Moth
Lion: King of the Jungle
Percy and Nigel
Festus Never Disappoints
I’ve been telling a variation of this joke for years, only to discover that Ken Curtis did it better more than a half century earlier.
#IStandWithMiya
The Long Road Ahead
I woke up on Wednesday, November 9th, 2016 and checked my feed to see if Hillary Clinton had been declared the winner yet. I remember feeling my stomach go sour in real time when I learned that Donald Trump had carried Michigan and Wisconsin, and won the whole shooting match.
For context, I was not excited for a Clinton presidency. The two-party primary system often produces two undesirable choices. 2016 featured (in the far corner) a seasoned senator and Secretary of State with tons of baggage and an irritating stage presence VERSUS (in this corner) a cartoon. I fully expected for the adult to win, and for the next four years to be a lot like the last four.
What does that mean? Deliberately blinkering present-day hindsight, I suppose I expected that national and global matters would continue to occupy a portion of my attention. I would agree or disagree with some of the administration’s policy objectives while investing the bulk of my attention on my job, marriage, friendships, and interests.
“Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.”
“Man plans and God laughs.”
—Yiddish adage
For the next four years what the United States and the world got was a feckless narcissist. Cynically held at arm’s length by the GOP, the Evangelicals, the Dominionists, and the Money, while their agendas were furthered. Cultishly adored by an assortment of bigots, temporarily embarrassed millionaires, Iron John throwbacks, and those simply lacking the imagination to do anything other than support the party they always had, while their wallets were lightened. Sanctimoniously mocked and vilified by lofty academics, celebrities with opinions, New Yorker-reading artisanal egg-eaters, and those on the Left who confuse the approbation of their individual identities with a political platform, while their positions were eroded.1
Behavior unbecoming a functioning adult, let alone the President of the United States of America, was modeled and normalized. Refugees were subjected to inhumane conditions, violence and hate were stoked and encouraged, a public health crisis was politicized and left unchecked, the media were declared the enemy, and an electorate was further polarized.
The last four years have been exhausting, and I think most people across the political spectrum nationally and internationally, whether willing to admit it, are looking forward to a breather before donning their armor and diving back into the fray. Go on, no matter what your politics, light some candles and have a soak. Breathe. Let your hands roam curiously.
The road ahead is long. I expect for the pandemic in the US to get much worse before it gets better. I expect this to be a significant driver of a global Depression that makes the 2008 financial crisis look like the teacups at Disney. I expect for the outgoing president to continue his screed of hate and division; a sad little king on a sad little hill.2 I suspect that some faction of Y’All Qaeda will get riled up enough to take a shot at President Biden or Vice President Harris. I hope they fail.
Coming from someone whose heart is allegedly filled with spiders, this may sound disconcertingly pollyannaish, but I suggest we find ways to lighten one another’s load. Whether your instinct is to gloat, rage, or clam up, please consider that most people have a lot on them right now, regardless of their politics or ideology. Consider seeking ways, no matter how small, to elevate each other. Please.
My doctor (the fellow I’ve seen for the last 30-odd years for annual physicals and the occasional STD) said something to me years ago that stuck. “Nothing is ever as bad or as good as it first seems. Now, drop your trousers and think of Christmas.”
It seems as good a mantra as any.
Happy Hallowe’en 2020!
The Palatine Pedant
The Law of Large Numbers dictates, given a large enough sample, a given probability will settle down into its distribution. Flip a coin ten times and it would not be surprising to get seven heads and three tails. Flip a coin a million times, and the distribution will level toward 50/50.
Well, brothers and sisters, it appears we’re due for a goddamn deluge of the correct usage of “rein” vs “reign” if these numbers are going to even out.
Rein: A long, narrow strap attached at one end to a horse’s bit, e.g., The sheriff tugged the reins abruptly to avoid trampling Gabby, the Town Pervert. Metaphorically, to curb or control something, e.g., The NBA asked the power forward to rein in his domestic violence behavior, or risk a half-quarter suspension.
Reign: The period during which a sovereign rules, e.g., The reign of Louis XIV. To hold royal office or to rule, e.g., Proving that no one ever went broke underestimating the lowest common denominator, The Big Bang Theory reigned its time slot.
The only mnemonic I can offer is to focus on the letter “g” in “reign.” Think “regal” or, for fellow pedants, Ultima Ratio Regum.
The Penitent Pedant
You would think, given how much the US news media gasses on about crime — despite the sharp decline in actual crime in the last quarter century — that (alleged) top-tier journalists could get the basic terminology right.
Nope, just checked1. Every firearm is still an assault rifle (Fun Fact: not even the AR-15 is an assault rifle).
Here are two repeat offenders jamming in my high-capacity magazine recently.
Jail vs Prison
Jail and prison are not interchangeable terms. The distinction is fundamentally down to the length of the stay2. Jail is where you are held when awaiting trial or for misdemeanors with sentences of (typically) one year or less. They are run by municipal governments. Prisons, on the other hand, are for longer term incarceration (felonies), and they’re under the jurisdiction of the state or the feds. Jails are pretty much one-size-fits-all facilities whereas prisons come in a variety of flavors from Federal Tennis Prison to Supermax.
- Jail = Drunk Tank
- Prison = Making Girl Scout Cookies from Real Girl Scouts
So the next time a blow-dried talking head reports that some schmuck was sentenced to 20 year in jail, bask in the knowledge that he or she is an overpaid, professionally attractive, uneducated hack, and you are…likely not some of those things.
Rob vs Burgle
This should be easy to get right. The imagery evoked from the classic “cat burglar” trope — glass cutters, safe cracking, laser beams, Catherine Zeta-Jones’s ass — should be enough to associate burglary with a solo activity executed with stealth.
You would never pass a note stating “This is a burglary,” because there would be no one to pass that note to.
Robbery, on the other hand, is brutal and ugly. Not like Catherine Zeta-Jones’s ass at all. Robbery must involve taking something from a victim, by force or threat of force. You would never rob a house, because you cannot pistol whip a kitchen properly.
So, the next time before you open your fool mouth, simply close your eyes and picture the following:
- Burglary = Catherine Zeta-Jones’s Ass
- Robbery = Bruce Wayne’s Parents Brutally Gunned Down in a Gotham Alley
And, if the latter is arousing, you may be on the road to prison.
Litany
I believe Epstein toooootally killed himself.
I believe a fundamental key to a happy, rich life is not getting noticed by the cops1.
I believe the notion of civilian militias overthrowing the United States government is a maladapted jerkoff fantasy, and the only things protecting Americans from the comically overwhelming force of its military are the oath taken by and the humanity of its members.
I believe in making a daily practice of spreading kōans. This can be a joke with a twist punchline, a bizarre way of looking at a situation, a magic trick, an Easter egg, or anything to arrest the audience’s internal reverie and invite them to view the world as this huge, amazing place, full of unimaginable variety and possibility2.
I believe our elected representatives are meant to be the best of us, and never in US history has that ideal been as distant.
I believe that when conflicted over which choice is morally or ethically correct, it is frequently the harder one.
I believe “shot a duck” is the Platonic ideal of fart euphemisms.
I believe permitting a government to implement a ubiquitous surveillance apparatus for any reason is a time bomb, and among the worst legacies we can leave our descendants.
I believe in my right to own a gun; I am deeply ambivalent about yours.
I believe those who erected Confederate monuments3 in the first place were giving a deliberate and massive middle finger to their communities’ minorities, and I believe those today who seek to remove or replace them are missing the bigger picture: Leave them up, stop maintaining them, then document the bigots who show up to pull the weeds.
I believe Postmodernism’s assertion that, since there is no objective truth, that your ignorance is as good as my education, is vapid and bankrupt. And I believe Call-out Culture is its mewling dumpster baby, the perfect outlet for the couchbound, bitter, and certain.
I believe in living as if there is no God and, since we are all alone, we had better look out for one another.
And I believe the number one argument in favor of there being a God is the wimmens.
I don’t normally bag on cops in public forums, because I am afraid they will kick my door in and shoot my dog. Given their track record, though, they’ll likely go to the wrong house).↩
Given the preponderance of cruelty, want, and plain old bad luck in the world, a little proactive joy seems warranted.↩
Second place trophies.↩
Pepperidge Farm Remembers
As many do, I have old people in my life. With meaningful benefits, such as access to their perspective and experience, come certain obligations. My primary old person, for example, is incapable of having a conversation with me without asking me to fix something computer-related. I have learned to accept that this, along with an increased susceptibility to scams, is just part of being an old person. There is another old person behavior, however, that affects the old and non-old alike in a more concrete way than merely frustrating conversations like, “Now, click the hamburger. No, the three horizontal lines in the corner. Because it looks like a hamburger. No, left click. No, single click…”
The Golden Age
I routinely receive emails with subject lines like “Fwd: BLACK & WHITE TV,” “Fwd: The Irish Divorce” and even “FW: FW: RE: Fwd: The Truth about Getting Old.” If you have your own old person, you get these, too. The general theme hearkens back to a simpler time when you did not have to lock your doors, deals could be done on a handshake, and underpants covered your ass. The impression given is that people who grew up in these bygone days possessed more common sense and were just generally more rugged and self-reliant (a riff on the classic noble savage fallacy). For flavor, these messages are often liberally peppered with shitty clip art1 and passive aggression toward Millennials.
The problem with golden age thinking is that it drips with selection bias. For every smug quip about “We used to snag a bite of raw hamburger from the counter where Mom had left it thawing, and we didn’t get E. coli,” it’s easier than pistol whipping a blind kid to counter with “Well, there is a lot more literal shit in the meat nowadays.” Or “…not a single person I knew had ever been told that they were from a dysfunctional family,” with “What in the actual fuck are you talking about? Your Uncle Ernie had his special ‘night ‘night games, your father punched your mother in the gut so the bruises wouldn’t show, your mother had a vodka bottle in the toilet tank, and your brother was as gay as a French horn but entirely lacked the support system or even the vocabulary to do anything about it.”
My intent is not to strip the old of their illusions. I’ve got more miles in the rear view mirror than ahead, and I, too, enjoy nostalgia’s pink glow2. But in order to believe the old days, any old days, were objectively better, one has to dismiss or bury all kinds of pretty terrible stuff. Polio and Jim Crow-level stuff. Worse is when people (and not just the old) elect politicians who invoke these Golden Age tropes. This is simply pandering or, in some instances, a dog whistle3 for, “I will restore your lost entitlement by hassling brown people.” Regardless, it is regressive and myopic and ultimately impossible.
The Golden Age is fool’s gold.
Or, lately, a fully kitted out Oom-pah band.↩
