The Finish Line

The day seemed never to arrive. But here it is. 2020 is in the ICU and the prognosis is not good. In fact, it has just hours to live. And strangely, no one seems to mind.

Nope. Unless you invested heavily in Zoom or were its creator, there aren't going to be many people who look back fondly on 2020. I'll even go so far as to suggest it was the worst year of many people's lives.

It was in mine.

While we're not anywhere near putting COVID in the rear view, there are encouraging signs. Namely, the presence of several vaccines which could conceivably inoculate us. Sadly, even an apparent no-brainer like a vaccine in the midst of a pandemic is faced with multiple obstacles.

Sigh. Yes, it is an exhausting time to be alive.

But alive is what I want to be. And what I want for you as well.

My heartfelt wishes for a happy and prosperous 2021 to all.

The Beautiful Convergence

 If you live in the northern hemisphere, there's a good chance that December is the darkest month of the year. This is because the Earth has reached that portion of its orbit where it is actually leaning away from the sun.

It can be hard to fathom in a universe measured in light years, but this seemingly minor event is what plunges the northern hemisphere into what we call 'winter'. (In the interests of keeping this post family-friendly, we will ignore the fact this word is frequently preceded by colorful adjectives, such as 'fucking'.)

Oops.

This change means that where I live, daylight shrinks from a high of fifteen hours and thirteen minutes to just nine hours and seven minutes—a decrease of forty percent. And these kind of profound changes don't come without consequences.

With a diminished heat source comes less heat, or if you're a glass-half-full kind of guy or gal, more cooling. Naturally, this cooling has its own consequences, like the formation of snow and ice.

Yeah, it's the northern hemisphere's annual win-win.

So. It's dark. And cold. And very likely windy. If you're really lucky, it's snowing, too. What do we do? How do we counteract this? Is there even an answer?

Yep.

Christmas.

Say what you want about this holiday, which too-often devolves into a crass orgy of materialism. We celebrate it with lights. Lots of lights.

We put lights on trees and on houses and on hedges and in some instances, even cars. In a truly beautiful convergence, in the observance of this holiday we fight the dark with light. We ward off the chill of another winter with the warmth of light.

No matter my age or state of mental health, I am always made glad by these displays of light so many of us bother with. In a hard and exhausting and frequently bitter world, those tiny bulbs sand off the edges and let us imagine—however temporarily—a world that is a good and peaceful place.

And I can't imagine anyone needing that more than we do in this year.

Be they displays visible from space or a single strand adorning a forlorn bush, my thanks to all who festooned their homes with light. You light up my life.

Consuming Cars

The Greek storyteller Aesop is credited with the expression 'Be careful what you wish for—you just might get it.' And while the following story doesn't quite lead to its protagonist getting what he asked for, towering clouds roiling with portent were appearing on the horizon with alarming frequency.

Let me explain.

It all began in October, when a man spotted an affordable used Porsche Cayman online. It appeared well cared-for and lightly used. Remarkably, it was neither black, grey nor white.

The man made an appointment with the seller and drove to look it over and perhaps take a spin. Unlike so many things which appear online, the car looked as it did in the pictures. It was in great shape with no discernible flaws.

The problem came when the man expressed a desire to take it out of the showroom and drive it. “That's staying here for now” said the salesman.

This was a form of bait and switch and the man should have left after expressing his displeasure. Instead, he answered the quick-thinking salesman's next question. “Have you ever considered a 911?”

He laughed. “Those are waaay out of my league.”

(For those of you mostly uninterested in cars, a 911 is a very expensive sports car and is the cornerstone of the Porsche brand. New, they are unobtainable for anything less than a hundred thousand dollars. Used, the initial price is often less. But you stand a good chance of making up the difference in repairs if you don't buy very, very wisely.)

“Maybe not” said the salesman henceforth referred to as Swifty. “Let me show you something.”

Like an innocent child lured with promises of candy, the man followed. He had not dared to even consider a 911. Now that resolve was dissipating. He silently chastised himself yet never slowed. He was going to be tempted. And if he were honest, would admit he wanted to be.

The whore.

Inside a dark cinder block warehouse were an assortment of new and old Porsches. Boxsters, Caymans, 911s. Even a 944. Swifty searched for one, specifically.

“Ah!” he cried. “There it is.”

Against the wall was a pewter-colored 2008 Turbo 911. As the era's 911s did, it managed to look sleek and muscular simultaneously. Menacing. Potent. Coiled. It practically appeared in motion even when still.

“Let me open it up” said Swifty.

The salesman tried to start it but the battery had lost its charge. He left to retrieve a portable charger. After a couple of minutes the car was running, with a throaty burble spilling from the quadruple exhaust pipes.

The man got in. Enveloped in a cocoon of tan leather with a sea of important-looking gauges in front of him and a firm, contoured seat beneath him, the man was, for all intent and purposes, under the influence.

He grabbed the steering wheel. He wanted to go fast—now.

Correctly reading his customer, Swifty offered up a test drive. The man grunted.

The man carefully steered the car out of the warehouse and picked his way through a tightly-packed lot to the street. Mindful of scraping the front end while exiting, he eased the car onto the road.

It felt magnificent. Like an immensely powerful beast stretching its legs before bounding off into heretofore unknown realms of speed and adhesion. The man felt intensely alive. He was electrified.

On most test drives he was a picture of restraint and self-control, rarely allowing so much as a smile even when his brain was doing cartwheels. But when traffic presented an opportunity for a good stab of the accelerator pedal, the man heard himself say “Woooo!”

He was giving the game away.

Afterwards, it was safe to say the man was aroused. No. He was corrupted. He gazed at the car stupidly as Swifty reiterated the finer points of the 997 series 911 and its Mezger engine. Despite his blood collecting in a region south of his brain, the man was able to formulate a semi-coherent response when Swifty asked “Interested?”

The car interrupted the man's sleep for nights afterward. The contrast of the tan leather interior with the metallic pewter-colored paint. The magnificent sound that emanated from the exhaust pipes. The taut sense of control the car possessed, even at forty miles an hour.

With the Cayman long-forgotten, the man acted on his better impulses and researched the 911. Was it reliable? What design flaws had twelve years revealed? And how best to recognize the seemingly innocuous condition that could erupt into a wallet-busting cataclysm?

The man learned a lot. About bore scoring and IMS bearings and how expensive maintaining and repairing a 911 could be. Unfazed, he continued to lust after it, nearly to the exclusion of all else. With a profound amount of trepidation, he admitted he needed to act on his desire.

Otherwise he would know no peace.

The man called numerous garages and repair shops to compare costs and the thoroughness of their respective pre-purchase inspections. Were compression tests included? IMS inspections? One shop in particular seemed especially qualified, and buoyed by the fact he could at last get an expert and objective opinion on the car he queried Swifty.

“Mind if I get a PPI on the '08 911?”

With Swifty's blessings, the man called the shop back to make an appointment. Whereas the shop had originally sounded almost eager and in complete agreement of the need for a PPI on a twelve year-old 911, it now sounded unenthused and almost recalcitrant, especially after hearing the seller of the car.

Even more-strangely, the shop's rep asked the name of the salesman the man was working with. Huh? Did they have some kind of mutual non-aggression pact or what?

Something didn't smell right.

And that wasn't all that changed. Where Swifty had earlier requested only a signature on a loaner agreement, a copy of the driver's license and proof of insurance, he now wanted a two-thousand dollar deposit to hold the car while it was taken in for its PPI.

Wait. Two-thousand-dollars to hold the car for a three-and-a-half hour PPI? Seriously?

This was getting weird. Fast.

And if it wasn't getting weird-enough fast-enough, know that Swifty added it wasn't “fair” to the other salesmen or to potential customers to hold the car with a deposit if he wasn't going to buy it.

Huh? But you said...

The man's internal logic processors shut-down and he was suddenly overcome with a great weariness. The months of should-I-or-shouldn't-I uncertainty suddenly weighed upon him like a pile of pig iron.

Arriving at the conclusion he was working way too hard to spend money on a complicated, often-temperamental twelve-year old car without a speck of warranty, the man unplugged. He was done.

Freed of the lingering doubt and indecision, he felt lighter than he had in months. Without a shred of evidence, the man felt he had dodged a bullet.

Or a troublesome 911. Take your pick.

Fathoming the Unfathomable

Sadly, I haven't paid enough attention to the the mousy, thin-lipped man who occupies the position of Senate majority leader. But with a neon-lit asshole (with air horn) as president, I guess that might be understandable.

But make no mistake: Mitch McConnell is a monster. One every bit as toxic as his master.

In his party's mad scramble to solidify corporate control of the government, McConnell is its most faithful servant. While we once fought to unshackle the individual and bestow upon him (or her) liberty, twenty-first century Republicans seek to unshackle the corporation and bestow it with liberty.

(As long as generous amounts of campaign financing are offered in reciprocity, anyway.)

At present, McConnell is blocking a pandemic aid package because our corporations won't be exempted from legal action in the event they don't take the requisite steps to protect their employees.

Yep. You read that right.

McConnell is the twenty-first century version of Marie Antoinette, who infamously said “Let them eat cake!” when informed that her French subjects, who were on the verge of starvation owing to her regime's exorbitant taxation, weren't happy.

(To be clear, 'cake' at that time referred to bread. Antoinette was not suggesting a sumptuous array of fragrant, butter-infused French pastries for the unwashed masses.)

With the country starved of revenue owing to his bosses trillion-dollar giveaway to the one-percent, McConnell is playing hardball with those on the verge of hunger, homelessness and destitution.

It is a shame we as a society so quickly become inured to these kinds of acts and don't see them for the unvarnished cruelty they are.

I can't wait to see what kind of swill Republicans offer by way of explanation to their blue-collar, GED-holding base who will be among those kicked in the teeth first and foremost by this impasse.

Oh that's right. They drank the Kool-Aid. The question won't even be asked.

So while McConnell represents a state second in the nation for the amount of federal aid it receives per tax dollar paid, the rest of us clearly are not worthy. (Well, not unless we let our corporations off the hook from just about everything.)

But don't forget to vote Republican in the 2022 mid-terms and, um, take our country back.

Yeah.

 

Remembering

I was still young. Alive in my excited youth, full of sensation and eagerness and anticipation. I was fresh out of college and had yet to experience the repeated beat-downs of economic downturns and jobs that turned on the whim of share price valuation-obssessed CFOs.

A buddy and I were enjoying a late-night snack at McDonald's, back when their french fries were still fried in beef fat and were amongst the best in the land. Flipping through the radio, we became aware of something unusual: every rock station in town (which, counting oldies stations, numbered at that time about a dozen) was playing Beatles' songs.

Only a decade after their messy break-up, it wasn't at all unusual to hear their music on a couple of stations simultaneously. But a dozen? Still naive in the ways of mass-market media, we looked at each other, confused.

Then it hit us: something bad had happened.

There was a chill.

Brian Epstein had already passed. George Martin's passing wouldn't provoke this type of tribute. What else could it be?

A few seconds on the unmodulated side of the frequency spectrum (in other words, one of those AM all-news-all-the-time stations) told us what we didn't want to hear: John was dead.

The horrors of the Lennon's return from a recording studio and their fatal encounter with a deeply disturbed young man unfolded over the radio and I fell into a deep, morose silence.

An emotionally rugged childhood had been made bearable by the light of the Beatles, and the fact that one of them was dead was inconceivable. Like the the one ten years earlier that maintained they no longer existed.

Had I been alone, I would have cried.

In succeeding weeks an avalanche of stories and tributes and remembrances came pouring out. Far and away the most-chilling of them was a photograph in Time magazine of Lennon signing an autograph for the man who would kill him.

A brave, funny and sometimes acerbic soul had been shattered. One of the most-unflinching, plaintive, authentic and unvarnished voices in rock music had been stilled.

Listen sometime to the Beatles' cover of the Miracles' You Really Got a Hold on Me. Or You Can't Do That. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown). Or Across the Universe, Mother, Jealous Guy and Instant Karma.

The voice never faltered. Only our widespread embrace of firearms did.

 

The Importance of Invisible Things

 

Last week I had my car worked on. Not a terribly significant event, I admit. But one that provoked the opportunity to ponder an endangered quality in our society: trust.

I doubt many of us realize the extent to which we are connected. That we depend on one another. Regardless of our political leanings, skin color, gender or sexual orientation, we are linked and rely on each other pretty heavily.

For instance, when we take our favorite article of clothing to the dry cleaner, we are counting on the store's employees to process it in the appropriate manner and not subject it to a toxic chemical bath which could destroy it.

Even if we're not there to witness it firsthand.

When we order Fetuccine Alfredo we take for granted the dinner will be prepared in a sufficiently sanitary kitchen using the ingredients dictated by the recipe and described in the menu.

Again, even when we're not personally overseeing its preparation.

And when we bring the aforementioned car in for servicing, we depend on an unseen mechanic to service or repair whatever component needs attention even though the car is out of sight and the work often not readily apparent.

So when you gaze upon the landscape of a functioning society, it is staggering to realize the extent to which we lean on this single, invisible thing called trust. A society couldn't function without it. It might even be the linchpin of civilization.

Also startling is the degree to which we take it for granted. And the profound, long-lasting damage that occurs when it is corrupted.

Which brings me to our sitting president.

Donald Trump has proven his willingness to destroy anything to satiate the yawning maw of his ego. To fill the bottomless chasm of his need for adulation and control. Even if that which is being destroyed enables a more-or-less functional society.

Put another way, ask not what Donald can do for you, but what you can do for Donald. Anything is worth sacrificing for his fulfillment. (Just ask the folk who contributed $170 million in donations to his "election defense fund.") 

So as he continues to nurture division and distrust in the name of consolidating political power, he doesn't give a shit that the cost may be a permanently damaged society shot through with suspicion, distrust and entrenched divides.

It works for him. And in the United States of Donald, that's what it's all about. 

 

Happy Thanksgiving

 

It is both troublesome and heartening. That 2020 Americans—perhaps the most contentious and divided US population ever—feel a powerful need to congregate and gather in one another's company this Thanksgiving.

Even at the risk of making our loved ones—and each other—sick.

Wow.

In one sense, it speaks to our humanity, something I thought we'd surrendered long ago. We are, after all, social creatures, given to seek company and connection. And judging by the network news reports, we are seeking that en masse.

In another, it speaks to our proclivity for panic. And our inability—or unwillingness—to process events too cataclysmic to conceive. A stealthy, invisible virus hopping from one body to another in ways we don't fully comprehend is simply too horrifying for us to imagine.

So we don't.

We seize on an imagined normal and cherry-pick evidence that supports this ideal. Or conjure up our teenaged selves, indomitable and resistant: “It won't happen to me!”

And it may not. COVID-19 reminds me of a tornado, a storm which rarely follows a predictable, linear path. It skips about, pulverizing one structure while leaving an adjacent one practically untouched.

It is a mystery, still.

Yet we appear to be on the cusp of a vaccine. But given the enormity of the world's population and the problematic issues of distribution and—in one case, storage—relief could be many, many months away. (I refuse to even consider those who will reject the vaccine based on some flimsy notion of religion or personal liberty.)

So I continue to lay low, as uncomfortable and unnatural as it is.

Whatever your take on the pandemic, I wish you and your loved ones well this Thanksgiving. I've no desire whatsoever to be proven “right” if a mounting pile of corpses is to be my proof.

Going Forward?

There is no joy. Only relief. With a diminished majority in the House and an undetermined alignment in the Senate, there is little worry Democrats will make any significant inroads into our legislative logjam over the next two years.

Joe Biden is mostly a paperweight. While the papers on the desk won't be scattered about the room by Trump-style bluster, they won't be put in order, either. In other words, while we won't be moving forward, the descent into chaos has been halted.

More concerning is the widespread support enjoyed by the most toxic, destructive and ignorant president the nation has ever endured. I heard time and time again “He kept his promises” as justification for casting a ballot for Mr. T.

Really? You mean the Rust Belt is awash with good-paying manufacturing jobs? 'Cause I missed that. He increased our consumption of coal, thereby restoring the economies of West Virginia and Wyoming? 'Cause I missed that, too.

(Residents of those states continued to act as battered wives, awarding the most-decisive pro-Trump percentages in the nation to Sir Lies-A-Lot despite the fact he did nothing whatsoever for their economies.)

Illegal immigration has been brought to a virtual standstill thanks to his stupendous wall—financed by Mexico—along our southern border? It has slowed, but that's because of the pandemic that isn't really a pandemic.

The brilliant health care package he's been promising for nearly four years is ready for implementation? His 'America first' policy has rejuvenated the country and we again enjoy a quality of life unparalleled anywhere in the world?

'Cause I missed those, too.

I mean, Trump did stuff, yeah. 

He awarded Walmart and Amazon and Exxon massive tax cuts. He awarded our raft of billionaires and millionaires with massive tax cuts as well. He packed our courts with right-wing conservatives. Lied, cheated and stole. Undermined our faith in the U.S. mail and in our elections.

Created more division and unrest in this country than any mob of radicalized socialists could ever hope to.

Trump entrenched racism and sexism and our political divide.

But his greatest hit was his manipulation of COVID-19 for political gain.

Caught with his pants down, Trump made lemons from lemonade in the most-grotesque sense of the word as he allowed COVID-19 to sweep throughout the United States practically unabated.

And when he wasn't allowing it, he was provoking it.

His politicization of face masks ensured the virus's spread as rabid conservatives, following their president's lead, repurposed them as symbols of liberal tyranny.

While I admit it's tempting to encourage conservative's denial and anti-mask phobia, it's clear that the Corona virus will infect any and all demographics. Translated, this means none of us are safe. Or, um, immune.

(Well, except that one guy. But you know he's passenger number-one on the crazy train, right?)

Now that the angry and the hateful have had their anti-government, anti-PC tantrum it will be interesting to see where we go from here. I tend to think it will be along the lines of the sequence depicted in It's a Wonderful Life where George Bailey sees his hometown as if he had never existed.

It will be coarse, confrontational and crude. Largely bereft of things like civility and kindness. This path is somehow more "real" and more "genuine" to addled Republican males for whom Lord of the Flies is a societal ideal.

Fearful of a world where white men no longer wield absolute power, they cling ever more desperately to ever more desperate models of power and control.

I've never been able to puzzle-out exactly what voting Republican did for working-class conservatives, except perhaps to validate their ethnic, religious, sexual and gender biases. Even at the cost of their own well-being.

But what the hell do I know?

All in all, I feel fortunate to be the age I am. I see a world emerging that is rife with hatred, distrust and manipulated endlessly by social media. Our out-sized egos have grown equally destructive, to the point where any leader who doesn't “look like us” is illegitimate.

This is at the forefront of our descent into tribalism.

Even aided by the necessary technology, I see a world unable to unite in the commonality necessary to stem global warming.

While we have temporarily beat back the Trump-styled darkness, it will retreat, reconfigure and reemerge until it has the necessary components to succeed.

Knowledge is both a burden and a responsibility. We know what we have to do to resist it.

The question is, will we? 

 

Sweet Relief

 

Thank God.

 

Thank God.

 

Thank God. 

 

The Dark Ages are over.

 

Oh thank God. 

Pssst. Are You Ready for Some Good News?

I have it on the word of two Republicant relatives that COVID-19—also known as the Corona virus—will end today.

It's true.

So throw away your masks! Stand next to a stranger and expectorate without inhibition!

We're free!

Democrats? Vote Hard!

Fatigue. Anxiety. Depression. Rage.

For many of us, these are the words that characterize 2020. We've watched a radical conservative toss the one-percent (the one-percent!) a trillion-dollar tax break under the guise of a—wait for it—jobs act.

Watched him sneer as his servile lead bitch upends protocol and paves the way for Sir Lies-A-Lot to appoint three Supreme Court justices in a single term. We've watched him eliminate any and all constraints on business at the cost of the air we breathe and the water we drink.

We've watched him insult and disparage allies and befriend autocratic terrorists like Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un. Witnessed his winking approval of white supremacy and voter suppression. And relentlessly provoked chaos because it amuses him.

That it destabilizes nearly every element of life in the United States just adds to the fun.

We've witnessed him gut the post office's ability to sort and deliver mail in anticipation of a dramatic upswing in vote by mail. Seen him plunder his own charity, get convicted, fined and watched the lightly reported story disappear without a trace.

We've seen him blithely delete a much-heralded center for pandemic research merely because it had Obama's fingerprints on it. And besides, what ever goes wrong with cookware, anyway?

Even as the same continues to undermines his precious “fabulously beautiful” economy.

Cause and effect, Don. Cause and effect. Ever hear of it?

Most recently, we've heard him threaten to destroy Social Security and Medicare. Why? Because they fall into his hazy definition of socialism. And then there's the ongoing effort to declare the Affordable Care Act unconstitutional—in the middle of a pandemic.

Crazy Don lies like the rest of us draw breath. He's a supremely manipulative fraud who has succeeded in convincing banks, Congress and a sizeable chunk of the American populace he's the guy to loan money to. Shape policy with. And above all, blindly follow.

And when the Trump-whore isn't lying or self-promoting, he morphs into Whiny Don. The fake news media. Liberal hoaxes. The deep state. Tell me Poor Poor Pitiful Me isn't the number-one most-played song on his Spotify playlist!

Funny how the Indomitable One can stand in front of the hypnotized and let that smarmy smile creep across his face. But alone and minus the adulation, he cowers in the dark with his phone and issues a torrent of blind criticisms, unfounded—even paranoid—accusations and juvenile rants.

Can I add Needy Don to the repertoire?

A Republicant told me in 2016 he thought Trump would “shake things up.”

As we wonder when our kids can again resume their full-fledged educations and when (and if) we'll get our jobs back and how long we can stave off increasingly impatient landlords and when we'll be able to attend a ballgame or go out to dinner or a night club and when will there be a vaccine and when will life in general return to normal I must ask: are you suitably shaken?

We Democrats are a funny bunch. By nature we're diverse and have many agendas. Like our president, we also get a bit peevish when things don't go our way.

We must stop that.

For the time being, we must act like Republicants and become a herd. A bovine mass completely unaware of free will. We must ignore the polls (remember 2016?), the early returns (be they good or bad) and not focus on anything that isn't physically casting a vote against Donald J. Trump.

While I enjoy portraying him as a feckless clown, the damage he has wrought is considerable. Much of it will outlast him. He is the obedient servant of a selfish and extremely wealthy minority interested only in cementing and sustaining its power and its wealth at the expense of us.

They must be stopped. Shattered—like a ceramic figurine.

We can be the hammer. But we must vote hard. And with a vengeance.

And if you can't vote for Joe Biden can you at least vote against Donald Trump? And the party of Mitch McConnell? And of Lindsey Graham?

Given the amorality displayed by this moneyed minority, it's likely more-urgent than we even realize.

 

The Fair Tax Proposition

Here in Illinois, our governor is desperately seeking to stem the flow of red ink on state ledgers. One idea is to change the methodology used to compute our income taxes.

Illinois is one of just nine states to use what is called a flat tax. Under a flat tax, everyone pays the same percentage of their income to the state. So whether you're a struggling waitress who brought home eighteen-thousand or a professional athlete who made eighteen-million, each of you will forfeit 4.95% of your income to the state in income tax.

Governor Pritzker has proposed a 'fair tax'—an income tax with a sliding, income-based scale similar to that used by the federal government.

Predictably, Republicants loathe the idea on principle alone. But their attacks haven't ended there. As is their wont, oceans of misinformation are being distributed via any media capable of doing so.

And it's hardly a surprise that fear is weapon number-one. One hysterical ad alleges Pritzker's proposal will give Democrats new powers to levy taxes, even though the state legislature—composed of both Democrats and Republicants—already has that power.

I wonder if the Trump zombies even realize this. Probably not.

Furthermore, I'm wondering how many takes it took for the guy doing the voice-over to get through the script without soiling himself. I mean, he sounds profoundly and deeply perturbed.

Get some shut-eye, big guy!

Even more interesting than the fear-laden lies being disseminated over the airwaves is who is paying for them.

And guess what? It's the guys with the most to lose. The same guys Sir Lies-A-Lot gifted with a trillion-dollar tax break under the (cough) Tax Cuts and Jobs Act back in 2017. And not only did those guys get a big break on their personal taxes, but their businesses did as well.

Crazy Don not only sucked, he swallowed, too.

Ah. But I digress.

So after receiving this mountain of largesse, it must be a terrible shock to see one's tax bill threatening to swell rather than shrink. Don't we know who you are?

Illinois' most-prominent billionaire is a venture-fund capitalist by the name of Ken Griffin. He buys eight-figure penthouse properties like you and I do tube socks at Target. Which is another way to say yeah, he's loaded.

And to preserve that condition, Griffin is fighting tooth and nail against Pritzker's proposal. He'll tell you anything. Just don't let that proposal pass!

Now, if the fair tax proposal weren't aimed (as Pritzker claims) at the one-percent, why is Griffin pouring fifty-five million dollars of his own money into an effort to stop this thing?

Is he worried about our taxes? Nah. The folk who have essentially bought our government and steered a bevy of billionaire-friendly legislation through it have shown repeatedly they aren't terribly concerned about us. We're just profit-sucking rabble.

Nope. They're worried about staying rich and powerful. And getting richer. And more-powerful.

While I see the truth in Griffin's frenzied spending, I'm betting Illinois Republicants only see the threat of a tax increase and go into the same kind of lockstep stupor they do when they hear the words 'gun control' and will vote en masse to derail this.

Even if the only people affected are people far wealthier than themselves.

And battered, tax-fatigued Democrats may well do the same.

Out of all of this comes a strange and somewhat sickening realization. In our unthinking and knee-jerk distrust of politicians we unwittingly caress the hand crushing our larynx.

When you vote 'no' on the Fair Tax proposition, don't forget to raise a fist and shout “Save the billionaires!”

Truth.

The Undecideds

At this point in the run-up to the presidential election, we're hearing lots and lots about the undecideds. But who are they? At a time when the political divide is as great as its ever been, how do these folk remain betwixt and between in a race featuring two such starkly different candidates?

Do they see something we don't? Or are they only more confused?

I mean, even as a Democrat I don't embrace everything espoused by progressives. Here are some examples.

The cancel culture? Nope. My hesitation reached critical mass when the idea was floated that John Muir, the esteemed naturalist who provided the impetus to develop the national park system lest these jewels be forever despoiled by runaway capitalism, be castigated and denounced as a racist.

Okay. Does that mean we pull the plug on our national parks system as well, since the idea is inevitably tainted since it sprung from the mind of a racist? And what of Thomas Edison and the cornucopia of inventions that originated from his (presumably) racist mind?

Do we renounce both the man and his contributions? I mean, how far do we take this?

And what of democracy itself? Since it was shaped in part by slave owners, do we renounce not only those who took part but democracy itself? Do we comb the history of medicine and renounce not only the discoveries, inventions and vaccines of anything fouled with the whiff of racism but their creators as well?

Do we scour the classical music repertoire and forbid pieces composed by anyone with a trace of any kind of “ism” to be recorded or performed?

I could go and and on. You probably could as well. Like so many well-intentioned thoughts, this is an idea that should have stayed an idea and never, ever made it to thing-hood.

Defunding the police? My first response was are you serious? You mean we're all grown-ups and/or are ably provided with that which we need to exist and contribute to the greater good without that irksome distraction of poverty?

Sadly, we are not even close to either ideal. And interpretations of this policy are as widespread as our political spectrum.

They range from Ariel Atkins' pathetic justification that the looting of Chicago's Michigan Avenue merchants last May and August meant that her people were going to “get paid.” You mean none of those folk are employed or receiving any kind of aid whatsoever, Ariel? Because several had the wherewithal to rent U-Haul trucks to stash those pilfered goods from Gucci and Cartier and Tiffany. 

Adding that the police needed to be destroyed to your mindless diatribe contrasts greatly with more-reasoned constructs that perhaps instead of endlessly arming our police with more and more weaponry, we need to better enable those institutions which cope with mental health, addiction and homelessness and would likely lessen the load on police.

Hmmm. Okay. I can sign-off on that.

And before I move on, let me make one crazy, wild and stupidly-naive suggestion: beat cops. You know, cops on foot patrolling a neighborhood. People we recognize. Get to know. And who recognize and get to know us. People we have a relationship with.

Which is pretty much the opposite of 'stranger'. Which is the relationship we currently have with cops. And which cops currently have with us.

And we all know how easy it is to demonize/threaten/hate on/stigmatize strangers, right?

Like I said, just a suggestion.

Finally, let me toss one more issue out there: sanctuary cities.

I empathize mightily with the plight of the immigrant. Especially those seeking to escape violent hell-holes like Honduras or El Salvador. Providing them with asylum is nothing less than the fulfillment of our highest ideals.

And yet, not every immigrant is a political refugee, are they? Many are here illegally. And be they an asshole who lives in a white house and wears red ties or someone sleeping in an abandoned car while they attempt to find work unloading a produce truck at 3 AM, I am not especially fond of law-breakers.

And sanctuary cities essentially seem to be a reward for not being caught. And I'm not very fond of that, either.

The United States of America has a very schizophrenic relationship with immigrants, and the faster we can develop a holistic, comprehensive policy regarding them the better off we'll be. The extreme capitalism so many labor under is only serving the marketplace, and I thought we were better than that.

Aren't we?

So yeah, I'm not as knee-jerk a Democrat as the folk in the DNC would like.

But my skin begins to crawl when I consider the options. Libertarians? We already have one, thank you very much. The "official" party of Trump? Pence? McConnell? Graham? Barr? Barrett? Are you fucking serious?

Repulsed by two parties, mildly enthused by another. So it seems destined to be.

As Republicants so well know, we often vote out of fear. I fear Crazy Don and his plans to delete Medicare and Social Security and speed our decent into a hybrid mix of feudalism and oligarchy. The lies. The chaos. The ignorance.

At his willingness to destroy and manipulate anything to remain in power, and the brain-damaged folk who applaud this.

Huh?

This is our law and order president? Really?

Speaking for myself, despite my party affiliation I am voting against Donald Trump and not for Joe Biden. My contempt for Trump overwhelms any certainty I could possess that Biden is the best choice going forward.

Most importantly at this juncture, he's not the worst.

Perhaps the undecided are people not interested in voting against a candidate, but people looking to vote out of hope.

Which might be why they're having such a tough time.

Dodger-hating

Ah. I can't help it. There are just certain sports franchises I love to hate. The Los Angeles Lakers. The San Francisco 49ers. And the New York Yankees—to name three.

Then there are the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Yeah, I'm still holding a grudge from the 2008 play-offs, where the Cubs inexplicably lost two straight at home to a team with a 36 - 45 road record and just 84 wins overall. The Cubs never recovered, scoring just six runs in the series before going down 3 – 1 in game number three in L.A.

But there's more to it than that. It's their preening. Their presumptive arrogance by virtue of being the city's favored baseball team.

I was praying for a Dodgers-free World Series, even if watching them stumble on baseball's biggest stage has its benefits. But like Clayton Kershaw, the post-season seems to be the Atlanta Braves' kryptonite.

(I should note that 2020 did mark a breakthrough of sorts for the Braves, who won a post-season series for the first time since 2001 after nine straight first-round exits, and ten in eleven visits.)

Ratcheting up my Dodger-contempt is the fawning adoration on the part of our star-struck media conglomerates.

Sunday night, I thought the Fox network crew was going to bust out of the press box and plant wet kisses all over Cody Bellinger after his seventh-inning home run. And if the first dozen replays weren't enough, the pretty boy shot of Bellinger trying to look like a male centerfold was.

Jesus.

Enough!

But I'm happy to acknowledge the Dodgers' supremacy in one area—cute first names. Let's see, we have a Cody, a Kenley, a Mookie, a Corey and a Clayton. I mean, is this a baseball team or a casting call for a reconstituted version of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch?

Christ!

While Major League Baseball weeps with relief that at least one major-market team made it to the World Series, I'm all-in on the team they didn't want.

This team is the outsider that Sir Lies A Lot claims himself to be. The third-lowest payroll in the game, a half-interested fan base and a Q-rating that could barely fire the bulb in your kitchen's night light.

Like the candidates in this year's presidential election, the contrast between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Los Angeles Dodgers couldn't be more vivid. Like Paul Sullivan wrote in this morning's Tribune, this is Team Hollywood versus Team Walmart.

I love the movies, but I'm rooting for Tampa Bay all the way. Even if they weren't playing the #$!%@* Dodgers.

Relief Sought. Relief Found.

Trying to avoid the torrent of anxiety that is 2020, I turned to sport—be it in their distended (basketball and hockey) or truncated (baseball) forms.

Given that the local franchises (at least depending on your MLB franchise-orientation) have been as effective at reducing anxiety as caffeine, sports has mostly been ineffective.

The Blackhawks briefly derailed the overriding reality that the Cup window is closed by winning the qualifying round against the rejuvenated Edmonton Oilers. But the subsequent loss to Las Vegas Golden Knights reminded us that, yeah, the window is definitely closed.

Letting goaltender Corey Crawford go is the proof.

The Bulls continued to mismatch coaches with their talented, young roster, ending the shortened season with a dismal 22 and 43 record. But the recent dismissals of President John Paxson, General Manager Gar Forman and hapless coach Jim Boylen have given fans hope.

With the signing of new coach Billy Donovan and another lottery pick in the upcoming draft, there is finally more light than darkness.

The Cubs? Long story short—the less said the better.

Having recovered their lovable loser status, their mystifying ineptness regarding how to best employ a baseball bat in an actual baseball game didn't prohibit them from claiming another divisional title and with it, home field advantage.

But as they so expertly do, the Cubs turned advantage into disadvantage since they actually hit worse at home (.213) than they did on the road (.226). No matter. Two consecutive losses to the mighty Florida Marlins in the opening round of the playoffs put Cub fans out of their misery with due dispatch.

And the one-time Super Bowl-hopeful Chicago Bears?

The team has removed a negative (QB Mitch Trubisky) but done virtually nothing to shore-up a weak offensive line. TE Jimmy Graham has at least given the Bears production at the position; something they didn't enjoy last year.

But with an NFL-strength schedule the rest of the way and no running game to speak of, the 4 – 1 Bears will be hard-pressed to sustain their early success—accomplished against pro football's doormats.

On a national scale, things were brighter.

Even after losing Kawhi Leonard and Danny Green to southern California in free-agency, the indefatigable Toronto Raptors clawed their way to the second-seed in the Eastern Conference playoffs by virtue of their 53 and 19 record.

It took a five-point loss to the Boston Celtics in game-seven of the Eastern Conference semis to stop them. But what a ride!

And what a team.

Basketball continued to entertain via the Denver Nuggets.

A popular pick to make the Finals, the Nuggets evinced a disquieting ability to fall-out of games early before mounting second-half comebacks. It was enough to carry them through two seven-game series versus the Utah Jazz and Los Angeles Clippers and into the Western Conference Finals.

But it took the steadier and more-experienced Los Angeles Lakers just five games to defeat them, meaning the Nuggets still have miles to go before they pour champagne on each other.

But it was a ball watching them.

Which brings me to baseball.

As with the NHL and NBA, credit must be given to MLB for managing a very complicated dynamic with stellar results. It wasn't perfect, but excepting the circumstances that allowed Donald J. Trump to appoint three Supreme Court justices within a single term, what in 2020 was?

But here we are on the eve of another World Series.

My fandom of baseball is more deeply-rooted than any of the remaining “Big Three” sports. That being the case, there are deeply-rooted likes and dislikes. For example, I love the Cubs. I hate the New York Yankees.

Translated, it was a delight watching the Tampa Bay Rays bounce the Yankees out of the American League Divisional series. It occurred to me during that series the Rays might be the best franchise in baseball.

How many other teams have reliably remained so competitive? Has a farm system that has so reliably produced big-league talent? Made innovation routine? And even more remarkably, has accomplished this in a small market with skeletal fan support?

And with a moldy, dank cavern of a stadium that is the antithesis of 'revenue stream'?

By eliminating the Yankees and on the cusp of advancing to the World Series, the Rays have upended exactly half of MLB's dream. That the darlings of major league baseball—the mass-market Yankees and the mass-market Los Angeles Dodgers—assume their rightful places in baseball's annual showcase for a TV ratings extravaganza.

But that's how the Rays seem to do things.

If the medium is the message, is this when we'll start watching?

Proof

Donald Trump throws a lot of sticks and expects us to chase each one. His ability to feint, distract and stir the cocktail of chaos borders on a kind of genius. I mean, Trump couldn't lead a parade. But he can reliably be counted on to turn a group of Buddhist monks into a howling, finger-pointing mob.

On the surface, he appears to at least acknowledge women—even when he isn't grabbing their pussies. He's installed several within his administration and recently tossed the electorate a bone by naming a woman to the Supreme Court, even if she's as conservative as a pair of beige khakis.

He's also placed a smattering of minority males within his administration, having discovered outliers like Herman Cain and Hispanics who are somehow able to look past Trump's wholesale demonization and repeated attempts to bar them from entering the U.S.

But Donald is too misshapen, too angry, too transparent to hide his true feelings. No, those emerge like the creature that popped out of John Hurt's belly in Alien. They emerge, squawk and scurry off before anyone is able to recover and process exactly what they've seen.

Donald then plays a game of yes I did/no I didn't with the media and that sentient portion of America's citizenry who are disinclined to wear MAGA gear. When that doesn't work, he throws another stick.

But it's not so easy to walk back an executive order.

Whatever his skills at manipulation, President Petulant can't claim his was quoted out of context or misinterpreted when the words are from his own hand.

In a lightly-reported story buried in last week's Chicago Tribune, Donald Trump recently signed-off on an executive order demanding that all government contractors cease sensitivity and diversity training and that failure to do so will result in the cancellation of their big, fat government contracts.

The administration maintains that such concepts are divisive and anti-American and adds that any program Trump, Inc. deems divisive (which I imagine is anything that doesn't include your lips and his flabby, corpulent ass) will be stripped of government funding.

There it is, ladies and gentlemen. Trump laid bare.

Donald can hem and haw and play dumb about the Proud Boys and have his pretty little blonde designated liar lie until she doesn't know which end is up. But the next time you hear a Black person speaking of systemic racism or a woman speaking of institutionalized sexism, instead of sneering 'get a job' try rolling their words around in your head. 

Then roll the words in this executive order around the same space. Donald's tacit approval of white supremacy and misogyny oozes from every line.  

Hundreds of millions of years of success in the natural world aren't proof enough of the inherent value and viability of diversity.

No. Per usual, the biggest turd in the MAGA toilet knows best.

Physician Heal Thyself

Oh sweet irony. Oh sweet, sweet irony. The Denier-in-Chief has contracted COVID-19.

Of course, depending on the seriousness of the infection, he'll never have to worry about the shortage of hospital beds, ventilators and other medical equipment his inaction sentenced so many others to.

But watching him pull his “Virus? What virus?” act will certainly be made more amusing—not that the zombies who follow him would know the difference.

Gosh, Mr. President. Hurry up and (cough) get well soon. 

I mean that.

 

Kisses!

La Piazza Gancio 

The Death of Ruth Bader-Ginsburg

 I am angry with you, Ruth Bader-Ginsburg. I feared this was going to happen.

Despite what I'm sure were your best and highest intentions, you succumbed to the Trump disease. The same selfish, megalomaniacal impulses so vividly displayed by the most destructive man ever to inhabit the White House.

You knew you were sick. You knew your time was limited. And yet you persisted in holding your seat on the Supreme Court even at the risk of allowing Donald Trump to nominate your successor.

And exactly who did you imagine he would replace you with? A radicalized socialist feminist?

Thanks to you and your outsized ego, Sir Lies-A-Lot is now in a position to install a third justice (in a single term!) to the Supreme Court.

I politely inquire: exactly what were you thinking?

While I admire your tenacity and your dedication and your passion, your inability to step-down from the Court despite your obvious ailments will always be a black mark against you. You have empowered our mortal enemy for years, if not decades, to come.

Is it too much to hope Democrats can pull a Mitch McConnell-like stunt and force Congress to wait until after the next election to replace her?

Of course it is.

Mourning Mr. Hibbert

You've probably heard by now of the death of Toots Hibbert, lead vocalist of the seminal reggae band Toots & the Maytals. The Maytals weren't the most-famous or most-lauded reggae artists, but they were instrumental in getting reggae known beyond the confines of Jamaica.

As was the case in the early-to-mid-seventies, reggae spread first to England, or more specifically, London, owing to its large Jamaican population. The indelible material the Maytals were recording at the time was too good to stay bottled up within in a single community and soon the word was out: you needed to hear the Maytals. Now.

“Funky Kingston”, “Pomp and Pride”, “Time Tough”, “Pressure Drop” and amazing covers of the Kingmen's “Louie Louie” and John Denver's “County Roads” brought universal acclaim to Mr. Hibbert and his band. It wasn't long before a reconstructed version of Funky Kingston featuring that material was released on Island Records.

Reggae was white hot, driven by the first three Wailers' LPs, the soundtrack to The Harder They Come and, of course, Funky Kingston.

Those were glorious days.

One of the most tragic moments of my youth was missing the Who's 1975 appearances in Chicago. Not only because the first of their two dates actually featured an encore, but because they had handpicked Toots & the Maytals to open.

Predictably, the Maytals were not well-received. (I wonder how many rock fans of the day realized how narrow-minded their taste in music would have appeared to their heroes? It's a wonder more musicians didn't rail at their fan's suffocating expectations.)

At any rate, the Maytals continued to record, if not always with the stunning results found on Kingston. But their output through the nineteen-eighties was always worth hearing, and live they remained a unit capable of inducing joy and wonder.

I was fortunate to see the Maytals twice on their tour to support Knock Out!, and not even a Rolling Stones show three days later could dim the memory of that November, 1981 performance.

And another show the following April was just as good.

Despite the often political orientation of their material, Hibbert performed with warmth and radiated good vibes. He was authentic, passionate and obviously enjoyed his craft.

This openness was reflected in the fact that the Maytals never followed the strict Rastafarian orthodoxy of, say, a Bob Marley. The Maytals from day one embraced their gospel and rhythm and blues influences to the point where Mr. Hibbert recorded an album of R&B chestnuts in 1988. 

Amidst the embarrassment of reggaefied riches available in the mid-seventies, the Maytals were the first reggae band I embraced. And they remained my favorite. Even as the name 'Marley' became a brand-name for an entire genre of music, too often crowding out all else.

The Maytals' recordings always lifted me, and hearing Hibbert sing was like hearing from an old friend.

That voice is still now. And life just got a little more grim because of it.

A Bit About Baseball

I suppose everyone considers the generation of baseball they grew up with to be the Golden Age of Baseball. Being that our first exposure to it usually overlaps the sweet and carefree days of childhood, it's hardly surprising.

And I am no different.

Beyond the infamous Chicago Cubs of the late-sixties and early-seventies, I grew-up watching guys like Henry Aaron, Johnny Bench, Jim Palmer, Roberto Clemente, Bob Gibson, Carl Yastrzemski, Juan Marichal, Frank Robinson, Pete Rose, Willie Mays, Tom Seaver, Willie McCovey and Brooks Robinson.

I could go on. Gaylord Perry, Reggie Jackon, Orlando Cepeda, Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, Tony Oliva, Harmon Killebrew, Al Kaline, Lou Brock, Steve Carlton, Nolan Ryan, Al Oliver, Dick Allen and Vada Pinson.

Not all are in the Hall of Fame. But all played with distinction.

Were they better than the major leaguers of today? Hard to say. One thing is clear—they were different.

They were better-versed in the nuances of the game. More likely to utilize the array of strategies that had evolved over the last hundred years. Baseball hadn't yet de-evolved into an either-or game of home run or strike-out.

Today's baseball is a distillation of its most-obvious elements. Like an abstract painting, only the subject's largest and most-prominent features make it to the canvas. The rest disappears into the background.

Which is appropriate for our attention-deficit disordered times. We are so distracted by our onslaught of technology we can barely process the big things, much less the finer and more subtle ones.

If it isn't a corporate tag line repeating a dozen time in a fifteen-second spot or a hyper-strobed light in seizure mode it hardly registers. I mean, who even has the patience for a sacrifice bunt or a hit and run???

In a new-fashioned take on an old expression, hit it out or get off the pot.

I'll even go so far as to suggest that every one of today's MLB starting pitchers ought to total 3,000 strike-outs for their career. If they don't, they just aren't trying.

And while kids today no doubt see Clayton Kershaw and Bryce Harper through the same gauzy haze of hero-worship that I did Tom Seaver and Henry Aaron, they won't ever be equal.

It Goes On

In their bid to cement the administration as the hands-down winner of the “Which presidency most reminds you of an unflushed public toilet?” contest, Donald and his strumpets relentlessly proffer half-truths and lies.

That is, when they're not delusional.

In a rambling interview with Laura Ingraham, Trump spoke of airplanes full of thug-radicals in riot gear and mysterious men in dark shadows controlling the streets and manipulating Joe Biden.

Sadly, Donald couldn't elaborate because all are currently under official investigation.

I can imagine.

Even coming from a habitual liar like Donald Trump these comments are unhinged. Perhaps Sir Lies-A-Lot is so far down the QAnon rabbit hole he can no longer distinguish truth from fiction.

Witness the confused logic of comparing Rusten Shuskey's seven shots into the back of Jacob Blake to a golfer missing a putt.

Or characterizing the Corona virus, where thanks to Donald's sonambulant response, four-percent of the world's population is responsible for twenty-two percent of the world's deaths, as a bump in the road. “It is what it is” quoth Donald.

Try to decipher the laughable, smack-your-forehead idiocy of his rants against mail-in voting, despite the fact he and Melania apparently did just that with complete confidence in Florida recently.

Best of all are the law and order quotes made to stimulate the base's perpetual fear. As Clarence Page asked in last Sunday's Chicago Tribune, does Trump even know he's president?

Trump's assertions that this summer's rioting and civil unrest is what America will look like under Joe Biden gives one ample reason to wonder.

Um, Don? You know you're the guy in the White House, right? That this is on you? That this is what America looks like under our (cough) law and order president?

And could be if your base would just vote twice?

If Donald is to become the world's most-famous example of the Peter Principle, we can only wonder at the effect this very public failure will have on his brittle psyche. One thing is for certain—it won't be pretty.

Not unlike Saddam Hussein's retreat from Kuwait following his defeat in the Gulf War, it will be filled with booby traps and destruction. 

Trump may not set fire to oil wells (although I certainly wouldn't put that past him), but further rollbacks of environmental protections, the gutting of Social Security, Medicare and the Post Office and a declaration that he has received the Mandate of Heaven to rule forever wouldn't surprise me at all.

Two Nights in Trumpland

After dusting and organizing my collection of Celine Dion CDs, I felt restless. So I turned on the TV. I scanned the listings, seeking mirth and merriment. It's not that Celine doesn't provide suitable amounts of merriment; I just needed it in another medium.

“Ah! This is just the thing!” I cried as I tuned in to day two of the Republican National Convention. It didn't take long for the mirth and merriment to materialize.

First there was the badly-bearded Eric Trump, speaking with the conviction and sincerity of a Walmart greeter telling you to have a nice day.

But he did hit his punchlines on cue, repeatedly telling us Donald was going to keep us safe. I said to no one in particular “From what? Pandemics? Recessions? Racial unrest? Election meddling? Oligarchies? Gutting the Post Office? Social Security? And Medicaid?”

But the real hilarity began when I realized half the country would believe him.

It is written that you can't fool all the people all the time. But as Trump's base has made perfectly clear, you can fool half the people one-hundred percent of the time.

Then there was the Trump shill who informed me we are in the midst of several “booms”. A car “boom”. A stock “boom”. And a consumer-spending “boom”. While I confess to not removing wax from my ears as frequently as my primary care provider would like, I have not heard any “booms”.

Have you?

Maybe you have to own shares in Apple to hear it.

Next was the first-ever endorsement of a presidential nominee by a sitting Secretary of State. It's unprecedented. It's unethical. And it may be illegal. But as we all should know by now, our law and order president is The Exception.

His law and order applies to you—not him.

Lastly, there was the fair Melania. She evinced glimpses of humanity in her comments addressing COVID-19, but lost me when she stated the Trump Administration “...would not stop” until the COVID pandemic has been vanquished.

I'm not worried about the administration stopping. I'm worried about it starting.

But compared to the ghouls and vermin stumping for Sir Lies-A-Lot, she clearly has a leg up. And by focusing on her party's strengths (such as they are) rather than participating in the de rigueur fear-mongering, she lends a touch of dignity to what has been a decidedly undignified presidency.

As an occasional glutton for punishment, I then tuned in for day three as well. And suffice to say, I found what I was looking for.

Leading off was daughter-in-law Lara Trump, a former waitress who won the life lottery by marrying the son of a billionaire.

Not surprisingly, she praised her father-in-law to the skies. To hear Lara tell it, Sir Lies-A-Lot has not only ripped away the glass ceiling for women in business, but has fostered paths to leadership like Johnny Appleseed sowed seeds.

See what grabbing a woman by the pussy can do?

Lara's incredibly good luck was the product of traditional Republican virtues like hard work and self-sufficiency. Personally, I attribute it to big blues eyes, (bleached) blonde hair and a not-unattractive figure.

That plus being just skanky-enough to appeal to a Trump male.

What do you think of Lara, Ivanka?

But the political equivalent of irritable bowel syndrome didn't end there. Yet to come was our vice-president, Michael R. Pence.

Have you ever known someone so oppressive that their company made you feel as if someone was holding a towel over your breathing apparatus? That their presence can actually be described as suffocating?

Hello and welcome to the Pence portion of tonight's program.

Like the Midwestern conservative he is, ol' Mike played it right down the middle. The flag. Patriotism. Our men in uniform. The flag. God. Guns. The flag again. Law and order. And God bless America.

As if his acceptance speech needed the visual emphasis, it was filmed at Fort McHenry—you know, the place where Francis Scott Key penned the national anthem.

Is your head hurting yet?

Yes, Mike's lone dimension was on display for over thirty excruciating minutes. To hear him tell it, Donald Trump is the strongest, most accomplished and most effective president in U.S. history. Which of course goes a long way towards explaining the mess we're in.

Personally, I can't wait to see it fact-checked.

Just like you're taught in a public speaking course, Mike dug in at the end. Voice rising, he reiterated the underlying RNC theme: “...we will have law and order on the streets of this country for every American of every race, creed and color.”

That remark brought the tepid audience out of its collective stupor and into an arm-waving, standing ovation.

Tell you anything?

Of course, Mike's definition of 'American' is suspect. As is his definition of 'violence'. Last night he defined it not as the sometimes over-eager trigger finger of law enforcement when it encounters Black Americans, but those selfsame citizen's response to it.

OK. Gotcha Mike.

Pence's speech was the same old Republican fear-mongering I've heard all my life. Biden's going to disarm you! Biden's going to open the borders to a flood of immigrants! Biden's going to raise your taxes! Biden's going to grow the government!

His will be an administration of lawlessness and disorder! One where Americans will not feel safe! We will sacrifice our freedom of religion and our sanctity of life! We will not be strong!

Or free.

If you say so, Mike.

On the other hand, with Biden we would have a president with a proven connection with reality. One who understands the job isn't about him. One who recognizes threats to the population at large and is capable of formulating a coherent response.

We'll have a functional Post Office. Trustworthy elections. Robust healthcare. Social Security. An administration not given to stealing from the poor and giving to the rich. Strong controls to keep our land, air and water pure. 

A population not kept on the knife-edge of fear at the whim of a sadistic president who likes nothing better than to stir the pot and chuckle at the resulting chaos.

We will live in a country led by a fully-functional adult.

Imagine.

White House Press Release 8/16/20 10:53 AM EDT

Staff geologists believe they have located a rare mineral—not seen since the last Democratic administration—that could hold untold benefits for future generations of Americans.

The substance, tentatively identified as cranium, will be excavated as soon as the unnamed site can be secured and begin operations.

A firm going under the name of 'Not Connected to Trump at All!' is prepared to mine, process, market and sell the material, although administration officials admit future applications are, at this point, a mystery.

Black Privilege? (Number-two)

Dear Black Lives Matter,

I want to stand with you. March with you. And wear your t-shirts. But I just can't. It is because you so frequently act as wantonly and as recklessly as the white power structures you deride.

Last Sunday afternoon, yet-another police shooting occurred on the south side of Chicago. Typically, before a single element of the event had been proven or disproven, social media was ablaze with rumors and threats.

That evening, a caravan of cars, trucks and vans converged on Michigan Avenue, which if you're not familiar with Chicago, is our version of New York City's Park Avenue. It is awash with high-end retailers of clothing, jewelry and anything else people with unbridled amounts of money and time need to fill the hollowness they feel after chasing—and getting—it all.

At any rate, the mob smashed windows and emptied those boutiques and shops of every piece of merchandise within.

Judging by your tone-deaf and anonymous press release the morning after, the looting was an entirely-justified response to what Black Lives Matter assumes is another racist and unwarranted police shooting.

Furthermore, since when do “protesters” (as you refer to them) come to a protest with glass cutters and hammers and rental trucks? Sunday night's looting was as spontaneous as sunrise—an entitlement its participants felt was justified because the Chicago Police Department—wrongly or rightly—shot a Black man.

Do I dare call it Black Privilege?

As with our current president, facts don't matter. Just your knee-jerk indignation does.

And while I'm questioning you, may I ask another?

I confess to not keeping tabs on every event you stage, but I am unaware of Black Lives Matter ever mounting a protest at the corner of say, Lake and Cicero, and calling out the scores and scores of Black gang-members who indiscriminately kill their own in service of the drug trade.

Don't those black lives matter? Or is it because there is no established (i.e. white) authority you can threaten/berate/criticize? You'll have to excuse me, but from my vantage point Black lives matter only when taken by white hands.

If I am uninformed as to the depth and breadth of your efforts, please set me straight. In all seriousness, I would be delighted to be wrong.

A French philosopher once observed that we become what we hate. And in the case of too many of Black Lives Matter's responses to serious events crying out for fact-based clarity, you are as assumptive and presumptuous as the police you loathe.

Again, like the police you say need to be defunded, re-organized, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, you are better at escalating conflict than you are at de-escalating it. And if that is your goal, congratulations.

But if you seek to educate and reform public and law enforcement perceptions, you are cutting off your nose to spite your face. Take it from a long-time viewer of Botched: nasal reconstructive surgery sucks.

Best of luck to you.

Signed,

An Old White Guy