Author: BC

I am a difficult person to deal with. There is no modifier attached, not “sometimes difficult” or “I can be difficult,” as a rule I am more maintenance-intensive than the average person. Stubborn, strident, sometimes bellicose, often sarcastic and patronizing, a real know-it-all. If I feel particularly adamant about a subject, and believe the opposing view is superlatively inane, sometimes you won’t be able to agree with me enough, a frailty I despise in others and attack when I recognize it. Have I mentioned I can also be a hypocrite. Forget “not perfect,” I can effortlessly tax a Zen master’s patience.

How is it I’m not generally reviled and disdained by most, including a family intimately acquainted with my plethora of shortcomings? The answer to that question is the reason our species is capable of living together and organizing ourselves to survive, even prosper, despite competing viewpoints and even adversarial sensibilities.

It may actually be the best definition of sanity that someone is capable of both appreciating the pluses that outweigh the negatives of others, or that the others can innately exhibit those characteristics. Anybody fully deficient in getting past the frailties of peers, or offer intimates anything but their worst, and constantly carp there is nothing wrong with such malfeasance, or more unhinged, it actually should be commended, is in la la land, 20 cards short of a full deck. Which brings us to the Trump/MAGA phenomenon and the national ruin it foists.

The most recent outrage from the White House is as shocking as it is utterly predictable. According to several corroborated sources, it’s official: the Trump team is banking on THEIR BASE growing fully inured to 50K-100K cases of Covid per day and whatever death and health care chaos it creates. How most of the country digests such atrocity is not a concern, only that their messaging – read Fox/AM – convinces the wretched core to avert their eyes and focus on what’s really important, like the war on heritage. It’s a sure bet such indifference will soon be cited as a pre-requisite to proper patriotism. Covid p***ies can leave, real Americans don’t distance! Live maskless or die!!

There is zero doubt we are about to witness death on a breathtaking scale. It’s a mathematical certainty. The most optimistic figure relating to Covid-19 cases and deaths it causes is one percent. It’s been far more than that in America, but we discount the higher number with both fact – many more actually have the virus or have recovered than has been documented – and denial. Now that testing is ramping up – or as Trump often lies, “the best testing in the world and it’s not even close” – the denial component is going to be far harder to maintain.

It’s now clear 100K new cases a day is going to be the norm for the foreseeable future. Actually, incredible Fourth of July scenes of beaches with literally no place to lay a towel make it likely the 100K milestone may soon be wishful thinking. Regardless, thirty days of 100K cases equals 30,000 dead, ten 9/11s, at the very least. That’s not hyperbole…. it’s math most all will understand. Whether millions will care is another matter. We now know this White House will do whatever it can to make sure they don’t.

In Texas, Florida, Arizona and California – where a good portion of the carnage is going to take place – ICU capacity is strained to the breaking point, with videos of desperate ER personnel describing hell on Earth proliferating; and the surge really hasn’t even begun. It took from March to July for the US to reach 125,000 fatalities. What the toll would have been had we not locked the nation down for two months is anybody’s guess. That total stands to increase by near a third within six weeks but nobody is even considering a second shelter-in-place, least of all Trump or any of his GOP eunuchs at either the state or national level.

Should that pace continue through the election, Trump will have near half a million total dead to answer for. He not only plans to ignore that, but will also surely attack the veracity of those reporting the crisis. Of course, were he to act with even a sliver more of empathy, or offer a fractionally more constructive response THAT would be news, a hideous irony we can mark the depths of our descent by.

All of which circles back to mental health, or more appropriately collective insanity. About eight decades ago Germans and East Europeans, in what Hannah Arendt profoundly labeled the banality of evil, convinced themselves mass killing was but an unfortunate offshoot of war, an inevitable plight Jews were fated to suffer, something beyond their control and morally permissible to ignore.

Today we are at the precipice of a similar monstrous rationalization, and the exact same societal psychosis drives the thinking. This moment we suffer a shared acceptance by millions that the worst of people is not only tolerable, but admirable, courageously contrarian. What most others view as our better nature is now derided by this bloc as part and parcel of a “leftist agenda,” the trappings of progressive conspiracies. MAGA is a mob’s disdain for societal decency, a mass refutation of the bare minimum of citizenship necessary for a democracy to survive…. or at least deserve to. BC

Everybody should be lucky enough to have a best friend, somebody the rest of the world ties you to, a person who helps hone your persona toward life. Without one it strikes me existence is just that little bit lonelier regardless how many other equals we embrace as compensation. Of course, if one is blessed enough, their significant other can fill such a role nicely. However, it’s been my experience, as a fairly keen observer of human interaction, that’s a true rarity, at least until advanced age when increased isolation and the mortality of others necessitates it.

My best buddy – who I am certain would prefer to remain nameless throughout this narrative – and I go back all the way to tenth grade, almost 45 years as comrades. Through young adulthood and as single men we had enough adventures to fill a book, although it never seems as significant in real time. We both loved women and pursued their attentions and affections relentlessly. Such escapades now aren’t really appropriate to share with others, which only strengthens our bond. Once we got married and had families our lives followed parallel courses and provided for experiencing the most important milestones together. I was the best man at both of his weddings and the “witness” at his one divorce. The ties we have are special, even if dwelling on them is at odds with the irreverence and stoicism they were forged by. At the risk of stereotyping, men don’t generally ponder their friendships enough to fully appreciate them until they are threatened… or lost.

When he told me he had tested positive for Covid-19, I’m ashamed to say my first reaction centered on me and mine. My son Luke and I had visited not three days before, albeit observing stringent social distancing protocols outside on his carport, never coming near each other’s space. Even so, I strained to remember if I had to scold Luke for trying to hug as he still sometimes does. Suddenly, the tickle in my throat was ominous. As usual, he modified disturbing news by declaring “isn’t that crazy?” This is his go-to coping mechanism for processing bad tidings, render it more absurd than awful and move on to dealing with it. I generally start and finish at the awful part.

Turns out his oldest son had been working out with friends raised within the ignorant confines of MAGA sensibilities. Apparently, the family had recently been down to Florida with little to no intention of modifying their lifestyles. Moreover, my friend had been moronic enough to attend a senior graduation party for his other boy, inside, with a buffet and no masks in sight. Upon receiving this news we fell into a decades-old routine of me incredulously lecturing him about his stupidity: “why the f*** would you hole up for three months and then do that. Idiotic!” He provided no good answers; yet and still, I would regret the admonishment later.

The first couple days after diagnosis, when I would call him first thing in the morning for a report on whether symptoms had started yet, he would chuckle and wonder aloud whether the test was accurate. “Nothing,” he reported, “I feel like having a beer.” Several more days in the conversations were less jovial, but he continued to maintain, with a touch of annoyance, “I’m feeling fine.” I decided I didn’t quite believe him and texted his wonderful wife, who had tested negative and set up shop on the other side of their spacious house. Turns out my instincts were correct; he was “exhausted” and feeling “pretty bad.” And thus began my best friend’s Corona siege, two plus weeks of stress and misery, punctuated by frightening symptoms a guy who previously bragged about seldom getting sick won’t soon forget.

Once the full on symptoms began, communication between us grew spotty, even as I railed at him for being too lame to even send a one sentence text that he was, in fact, still above dirt. I turned to his increasingly worried spouse, who had precious little positive news to report. When she texted me one evening they were heading to the ICU because he had become very anxious and breathing was a bit labored, I was badly shaken. Honestly, I had always assumed there was little doubt about which of us would go first. The idea he might not get through this suddenly became fathomable and frightening to me. Fortunately, his chest X-ray was unexceptional; he had a fever and his blood pressure was elevated, but he was sent home with a reassuring prognosis.

In fact, the next couple of days were very positive and his appetite began to revive. He speculated to me the worst was over. “I may have a beer,” he joked. I cautioned the Covid ride was a rollercoaster and plenty had been lured into a false optimism only to crash again. I hate being right. The next day his fever was spiking and he was so fatigued climbing the steps from his basement where he was exiled provided too much of a challenge. When he texted me “I’m really not feeling well. Let’s talk tomorrow…” I was crestfallen. Later that day he was back at the hospital after experiencing numbness throughout his right side. Stroke has been reported as a fatal offshoot of this virus, suddenly things appeared dire.

In the tale of Lonesome Dove, perhaps America’s greatest novel, legendary Texas Ranger, Gus McCray, is attacked by a band of warriors up in Montana. He fights them off, but suffers a couple of arrows to his right leg. By the time he reaches Miles City, the nearest town, blood poisoning has ruined both of his wheels. The town doctor, a drunk, amputates one of them, but passes out before getting to the other. Gus comes to first and brandishes his shooter, warning “old saw bones” attempts to “have a go” at his other leg will prove hazardous. By the time his best friend, Woodrow Call, who had been tending their herd of cattle, reaches Gus, it’s too late. Nonetheless, Call is having none of it and demands Gus permit amputation. “What do you need legs for anyway? All you ever do is sit around drinking…,” Woodrow declares. “Yea, but I like to kick a pig every once in a while….” is the dying man’s response.

My best buddy and I are no Texas Rangers, and very few if any would deem us legends, but I God we have been a pair! Friends who know us best appreciate our brotherly rancor, the comical familiarity we exhibit during our constant bickering. The frailties of one compliment the strengths of the other. The best of neither, the worst of either…. that’s what a very wise man once said about best friends. And that is us! As I pondered that night a scenario in which he failed to survive Covid, the possible loss felt overwhelming. The idea of him not being around had honestly never occurred to me. Now it did, and it loomed large.

Thankfully, we seem to both have been spared such misfortune as he now appears to have rallied decisively, although his wife and I remain cautious. He is again jonesing for a cold one and, with the exception of some lingering fatigue, is clearly on the mend. After near 20 days and 15 pounds of hell, he knows what being deathly ill feels like and won’t be taking good health for granted any time soon. As for me? I suppose I’ll now move on to worrying about other things…. like making sure to avoid anything similar, or worse. Keep your distance and wear a damn mask!! BC

It can be credibly argued that a US President’s most important and consequential function is communicating directly with other heads of state. Certainly since America shed its isolationist bent with its participation in World War I, Woodrow Wilson spending months in Europe on an ill-fated quest to sell his internationalist vision of future nation-state relations, the importance of personal White House diplomacy has only increased.

FDR’s meetings with Stalin and Churchill secured an existentially critical alliance and then created the post-war order, laying seed to the Cold War and dooming colonialism. Harry Truman went to Potsdam a Missouri hayseed and returned, if not a statesman, definitely where the buck stopped regarding US national interests.

JFK got schooled by the cagey and more seasoned Nikita Khrushchev at their first meeting in Vienna, Austria. Those who worried Kennedy’s youth was a concern had their doubts reinforced as the Soviet leader seemed to push an under prepared JFK around. Kennedy swore afterwards that sort of thing would never happen again; it didn’t, at least during the short time he had left, which happened to include a missile crisis that could have resulted in isotopic mist had he not matured accordingly.

Say what you will about Richard Nixon, his visits to China and the Soviet Union broke new ground and got things done. The Trickster may have left much to be desired in the honorable national leader department, but he could hold his own with totalitarians. Both the opening of China and Detente were genuine policy accomplishments, historic in scope. As my father liked to say: “only a Nixon could have pulled them off.”

Nonetheless, for all the pomp and photo ops of summits and formal diplomacy, in the modern Presidency business with other nations – friend or foe – has been largely handled over the phone. It has been part and parcel of the US leadership brand that a phone call with the POTUS is a big deal. Talking to an American President is not something any foreign leader has ever viewed as less than an honor of their job, necessitating they be at the very top of their game and choose their words with care and respect…. until now.

Those of us masochistic enough to monitor Donald Trump’s Twitter feed long ago understood him incapable of rising to any challange other than possibly from an East Wing couch to retrieve the remote; his is a guttural existence no matter the occasion. Yet and still, what has emerged from Carl Bernstein’s recent reporting about Trump’s loathsome telephone conduct toward allies, and servile ineptitude toward adversaries, confirms his wretchedness can still shock anew and leave the thoughtful amazed we remain a going concern. It’s something we expected, but the details are stunning anyway.

One of the great pictures capturing Barrack Obama’s grace is a shot of him walking and chatting with German Chancellor Angela Merkel. He is making a point to her as they amble side-by-side while she is both enrapt and amused at what he is saying. Her look toward him exhibits both respect and genuine affection, presumably just what we want allies to feel for our leader. But that was then, this is now, seemingly another world away.

That a powerful woman of Merkel’s stature and authority would unnerve Trump is hardly surprising. Nor are reports his depraved insults – actually calling her “stupid” and in the pocket of Russia – left her unfazed, “like water off a duck’s back” – as she generally retorted with a recitation of facts our bully-in-chief is never interested in hearing. However, the fact German officials were so alarmed by the “abusive” tone Trump constantly employed toward Merkel that they felt impelled to keep the exchanges secret, clarifies Trump’s behavior was not just disgraceful and embarrassing, but dangerous as well. But for the patience and good faith of Merkel, who knows what could have resulted.

Britain’s Theresa May, also being a woman and therefore fit to be bullied as well in the eyes of our national lowlife. was rattled by Trump’s nastiness. No doubt calling our closest ally “a fool” for exhibiting insufficient recklessness in the disposition of Brexit would play well at a superspreader rally, but the precious few who could qualify as adults left in the White House at the time, like National Security Advisor John Bolton were aghast, literally viewing the President as an imminent danger to the country.

But while Trump’s abuse toward allies merely harmed relations and abdicated leadership, his communications with dictators like Putin, Turkey’s Recep Erdogan and MBS in Saudi Arabia cost America plenty more than goodwill. How much more isn’t as clear as it should be because many of the calls are classified, but there is unanimous consensus by a plethora of former White House officials that the national interest was always in dire jeopardy whenever Mr. Art-of-the-Deal was on the line and over his head.

Which was often, as foreign strongmen, particularly Erdogan, understood the easy pickings available “negotiating” with Trump. Apparently, Erdogan had a direct line to the President and used it frequently. Many Kurds would die as a result of Trump’s abrupt edict to withdraw US special forces, who were aided immeasurably by fighters Erdogan only wants to destroy. Meanwhile, we now know Trump was briefed long ago on the bounties Russia placed on US troops in Afghanistan. There is infuriatingly little doubt whose word our civic catastrophe would be taking on that matter. By all accounts Putin-Trump phone calls were one-sided affairs, with plenty of deference from the Bunker Boy.

The outrages keep coming with this President. Every day it’s a list of calamities, each more than enough to have paralyzed any previous administration. This one was never going anywhere but backwards to begin with, so what we have has become just more of the same, which is what it always was… ruinous to the nation. We impeached Trump for his criminal recklessness on the phone with a foreign leader. Calling what is emerging now a pattern is absurd; it is a norm no less disqualifying. Instead, GOP leaders are complaining about why we have been allowed to know these repeated disgraces occurred. Think about that one… and then get very upset. BC

Nobody grows a more hideous beard than I do. It’s genetic; the men throughout my lineage were baby faces! I can go a week without shaving and do business without worry. Nonetheless, and ironically, once alopecia had done its worst, I decided to grow a goatee, which most encouraged, with the notable exception of my wife. Once I did that, shaving became even more of a chore and I decided to simply go to a barber every couple of weeks for “the treatment.” This entailed number zero blade mowing of my scalp and and a trim and shave of my face. For twenty bucks and tip the treatment couldn’t be beat, providing serenity along with grooming.

Like everything else, Coronavirus obstructed this routine. Early on in the lockdown I picked up a deluxe Atra razor and blades, determined to shave at least once a week. Never happened. Near three months later I looked nefarious. Forget social distancing, my unkempt head and face warranted nothing less than exile. There is no doubt about it… adhoc hair and beard growth add age, something I need like a trip to Golden Corral.

And so about Memorial Day I faced the reckoning I began in early March. Of course, I had not the slightest clue how to go about it, but I understood scissors would be required before the razor. However, even after a solid twenty minutes with the shears, the landscape was still daunting. Nevertheless, with a hand full of Edge gel and Gillette’s “science-based precision system” I went to work. It was a calamity, like an old rusty Toro trying to cut a farmer’s field after a rain storm. I’m here to say one of the vaunted Atra blades is no match for dense facial growth. Had I not had a full pack to deploy, the result would have been ghoulish. At several points in the ordeal things seemed futile as I swore never to be so lazy again. But relentless determination finally paid off, and by the fourth blade I was clean shaven, albeit with gravely aggravated skin and a drain in danger of clogging. Lesson learned.

Since January of 2017 the face of America has grown unkempt and overgrown from negligence toward our most basic principles and the social progress they inform. And nowhere is this unattended tangle more unsightly than MAGA’s relentless efforts to split hairs in service to redefining what were accepted definitions of racist mentalities, constantly attempting to turn back the clock on what constitutes unacceptable conduct. As bad as Trump’s formal messaging has been – literally written by servile bigot Stephan Miller – his wayward off-the-cuff remarks have been much worse. Think about that one for a moment.

Both sides in Charlottesville have great people was eclipsed by “shithole countries,” which was consumed by overtly racist insults of elected minority lawmakers like “The Squad” and Maxine Waters, providing more than enough stochastic terrorist incitement to endanger their safety. The recent Tulsa outrage laid bare who Trump now considers his only means for political and personal salvation, his only reliable constituency to remain relevant and perhaps out of jail.

This hasn’t been a Presidency from nearly the start; now it’s become an effort by a white supremacist minority – along with fellow travelers consumed enough by Fox/AM nihilism to imbibe racist ugliness – to strong arm a passive majority, many of whom just want it all to go away. The murder of George Floyd provided a tipping point for anger focused less at Trump and MAGA than the pervasive bigotry it has unearthed and too many assumed was dead and buried long ago.

That perhaps a majority of protesters on the ground genuinely believe Biden and the establishment Democratic approach he offers doesn’t contrast enough with today’s MAGA GOP to be considered much more than a “lesser evil” speaks to the shameful tepidness of the party’s support for the Black Lives Matter and Colin Kapernicks of this world. I may have missed it, but I recall no white Democrat anywhere taking a knee when it counted, when it would have qualified as a profile in courage. Now it’s too late to obtain that sort of credibility.

Yet and still, the existential threat Trumpism poses demands a general resistance movement, and our politics still offers only a binary choice. Nothing could be worse than what now governs us, and he at least provides the service of going lower each day, making any sort of claim of equivalence with Democrats an utterly foolish proposition and reinforcing a now growing polling trend he should be gone yesterday. Latest surveys have Biden up by 12-16 points, that’s dead man walking territory.

But it’s not near enough for Biden and Democrats to merely offer sane decency regarding our race problem. That’s a one blade strategy. Transforming how police interact with communities is critically important, but it’s a half measure unless it reflects a broader understanding of why exactly it has to change. Until white America can sincerely demand police afford the same protection of basic civil rights to black America it expects for itself, we’re stuck in neutral. That so many whites seem utterly clueless as to how traumatic actually being arrested is betrays a cocoon of privilege that can’t even imagine being on the wrong side of an exchange with the law. That’s unacceptable.

Communities are defined by shared experiences. Right now in America that is not happening near enough between its white and minority citizens. Spending time together at work is insufficient. A couple hours at kids’ sporting events doesn’t cut it. A national campaign, relentlessly promoted by the Presidency’s bully pulpit, and embraced as an essential civic priority to learn and appreciate our commonality as well where we differ and why has to happen. White business interests must reach out to the black community in search of partners, not simply customers. The goal has to be more than what a balance sheet transcribes. This nation’s future survival depends on embracing the diversity that’s already a fact. We have to become friends, not just acquaintances; it’s as simple as that.

Obviously, MAGA sensibilities fit nowhere in that agenda. A November landslide could go far in punctuating the country’s determination to put regressive populism squarely in the rear view. Sadly, it’s a near certainty that won’t be enough and more than several blades will be required to hack away the beard we’ve ignored for far too long. The salvation of demanding more and refusing to accept less! BC

In the golden age of television drama, Mad Men may be the best of them all, Donald Draper the greatest anti-hero ever created. One of the series’ best scenes is Don’s demonstration of why he is Madison Avenue’s most sought after advertising talent during a pitch for Kodak’s business.

The company’s marketing department is stuck on how to sell its new invention, a wheel that shows slides of their film’s pictures. Introducing the new technology to the market place in a fresh and inviting way could carve out a niche they will enjoy a monopoly over. Whatever ad agency can convince them their campaign will achieve that objective gets their business, a four star account to be sure. Enter Don Draper.

New is good, Don concedes as he begins his presentation. Generate an “itch” that something’s new and “you can simply slide your product underneath.” But there is a more powerful force to garner, Draper continues…. nostalgia. Take people back to a time and place they wish never passed and you can have your way with them. The slide projector Kodak invented isn’t a wheel, it’s a carousel, capable of going back to when all was right with a world that eventually went wrong. Throughout his oratory Don is clicking the projector forward, its slides showcasing his beautiful family – which happens to be in full descent at that very moment – putting on a storybook face. As the lights come back on the Kodak people are speechless, their search for an agency over. Another Draper triumph.

Countless political campaigns have at least intuitively understood the power of nostalgia’s siren song to the masses. Reagan/Bush ‘84 was masterful blending such sensibilities into its “morning in America” tag line. The result was the most lopsided victory in US history. Walter Mondale won his home state and DC; Reagan was projected the winner before polls closed out West. All that said, nobody has ridden the coattails of a voting bloc’s desire to live in the past like Donald Trump. Anyone who doubts the titanic potential our memories possess to eclipse our present deliberations and future planning need only consider MAGA’s incessant vitality; its constant demand to be deluded by “back when” at the expense of its essential interests now.

Our current situation reflects in direct proportion the answer to one question: what degree of national carnage is worth the euphoria of nostalgia Trumpism affords its wretched core? What consequence will be bad enough to slap them from their mirage? Or has that ship left the harbor for good? We’re running out of options, even as they only get worse. Separating families at our southern border was not even a gnat on their skin; abasement on the international stage was celebrated; impeachment was reconstituted as deep state injustice, party-line acquittal blessed vindication and an indictment of Trump’s entire enemies list; a pandemic and its accompanying economic calamity is fully ignored; and civil unrest caused by documentation impossible to spin and repackage merely enhances calls for order. Nothing has been enough. We can all now reasonably doubt it will ever be.

History makes clear the level of atrocity and national harm a nation beguiled by demagoguery will accept is a sliding scale with no real bottom. Before the Holocaust, had somebody promised one million European Jews would perish, most all would have gasped at the unfathomable horror of it; now, we look back and wish if only the total had been so relatively modest. Decades later, even after extensive confirmation, many still can’t process how many human beings Pol Pot’s maniacs destroyed in Cambodia. Had you worried in 1975 a few hundred thousand were at risk, most would have pegged you an alarmist. Two million was simply not considerable.

As outraged as many may want to become at the comparison of Trump’s reign during the crisis his seditious incompetence facilitated and the world’s worst pogroms, it doesn’t render the similarities less compelling. Most notable is the willingness of his backers, like those who zealously enabled history’s nadirs, to trade in their own basic interests, even lives, for the deliverance of nostalgia, the stupor of yesterday’s return, a time and place before their futures were stolen by the usual suspects.

In the Coronavirus age the term “superspreader event” speaks for itself; and that’s what hundreds of Oklahoma doctors and nurses are calling the Trump rally scheduled to take place in Tulsa Saturday evening. GT Bynum, the city’s Mayor, could use emergency powers to stop what every medical professional understands will create a health crisis that will kill plenty. But he doesn’t quite have the stomach to become enemy du jour on Trump’s Twitter feed or face the onslaught of MAGA locals, who he knows don’t forgive apostasy. Even so, Bynum did have the good sense to bow out of attending with the claim he wants to be at the police command center in case there is trouble. After all, why can’t political cowardice and self-preservation go hand-in-hand? Stay spineless and safe, why should he be different from every other GOP pol in America?

Meanwhile, most of those who will spend the day in lines, sans masks, to assure prime seating for the return of Bunker Boy unleashed and unhinged, believe Covid-19 is, if not a hoax, at least overblown by fake news to damage their champion. That’s not acceptable because he provides the nostalgia fix their veins require to carry on. Without him, life foists accountability on the wrong people… them.

Yet and still, some percentage of attendees have to appreciate how off-kilter the whole thing is, the recklessness of it, the gratuitous indifference to civic decency it reflects. Which brings us back to the principle question: what will they sanction for the piece of mind MAGA’s retro reality provides? What will they sacrifice to bask in the springs of past entitlement? The answer is everything, and that’s bad enough. Worse is we’re letting them, fooling ourselves they’ll produce their own comeuppance. That’s a lie; they are going to victimize our best…. EMTs, nurses, doctors and everybody else who will have to treat those suffering the worst of the infections caused for nothing more than a couple hours of their grievance empath’s sewage. Our slide continues apace. The civic wreckage of ruin. BC

w/Lisa Harrison

As political catchphrases go, “drain the swamp” is better than most. It creates an image most all can effortlessly conjure, while providing a succinct objective with punch that few will dispute is worth pursuing. Of course, the devil is in the details, and satan has never been more prevalent than within MAGA’s incessant distortions of the slogan it near fully co-opted. And nowhere is the space between word and deed more yawning than in Georgia

Brian Kemp is the embodiment of mediocrity. From assembly-line good looks – think a Ken doll that breathes and talks – to his career arc, which no stereotype of Dixie white privilege could top, Kemp reached the Governor’s mansion with as little blood and sweat as seems possible. That he beat one of the more gifted, forget black politicians, but all US politicians, with such a vapid resume and oratorical skill speaks tomes about enduring southern racism cum political polarization.

How Kemp got himself elected governor was only about three-quarters as ugly as his stewardship of the state during Covid-19. During the 2018 campaign Georgia’s most famous citizen, former President Carter, implored Kemp to resign from the position of Secretary of State as others had faithfully done in the past. In response, Kemp gave his signature shoulder-shrug and ignored the guidance, shamelessly continuing as both a contestant and overseer of election procedures he helped customize to suppress the vote of thousands of peach state citizens through wholesale purges of registration rolls.

At the end of an election day filled with voter complaints about long lines and numerous irregularities Kemp held a slim lead. His opponent, Stacey Abrams, refused to concede and challenged the process, but Kemp rushed to declare victory. As protesters descended on the state capitol, strident but peaceful in demanding more than 30,000 uncounted provisional votes be tallied, police quickly moved in to make arrests; and they were not particular about who got rousted.

Georgia State Senator Nikema Williams, who merely came down from her office to speak with constituents among the protesters, was arrested, cuffed and herded into a police van. A white colleague and fellow senator, literally doing the exact same thing as Williams, sans darker skin, tried to intervene. “She is a Senator,” he repeatedly implored. To no avail. Williams spent five hours in the Fulton County jail before being released without charge. An apt beginning to MAGA stewardship.

Two years of Kemp’s Trumpist servility later, amid the tumult George Floyd’s murder created, the predictable results were on display last week. As lines to vote in urban neighborhoods snaked off into the visible horizon, Senator Williams received a call from some members of the advocacy group Black Votes Matter, who were monitoring the chaos. Several BVM members were outside a local voting precinct and being told they needed to leave the public area. Williams responded to her constituents plea for assistance and after calls to both the mayor and police chief’s offices, six police officers were directed to leave the activists alone. They remained until sometime after midnight when the last in a criminally interminable line were allowed to cast votes.

Lisa Harrison, a Georgia resident and military veteran, wrote how current national events rendered last week’s trip to her polling station different than past visits:

“It was the first time I’ve seen patrol cars at the polling station. They were prominently displayed flanking the entrance leading into the larger parking area. The officers casually grouped together and chatting. Tuesday was extremely hot and humid, and their decision to station themselves in the hot sun at the entrance and not the shaded areas got my attention. I’d prefer they had chosen otherwise. I’m concerned about the presence of law enforcement at the polling location and how it calls to mind historical voter suppression tactics and the ongoing legacy of Jim Crow and MAGA. My inner dialogue continues and I’m willing to consider my concern may not be warranted…… Later in the evening, a friend mentioned she thought it was odd that the Sheriff’s department was at the polling station when she went to vote earlier in the day. Me too.“

Eminently reasonable, Harrison wasn’t looking for trouble, but took notice of her surroundings. She wasn’t forced to wait hours at her polling place. No doubt such delays would have gravely intensified her reservations. At the long end of middle age, Harrison and her husband need Covid-19 like a tornado, but were more than willing to don masks and intermingle in a state hastily reopened to assure their voices were heard. Would she have waited seven hours to vote? That’s not a scenario anyone within an actual going democratic concern should ever have to ponder. Fact is, any election monitor worth his salt would condemn such a situation as a broken electoral system, part and parcel of a democracy on its deathbed. Brian Kemp can live with that. BC and LH

“Countries are not machines; they can’t be “fixed.” They are more like bodies and can only be healed. Our body politic has been deeply wounded at the point of race; the signs of infection are clear – inequality, mass incarceration, police brutality.”

Samuel Kimbriel

My father was one hundred percent bad ass. Equal parts the discipline cradle-to-law school Jesuit instruction ensures, and a trip-wire temper his Scottish bloodline provided, my dad walked this earth with an iron set of cajones. Growing up I learned to dread when he felt himself pushed to take a stand. Whether it was telling the waiter to get him a new steak because rare was how he ordered it, or telling a line cutter at the movies he had better think twice about whether his improved position was worth the wrath he was going to face to earn it, my dad did not play!

No less than several times I bore witness to his brinksmanship with another man’s behavior he couldn’t abide. You always knew defcon 5 was at hand when he took off his glasses; it was no different than Josey Wales spitting his chewing tobacco – trouble was coming.

I will never forget, circa 1968 or ‘69, when my dad and his friend, Dave, agreed to take me along for a Saturday afternoon lunch/6 dry Manhattan-on-the-rocks venture to his favorite tavern, Hackneys. Mickey Mantle’s retirement ceremony was on the television above the bar as I was digging in to my favorite ham sandwich with fries and their trademark slaw, when my father and a stranger began exchanging words.

My father never seemed more relaxed than when he was ready to go, and as he calmly handed his glasses to Dave, who sought to diffuse the situation, my previously ravenous appetite was gone. Dad was old school and would never engage in a going establishment. Instead, he called the guy outside where privacy was assured and the issue would be allowed to run its full course, nobody stepping in to break things up. The man refused the invitation. They all did.

My mother’s father was much the same as his son-in-law. It’s safe to say Grandpop liked dad, who afforded him the respect your beloved’s father warrants without any hint of insincere sycophancy. To my eyes, they were very much cut from the same cloth, neither the indulgent type. In fact, I received about the same amount of affection from each; my Grandpop was far more tolerator than coddler of his grandchildren. Exactly like my father, I had no ambitions to challenge the limits of his forbearance.

Working class whites, who moved out of northeast DC to McLean, VA as part of the first waves of late 50’s flight to the suburbs, my grandparents’ sensibilities on race were no better or worse than the Joneses of their time. Which is to say they were part of a herd MLK sought to move against their natural inclinations, with limited success. The riots after his murder reinforced those inbred sensibilities. My grandfather was not in an empathetic mood as he brought a gun with him to protect properties he supervised while the nation’s capitol burned. 

In 1972 Richard Nixon tapped my father to be the General Counsel of the newly created Equal Employment Opportunity Commission and my family migrated east from Chicago to the Maryland suburbs. As we settled in, our transition included plenty of visits to my grandparents’ McLean home not 15 minutes away. This meant a decent dose of bonding time between my father and grandfather, as my brothers and I hung out with neighborhood kids we had become acquainted with during past visits.

A decent chunk of those new friends were part of a very large family of at least ten, their house just down a small hill in my grandparent’s back yard. I enjoyed playing basketball with John and Pat on another neighbor’s court. They were good and we challenged each other in round robin one-on-one marathons during sultry summer days. Their father, John Sr., ran a heating and air conditioning company out of the residence. Ruddy and mean, his disposition was betrayed by the fear his children exhibited toward him.

One ritual my father and his father-in-law enjoyed sharing was shucking and devouring a bushel of oysters with my dad’s special cocktail sauce. Of course, no oyster feast would be complete without a few and a few more cold ones. Once, John Sr. invited them to bring everything down to his place, where the three of them shucked and guzzled into the evening.

At some point my mother decided it was time to head home and dispatched me to go get my father. Heading down the hill I could hear John Sr. stridently slur a point within the spacious but dark front porch. Something along the lines of “Bill, a n****r is a n*****r. I’ll call them any damn thing I want.” I froze and listened near the screen. My father never raised his voice, and spoke even lower during confrontations, so I couldn’t hear what he said. However, when my grandfather implored him to “put your glasses back on, Bill,” I knew things were intense. Suddenly the idea of my dad fighting John Sr. terrified me. What if Grandpop got hurt?! I decided to interrupt and yelled into the dark that “Mom said it’s time to go.” When my dad calmly replied he’d be right up, I breathed easier and headed back. I mentioned nothing of the incident to my mom or grandmother, but when we got home I asked my dad what happened. “Billy, some folks aren’t very nice” was all he said. And that was that.

Three plus years ago the US slid backwards and allowed the horrible flailing backlash against eight years of honorable service by its first black president to empower the worst strain of regressive populism. What we thought was dead and buried merely lay dormant prepared to metastasize if permitted. Despite Trump’s vile rantings fully promising what we could expect, somehow enough of us equated the frailties of Hillary Clinton with the disgusting depths of his divisive gibberish.

At no time did Trump ever beguile anyone with anything but his ignorant bigotry; yet white America simply shrugged what the hell. After eight years of Jackie Robinson in the White House, a stint with Ben Chapman won’t kill us; after all, remember that e-mail server?! Now we all pay a very steep price for our reckless apathy, but none more than the black community.

From dog whistles to Karens, documented brutality to literal executions, tase first/worry later to SWAT team horrors, MAGA embodies the very essence of John Sr.’s raw hatred, his one-size-fits-all bigotry. Something had to give. Now it has. November will be nothing but us vs. them – exactly what the Bunker Boy has been hissing for from day one – and nobody with eyes and ears mistakes the make up of each side.

The “deplorable” moniker HRC coined for the wretched core who carried Trump to the White House is still relentlessly cited by Fox/AM minions as a turning point for MAGA unity, fighting words that galvanized their shared grievance. The other day Joe Biden was less ambitious than HRC, merely noting 10-15% of US voters were “not very good people.” He’ll get no argument from me…. except about the numbers. And were my dad still with us, and Biden shared that observation with him, his glasses would surely have stayed put. BC

“Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people – does not even pretend to try. Instead he tries to divide us. We are witnessing the consequences of three years of this deliberate effort.”

James Mattis

The Insurrection Act of 1807 is a United States federal law that grants the President power to deploy U.S. military and federalized National Guard troops within our borders for the purposes of suppressing civil disorder, insurrection and rebellion. The fact it has sat on the books unchallenged since the turn of the 19th century owes either to its fundamental utility or its archaic obsolescence. Certainly, judging from how rarely it was dusted off and summoned for use in the last hundred years, the answer to that question is the latter. Herbert Hoover, perhaps the last President as anti-social as our current troll – although he happened to be America’s greatest humanitarian at the time, which is at 180 degree variance from Trump – actually called in the military to rout WWI veterans seeking benefits by marching in DC.

Other examples of its employment were to enforce what everybody but society’s skels agreed were necessary mandates, like not looting in the wake of a hurricane, or punctuating the symbolism of protecting black school children’s right to integration. But even when it was used inappropriately , such as during the LA riots sparked by Rodney King’s beating, the edict was made as a last resort, maybe panic, and quickly retracted as order seemed restored.

Like everything else, Trump views US armed forces as “his”, to do with as the moment suits him. This particular moment has him reducing our troop presence in Germany by a third for no other reason than getting even with German Chancellor Angela Merkel, the de facto leader of the free world, for snubbing his invitation to come to Camp David for the G-7 conference during the global pandemic our President has decided no longer exists.

Meanwhile, Trump is at Twitter war with DC Mayor Muriel Bowser, who politely and very professionally informed him by official letter that her city was no longer in a state of emergency, thus his conglomeration of National Guard, Bureau of Prisons, US Army regulars and perhaps even Blackwater mercenaries, which she never did request, are not at all appreciated in the nation’s capitol.

The President’s response was so predictable a drinking game could have been created around it. Bowser, tweeted little hands, “is grossly incompetent…. totally out of control and is constantly coming back to us for “handouts”…. is now fighting with the National Guard, who saved her from great embarrassment…“ Of course, it wasn’t enough to dog whistle at Bowser during a national racial epiphany, the President needed to threaten her as well. If Bowser kept complaining, “we’ll bring in another group of men and women.” What that gibberish meant is anybody’s guess… perhaps some militia types from Idaho. Whatever. Fact is, were it up to Trump, every day would be the right day for the Insurrection Act. That’s where we are and that’s where we’re surely staying during the run up to November.

The photo op Trump’s accordion monkey, Billy Barr, ordered peaceful protesters gassed and pummeled for clarifies Trump/2020 is less about even turning out the base than simply serving notice anything goes. There is not a whiff of concealment, it’s all in the open now. MAGA is at war with the rest of America, and seeks zero lib affirmation for anything it does, most notably its constant sedition. As for “the blacks,” they can either do the Candace Owens and express proper gratitude, or they can get treated as the problem any uppity whining deserves. No “kneed” to make that any clearer!

On the same day Trump waved his hand and declared a much hailed maritime sanctuary established by Obama off Cape Cod – that data showed conclusively had no negative impact on New England fishing prosperity – was now open for encroachment, Rush Limbaugh held forth on the joys of disunion. It’s them against us folks, the supposedly gravely ill Medal of Freedom recipient screeched: “….they keep firing at Donald Trump and it doesn’t even wound him.” And the protests? “We’re being told they are aimed at us,” contorted Limbaugh, “… but they are really against blue state governors.” Er, Okie dokie…… sure thing!

Make no mistake, ditto heads are already frothing for a junta. There is nothing about self-determination they like, they want Trump determination. Sean tells them it will be a landslide, Trump tells them it’s all rigged, either is fine with them. Trump isn’t leaving regardless of result, that’s now a MAGA given. The only one in America who hasn’t gotten that memo yet seems to be Chuck Todd.

The fervent, if not desperate, hope for democrats everywhere is that the strong and steady stream of nationwide protest necessitated by the murder of George Floyd has been received by McConnell et al. as but the appetizer to a main course they can count on in November when Trump disdains the will of the people. Forget Trump and the MAGAites, forget his GOP House flunkies, and forget Fox/AM – there is no doubt anymore how low they will go – it’s what’s left of the now extinct GOP establishment who will determine our fate. Call them what you will; Mattis is part of it, so is George Will, who has finally also come fully out from behind his pomposity to confront our pestilence. Lisa Murkowski appears to want back in on the right side of history after her impeachment disgrace. Even Condi Rice now figures it’s time to recognize police brutality against minorities as a problem, even if she made triple sure she didn’t dirty her hands mentioning Trump.

But what will any of that mean if, the day after the election, the turtle and his cadre of eunuchs emerge from under their rocks to give even a whiff of credence to Trump’s lies. Can’t you hear him now, with that voice that always sounds like he’s just about to vomit? “Well, I think we better all just slow down and let the process work here. Frankly, I’m a bit disturbed by some of the reports coming in. This election is just too vital to rush.” Another drinking game on the horizon.

Yet again an awful consequence of electing Trump is being processed as another opportunity for us to rediscover the joys of national unity. Utter nonsense. How are we going to coalesce around reform of our police departments’ circle-the-wagons response to any and all brutality complaints when half of us never recognized it as a problem in the first place. One video will be transformative? What about the dozens before?

Roger Goodall comes out and mea culpas that the NFL “got it wrong” with Colin Kapernick. So the MAGA fan base is prepared to tolerate similar sideline activism once games finally start again? Really? Where is that bridge inventory when you need it? Last time I looked, he’s still unemployed. Who wouldn’t rather have old Josh McCown running their offense.

George Floyd’s murder sparked a refreshing outpouring of activism, even if it no doubt exposed thousands to Covid-19 and provided more than an element of unnerving mob violence. It’s better than the alternative of apathy and more normalization. The hope that many who count, like James Mattis, like former Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Mike Mullen, like ex-DNI Dan Coats, and others have been shamed enough by the conduct of the nihilist they previously enabled, they are prepared to step forward and act as patriots should is tangible. They know even better than most that crises he creates only provide a platform for Trump’s worst; that never changes. The question has always been when will his worst ruin us? Slowly but surely more seem to be coming around to the imperative we must stop tempting fate in that regard. Yet and still, time is not on our side. 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