Author: BC

My wife always loved tennis, and actually played competitively in high school. Perhaps ten years ago she decided to start hitting the courts again but ran into problems finding partners to play. Hectic schedules and varying ability levels wreaked havoc with her efforts to establish a reliable rotation of opponents. So she decided to christen our son Luke, who can always be relied on, to become her permanent tennis partner. Since then they play virtually every day the weather permits, seldom missing out on court time. Even as things have shut down due to Covid-19, Susan and Luke have been allowed to volley at our recreation club within strict social distancing guidelines.

Late last week their daily match didn’t amount to much because Luke complained his feet hurt. Understand that Luke’s autism renders him about as stoic as one can be; to actually voice discomfort means something is wrong. When they got home we looked at his feet and his toes looked somewhat red and discolored. Of course, there are a dozen possible reasons for such a condition, but Luke is not conversational and of little help describing the elements of his personal discomfort. In ordinary times we would have perhaps purchased a slightly larger pair of shoes to accommodate his still growing feet, maybe apply some hydrogen peroxide and nice clean socks, and check for progress in the morning. These aren’t normal days.

The angry redness on several digits immediately had me pulling up images of “Covid toes” on google. Luke’s didn’t look as bad as most of the photos, but were at least comparable to some. My stomach tightened. Although confident we had followed expert guidance as much as anyone could, Sue immediately scheduled an appointment with his doctor. Meanwhile, I obsessed back and forth between Luke’s toes and the Internet images. There was no denying it; they could certainly be Covid toes.

Luke’s appointment was 2:00 the next afternoon. My fervent hope was the doc would take a look at his feet and chuckle, dismissing our concern with a wave and smile. That didn’t happen. When they returned home Sue retold how they were seen in what was essentially a shed outside the main office, customized for Covid-19 testing. Prompting Sue along, I suggested that maybe the doctor tested simply out of an “abundance of caution.” No, that reassurance was not given. The best I could hold onto was she agreed that a number of other things could be the culprit, but “he should be tested.” Since it was just before the holiday, chances were we wouldn’t get the results until early next week. And so began one of the longer weekends of my 59 and 11/12 years.

If Coronavirus has been hard on most, it’s been nothing less than a trauma for Luke. Living without an innate sense of time makes organizing his life an endless series of events that have to be constantly sorted, meticulously remembered and reissued like highway signs to provide reassurance he is going in the right direction. Without them he freezes and falls into a loop of endless scripting of recollections that pop up now without context and simply occupy his mind while he struggles to move forward. With virtually every one of his activities canceled indefinitely, Luke both lost what he depends on in the present and any tangible hope to grasp onto for the future. Now he understood he may have the very menace responsible for destroying his entire piece of mind. Heart wrenching doesn’t get close.

Isolating Luke was never an option, and Sue declared simply she would either get it or not, but had no intention of distancing herself from him. I was a bit more conflicted. Ten years ago Covid-19 would not have rattled me, but more pounds, more blood pressure, more age, one particularly bad bout with pneumonia and “well controlled” Afib make me think thrice. Whatever delusions of fitness regular 1 1/4 mile swims may have provided as I rationalized some more brie on crostini, while buying new pants to accommodate more girth, pandemics have a way of making it real. Fact is, I need a case of Coronavirus like a bullet to the brain.

Yet and still, the options were few. Our split level is no Wayne Manor. The living is cozy even with three, and Luke is not one to worry much about boundaries. I could lock myself in the master bedroom and roam free once he went to bed, but really, what was the point? The house was now a Petri dish. So I de facto left things to God and began to psyche myself up to fight perhaps grave illness. But that doesn’t mean anxiety and dread didn’t have their way with me.

Susan is perhaps as insightful as any person on Earth about the emotional toll of autism on parents. One of her most prescient observations is that every family has its own tipping point, when added stress or additional grief throw the whole enterprise into a raging squall of despair. That’s where we were, or where I was, paralyzed by the waiting, distraction near an impossibility, with monsters under my bed.

The worst of them was the scenario of both Sue and I deathly ill and nobody willing to come and take care of Luke. To allay that demon, I called my daughter, sheltering up north, and let her know the situation and the possibility she may have to hurry down and take charge of her brother. Of course she lectured me I was blowing things out of proportion, worrying way too much, but her voice was tense, her apprehension apparent. She has a few monsters under her bed, too.

And so three days felt like three months. Like many, we really didn’t know what to make of Ozark Covidiots partying skin to skin, but sadly, a capacity crowd on the downtown boards of OC Maryland didn’t surprise me. Interviewees were of course focused only on themselves, with zero thought as to any civic obligation of keeping friends, neighbors – parents and grandparents – safe. It was more of the same but the slap in the face was now crisper, more intimate.

Sleep was hard, turning on one side determined to “get it all over with,” and the other petrified of how the Covid siege would begin. Throughout the weekend I obsessively took Luke and my temperatures – they were always lower than normal. Any throat clearing or stray cough brought a stomach turn, and if I ever look at Luke’s size 15s again it will be too soon. For anybody my age who doubts it, I am here to tell you sick man walking is no fun at all.

Finally, on Tuesday morning I was preparing to call in for an office zoom type sales meeting when Sue’s phone rang. Suddenly I heard the most glorious words ever exclaimed ….. “Oh, thank God! That is such a relief.” I lowered my head and thanked the lord. Upstairs, Luke entreated me that “hey dad, now I’m just negative!” I’ve never held him tighter. One family, one test, one improbable chance Covid-19 had breached their defenses…. and the end of one very long weekend. For now my family and I bask in the reprieve the pandemic has allowed us. But the fact is, Coronavirus isn’t going anywhere. At least for now it’s still outside my door….. but under my bed. BC

My favorite patriotic scene in American film is the conclusion of Saving Private Ryan. I remember when the movie first came out I was so intrigued to see it a rare weekday matinee was required. As the now elderly Private Ryan entreated his wife to reassure him “I have been a good man,” I remember scanning my fellow patrons throughout the theater. Of course all were riveted, with tears streaming down many cheeks. The looks were more than appreciation of a great movie; they struck me as both grateful and proud. Nothing could confirm the film’s quality more, a documentary of American greatness.

Were we not suffering the incalculable woes of our 2016 civic catastrophe, it is reasonable to fantasize this particular Memorial Day weekend could have been one for all time in the annals of the American experience. After successfully confronting a global pandemic with a mixture of an all-hands-on-deck coordinated government response led by experts equipped and authorized to employ their career training, and a nation of citizens fully cognizant of the disease’s malice and prepared to support each other while sacrificing routines for God and country, we could all be cautiously celebrating true American greatness capable of dispatching nature’s worst. What a glorious experience. If only!

Instead of the unifying cleansing 9/11 provided us, recalibrating our priorities and a sacred collective reaffirmation of our individual duty to our communities, we are now awash in the toxic sludge of MAGA “me me me” Covid-19 messaging. Make no mistake, the majority of us, led by decent and honorable state and local public servants, can be proud of how we have followed our best inclinations and continue to adhere to the discipline required to safeguard, not only our well being, but that of our neighbors. We have listened to those who make sense and exhibit fidelity to reason and expertise. Tragically for us and the world, this group does not include the POTUS. That this observation is now so obvious as to seem inane surely punctuates the depths of his menace, while engendering the hopelessness countless populations throughout history have felt as they succumbed to a soulless tyrant’s boot.

I must confess an utter disdain for life improvement gurus. Perhaps it’s arrogance, or a natural reticence to “join in,” or maybe a cynicism about motivations, a constant wariness of the Elmer Gantrys of the world looking to separate me from my money. Whatever the reason, I am usually not buying what is being sold. However, I have gleaned some observations that make sense as applicable to real world challenges. One is the notion our choices guide us, and accurately assessing what the options are is fundamental to moving forward in the proper life direction. So in the spirit of that advice, and November now a fast approaching five months away, let’s ponder our alternatives, formatted within our current Covid-19 reality, as well as the signposts Memorial Day altruism provides.

Option one is Stacey, a nurse and dear friend of 40 years, who in mid-March, as the Covid-19 crisis approached, established Maryland Communities Unite A-S-A-P from scratch. Her vision was created on the fly and has evolved into a thriving internet-coordinated operation with more than a thousand members, many fellow nurses eager to contribute what they can. Food, masks, shields, beds, care packages, expertise, information, there is little the group has not dispersed to their neighbors in need. The group’s FB photo log is an album of giving, picture after picture of masked crusaders delivering whatever is needed, motivated by nothing more than community.

When Stacey told me what she planned to create, I voiced my hope it wouldn’t be required. Her response was better to overreact than not be prepared. As her group attracts more members and addresses a steady stream of need, even as Maryland Covid-19 positives continue to trend upward, it’s very hard to find a more potent example of what underpins one side of our national divide, one of our choices.

The other option? It’s on Fox News 24/7, in its first President’s constant tweet storms, at Coconuts, an overpacked lake bar in the Ozarks, and in the empty eyes of nasty mobs following the President’s goading to protest the public safety guidance put forward by his own White House Task Force. It’s the other side of our civic coin, the one that demands first and takes second. It’s not what have you done for me lately; it’s whatever you have done or will do I’m not about to appreciate unless it’s sanctioned by the narrative I now reference the world by.

Memorial Day weekend is much like many of our other national holidays. While it honors a particular theme it also provides a referendum on our varying degrees of inclusion. While some are posting great times at social events, others feel the empty pinch of missing out if their own situation is not as festive. This weekend a large swath of America refuses to deny themselves 2020 Memorial Day memories while the rest of us sit on the sidelines like a bunch of scolds. It’s doubtful Coconuts in the Ozarks ever hosted such a massive, densely packed crowd. A large banner ordering patrons to observe “6-Foot Social Distancing” is relegated to ironic absurdity, and serves to lay bare the myth it’s all about economic desperation and not refusing to be denied good times. In previous years one would perhaps feel a tinge of envy, those of us a bit older maybe wistful pangs for youth gone too fast. This weekend it’s merely obscene, a glaring portrait of the delusional self-absorption sold constantly by a movement that now equates most all civic responsibility with liberal attacks on personal liberty.

Meanwhile, the President of the United States has liberated himself to go golfing as US deaths from Covid-19 approach the 100K mark. Fearful he hasn’t pandered enough to evangelicals, Trump last week made sure to categorize churches as “essential” and beseeched them to pack their houses…. although he wouldn’t be attending. Instead, plenty of time to do the only other thing he seems to enjoy: tweeting and retweeting division, not to mention insane accusations against enemies he wants to destroy. Forget laying wreaths or hitting his knees, Joe Scarborough needs to be brought to justice “many people believe.” As for the crisis of Covid-19? Solved. It’s the economy stupid! I’ll let you know how many deaths we can live with. Open things up… yesterday!

This weekend, perhaps more than any other, underscores our nation’s reliance on the battlefield for clarification of virtues necessary to our health as a republic. Certainly one’s life is the ultimate sacrifice, and we rightly distinguish those who have done so while at war. But this year such reverence rings hollow when so many can’t simply stay home, or put on a mask, to keep others safe. That our President shrilly cheers such selfishness is now something we expect. The question has become is it something we accept, and that’s a very vivid choice we must make. Years from now, visiting graveyards of those lost during this pandemic, I suppose none of us want to feel conflicted enough to require spouses to ease our doubts about how we benefitted from the sacrifices of others, or worse, actually contributed to increased fatalities. Our choices today will frame that discussion. The ruin of a good sunburn and hangover. BC

“It’s a personal choice. If you want to stay home, stay home. If you want to go out, you can go out. I’m not in the older population. If I was to get it now, I’ve got a 90 percent chance of getting cured. Also, I don’t know anybody who’s got it.”

Georgia man going through different shirts on display while shopping maskless in a reopened clothes store

I view most memes with disdain, a prominent symptom of the lazy shorthand that addles social media political discourse, the slothful confirmation of packaged sound bites we now use to display our tribal loyalties. Yet and still, every now and again one comes across the feed that grabs you with a powerful pull. The best I have seen lately is a cartoon brandishing a number of tombstones, each with its own epitaph. One says “finally got to the salon, my nails look great.” Another declares “my final bowling score was 150.” Still another boasts of “marched for freedom with my AR-15”. You get the point. But there are others in the mix. Ones that say “essential worker,” and “ordered to work,” and “critical care nurse.” The overarching title of the meme? “We’re all in this together.” Indeed.

Anyone who used to disdain a proclivity toward elitism, that is, the idea one is a more constructive part of American society solely due to efforts at obtaining a bit of accurate news and information to foster critical thought, need no longer be too anguished. This is a country fully divided. And sadly, ruinously, the defining chasm is one side’s obsession with securing their own routines from those determined to cause them inconvenience. They operate within the cocoon of grievance and resentment relentless propaganda has created, and their minds are made up, at the very least, enough to resist the death of 100K of fellow citizens within two months.

Roger Ailes of Fox was no fool. He understood pandering to recliner-based seniors and unreformed bigots would only go so far. Sure, amplifying fears of black urban thugs and invading hordes of Muslims and Mexicans was a solid foundation for a customer base without concern for facts, but recruiting younger and relatively more clear-minded users was essential to growth and preparing for the inevitable day Fox no longer enjoyed a monopoly on the “conservative” market. To that end, bringing libertarian sensibilities into the fold made plenty of sense, what with their general opposition to government intrusion and natural bent toward militancy. This was post-9/11 America and the leading libertarian voice on the scene was Ron Paul, a Texas Congressman and Presidential candidate who reflected in his positions a number of the hard choices the ideology demands.

Most prominent of those choices Paul was glad to make, and unapologetic in defending, was opposition to the wars W Bush was intent on leading America into. This was inconvenient for Ailes since Fox had already branded anyone not voicing support for full engagement at the appropriate decibel a “lib” traitor. Such incompatibility was dramatically illustrated at the 2008 GOP convention in St Paul, Minnesota when Sean Hannity literally ran for his life from a mob of Paul supporters prepared to tar and feather for his criticism of Paul’s disengagement purity. Forget wanting these militants as loyal viewers, the more pressing concern became making certain they didn’t become enemies; an emergency was at hand! The Fox narrative had to accommodate, or at least distract from, libertarian global retrenchment pronto, otherwise a natural market share could be squandered.

Libertarianism is a discipline first and foremost. Adherents are required to pursue intellectual consistency; it is unforgiving in this regard. A libertarian can’t pick and choose which tenets he is comfortable with because then he is no longer libertarian, merely a hypocrite. It is patently absurd to declare you are entitled to own an assault rifle free from government oversight and then hold a woman’s bedroom behavior and reproductive decisions are fair game for the most invasive monitoring. If government can’t be trusted regarding something as benign as speed limits, how can one abide granting it permission to execute people? No taxes? Well, the biggest slice of the pie always goes to the military… slash away? It’s clear from the outset that libertarianism has no space for religious dogma, or a fearful citizenry looking first to government to shield them from harm both at home and abroad. After all, why do I need more cops when old Betty is locked and loaded on my night stand?

Of course Fox News never was much interested in intellectual honesty or constructive political distinctions, and cherry picking libertarian sensibilities it could enmesh into its web of white grievance for rebranding was the only thing that ever interested Ailes. Focus on the callow self-indulgence and ignore the hard choices, Simply bend it to Bill O’Reilly’s whim. A recipe for the grass roots nihilism that informed the Tea Party and devolved into MAGA and Trumpism. Today we live its success at that endeavor.

What’s now on display as vast tracts of the nation reopen for business, despite Coronavirus infection numbers at odds with CDC and Pence Task Force guidance, is the fruits of Ailes and Fox/AM’s distortion labor. It’s millions convinced their liberty is measured only by the convenience at their disposal. Such manic self-absorption has been on display in the White House and Trump rallies for four years now, there should be no surprise it’s front and center during a crisis. This is what the shit river looks like when the chips are down and collective guideposts are required. “Don’t tread on me, I need to shop. Wear a mask? Remember what we decided about political correctness? We won’t stand for this… where are my fatigues?!”

It’s doubtful there is a one of us not fully cognizant of the destructive economic consequences shutting down America has imposed. A strategy for rescuing the economy was this President’s primary task from the moment the need to shut it down became non-debatable. But the equation always contained two interdependent components, primary amongst them the health and safety of US citizens, which can only be sustained if the healthcare system is not overwhelmed. It never was as much about people getting sick, that was accepted as inevitable, it was always about managing the numbers so adequate medical care could be provided, instilling rigorous protocols to prevent surges that dwarfed resources. Chaos at hospitals in initial hotspots like Washington and New York graphically proved such concerns are not hypotheticals. Yet and still, civic education at the teat of Fox/AM’s narcissistic impulses does not provide for comprehensive viewpoints, only the visceral siren song of “me me me.” I’ve been in my room too long, you must let me out to play!

Going into the third month of this crisis, the economic damage gets worse by the week. A projected $3.7 trillion deficit for 2020, added to $20 trillion plus of accumulated debt, makes development of a strategy to reopen the economy, while managing the spread of Covid-19, perhaps as important a mission as any American President has been confronted with. It’s just our bad luck the one we have can barely muster the industry to tie the laces of his wingtips. He’s taken a pass, preferring to simply bully governors to open their states, come what may. The only strategies he is interested in are those to purge anyone willing to accurately document the carnage surely to result.

Trump made clear yesterday at, get ready, a BUFFET lunch with GOP Senators that he wants no more of “his” money spent on freeloaders using a pandemic to stay home. Basically, he wants to solidify the binary choice between risking illness or eviction for millions, the better to pressure Blue State holdouts. By July, we will either be reopened while ignoring what we shut everything down for to begin with – read at least a few thousand deaths per day – or savagely driven back to square one by multiple Covid-19 hotspots and a full-blown national health catastrophe even this amoral GOP won’t be allowed to ignore. What will the economy look like then? There is nothing in between. Call it the new libertarianism! BC

“…..we are on our own, and the vacuum seditious Presidential indifference and laziness creates is not only dangerous to our health, but very bad for business as well. Expect whoever leads your state to either ruin you by mindlessly following MAGA nihilism, or try desperately to save you by cobbling together state and local coalitions, collaborating with an aim to find some workable balance without resources or guidance, simply doing the best they can.”

The DR

Life usually affords us second chances on the mistakes we make, although often, when it doesn’t, the price is painful. Every day we can read about a promster, who figured he was just a bit buzzed…. you know the rest. Or a dad who just once forgot his baby was in the back seat because he had a big proposal. Maybe an accomplice who didn’t listen to common sense, or a woman who went on a date with a guy she didn’t feel quite right about. Those who say God has a sense of humor and forgiving nature never walked in those shoes. No doubt most all would give anything for another chance. Repeating the same mistake twice? That’s a pattern, and generally very costly.

Were one to search for President Trump’s “Mini Me” among the now thriving MAGA political class, you couldn’t do better than Arizona Republican Governor Doug Ducey. Although elected to office in 2014, prior to Trump’s ascendency, Ducey ran for re-election proudly espousing his fealty to Trump, and embracing all the usual suspects… the right to own a bazooka, Handmaiden’s Tale sensibilities on abortion, the only good tax is no tax, build the wall, etc. etc.

Moreover, like Mr. Art-of-the-Deal, Ducey was first a businessman, who began in sales and marketing, eventually becoming the CEO of artery-adversary Stone Cold Creamery. In full Trumpian fashion, when Ducey campaigned for the governorship he boasted of a business career that was the very epitome of “an American success story.” And, with the in-your-face bravado our President would surely admire, Ducey gave a big middle finger to reporters’ efforts to seek transparency as to his conduct heading up Stone Cold Creamery. “Fake news” was Ducey’s battle cry well before Trump descended down the escalator.

And why not? The facts were not necessarily friendly to his political ambitions, at odds with the narrative he spun on the campaign stump. When Ducey and his partner sold Stone Cold Creamery in 2007 for $80 million, the buyer, Kahala Corporation, thought they were getting a robust brand supported by 1400 franchisees. What quickly became clear was the business model Ducey sold to startups had serious viability issues, as a wave of defaults underscored. Ducey blamed the recession, but was glad to put the issue behind him and settle for $16 million less at arbitration. During the AZ Governor’s race in 2014, Ducey went full Trump, refusing to release the company’s financials for public review. And, like Trump, there seemed a limitless number of personal stories from investors with little good to say about Ducey as either a businessman or human being.

Now the stakes are a bit higher, but Ducey doesn’t seem any more interested in best practices or transparency. When Trump came to visit last week, Ducey was ready sans mask with a hearty handshake, even as a White House valet tested positive for Covid-19. After all, taking one, or seven, for the team is rule numero uno if one wants a “great” relationship with this President. Of course, Ducey putting himself at risk is one thing, dooming the people who elected him to Coronavirus misery by actually shutting down the work of his state’s own virus task force because its findings aren’t what he wants to hear quite another. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, but hey, this is ridiculous!

Ducey’s own health department had convened an impressive group of experts hailing from both the academic and health care arenas in late March with a mandate to develop advanced modeling and project the trend of cases in the state. The team’s estimates guided initial policy with social distancing recommendations, which helped control cases and move the curve in the right direction.

Now, however, with Trump pushing MAGA governors hard to get the ball rolling on his re-election campaign’s economic recovery theme, regardless of where their case loads fall vis-a-vis the White House’s own guidance, objective analysis is inconvenient. That’s because all of it emphatically concludes how reckless reopening is, and the disastrous consequences it will produce.

Ducey’s reaction? Shut them down! No news is good news. Six weeks ago the modelers were viewed as indispensable and provided “full, unfettered access” to all resources they would require for accurate assessments. Last Monday night, the day before Trump’s visit, they were ordered to stand down in favor of what Ducey’s state health department suits termed “ real time information.” In other words, let’s just cross our fingers and see how things go.

In an understatement for our times, Arizona Democratic Rep. Ann Kirkpatrick called the move “troubling.” Really? My belt’s last hole failing to keep it from strangling my record width waistline is troubling; this outrage begs stronger modifiers. Ducey’s team now says they will rely on federal numbers – i.e. those blessed by the White House – moving forward. Predictably, what most bothered Ducey about the state team’s reports was they were public and accessible, beyond his reach to alter or ignore. That won’t be a problem now, Trump will take care of all that. After all, he is “giving our wonderful governors all the help they ask for.” Indeed.

Arizona has over 10K Covid-19 infections with more than 500 deaths. It’s beginning to trend down but is certainly not out of the woods, and doesn’t qualify under the guidelines laid out by the Pence Task Force. That hardly mattered to Trump when he visited this week, heralding the termination of social distancing as a fawning Ducey looked on. He’s not the only one determined to cook the books and ignore good science to ingratiate himself to the President. In Iowa experts have pleaded with Governor Kim Reynolds to keep businesses shuttered, stressing it’s still too early to open things up and will surely undo hard won progress in reducing the state’s exposure if she does. But after a personal audience with Trump at the White House, Reynolds was having none of it, and it’s full speed ahead, as Iowans “lead by example.”

A detailed accounting in Rolling Stone Magazine provides an ugly picture of shocking incompetence, if not criminal negligence, by top Trump Administration decision makers as Covid-19 infected America. Even so, more than a month of social distancing and the shutdown of much of American life is proving successful in flattening the curve and sparing us from the worst-case horrors that would have resulted from continuing business as usual. Now that’s exactly what Trump and MAGA lackeys like Ducey are determined to force us back to.

Listening to the reprehensible Rand Paul insult Dr. Fauci today, declaring “you aren’t the end-all” of Covid-19 guidance, clarified the GOP’s intention to decide just how expendable American lives are in the quest to patch up the economy for general election sloganeering. The new MAGA/GOP approach is to ignore that shutting down the US kept Covid-19 deaths to “only” 80,000 and counting, while forwarding the Orwellian proposition that such a modest number proves the whole threat was overblown in the first place. In other words, ignore that shutting things down prevented a health catastrophe, but blame it for creating an economic disaster. Honestly, with public servants like that who needs enemies? Round 2 is going to be very ugly. Stay inside. BC

My baby brother, Alex, was a terror growing up. As his assigned babysitter when my parents stepped out for the evening, I endured his worst. Eight years younger than I, he understood enough to know of my responsibility to him, yet he was also fiendishly clever enough, even at such a tender age, to comprehend the power he possessed as a witness to any improprieties I was involved in while temporarily master of the house.

As high school stoners, my friends and I took a parentless domicile for only one thing: an opportunity to perform the ritual of pot smoking indoors, with creature comforts instead of the damp elements of the woods we were usually relegated to. Moreover, afterwards a full refrigerator beckoned to satisfy the craven munchies bong hits always induced.

My moral code for babysitting held that corrupting my little brother with my vice was not acceptable. What he didn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. When my friends came over we retreated to my room, where the festivities could take place behind locked door, Alex’s innocence preserved. Only one problem… he was having none of it. He wanted to see what was going on, not only to satisfy his curiosity, but to provide himself ammunition to extort concessions from me, lest he rat me out to my parents. He knew without details he wasn’t credible, so obtaining them became his mission; he was going to do whatever necessary to lay eyes on what we were doing.

Jimmying the door lock, searching my room for evidence, hiding from me when I came out to check on him and then rushing in to see what he could see, there was no avenue he wouldn’t try. After all, he had the entire evening. Once, as Hendrix wailed and I held in a monster hit, we suddenly heard “oh Billy, I see you…” My friends looked at the window and started laughing hysterically. Alex had climbed out of the bathroom and shimmied across the perilously angled second story roof. I remember thinking then and there that this wasn’t normal, my brother was crazy. Turns out, he kind of was.

Back in the mid-70s Montgomery County Public Schools had little patience and few options for problem children. You fit in, were eligible for special education or were told to go somewhere else. ADHD or Aspergers, these conditions were yet to be recognized and received little patience or empathy from administrators intent on keeping their particular engine purring. And so it was that my mother was summoned and told in a very abrupt way by officials of Seven Locks Elementary that my little brother was persona non grata; they had had it. He needed to go, yesterday.

That was the beginning of a years-long odyssey for my mother that came out of the blue. Alex was whip smart and lacked nothing socially. A natural ham, he was the star of any family gathering. Learning disabilities were little understood or indulged back then and he spent the rest of elementary and all of junior high in an “alternative school”, lumped together with kids who, while each dealing with a unique set of issues, were thrown together for one shared reason: public schools weren’t interested in teaching them anymore.

The most enduring image I have from that period is my mother, who determined she would not let her son slip through the cracks, waging a nightly battle with Alex as she fought to keep him focused while helping him with his homework. She had a saint’s patience, small potatoes for Alex, who made mom’s life hard because an inability to pay attention to tasks and concepts was a big chunk of his deficits.

Once, early in the process, as my mother sat at the dining room table near tears, it occurred to me how much she had on her plate. I spent near four months in the hospital, the result of being hit head-on by a car, and she was still overseeing my rehab. My other brother, John, two years my junior, was now starting to find his own trouble. Meanwhile, my father was taking the worst of career stress and a relationship with the bottle. Standing next to her, I lamely promised everything would be alright, Alex would “outgrow this.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You just take care of Billy. Leave Alex to me.” As always, I felt better, even though I thought she was the one needing a pep talk. That was my mom in a nutshell.

Fortunately, Alex did outgrow it. He attended a public high school, which offered what was the advent of Individual Education Programs (IEPs). He was no valedictorian but thrived socially, enjoying a popularity with girls I could only have dreamed of. He went to college and became an elite salesman. At his wedding reception my mom and I shared a nice moment as Alex danced with his wife. I said we all owed whatever happiness adulthood bestowed to her, that Alex would have foundered if not for her extra attention when he needed it most. Of course she deferred credit and simply declared how proud she was of him. I joked about their homework battles and wondered how she survived it. She laughed and conceded “those almost did me in.”

My son Luke turned 20 in March. Last night, like every night for the last 15 years, and for the next 15 years God willing, my wife Susan spent time with him reading and working on various math or comprehension exercises. Just another evening struggling to keep him focused. Piano lessons, scrabble, crossword puzzles, you name it, Susan has him covered.

Luke can’t really attend to relationships. If you want to spend time with him it’s going to take effort. He loves Best Buddies and has life-long friends, but is not capable of reaching out on his own. Lucky for him he has a mother who has decided she will be his best friend. Every day pre- Coronavirus it was tennis and a swim at the pool, without fail. Now, sheltering in place up in Maine, Susan gets up and figures out things for them to do. Really the only time she isn’t devoting herself to Luke is when she’s devoting herself to his sister, Iz, a new adult dealing with a world in crisis. It’s not really even a conscious effort anymore, though it’s certainly work. Luke makes Alex seem a rank amateur in the exhausting patience department. Motherhood is Sue’s essence, her energy force. A life of service to her children.

My wife lives out loud and doesn’t apologize. She is often strident and allows chips to fall where they may. Marriages with a disabled child are challenging, at least seven in ten fail. Ours is no exception and can be contentious. Her patience limit often does not extend to me whining about my frailties. Why should it? Yet and still, I am blessed as I can be. After all, the only mother as wonderful as the one who raised me is the one who raised my kids. Very good fortune indeed. Happy Mother’s Day. BC

The payoff situation every episode of The Apprentice works methodically, hyper-edited scene by hyper-edited scene, to create is boardroom chaos, that state of nature when every contestant is looking for a back to stab. Of course, there sits the Donald on his throne surveying the mayhem with satisfaction, ready to pounce with wanton abasement. Flanked by perhaps one or two of his children, or designated Trump Org. higher ups, Trump invites each of the combatants to ratchet up their desperate attempts at self-preservation, goading away with what one of their peers said about them, wondering aloud how they feel about such a slight, thus engendering another round of recrimination.

Yet and still, regardless how nasty and vile the contestants become to each other, none ever lose sight of the common thread that binds them, the golden rule: always exhibit full, slavish subservience to “Mr. Trump.” Anything with a wisp of uppity indifference to that requisite is grounds for “your fired,” regardless how impressive the entrant’s performance has heretofore been. The only tone tolerated toward Mr. Trump is one doused in supplication. Challenges to his status as, er…. God, get you a quick cab ride on 5th Avenue back to Palookaville.

For those with decency and sufficient grey matter, Trump’s beseechfest got old in a hurry. Obviously, for others, it made a more lasting impression. Those marching on state capitols, with nothing but The Apprentice’s guiding principles on the brain, and within their vapid souls, express little that resembles the basis of American citizenship we have at least avowed to collectively embrace since our beginnings. After all, even Southern secessionists gave lip service to enlightened self-interest; they simply were willing to go to war over the belief it blessed their right to consider fellow human beings as chattel.

These deplorables screaming in the faces of health care heroes – or even police they couldn’t love enough back when violating the rights of unarmed black men was the subject instead of the “liberty” attached to ignoring a pandemic’s deadly consequences – believe it’s their prerogative to die, and kill, because fellow countrymen and women no longer qualify as more than statistics, acceptable losses. That every assemblage of these nasty cusses is littered with Trump/2020 campaign accoutrements leaves no doubt their motivations are as nefarious as the messaging suggests. It’s bloodbath time in the boardroom, and Trump could not be happier.

The sweep of history provides few mulligans to peoples shortsighted enough to take what they’ve inherited for granted. Democracy lost is seldom rediscovered without misery, ask Germany or Spain. That’s because its alternative is not moderate in the cruelty it dispenses as the only means trusted for its perpetuation. Repressive governance represses. Any pauses are simply to recalibrate and take stock in who has been spared and whether such indulgence has rendered them enough of a threat to require attention…. when in doubt arrest. Laws that protect everybody can’t exist because authoritarians don’t permit factors they can’t control; protection is for them to dole out as a means to extend and protect power. Nothing really too complicated about the whole thing.

It’s tragically ironic that America, whose modern day leadership brand was fostered by the sacrifice of its young men in world wars it was reluctant to join, but committed to finish, now surrenders its global relevance due to exactly the type of destructive populism it rallied allies to resist for decades. In the midst of the gravest crisis since WWII, world leaders convened a virtual summit Monday to pledge solidarity in a collective effort to develop a Covid-19 vaccine. That the US was a no-show, while surely unprecedented, didn’t seem to shock attendees, nor did they spend much time worrying about it. Such shoulder shrugging underscores a shared sensibility that MAGA has nothing constructive to offer anyway; the world is moving on.

Trump had nothing to say or tweet on the matter. One Administration official, unwilling to be cited, as is now the norm, spouted gibberish about the “generosity” of America as “… the single largest health and humanitarian donor in the world….,” while refusing to explain why the US wouldn’t participate. Of course, it’s no mystery why we weren’t there. Global unity is no more appealing to Trump than national unity; he views both as threats. Collective accord is progress, the enemy of regressive nihilism, our President’s sweet spot.

Abandoning international responsibilities goes hand in hand with dangerous disdain for the work necessary to lead a democratic state. Anyone who believes Trump trusts and is willing to depend on the rule of equally applied law to pursue his fortunes is addled or disingenuous. Really, nothing now ever comes out of the President’s mouth that isn’t a clear refutation of that premise. Whether it’s ventilators for inadequately grateful blue-state governors or inspector generals tasked with making sure no graft infects trillions in government Coronavirus aid, Trump is unapologetically overt in expressing his desire to ignore best practices, or even legal practices, in favor of his unhinged version of absolute authority. Nothing has been left to the imagination about that. Whatever support he enjoys comes at the expense of the institutions MAGA relentlessly attacks. Why would he validate those forces abroad he actively sabotages at home? He is far more comfortable “doing deals” with despots than cooperating with democrats.

From the start this has been a two-track presidency: Trump doing half-ass and with zero good faith what he was told the office demanded; and Trump taking to his East Wing couch with a remote and Twitter account, or a rally podium, and promoting his dangerous petulance. As time has gone by, his fear of the unknown replaced by sociopathic delusions of his own grandeur, and the pathological insecurities he has always suffered, the former has been consumed by the latter. Policy is now driven by his rabid revisions. Whatever was officially laid out in a stilted statement read for the first time, will surely be reshaped by his hourly admonitions as he digests what Tucker has to say about it.

MAGA Governors are now reopening their states despite failing to meet the declining Covid-19 numbers his own task force guidelines stipulate… and Trump is cheering them on. A scapegoat is required to cover up Trump’s criminal neglect and incompetence to prepare us for what he knew was coming as early as last year, so all hands are on deck to vilify China. The initial Coronavirus hotspots were all blue states, whose situations spotlighted the Administration’s pathetic performance, so federal policy has become making them suffer. The list goes on and on, punctuating our slide into the authoritarian gutter.

Worse is on its way. Trump hasn’t the slightest concern for the basic requisites of protecting public health during this crisis, never has. The measures he agreed to for flattening the curve were always under duress, another of those pesky obligations of office he temporarily surrendered to. In the meantime, buttressed by ceaseless Fox/AM toxicity, the wretched core has become wedded to the notion public health and economic revival are mutually exclusive, zero-sum propositions, one a “lib” indulgence out to destroy the other. Now the lines are drawn as they always are during this Presidency… reason vs. militant ignorance.

What’s coming? Round two. Multiple hotspots, inadequate resources, overwhelmed health care workers, lots of death… everything round one offered and more. But this time Trump and Hannity and Rush aren’t going to accede to reality; they’re going to pretend it’s not happening and incite a grotesque national referendum on how many deaths we should accept, how awful the means can become to justify the ends.

It was Joseph Stalin who, while killing “kulaks” by the hundreds of thousands vis-a-vis a famine his barbaric industrial policy created, quipped “one death is a tragedy, a million just a statistic.” The real question now is how much of that observation is Trump and MAGA capable of embracing? The inhumanity of ruin…. from the boardroom to our door! BC

Spending time with degenerate gamblers affords one a window into all manner of willful delusion, every form of destructive rationalization. After all, just like baseball hitters, even the very best of wagerers lose significantly more often than they win. That certainty is built into the odds; it’s the house edge. Otherwise, as they say, everybody would do it.

In the more than 30 years I have been betting the horses, the best days, the most rewarding experiences, are vastly outweighed by coulda, shoulda and woulda regrets. Moreover, and even more emblematic, some of those great days resulted in net losses, just not near as much as they could have been, with one or two winners coming through to dramatically reverse my steady decline. If life is a journey, betting the ponies is surely one of its dicier routes. And make no mistake, only a flair for reformatting events makes it tenable. Otherwise, absolutely nobody would do it.

For the first time since 1989 late April does not fill me with the same anticipation as a seven-year old during Christmas week. This year there will be no Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday in May. The void created is made all the emptier as one day slides into another, and I sit here alone, worried and in search of distraction, which, when synthesized to its essence, is what handicapping has always been for me – the greatest of distractions.

The late 80s and early 90s were glory years for Maryland horse racing. With purses on the rise and a vibrant local colony of both trainers and jockeys, Laurel Race Track was one exciting place to spend the afternoon, or… er, afternoons, depending on one’s particular level of interest. Single, with nobody but me to look after, my interest quotient was high. It is no coincidence that my introduction to horse racing and move toward a career in sales occupied the same chronology. An office and 9-5 was probably never going to work for me anyway, but that question became academic once I started formulating my own “speed figures” and experienced my first “thousand dollar day,” to use a term coined by a mentor I learned at the knee of. Control of my schedule soon became a guiding priority.

Any serious horse player remembers their first big score with unfaded clarity, on a par with other life watersheds, perhaps a level below their wedding day or the birth of their children. For me it was the fall of ‘89 and a claimer named Russian Diplomacy, believe it or not. He was coming out of a “key race” where he had been compromised by a wide post and bad racing luck, but still finished a courageous third. Two horses he beat won next asking and the time of the race compared favorably with classier horses who ran later that day at the same distance. Now he was stepping up in class and was listed at 15-1 in the morning line. I woke up excited and preoccupied about making sure I cleared my calendar to be at Laurel by its opening post time of 12:30pm. My horse would be running in the third.

I hit the ATM on my way out, withdrawing $100 from a checking account with a balance anemic enough to require vigilance to avoid overdrafts. Traffic was slow near the Mormon Temple, making me nervous enough to consider alternative routes. I need not have worried, arriving just as the second race was being run. When the odds came up for my race Russian Diplomacy was 12-1. Even better, Amerrico’s Bullet, who I thought stood out from the rest for second, was a surprising 9-2, and the exacta – that is a finish of my horses running first and second in that order, was paying $173 for a $2 bet.

I took no chances being shut out and bet with plenty of time to spare. I put $40 to win on Russian Diplomacy, now down to a still generous 9-1, and bet a $20 box exacta with Amerrico’s Bullet. At the last minute, I bet the remaining $14 in my pocket to place, simply to recoup my money in case my horse ran second to any of the rest. It was never close. Russian Diplomacy took charge at the top of the lane and drew off with only Amerrico’s Bullet finishing within shouting distance. My $40 became about $400. The $20 exacta payed $1712. I’m here to tell you nothing makes a person’s walk lighter than a wad of crisp $100 bills. As Paul Newman, portraying Fast Eddie Felson in The Color of Money, declared… “money won is always sweeter than money earned.!” As true as words get….. at least when the teller is counting out your cash!

Of course, if every gambler quit after a big score, casinos and race tracks would be out of business. Nothing in this world is more ruinous than “house money.” No intoxicant has yet been created to manufacture more confidence and greater subsequent heartache than the opportunity to “play with their funds.” Up to my big win I had never lost more than $260 at the track, and that was one dark day I swore wouldn’t happen again. Before I snapped out of my psychosis and forced myself out of there, I gave back $450 of what I had masterfully procured. All lost on races I wasn’t really interested in before I lifted the burden of betting my hard earned dollars! I’d love to say that was the last time I behaved so foolishly, but this is a truthful accounting.

Throughout the years since my reckless days flirting on the fringes of addiction, I have developed a discipline designed to allow me my passion without the destructive side effects. Win or lose, my wife has disliked it from the start and will surely shed no tears about this year’s postponement of the Triple Crown. We have found a balance she doesn’t fully bless but tolerates because it’s the best I will offer. The proposition I put forward is simply the horses are no different than golf or fishing, stamp collecting, or any other distraction others count on to add meaning to life’s necessary routines. Within my rationalization, the time and money I spend trying to pick winners equates with golfers paying dues at a local club, or fisherman spending plenty on charters looking for a trophy Marlin. The point is to enjoy life, float your boat. My wife counters she’d much prefer those “healthier” pursuits and would sign off in a minute were I to switch. My reply? Er, Crickets…. Have I said my wife knows how to argue?

Of course, I have always been afforded glimpses of the dark side by racetrack amigos far less concerned about tempering their enthusiasm than I. Some have destroyed marriages, families, careers and finances chasing that big Pick 6 ticket. The justifications they employ to convince themselves no problem exists are as textbook as they are complex, as meandering as they are catastrophic. It is as they want to describe it. Nobody will ever know at the end of any day whether they are up or down the mortgage; and they’ll never tell. What they will do is remember the big takedowns and write off losers as the price of business. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Just another day at the office. You can’t win if you don’t play. Who am I to judge.

By any metric Donald Trump is one of American history’s worst gamblers. Those wagering their money on his selections have lost everything, every time. It’s now well established how grievous a lie the story of our President hitting the jackpot after his father loaned him $1 million is. The New York Times meticulously documented how Trump actually went through near $500 million of his father’s money to finance his schemes, each and every one utterly failing to the point of liquidation. There is little doubt the tax returns Trump will never voluntarily disclose only further confirm his inadequacy in the risk management department. His Presidency may very well owe to the debts he incurred to Russian oligarchs, setting him on the course we now suffer. Time and the history it creates will tell. One thing has always gone along with his failures: a certified loser’s sorry excuses and recriminations.

Now he is ready to gamble thousands of American lives for his own position and relevance, betting that we can become unique and ignore COVID-19 without utter disaster. Even as the death toll tops 60,000 AFTER more than a month of social distancing, Trump, like a Laurel railbird chasing a winner with house money, figures he can will the results to his liking, despite what the touts have to say.

His wretched core, who proudly share his lack of empathy and basic humanity, as well as appreciation for fundamental science, need little convincing. Their grotesque servility now equates his rabid objectives with their own basic interests. Most have been glad to look past death and elevate personal inconvenience to a dire matter of liberty denied them. A Tea Party redux. Principles of community and shared sacrifice have never meant a thing to this bunch, just more libtard nonsense, political correctness run amok. The only thing that’s changed is the stakes they are willing to wager, the lives of others. Like one in six nursing homes now saturated in Covid-19.

It’s hard to imagine anything more important than the health and lives of our families and neighbors. MAGA has reduced that to a bet on a hunch by a guy whose only talent is braying about his “genius.” Perhaps the most seductive allure of the racetrack is how both fast and conclusive one is proved right or wrong. Two minutes is all it takes to know whether you knew what the hell you were talking about or not. The confirmation is either a wad of cash or a worthless ticket. Tragically, it’s not going to take long to know just how misguided Trump and his mob’s wager was. Death will provide the indisputable verdict. The loser’s proposition of ruin. BC

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner was a groundbreaking film of the mid-60s. Although dated now, at the time it was a provocative look at race in America with a cast of Hollywood A-listers. The plot centers on a beautiful daughter of wealthy “liberal” parents – played by Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn – who falls in love with a black man, John Prentice. No doubt the producers only had Sydney Poitier in mind to play the movie’s pivotal role, and he was superb. Times being what they were, no story arc was going to fly on Main Street that didn’t have John Prentice as the Jackie Robinson of future son-in-laws. A chunk of White America may have been prepared to consider interracial marriage, but it wasn’t going to accept a beautiful white woman shocking her folks with a black construction worker. No, he had to be special. So John Prentice was a doctor, and not just some general practitioner, but a director of tropical diseases for the World Health Organization. Now those are bona fides nobody could question.

It’s a tall task to find responsible people with honor and good faith to denounce the World Health Organization (WHO). Founded by the United Nations on April 7, 1948, WHO has been primarily responsible for everything from dramatic improvements of third world sanitary conditions to coordination of global outreach for training doctors to the eradication of smallpox in 1980. WHO deals with critical emergencies on a global scale and, of course, is not perfect. Yet and still, its good faith has always been a given. To find fault with it past trial and error associated with human and bureaucratic limitations requires an agenda with purposes other than constructive criticism. In other words, the only type Donald Trump and his GOP ever pursues.

The 2016 Republican presidential primary was perhaps the ugliest in modern US history, which is to say it was a red flag for how low the party was prepared to descend to make sure its Fox/AM base felt “heard”. It became a game of chicken as to just how personal and malicious candidates could become; in other words, it was no contest at all. Trump was a Grendel among salamanders, a carp among minnows. His sophomoric nicknames set the parameters, and the Jeb Bushes – he of the $100 million war chest – flushed red and slinked off into cowardice’s irrelevancy. The bully quickly seized everybody’s lunch money and the rest is history. Had somebody had the testicles to walk across the stage and punch old sunken eyes in the kisser, we may be thinking about going to the beach right now, instead of rightly detesting those willing to do it anyway.

Senator Marco Rubio, or “lil Marco” as Trump tagged him, was never going to be the one to do it. Any misguided hope he would vanished as Rubio flattered the Donald by imitating him. Whatever momentary advantage Rubio felt he secured by implying Trump’s “tiny hands” meant other physical shortcomings, evaporated as Trump did what he always does, effortlessly played the victim, with attack dog Sean Hannity wailing how “inappropriate” and “childish” Rubio had become. Stricken, Rubio abased himself on CNN, apologizing for being unfair to poor Donald, assuring the audience “ that’s not who I am.” That was that. The next thing anybody knew, Trump and his wretched core were slithering to daylight and the nomination.

Now, more than three years later, Rubio has nestled quietly into the GOP fold, acting as a criminal accessory when he thinks a credible niche has been found, and he can impress donors by overtly licking Trump’s shoes without bending over too far. Dissing China when Trump requires a news cycle filled with the Peking boogie man has become a bit of a Rubio forte. Works perfectly for him; he often doesn’t even have to mention the President while doing his bidding. More importantly, if an “historic trade deal” is in the works, Rubio knows how to disappear, along with the previous grievances he shrilly trumpeted when Trump needed him to. All forgotten…. until they are required again.

And so it was no surprise several weeks ago, just after Trump and the GOP decided the pasta that stuck best on the wall for shifting blame from his grotesque mishandling of the Covid-19 crisis was to bash China and smear WHO as its willful puppet, Rubio called for the resignation of the organization’s leader, Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus for “subservience” to Peking. Righteously whiny as usual, Rubio acknowledged WHO “serves an important purpose…. but unfortunately has been politicized.”

Trump then announced suspension of US financial support of WHO, proclaiming “they really blew it on China.” The storyline established, Rubio has since led the GOP drumbeat in the Senate to paint WHO as a once effective organization China has “infiltrated” and brought to heel for its own desires. One struggles to imagine what that looks like during the chaos of a global pandemic that China locked its country down and ruined its economy to address. But no matter, this is their story and, as has been true since this Presidency began, facts are now fungible, employed with nefarious purpose.

That the WHO has, since its inception, enjoyed generous financial sponsorship from the US – an enduring example of bipartisan American altruism – hardly matters to toadies like Rubio. It seems they fear Trumpist tweet storms more than the fires of hell their relentless amorality uniquely qualifies them for. One thing is clear, halting US financial support carries dire implications for WHO. From the start of 2018 through 2019 the US contributed $893 million to buttress the organization, compared to China’s $86 million of support.

Of course, it’s doubtful Trump has given much thought to the devastating consequences suspending that level of funding will have, but nobody anywhere is going to hold it against WHO for accepting help from whoever offers it, except the Republican Party. MAGA jackals like Rubio and Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, who is working overtime to estrange the US from virtually every alliance and global responsibility the Administration inherited, are intent to do Scar’s bidding.

China’s recent pledge of $30 million in WHO support was quickly repackaged by Republicans as just more proof of how it has Tedros by the short hairs. Speaking to Fox News, quickly becoming the only network our snowflake chief diplomat now deigns to take questions from, Pompeo ratcheted up the scapegoating of Tedros, sniveling that any future US financial support of WHO may require his resignation and a Trump-approved replacement. Did someone say “politicize”?!

The mission statement of MAGA has morphed during the Trump presidency. He was ushered in as an empath for the bottomless grievance and resentment Fox/AM incubated and his wretched core of followers defined their interests by.
The awesome White House bully pulpit, exponentially amplified and distorted by Fox/AM, has metastasized Trumpism into a classic totalitarian movement. Now his chaotic personal whims define his followers’ aspirations; they want nothing more than what he decides he wants, and that is now usually to vilify an enemy of his choosing as part of one cover up of his incompetent corruption after another, an endless hunt for scapegoats.

This month’s target is history’s most respected global health organization. Previously it was foreign service professionals with spotless records. Prior to that it was a former FBI Director and a genuine war hero. Before him it was another FBI Director and his staff. The list goes on and on; it will continue to grow until we say enough…. or a two-bit apprentice Stalin finally decides what the absolute power he needs truly requires, and figures out how to bring the awesome resources at his disposal to bear in achieving it. That specter moves continuously closer every moment he is tolerated. The relentlessness of ruin. BC

In the summer of 1976, a couple months before my 16th birthday, a brand new Roy Rogers opened its doors in our area. My friend Tim, who in addition to being one of our school’s leading marijuana peddlers, had a natural leadership air about him, quickly secured one of the coveted minimum wage jobs. When it opened, I remember walking through the line to get lunch and being green with envy as my buddy dropped the fries at his station. I wanted a real job! Cutting lawns had grown old long ago, and besides, there were a host of Churchill High’s prettiest Tim now counted as coworkers. My hormones wanted to be a part of all that! Finally, like Tim, I had a bit of a pot business myself and needed to launder the proceeds. My mother was already suspicious about my burgeoning album collection and the new stereo I purchased to play them on. Legitimate employment had become a must!

Unfortunately, when Roy’s was staffing up in early summer I had yet to turn 16, which disqualified me from consideration. Indeed, Maryland law made clear anyone under 16 carried a host of liabilities employers were not interested in dealing with. Until my birthday it would be the indignity of lawn mowing and babysitting my little brother, a task my parents were delighted to keep in-house. As luck would have it, another friend of mine had secured a job washing dishes at a restaurant called Emerson’s. Welcoming the prospect of having a familiar face to work with, he talked to the manager, who assured him as soon as I was legal a position would be waiting… lucky me!

Emerson’s Steakhouse found success by pioneering the all-you-can-eat salad bar. That’s right, what is now standard fare in 1976 was revolutionary, and quite popular. Long waits for seating on weekends was the rule, as patrons lined up to fill their refrigerated plates with roughage and all the fixings. Where Roy Rogers seemed idyllic, sort of an extension home economics class, Emerson’s was the real deal, and I quickly found out washing dishes wasn’t dropping in and salting up fries; this was hard work. Moreover, it took but an hour or so for me to understand what rung of the kitchen’s food chain I occupied, only the rodents that revealed themselves after hours were lower.

Initially, though, the gig really wasn’t so bad. In fact, the several times I worked with my buddy it was downright enjoyable. In between waves of bus tubs we would ogle the gorgeous waitresses, most in their twenties and wholly uninterested in us past getting them some clean flatware on the fly. The operation was set up to be manned by three people. One emptied the tubs and scraped leftover food off the plates. The second placed the dishes, glasses etc on racks and sent them through the “Hobart” conveyor-like machine for washing. Last, the third man removed the clean, still hot items from the rack and stacked them back at the various kitchen stations.

A full team of three could handle any rush with fairly effortless efficiency, and more importantly close everything up after hours so we could clock out by 11:00 pm even on a Saturday. However, as I was soon to learn, three guys showing up, or even being scheduled, was a rarity. After only a few shifts I would discover just how high the turnover rate was for a job like dishwashing, and toil through the consequences.

By the second month my friend had left, securing a cushy job at a furniture store as a stock boy. Worse, it was becoming clear, only moronic high schoolers like me and felons transitioning back into society constituted the dishwasher applicant pool. Mind you, I had no problem working with felons; it was they who had trouble showing up! By my third month it was the norm for me to struggle alone throughout busy weekend shifts, doing the work of three as bus tubs became stacked on the floor awaiting my frantic attention. But it wasn’t serving hours that I minded, it was the long hours after things had closed, when I was alone and couldn’t leave until every dish was done and the disgusting floor mats were sprayed down. One Saturday shift I didn’t clock out until 3:30 AM, a stinking and exhausted mess.

And so it was I showed up for work at 5:00PM on what promised to be another very busy Saturday night. Suffice it to say my patience and good faith as an Emerson’s employee was nearing its limits. The novelty of a real job long expired, even lawn mowing had regained lost luster. As I entered the kitchen I was disheartened to see nobody else on the schedule to help me, another very long night awaited.

But it wasn’t until I saw my work station that what would evolve into a signature temper began to boil. Apparently, management had hosted a private gathering that afternoon of way too many. Every bus tub in the establishment was filled and taunting me as I put on my apron. I stared in disbelief, realizing virtually every dish, glass and fork in the Emerson’s inventory was caked in residue. An entire shift of work needed to be finished before the night even began. Clarity seized me as never before, rebellion consuming my being. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go…. “ the assistant manager I already disdained ordered indelicately. Whoever was present certainly still remembers my reply as I stormed for the exit, keeping their apron, perhaps to burn later. I’ll admit here I cried driving home, my anger matched by my feeling of shame for quitting so unceremoniously my first real job.

These recollections flowed fresh this morning as I read in the Washington Post about the travails of Mikaela Sakal, a young Detroit ER nurse. She is a hero who now will spend a long time traumatized by her recent experiences in the ER of Sinai-Grace Hospital. Pushed to the breaking point, she quit because continuing felt implausible and torturous. From fully committed and determined to do her best under the most difficult circumstances she could find, to angry and defeated for no better reason than the catch-22 situation she found herself in only promised insurmountable disillusion, making a light at the end of the tunnel impossible to even imagine. Covid-19 hell.

Sakal, fresh out of school and looking for the toughest challenge available, thought Sinai-Grace in the heart of Detroit ideal for her ambition to test herself under the most demanding circumstances. “This place will make you a great nurse,” she was promised. However, when Covid-19 detonated in Detroit, Sinai-Grace was quickly overwhelmed. In the ER a sensible ratio of nurse to patients is 1 to 4; 1-8 is considered the outer rim where quality of care becomes dangerously jeopardized. Sakal and her shift partners were constantly at 1-15! Seven or eight nurses staffing an ER with scores of critically ill patients, people dying, whose names they didn’t know. Resources exhausted and new incomings constantly on the way. Staff that were finishing a 12-hour shift unable to leave because to do so would put their relief in an untenable situation. “You’re lucky if you find time in a 12-hour shift to get a glass of water. You spend every minute moving from patient to patient trying to keep them stable and alive.” Imagine a place where the only noise is the constant sound of alarms going off as life-sustaining medication pumps demand to be refilled.

The breaking point for Sakal came when a colleague had to leave the ER to help transfer a patient to the ICU and she was alone with 26 critical patients. Sakal said she and her fellow nurses told management time and again they needed help, “this wasn’t ok.” She acknowledged some efforts were made to bring in more nurses but the numbers actually went backward. “We went from having 14 nurses on at night to sometimes having 10 or less,” said Sakal. Finally, because they felt only if they left would the situation no longer be ignored, she and two other night shift ER nurses, including the shift supervisor, quit.

It’s impossible to imagine the torment Sakal must feel right now. That one so talented and dedicated should be forced into such a situation lays bare the myth of American healthcare superiority, while confirming how totally unprepared it was for this pandemic. That a multitude of idiotic MAGA wretches in Michigan and beyond would zealously protest, shoulder-to-shoulder, for the “freedom” to exponentially increase the carnage this wonderful woman has been overwhelmed by confirms the life support status of America’s civic sensibilities. And last and most disturbingly, that a President we elected is permitted to traitorously encourage such madness, as nothing more than a function of his psychotic insecurity and perpetual vileness, pinpoints an existential threat to the nation’s survival. It must be confronted by any means necessary….. yesterday! Dammit, stand by her side! BC

When my wife and I first moved into our house back in 1999, one of the things I wanted to do was cut the lawn. This was the height of irony since my father and I carried on a years-long war of attrition revolving around my myriad of strategies to avoid that exact activity. Once my dad quipped to my mom: “if that kid put the effort into just doing what I ask him to do that he puts into trying to get out of it, we’d be on the cover of Home and Garden.” Ah, childhood memories.

Anyway, the movers hadn’t been gone long when I hustled out to procure a 6.5 HP Briggs and Stratton workhorse, ideal for manicuring my estate. Mind you, simply cutting the grass was not enough in those heady days of home ownership. We were fortunate to buy a house on a hill, and I wanted that sloping front lawn to have symmetry. Instead of taking the easy route and cutting across the incline, I would trudge straight up and then sidle straight down, taking care not to slip and chop my size 15s down to size. There was nothing like the satisfaction of gazing at those perfect lines of pristine greenness, the honest sweat sopping my torso. I remember distinctly during one of those moments wondering how a man could forsake such pleasure for a lawn service! My dad, as usual, had been right all along as he ordered me to do his bidding. This would never get old…. Hah!!

About a decade and 40 pounds later, not to mention a back with nothing but harsh and painful indignity to offer, I looked enviously toward my neighbor Tom’s place as an impressively efficient team of landscape specialists descended on his property. It was going to be another July 100-degree steam bath in the Nation’s Capital and my 1/4-odd acreage approached overgrown calamity. Still, the idea of attempting to tackle the beast only reinforced a desire to nap before dinner. As Tom walked to retrieve his mail, it was as if an angel of mercy was guiding me:

“Those guys look like they do a great job,” I offered.

“Yea, I love Nestor. He’s the best…. and the price is right.”

No turning back now… “Do you think he’d like some more business?” I asked with a hint of desperate hopefulness.

“I’m sure he would. Go ask him.”

And so it came to pass that the lawn mower I had grown to despise slinked into the ash bin of history, a dusty relic in the corner of my garage’s clutter. From that hellishly oppressive summer evening, when he gave my overgrown mess the Tom treatment, Nestor has never failed to show up and perform his magic, leaving it to my guilt, rather than his request, to increase the amount on the checks I hand over.

Two weeks ago, just as I was thinking I better give him a call, Nestor and crew breezed in and had me looking like Augusta before my second cup of coffee was done. I walked out to give him his check, a cost-of-living increase included, and he approached to within about ten feet and gave me his usual broad smile, although his eyes seemed a bit sad. We said our hellos and I joked how much it irked me he never seemed to lose any hair or gain any weight. He laughed and asked if “we should do the usual schedule?” It seemed odd because he had never brought that up before; I quickly surmised other customers must be cutting things back on him. His eyes now appeared to me hopeful. I said sure, same schedule, and laid the check on the hood of our Subaru.

The designation of “hero” has been stretched way past the tipping point necessary to threaten its entire relevance for a long time now. After 9/11, as America prepped for ceaseless occupation, heroes began to pop up everywhere. Of course, those at ground zero digging feverishly – with many getting chronically ill in the process – deserved exactly that level of respect and adulation. Moreover, it was an appropriate time to appreciate the sacrifices of all in uniform, who could at anytime pay the big tab just as so many NYC fire fighters did after the Twin Towers exploded.

However, in the months and years that followed, as Madison Avenue seized heroism as a fixture for ad campaigns, and jets flew over countless football pregame ceremonies punctuated with gigantic American flags, the precise characteristics that define the term became way too ambiguous, applied with carelessness and, much worse, ulterior motivation. Those who, say ten years ago, worried about stolen valor fanatics crucifying an intellectually disabled man for pretending to be a veteran, or real shysters cashing in with cons centered on some affiliation with a uniform, realized all of their worst fears this February when Trump had his wife clasp the Medal of Freedom around Rush Limbaugh’s scruff. Nothing, anywhere or anytime, could be a more powerful exhibit A for the highjacking of selfless devotion and its place within our national discussion. Perhaps the most significant nadir of a disgraceful reign filled with shameful quantities of them.

Now we endure a crisis that renders 9/11’s death toll modest by comparison, and have been afforded a fresh opportunity to revisit the subject of recognizing who are rising to the top based on splendid behavior during trial and tribulation. After that State of the Union disgrace, such a forum is overdue, a scarce silver lining in Covid-19’s otherwise bleak horizon. Rather than pointless ceremony, or referendums on what is and isn’t patriotism, this crisis effortlessly distinguishes the chaff from the grain.

Surprise! Turns out they’re everywhere, friends and neighbors simply doing their jobs, many for far less than they deserve. When I went to pick up a prescription my eyes misted as I expressed my appreciation to our pharmacist, Amy. She is a lovely woman, and has always been the consummate professional, but now, during this crisis, speaking louder than her usual soft cadence in order to be heard through her mask, she sure seems heroic to me

Ditto John Carter, a 71 year old retired Milwaukee bus driver, who waited three hours to vote last Tuesday to give the boot to right wing Wisconsin State Supreme Court Justice Daniel Kelly. Forced to risk his life by Kelly’s fellow travelers on the US Supreme Court, whose best justification for refusing to extend by a measly week the deadline for absentee ballots during a global pandemic, was their reticence to tinker with well worn “voting procedures and practices,” Carter said he was shocked when he first saw the line, but resolved “I have to vote…I must stay here.” Carter said he wanted to send a message to Republicans they can’t bully him. Kelly was defeated handily by liberal Democrat Jill Karofsky. Message sent.

Our universe operates on the basis of opposite forces – energy and inertia, high and low pressure, mountains and seas – so it makes sense that carnage created by the most shameless and vile among us, should be met by the most selfless and honorable. The day that stops happening is when we are done. Nestor, Amy and John are who hope looks like, even as we get daily “briefings” from one who oozes wretched disgrace.

Trump’s preposterous relevance has always owed to the awful fact he has no floor for abasement, no bottom when his conscience screams enough. Pushing forward to do his worst just comes natural. And so we see his opposite numbers doing the same in addressing the consequences he loses no sleep producing. America is great because of them; his worst won’t change that. Thankfully, it will only help us better appreciate how important they have always been to what we now may very well lose. Stand by their side! BC