Do Dynasties Rule America?

The family business is going gangbusters in the US. No sooner do
republicans have a presidential candidate than they've got sons and
daughters coming down the track. Have we seen this phenomenon before
in American history?  Adams, Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Bush clans are
the most famous, and they're not done. But what happened to Carter,
LBJ, and Nixon? Shouldn't their daughters be running for something?

While the American family as a traditional unit has fallen on
extremely hard times, and the family farm, too, has virtually
surrendered to corporate America, the secret to keeping a family
together here appears to be: Run for office! Drag the kids along! Get
the spouse in on the act--if s/he can wear designer clothes but not
like a Kardashian. Multiple marriages just mean more kids and spouses
to add to the entourage.

Clinton's problem is that she has enough offspring and in-laws to
create a soap opera but not a basketball team. She didn't divorce
Bill, though, so now she's encumbered with a spouse whose legacy she
must defend, while he muddles along with his track record in the Oval
Office. If he had divorced Hillary, how many ex-wives would now be
endorsing Bill for the position of America's ambassador to the United
Nations?

Maybe the cartoon Adams Family created the real American dream. They
lived in a haunted Victorian pile. They accepted their relatives'
flaws as entertainment. They never divorced because who else could
manage their kids' careers? Cousin It handled their communications
systems, and Uncle Festor could always be counted on to relieve
boredom. "Swanky is as swanky does" could have been their campaign
slogan.

Hillary Is No Wrestler

This point is fact: For months, Hillary Clinton evaded competition. What was she doing while the republican candidates snarled and circled--having her nails and hair done? In sports, if a competitor doesn't show up, s/he's OUT! This observation especially applies to wrestling. Whether a competitor participates in professional, Olympic, or amateur wrestling, that athlete must get into the ring before he can be thrown OUT. Refusing to compete is a major fault. It suggests cowardice, lack of readiness, procrastination, and/or tardiness.

It doesn't matter if Debbie Wasserman-Schultz, the DNC chair, plotted a strategy to favor Hillary over other democrat candidates. Wrestling is merciless in shining a spotlight on the individual. If s/he doesn't show up, fans see a big empty space. Immediately, frustrated fans get restless, just as they did waiting for Ray Charles, who was notorious for lateness, too. If a late competitor does show up eventually, then fans expect a performance which justifies their investment of time and anticipation: They demand the most outstanding exercise of skill, finesse, and even elegance in hoisting the opponent and whipsawing him/her outta that ring!

So, with a limited schedule of matches, Hillary looked like a loser BEFORE she ever made a visible move. When she finally did appear smiling and waving to a crowd--or at carefully arranged sit-downs with a few friendly souls--she looked like the girl who'd arrived at the prom without her date. Her smile was forced; her corsage had wilted. No one could quite remember what the fuss was about. Wrestlers don't behave this way, if they plan on winning anything--and Donald Trump has not participated in World Wrestling Entertainment for years without learning something.

The Donald takes care to move like a heavyweight. He plants his feet. He signals briefly with sharp hands to security or assistants. Whether he's entering or exiting an event, he is accompanied by a sturdy crew. His words are sharp, too, like hand chops. "Lying Ted!" he jabs. "Crooked Hillary!" he jabs again. His phrases are short, so no one can forget them. He eschews complexity for a crowd that's longing to boo and rave. He courts the spotlight because that's where the wrestler always is. His behavior speaks volumes, and voters get the message: The medium IS the message, said Marshall McLuhan.

It is not accidental that the business world is littered with former athletes. They come renowned for perseverance, teamwork, and a competitive spirit. They show up not only because it's expected, but because they live to win. Before anyone protests that everyone's a winner one way or another, consider how it felt to lose four Americans in Benghazi. Consider, too, how it felt to see the opposition retake Fallujah after American lives had been lost so memorably there. Do Americans want to spend another four years whining and complaining? Or do they just want to see the US get back into the ring?

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For more complaints, see also Borchers, Callum. "Why Hillary Clinton should go on Fox News again." The Washington Post. <https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2016/02/22/why-hillary-clinton-should-go-back-on-fox-news-again/>.

Three Priceless Aids to Education

How can a parent set a child on the road to genius status? The most important choices cost nothing. Nevertheless, they will determine success or failure in that child's record.

1. Socialization begins with awareness that a child needs to pay attention to fundamentals. Thus, a parent needs to direct a child's attention to priorities: Is that child looking up, ready to learn, or is that child dragging around a bag of candy, intent only on a sugar fix?

2. Readiness to learn appears the second that children open their mouths. Are their favorite words obscenities, slurs, and baby talk? Or have they mastered those signals of constructive interaction with the rest of society: Hello? Please? Thank you!

3. By the age of three, if not before, does a child understand that a cardinal role in learning requires listening to instructions, following warnings, and rejoicing in rewards for cooperation with adults? Or does that child dash into traffic, screaming, "I wanna play!"

Teachers know what a child has been doing since birth from the first moment of encounter. Does the teacher's lesson result in love at first sight, or get me the heck out of here? Make constructive learning fun, and then throw a great party for parents who love their kids into life!

Bringing up a Baby Basset

My twelve week-old basset hound puppy climbed into my lap today. He needed a boost because he's two feet long but only about eight inches high. 

He looks like an El Greco painting as he snoops his long nose up my arm. The closer he comes, the longer his nose appears. Then he stabs me with those luminous eyes: brown as dark opals and gleaming like pearls.

He makes me realize what El Greco does: that artist extends arms, robes, and flames like an intake or sigh of breath which simply escapes intention. He draws our eyes up, and then he closes them. From his perspective, everything is too long, and we don't care. We just want this vision to continue like mist rising with dawn.

For the first time, my new dog came to me just to snuggle. He lapped his ears over my knees. He pressed his colossal feet against my arms. He kept juggling his back legs until I offered a corner of my chair. Then, he slid his head slyly so he could look me in the eye sideways: I'm happy here, he announced in his elongated language.

I had to slide him down from his perch, of course, to take another puppy trek around the lawn. Then, he could contain himself no longer. In true basset fashion, he leapt in every direction, and completed two flips, I am sure. He actually chose me as a playmate today, over his collection of toys.

Now, the only question is this: How will I juggle him on my lap when he is five feet long and weighs seventy pounds? Since he's so sly, and I am so curious, we'll have about a year to find out. By then, maybe El Greco will supply the answer.

A King-sized Flub by The Donald

The New York Post is headlining the colossal blooper which came out of The Donald's mouth last night in Buffalo, NY. Hey, Donald, this was The Blooper of All Time!

Check this video for the full horror as the audience asks: "Hey, Don, what just happened?" See: <http://nypost.com/2016/04/19/donald-trump-confuses-911-with-7-eleven/>.

How could the Don confuse 9/11 with 7 Eleven? Could anyone located anywhere near Ground Zero on that fateful day make that mistake?

This writer was living in the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania on that occasion. For six weeks, the local population expected more attacks, since they are near Philadelphia, which expected more attacks, too. The atmosphere was so poisoned with emotion that just to smile was out of the question. 

The response to that event was different for folks located elsewhere. This writer talked to relatives in Florida and Louisiana. Both parties exhibited none of the extreme angst which characterized that moment for residents so close to the devastation.

Maybe it's time for a re-take on The Donald's claim that he saw the Towers fall. That experience knocked people for a loop, as well. Emotional authenticity cannot be fabricated, unless by actors. And The Donald does not win an Oscar for his grimaces and smiles as the wrong words leaped to public attention. 

The timing of this mistake by The Donald could not be worse for his campaign. Real New Yorkers remember 9/11. It was worse than the worst horror film they ever experienced, because it was real, too--in spite of the fact that it was beyond imagining. No way could that event be confused with 7 Eleven for anyone who was anywhere near America's Prize Big Apple. 

Baltimore's Children

Investigators of the recent Baltimore riots need to speak with Charm City's children. They also need to inventory the childhood activities of both rioters and protestors.

Descriptions of a Baltimore childhood run the full gamut from charming to deadly. One young woman told me she studied ballet for fourteen years. A phalanx of young men told me they spent their childhood setting fires.

Drugs played a significant role in all discussions I witnessed on this subject. Some young Baltimoreans admitted they sold drugs from the age of ten. Others described being on Ritalin for so long that they did not remember their childhood.

Gang membership was a given in some neighborhoods. "Snitches get stitches" was a common saying among gang sympathizers. Gang members may also admit they will NEVER report crimes out of loyalty to their gangs.

 

In this context, it is worth remembering that gangs fight over turf and drug clientele. The above reports only came to me as I worked in the Baltimore area for five years. More thorough statistics must surely be available from the Community-Organizer-in-Chief.

A Dog's Strategy

by Meg Curtis

He left his last bone on my balcony. He licked it a couple of times, and then moved it to the location where he wished it to stay. It remains in that position because I refuse to throw it away.

 

That dog suffered from canine T cell lymphoma for at least six months. At the end he would not, could not, eat. He turned up his nose at the treats he had begged for as his just reward for filling a hole in the universe the size of Texas at least.

 

He spent his last two weeks on that balcony. Once I allowed him to go out there by himself, he stretched out flat on the cool concrete. If snow had invaded the concrete, he ate it. If snow filled the air, he greeted it like the best shower on earth.

 

Steroids kept him alive for six months. For that time, he remained active, although lymphoma was creeping up on him. He began panting heavily, however, and rolled in the snow every chance he got. Walking him got to be a search for the disappearing white stuff.

 

His passion for my balcony only became clear on Easter morning. Then I stood directly behind him, inside my windows, watching to see what kept his head planted between the protective rails on the balcony. Until I called him regularly, to prevent freezing, he didn't move.

 

A light snow had descended on Easter morning. Only then did I realize that he wasn't looking at the ground or road nearby. He was pointed across the road, where the snow outlined every branch and bramble. The snow made visible what had been there all along: a rabbit shape.

 

I kept as still as he did. I waited to see if my imagination was creating fantasies in the snow-lit landscape--until that rabbit took off like a bullet. The dog remained as calm as his breed requires: half cocker and half cavalier, he showed his hunting instincts could never be quelled.

 

So, I suspect that he dragged that bone out there and planted it exactly where he planned to return--if biology can keep up with the passion of a hunting dog. I told him there are lots of rabbits in heaven. What kind of a place would heaven be without rabbits?

 

In heaven, of course, a hunting dog doesn't eat rabbits--unless God decides they're overrunning the place. A hunting dog just points them out, waits for his director to decide their fate, and then hands them to God as tenderly as that dog brought me a forgotten slipper.

 

God speed, my hunter. His breed serves by keeping his eye on essentials. Now, the snow has gone, so the rabbits are still there, along with God-knows-what across the road. The vision he gave me remains: to see through the falderal to the truth, no matter the confusion cleared by Easter.