America’s Case of the Clap

Surrounded by whitened windows through which I can barely see the shrubs where the wrens and the bluejays play just five feet away, I might be grateful that I have no choice but to focus on a subject I’d rather ignore.

The tell-tale beep-beep-beep of a utility vehicle penetrates the howl of wind, which I take as a warning that my power could quit on any given keystroke, so I better say what I have to say as quickly as I can.

The subject: The State of the Union Address is scheduled for tomorrow night. As far back as John Kennedy when I first became aware of the nature of participatory governance, I’ve regarded this annual event the way Catholics regard holy days of obligation.

Never mattered what I thought of the president giving it. In fact, it seemed more important to keep track of what Reagan and the Bushes would claim than what Carter or Clinton would explain. As the trial lawyer for the Chicago 7, William Kunstler, told us back in the Nixon years: “We need to keep abreast of evil.”

Many Democratic senators and representatives say they are going to boycott, but you can bet they’ll be pouring through summaries Wednesday morning. Many progressives, liberals, and friends who still consider themselves conservative–but are alienated by the MAGA-Republican Party’s nihilism and corruption–say the same, and I don’t blame them.

If anything, I envy them, but for me it’s an addiction. At least if I’m going to continue writing political commentaries, and are not those commentaries among the commentaries they’ll seek on Wednesday?

All that said, none of this means that I am obligated to provide one. For starters, I would never attempt a summary of a full speech, especially one made by a barking, babbling, incoherent, cruel, scrambled-brained, endlessly repetitive, fitfully flippant fool. My self-assignment is always to find an item that may otherwise go unnoticed, and at times that has not been in the speech, but in how it was received.

Spin the clock back 34 years, and my State of the Union report was a call to ban the applause made by members of one party after every statement made by a president of their party. This not only significantly prolongs the speech, but robs it of continuity and coherence. Of course, that will be doing this anti-literate sleaze a favor, but it taxes the listener’s patience, and in 1992 it near knocked George H.W. Bush down for an eight-count.

Parroting the Republican lie about universal health care, Bush mentioned a Canadian suffering for weeks while awaiting an operation, and then ended the sentence. And right on miscue, enough Republicans were on automatic pilot that loud cheers filled the hall. Bush, to his credit (although to his disadvantage), was not on automatic pilot, Visibly confused, he stepped back from the microphone and furrowed his brow as laughter overcame the cheers. Then, as if remembering where he was, he chuckled and continued speaking.

Too bad the local newspaper’s electronic archives do not reach that far back, but the column is included in my collection, Once Upon an Attention Span, under the headline, “Suffering a Case of the Clap.”

As for tomorrow, this clown’s severe case of non-stop verbal diarrhea combined with the slavish worship of a political party-turned-personality cult, the State of the Union should be ripe with such moments. (Ripe in both senses of the word.)

Wait, you may say, wondering what happened to my claim in the opening line that I “have no choice but to focus on a subject I’d rather ignore”?

Picky, picky! What you missed is that I never ruled out changing the subject to something on which I’d have no choice but to focus. So there it is, along with one of the blue jays that’s frequented that shrub outside my window all winter, perhaps looking at the picture of another on a Christmas card sent by Cousin Janice a couple years ago.

The utility vehicle? The beeping stopped not long after I mentioned it, right about when someone posted on Facebook that one of the utility poles along the Plum Island Causeway, the one and only link we have to the mainland, was bent about 45-degr——-

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Penny Deposit, No Return

By this time every year, my taxes are done and in the mail, if only so I can forget about them ASAP.

Whether I’ll need to write and send a check–one about ten years back was just over $1,600–or I’ll expect a check doesn’t matter. I just want it done and in the mail, with my own copies buried back in some drawer. And so it happens on the first weekend of this month, usually complete by sundown, Saturday.

But here we are about to enter February’s third weekend, and I am sitting with an assortment of six W-2s and 1099s, for which my chaotic life calls, ready to record on federal and state forms that remain blank. Problem is: I need seven.

You may be wondering just how impossibly wealthy I am if I can boast of seven sources of income. In truth, I have eight, but the New Hampshire Dept. of Corrections apparently takes care of any money that a convict owes you. All I know is that NHDC has never sent me a tax statement since they started bleeding the wayward cousin who stiffed me for $2,000 back in 2000. Apparently, she only pays when she’s back in chronic custody, so I get a check for $70 literally about once in a blue moon.

Of the statements that I do have is one for royalties from Amazon which sells my three books on demand, and which, as I understand it, lets people view a few pages for as little as two cents. Pay the Piper!, my memoir of life as a street-musician, is now, gulp, twelve years old, and even the most recent, Once Upon an Attention Span, is four, so sales have faded, and the statement is just over $11.

Another statement arrived unexpectedly. This summer I took advantage of an offer of $300 to open a checking account in a bank nearby after my bank of 25 years merged with another and shut down the local branch. Never occurred to me that the $300 would be taxed, and this will be the first time I can recall putting anything but zero on a 1040 line for interest.

Add that $311 to the combined $6K of two seasonal musical gigs, and you can begin to see why I have so many. Of those remaining, both part-time, one ended in July and the other is but a day a week. Combine those totals, which I am not going to divulge, to those on the aforementioned $6,311, and it is still less than the amount on the missing form.

Shouldn’t take too much reading between the lines here to figure out that, despite the number of these endeavors, the time they require is minimal. Yes, although it is my misfortune to have those two musical gigs, as fortunate as they are, happen at the same time of year. Put it this way, my life is a nine-month vacation interrupted just one day (Wednesday) each week. In September and October, I am full-court press, and in November I am basket case.

By now you have no doubt figured out that the one delinquent form is, of all things, my “Social Security Benefit Statement.” Worth noting here is that many Americans do not realize that Social Security allotments are taxed. And for good reason. Logic should tell us that, if the federal government has determined a sum you should have, why allot more than that sum, and then withhold a portion–in turn, causing the recipient through an annual course of mathematical hoops and hurdles to determine how much more the government should send out or have sent back?

As envisioned during Pres. Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal, logic ruled. It was all done in one step, and it worked very well until the 1980s when Pres. Ronald Reagan initiated the bill to tax it. As I recall, “added revenue” was the stated reason, but as always with Republicans, it was part of an overall scheme to cut taxes on the wealthiest Americans who tend to contribute to Republican campaigns. This is what they call “Trickle Down Economics,” but by now only the most gullible among us believes that it is anything other than “trickle up,” or maybe “tinkle down.”

Call it political poetry: the same US Treasury that requires me to submit its form back to it, withholds it, preventing me from meeting its own requirement. Don’t the folks there know they are supposed to withhold only the money as an estimate to offset a fair share determined by April 15? And that both refunds and bills are issued when the paperwork is done?

Instead of half a weekend doing forms, I’ve spent half this past week on-line and on the phone trying to get through to an actual person. Instead, I get new passwords that get me to a window asking for a “passcode.” No idea what they are, where they are, and certainly unable to fathom why they are, I give up. The phone menus are impenetrable, referring me back to the site, which refers me back to the same phone numbers.

So aggravating that I went to bed last night resolved to email a request for assistance to the office of my US Congressman, Seth Moulton. Oh, how I hate to bother those good people with such a mundane matter when they are trying to hold the GOP (Guardians of Pedophiles) to account. But congressional offices seem to be the only federal offices of any kind where you can connect to a fellow human being without suffering the interminable, insulting, and paralyzing algorithms of AI.

And so it was that, as soon as I downed the last bite of eggs fiesta and poured myself another French press, I was on this Lenovo letting my rep’s staff know the agony and frustration of an old man wanting only to perform his civic duty of paying taxes–or at least making sure I’ve paid my fair share. And, as I am often prone to do, I started with such detail that I just kept going. And now here I am inflicting it on you.

Apologies for this ordeal, but I may make it up to you with some comic relief:

Royalties from Amazon are directly deposited into my checking account, and so I learn of them on about the 17th or 18th of each month when my bank statement arrives. When my books first appeared, I might see entries for $120, and then it would gradually decrease a few months, to maybe $40 in the fifth month and then disappear. Most months would then not have it, while others had a small amount, including one for just seven cents. I’ve been joking about it ever since.

A few days ago, I pulled a bank statement from my mailbox, opened it right there in broad daylight at the foot of my driveway, and laughed as hard as I’ve ever laughed. Amazon deposited a royalty of one cent.

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Battle of the Bads

With comparisons to the Gestapo and an MO that recalls America’s infamous Fugitive Slave Act of the 1850s, the US Enforcement Immigration and Customs (ICE) is the cruelest feature of an administration in which cruelty is a top requirement for every job.

Apart from the military, ICE is the deadliest federal agency–although this week’s termination of the ability to restrict carbon emissions by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) will in time prove more lethal than two dead in Minnesota.

Here in the northeast corner of Massachusetts, we’ve seen very little of ICE, despite no end of lower-case ice, but this month we have been rocked by two ICE-related news items.

First, word circulated that Todd Lyons, the Acting Director of ICE, lives in West Newbury, a sleepy, leafy little town with no more of a center than a small grocery store and a pizza joint, barely eight miles from the coast where I now write.

Second, just days ago we learned that New Hampshire Republican Gov. Kelly Ayotte signed an agreement with ICE to permit the conversion of a warehouse in Merrimack N.H. into an ICE detention center with the capacity for 500 beds.

Residents of Merrimack and neighboring towns and cities knew that something was cooking and have been gathering by the hundreds at the site to hold vigils. They were shocked to learn that Ayotte had signed the agreement weeks earlier but never announced it. That’s very much in character for her. She campaigns without using the word “Republican,” omitting it from her signs and pamphlets, pretending that it’s not there, and disassociating herself from Trump as much as possible–just as most all New England Republicans do.

If that’s not duplicity enough, Ayotte is already dissing the plan despite the fact that she just signed off on it. According to the Associated Press:

Tensions boiled to the surface after interim ICE Director Todd Lyons testified Thursday that the Department of Homeland Security ‘has worked with Gov. Ayotte’ and provided her with an economic impact summary.

Always playing it both ways, Ayotte seized the chance to create an impression of opposing the move, claiming that Lyon’s claim was “simply not true” and that there was no summary sent until he had already testified. She also claimed that the document boasted of revenues to be gained by state sales and income taxes. New Hampshire has neither tax. Said Ayotte, as quoted by the AP:

Director Lyons’ comments today are another example of the troubling pattern of issues with this process… Officials from the Department of Homeland Security continue to provide zero details of their plans for Merrimack, never mind providing any reports or surveys.

Merrimack is barely 25 miles north of Lowell, Mass., about a dozen south of Manchester NH, and maybe 45 straight west from the coast. Before long, I’m sure to attend a vigil there, perhaps in a rendezvous with my musician friends in Peterborough NH, another 45 miles to the west.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been invited to join vigils outside of Todd Lyons’ residence in West Newbury. This has become the subject of debate among locals who attend the weekend rallies along main drags in Newburyport, Ipswich, and other towns nearby. Some feel that a protest shouldn’t be brought to anyone’s door, no matter how culpable they may be. What of the family, of neighbors?

Others ask what of the families of innocent people murdered by an agency under his direction? What of neighborhoods that have been living in terror for weeks and counting due to his decisions? Why should an administrator of and apologist for murder and terror have a safe space? Should their families be spared from candles in the night lit to shed light on their crimes?

I’m honestly torn. On the one hand, I cannot bring myself to protest at anyone’s residence. What if I offend some group with a column in the local paper? Plenty of opportunity for them to confront me in the press or in a public meeting. Outside my window? What good does that do?

On the other hand, I do not fault those who do hold signs outside Lyons’ home. Not only do I appreciate their rationale for doing it, but I respect their effort to act. As misdirected as I think it is, to stand outside that home, or the home of any member of Trump’s Reign of Hate–with signs, with chants, with flags, with the willingness to see wrong and try to right it–is preferable to doing nothing.

There’s one place I would go, however. Why, I’d be the first to buy a ticket, paying full price to sit up front. If the flap between Lyons and Ayotte should flare out of control, they might arrange a cage fight. I’d bring a sign:

A pox on both you louses!

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Photo by Rand McNally.

Opening the Golden Door*

Super Bowl LX will go down as the worst ever played. That’s both before and after a halftime show that will be remembered long after the dismal game is forgotten.

Before the game, almost as an appetizer for halftime, Coco Jones delivered “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” Long before Bad Bunny was mentioned as a headliner, the MAGA crowd started foaming at the mouth over a song that many African-Americans have called, “the Black National Anthem.” It’s actually a hymn that dates back about 120 years, calling for universal freedom, but the MAGA crowd is deaf to all that, instead linking it to the silent, peaceful protests made by NFL players ten years ago who knelt during the National Anthem, calling attention to the epidemic of shootings of African-Americans by police who were never held accountable. Jones’ rendition was stunningly sweet.

In sharp contrast, Green Day, punk rock as they may be, seemed to matter-of-factly announce the NFL’s opinion of ICE’s occupation of an NFL city by belting out “American Idiot” at the very start of the broadcast. The mood was soon calmed by the heartfelt patriotism of Brandi Carlile’s “America the Beautiful” and Charlie Puth’s National Anthem.

In the early years of Super Bowls, I, a hippie at the time, barely watched. In fact, I made it from 1970 to 1996 without owning a TV. In the ’80s when I began teaching, I slowly returned to American mainstream culture. While halftime shows were not yet the elaborate productions we now see, commercials were, and they premiered on what was already being called the “most American of holidays,” no matter that it is not a holiday. Gave me a lot to talk about in college freshman writing classes. Made teaching easy for weeks, which was about the same length of time friends chided me for taking so many notes during games I watched with them.

Before my teaching career came to an end, halftime shows seemed to transition from marching bands to celebrity singers and artists, and the late ’90s favored the Motown sound: Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, The Temptations, and more. The music of any Boomers’ youth, you might say, as it was for me. Years later, however, my musical tastes long for a repeat of Richard Petty & the Heartbreakers, who sizzled in 2008, but that’s past. And I must admit that the Rolling Stones & the Who bombed, if only because it was not their venue. Sir Paul and the Boss were better, but the special effects hardly suited them.

By the time of Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction,” none of the above mattered. At the turn of the century, the home team New England Patriots launched a dynasty, lately dormant but revived this year, that has reclaimed my inner sports fan. I don’t watch just their games, but every NFL and college playoff game that my basic cable subscription allows. There are a few teams I detest for odd reasons, and my eyes will not allow me to watch a game in which both teams are wearing orange and/or red, but I have little care for the outcome, only the action.

That’s why yesterday’s game was such a torturous waste of time. I’ve seen better action in the drain of my kitchen sink when it’s clogged. I suppose an extremist fan of defensive football hoping for a final score of 2-0, or maybe 4-2, might have enjoyed it, but excitement was limited to a few nice runs by a Seattle fullback and a few blocked passes by a New England safety.

Sustained excitement was to be found only in the halftime show. Couldn’t understand a word, but the symbols were impossible to miss. Quite like the 2021 film, In the Heights, Bad Bunny put the vitality of Puerto Rican culture on full display, and it was as joyful as the couple who really did get married as he danced by along the sugar cane set.

Announcers were cautious (who could blame them?): Yes, that’s a bodega common to Puerto Rico, but not a word about the workers on utility poles as a comment on the Republican Party’s indifference to the Puerto Rico grid after the hurricane. Nor did they note the young boy looking so much like the 5-year-old traumatized by Republican approved ICE agents in Minnesota and shipped off to Texas. And of course there was no mention of another development in that story within 24-hours of kickoff: The Republican Administration is now expediting the process to deport 5-year-old Liam Conejos Ramos and his family.

Though, musically, I might prefer the late Tom Petty, or Gloria Estefan, or Smokey Robinson, or U2, I am grateful that, from the wreckage of the worst sporting event since the New York Jets last played the Cleveland Browns, such a vibrant and undeniable message was delivered to an American public that needs to see and hear it, a counter weight to a Republican administration that continues to slander and smear it.

Just wish someone with a microphone during or after the game had mentioned that the Patriot’s best player in that sorry excuse for game, that safety I mentioned who blocked passes that appeared ticketed for touchdowns, has a last name ending with the letter Z.

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*From the Statue of Liberty (which appears in many commercials that air during football games:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Coco Jones’ performs the Black National Anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”
https://ch.headtopics.com/news/coco-jones-opens-super-bowl-2026-with-sublime-lift-every-79491693#google_vignette

Cooking on Planet Kitchen

A few nights back, I attended a talk on climate change, the extent of it, and how we might yet bail ourselves out from the inevitable disaster that awaits if we don’t change our wasteful ways.

Sponsoring the event was the Union of Concerned Scientists, a group that during any other period in American history would be viewed as non-partisan. That, they still are, except that the federal government is now run by an administration that is openly and aggressively anti-science. That leaves scientists no choice but to contradict the federal agencies that, under any other president, would have depended on them. By default, that allies them with the only nationally viable political party that has not turned itself into a cult of personality.

Granted, the Reagan Administration dismissed solar power and the electric car, favoring an economy that favored Republican donors. However, the debate was always open, and scientists were not publicly demonized as anti-American and “woke.” Moreover, medical and other scientific research funds were not slashed as they were last year. Back then, the label “conservative” and the concept of “conservation” were as compatible as the words themselves. It was the Nixon Administration, after all, that initiated the Environmental Protection Agency following a State of the Union Address that included this:

We have been too tolerant [i.e. careless] of our surroundings and too willing to leave it to others to clean up our environment. It is time for those who make massive demands on society to make some minimal demands on themselves.

Sounds like a call for regulation to me, and the early ’70s were noted by the UCS speaker as a hopeful time for environmentalists. Beaches at lakes across America were reopened for swimming, including Lake Erie that had been declared dead in what may have been network television’s first expose. Ugly orange-brown clouds disappeared from cities from New York to Denver and to the West Coast where Jimmy Buffett “spent four lonely days in a brown LA haze.”

Before us the other night, tracking the advances and set-backs of the environmental movement since the first “Earth Day” in 1970 was Erika Spanger, UCS’s Director of Strategic Climate Analytics. I knew her before she was born, and now there she is with slightly graying hair atop her tall, elegant posture, telling me and an audience more my age than hers about a crisis that her kids and my grandkids will be left to solve.

Amazing how she resembles both of her parents. Both friends of mine back at Salem State, they were likely in the gathering with me when that first Earth Day was observed in the year of her birth, as they were in various anti-war demonstrations. And it was likely the next summer that she was with several of us on a camping trip up by Mount Chocorua, carried along in a picnic basket as we moved between lake and campground. Her dad and I challenged each other to a race up a tree, the same tree, the two of us on opposite sides. Erika’s mom and my girlfriend looked up in horror, while between them the little face in the wicker basket grew smaller and smaller. Chuck and I didn’t stop until we remembered that we were already high.

The talk was as informative as it was sobering. She spoke of a 2030 deadline for a significant reduction in emissions, but that was already established when we still had ten years left to meet it. Little has happened to help the cause. To the contrary, the anti-science government of the USA has taken us out of the Paris Accords and gutted most all regulations of the energy industry. Now, she holds out hope for a strategy ironically called “overshoot,” but she realizes that we are stuck, for at least another year, with a government that will not shoot at all.*

My apologies for the lack of quotes, but the swoon of nostalgia didn’t allow me to take notes. Whitman famously wandered out of a talk on astronomy to behold the night sky’s stars; my mind wandered from a talk on our future to go living in the past. Not just Erika standing before me, but her uncle seated next to me, a ringer for his late-brother, and my cousin’s high school basketball coach at Pentucket High School where he also taught Earth Sciences. Could say that stewardship of the Earth runs in the Spanger family.

But I can offer a good idea of her talk by quoting last July’s entry in her UCS-endorsed blog, “The Equation,” in which she declares:

“If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen” loses its bite when the whole planet is the kitchen, and we’re just starting to cook. 

Yes, she’s one of those writers I’d much rather plagiarize than quote, but science, her long suit, is nowhere in my hand, so here’s the conclusion of her blog which serves as a fair summary of her talk last week, a conclusion titled, “If you can’t take the heat, organize the kitchen”:

What can we do? The list is long and—let’s be clear—needs to be part of a longer-term transformation of our society and economy. But there are things we can do today:

We’ll obviously need to get ourselves some worthy, qualified leaders first chance we get, lean hard into mitigating and building resilience to climate change, and do more, better, faster.

Ah, there’s that attempt at impartiality when it just isn’t possible to be impartial. Those who are undoing all of our climate agreements and regulations for clean air and water are on one side of the Congressional aisle. They call themselves “the Republican Party,” but they are far from anything that ever included Lincoln, Eisenhower, or either George Bush–nor are they a party, but a cult.

If by “worthy” and “qualified” she means those willing to consider the Green New Deal in whole or even in part, and if the verb “need to get” means candidates who have a chance to win elections, then that leaves the one remaining, viable, national party.

Am I not “impartial” enough to forecast what we need after we get through what will likely be yet another record-breaking hot summer? We’ll see. As Erika Spanger writes:

In the meantime, try to stay cool.

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*A Primer on “overshoot”:

A USA Today report from 2019 of school walkouts around the globe. This photo was taken in Vienna.
https://www.usatoday.com/picture-gallery/news/world/2019/03/15/friday-future-students-protest-global-warming-inaction/3178535002/

What More Do You Want?

And now it’s a video depicting the Obamas as apes. All of the outrage keeps piling on to that already expressed in condemnation of Trump. As if he alone is the entire malignant disease that inflicts us.

At what point do we direct it at those who continue to support him?

As my late-friend, a former college roommate during the Nixon years used to spit with indignation when there were new, glaring revelations about Watergate: What MORE do you want?

His question, of course, was directed at those who continued to support Nixon. Fifty years later, my impatience is directed as much toward liberals who say “We should talk to them” and “We need to respect their intelligence.” How intelligent is anyone who laughs at that video? Who supports ICE raids? Who says “Gulf of America”? Who thinks reporters–all of them women–should be called “piggy” or told they should “smile more” while asking questions about events that anyone watching has seen with their own eyes? Or that there’s nothing wrong with members of Team Trump–all of them women–wearing crosses around their necks while they justify murder and racism with obvious lies?

As far as the liberal appeasers are concerned, my inner-English teacher wants to just laugh at so many re-incarnations of Voltaire’s Pangloss. Or of the hopelessly naive American captain in Melville’s Benito Cerino who is “unwilling to be uncivil even in the face of incivility itself.”

And so the forces of evil itself play Captain Delano, just as they play a large enough swath of the American public to win elections for MAGA in the House and the Senate–if only because an even larger swath of the public can’t bother to pay attention and participate in a form of government that depends on their doing both. And then they complain when things are not to their liking. Am I supposed to “respect their intelligence” also?

I have more respect for an unflushed toilet than I have for liberals who still think this. And even less for anyone who still supports Trump’s Reign of Hate. In fact, due to the way the two-party system works, I would vote for the contents of that toilet before I’ll ever vote for another Republican on any level.

Harsh? Extreme? Unreasonable? How about this:

(Mostafa Bassim / Anadolu via Getty Images)

This is Aliya Rahman being ripped from her car by Republican-approved ICE thugs in Minneapolis. Below is a link to a video, just under seven minutes long, of her testimony at a congressional hearing. The hearing, at which the brothers of Renee Good also testified, was open to all members of congress. Not one Republican attended.

Before Sunday’s Super Bowl kickoff, I’ll be taking a knee when I hear “land of the free” and “home of the brave.” Seems to me we all should. Maybe it’s the Sixties in me that makes it impossible to go along with lies.

To anyone who objects, I have two requests: As for “the free,” please explain what just happened in Minneapolis. As for “the brave,” please explain the silence of Republican senators and representatives in the face of so much this past year. As for me, maybe it’s my addiction to history that makes it impossible to mistake appeasement for patriotism.

Of course, I know that no one will know when I do it. That’s why I’m telling you now, What more can I do?

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Seems prophetic a decade later:

Colin Kaepernick (center) became a controversial public figure by kneeling during the U.S. national anthem while he played for the San Francisco 49ers in 2016. (AP Photo/Marcio Jose Sanchez, File)

Rich with Peculiarities

If you love music, if you love art, if you crave a story of a community that unites in the face of adversity, you’ll want to see The Choral, a very British film set in a small mill town during World War I.

This prime time, end-of-year release stars Ralph Fiennes, the only recognizable name (to an American) in the cast. That may be one reason it had little chance of gaining any notice much less nominations for an Oscar. Instead of riding the wave of holiday attention, it was drowned out by other prime time releases with more well-known names, including another from the English countryside called Hamnet.

Fiennes plays a choral master brought to town when the one who held the job for years signs up to join the Army. He brings with him “peculiarities,” including having lived in Germany, which makes him suspect. As he has the choral preparing the St. Matthew Passion, a brick shatters the window. On it, a remark about “the Hun,” which the mill owner tries to reassure the conductor is not about him, but about Bach who wrote the piece.

Fiennes’ conductor laughs it off, “Given the quality of our singing, it could well be from a music critic.”

Before long, they drop Bach and turn to Sir Edward Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius. Good news when Elgar approves, but when they find they do not have the number of musicians required for the grandiose production, they downsize, and a string orchestra becomes a string trio. Ingeniously, they also adapt, and the old Gerontius becomes a wounded soldier, and an angel is recast as a nurse. And then Elgar shows up to see how things are going…

The film is rich with intrigue that only begins with German vs. English and Protestant vs. Catholic. With hints of what today is called post-traumatic-stress-disorder, it’s a test of what separation does to relationships. As one young man flippantly quips to his friend, a young postal carrier who at times brings bad news to young women, “One’s grief can be another’s opportunity.”

Rich also with subplots that are developed almost without dialogue, almost just as movement in the background, such as the grief-stricken wife of the mill owner who sees his role as to keep the town’s morale up. The Choral at times veers into mystery, dropping random clues, as when we overhear a singer tell another that the conductor is in the library daily, looking at the latest issue of the paper, always turning to the “Wartime Naval News.”

For comparison, The Choral is as spirited and rewarding and satisfying as so many Brit flicks that deliver both comedy and tragedy, reminding me of The Phanthom of the Open, Living, The Miracle Club, See How They Run, The Duke. And that’s just in the past five years.

Safe to say that, the characters we meet in all of these films have populated England for centuries. Otherwise, there would be no Hamnet or Hamlet.

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“The Hun,” followed home and pelted by pebbles from the hands of kids no doubt overhearing their parents’ gripes.
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt31851518/

Bucks for a Bigger Bang

Five years ago, I came into an unexpected sum of money that, in my salad days, would have bought a reliable used car. In 2020, it might have covered the cost of a reasonably good set of tires.

‘Twas the Christmas season, and my various circles of friends were celebrating the holidays atop their celebrations of Joe Biden’s victory over the personification of self-interest.

Yes, that victory was reversed four years later, and that reversal prompts this memory as an introduction to what I’m about to propose in this little ditty that might also be headlined, “Donation Wise, Tax Foolish.”

For now, let us keep our attention on December 2020. At the time, while we were so relieved the country was rid of a never-ending embarrassment of a president, we were also faced with the prospect of a Republican-controlled senate.

That was left undecided by two US Senate elections that required run-offs. Both were in Georgia and scheduled for January 5. Republicans needed just one to retain control of the Senate, keeping Mitch McConnell as Senate President.

This would have paralyzed a Biden presidency. McConnell, who openly reveled in the nickname, “Grim Reaper,” had already stripped Obama of a Supreme Court appointment. That move paved the way for the repeal of Roe v. Wade and the 2024 ruling that, in effect, holds that a president, contrary to any honest reading of the US Constitution, is above the law.

There I was–a senior citizen in need of part-time employment–with an unexpected $500 in hand.

I have made a few political contributions along the way: Bill Bradley in the 2000 primaries; Kerry in 2004; Obama in 2008; Sanders in 2016, each for a meager $20 or $25. To be fair, I figure that I supplemented each by writing endorsements for all of them as far back as Walter Mondale in 1984 and Jerry Brown in 1988–including Gore and both Clintons who topped my preferred candidates in primaries. The local paper for which I write does circulate in New Hampshire, a swing state.

Pondering all of that, I asked that, rather than any gifts for me, friends and relatives donate to the Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock campaigns in Georgia. I then sent a $200 check to each, and spent a good chunk of the remaining $100 on beverages that might help me either celebrate the results or forget that the $500 ever existed. Both candidates won.

That helped, but Biden paralyzed himself by appointing a cadaver as Attorney General. In fear of political backlash, the Biden Administration did nothing to bring the planners of January 6 to justice until Republicans could whine that it was “too close” to the presidential election. It was cowardice wrapped in the rigor-mortis of procedure. And as Herman Melville observed of European revolutions in 1848 that neglected to hold overthrown parties to account:

Victory reverts to the vanquished.

And so it is that the personification of self-interest has re-taken the White House–demolishing some of it–while the Republican Party has re-taken both the Senate and the House. In just one year, they have slashed funding for every humanitarian interest that cannot be monetized for the benefit of their donors. All kinds of scientific research, especially medical, including the Affordable Care Act, top the list, followed by numerous programs for children living below the poverty line, for veterans, for victims of natural disasters.

Internationally, the Center for Global Development estimates that the Republican slashing of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has already resulted in over half a million deaths, most of them children who succumb to starvation while shiploads of food rot in their third-world ports.

Meanwhile, we are watching more and more television ads asking us to donate to charities that hope to meet those same needs. Question: Which is higher, the amount of federal funds that would be allocated by a Democratic Congress with a reasonable corporate tax-rate, or the amount of individual donations from those who can afford it and are so inclined while corporations skimp on taxes, report record profits, and dole out billions in bonuses for CEOs?

A loaded question? That’s only because the load is of plain, irrefutable truth.

This is not to be construed as a case against donating to charities. But it is a case that, in a time when a Republican-controlled Congress is slashing every cent it can from humanitarian needs, our donations will be better spent on candidates who will take Congress out of Republican hands.

In 2026, there are ten Senate seats considered closely contested–including that of Jon Ossoff in Georgia–as well as numerous House seats. The division is so close in both, that it would take just a few to flip them.

My admiration goes out to those who reach for the checkbook when they see an ad for malnourished children in Africa, or for children fighting cancer here in America, and I will continue to applaud them.

At the start of this mid-term election year, however, we would do better to stop being Donation Wise, Tax Foolish.

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Funny money accepted at par. These, plus a half dozen dollar coins, are all I have left of renfaire tip-money, and they will eventually all go as tips in restaurants–when I can again afford to go to a restaurant.

An Under the Radar Roundup

 “You are like a really nice apartment over a meth lab,” Robin Williams told Canadians in 2013. 

Since then, the meth lab has swelled with violence, chaos, confusion, and fear, all of it resisted and protested by mass demonstrations in the streets, statements in the press, lawsuits in the courts, prayers in houses of worship.

Last month America put it near Canada’s border with a paramilitary occupation of Minneapolis. Last week, a friend wondered if the city was chosen because of the state’s reputation for friendliness. “Minnesota Nice” may seem a corny expression, but there’s enough truth to it to adorn a t-shirt that’s been selling for at least 45 years since I wore one. Kelly green with print in a golden Comic Sans font. Those who saw Frances McDormand as Sheriff Margie in the 1996 film, Fargo, will know what it means.

Many have noted that “cruelty is the point” of an administration for which the only guiding principle appears to be “Might makes right.” If that’s the case, then it makes sense to terrorize the most peaceful, friendly, accommodating populations to impress the rest. And with crank declarations of turning Canada into our 51st state, it makes sense to put our Reign of Hate on Canada’s border.

Let’s see, what other states are on our northern border?


Buried under so much sensational news last week was a report of an agreement between Trump and Maine Sen. Susan Collins.

A deployment of ICE to Maine was announced and seemed to begin early last week. My cousin, who hails from the Lobster Coast, reported: “100 and counting arrested. 4 with records, all people of color.” It was a day or two later that Collins announced her “agreement.”

Omitted from her announcement was that she, a Republican, is up for reelection this year, and Mainiacs are as skeptical of Republicans as of Democrats. It’s other US senator is Angus King, an Independent. Subsequently, reports from up north tell us that Collins is already boasting that she is the candidate “who will keep ICE out of Maine.”

An agreement? While Minnesota has been the target of terror, Maine is now hostage to it. In effect, the Maine electorate being told to reelect this senator who will approve of ICE anywhere else Trump wants to send it–and, oh, by the way, keep the seat Republican–or he will inflict the Reign of Hate on Portland, Bangor, and any other city with sizable minority populations. That’s not an agreement. That’s a concession.

That the two had a phone call at all was surprising. Collins was one of the few Republican votes to convict during Trump’s second impeachment, perhaps thinking it meant redemption for voting to acquit the first time around. She explained that first vote with a chuckle: “Oh, I think he learned his lesson.”

Wrong again, Susan. He doesn’t learn lessons. He gives them. And you have no clue how well you “learned” the one he just gave you.


Next door in New Hampshire, an Episcopal bishop, in response to murders in Minnesota and the surge of ICE in New England, instructed the clergy to write their wills and get their affairs in order.


Speaking of clueless Republican officials, did you know that when Kristi Noem was governor of South Dakota, she oversaw a state-wide anti-drug campaign. The slogan, which she liked to say with relish:

“Meth. We’re on it.”

Looks more like she’s on botox and lip-filler to me, but what do I know?


Further west and north of these “Lower 48” is another development buried in last week’s sensational news. For all the noise about making Canada the 51st state, envoys for America’s Reign of Hate trekked to Calgary for talks with leaders of a right-wing separatist movement in the Rocky Mountain Province of Alberta.

Most Canadians in the know say that it is a fringe movement that has no chance of winning provincial elections. But, as we’ve learned here in the States, there are other ways to undermine democracy. Asked about the meeting with Americans in Alberta, Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney expressed his belief that Trump would “respect Canadian sovereignty.”

What the expletive deleted! I know that the guy made a brave, noble, eloquent speech at the international conference in Davos, Switzerland, but how can he possibly think that Trump is even capable of respecting anything? Is he channeling Clueless Collins or Cowgirl Noem?


Coming back east and sharp-turning south, federal agents raided the Fulton County election offices in Atlanta. If that’s an injury to the US Constitution clause that leaves the administration of elections to the states, then the added insult was the presence of Secretary of the Dept. of National Intelligence, Tulsi Gabbard. Reports of Gabbard’s travels and meetings over the last ten years have made many wonder if she was handpicked for Trump’s cabinet by Vladimir Putin, but news outlets are still wondering why the head of DNI would oversee a DoJ operation.

Remember the call to Georgia’s Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger asking for 11,780 votes? If you can’t get them, purge them!


Meanwhile, Att’y General Pam Bondi generously offered Minnesota Gov. Tim Waltz a deal to withdraw ICE from Minneapolis. In return, Waltz would turn over the city’s voting registration lists to what, if we are to be honest, is now the Dept. of Injustice. Nor is it mere coincidence that, every four years since I started keeping track over 30 years ago, Minnesota has the highest percentage of eligible voters turning out for presidential elections.

Do you see the pattern here? Walz did. And so, like Raffensperger and unlike Collins, he said no.

Chances are it will come into full view following today’s expiration of “Temporary Protection Status” for Haitians living in the USA, many of whom are nurses or therapists working in health services, including home care for the elderly. What if TPS is used as leverage against other states to obtain voter rolls? Will Gov. Maura Healy risk the collapse of Massachusetts’ health services and say no?

How about the governor of Ohio where a sizable Haitian population already been accused by Trump of eating cats and dogs? A hotly contested race for a US Senate seat this year makes Ohio a prime target for anyone seeking voter registration roles. The governor is Republican.


And that’s the news from the Meth Lab called America where the chaos is such that we may need more room, and there’s a very nice apartment upstairs.

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Looks like I’m not alone with this theory.

Ode to a Mar-a-LaGhoul

Maybe it’s my Catholic up-bringing that makes the ever snarling White House Press Secretary so offensive, always wearing a cross suspended from a necklace as if those asking questions were vampires trying to distort truth rather than reveal it.

Maybe I’m just embarrassed that she graduated from the same Catholic high school, albeit 47 years after I did. As consolation, Central Catholic also gave us Jonathan Lemire, the reporter who in 2018 posed the question in Helsinki which led to Trump’s revelation that he found Vladimir Putin more credible than American intelligence sources.

Or maybe the before-and-after photos have made me snap. Why does anyone that young–and, frankly, that naturally attractive–pump up her face to resemble yet another Mar-a-LaGhoul? With Loomer, Noem, Bondi, Guilfoyle and Melania, Team Trump already had five faces filled with more plastic than a landfill.

Unable to discern any credible reason why or how Karoline Leavitt devolved into what she now is, I must doff my cap to her and pay tribute. And what better tribute is there than song? With apologies to Neil Diamond, here it is, set to the tune of “Sweet Caroline,” though it might be more in tune with the title “Song Sung Red”–everybody knows one:

Sour Karoline

Where it began
I can’t begin to know when
But then I heard it growin’ loud
Was it term one?
She may have still been in high school
Hoping to make her family proud

[Pre-Chorus]
Reeee…
…Publican
Striking out
Joining Truuuump, Fooling youuuuuuuu

[Chorus]
Sour Karoline (Lie! Lie! Lie!)
Lying like you knock on wood (On wood! On wood! On wood!)
I’ve been inclined
To believe lies were not good
But now I

[Verse 2]
Look at ICE
And it don’t seem so certain
That this is still the land of the free
But Karoline’s cross
Shows it’s all holly holy
Home of the brave, we must agree

[Pre-Chorus]
Threaten
Pointing weapons
Shove to the ground
Beat the craaaaaap out of youuuuuuuuuu

[Chorus]
Sour Karoline (Lie! Lie! Lie!)
Lying like you knock on wood (Onward! Onward! Onward!)
Christian soldiers
Once believed lies were not good
But now it’s yes, yes

[Instrumental Break]

(Segue into National Anthem as played by Jimi Hendrix, then back into chorus)

[Chorus]
Sour Karoline (Lie! Lie! Lie!)
Lying like you knock on wood (On wood! On wood! On wood!)

Sour Karoline (Lie! Lie! Lie!)
Christian soldiers march onward (Onward! Onward! Onward!)

[Fade]

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For the original lyrics, click this:

https://genius.com/Neil-diamond-sweet-caroline-lyrics