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.

Adulting

How do you wrap your brain around parents who are alleged to have not only gifted their emotionally-troubled son with an early Christmas present of a handgun, but gave him full and unrestricted access even after he showed signs of intending to do harm with it?

I mean...how? What the fuck?

Your kid's teacher finds him shopping for ammo on his phone and they're the bad guy? Another teacher finds a disturbing note—accompanied by an equally-disturbing drawing—and they're what? Radicalized socialists intruding on your son's privacy? Second Amendment rights? First Amendment rights? All of the above?

Given your uninvolvement, I'm shocked you visited the school when summoned. In the most towering example of not-my-kid we have ever been unfortunate-enough to witness, you refused to intervene and schedule counseling, much less take a peek at his backpack. What right would that have violated, Mr. and Mrs. Crumbley?

You even resisted the request to remove your child from school. I'm thinking that as taxpayers, you were determined that your son receive every cent of every tax dollar you paid to support his public school.

Wondering: do you seek life advice from Alex Jones? Do you remain perturbed that last year's attempt to assassinate Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer failed? And finally, Trump didn't really lose, did he?

Can I get your thoughts on COVID vaccines?

That's right. I'm accusing you of being Trumpers. Because the stupidity you repeatedly showed in this tiny week-long window is staggering. And frankly, only a Trumper is capable of it.

Word is that you left Oxford “for your own safety.” It's a shame your son's victims didn't have that option, isn't it? If it isn't bad enough we have the NRA writing our nation's gun policy—such as it is—we have “parents” like you doing everything but engraving invitations to their kids to slaughter their classmates.

It's not easy being green—or Trump—is it?

I can't wait to hear your justification. Ditto that of your son. In a world that truly valued life (nope—overturning Roe v. Wade doesn't count), the three of you would rot in prison.

Here's hoping.

 

Change Is the Only Constant? Seriously?

Depending on how you look at it, the Chicago Bears are either swathed in—or suffocated by—history.

Just one of a handful of NFL franchises owned by descendants of their founders, the Bears make a great story insofar as tradition and lineage are concerned. What could be better for a franchise and its legacy than to have a tangible link to perhaps the most pivotal man in NFL history?

On the surface, not much. Pretty cool, right?

Wrong.

George Halas, Sr. died on Halloween, 1983. The last great thing Bears' leadership did for the franchise was Halas' hiring of GM Jim Finks in the mid-seventies. Already credited with turning two franchises into contenders, Finks was the perfect candidate to resurrect the Bears.

And resurrect he did. While no longer with the franchise by the time the 1985 Bears laid waste to the NFL, that team had Finks' fingerprints all over it. But the ascent and the championship obscured an emerging problem within the organization: in the aftermath of Halas' death, who would lead them?

Heirs by marriage, various members of the McCaskey family assumed control. They were now responsible for hiring the people best-suited to sustain the Bears' recent success.

But as teams do, the Bears grew old. Got injured. And got traded. With the conveyor belt Finks built no longer in service, the supply of savvy draft picks and prescient free-agent signings which earmarked his stay in Chicago disappeared.

And suddenly the Bears weren't so good anymore.

Looking at the ensuing decades, the Bears have mostly been mediocre (if not downright awful). While fans and the media debate incessantly this GM or that coach or trades and free-agent signings, there is but a single common denominator that stretches across three decades of futility: the McCaskeys.

They don't know what they're doing.

They're in charge of hiring the people who evaluate, develop and assemble talent. And for thirty long years they have failed. Their hand-picked executives have produced a long string of ineffectual quarterbacks. Forgettable receivers and tight ends. Anonymous offensive linemen. All of it leading to a moribund tradition of hapless and inept offenses.

Their coaches are over-matched and out-witted.

Yes, the Bears can still uncover defensive talent like the New York Mets once did pitching. But in a game constantly being tweaked and massaged to favor offense, this is only a minor advantage. 

There are aberrations. Like 2001 and 2006 and, most-recently, 2018. But these vanish as quickly as they appear, returning Bears football to its natural state of being.

Which isn't to infer the McCaskeys are clueless. On the contrary, they have developed the Bears assets to the point where the Bears are the eighth most-valuable franchise in the NFL, worth 2.45 billion-dollars. Which I think we all can agree is a pretty heady return on Papa Bear's original investment.

And with a billion-dollar monument to their legacy soon to be erected in the suburb of Arlington Heights, that valuation will increase still further. But the red wine stain on this pristine linen tablecloth of good fortune remains the McCaskeys.

If it even needs to be said, football is measured in championships, not valuations.

Oh, the McCaskeys and Ted Phillips still deign to descend from their ivory towers and mingle with the great unwashed once a year, polishing their brand as they advise exasperated fans and a befuddled media they understand what's going on and are going to act on it immediately.

All that's missing are results.

But with a string of sold-out games stretching back to 1984, you have to wonder why the Bears would bother. Like the fans of the baseball team that plays on the north side of town, Bears fans will bitch up a storm on Monday morning talk radio and then dash off checks for season tickets with eager and unquestioning obedience.

And with more seats to sell in their new stadium, money will roll in in even greater quantities.

3 - 13? 12 - 4? It matters not, people. Bears' fans have demonstrated they will buy whatever the McCaskeys are selling. And until the tickets and the merch remain unsold and the games unwatched, rest assured Matt Nagy and Ryan Pace's successors will be more of the same.

Again: the McCaskeys are the sole common denominator across thirty-years of crappy football and questionable football decisions. What does that say to you?

A long time ago, an Englishman sang “Meet the new boss/Same as the old boss.” Is it possible he was a Bears' fan?