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.