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.