever'. Brown asks one more question. “You can't do that by yourself?”

It is his last.

Another squad car enters the lot. Police radio chatter is heard. There is a cut in the video. An onscreen message says only that more officers have arrived. Brown is now surrounded by at least five Milwaukee police officers.

One of them yells for Brown to take his hands out of his pockets. When he doesn't immediately comply, they rush him. Brown is wrestled to the ground. There is much jostling. Visually, the bodycam reveals very little.

This because Krueger appears to be standing back from the fray.

The audio isn't much better.

Amid the jostling, one of the cops seemingly suggests using a taser on Brown. Seconds later, another one appears to urgently request it, shouting “Taser! Taser! Taser!” (This might also be a warning that one was about to be employed.)

In either case, the next sound we hear is Brown, groaning. He is obviously in great pain.

The video again fast forwards. Krueger is heard recounting the incident to another officer. He says he wondered whether Brown was in the middle of a medical emergency. If that wasn't the reason he was illegally parked.

He mentions speaking to a third-party about the illegally-parked car. He then claims that the minute Brown exited the store, he was a threat to Krueger. Chillingly, he adds offhandedly “Same thing as before.”

Wow. We can all be grateful we weren't in Sgt. Krueger's path that night.

For six-figure salaries and generous pensions that kick in after a mere twenty-years, we ought to expect a whole lot more from our police than capricious, race-based bullying.

Yes, Brown could have been more servile. And yes, Sgt. Krueger was clearly having a bad day. But the fact remains: there was no reason whatsoever for tasering Sterling Brown.

None.

It was, and is, indefensible.

This is textbook. You want to know why African-Americans don't trust the police? You want to know why Colin Kaepernick (who ironically was born in Milwaukee) has, in all likelihood, sacrificed his NFL career protesting this?

It's right here, ladies and gentlemen.

Sterling Brown—despite cooperating with police and admitting guilt—was gang-tackled, tasered and treated like a gang-banging thug because he is black.

There is no other reasonable conclusion.

Yes, big-city cops have tough jobs. But in addition to be being very well-paid to perform them, they are also officers of the peace; entrusted with de-escalating and defusing potentially volatile situations that threaten the public safety.

I didn't see any defusing. And I certainly didn't see any de-escalation. And I doubt you did, either. I saw a pissed-off cop spoiling for a fight—but only after five of his buddies showed up to stack the odds in his favor.

I have spent the majority of my working life with the public. And across several different jobs with several different employers, there is one constant: don't take it personally. If the last customer was abusive and accusatory, flush it out of your system. Move on.

Never, ever take it with you.

Sgt. Krueger was plainly unable to do so.

It is an outrage that he and his fellow gang members haven't been suspended without pay. They desperately need extensive time-off to examine the baggage they brought to this stop.

And while Sterling Brown is clearly the victim Rose Campbell imagines herself to be. I would offer him—in the gentlest words possible—this advice: next time, remain silent and obey.

You knew you were not a threat. Sgt. Krueger did not. Let him find his way to that truth.

And if he doesn't, there are avenues in which to seek justice.

In the end, what is most ironic is that despite all the chest-thumping and the challenging and the accusations, Brown never got that ticket.

It obviously wasn't a priority.

One Side of the Coin

I still can't wrap my brain around the uproar surrounding Alpharetta, GA. police officers, who first pulled over and then arrested a sixty-five year-old African-American grandmother after she failed to comply with their requests to A. sign her citation and B. step out of her car after refusing to do so.

Granted, she was pulled over for a “minor” offense: that of failing to maintain her lane. But in our DUI-centric society, where it often seems that is the only crime an individual can commit, veering outside your lane is clue number-one to law enforcement that you're impaired.

Especially when it happens after sundown.

Rose Campbell—presumably being sober—had only to sit patiently, let the officer explain why she was being pulled over and hope that said officer, seeing that she was, in fact, sober, would let her off with a warning.

But she couldn't.

Campbell also couldn't ask “Why do I need to sign this?”, the better to learn that doing so merely acknowledges being pulled over for a traffic violation, and that if she wished to contest the ticket she could do so in court.

While I have not spoken to her personally about this incident, I am going to assume Campbell felt this was a textbook case of profiling—pulling someone over not necessarily because of what they did, but for who they were when they did it.

And sadly, she let that dictate the remainder of the encounter.

Campbell was childish. Campbell was petulant. Campbell screamed like a toddler told to finish their peas—or else forego their screen time. And after telling the arresting officer she wouldn't get out of her car until his supervisor came on scene, she refused to do so then as well.

I would have lost my temper, too. I would have dragged this sixty-five year-old brat out of her car and told her to shut the fuck up, too. Campbell's behavior was a disgrace. She soiled every legitimate claim of police profiling and police brutality out there.

Yes, being pulled over sucks. Is there anyone who enjoys having their vehicular miscues amplified by the flashing LED lights of a police car—in public?

Nope.

But it happens. And when it does, we have to be the amazing people we tell everyone we are on Facebook and Instagram.

Cops are stressed. I'm pretty sure they don't enjoy pulling people over. I'm pretty sure they wonder who the hell they've stopped, and whether a sawed-off shotgun awaits them as they approach the driver's-side window.

But as someone who has been pulled over for far-less serious infractions than failing to maintain my lane, my advice is this:

1. Shut-up. Let the officer do their job. Hand over your license and registration. Don't act like you're two days overdue for a hit of meth. Ask questions using your indoor voice. You don't like being screamed at, do you? Neither do cops.

2. Acknowledge reality. You were in a hurry to get to your job because you left the house ten-minutes late. And on the day you have to give an 8 AM PowerPoint presentation on the reasons behind your employer's declining market-share.

You hate your job. And PowerPoint. You were a whole 'nother kind of DWI—driving while irritable. It's 7:35 and you're still thirty minutes away from work. Your boss is going to be chewing on your ass all day long, aren't they?

We all have bad days. We screw up. And sometimes, we're caught.

Clench.

Again, be the towering monument to self-control you say you are on social media. (The thought being that a ticket is a whole lot better than being forcibly inserted into the back of a squad car.)

And remember: contrary to what our media often implies, traffic stops are survivable.

And speaking of our media (especially the electronic kind who can't resist airing a controversial video because it's good for business), shame on them for validating Campbell's behavior. Shame on them for painting her not as a spoiled and entitled exception whose mistakes should remain immune from prosecution because of her race, but as a doting grandmother and frail diabetic.

In other words, a hapless victim of wanton police brutality.

Retch.

Let's be very, very clear: Rose Campbell is not Rosa Parks. She is a driver who momentarily let her concentration lapse and then had a great, big hissy fit when she got caught.

As Campbell herself later stated in an interview “Everyone does it.”

You would be correct, Rose. And that is why distracted driving is a topic of national concern—except when you do it. Because you're special and even when law enforcement has a valid reason for pulling you over—they don't.

Do I have that right?

Upon hearing that Campbell is, like me, a professional driver, I would urge her to consider a career change. Perhaps to something in the field of landscaping.

Because abetted by our short-sighted media, she has a remarkable ability for turning molehills into mountains.