February 15, 2019--National Emergencies

Republican Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell unintentionally just set the agenda for the Democrat who will be elected in 2020 to succeed Trump as president.

He was good enough to set both the programmatic and the strategic agenda. With the latter being about how to govern.

Thank you Mitch.

Mitch did this when attempting to discourage Trump from declaring, in his case, a phony emergency.

Do not declare a national emergency, he urged Trump, to get your way with the border wall because if you do you will set a precedent for future presidents. Like the Democrat who will come after you in less than two years. A progressive who might use your precedent to declare emergencies involving gun "rights" and the climate.

When it comes to Trump, McConnell is whistling in the wind because for Trump there are no precedents. A precedent is something that applies to the future, but with Trump there is no such thing as the future. He is all about the now, caring only about himself, ignoring who or what comes next; and thus he will declare an emergency this morning to allow him to reap political credit from his base (meaning Ann Coulter, who two days ago called him a "weenie,"  and Sean Hannity) for building, or pretending to build the wall.

But for a normal person who might become president, governing by the strategic use of national emergencies in an era where nothing can be enacted by a broken and hyper-partisan Congress may make sense and to declare at least two emergencies--one to deal with the scourge of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of murderous people and the other for another genuine emergency, global warming--sounds like a plan for Kamala Harris or Joe Biden or Amy Klobuchar.

February 23, 2018--Occupy Tallahassee

Some are prognosticating that the gun control "movement" led by survivors of last week's shootings at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL, will be short-lived.

The odds are that they are right. 

To sustain this effort would require children now ranging in age from 14 to 18 to devote themselves to it essentially full time while still enrolled in high school or when their time soon comes to attend college or for some, as members of the ROTC, are obligated to enter the army. If their cause were taken over by a formal organizational structure run by adults it would lose most of its visceral effectiveness. 

Half of Never Again's current appeal is not just the popularity of the issues these kids are insisting be addressed in Tallahassee and Washington but the fact that this is a children's crusade. Children who in their newly-imposed maturity and youthful wisdom are so amazingly good on TV and the Internet and thus are especially viable in our social-media age.

So, as CNN, MSNBC, and the New York Times move on, as they soon will, it is likely to run out of visible gas. In other words, it will no longer be as compelling and deeply moving a story as it currently is. This is inevitable.

But then again, I am reminded of another movement organized and carried out by young people which popped up unexpectedly, attracted a great following among the public and in the media, and then seemingly passed from view. 

Occupy Wall Street. 

Its outward manifestation, occupying Zuccottti Park not far from the Stock Market on Wall Street, lasted just 28 days from September 17 through November 15, 2011, but its basic message lives on. Occupy itself passed from the scene but its central message is still with us and continues to deeply affect our political discourse--the relentless economic inequality that plagues our society. The disparity in the ownership of America's wealth between the top 1% and the rest of us.

Zuccotti Park is back to normal, occupied again mainly by stock traders taking a smoking break and New York City's resilient pigeon population, but we still have lively debates about economic fairness. Bernie Sanders, for example, would not have been as viable as he turned out to be if it weren't for the issues Occupy Wall Street placed before us.

And it could be, hopefully will be, also true for Never Again. I am feeling that our discourse, such as it is, about firearms will be permanently altered. These kids and millions of others vote or will vote when they are old enough and those they have already inspired (count me among those) will keep their "common sense" issues before us and will compel candidates at the state and national levels to take their views into active consideration if they want to protect their public sinecures.

If as I sense that those as rigid and craven as Marco Rubio and Donald Trump are sounding different it may be that something new and welcome is happening thanks to those inspiring young people we have this week been getting to know.

February 21, 2018--Trump Running Scared

As evidence that some of the most arrogant of politicians in America are already feeling the heat being generated by students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, where 17 teens were murdered a week ago, the Florida state legislature, aware that busloads of survivors of that mass shooting were on the road, heading for the capital in Tallahassee, 400 miles north, before even showing them the courtesy of a meeting, like the cowards they are, they voted overwhelmingly not even to consider, not even debate about ways to control the kinds of weapons of mass destruction the shooter used to mow down their classmates.

They exposed themselves--only cowards are afraid to talk. 

All those tough-guys (mostly men) who attend Florida legislative sessions with their openly-carried hand guns stuffed in the pants (how appropriate), sensing the potential political power these children are generating, hid in their offices during the morning and then later vacated them hours before these children arrived, after attending, earlier in the day, another funeral of one of their classmates, before these survivors arrived to share their stories and to seek the help of adults sworn on their bibles to protect them in their classrooms as gun violence in the schools turns more and more deadly, before being confronted by representatives of the youth of Florida, who they claim to represent these useless legislators voted as they did, not even having the courage to wait to talk with these constituents about gun control. 

Instead, they up and ran for cover.

Cringing behind their desks and feeling manly clutching their weapons, may bring them a sense of protection, but these students, in a campaign that is rapidly taking hold in high schools across the country are in fact a real threat to them and their undeserved prerogatives. 

These children are bringing at last a reckoning. A powerful one, one that hopefully will begin to mean "never again," one of their tag lines, knowingly or not, similar to the "never again" avowed by Jews who survived the Holocaust.

Another coward, cringing in his gilded bunker in Washington, a coward who sought and secured five phony deferments so he would not have to serve in the army during the Vietnam era, that tough-talking coward, who some call "our president," is at least willing to talk or, as he promises, listen during a meeting later today at the White House that will include some of the Stoneman-Douglas survivors.

This pretender is not prone to listen to anyone about anything must be running scared because otherwise he would be lying in bed as usual this afternoon taking an "executive break," watching Fox News while gorging himself on Big Macs. We'll see if he can sit still longer than the usual 15 minutes he is capable of concentrating.

If he thinks he can cool these kids out by inviting them to their (not his) White House, he shouldn't hold his breath because these children, many already old enough to vote, with hundreds of thousands more eligible to do so in just a few months, in November during the midterm elections, they, and not you, Mr. president will ultimately determine who sits in state legislators, houses of Congress, and, yes, even in the office you illegitimately hold.

Your directing the Attorney General to do the paper work to ban the use of "bump stocks" that turn semi-automatic, military-style weapons into automatic weapons of bloodshed is evidence of how scared you are of the power of these kids. This is begrudging acknowledgment that as rigid as you have proven to be they are bringing fear to your heart, which must be a feeling familiar as Robert Mueller's noose tightens. 

Nothing that you do will deter or distract them. They are unleashed and activated and will not be bought off by phony listening sessions or White House tours. 

They are coming for you for a reckoning and you should be scared for your political life and already shaky place in history because that is what a reckoning is--holding people like you responsible for things you are constitutionally required to do. 

It is obvious that this means nothing to you. You do not even understand your sacred constitutional role. But they do. They have been paying attention in their American history classes. 

These kids are on the move not only to take their protection into their own hands but to teach any of us who may have forgotten or, like you, never even paid attention or understood, what America means.

But you do have strong survival skills--that I'll grant you--and though you truly do not understand you are feeling sacred. 

As you should be.

February 16, 2018--The Other 3%

Not the economic elite who own a vastly disproportionate percentage of America's wealth but the 3% of Americans who own 80% of the assault weapons in private hands.

The New York Times reports it is much easier in Florida to purchase an AR-15 military style weapon than a handgun. It takes three days of background checking before one can take a pistol home but you can walk into a gun shop and an hour later leave with a semiautomatic rifle. 

In Florida you have to be 21 to buy a handgun but only 18 to purchase an AR-15.

Rona asked why it is places such as Florida, Colorado, Connecticut, Texas, and Nevada where it is easy to purchase weapons of mass destruction while it is difficult if not impossible to do so legally in places such as New York that the worst shootings always seem to occur in those states where guns are easy to obtain whereas in New York this virtually never happens.

The answer to that is easy and self-explanatory.

January 19, 2017--The 2400 Family Diner

Here's another diner story from on the road south. This one from three years ago--

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2400 Family Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2400 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said, joint in.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?'" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did too," he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.

October 14, 2015--Talk Radio

I'm a notoriously poor sleeper.

I manage to fall asleep without trouble, but it's the staying asleep that's the problem.

I have found that one thing that interrupts my early morning obsessing and allows me to resume sleeping is listening to overnight talk radio. The shows tend to be so repetitive and inane that they literally bore me to unconsciousness.

Sports talk of the sort found on WFAN, where callers and hosts obsessively fret about the Jets, Giants, and Knicks gets me slumbering in less than half an hour.

And then there are the political shows. All right wing and full of hate (mostly directed toward Barack Obama) and paranoia (most fears and conspiracies attributed to Obama) and so predictable and repetitive that they too soon lull me back to dreamland.

Then there is Coast to Coast, a nationally syndicated show that is devoted to the paranormal. Guests and callers share stories about flying saucers and how they were abducted and poked in all their bodily cavities by Martians before being returned to Earth. The good news--no one on these shows seem much interested in the president. Though occasionally he is thought to be an alien.

Usually, if I manage to acquire a strong C to C signal, I'm snoring again in less than 15 minutes. There are just so many trips to Venus I can handle even when staring fretfully at the 3:00 a.m. ceiling.

It is interesting that with two exceptions, political talk radio is all so stridently conservative. The two exceptions are the Alan Colmes and Al Sharpton shows. The former has 1.75 million listeners while the Reverend typically attracts 1.0 million.

Compare this with the king of talk, Russ Limbaugh, who has 13.25 million followers; the prince of paranoia, Sean Hannity with 12.5 million; delusional Glenn Beck and Mark Levin with 7.0 million each; and the Michael Savage show that pitches to 5.25 mad-as-hell insomniacs.

All the latter specialize in savaging (pun intended) liberals and especially Obama, who, frequently, is thought to be the Antichrist or at the very least a Kenyan Muslim. Nothing he is doing or did in the past is without fault. The goal is to overturn everything he accomplished, especially Obamacare, and even to delegitimatize him. Yes, he was elected two times with majorities, but if he can be proven to be foreign born or the literal Devil, they can make him go away. It would be as if he never existed.

To give their assault on Obama and other liberals the patina of credibility, these hosts and their callers frequently make things up.

Since they cannot marshall facts to support most of their allegations and grievances, they create them, disproving Daniel Patrick Moynahan's oft-quoted assertion that we are entitled to our opinions but not our own facts.

One small example--On the well-named Red Eye Radio program the other night--a widely syndicated show pitched to truck drivers--they were ranting about Obama's intention to ignore the Second Amendment and to begin to confiscate everyone's guns. Even hunting rifles. That he was using the most recent campus slaughter in southern Utah as a "political opportunity" to justify his fascistic agenda.

"If he's in favor of more gun control," one of the hosts shouted, "why doesn't he come forward with detailed proposals? He talks in generalities but offers no specifics."

His cohost and a procession of folks called in agree.

In fact, three years ago, after the murders at the Sandy Hook School in Newtown, Connecticut, Obama proposed a full program of legislation to limit the size of ammunition magazines for automatic weapons, increased requirements for those who sell semi-automatic assault rifles at gun shows, and the like.

I thought, why aren't any people calling in to present these facts? Where are the liberals who care about these issues? Why are they, we, so passive when faced with the phenomenon of right-wing talk radio?

If we can't sustain shows that present a progressive perspective (including on television--MSNBC failed while Fox News is thriving) why not at least organize a campaign to flood the airwaves with callers who will take on the lies and vitriol of the Glenn Becks, Michael Savages, and Mark Levins?

Liberals recognize the influence and power of these shows on political life and their ability to articulate a vision for the extreme right. A segment of the activist population that is more and more influencing and even shaping the Republican agenda.

Why have we ceded this on-air ground to the untra-conservatives? Even if these shows' producers began to screen out liberal callers, that in itself would make quite a story when publicly exposed.

It is curious that progressives spend passive time tuning in to the Jon Stewarts, Steven Colberts, and Bill Mahers, but are not motivated enough to get up off the couch to take on the calumnies of Limbaugh and Hannity.

Sorry, but if we don't get mobilized, we will get what we deserve.

January 9, 2014--The 2040 Diner

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2040 Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Usually, exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2040 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did to,"he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.