Random Thoughts, Vol. 13

After another divisive year where seemingly every public opinion is split right down the middle, I think we can all agree today is the final day of 2019.

So I'll take this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy New Year.

And pray we find more commonality next year than we did in this one. 

Is it okay to eat dark chocolate with the lights on?

As a man with a wife, do I get special commendation for even thinking of moving to a place called Romeoville?

If Donald Trump has a favorite football team, is has to be the New England Patriots. Spygate? Deflategate? Filming-the-opposition-from-the-press-box gate? Yep. These guys are as crooked as he is.

What I want to know is how you get your money back from California Psychics by denying theirs was the best reading you've ever had. I mean, they're psychics, right?

I'm still trying to figure out how I lost the government's name-a-dam contest. I'm telling you, God is an awesome name for a dam!

In a zero-tolerance society like ours, how is it we continue to tolerate Donald Trump?

With 210 episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond from which to choose, how is it my cable station can only rotate the same three-dozen week after week after week?

I will submit once again that the more-irritating the driver either directly in front of or directly behind you, the more-likely they're headed to the same destination you are.

Many people criticize Donald Trump for his insensitivity to minorities. To which I counter hey—ever heard of the one-percent?

Be as unbiased as death.

A Holiday Wish

Merry Christmas to all,

And to all, a good night.

Asking Questions

I once saw a bumper sticker which read “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians.” This may or may not have been said by Mahatma Gandhi.

Whatever its origins, it illuminates the vast schism between the inspiration for Christianity and Christianity as it is so often practiced. This divide once again became newsworthy as the editor of Christianity Today opined that President forty-five ought to be removed from office based on his “blackened moral record”.

Naturally, this news sent Donald into the royal toilet, where with his stubby pink fingers hard at work, he composed another royal tweet. Since Christianity Today's editorial didn't nominate Donald for sainthood, it was deemed fake news. Fraudulent.

"Another byproduct of the radicalized, socialized left, who are bent on (in Donald's words) taking your guns, your religion and destroying America!" (Never mind that Donald is doing a stellar demolition job all on his own.)

But what really made this editorial noteworthy was that it called out Trump's quote-unquote Christian base.

Like so many things that happen on the other side of the aisle, the notion of Christian Trumpers does not compute. It's right up there with the idea of a Jewish Nazi. I mean, what version of Christianity endorses Donald Trump?

I get the whole pro-life thing. But the name-calling? The grab-'em-by-the-pussy ethos? The fraud? The theft? The lies? The hatred? I can't find a GPS unit that can take me to that place where Christianity intersects with Donald Trump.

Being a Trumper means shutting down massive portions of your humanity and replacing it with lizard-brained, knee-jerk hate. Tell me right-wing evangelicals, where does the Christianity part come in?

I am grateful Christianity Today editor Mark Galli was able to seize the moment and ask questions that so desperately need to be asked. Even if it means that President Petulant will no longer be reading "ET" (that's a quote, people) magazine.

Thank you.

Dear Whiny Republican

Yes. We Democrats hate Donald Trump.

We hated him when he won an election engineered by Republican gerrymandering. 

We hated him when his childish and towering insecurity first reared its ugly head via an indefensible proclamation that more people showed up for his inauguration than Barack Obama's.

We hated him when he refused to share his tax returns. Being possessed of functioning brains, we knew what that meant. And still do.

(Which I hasten to point out, differentiates us from you.)

We hated him when he gave lip service to our men in uniform and then pissed all over a Gold Star mother because her son had brown skin.

We hated him when he mimicked a disabled child at one of his campaign rallies like the puerile middle-school bully he is. And then had the audacity to complain about satirical portrayals of himself and call them mean-spirited.

Seriously? 

We hated him when he neutered the Environmental Protection Agency for the benefit of our corporate parasites, endangering every man, woman and child on Earth in the process.

We hated him when he authored a trillion-dollar giveaway to the one-percent and Google and Exxon and Amazon and Wal-Mart. And we hated him when we realized corporate giants were paying income tax at half the rate of working Americans.

We hated him when he spat on America's allies and embraced our enemies. 

We hated him when he was found to have defrauded would-be students under the ageis of (don't laugh) Trump University.

(You want a world-class oxymoron? There it is.)

We hated him when he was found to have looted his own charity.

And we hated him when he arrogantly and capriciously put the security of domestic elections at risk by soliciting the help of a foreign government to dig up dirt on a presumed opponent in exchange for foreign aid.

Democrats did not provoke this impeachment. Our dislike and derision didn't place a phone call to Ukraine last July. Donald Trump did that all by himself.

Can I assume you're familiar with the expression 'give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself'?

Whine and cry about how Democrats have wanted this since November 8, 2016. You're right. You are so damn fucking right. Hate us for knowing in advance what an incompetent, venal, selfish, toxic bag of shit Donald Trump was going to be as president.

THAT'S WHY WE DIDN'T VOTE FOR HIM!!!

Do you retards get that???

I'm so sorry you're Republican. Like sheep returning from pasture, you know only how to follow the asshole in front of you.

Worse still are his enablers. The spineless, gutless cowards in the House and Senate. Their reflexive, unthinking support of this destructive and dangerous demagogue should have them in front of a firing squad. 

God willing, the political equivalent will present itself next November.

Two Things

Houston Police Chief Art Acevedo is my new hero. 

Finally, there's someone in law enforcement calling out the NRA and their “Guns for Everyone” policies as well as the spineless Republican sycophants who enact them.

It's about time.

For reasons that are thoroughly lost on me, the balance of law enforcement apparently feels that criminals and psychopaths armed with automatic weaponry is a good thing. Maybe they enjoy the high-octane shoot-outs that result. I don't know.

But if I'm a cop, I want to be the only guy on the street with a gun.

But that's just me.

At any rate, thank you Chief Acevedo for injecting some front-line perspective into America's ludicrous gun debate.

After delaying the start of an impeachment inquiry, Democrats now want to ram one through Congress before presidential campaigns get serious. Which is why they're allowing the offal in the Trump administration to ignore subpoenas without fear of reprisal.

Great start.

Democrats need to win the war of public opinion, and rushing through an inquiry between Thanksgiving and Christmas ain't the way to do it.

Allow me to make a sports analogy: in a short series the Republicans are going to win.

They'll pound the floor with their fists and threaten to hold their breath until they turn blue. The brain-damaged folk who buy into Trump and watch Fox News will pump their fists with per-pubescent glee.

A short, noisy, concentrated burst of denial plays into Trump's hands—it's a Twitter-length tantrum to keep the base riled-up and supporting their martyr.

But in a long one? Those ADHD attention spans will wander. The intensity will wane. Or merely become tiresome. Like a child throwing a tantrum, they inevitably tire. Which clears the floor for a reasoned, fact-based inquiry.

With a majority of plainly amoral Republicans in the Senate, winning the war of public opinion is the only way to permanently delete the Trump virus.

Building Up the Bears?

It was Alexander Pope who said “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”

I would add the coverage of the Chicago Bears in the Chicago Tribune's sports section.

However fine a newspaper it may be, the happy talk following two narrow victories over cellar-dwelling opponents (one in the midst of an eight-game losing streak and the other starting a third-string quarterback making his NFL debut) smacks of public relations-speak and not clear-eyed, objective journalism.

Judging by the content, you would have thought the Bears had shut-out the Baltimore Ravens and San Francisco 49ers—on the road. The reality is the Bears squeaked by the New York Giants and Detroit Lions by a cumulative margin of nine points.

Yes, the Bears completed several forward passes, which was certainly novel. And some even gained double-digit yardage, another novelty. What's more, a number of possessions lasted more than three downs, which qualifies as a veritable epiphany.

But contrary to the Tribune's coverage, in the end it was the same old Bears; struggling against what were (on paper) inferior opponents.

And to think all fans were worried about in September was finding a reliable field goal kicker.

The 2019 Bears have many problems. Beyond playing a first-place schedule and surrendering the ability to sneak up on people as they did last year, problem number-one is their brittle offensive line, further decimated by the loss of Kyle Long.

An offensive line is the core of any team's offense. When they're stout and impenetrable, they make a quarterback look like Brett Farve and a running back resemble Barry Sanders. 

Quarterbacks have time to survey the field and decide on the best option for a pass. Running backs have wide open lanes enabling them to break off five, six yards at a crack. After three quarters of this, an opponent's defensive line shows signs of fatigue.

A great offensive line provides options. Got a lead you want to protect or an opposing offense you want to keep off the field? Go ahead. Run that ball. Need to strike fast and reclaim the lead late? Done.

Sadly, the Bears don't have either of these options. The proof is in the fact they're among the league leaders in three-and-outs. They can't sustain their running game or their passing game.

However talented the Bears defense is, they're on the field for more snaps than three-quarters of their NFL colleagues. As a consequence, they tire and give up points. And if there's a team in the NFL that can't afford to fall behind, its the 2019 Chicago Bears.

Once again, the Bears can't run and they can't pass, largely because of their deficient O-line. Mitch Trubisky's development has been further retarded by this line, leading to a torrent of bitter and hostile criticism.

And lacking draft capital, April won't be an answer any time soon.

But you'd never know it reading recent dispatches in the Tribune. Nope. The Bears have rediscovered their mojo. They have their groove back. Fire up Club Dub. All of this after beating the New York Giants and Detroit Lions.

Whew. It's a little much.

The Bears face the distracted Dallas Cowboys tonight, a team with serious internal issues. They could conceivably get lucky and catch the Cowboys by surprise, giving them a 7 – 6 record and sending the Bears' public relations staff at the Tribune into overdrive.

But with remaining games against the Green Bay Packers, Kansas City Chiefs and Minnesota Vikings (the first and last on the road), things don't look so good. Not with a tough schedule and a weak line and no obvious solutions on the horizon.

Like their 2007 counterparts, the 2019 Bears are the morning after a celebration. And there's no hiding the fact these Bears don't look so good in the light of day.

It'll be curious to see when the Tribune acknowledges it.

Donald Trump is President. This Is What I've Learned.

Educators have long maintained we can learn anywhere. And from anyone. Woe unto us were learning confined to the classroom.

And so it is that despite my smoldering contempt for president forty-five, I have learned from him. For instance, I have learned that when confronted with accusations you feel are false, the best thing to do is prove it.

Let's say there are suspicions regarding your financial dealings, and a request is made to examine your tax returns. It has become standard operating procedure for people in your position to submit them, as they are prove with unshakeable certainty that your extensive business dealings are legal and above board.

You have nothing to hide. What would be the point of obfuscation?

Repeatedly denying those requests, endlessly parroting a lame excuse for your non-compliance and taking legal action up to and including the Supreme Court would only add fuel to the fires of suspicion, would it not?

That's just silly.

Another example. You're the holder of a political office. It has been alleged that you have sought the help of a foreign government in collecting dirt on a political opponent. You have also been charged with threatening to withhold nearly half-a-billion dollars in foreign aid should this government fail to play along.

Displaying the political acumen you have accumulated in your long years of public service, you slam this door shut with a resounding finality by cooperating with your accusers, opening the books to any and all investigation that in the end, will paint your naysayers as the desperate, clutching fools that they are.

Again, what would be the point of denials? Refusals? Obstruction? Those are the tools of guilty men.

Is the last laugh not also the sweetest?

So yes. This is what I've learned from our latest (and greatest) president. When one finds themselves in the middle of a witch hunt, the best thing to do is fling open the closet doors and dare your opponents to find the witch costume.

Well-played, Mr. President. You, sir, are a genius.

Where's the Fire, Donald?

Displaying the peevish rancor of a man with little to lose, President Petulant lashed out at California governor Gavin Newsom Sunday, incorrectly insinuating that it was California's lax fire prevention efforts that led to the two wildfires currently laying waste to vast portions of the state.

If this textbook example of blaming the victim weren't enough, the petulant one also threatened to withhold federal aid, which seems to becoming a habit.

If Trump makes good on his threat, perhaps Newsom should offer to dig up some dirt on Democratic candidates and see how the president responds. If nothing else, it could add weight to the current body of evidence that paints Trump as the venal, self-centered whore-monger over half the country believed he was back in 2016.

Naturally, it goes without saying that Trump's assertions were fact-free. Displaying the reflexive ignorance that has made him the nation's number-one source of fake news, Trump lambasted Newsom for not clearing forest floors of debris when in fact these fires were burning in grasslands which ring urban areas.

(That's why so many houses have been destroyed, Sir.)

In other words, while clearing forest floors of debris is always a good idea, it would have had no effect whatsoever on the fires currently raging in California.

Prior to the Trump infestation, the Mariana Trench was thought to be the deepest, darkest place on planet Earth. A place as remote and removed as the furthest reaches of space.

Post-Trump, this is clearly not the case. That honor belongs to the endless expanses of our president's fathomless ignorance.

Happy Halloween

It's Halloween. And for reasons unknown to me we persist in celebrating the mad, the frightening and the macabre even with Donald Trump in the White House.

My low-cal contribution to the holiday is this retelling of my encounters with bombers.

For those fortunate-enough not to know what bombers are, read on.

I happen to live two communities removed from one featuring a gravel pit. Which means the area's roads are thick with what I call bombers—trucks with open, double-axled trailers infamous for spewing gravel and stones onto the vehicles behind them.

When they're not pounding our roads into dust, their drivers alternately menace and foul traffic. In my eight years in the region, no other type of truck (with the possible exception of pick-ups) makes driving so reliably frustrating. Or dangerous.

Like all truckers, they endure their share of impatient motorists who zoom around them with righteous indignation. But in first-hand accounts, they give far worse than they get.

Given their enormous weight, they are, by nature, lumbering. Traveling behind one on a two-lane road chock-full of traffic signals will excite even the most-serene bowel. Worse, when presented with a four-lane road, their drivers frequently opt for the so-called fast lane.

'Slow Traffic Keep Right' may as well be posted in Sanskrit.

As a result, they evoke mass panic in our driving population. This is amplified when one is trapped behind two bombers—one thoughtfully occupying each lane on a four-lane road. Given a choice between this and driving with a swarm of mosquitoes inside my car, I'll take the mosquitoes.

Alas, bombers do not always travel at such modest speeds. On roads not choked with stop lights, bombers reveal their true selves—frustrated BMW drivers trapped in seven-ton gravel haulers. Yes, they like to go fast.

As a bus driver, I'll never forget the two bombers that came roaring out of the pre-dawn darkness just as I began a protected left-hand turn. I hit the brakes with such force I activated the bus's event camera.

It was a very good thing no one was aboard.

Then there was the time I was headed to work, traveling a rural two-lane at my customary five-over. As I entered a sweeping right-hand curve, I became aware of a vehicle attempting to pass on my left.

No surprise—it was a bomber, trying to pass despite the double yellow lines and oncoming early-morning traffic. He nearly jack-knifed after slamming on his air brakes.

Just two weeks ago, there was yet-another bomber who forced me across the double yellow line after coming up on my right at a merge. He was going to get ahead of me or remove the passenger side of my car trying.

My mate and I were lucky there was no oncoming traffic, as a head-on collision would have been inevitable.

If asked, the bomber's driver would no doubt state he had checked for oncoming traffic before forcing me off the road. Because that's the kind of drivers they are.

Yeah.

I took the license number and filed a complaint with the local police. The owners stated the trailer had been leased to an independent owner-operator (of course) and as such they were unable to identify the driver.

I lacked a trailer number or any information from the cab, so like a visit to a government agency while I possessed information it wasn't the right information.

Sigh.

There are contrarians who would maintain that the bombers infesting our roads represents a healthy and thriving economy, and that I should be grateful for such. And I agree--in part. They're certainly good for the manufacturer of the dash cam I just purchased.

Yep—my next encounter with a bomber is going to be a hi-def spectacle which will be distributed to finer police departments everywhere with YouTube not far behind.

Smile, bro. Are you ready for your close-up?

Again with the Hissy Fit, Lindsey?

My joy is transcendent and luminous. Watching the Trump administration implode in a series of puerile tantrums is a wondrous thing for which words barely suffice.

But even in days stuffed with the petulant antics of Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell, William Barr and Rudy Giuliani, one support player reliably steps forward and—however temporarily—steals the spotlight..

Yes, I speak of the senator from South Carolina, Lindsey Graham. Ol' Lindsey is never, ever shy about opening his mouth, and sometimes even thinks before doing so. Thankfully, that was not the case Thursday.

Graham again entertained the hell out of me by issuing an indignant hissy fit about the Democrats and their 'closed' impeachment inquiry. I mean, seriously Lindsey? You're in a snit because the Democrats did something without inviting you and your fellow Republicans along?

Aw. Hey--weren't you supposed to be giving Charles Koch a hand-job or something?

I guess those big, bad Democrats plum forget how open and transparent your boss and his henchmen have been. You know, the whole ignoring subpoenas thing and the obfuscation and the cover-ups and the lies and the threats.

And that picture of you posing with the posterboard explaining point by point how respectful Republicans were of Bill Clinton while they attempted to impeach him for lying about a blow job? 

Yeah. Sure. 

Sorry Lindsey, but I was alive in 1998. So were lots of other people. That was a political smear. Character assassination. A hatchet job. If that's the context for impeachment, what's appropriate for Donald Trump? 

A firing squad? 

Come on, Lindsey. I'm sure this plays really well at Fox for the high school drop-outs who thought it'd be fun to turn the federal government into a reality TV-styled source of entertainment.

But to the majority of us who didn't vote for the Trump-whore, it is clear you've spent far too long in the Republican whine cellar.

Sober up.

Acquiescence

You never know which match is going to start the fire.

Take China. If there's one thing I liked about Donald Trump (and there was only one, trust me), it was his willingness to call out China.

Long the manipulator of its citizenry, ignorer of trademarks and an all-star violator of human rights, China has an astonishing ability to hypnotize its trading partners into believing it is a trustworthy and egalitarian one.

China is the con man who can bedazzle the world into believing, well, practically anything. Like all successful cons, it uses the greed of its marks to compromise them.

And when hypnosis doesn't work, there is always the bludgeon of cheap labor and those 1.3 billion potential consumers.

We pretended Google wasn't kowtowing to China's oppressive leadership and constructing search engines that prevented Chinese citizens from reading anything their government didn't want them to read, making Google one of the world's most powerful and wealthiest corporations in the process.

We ignored it when Beijing suppressed Olympic coverage it didn't deem consistent with its public relations campaigns, and pretended that Beijing's air quality was great, its citizenry free to express any degree of dissatisfaction with their government they wished and that Tiananmen Square never, ever happened because, after all, no one could find proof of it on a Google search.

Gosh. I could go on and on and on.

In our corporation's desire to make ever-greater amounts of money, and in our own unfortunate acceptance of it, we have shown our true colors. Yeah, democracy is nice and everything, but more than that we prize abundant and inexpensive labor. Corpulent profit margins. Expanding market share. Wealth creation with ceilings like the Sistine Chapel.

That's what we really want.

And China is only too happy to supply it—as long as we turn a blind eye to things like currency manipulation, intellectual property abuses and the Muslim internment camps in western China.

The very corporations who have gone hand-in-hand with Republican policies that diminished the American worker (and subsequently, their ability to consume) now turn to China to keep those bonus checks rolling into the executive suite.

And so it goes.

In our greed, we have ceded the manufacture of practically everything to China. This includes our prescription drugs and the weaponry which constitutes our national defense. The geniuses in the corporate penthouse have eagerly unzipped their flys and allowed China to grab their testes and give them a good twist in exchange for ever larger stacks o' cash.

And who doesn't think that's a good thing?

But every now and then there's someone who didn't read the memo.

I have only to point to Houston Rocket's GM Daryl Morey, whose earnest tweet in support of the Hong Kong demonstrations upset the apple cart. Instead of following protocol and politely ignoring the fart in the elevator, Morey essentially asked “who farted?”

And after so many years of blind obedience, China is upset with us. Is America discovering its conscience?

NBA commissioner Adam Silver, caught between the NBA's expanding business and defending a core value of the United States, wisely choose the latter, further exacerbating the Chinese.

They are burning NBA jerseys and pulling the plug on NBA telecasts and all sorts of horrible things.

Bad America! Bad!

Perhaps. But I'm fine with it. The NBA needs money like I need an elevated cholesterol count. As a radicalized socialist (per our president), it is my opinion that our relationship with China stinks. It is nothing but a museum-worthy exhibit of our hypocrisy.

I am both shamed and highly-concerned by it.

And speaking of shame, I only wish LeBron James had an ounce or two. 

Despite his highly-publicized Twitter exchanges with President Petulant, James is as complicit as any other businessman. When faced with re-thinking his relationship with a plainly amoral government or sustaining his already-exorbitant revenue stream, he chose the latter.

You sure you're anti-Trump LeBron? 

The season doesn't start for another six days. Like James, many of us should take some time off and get a clue and calculate exactly what those low prices and our relationship with China costs.
 

Joe Maddon

It's hard to see anything clearly without the passage of at least a little time. It has a way of settling the raw emotions that frequently cloud an event, its causes and ultimate impact. Which is why we should be grateful for a thing called history. It puts things in perspective.

Take Joe Maddon's dismissal from the Chicago Cubs last Sunday.

Initially, I was upset. I was a fan. Maddon exuded an affable charm as he molded his young Cubs and inspired his veteran ones to a world championship in 2016. He led the Cubs to successes not seen since the Great Depression—which, if you're counting, was over eighty-years ago.

And to his bosses gratification, he kept the turnstiles spinning.

But things evolve quickly, and while he was the ideal manager to shepherd that team to the top of the National League Central and baseball in general, he wasn't the guy to keep them there. Rumors of an overly-permissive clubhouse made their way through the MLB grapevine, and it soon became obvious these Cubs were satisfied.

Houston Astros pitcher Dallas Keuchel observed as much even before the 2018 season began, stating “We're not the Cubs” when asked about his team's ability to repeat in the American League West.

Many teams came of age alongside these Cubs. The Cleveland Indians. The Los Angeles Dodgers. And the aforementioned Astros. All sustained a far-higher level of competitiveness than did the Cubs. Their managers were able to transition from inspiring youthful teams to motivating and preparing them for the mounting challenges of staying on top.

It was something Maddon couldn't do.

After GM Theo Epstein's ultimatum essentially turned Maddon into a lame duck, the Cubs got sloppy. Mental mistakes on the basepaths. Home run-or-bust at bats, especially with men in scoring position. And fielding more typical of a company softball game than a major league baseball one.

None of those are the hallmarks of a team laser-focused on winning a title.

The front office shorted Maddon on bullpen support and the farm system dried up without ever yielding a starting pitcher. But I can't vanquish the thought that if Maddon had kept these guys in fighting trim, they'd be vying for a World Series slot tonight.

Alas, he did not. These Cubs grew fat and lazy, and for that Maddon must be held accountable. 

Nevertheless, you will always have a place in our hearts, Joe.Good luck to you.

The Sound of a Window Closing

Not quite six months ago, I wrote that insofar as the Chicago Cubs were concerned, they couldn't possibly repeat last season's head-scratching fiasco. This year would assume an air of normalcy, defined as the Cubs resting comfortably atop the National League Central Division at the conclusion of the season.

I was wrong. Interminably and utterly wrong.

I have been watching major league baseball for half a century, and I have never seen such a confounding display of it. 

There are but a select few who see this team behind closed doors. In the locker room. At meetings. On team flights. I am not one of those people.

And yet, I don't need to be to know something is amiss.

Yes, there have been injuries to critical personnel: Willson Contreras, Javier Baez, Craig Kimbrel and most recently, Anthony Rizzo. Ben Zobrist spent the brunt of the season on leave collecting the pieces of a shattered marriage. And Kris Bryant, Cole Hamels and Brandon Kintzler battled recurring maladies.

But so did the New York Yankees, who as of Friday's games are 100 and 55 and sit eight and a half games ahead of the division's next-best team. No, this isn't about injuries. It's about something less-obvious and more-insidious. These Cubs are satisfied.

Having vanquished the most cursed stretch of baseball any franchise ever endured, Rizzo, Bryant, Baez, Zobrist and Jon Lester will never have to pay for a drink in Chicago again. Which is as it should be. The Cubs' 2016 championship was a monumental event that transcended loyalties and perhaps even baseball itself.

But that title raised expectations. With a young core entering its prime, there was no good reason to believe they wouldn't contend for several more.

And they have. Kind of. After a hung-over first half, the 2017 Cubs got serious and again won the division, defeating the Washington Nationals in the divisional series before being swept by the Los Angeles Dodgers in the NLCS.

Emerging cracks in the pitching staff were addressed by two free-agent signings, Yu Darvish and Tyler Chatwood, which on paper reinforced the pitching corps for another title run.

It didn't quite work out that way as Chatwood struggled to throw strikes and Darvish seemingly couldn't shake the memories of his disastrous World Series the year before and pitched just forty innings before succumbing to injury.

Despite blowing a five-game lead in the closing weeks, the Cubs staggered to 95 victories (which seen through the lens of 2019 appears truly remarkable) before surrendering the wild-card game to the Colorado Rockies.

The on-again, off-again offense, the shakey bullpen and the general weirdness which characterized 2018 couldn't repeat itself in 2019, right?

Right?

Ha. Ha. Ha.

I don't want to say this season has been strange, but I'd swear I saw David Lynch in the dugout.

The offense still disappears without a trace and the bullpen is still shakey, but this year there is a new wrinkle: the Cubs can't win on the road. Current homestand excepted, the Cubs were giant killers at Wrigley and morphed into the Florida Marlins on the road.

Team stats don't show a marked fall-off in OPS or runs scored or in batting average, but the Cubs could not find a way to win away from home. No division contender had a road record anywhere near as awful as the Cubs'.

And in the long, slow slide that is destined to close this season, it has caught up with them. Armed with a small lead, the Cubs could not afford to mess up. And mess up is exactly what they did. The run spigot has been turned off and the Cubs are in the midst of a four-game losing streak—at home.

In homer-happy 2019, they have scored just nine runs in those four games. (That figure falls to five in three games when the series-opener against the St. Louis Cardinals is eliminated.) This after scoring forty-seven in three games against the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Bi-polar? You have no idea.

This while the division-rival Cards amass the best record in baseball since the all-star break and the Milwaukee Brewers, supposedly eliminated from contention after the loss of Christian Yelich, have won eight of ten since his injury.

But these are numbers. They are only reflections of what is going on with this team. And that goes back to my contention that this club is satisfied. There is little sense of urgency. The fact that this club has never gone on a sustained surge means things like focus and purpose are in short supply. Chemistry is as rare as clutch hitting.

The Cubs aren't on a mission anymore.

They never found their groove, and have actually regressed from last season's sputtering stop-start despite the remarkable turnaround by Darvish. With the second-biggest payroll in baseball, the Cubs are punching way below their weight.

As a fan desperate to see another World Series appearance before the window inevitably closes, I'd like to see change. Even if that means waving goodbye to a personal favorite like Rizzo or Lester or Contreras.

With the Cubs' farm system running on fumes, the only way forward is a trade. It's time to be bold. It's time to ask “What would Bryant bring on the open market? Who could we get in exchange for Baez?”

Slugger Kyle Schwarber had a big year. What would he bring?

Shocking? Perhaps.

Necessary? Definitely.

For whatever reason, this team is sleepwalking. Blame it on the front office. Blame it on Maddon. Blame it on the prolonged pressure of playing for the Chicago Cubs, where the scrutiny ratchets up right along with the wins.

The bitch-slap of a big trade might shake them from their doldrums.

There's enough here to build on, but without a judicious trade or two this thing will never be turned around. They have shown us who they are.

Ric Ocasek

Ric Ocasek didn't fit the rock star template. There could hardly be a more antithetical one than the 6'4” Richard Theodore Otcasek from Baltimore, Maryland. After his family's relocation, he graduated from high school in the post-Elvis, pre-Beatles doldrums of 1963 Cleveland.

Even Alan Freed had skipped town.

Ocasek attempted college, but was drawn to music even if music wasn't initially drawn to him. He spent the remainder of the decade searching for the right assemblage of musicians that would nurture his creative flame.

He and eventual Cars' vocalist and bassist Benjamin Orr (who met in 1965) relocated to Boston in the early seventies. There, they assembled a folk-rock outfit called Milkweed who became popular enough to record an LP.

It sank without a trace, but provided the groundwork for the Cars. Future keyboardist Greg Hawkes played on the LP, which led to meeting future guitarist Elliot Easton. Drummer David Robinson and Ocasek met up in Ocasek's last pre-Cars band, and the musical aggregation Ocasek had been looking for for over a decade was complete.

So combustible was their sound that the mere demo for “Just What I Needed” received regular airings on Boston's influential WBCN. A signing to Elektra Records followed soon thereafter, and the Cars' debut LP sizzled throughout the summer of 1978.

Of note is the fact Ocasek was thirty-four years-old upon the album's release. The Cars was the culmination of a fifteen-year slog through crappy bands, crappier clubs and too many false starts to count.

Like Ian Hunter (who was thirty when Mott the Hoople got off the ground) and Bob Seger (who was thirty-one when “Night Moves” clicked), Ocasek was a lifer who didn't know how to do anything else but make music.

With less of a track record than either, his persistence is made even more remarkable.

We all know the story of the Cars, and Ocasek's eventual rock star turn in his marriage to Czech model Paulina Porizkova. But even in this he was the outlier: they remained married for nearly thirty years.

Ocasek hit it big after a long climb. He played in front of millions of adoring fans, sold millions of records and married one of the most beautiful women on Earth. There was even a successful reunion LP, which in the long history of pop music can be counted on less than ten fingers.

As the Cars' primary songwriter, Ocasek never had to shop Goodwill or stomach generic spaghetti sauce. I doubt he ever cross-shopped his car insurance.

From my side of the glass, things looked pretty good.

Of course, appearances can be misleading. There was a faded friendship rendered irreparable by an early death and the inevitable long, slow fade endured by so many in the performing arts. Two failed marriages. And a spotty solo career.

It was a life.

I hope you were okay with it, Ric.

Just Six? Really?

Hello. And a happy National Ink and Toner Day to you, too.

(Yep. That's a thing.)

Isn't it interesting that it took just six deaths for government agencies to spring into action, issuing edicts while our elected representation demands that the Food and Drug Administration ban e-cigarettes until conclusive studies can be performed?

Yes, vaping (which last time I checked was a highly-voluntary activity) has certainly captured the attention and ire of the nation. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the coin, 39,773 people died via a gun in 2017. A similar number died last year, with figures for 2019 expected to be even higher.

I'd like to respectfully submit that getting shot (with the exception of self-inflicted wounds) is a highly-involuntary activity.  

And as of 6:36 AM CDT, nobody is doing a damn thing.

Which is certainly interesting.

Pouting Your Way to the Top

I'm going to re-imagine my work-life in the context of professional football player Antonio Brown's career.

Upon graduation, I am offered employment with employer A. I work hard and establish myself as a leader in my field.

By my third year with the company, I begin to exhibit an exaggerated sense of my importance. In a dispute over office supplies, I yell “Don't you know who I am? I don't need office supply requisitions! I am this company!”

Prior to the office Christmas party, I taunt visiting sales reps from another company and am forbidden from attending the year-end gala.

As my status within the company grows, I begin to flaunt my position by regularly showing up late for meetings, seminars, and the like--if I show up at all. I dare my superiors to call me on it.

Near the end of my seventh year with the company, I feel unappreciated. 

I act out. In defiance of established business protocol, I belch loudly at a business dinner where we are in the midst of sensitive negotiations with a new client.

After being reprimanded privately by my boss following the dinner, I post our meeting on You Tube. He is heard complaining about our new client and the deal falls apart. He is then made to apologize by our company's CEO.

One month later, I am made the highest-paid person ever with my job title.

But I still feel unappreciated. Everyone doesn't love me. The company doesn't act on my suggestions. One particular co-worker calls me out on my deficiencies—as if I had any. Did I mention I feel unappreciated?

This mounting disrespect eats away at me until I confront the brazen co-worker. His superiors feel I am out of line and want me punished. I take the next several days off.

When I return, I am told I have been suspended.

I take to my Linkedin account and announce that my time with employer A has clearly come to an end. I wait for competing offers to roll in.

While the industry-leaders I crave are mostly silent, an offer from an older firm in the midst of a rebuild intrigues me. But I need to know they are committed to my success, first.

Everything is going swimmingly until I am told I need to forego my beloved BlackBerry, per company policy. I refuse. I try repeatedly to sneak it into meetings, only to be caught and reprimanded in a series of escalating meetings.

I contact a a tech-wizard who retrofits my BlackBerry's circuitry into a shell made by my new employer's approved manufacturer. It doesn't work. I storm out of the building, outraged. Who were they to say what kind of phone I could—and couldn't—use?

I need to get out of town and think. Employer B is cramping my style. How did they think I would function without my phone? It's like chopping off the hands of a concert pianist and telling him to perform with someone else's.

I take a few months and clear my head in Tahiti.

During a scuba-diving trip, I am bitten on the hand by a gold-crowned Antfish. It doesn't bother me until I return to the elevation at which employer B's headquarters rests. My hand soon begins to throb uncontrollably, causing severe, debilitating pain.

It makes using a phone—Blackberry or not—impossible.

Even after doctors stabilize the hand, the issue of my phone remains. Employer B is increasingly concerned whether I will ever work for them.

Just as I am beginning to reconcile myself to the idea of working for them, my CEO goes all hard ass on me. He issues an emergency performance review that threatens not only my employment with the company, but reveals several financial penalties that would kick-in if I don't begin work immediately.

I post his threatening review on Linkedin for all the world to see. What's more, I also threaten to knock the crap out of him. Who does he think he's screwing with, anyway?

He threatens to fire me. By this point, I couldn't care less. This is clearly a backwards organization that prizes unthinking obedience over enlightened individualism. I certainly don't need them as much as they need me.

I prepare to take my lumps and am in the midst of updating my resume when the phone rings. It is my department manager.

“Listen, bro. Can't we just sweep all this shit aside and just go to work? I don't even know what the fuck's happening, man. I just want to get down to business.”

His naked, heartfelt appeal catches me off-guard. “That's all I ever wanted” I sob into the phone.

A hasty reunion is arranged and I report to work. I issue a tear-stained apology to my co-workers for my disruptive behavior.

But afterwards, I become aware that nothing has really changed. This is still a second-rate outfit that won't let me use my BlackBerry.

I post my letter of resignation on FaceBook. I am done.

Then I get a job offer from Final Solutions, the industry-leader I should have been with from the start.

There's a lesson here somewhere. I'm just not sure it's one anyone should learn.

It's Time

I'm trying to gauge the pathos in a year with 298 mass shootings, especially when only 247 days of that year have passed. Any idiot capable of inhaling and exhaling without a prompt could see it for the horror it is.

But there are special kinds of idiots aligned with the NRA, and one of the most prominent is Mitch McConnell.

The witless lap dog of Donald Trump, the senator from Kentucky resembles not so much a freely-elected representative to the United States Senate, but actor Lincoln Perry's Stephin Fetchit character, a bumbling, eternally fearful man terrified of upsetting the boss man.

Like Perry's character, McConnell is scared shitless of his boss. That's why he makes no statements without first clearing them with the Trump-whore.

After Wal-Mart grew a pair and decided to apply even a moderate amount of pressure to the gun-control brake pedal by refusing to sell ammunition for assault weapons and hand guns, Mitch couldn't comment. “Oh no. I have to check and see with the boss first.”

Translated, this means I need to know what he thinks before I know what I think.

Of course the NRA, in its time-honored myopic fashion, lambasted Wal-Mart for caving to the so-called gun control 'elites' and potentially compromising the rights of law-abiding gun owners.

Gosh.

Is there anyone among us—anyone at all—who believes that tens of thousands should be fatally shot or wounded every year in service of the Second Amendment?

That's what I thought.

The NRA opposes each and every piece of gun-control legislation, no matter how sensible or respectful it is of “law-abiding” gun owners. The NRA's vocabulary consists of but a single word: no.

And for decades, we have accepted that.

What we have to show for our compliance is a country with more guns than people. A country where the paranoid, the disenfranchised and the mentally ill can amass weapons stores capable of hideous acts of mass murder. A country where anyone is able to buy any kind of gun they want because anything less is a violation of the NRA's interpretation of the Second Amendment.

It's time for the rest of us to land a gut punch to the NRA.

In the early-nineteen-eighties, when drunk driving became a recognized social problem, legislators didn't hem and haw about pending legislation, fearful of reprisals from liquor manufacturers and their lobbyists.

No. They went ahead and did the morally-responsible thing. In the face of a mounting public slaughter, they increased awareness of the toxic effects of drinking and driving and dramatically increased the penalties for those who continued to violate drunk driving statutes.

No one gave a second thought to the impact on “law-abiding” drinkers. Simply put, the greater good was served.

That isn't the case with gun violence. The NRA has made it crystal clear they are comfortable with any amount of collateral damage, so long as the rights of “law-abiding” gun owners are protected.

I cannot overstate this: the NRA refuses any and all efforts at gun reform. In other words, they are okay with Odessa and El Paso and Dayton and Gilroy. You get that, right?

This is why Democrats need to stop playing nice. They need to stop being respectful of “law-abiding” gun owners and act on the realities of 2019 America.

America is a shooting gallery. A place where anyone—no matter the state of their mental health or personal inclinations—can buy an assault weapon and wage war on whoever happens to be around.

And again—the NRA is fine with that.

Can't get laid? Got fired? Spouse got custody of the kids? Thanks to the NRA, you can go out and purchase an assault weapon and seek (real or imagined) revenge with no more effort than squeezing a trigger.

And again—the NRA is fine with that.

Is it okay with you?

Representatives and Senators are refereed to as elected representation because they are elected to represent people from a specific geographic area. It is presumed they will act on the wishes of that electorate. And yet, I don't recall the electorate expressing a preference for inaction on gun control in a very, very long time, if ever.

And yet that is exactly what we have.

A two-thirds majority has consistently desired stronger gun-control legislation and deeper background checks in the face of our mounting carnage. But the NRA's hold on Republicans is stronger than ours.

Let's be clear: if you vote Republican, you are endorsing gun violence.

Vote Democrat, and perhaps one of these options might see the light of day:

Repeal the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. When gun manufacturers are held accountable for the carnage they enable, I'm guessing they'll develop a sudden interest in developing safer weapons and meeting gun-safety activists half-way than hiding behind the sneering petulance of the NRA.

Tax guns and ammunition the way we do alcohol and tobacco. We now understand the latter two are responsible for an inordinate amount of public expense due to the destructive and easily abused nature of these products.

Guns are no different. Let users pay for the carnage that goes hand in hand with our over-abundance of firearms.

Let's mount a gun buyback. This would be hideously expensive due to a quarter-century of Republican largesse, but it was hugely successful in Australia, and as a result suicides and fatal domestic disputes dropped dramatically.

Of course, Australia isn't burdened by the likes of the NRA, who would no doubt oppose a drop in suicides and fatal domestic disputes.

We've done it the Republican (er, NRA) way. This is what we have as a result. We really need to try something different, like steering around the iceberg.

Republicans prefer an 'A' from the National Rifle Association over your safety and your entirely-reasonable desire not to die while attending a concert, a festival, school, church or work. Or while sitting on your porch, in a parked car or while waiting for a bus.

We can cut off the head of the gun monster and begin to work back towards making America a safer place to live.

Or we can vote Republican.

Ja'quan Swopes and Dahleen Glanton

Dahleen Glanton is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune. She advocates, often quite effectively, for people of color.

But Michael Jordan reportedly missed shots. LCD Soundsystem released middling albums. And we the people elected Donald Trump as president.

Like the bumper sticker says, shit happens. So it's only natural that Ms. Glanton occasionally knocks out a clunker of a column.

Early on the morning of August 13^th, five teens descended on a rural home near the Illinois-Wisconsin border. They arrived there in a stolen Lexus, and were intent on adding to their bounty.

The home-owner, a seventy-five year-old man, awoke to find the teens in his driveway, attempting to steal his car. He called the police to report a crime in progress.

What happened next is unclear. Did the teens, aware they were in an isolated area, assume they had time to steal the car before the police could respond, ignoring the old man in the process?

After one of them approached the property-owner with a knife, the elderly man discharged his gun, fatally wounding the would-be assailant.

Heightening the drama is the fact that the old man was white and the miscreants were black.

While I abhor guns and gun violence and the industry trade group that works so very, very hard to sustain it, I wasn't overly upset by the news. It struck me mostly as a case of live by the sword, die by the sword.

Ms. Glanton saw it differently, and committed her feelings to print.

She was outraged not only by the death of fourteen-year-old Ja'quan Swopes and the felony murder charges brought against Swopes' accomplices, but by the public reaction to Swopes' death.

After voicing her concerns, Glanton reported her inbox was overflowing with the most-extreme opinions our society could generate. She railed at references to Swopes as a 'thug'.

Apparently, it was a surprise to Glanton that people weren't publicly flagellating themselves in the aftermath of his death.

I also e-mailed Glanton, but her e-mail account had been shut-down for “maintenance.”

I wanted to tell her that yes, the law that permitted authorities to charge the four remaining thieves with felony murder ought to be revisited.

But I also wanted to tell her that Ja'quan Swopes is not Emmet Till, and that the two should never, ever be confused.

Swopes was not the victim of racial hatred—he was the victim of his own stupidity. If there's anything to lament, it's that Swopes considered stealing cars a worthwhile and risk-free endeavor.

Again, I hold nothing but contempt and derision for our gun culture and its enablers. I feel similarly towards crooks—be they in the White House or an old man's driveway at one A.M.

Like many teenagers, Swopes wanted to taste forbidden fruit. He wanted a glimpse of life on the other side.

Needless to say, he got it.

So no. My heart does not bleed for Swopes. If that makes me a racist, fine. But know this: I would feel no differently if his skin were white. Or brown.

My heart bleeds for the truly innocent. Those killed at work. At school. At church. Or while passing a summer evening doing nothing more inflammatory than sitting on their front porch.

Ms. Glanton, let's advocate for the innocent and rail against the guilty. You seem (at least temporarily) to have confused the two.

Are the 2019 Cubs the 1987 Minnesota Twins?

For the second time in three nights, the Cubs balled-up a gorgeous pitching performance and tossed it into the trash. They may not be able to hit the side of a barn with men on base, but they're Mark Price when it comes to swishing the circular file.

Tuesday, Jose Quintana pitched six innings, allowing five hits while striking out fourteen. Owing to their clutch-averse batting, the score upon Quintana's exit was tied at two. Naturally, the Cubs went on to lose, allowing a run in each of the seventh and eighth innings.

Tonight, it didn't matter that Yu Darvish, who in this up-is-down-and-down-is-up season has emerged as the staff's ace, pitched a seven-inning, ten-strikeout, four-hit shut-out. The Cubs' bullpen, as hapless as it is overworked, again found a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by allowing a run in the eighth and six in the bottom of the ninth.

(Wednesday's outcome didn't require the services of the bullpen, as starter Cole Hamels saved them by allowing an unfathomable eight runs in just two innings of quote-unquote “work”.)

If it even needs to be said, the Cubs are on the road, where they should labor under the name Doctors—because they make everybody better.

Miraculously, the Cubs remain tied for first in the National League Central Division—even with their odorous 23 – 38 (.377) road record. It has been a long time since a division contender possessed such a Jeckyl and Hyde personality; dominating at home while practically soiling themselves on the road.

In the fifty seasons since divisional play began, many clubs have cinched a division title with mediocre road records. 38 – 43. 40 – 41. You get the picture. But only one featured a Cubbish road record and still seized the division crown.

And that team would be the 1987 Minnesota Twins.

For those of you lacking both age and perspective, the late-eighties and early-nineties were great times for Twins' fans. With the 1987 edition featuring starters like Bert Blyleven and Frank Viola with fire-breathing reliever Jeff Reardon coming out of the bullpen, and a line-up studded with folk like Kent Hrbek, Gary Gaetti, Kirby Puckett and Tom Brunansky, the Twins could be a handful.

Especially at home.

Road games were another matter, as the team struggled to a 29 -52 record.

Yet they managed to defeat the 98-win Detroit Tigers in the ALCS, taking two out of three at Tiger Stadium.

In the World Series, the Twins faced-off against the mighty 95-win Cardinals of St. Louis.

In a seven-game classic, the Twins jumped out to a quick two-games-to-nothing lead, taking games one and two at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome.

In typical fashion, they surrendered games three, four and five at Busch Stadium before rallying to take games six and seven at the Metrodome. Thusly, the 85-win Twins won a world championship.

I believe it's called home field advantage.

Without that option, hope resists the corrosive effects of reality and sustains the belief that, yes, the Cubs could somehow do some damage in the post-season.

After all, the 2008 Los Angeles Dodgers had the worst road record of any team in that year's MLB playoffs yet still managed to defeat the Cubs twice (outscoring them 17 -5) at Wrigley Field in the opening games of that year's NLDS series.

Yes, dreams die hard.