Questions. I Have Questions.

When they're not opposing the ninety-nine percent, Republicans generate questions. Questions like:

Why do you think the economy can be restarted without first conquering COVID? (Hint: COVID fatigue and your boredom-slash-impatience are not acceptable responses.)

Why do you feel being vaccinated should be a personal choice? Should observing school zone speed limits or any other law, statute or mandate that runs counter to your Trumpishness be one also?

And why is your politicized contempt more-important than the larger issue of public health?

How do Republicans who unanimously voted against a COVID relief package endorsed by up to three-quarters of the population remain in power?

And in light of that, how is it Republicans can initiate legislation immediately afterwards that would eliminate the estate tax and are still able to call Democrats elites?

Huh?

People, Republicans work for the one-percent—which by simple probability likely isn't you. They don't care about you. They don't care about your struggles or your ambitions. They have the moral fibre of a drug dealer. They care about entrenching and expanding the control the one-percent wield over the ninety-nine percent.

To wit, twenty-one Republican state attorney generals have drafted a letter to the Biden administration, questioning the relief package's stipulation that state aid be used solely to address revenue shortfalls and may not be used to finance tax cuts. Especially the Republican kind.

Let's hazard a big, giant, pie-in-the-sky, out-of-the-blue guess as to who would benefit from those.

Yeah.

To the addled and easily-provoked conservative mind, this is a non-issue. What matters is that the stultifying demands of a changing populace be stifled and ignored in favor of...them. That regardless of the demographics, America remains a country by, for and of white men.

Any other idea does not compute.

Unless you wish America to become a place bent on the fulfillment of billionaires whims and wishes and their whims and wishes only, you/me/us need to fight Republicans every step of the way. On everything. All the time.

Left unchallenged, Republicans are the rot that will destroy the ninety-nine percent from the inside out. (And that includes Republicans not a part of the one-percent. )

They have shown us who they are. Forewarned is forearmed.

Gone to the Dogs

It is, at this point, a cliché. Something so common and ubiquitous it barely merits notice: yappy little dogs. You know, those dark-eyed little mutts with the wiry, dirty-looking fur. 

For some of us, they are the essence of cute. Especially when this seemingly stout-hearted little mongrel opens its mouth and barks.

At everything.

Awww. Isn't he just precious? 

Little Sparky appears to be the dog world's David, taking on a world of Goliaths. And yes, for two or three milliseconds (I've never actually timed it) it is cute. 

But the reality is he's just a hyper, overstimulated nuisance. Short of the guy who insists on leaving his car's music playing at 120 decibels while he refuels, few things in life are as annoying.

Perhaps I suffer from shakey self-esteem. Or need to bolster my self-confidence. But when I approach my home on foot or even in my car and am barked at as if I were a home invader, I take offense. In fact, it extends far beyond 'offense'.

Namely, can I put Sparky on the end of a stick and use him as a mop? How about a duster?

Either would be more useful.

I'm sure Sparky's owners would react negatively to my hostility. Don't I understand that for empty-nesters little Sparky fills the void of a houseful of frolicking children, long gone?

Guess not. I only see in Sparky the canine embodiment of the short man syndrome. Plagued by insecurity, those so afflicted attempt to compensate for their small stature by being twice as loud and twice as obnoxious as everyone else.

As a big dog, I'd like to re-establish the natural order and toss Sparky over the shrubbery

And yet, is a creature who can't distinguish between the threat presented by an automobile and a snarling pit bull really going to take anything away from that?

Probably not.

Unlike Sparky's owners, I am made content that I don't require noisy and constant diversions to distract myself from, well, practically everything. Thankful that I can exist in quiet solitude without going mad.

Relieved to be without the four-legged car alarm that informs me whenever the phone rings. Or when someone's at the door. Or when the neighbor is pulling up the driveway in their car.

(You know I have ears too, right Sparky?) 

Grateful that I don't need incessant, high-pitched yelping to feel alive.

Whew.

If the owners of dogs like Sparky are in such dire need of stimulation, may I suggest coffee? How about over-the-counter stimulants? They're easily available and hardly bark at all.

They might even make engaging with your neighbors feel like you're not attempting to have a conversation on an airport runway.

Ahh. But I live in a world where, owing to our ever-increasing fragmentation, people are finding it harder and harder to connect with other human beings. Or even co-exist. Driven by divisions and divisiveness we are angry and fearful and afraid. We are insecure.

And so we have turned to dogs. The servile animal who lavishes us with knee-jerk adoration. Why can't my neighbors love me like this? Or my co-workers? Or my children?

That is another post for another day.

In the meantime, I'm eyeing a very attractive lease on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Hmmm. Might be fun to sign-off on one and call it Sparky.

Yeah.

Cutting Off Your Nose

The most unsettling words in the English language are 'Installs in minutes'. Or 'No assembly required'. Things like 'Republican majority', 'Looming toilet paper shortage' and 'Road Construction Ahead—Expect Delays' pale in comparison.

In this careless creation of overly-optimistic expectations, they also create a craving for Maalox and various kinds of sedatives when those expectations go unfulfilled. (Am I alone in wondering about a connection between do-it-yourself home repair and Big Pharma?)

Take my toilet. A few weeks ago it was belching. This unseemly indiscretion morphed into a kind of high-pitched stream of constant re-filling. Whereas the burping had me well and truly flummoxed, I recognized the run-on from previous experiences.

I even allowed myself to believe the solution would be a simple one. But as investment counselors so often caution: past performance is not indicative of future results. Translated, this meant that just because I had successfully relieved two previous toilets of this condition didn't mean I was going to relieve a third.

That would be too easy.

Before we go any further, I want to point out that I'm not any kind of home repair wizard. But on the other hand, I'm not a total incompetent, either. I can fix stuff.

I successfully re-wired a phone jack. Replaced a basement light fixture. Ditto the cabin air filter in my car. And attached a new plug on my wife's vacuum. And you should know that in only one of these instances did I wind up with surplus pieces.

Let's be clear: I have yet to change a light bulb and end up with extra parts, okay?

So it was with a healthy degree of confidence that I approached this project. I first removed the cumbersome over-toilet cabinet the previous residents had installed and then removed the cover on the reservoir.

There lay the culprit. A flapper that looked as if it had spent a lifetime soaking in brine was at the bottom of the tank, covering the drain like a disheveled stripper's bra. What's more, an enormous float sat atop the water, making access to the flapper difficult.

With the kind of incisive realization that typifies my work, I decided to upgrade the toilet with a new fill valve and eliminate the cumbersome bladder altogether.

I happily made the trip to a local hardware store and purchased a combination flapper and fill valve kit, blissfully unaware of the agony that lay ahead.

On returning home I promptly shut-off the water and drained the toilet. I fearlessly removed the briny flapper, the bladder and the water line. Then I turned my attention to the hexagonal nut that connected the water line and the fill valve to the water tank.

Like so many of the nuts life has asked me to remove, it was in a highly inconvenient place. Located on the underside of the tank near a wall and made still more-difficult by the bottom half of the cabinet which straddled the toilet like an irksome giraffe.

Snaking my arms around its legs while kneeling on the floor and attempting to grip the nut with the pliers in one hand while my remaining hand attempted to hold the fill valve still and provide resistance was, to put it mildly, awkward.

You see, the nuts on the previous fill valves hadn't fused to the threaded stem like Donald Trump and his tax returns, and henceforth were fairly easy to remove. But none of that mattered now.

3-in-1 oil, Liquid Wrench, warm water and grip cloths all failed. The plastic nut would not be moved. I searched in vain for a PVC saw. I consulted my homeowner's policy to see if it allowed for the use of a military-grade flame thrower and was likewise disappointed.

My irritation had risen to the point where listening to a panel of Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley and Jim Jordan speculate on governance would have been preferable. I was pissed. Sore. And out of patience. 

I recalled Naval experiments that utilized a sonar blaster capable of emitting soundwaves of 200 decibels and wondered whether those could shake the assembly sufficiently for the nut to be removed, but it was Saturday night and the Navy was closed.

Sigh.

Given my musical bent, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that I seized upon percussive maintenance. Yes. That would do it. When all else fails, the time-tested solution to just about every repair gone awry is to beat the shit out of it with a hammer.

Yes. That is what I would do.

While bereft of a PVC saw, a hammer I possessed. I eyed its gleaming stainless steel head and menacing claw. I held it at eye level. “Prepare to die!” I hissed.

I passed the bathroom mirror and was a bit shaken to realize I now resembled James Brolin near the end of The Amityville Horror, where he's finished sharpening his ax and turns to wreak domestic horror inside the piece of real estate alluded to in the title.

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do” I snarled to no one in particular.

Standing over the suddenly-diminshed toilet, I steeled myself. “Here's Johnny!” I said and I swung. Tiny slivers of plastic ricocheted around the tank. I swung again. More slivers. More ricochets. This was fun.

I swung again and the top of the fill valve snapped off. I felt omnipotent. Were there more balky fill valves I was unaware of?

Any baseball player can tell you it doesn't get much better than going three-for-three. And that to expect more is unrealistic. So it is unfortunate that there were no baseball players in my home that evening.

Swing number-four was slightly off the mark and the hammer connected with the left-hand wall of the ceramic reservoir.

Even when awoken from a sound slumber steel will smash ceramic materials. Even while inebriated. Or under the weather. Or a touch rusty. It doesn't matter.

Steel > ceramic.

Suffused with something darker and more malevolent than sweetness and light, I growled and grabbed the valve and bent it towards the bottom of the tank.

SNAP!

Even with a fresh wound to my palm, I was made glad that the offending valve had finally been vanquished.

Blame it on COVID. Blame it on the extended isolation of sheltering in place. Blame it on the anxiety of watching America unravel. But I had freaked. Lost it. Gone postal. Over a two-cent plastic hexagonal nut, no doubt manufactured in China.

The good news is that surgeons will be able to re-attach my nose with no visible scarring. And the new toilet arrives Tuesday.

America's Hottest New Party Game: Pin the Quarterback on the Bear

Depending on your definition, professional sports may exist solely to entertain you. Wins? Losses? A three-dimensional, living testament to persistence and an inspirational example of dedication and desire?

Not so much. Provided you're able to momentarily forget about the treadmill to oblivion that is your job, call it mission accomplished. And on that front, the Chicago Bears are wildly successful.

The spectacular mismanagement that has put the Bears in their current position is technically unimportant. What matters is that it's entertaining!

Just listen as Bears fans clutch hope to their breast while a succession of sugar plum fairies dances across their collective imagination: Deshaun Watson. Matthew Stafford. Carson Wentz. And most recently, Russell Wilson.

None of them had (or has) a snowball's chance in Phoenix of ever appearing in a Bears uniform, but that has never stood (or stands) in the way of a good fantasy (aided and abetted by the local media).

But the ugly reality is that the Bears are crippled. They have no cap space. No storehouse of superfluous first-round picks. GM Ryan Pace and head coach Matt Nagy might be the only ones to realize it, but the stay of execution issued by chairman George McCaskey last winter isn't as gracious as it appears.

They have a single offseason to find a ready, willing and able quarterback, revamp an offensive line that—on its very best day—is mediocre and import some wide receivers worthy of the name, all while soothing the ruffled feathers of their presumptive franchise-tag nominee, Allen Robinson.

It's a tall order. Especially for two guys whose success could best be called sporadic.

But Stafford is a Los Angeles Ram. Wentz is an Indianapolis Colt. The Houston Texans have shown no sign of granting the frustrated Watson his wish and if it even needs to be said, Wilson is a very long way from being an ex-Seattle Seahawk.

Only the fans and media tied to the local franchise would be desperate-enough to even entertain the idea.

And if you're Andy Dalton, Ryan Fitzpatrick, Sam Darnold, Cam Newton, Jameis Winston or Marcus Mariota, why would you want to play for the Bears, anyway?

The print media has generated acres of coverage. The electronic media has consumed enough electricity to power a small nation for months. And it should be noted that out of that coverage have come two very salient observations.

One: given their decades-long inability to draft and develop a franchise quarterback, do the Bears have any idea how to properly assess candidates at the position?

And two: is a front office who equates collaboration with an end-of-the-rainbow destination instead of a required component in a functioning executive suite even qualified to lead a professional sports franchise? Much less a mom and pop grocery?

Not from here.

Ahh, but I'm just rabble. A bit player in the nameless and faceless throng. A cell in the teeming great unwashed. Or, to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt, the fan in the arena. 

Fair-weather follower that I am, I can cackle with delight at a franchise who more often than not is its own worst enemy.

Frustrating? Yeah. Entertaining? As fuck.

Next?

Living by the Sword

As an avowed anti-Republican, the mess in Texas puts me in a funny place. Do I snicker? Cry? What is the correct response? Before you label me a hater and paste this on your social media platform of choice, hear me out.

I feel nothing but pity for the people watching their homes freeze. And then flood. For the people getting socked with four-digit utility bills. For the people whose lives have been upended (again) by a storm stoked via climate change.

On the other hand, Texas and its citizens have long revelled in their defiance of any policy that didn't originate with a Republican. Remember how Texas was at the forefront of the masks-are-tyranny protests last summer? Texans glory in their state's self-referencing itself as a “whole 'nother country.” Is there a soul alive who hasn't been told not to mess with Texas?

I guess our ever-changing climate didn't get the memo.

For the second time in three and-a-half years, Texas' refusal to adopt federal regulations with regards to zoning and flood protocols and to ignore suggested protections directed at its energy grid have blown up in its face. Texas is the dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks teenager who believes he can ride his bike with his eyes closed.

Until he can't.

Then he runs home to mom, who despite the yelling and the finger-pointing and the repeated cries to stay out of his life opens her purse and dutifully offers a wad of fresh Kleenex—if not a ride to the hospital (where I discretely point out it is her insurance which provides for his recuperation).

Texas has poached jobs and people nationwide and bragged about it. It loudly claims to offer life without regulation, a state income tax and good old free-market, Republican-styled capitalism.

And I say "Yahoo, partner!"

But here's the thing. Its smarmy, arrogant businessticians want to avoid regulation at all costs, because no one—no one—should be able to tell a white, Texas businessman what to do. They should be free to do whatever the hell they want to do without smothering oversight from the big, bad federal government.

And that's fine. To each their own. 

But it's just a bit disingenuous and a tad hypocritical to turn around and demand aid from that same big, bad federal government before your latest broadside about the evils of overly-invasive government has even had a chance to evaporate.

Like I said, I'm a strident anti-Republican. And I am tired of watching Democrats forced once again to be the parent. Of having to play the grown-up. The reconciler. The nice guy. The one with a fully-developed sense of humanity and bigger, broader horizons in mind.

Yep. Tired. Really. Fucking. Tired.

Texas, pack your play things and go home. Show us some of that famously resilient self-sufficiency! You don't need anything or anyone! It's time to prove it. 

Like that orange-haired asshole you adore, you clearly believe you're bigger than the United States. I'm sure you'd be more comfortable without our suffocating restraints. And our aid.

Was it really that long ago that former governor Rick Perry was making noise about seceding? Hey—anything worth trying once is worth trying twice! Come on, Greg. You too, Rick. I'll even hold the door for ya.

But one thing before you go: mom is out of Kleenex.

The Other Side of the Asile

If you're like me, you might have winced ever so slightly when Republicans accused Twitter and Facebook (and by extension—“cancel culture” Democrats) of denying Donald Trump his First Amendment rights. His right to free speech.

Of censorship and banishment.

And um, I agree. In the tiniest, most-literal sense imaginable.

But this is Donald Trump. The cancer who stood in front of a mob of right-wing nut jobs and exhorted them to do his bidding for him. To march on the Capitol building and prevent the “stolen” election results from being etched in stone—by any and all means necessary.

But like so much of what emanates from the mouths of Republicans, we needn't have worried.

Republicans have taken it upon themselves to administer their own brand of censorship by their efforts to remove, silence or, at the very least, censure those in elected office who didn't march in lockstep with president 45 on everything.

Up to and including sedition.

Sadly, the poster child for this foolishness is Liz Cheney, a congresswoman from Wyoming. Her words, more than any other, articulated the dismay so many of us felt after the events of January sixth.

She said Donald Trump had betrayed the oath he took when he became president. Yes. Betrayed. As in cheating a spouse. Jilting a lover. The word carries a powerful human component of hurt and loss. Of being lied to. It is the perfect choice.

If that weren't enough, Cheney had the temerity to vote for impeachment of Crazy Don, an act which didn't escape the notice of the Wyoming GOP. They voted 66 to 8 to censure her.

Want to talk to me again about the First Amendment, gentlemen? Oh that's right. Only Democrats censor people. You're just ensuring party homogeny.

Sore loser Darin Smith even went so far as to publicly answer the question 'You want to know how far down the Trump rabbit hole I am?' by speaking thusly:

“We need to honor President Trump. All President Trump did was call for a peaceful assembly and protest for a fair and audited election.”

Which he got—weeks before this charade.

I'm trying to imagine the Republican response had it been President Obama speaking Trump's words in front of a crowd of BLM supporters. Telling them “You need to fight like hell! Because if you don't, you're not going to have a country any more!” Or having Obama's faux Giuliani suggest “Let's have trial by combat!”

Yes, Republicans would be falling all over themselves to hang Obama from a tree. (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

But coming from Trump and addressed to an angry, roiling mob armed with guns, ammunition, helmets, bullet proof vests, police shields and filled with a soon-to-be-acted-on murderous rage?

Nah. It's just Don being Don. 

If you say so. 

Watching TV the Roku Way

All of us have been told in one form or another “get with the program”. It might have happened at work or in some aspect of our personal lives, but all of us have been advised at some point to conform and stop being difficult.

Sometimes, it even comes from within.

I have described my dislike of twenty-first century cable TV many times. The ever-spiralling cost of watching blocks of decades-old programming while being repeatedly subjected to the water torture of five-minute commercial breaks had burrowed beneath my skin and was beginning to itch. Badly.

But I kept it. As I saw it, streaming was a chain with many more links and hence, more-prone to breakdown, malfunction and so on. And in the end, was it really any cheaper?

An October price-hike from my cable provider pushed me over the edge. Spotty reliability, shrinking Internet bandwidth and the fact that it had become my largest non-housing-related monthly expense drove me to dump them.

(My most-damning indictment of AT&T is that their's was the only business phone number I knew by heart. I'll leave it to your supple imaginations to puzzle-out why.)

So. There I stood, perched on the precipice of twenty-first century television technology! I was going to stream! Watch Netflix! Have access to all of the fascinating and groundbreaking programming I'd been hearing about, appearing nightly on my TV!

Hoo Boy!

If I have a failing, it's that I allow myself to be carried away by stuff. Despite my robust cynicism, I—at times—believe the hype. And my first foray into this brave new world was no exception.

On the advice of a relative far-more conversant in TV tech than I, I ventured online and bought a Roku device. All was well until it arrived. The initial set-up was simple, as promised. The problem started when I attempted to connect it with my WiFi.

Even despite forty minutes on the phone with a certified Roku tech and another foray under the viral hood of my Internet to confirm the password, nothing. The Roku device steadfastly refused to play nice.

The tech concluded it had to be defective and urged me to initiate an exchange.

In 2021 this is not generally a difficult thing to do. Unless one is working with Roku. Since they claim their customer service telephone number had been deactivated because of COVID, I was left to navigate their cumbersome e-mail system.

Even with the confirmation of one of their own, the exchange took three business days to approve. If that weren't enough, Roku was asking me to foot the bill for the return.

I was not made glad.

I informed them I no longer wanted to exchange the device but return it outright. Shockingly, this was okayed in just twenty-four hours.

I dropped it off at the local post office in a USPS Priority mailer. On the same day the post office confirmed its delivery in San Jose, California, I received another Roku device in the mail.

First, let me acknowledge that consumer expectations are much higher in 2021 than they were in, say, 1991. Computerization has shortened processing and delivery timelines as well as consumer's patience.

As a (mostly) sympathetic consumer, I will also acknowledge that not all customers are responsible. We twenty-first Americans have learned well from the business and political classes and are quite adept at gaming the system—even if it's at a level far below that of the aforementioned populations.

While the wonders of online shopping are touted far and wide, there's a dark side: the rate of return for items purchased online is four times what it is for items purchase in-store, proving conclusively that nothing beats having a potential purchase in hand.

And those returns impact profitability. Someone, somewhere is paying for it. (My guess is that company's mid-to-lower-level employees. No surprise there.)

I am not a capricious shopper. I buy only after examining and re-examining every facet of the item I'm considering—especially clothing. I don't wantonly order three different sizes in four different colors thinking I'll just return whatever doesn't fit or that I don't like.

But I am in a minority. So if companies were to raise the threshold on returns I would—to a point—understand.

But this was different. I had a defective unit confirmed by one of the manufacturer's own technicians. I wasn't returning the device because it didn't match the drapes. Why was I paying to return it?

With the receipt of a unit I hadn't wanted or requested, I was now quite angry. I fired-off a heated e-mail to Roku expressing my displeasure. I graciously offered them two choices: either pay the postage for the second device's return or let me have it free of charge.

That was over a week ago. Their sole communication in that time had been an e-mail telling me they hadn't received the original unit.

Yep.

Their re-enactment of Dumb and Dumber was nerve-wracking. The glacial pace of their processing a no-brainer of a return jaw-dropping. I'll put this as clinically as I can, but it was clear to me I was having sexual intercourse with a vagina made of sandpaper.

I mean, this was not going well. I called my credit card company. And as I was on the phone detailing this transaction to them an e-mail appeared from Roku.

They had confirmed the device's return and were now initiating the refund process.

Problem solved, right?

Two days later (which happened to be the three-week anniversary of this calamity), I received another e-mail from Roku. This one asked when I was going to respond and advised me that if I failed to do so within three days the file would be closed and marked 'resolved'.

If you ask how bad something can get you will inevitably find out.

Since when does a two-sentence e-mail that consists of a greeting and an announcement that they have begun their refund process need to be responded to? What's more, the company that had been dragging its feet for three-weeks was giving me deadlines? Seriously?

I complied and re-stated the obvious and added that, yes, I was still interested in a refund and that nothing had changed. (Sometimes my sense of humor can be remarkably subtle.) That was over a week ago.

On a call to my credit card company, I was informed that in our business-friendly country, businesses have up to ten days to issue a refund. Why? It's probable that corporate lawyers are oilier and sneakier and better manipulators than government lawyers.

With today being day number-ten, I sprang from my bed and opened my credit card account to scan for the long-promised refund.

Nothing.

I dialed the phone. “Hello, credit card company? I'd like to dispute a charge.”