Happy Anniversary

Tradition dictates that to celebrate a first anniversary, a gift of paper is the time-honored way to recognize the occasion.

And I agree.

So it is only appropriate that on this, the first anniversary of the seditious attacks on the nation's capitol, a blizzard of paper gifts be bestowed upon the participants. Things like warrants. Subpoenas. Complaints. Indictments. Citations. Etcetera.

While a fair number of the rioters have already been charged, too few have been treated with the severity their acts of insurrection demand.

Sentencing is always a nebulous affair, with judges given to wide interpretation of events and circumstances. But how is that tears and flimsy excuses are exchanged for slap-on-the-wrist sentences of (gulp) probation and home detention?

Seriously?

That's the price for participating in an organized effort to overturn and deny the results of a presidential election? For storming the nation's capitol and killing three cops? Taking part in a mission with a stated goal of hanging the vice-president?

Huh?

Too typical is the case of Anna Morgan-Lloyd. In an Oscar-worthy performance, Morgan-Lloyd convinced judge Royce Lamberth she was ashamed of the “savage display of violence” she oh so eagerly partook in.

Just a day later she related to Fox News that people were actually “very polite” during the riot and that she saw “relaxed” police offers conversing with rioters and that she didn't really believe the events of that day constituted an insurrection..

(Don't you just hate it when Trumpers don't take their meds?)

Furthermore, when do Marjorie Taylor-Greene and Josh Hawley take the stand? Ted Cruz? Tommy Tuberville? How about Acting Defense Secretary Christopher Miller, who ordered—in advance—that the National Guard not respond to any calls for help originating from the nation's capitol?

The events of January sixth were as spontaneous, as impulsive as the Super Bowl. We know everything we need to know. January 6^th demands top-to-bottom accountability. Scrutiny. Investigation. Hearings, trials and imprisonment.

Excuse the raw language, but we need to treat the participants as if they were Black.

We need to get angry. Stay angry. And make sure January 6th is treated as seriously as it needs to be, with severe punishment for the participants at each and every level.

And to impart to the mentally-ill folks across the aisle and their brain-damaged supporters that sedition is not okay.

Never.

Ever.

The Woulda Coulda Shoulda Hunch

Whatever your thoughts on regrets, I admit to having a few. Having them means I'm human. And admitting them probably means I'm less-fearful of appearing vulnerable than you are.

Sure, I wish I had bought Amazon stock in 1996. And seen the Jam and XTC while they were extant. But mostly, I'm bummed that I failed to act on a powerful hunch and not bet on the New York Giants to defeat the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XLII.

It was through YouTube that I was finally able to watch the game last night. (I only saw the last few minutes back in the day.)

Like any football fan in 2007, I was fascinated by those Patriots. With an already formidable offense bolstered by the addition of wide receiver-slash-savant Randy Moss, I was curious how high they could go.

As it turns out, the answer was 'very'. They stormed through the sixteen-game schedule without a loss, shredding their opponents by an average of 19.6 points a game. But if you were as observant as you were interested, you noticed that month by month the league was catching up with them.

The Pats won in September by an average of 26.3 points a game. In October by 25. In November that dropped to 17.6. And in December to 11.6.

Now, there isn't a coach in organized football who would refuse a team beating its opponents by 11.6 points per, but in light of those September and October margins being cut in half by December, something was very definitely up.

And if the rest of the league even needed it, those same Giants provided a prime time tutorial on Sunday night, December 29, 2007. Behind 28 – 16 with just minutes left in the third quarter, the Patriots were forced to engineer three unanswered scoring drives, not icing the game until just four minutes were left.

And while New England played well-enough in their two post-season games, it was obvious the epic slaughters of autumn were history. And when it became clear they would again face the Giants in the Super Bowl, wheels began to turn. No. Spin.

I wanted to bet big—a thousand dollars. That is how convinced I was. Being the less-impulsive half of a couple, my wife put the kibosh on that. I cajoled and begged and insisted, half-scaring myself with the insistence of my entreaties.

But all was for naught.

My partner's logic was impeccable. The the Great Recession had already hit in New Mexico (my former employer had laid me off and would soon lay-off another hundred). Full-time-with-benefits job listings had all but disappeared. And as she happened to work for the same company, her position was anything but secure.

As it turned out, my wife lost her job, too. This hastened our decision to leave New Mexico—just as the Great Recession hit nationwide.

What's that about timing being everything?

Given the Giants were 8:1 long-shots to win the Super Bowl (which they incidentally did in an exciting and highly-competitive game), I'll always reflect on how that handsome, tax-free pay-out could've sustained us in the bleak days that lay ahead.

But so it is with regret. It remains an unanswered question, sometimes echoing life-long like an unrequited love. While the purchase of Amazon stock would have had a far-larger impact on my life, there isn't (thankfully) a YouTube video to remind me of that squandered opportunity.

So. Now you know. And if you're wondering, I haven't had a similar, sure fire hunch since. 

Happy New Year?

Yes. I am eager to see 2021 depart. And yet, I can't honestly say I'm similarly eager for 2022 to begin.

Given the nation's political mood, which seems to favor a morally-bankrupt conservatism over a democracy which seeks inclusion and a smattering—however faint—of equality, things look pretty grim.

But the Chicago Bulls' re-do is blossoming right under our noses, catapulting them from underachievers to contenders. The anticipated chemistry problems betwixt LaVine and DeRozan and Vucevic haven't materialized, with the play of all three elevated by the acquisitions of Lonzo Ball and Alex Caruso.

Add the number-one steal of the 2021 NBA draft (Ayo Dosunmu) and things look as bright as they appear dark nearly everywhere else.

That said, I will wish everyone a Happy New Year as we leap—however cautiously—into 2022.

May your god watch over you. And us. 

 

Quiet Comfort

Few things in life work as well as a calendar. Pandemics, supply chain interruptions, racial strife, climate change, political extremism nonwithstanding—my calendar continues its methodical march to 2021's conclusion in the fashion espoused by head coaches everywhere: one day at a time.

Inflation is spiraling at rates not seen since the early days of the Reagan administration? The larger and more-violent storms predicted by scientists thirty-years ago are now a thing? Louis DeJoy has done to the Post Office what Trump couldn't quite do to democracy?

No matter. The linear flow of my calendar continues unabated.

And thank God. Like its forebearer, 2021 hasn't been a year to remember. It's mostly been an unwanted sequel to 2020, with virus fatigue thrown at no extra charge.

Sure, there were a handful of good movies and some pop music that didn't inspire commentary along the lines of “Oh, that sounds like ___________.” Talking to you, Dua Lipa.

And there was that epic trip out west in my trusty Accord. And the Sky's WNBA championship. And the beautiful fall afternoon I got to drive a Porsche 911 4S around a race track with no worries of drawing law enforcement's attention.

But so much else remains up in the air.

Am I ever going to be able to safely travel internationally before I'm too old but do anything but sit on a tour bus? Is my hideously over-taxed home ever going to appreciate to anyone outside of the county assessor's office? Is the legal matter which has inserted itself into my life ever going to move forward?

Sigh.

Yet my calendar remains firmly and intractably rooted in its mission. It relentlessly (and in the case of 2021, thankfully) moves forward, even if my attorney seems incapable of doing so.

In the meantime I'll quibble with the company who didn't/couldn't/wouldn't cancel an order placed just minutes beforehand and who won't fully refund the unwanted item after it showed up seven weeks later.

Or ponder why five business days wasn't enough time for my local post office to move a piece of mail the 5.32 miles between my bank and the village hall, resulting in multiple late fees the post office is—curiously enough—uninterested in assuming.

Or why my cell phone routinely turns off its Wi-Fi. Or why drivers in my area have such a tough time aligning the number on speed limit signs with the readout on their speedometers. Or if those filmy, plastic produce bags in supermarkets will ever be easy to open.

At least my calendar works. Yesterday was the twenty-eighth. Today is the twenty-ninth. Tomorrow will be the thirtieth.

What comfort.

Looking Skyward

Not quite sure why I keep thinking of the Chicago Sky and their out-of-left-field WNBA title.

Maybe it's a matter of context. The world is full of division and conflict amidst a lingering pandemic. Their championship stands in stark relief; a beacon of collaboration, unselfishness and perhaps even hope.

It was revealed last October that following their underachieving 2020/21 season, the Sky were as frustrated as their fans. Despite the arrival of a difference-maker (Candace Parker), they had struggled to a 16 and 16 record.

For a franchise still feeling the sting of Sylvia Fowles' and Elena Delle Donne's unceremonious departures, the arrival of free-agent Parker was a big deal. But after yielding such tepid results, it threatened to become another disappointment in a city grown used to them.

But the Sky embraced the maxim that the post-season is a new season—one where everybody is 0 - 0. And in that embrace, they re-committed to each other. They looked each other in the eye and said “I'm here for you. I'm playing for you.”

Forgive my bias, but it's a little hard to imagine a male team doing the same. As I imagine it, I see lots of finger-pointing. Accusations. Chest-puffing. Agitated calls to agents. “Get me out of here!”

Which is the exact opposite of what happened at Wintrust Arena.

The results speak volumes. The Sky went on an 8 – 2 run, beating statistically-superior teams in three consecutive rounds. I admit to not watching every post-season every professional sports franchise has ever embarked on, but the Sky's triumph was—if not singular—extraordinary.

Sport is rich in metaphor. Their ascent following an underachieving and potentially fractious regular season is the living embodiment of clear-eyed assessment. Of moving on. Of knowing how to re-boot. Of how to start fresh and finish strong.

Do I even need to spell out the lesson here for our ruptured civilization?

The Sky didn't win because they stomped around the lockeroom in a vain (and ultimately self-destructive) attempt to prove who the alpha dog was.

No.

They won because they regarded each each as equals and strengthened their bond. It was about we, not me. Unity—not control. They forged an identity as unbreakable as an ingot and handily defeated all comers.

You might construe this post as an editorial on toxic masculinity and I could only reply “perhaps.” Looking at a world largely created by men, I can't honestly say we kicked ass. In the most literal sense, yes. But in the larger one of creating a good and just and sustainable civilization?

Nope.

The most startling picture I ever saw was the one taken by the crew of Apollo 17. There was planet Earth in all its gorgeousness, hanging like a Christmas ornament and set against the infinite darkness of space.

(I mean, can you even imagine the effect it would have had on Galileo or Copernicus?)

And while man has expertly plundered its riches and created immense wealth for the few in the process, we haven't done such a great job of caring for it and, by extension, us.

So if the future is indeed female, fine. Maybe gender double-x can restore our humanity and bring to the table policy not centered on profit and control. And wouldn't it be the biggest kick in the ass ever if the Sky's championship helped light the way?

Just sayin'. 

 

Evincing Magic

The year of the shortage continues, with seemingly everything except congestion, inflation and political rancor in short supply. But know there is a light. A beacon of beauty. A lumen of ingenuity just over the not-so-distant horizon.

Yes, the clarion call of genius has never sounded so clearly. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the GlowBowl.

Since its web site claims over one-million sold, it's conceivable I might be a little late to the GlowBowl party. But for those of you whose lives have yet to be touched, know this: it is transformative.

It's true. I can scarcely believe my eyes. Imagine infusing one of life's most-mundane acts with (gasp) wonder!

So. There you are. Your bladder beckons. You head to the bathroom. I ask you: is there a point in the day when expectation are lower? Of course not. Pee. Flush. Move on.

And then, just feet from the bowl, everything changes. 

Your toilet is a kaleidoscope of color! It is luminous! As your choice of thirteen colors caresses the ceramic bowl, revelation: your toilet isn't just a toilet. It's a canvas!

I'm supposed to go back to sleep after this? Or watch Squid Game? Are you kidding me? Oh no—I'm heading straight for the fridge and downing gigantic quantities of fluids as fast as I can!

Even away from home GlowBowl works its magic.

Imagine your self-satisfaction when, in the midst of a tough day at work, you are able to content yourself with the knowledge that in contrast to the mass of humanity all around you, your bowl glows.

Yes. Your bowl glows. In thirteen different colors.

It is the best of all possible worlds.

Re-imagining Pearl Harbor

Herein, we re-imagine the attack on Pearl Harbor as taking place today, with the not-quite-greatest generation (defined as 'us', not 'you') left to react and muddle its way through the debris.

It kicks off with Franklin Delano Roosevelt's historic 1941 address, updated to reflect 2021's realities. We at the Square Peg hope you enjoy it.

“Madam Vice President, Madam Speaker, Members of the Senate and of the House of Representatives:

Yesterday, December 7, 2021—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by missles originating from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, better known to you as North Korea.

The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of the Democratic People's Republic, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking towards the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.”

It didn't take long for social media platforms to light up.

“It's a hoax!” cried redstatepatriot26. “More lies from Sleepy Joe” added Joe6pak. “This is a gr8 start! Now We take up Arms and Finish DC!” advised 67militiaMan. “Biden's media puppets are already marching in lockstep with this, people!!! Grab your guns!!!” wrote US representative Lauren Boebert (R-CO).

Despite mountains of evidence originating from the military, independent observers and local and state governments confirming the attack and the attendant carnage, a motion to declare war fell strictly along party lines, passing 221 to 213 in the House and requiring a tie-breaking vote from Vice President Kamala Harris to pass in the Senate.

Presidential mandates limiting home construction and automobile production in order to conserve materials required for the war effort are being met with hundreds of lawsuits. Additional mandates rationing (among other things) meat, gasoline, natural gas and electrical consumption are likewise having their veracity contested.

Even the distribution of non-military ammunition is being curtailed, provoking perhaps the strongest outrage from bands of protesters calling themselves the 'Legion of Trump'. They allege this is tyranny of the highest order and urge their brethren to take up arms against a hostile and pernicious government denying them their Second Amendment rights.

With the rest of the world quickly taking sides in the wake of the assault, a global war appears inevitable. With no other choice but to resurrect the draft, resistance is peaking in red states such as Florida, Alabama, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Anti-draft protesters are burning American flags and demanding citizenship in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.

There, they believe, they will be free to exercise their Second Amendment rights without inhibition, eat as many double-cheeseburgers as they can stomach and spend as many hours playing Mortal Kombat as a case of Red Bull will see them through.

When advised of the realities of life in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (starvation and deprivation among other things), they uniformly point to a tweet by former president Donald Trump advising them that anything that doesn't emanate from his lips are lies. 

With strident resistance to virtually every mandate exacerbated by yet-another COVID variant and sustained by virulent anti-vaxxer factions, political observers believe the United States could fall to North Korea and its allies.

The same observers caution that those resisting President Biden's mandates would likely be viewed as enemies of the state should North Korea emerge victorious and summarily executed.

 At least they won't be made to suffer under a hostile democracy.