Leave of Absence

 I’m taking a break from blogging.  I just don’t much have it in me right now.  Maybe I will resume next month.  But now is not the time.  Although I may post some pics.  I’m trying to get back into photography.  So we’ll see.

Have a good Thanksgiving.  Try to stay safe.  

Talk amongst yourselves until I get back.  But wear a mask while doing it.  

My Sunday Feeling

Still not quite up to posting just yet.  Even though it would be like shooting fish in a barrel when you consider the current political scene.

It’s been a tough two weeks.  

Y’all stay safe. Really.   

I Guess Sunday Had To Come

 I have nothing today.  Too much family business last week and today.  And none of it’s good.

Y’all take care.  Life is crazy.

My Sunday Feeling

 It’s official.  Thanksgiving is cancelled.  Not by the government.  By my cousin Jananne.  Our family has been getting together at her house for Thanksgiving since my mind runneth not to the contrary.  But not this year.  Too dangerous.  

I’ve heard this from other folks as well.  Been family gatherings are just not prudent in the age of COVID.  I ran into a friend at a graveside service.  We usually meet up over at this brother’s house both Thanksgiving night and/or Christmas night.  Again, not this tear.

Meanwhile Donald Trump is running around this great land of ours warning anybody that will listen that if Joe Biden is elected he will “cancel all holidays.”  At the risk of belaboring what should be the obvious, Joe Biden has never said any such thing.  All this is is the weaponized version of the old “the liberals want to outlaw the uttering of ‘Merry Christmas’” con that worked so well for him 4 years ago.  Now, according to Trump, they (the liberals) want to outlaw ALL holidays.  Presumably even MLK Day.  Which, in retrospect, would probably be OK with Trump’s base.  As well as the great man himself.

This is apropos of nothing.  But I always wish folks a “Merry Christmas.”  As does noted atheist Richard Dawkins who points out that due to the commercialization of the holiday the phrase is practically devoid of religious significance.  There’s something to that.

Anyway, guess what.  They country is already shut down.  And it happened on Trump’s watch.  Schools are holding virtual classes.  College athletics are being performed in front of minimal crowds and professional sports, particularly tennis, baseball and basketball basically existed, or exist, in a bubble.  

Conferences are being conducted by Zoom and other internet vendors.  Dining out is largely a thing of the past having been replaced with takeout in most homes.  Offices are empty.  Brick and mortar shops are hurting from reduced foot traffic.  New car sales are stagnant as people are hanging on to their vehicles longer.  I know I did.  I just couldn’t justify putting the money down on a new vehicle when the car I was leasing had only 43,000 miles after 3 and a half years.  So I bought it out of the lease.  

People are saving more money.  I don’t know if I’m saving so much as I am not touching what I have saved.  But if people save money instead of spending it this has an effect on the economy.  This perverse result is known by economists as the “Paradox of Thrift.”

All on faux businessman Donald Trump’s watch.  His administration’s inept “handling” of the epidemic combined with the mere pain his tariffs have caused have locked this country up more solidly than he or Joe Biden could actually do if either of them set out to do it.  And just wait and see what happens if the Affordable Care Act is declared unconstitutional. Upon the Motion of the Trump Administration and Republic state Attorneys General including our own.  You don’t think millions of Americans losing health insurance won’t have an adverse impact on the economy?  Particularly at the state level?

But Trump doesn’t want to talk about any of that.  He wants to talk about Hunter Biden’s laptop.  He wants to talk about Joe Biden’s alleged lack of mental acuity.  He wants to talk about liberals outlawing the holidays that we will still celebrate no matter who wins.  We will just celebrate them amongst our immediate family.  Because sensible people like my Cousin Jananne all over the country know it’s too risky to get together.  

And Donald Trump doesn’t want to talk about that.

As I was leaving the service I turned to my friend.

“It occurs to me that I don’t know when I will ever see you again,” I said.  

“I know,” he replied.  “That’s one hell of a thing isn’t it?”

It is one hell of a thing.

As are paybacks.  If you haven’t done your duty by now, do so Tuesday.  

Pay those bastards back.  

  

      

My Sunday Feeling

I voted last week.  

I used to always wait until the day of the election to exercise the old franchise.  I actually liked getting out with the crowd, visiting people in line with me, seeing all the campaign volunteers with their signs.  I used to think there was nothing more American than Election Day.  Not even the 4th of July.  Not even the World Series.

I still feel that way.  But not so much this year.  Not while a sitting President tries to use the government to game the system.  Which is a funny sentence to write now that I think about it.  In any event, I wanted to make sure that my vote was counted the second the polls closed.  Evidently lots of other folks thought that way too as early voting has reached record levels this year.  

And I’m guessing that most of those early votes aren’t being cast for Donald Trump.  But I’ve been wrong before.  Like 4 years ago.

It wasn’t too bad.  I voted at the branch library here in my neighborhood.  Took maybe 20 minutes.  My selection has been recorded on history’s immortal scroll.  So has the Deacon’s as it turns out.

For whatever it’s worth.      

I ran into an old friend the other day.  I think she put it succinctly when she said “This election feels like a weight sitting on my chest.  I want it removed.”

I get that.  And that’s a hell of a thing.  I mean I know that elections have always been hotly contested.  After all as an old Tammany Hall pol advised a callow young Franklin D. Roosevelt “politics ain’t beanbag.”  

No it ain’t.  But just because it ain’t beanbag shouldn’t mean that politics should produce palpable existential dread.  And this year’s election has.  At least for those who can feel it at least.  

I didn’t sense any of that amongst my fellow voters last week.  Although I did seem to sense more of a feeling of seriousness although I concede that I may be projecting.  I didn’t catch much of the usual chitchat that you generally hear in the voting line. 

Again, maybe I’m projecting.  Or maybe this is what an election during a pandemic and a recession feels like.  

Or maybe the sense of dread that I’m feeling has everything with me turning 65 yesterday.  My Medicare Benefit Award letter is sitting in the passenger’s seat in my car until I get that actual card.  Why I feel compelled to carry the damn thing in my vehicle is unknown to me.  Maybe it’s one of those goofy pre-senile things I’m going to start doing until such time as my friends and loved ones do an intervention before packing me off to the home.   

I know I’m lucky to be 65 given my genetic background.  And, aches and pains aside, I can still go as the brothers say.  Or will again if this shoulder ever heals up.  

Still 65 is a marker.  My healthcare will be cheaper but I’m way closer to the columbarium than I once was.  Or at least it feels like it.  Hell, I could afford my old health insurance.  Wish I could trade back if it would make time crawl.

But I can’t.  And I can’t do a damn thing about it if Trump gets re-elected.  Nothing that makes any sense at least.  I don’t think my Medicare card, or the Medicare Benefit Award letter will work in New Zealand.  I’m not going to liquidate my paltry investments and stick them under the mattress.  I’m not going to buy a bunch of weapons.

Most likely I will continue to sit out here on the porch and mind my own goddamn business.  Hopefully, I will continue to dress appropriately and refrain from yelling at kids when they cut through the yard.  

I can still go.  At least for now.  

At least for now.

My Sunday Feeling

 I got nothin’.  As in less than usual.

Beat you to it.

Enjoy your Sunday.

My Sunday Feeling

 A man of my acquaintance posted a rather hair raising story of an incident that happened as he was out walking in his neighborhood-or so I gathered.  He said a “disheveled” white man sicced his dogs on a young black woman out walking hers.  Naturally, he cussed her out in the process.  My friend ran to her aid while urging her to call 911.  The disheveled man went back into his house.  My friend stayed with the lady until the cops showed up.  

“We’re not all like that,” my friend said.  Meaning white folks.  

“I know,” she replied.  

And I suppose order was restored after that.

There is an African American gentleman who lives around the corner from us.  About the time the Deacon and I took in borders ourselves I noticed college aged black kids walking around the neighborhood.  2 boys and a girl.  I tend to be out on the porch a lot, the porch being my personal lebensraum over here.  

The kids always wave and say “hello.”  I used to think they were just being friendly.  And I suppose they are.  But after awhile, it occurred to me that there was something more to their greetings.  Joe and Sarah run and walk in the neighborhood.  I doubt they feel compelled to smile and wave at anybody they see out on the stoop along their way.

Which sucks.  

The macro version of the disheveled cracker my friend posted about got taken down by State and Federal law enforcement in Michigan.  About 16 guys were arrested for plotting to kidnap the Governor of Michigan.  These mutts, holding themselves out as the “Wolverine Militia” probably could not knock over a lemonade stand.  

For example, one of their “plans” (conveniently hatched up in the presence of an agent wearing a wire) involved sending somebody up to the door of the Governor’s vacation residence and plugging her when she came to answer.  Like the Governor of Michigan would answer the door.  Like an intruder would have gotten within 30 yards of the door.

Still, these idiots must have been about to go operational to some degree seeing as how they got picked up on the basis of a US Attorney’s Information filed with the Clerk and not an Indictment.  That’s what Uncle does if he needs to pick you up in a hurry.

The leader of the “militia” was not exactly a candidate for Man of the Year.  He was unemployed.  And his girlfriend had just kicked him out of the home they shared.  Some men react to such adversity by entering into a period of reflection and self-care.  Some make friends with whiskey in the immortal phrase of the late great Dan Jenkins, father of the wonderful Sally Jenkins.  

And some decide to try to kidnap the goddamn Governor of Michigan.  

What a time this is.  

You wonder how many other similar “militia” types are out there? And you wonder whether some of them will go ballistic in the event a) Trump loses the election or b) Trump loses and refuses to concede.

You wonder why some white folks are threatened by the presence of black folks in their neighborhood.  Or women in public office.  Or whatever it is that has put a bug up their ass.

But I understand why my young neighbors always make it a point to call out to me and wave as they make their way to the park.  

God knows I’m not widely known for my warm and inviting personality.  Actually I’m not known for that at all. I may not be the friendliest person around but I’m damn sure not dangerous.  And I’m not a bigot.  

So I always smile and wave back as they go on about their way.  

Because we’re not all “like that.”

That’s the best I can do.  Other than to get out and vote in an attempt to restore sanity.  

 

My Sunday Feeling

If you are one of those paranoid types on the left, (And no this is not the exclusive provence of the right.   They have just raised it to an art form. ) you may be inclined to believe that the reports of President Trump’s sickness due to the coronavirus is a ruse on his part.  This is understandable up to a point.  After all, he and his acolytes have lied about damn near everything else.  Why would this be an exception?  

Well here’s your proof that this is on the level.  His twitter machine has been mostly mercifully silent the past 48 hours or so.  He must be low sick. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t called for a priest.

Now before this post goes any further, let me make one thing perfectly clear.  It is my sincere hope that the President and the First Lady are restored to good health swiftly and with minimal side effects.  It is my firm belief that wishing sickness and death upon a political adversary is not only Un-Christian, it is Un-American. 

I know that some people don’t share this belief.  Indeed, I read where some of our less hinged theologian types found the hand of God in the recent passing of Justice Ginsburg.  At least one preacher told his flock that it was his particular petitions to the Almighty that sealed her fate.  

Of course none of this is provable.  Or unprovable for that matter.  Which makes it easy to say.  But it doesn’t make such pronouncements any less despicable.  And while this kind of magical thinking has always been with us it seems to have flourished in this the present age of Trump.  

But still. I want him to get well quickly.  I want him to return to the stump when he is able.  Check that, I want him to return to the stump when he is willing to do so in a socially responsible fashion.  Unlike the garden party to announce the appointment of Amy Coney Barrett to the SCOTUS during which about 10 people apparently got infected with the virus.  

No.  I want Donald Trump to face the voters.  I want to hear him defend the wrecked economy , the racial unrest, and the high unemployment that happened on his watch.  I want him to explain what appears to be a precarious situation with his personal finances.  How much money he owes and who he owes it to are completely legitimate campaign issues.  And I want him to defend his administration’s inept reaction to the pandemic that has claimed over 200,000 of his fellow Americans.  Last week he told a rally that we had “turned the corner.” A few days later he found himself in Walter Reed felled by COVID-19.  

And I want the chance to take Trumpism all the way down to the studs, along with the quack cures, crackpot preachers, the nepotism, crazy legal theories, scumbag associates and ruinous financial policies.  I want Donald Trump to face the music.  I want a twitter feed that is free of crazy shit coming out of the family quarters of the White House.  I don’t want any more of my tax dollars going to Trump properties to house the Presidential security detail.

You get the idea.

So get well Sir.  I can’t wait for you to tell us again what a great job your administration is doing with the coronavirus.  Just do it from at least 10 feet away.

  

My Sunday Feeling

 No blogging today as I actually have to work.  

I hate that.

Talk amongst yourselves.

My Sunday Feeling

 Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away Friday.  Hers was a remarkable story.  She served the Court and our country  wisely and well.  In doing so, she became a role model for women across the nation, both within and outside of the legal profession.  And it goes without saying  that her passing has roiled an already fractious presidential election.

But that’s all I’m going to say about Justice Ginsburg in this post.  There will be time to reflect and to write further about about this remarkable lady in due course.  

Today’s post will be devoted to the subject of heavily armed crackers roaming the streets of Little Rock.

I used to work in the Federal Building downtown.  I spent a good bit of time in the Courthouse next door.  I have been gone almost 9 years.  I can say without hesitation or fear of contradiction that during my tenure with Uncle, if a bunch of masked guys armed with semi-automatic weapons approached either building trouble of the worst sort would have quickly ensued courtesy of the US Marshal’s service, the Federal Protection Service and local law enforcement.  

But that was before Arkansans gained the right to “open carry” firearms virtually anywhere.  And so it came to pass that a group of armed gentlemen arrived across the street from the Courthouse where what the Democrat-Gazette described as a “small group of protestors” were apparently protesting the arraignment inside of a man accused of firebombing police vehicles and defacing a Confederate grave in a private graveyard.  

One of the armed men interviewed said these stalwarts, modestly calling themselves the “Arkansas Patriots,” were there to “help law enforcement keep things peaceful” and to “make sure nothing gets torn up.”  Nodding towards the protestors the apparent spokesman of the group magnanimously concluded by saying that “They don’t understand, but we’re here to protect them, too.”

Where to begin?  

I’m certain that the “assistance” of these “Patriots” was not solicited by law enforcement.  Or the protestors either for that matter.  Indeed, I’m certain that the presence of armed civilians, unburdened as they are by rules of engagement or other useful tactical training is the last thing law enforcement needs at an otherwise peaceful demonstration.  Secondly, the right to “open carry” is linked to self-defense.  Not law enforcement.  Indeed, there’s a young man in all kinds of hot water over in Wisconsin after his attempt to “assist law enforcement” resulted in the death of a man.  Finally, I don’t understand the need to carry a gun into the Wal-Mart.  I’m not scared all the time.  Where do these idiots get off calling other people “snowflakes?”

Mercifully, there was no trouble.  But here’s my question.  Would the same outcome obtain if a bunch of similarly armed brothers had also shown up in order to “assist law enforcement” or to “protect the protestors?” Would this have alarmed the “patriots” even though the right to waltz around in public with exotic weapons extends to black folks as well? 

Well what do you think?

What a year this has been.  Trump got impeached.  A global pandemic has killed @ 200,000 Americans with no end in sight.  Racial unrest is palpable across the country and the economy is in the tank.  Justice Ginsburg has passed.  And armed fools inject themselves unbidden by anybody in authority into a peaceful demonstration in a burlesque of legitimate law enforcement.  All during a Presidential election year. I know I have left something out.  Feel free to insert.  

What has become of us?  What will become of us?

My answer to both questions is swift and clear. 

 I have no earthly idea.    

Problems With Blooger

I will try to get this figured out by Sunday. But bear with me.

My Sunday “Workers of the World Unite” Feeling

 I am taking the day ofF in solidarity with the International Brotherhood of Ignored Bloggers.  Enjoy your holiday.

And don’t get caught dead wearing seersucker or white bucks again until Easter Sunday.  Well, after tomorrow that is.  

Talk amongst yourselves until next week.   

My Sunday Feeling

Well, Hurricane Laura didn't amount to much here in Central Arkansas.  And I'm not complaining.  

She got my attention when she was revving up to what became briefly a Category 4 hurricane when she was out in the Gulf.  But what really got my attention was when I saw that about 1/3 of Arkansas, Pulaski County included, was under a Tropical Storm Warning.  I don't recall being under those conditions since I left Orleans Parish eons ago.  

I mean, Little Rock ain't exactly known for being East Galveston.  

As far as I know, although I didn't ask for a show of hands, I'm the only person in residence here  who has ever been through one of these events.  So a couple of days before landfall I went out for supplies.

As I was making my list, I remembered back when I was at Tulane during my first hurricane.  It was either Frederick or David.  I don't recall.  I do recall local legendary meterologist Nash Roberts, who was pretty much the voice of God in these matters, predicting that it was going to come up the mouth of the Mississippi.  I didn't know much.  But that got my attention.  So I went down the street to the K and B on St. Charles to get some stuff before hightailing it to Baton Rouge to ride it out with some friends.  

I vividly recall to this day the lady ahead of me in the checkout line.  In her basket she had the following essential hurricane items:  3 votive candles, a six pack of Dixie, a carton of Winstons, 2 bottles of wine, a package of batteries, a box of Slim-Fast bars and a can of contraceptive foam.  

You can't get much more New Orleans than that.

My list for Laura was much more utilitarian than the lady at the K and B not to mention much less exotic.  I got an extra combination flashlight/lantern thing from the hardware store.  I bought extra batteries.  I bought paper for the printer (because we were out) and I made a liquor store run.  I gassed the car up. The Catholic bookstore closed some time ago so I couldn't load up on rosary beads and votive candles.  But I figured that putting a Book of Discipline out on the porch might create some good juju and keep Laura at bay.  

After all, I remembered the last hurricane that blew through here back around 2005 or so.  I was at a party in the clubhouse of a tennis community south of here on the county line.  I was talking to a man and drinking a beer when the outer band of Rita started bending trees over out of the lawn.  I bid my farewells and got the hell out of Otter Creek.  

I drove a Nissan Pathfinder back in those days.  It soon proved to be a little too high profile for optimal driving in a hurricane.  The rain was coming in sideways.  A car ahead of me left the road.  The old Pathfinder was rocking and rolling.  So I got off the Interstate and took the back way home.  Which was only marginally safer.

Once home, I poured a glass of wine and went out on the porch to catch the show.  The phone rang.  It was Chris Riviere calling from deep in the heart of Lafourche Parish.  

"How's it going boy?," he asked in the Cajun accent I've been listening to since 1978.

"I'm fine.  At home on the porch. What's up?"

"I'm sitting here watching the Weather Channel.  It looks like Rita is over your house."

"She may be.  Is that why you're calling?"

"Yeah.  That and it occurred to me that I get calls from all over the place during hurricane season. I never get to call anybody to see how they're doing. So I'm calling you."

Hurricane Laura was no Rita.  Although don't tell that to the folks down in Cameron Parish.  But Laura started fizzling once she got past El Dorado, Arkansas.  By the time she made it to the county line here she was a tropical depression.  Just wind and rain signifying, well, not much.  By 7 pm I was dispatched for Mexican food.  Which I set out to procure with no thought to my personal safety whatsoever.

They say that this will be an active hurricane season.  There are a couple of disturbances brewing in the Gulf that they are watching even as I type.  

We're set for batteries.  There's Dixie in the fridge.

And I got time to find some votive candles if I decide that the Methodist juju isn't strong enough.           









  

My Sunday Feeling

School started last Thursday at my house.  

Joe took the first classes of his Junior year at Hendrix upstairs in his chambers.  Hendrix College decided about a month ago to remain closed to in-person teaching due to the pandemic.  This, in retrospect, was a prudent move on its part given that other colleges have tried to open only to close a week or so into the semester due to clusters of Covid-19 breaking out on these campuses.  This should have come as no major surprise.  The Washington Post's Sally Jenkins, Dan's girl, aptly described college students along the lines of "poor decision makers who possess car keys."

So Joe will be doing his classwork online for the foreseeable future.  Which ain't so foreseeable. 

My first experience with Zoom was not so great.  It was my privilege last year to help out with the the Theology Club at school.  Catholic High, along with everybody else, shut down. So our meetings last semester went virtual.  Which I suppose in a certain sense is the way everyone does religion anyway if we were to be honest about it.

I wasn't much good at it at first.  But my friend Ed, the faculty sponsor of the group, got me up to speed.  And now I've done the last two VA Legal Clinic sessions online.  It's worked out pretty well.  Examining documents on the computer screen is a challenge at times.  But it's doable.

I haven't done a hearing online yet.  I'm getting mixed responses from my friends that have.  Some hate it.  Some are OK with it.  All of us are resigned to it.  I have a hearing scheduled at the end of September in a little town 90 miles south of here.  It wouldn't surprise me if it winds up going virtual seeing as how one of the parties and two of the lawyers are from out of town.

 But I can't imagine doing the first year of college, much less medical or law school online.  I just can't. My youngest nephew started his freshman year from the kitchen table last week.  He says he's good with it.  But Max is the kind of kid that doesn't get fazed by much.  This experience is likely to test that admirable quality of his.

What an surreal year this has been.  And I'm lucky.  I can merely shake my head at the changes it has brought to this house.  Nobody has gotten sick.  Nobody has lost a paycheck.  The Great Pandemic thus far has mainly been a surreal experience for us.  We are damn fortunate.  

Still.  I sang at a funeral a week or so ago.  It occurred to me that it was the first time that I had set foot in a church since March or so.  I guess.  The priest and the deacon served communion wearing gloves.  After the priest had cleansed his hands with holy water and with sanitizer.  Both the church and the state Department of Health have their procedures.  

The Deacon and I celebrated the second year of my not being divorced last Tuesday.  She looked like a million bucks as she tends to do.  I asked her if she was wearing a new dress.  She replied that while she had bought it some time ago that particular night was the first time she had worn it since "we never go out anymore."

This was not the opening salvo of a typically tedious marital dispute.  She was stating fact. We don't go out anymore.  I immediately began second guessing the outfit I had purchased as a gift for her.  What the hell.  Maybe I'll get to see it on her after flu season.  On the other hand, she bought me a high end bottle of amber liquid to mark the occasion of my not living at the Motel 6 yet.  A much more utilitarian present all things considered.  

But what if she had wanted to buy me an article of clothing.  I buy-make that used to buy-90% of my stuff from Jos Bank and Brooks Brothers.  Both are in bankruptcy and mostly exist-guess where?-online nowadays.

Process this.  Abraham Lincoln wore an overcoat made by Brooks Brothers when he gave the Gettysburg Address.  Or when he got shot.  I forget.  

Brooks Brothers is in bankruptcy.  This is what us writers refer to as a metaphor.  

School starts here in Arkansas tomorrow morning.  For the first time in memory, I will not be at the opening assembly at Catholic High.  Assuming they have an opening assembly. Dr. Ingram, the Deacon and I made the joint decision that I would take a "leave of absence" from subbing until we see how this virus thing plays out.  Let's face it.  I'm no spring chicken.  And I have asthma along with a genetic predisposition to heart disease, the latter of which was described by my cardiologist as "a gift from [your] dad."  

Lord knows I will miss seeing my friends and being with the kids.  But If I catch this stuff it could do me in three or four different ways.  The principal understands.  We will keep in touch.  Besides, we've been friends for a hundred years. He knows where I live and that I keep both whisky and confidences out here on the porch.  I can in that fashion still serve even though I but stand and watch the Governor's press conferences.

Besides, I am a mere pawn in the game of Catholic High.  My highest and best use over there is helping with the choir.  And you can forget that for the time being.  Best that I stay on the sidelines for awhile.  

Joe is like Max in that he doesn't get fazed by much.  It is an admirable quality given the present age.  He is an accounting major at the Little Utopia.  He allows that the subject lends itself to online study.  To which I reply "Good thing he's not a piano major."

Because the surreal is the new normal around here.   We are damn fortunate that's all it is.  

They Call It The Day Of Rest For A Reason

No blogging today.  I ain't in the mood.  

Talk amongst yourselves.

The Moving Finger Writes

To tell you the truth, I almost feel guilty.  Just look at the news.  Misery abounds in this great land of ours.  Sickness and death on an almost unimaginable scale.  The economy has cratered and unless Washington moves fast with relief for the unemployed foreclosures and evictions will commence on a scale not seen since the Great Depression.  

So I confess to a twinge of guilt when I tell you that I basically have new eyes.  The last 3 weeks I have had cataracts removed from both eyes and new lenses dropped in.  I have to say that it 90% painless and the other 10% was easily bearable.  

The left eye was the worst. The doc operated on it a week or so after the right eye and took longer with it.  But even at that I’m guessing that I was only in there for 30 minutes.  The right eye took about 10 minutes.  That’s amazing.  

Last Monday after the surgery M and I were on the porch about 6 PM or so.  I removed the patch so she could put the drops in.  

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” I said softly. “I didn’t know the world was so bright.”

I’m lucky.  

I have good health insurance and I can handle the extra payment for the special lens in my left eye.   But later that night, I got to thinking about it just isn’t right that everybody in this the alleged richest country on earth doesn’t have access to basic health insurance.  And the Trump Administration is trying to do away with the Affordable Care Act.  During a goddamn pandemic.  With nothing to replace it with.  

This is exquisite cruelty.

I do not discount the fact that I accrued certain privileges in our society not due to my own merit but to my race and sex.   You could throw in some random laughing chance that broke my way that was equally unmerited by me.

I also worked hard, saved money and have attempted to do some good in the world although certainly I have not done all the good I could have done to paraphrase Rev. Mr. Wesley.  So there is that.

The doc says it will take a couple of weeks for my new eyes to get in sync.  My depth perception is a little off and I still get a little queasy if I try to do too much.  I tried to hit balls on the range after the first eye got fixed.  That was a mistake.  I think I’m going to ease back into chasing the little white ball.  But I look forward to doing it without bifocals.  I can see faces at a distance.  I can see the leaves on the trees in the park across the street.  It’s amazing.

Goethe supposedly called for “more light” on his deathbed.  I’m lucky.  I got to see more light on my front porch.

I am in awe of the technology we possess at this stage in history.  I am grateful that they could put it to good use for the likes of even me.

But I confess that I feel a little guilty.   

Vox Populi: The lady from the doctor’s office

‘So how are you feeling?

“Pretty good.  Just a little discomfort.  Punched in the eye level discomfort.”

“You can take some ibuprofen”

“Nah. Ive been punched in the eye before.  It will go away.”

“Really? You’ve been hit in the eye before?”

“A couple of tines in law school.  Hurtful misunderstandings in bars. Mostly I ran away.  But occasionally I got tagged as I was escaping like the coward that I am.”

“I seeeeee.  So you’re OK?  We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh yeah. I have a frame of reference for this. I’m good..  See you tomorrow”

Vox Populi: The Post Op Nurse’s Station

“You know how much he pays for that damn truck?

“No.”

“$850 a month.”

“That’s a mortgage payment.”

“ I know.  He’s working for that truck.”

“Why doesn’t he get rid of it?”

“He’s stuck with it. He can’t buy anything else ‘cause his credit is terrible.”

In other news, in case you were wondering-maybe one or two-why the usual Sunday post didn’t go up, Blogger was down all day yesterday.  

So you were spared.  

My Sunday Feeling

David wasn’t a friend exactly.  He was more of an associate.  We practiced law together briefly when I was a young Legal Services lawyer in LIttle Rock.  I went to work for the Government and I guess he did too as he took a job as an Administrative Law Judge for the Social Security Administration out in California.  

I kept up with him through mutual friends.  He eventually transferred back to Little Rock.  I would see him now and again in the Federal Building or out to lunch.  He was always cordial and we would chit chat and catch up on old news.  He had to take a medical retirement after developing some sort of virulent blood cancer (as I understood it).  We both got our hair cut at the same place and so I would see him there from time to time.  And up until last Fall he volunteered at the VA Legal Clinic.  

David lost his battle in March.  His memorial service was today.  Normally I would have been in attendance.  This is not a normal time. I’m pushing 65 and I have chronic upper respiratory issues.  And we have a pestilence upon the land.  One that could, statistically speaking, kill me if I contracted it.  

Now I like to think that I am a young 64.  I exercise regularly.  Have good energy and a lot of interests that keep me busy.  And I like to think that these interests keep me sharp mentally. I memorized the words “Person, woman, man, camera, TV” and I typed them right now in real time.  Give me access to the nuclear codes.

No, I can’t say that David and I were close.  But I admired him very much and he was a part of my life for 30 years or so.  “Attention must be paid,” as Mrs. Loman says at the end of the play.  30 years and now he’s lost and gone forever.   

The cops refer to it as “risk calculation.” It is one of the many cruelties of this viral age that we are required-or some of us are- to perform one before we take part in public activities that we once took for granted.  Like going to a memorial service. 

So I did the risk calculation and decided that my relationship with David-as warm and friendly as it was over all of these years-was not worth the risk of being with a group of people in a funeral home chapel given my age and medical status.  That and I don’t live by myself anymore.  

And that’s a hell of a thing if you think about it.  The virus has robbed us of some of the social rituals we, particularly we in the south, cherish.  Going to church.  Singing in the choir. Having folks over for supper or to watch the game.  Riding in the golf cart with a buddy.  Visiting the elderly, especially at an old folk’s home.  Shooting the bull with a teller at the bank.  Meeting for drinks.

And going to pay one’s respects at a memorial service.  

Sure David would have understood.  He would have told me to stay home.  

But still it’s a hell of a thing.  Knowing somebody that long would have meant something 6 months ago.  

It would have meant that attention could have been paid without worrying if I were bringing something evil and deadly back home with me.  It would have meant that I didn’t have to do a risk calculation before doing my Christian duty.  

It would have meant that things were normal.

My Sunday Feeling

I have led a pretty charmed life in many respects but none greater than when it comes to my good health.  Sure, I have asthma which is a real pain when it’s this hot.  And I am plagued with recurrent sinus infections, bronchitis and allergies.  But all of these maladies are pretty manageable.  It’s not like I have a severe condition like diabetes or MS.  I know people that do.  It’s no fun.  

I’ve also never had any surgeries to speak of.  I had a cyst removed from my shoulder 25 years or so ago.  But that was nothing.  And I always figured i would have blown a knee up by now.  But I haven’t.  I did tear a rotator cuff in the gym.  But it was pretty minor.  I just quit playing tennis.  

Monday I go in for my first cataract surgery.  I was originally diagnosed with them about 4 years ago.  Daylight Savings Time had just ended.  I was in the hallway at Catholic watching the kids change classes.  A kid waved at me from down the hall.  I noticed I couldn’t make out his face.  Later that day I noticed that it looked all around me like the Almighty had hit the dimmer switch.  

Just like that.

I figured I needed a new prescription.  Wrong as usual.  Cataracts.  Both eyes.  They just weren’t ready for surgery yet.  Last year, during my yearly exam my doctor told me that I would know it was time when I couldn’t find a golf ball.  I mean, one that it is in the fairway.  The fact that I lose plenty of golf balls is no sign of a medical disorder.  Anyway, in the last month or so I noticed myself asking guys that I play with if they could see my ball.  Because about half the time I couldn’t.  

For the longest time I haven’t been able to make out faces at a distance.  Just last week I didn’t recognize a girl that I practically raised.  As in fed her her bottle.  I recognized her voice before I made out her face.  I haven’t been able to read street signs in some time especially at night.  

So it’s time.

My doctor says the procedure will take all of 8-10 minutes and that I should be able to see the next day.  He said the lens he will put in will increase my distance vision which will help my golf, attendance at ball games and recognizing folks.  And I won’t have to wear glasses everyday for the first time in 30 years.  

If only I can return to fearlessly going down staircases. It will have been worth it since I currently have to maneuver some scary ass stairsin my current condition.  And everybody I know that has had the surgery has told me that it is literally a life changing experience.  Like everybody.  

But.  Surgery is surgery.  I will be knocked out.  I don’t like the idea of that.  But it’s not like I will be intubated.  My doc says the only side effect I may notice is that I might come out of it with a shiner as I bruise easily.  So he advises me to come up with a good bar fight story.  

So here we go.  I do look forward to being able to read numbers on jerseys again.  And read signs.

Maybe next time we meet I will actually recognize you as you come down the street.  That would be splendid.    

See you later.  No pun intended. 
  

My Sunday Feeling

I love the smell of cordite in the morning.  Beyond that I have nothing to allow on this, the 5th of July.  

Except that I might have liked to have been a fly on Jefferson Davis’s wall on this day in 1863.  

Talk to you later.  

My Sunday Feeling

They own it.  I suppose that they can change the name if they want to.  Yesterday, Gayle Benson, widow of Tom Benson and owner of the Saints, the Pelicans, numerous car dealerships  and Dixie Beer announced that they had decided to change “Dixie” to a less racially tinged brand name.

Anybody that knows me and has followed this blog-all 10 of you-knows that I am sympathetic to those who wish to erase Confederate iconography from public places.  Especially that iconography that was funded and maintained by tax money.  And I get that the song “Dixie” is associated with the Confederacy, mistrel shows (which were mercifully before my time), white supremacy and, worst of all, Ole Miss.  This despite the fact that Abraham Lincoln thought it to be a pretty snappy tune.

But to paraphrase Mr. Justice Kavanaugh, “I like Dixie Beer.”  When I was at Tulane, Dixie practically flowed from the drinking fountains.  You could get it for a quarter a glass at most of the bars around campus.  On Fridays in the spring Dixie would send a truck with about 5 taps per side.  We would sit in the Quad and drink free Dixie and eat free crawfish.  Granted, Dixie is not the best beer ever brewed.  Indeed, some would say it is an acquired taste.  But it was ubiquitous in nature in Orleans Parish and I have fond memories of it and those times.

The old brewery on Tulane Avenue over by the med school downtown looked like something  out of “Bride of Frankenstein.”  A friend of mine in Covington, where I last bought a case of it, told me that her Dad’s first job as a 13 year old boy was to shine the silver dome at the top of the tower of the old brewery.  Things were different then.  

Back in the day, New Orleans had 2 or three breweries.  Jax and Falstaff were brewed there as well.  When I was in school you could see the smokestack of the old Jax brewery from the top floors of the grad school dorm.  At night the word “JAX” was illuminated.  One of the letters was always burned out.  The brewery was empty back then.  It’s highest and best use was to give the bums a place to sleep.  Now it is a shopping mall and aquarium.  

And despite it being the lone survivor of New Orleans brewery history, Dixie was not the brew of choice for New Orleanians of a certain age and station.  As was described to me by a semi-reliable informant classmate who was raised in the Ninth Ward, there was the infamous “bad batch” of Dixie that got past what was euphemistically referred to as “quality control.” 

Seems all commercial brewers inject gas into their products to give it that nice foamy head when you pour it into a glass. Not to get too technical on you.  But this is referred to as “good” gas.  There is also a gas that is a byproduct of the brewing art that they bleed out of the mash.  This is called-guess what?-“bad” gas.  Well one fateful day, somebody screwed up and took the good gas out and injected the bad gas in.   

Anyway, the infamous “bad batch” that escaped the brewery up and killed some folks before they could get it all back.  And just like that a generation of your basic Yat types became Miller drinkers.  

What’s a “yat” you ask?  In some places in town you are not greeted with “Hello! How are you?” Instead they call out “Hey! Where ya at?”  I have heard this. These sorts of indigenous people are referred to as “Yats.” 

Anyway, Katrina destroyed the old brewery.  The old owners sold it to Miller if I am remembering correctly under some other brand name.  The Bensons bought it back and Dixie was reborn with a new brewery out in New Orleans East.  Old Tom said he bought it so he could drink on the job.  Your average Saints fan could be excused for wondering whether Tom had tipped the bottle a time or two during his tenure as owner.  

So, as you can see, me and Dixie go back a long ways.  I can scarcely conceive of New Orleans without Dixie.  And now, just when you can buy it here in Little Rock -and not at a stick up price-they are going to change the brand name.  

I say you have to draw the line somewhere.  As far as I’m concerned they can knock down every Confederate soldier in every courthouse square  in, well, Dixie.  They can disinterr Nathan Bedford Forrest and re-bury him in Forrest City.  They can set fire to the State Flag of Mississippi. They can rebrand Rebel Yell because I don’t drink it anyway.  And speaking of whiskey, they can change the name of the University of the South to Jack Daniels University if for no other reason than the distillery is down the road from “the Domain” and the streets on its property aren’t named for Confederate officers. And while we’re at it, for God’s sake get rid of the Redskins, the Indians and the Braves.  

But leave Dixie alone.

You can’t change my history.   

My Sunday Feeling

I had to see it for myself.  There used to be a statue of a Confederate soldier out in front of the Arkansas Museum of Military History downtown in MacArthur Park.  You know. Defensive position with bayonet and equally steely gaze pointed north.  Somebody had defaced it with varnish or something last Wednesday.  So on Thursday, the City of Little Rock took the damn thing down.

No hoopla.  No press conference.  No demonstration.  No nothing.

They just went over there and pulled Johnny off his pedestal.  Then they surrounded the pedestal with a wooden box.  I first learned about it from Friday morning’s paper.  I suspect that’s the way that most folks found out about it. And sure enough it was true.  I saw it with my own two eyes.

My thoughts?  I really don’t have any.  Other than it’s kinda surreal for a big honking piece of public art to not be there after being there all my life.  I vividly remember it greeting us elementary school kids when we went over there for field trips.  And a couple of years ago I went to see Johnny around dusk to try my hand at arty farty photography.  I failed.

I have always been ambivalent at best about “Lost Cause” iconography.  At worst I found it all overwrought and silly.  I remember the first time I ever saw Robert E. Lee way up in the air on Lee Circle.  I pulled the car over.  I got out and stood at the base and gawked.  I used to run from my hovel on Napoleon to Lee Circle most days.  And most days I would catch my breath beneath old Bobby and marvel at how “out there” Lee Circle was. 

And I suppose that, being a middle class white kid, I was just not attuned to the wider implications of the glorification of guys who pretty much under any other normal definitions that might govern armed conflict and/or political science committed treason against the United States of America.  I just thought “this is how they do down here.” Down here being Mississippi and Louisiana.  

Sure.  Back home we had rednecks waving the Rebel flag at Central High.  And Rebel flag bumper stickers were once abundant in nature around here.  But to consider Arkansas part of the antebellum south is ludicrous.  

Still.  I didn’t think much about it one way or another.  Background noise. That’s just the way they do down there.

I eventually was required to confront the issue.  And what forced the confrontation was, as is often the case, kids.

I was teaching high school history for juniors about the time Trump was running for the Republican nomination.  I think the Robert E. Lee thing had just cranked up down in New Orleans.  Anyway, about a third of the boys in each of my classes were incensed by the notion of taking down statues, pulling down flags etc.  About a third were all for it.  The rest could give a shit.

“You can’t change history Mr. B,” was the most persistent argument of the preservationists in front of me.   My response that so long as the Army War College exists so will Lee was deemed a little too facile.  Or would have been so deemed had any of them ever heard of that word.

Huey Long said that sometimes you got to put the hay down where the goats can get at it.  So I sat on my porch swing after school one day and cooked up some goat feed.  The final product went something like this.

“Let’s say I’m a black guy in Memphis.  I have a wife and a family.  I have a good job.  I pay my taxes just like anybody else.  And every day when I go to work I have to drive past a statue of Nathan Bedford Forrest.  Nathan Bedford Forrest who was as ruthless a slave owner as ever was.  Who made a fortune off the slave trade.  And finally I get to thinking I’m sick of driving past a monument to a man like this.  And I really don’t want to have to explain to my children why they got to look at it either.

I know you can’t change history.  I’m not trying to.  I can’t bring back the lynched.  I can’t unseparate the families.  But what I can do is make damn sure that my children don’t have to look at Nathan Bedford Forrest every day.  I can damn sure try to make sure not another nickel of my tax dollars goes to the upkeep of that thing.  

And your only response is that you can’t change history?”

You may well ask ,Gentle Reader, “Did it work?”

And the answer would be “Of course not.”  I wasn’t exactly running the local chapter of the  “Dead Poets Society” in there.

I run into some of those guys from time to time. Or they look me up on Facebook.  They typically share with me a favorite memory of those days.  And it’s different with each former student. Some things I emphasized went in one ear and out the other.  Somethings I didn’t think all that important is remembered with crystalline clarity. I bet if you talk to any teacher they will tell you that this is pretty much par for the course. The fact that a kid remembers something-anything- is a win.

 But maybe some of my former students will remember the lunch Huey Long and I fed them 5 years ago as our country currently confronts the systemic racism embedded in much of our public art and iconography.  Racism that I didn’t ever really catch as a young man who looked up in the sky in wonderment at Marse Robert 3-4 times a week while I ran the streetcar lines.  Maybe my history boys will recognize that there is another side.  If they can do that, then I did my job.

“I pay my goddamn taxes just like anybody else.  And I am sick of looking at this.“

There are worst arguments.  

My Sunday Feeling

I got nothing.  Or, more accurately, I got too much.  

Let me ponder the situation and get back to you.

Wear your mask.  Wash your hands.  

Don’t be a jerk.  

I will report back later.  

My Sunday Feeling

I can't quite put my finger on it.  But things feel different.  Not particularly good.  Not really hopeful.  But different.

It is popular nowadays to refer to tipping points.  Ok. If the present moment is a tipping point what was its cause?  

The bungled response to the pandemic by this Administration?  The evisceration of the economy?  Unemployment numbers that rival those of the Great Depression?  The brutal torture and killing of yet another black man by the police?  A man who was completely subdued and in cuffs?  Who called for his mother as his life was being choked out of him? 

The ensuing, and occasionally violent protests across the nation?  Subjecting peaceful protestors to rubber bullets and tear gas in order to clear the space they occupied for a photo-op?  Was it the President-who is hardly known for his deep religious convictions-using a Holy Bible as a prop in front of a church whose door he hasn't darkened since his inauguration?

Was it the millions of people who still haven't gotten their unemployment or their Paycheck Protection loans?  Was it the threats of the use of active duty servicemen and women against Americans?  

Was it this week's jimmied up unemployment numbers?  The ones the President said George Floyd was smiling down on?  

Was it his inane promotion of quack cures and dangerous treatments?  Was it the criticism from all former presidents?  Was it the condemnation by his former head of the Joint Chiefs and Chief of Staff?  Was it the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stating that he was opposed to using the military for law enforcement purpose?

Was it property destruction and mass arrests in an otherwise peaceful-well, peaceful if you're white-town like Little Rock?  Was it seeing my wife in her clerical collar join a protest with other clergy downtown with her daughter?

Was it noticing that the coronavirus cases here are spiking again?  Was it the lack of a vaccine?  Was it wondering how we're going to do school much less sports?   

Was it the Trump Administration trying to end Obamacare during a pandemic?  With no alternative to replace it with?  Is it the low esteem with which we are held by our European allies?  Upon whose shores much blood and treasure was expended on yesterday's date in 1944?

Is it the fact that the President is fundamentally incapable of empathy?  Of kindness? Of appealing to what Abraham Lincoln famously referred to as the "gentler angels of our nature?"  Trump likes to say he learned how to be tough from his late lawyer Roy Cohn.  Big difference between Donald Trump and Roy Cohn.  Like Trump, Roy Cohn was live evil.  But Roy Cohn was smart.  Donald Trump has a big mouth.  He is not particularly smart.

Is it the fact that the man who is leading-check that-in charge was freaking impeached?

And all of these calamitous events-or three of them at least(the pandemic, the crash and the execution of George Floyd) -took place within 6 months.  

I believe that America is a good country populated primarily by good people.  I believe it or I would like to believe it.  I get the sense that people, even maybe people that were willing to give Trump the benefit of the doubt in the last election are weary of the incompetence, the meanness, and the constant drama.  

We are 5 months from November.  That is an eternity in politics.  But, for all of these reasons, I sense a tipping point.

And if it's not? God help us.       

My Sunday Feeling

You could fill a thimble with what I know about psychology.  But I believe that the phrase "cognitive dissonance" pertains to things we experience that don't quite fit within our experience.  When things just don't look right.  However you define it, I'm pretty sure I  experienced it Wednesday morning.

I was driving down a major artery in the neighbors en route to the running track at school.  Suddenly I saw something low to my left out of the corner of my eye.  I looked in my side mirror and thought I saw a little boy, a baby really, walking down the sidewalk.  

I was like, what?  That's not supposed to be there.

I hung a left and went around the block.  There he was.  A toddler. No more than 3.  Barefoot and in his jammies walking toward me bigger than Dallas.  I started slowing down.  I guess that spooked the little guy because he turned and ran the other way.  I followed him as he went up the front steps of one half of a house.

I pulled onto a side street and got out of the car.  He was banging on the storm door and calling "Mommy! Mommy!"

What to do?  Apart from hoping that Mommy would open the damn door that is?   I started to go up the steps to bang on the door myself.  

But then I thought of George Floyd.  Certainly not in the sense that I feared any retaliation by the cops.  I'm white.  I'm older.  As far as I know, I'm not wanted for anything. I drive a late model car festooned with stickers that indicate that I am well educated although just because you have a particular school's sticker on your car doesn't mean much.  My stepson is a Georgia Bulldog fan for reasons that are by no means clear to me and despite my attempts to raise him better.  He has the red "G" on his truck.  Perhaps it is for "Go Figure."

No.  I was hesitant to intervene further because between the pandemic, the horrifying circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Floyd and the outbreak of protest afterwards along with the fact that there are touchy white folks out there with too many guns, I thought it not outside the realm of possibility that I might get shot for my trouble.  I mean, what's scarier than seeing a lost child with a stranger?  

And it occurred to me that "aint that a hell of a thing to have to worry about at a time like this?"

So I developed a plan.  I was not going to leave the little boy who was not particularly disturbed by my presence thank God.  I decided to give Mommy a couple more minutes to get her ass to the stoop and then I was going to call 911.  Let a cop knock on the door.  

A few minutes later I heard running down steps in the back.  A man who I assumed was Daddy came tearing around the corner with a cell phone in his hand.  He was obviously terror-stricken.  I came around my car with my hands held out to him as if to say "Whoa!.

I pointed to the porch.  

"He's right there.  He's OK.  I stayed with him."

The man scooped up the boy and held him close.

"Thank you," he muttered.  

"Look man," I said. "When I first saw your kid he was halfway down the block walking around like he owned the place."

I was yelling.  I am not a yeller.  

"Thank you. Thank you."

About that time a car pulled in behind me.  Lone female driver.  I figured it was Mommy.  

And I figured things were fixing to get real with Daddy.  I'm prescient like that. Besides, I had done my civic duty.  The child was safe.  I had experienced enough drama for one day.

Later on I wondered, and still do, whether my reluctance to put my hand on the child and knock on the door myself was justified. Or paranoia.  Or both.

But I know this.  The whole country seems to be on fire in 9 places at once.  And at a time when we could use a leader in the White House we have a rageaholic who seems intent on fanning those flames.  People are on edge.  And there are too many guns.

Still.  

Aint this a hell of a thing to have to worry about when you're trying to get an escaped child home?

I mean really?   

I believe they call it "cognitive dissonance." 

My Sunday Feeling

If memory serves, it was right around Katrina.  The United Methodist Church (back when there was such an entity) ran a series of ads.  The one I remember most showed a scene of devastation.  Police directing traffic.  Sirens.  People lined up to get food from a canteen van.  Rain.  Flashing lights.

A young man's face was superimposed on this scene.  His countenance was solemn if not grim.  He looked the viewer directly in the eye so to speak.  

"Do you recognize this?" he asked as nodded his head back toward the scene.

"This is church."  

I thought of this ad about the time that the Moron-in-Chief took it upon himself to threaten to "override" any particular governor's orders limiting crowds of people to gather so as to "open the churches."

Now, as a matter of Constitutional Law the Commissioner of the NFL has as much authority to "override" the governors as the President does.  Actually, Roger Goodell probably has more.  Let's see what happens if the Mayor of New Orleans tries to stick to her position that the Saints are not going to play in the Superdome during this crisis without permission from her office.

As Bugs Bunny used to say, "It is to laugh."

But hell this is football we're talking about.  That's important.

Besides Saints fans can just get all those bags out of storage and cover their faces that way.  It was good enough then.  It should be good enough now.  

But I ramble.

The cynics among us view this latest typically unenforceable edict by Trump, praying man that he is known to be,  against the states to be a dog whistle at the  evangelical types in his base alerting them that he is not letting "the State" tell the churches that they have to keep their doors closed. 

I'm willing to bet that this was his target audience because most "mainline denominations" including the Formerly United Methodist Church have voluntarily shut their doors for the time being.  This is not due to slavish obedience to government fiat.  They did it to keep their congregations and visitors safe. Think about it.  Off the top of my head I can't think of a better way to spread germs around then singing hymns and having Communion together. It is hard to maintain social distance at the Rail.  Which is, of course, the very idea.

But other folks, most of whom probably enjoy a closer walk with the Almighty than I do God knows, have pointed out the flaw in what passes for Trump's reasoning.  "Church" is not a building.  People are the church.  Church is what happens when you visit the sick, feed the hungry, clothe the naked and try to bring aid and comfort to the victims of a natural disaster. 

But "Church" in this sense is not particularly narcissistic. It is outward directed. Not inward.  It is "Go out into the world to love and serve the Lord." It is not "Go out into the world to bitch incessantly about how unfair it is for you to have to wear a face mask before you can gain entry into Taco Bell."

But I will grant you this.  

Nobody takes up a collection at a disaster site.  They do at the Lakewood Church.

I'm certain that this latter consideration had absolutely nothing to do with the latest toothless pronouncement from the Roger Williams of Pennsylvania Avenue and FOX News.