Jews and the Democratic Party

Sonny and Cher.  Paulina Porizkova and Ric Ocasek.  Either President Bush and Slick Willy.

There are in the universe imponderable pairings that, in my mind at least, are irreconcilable.  In love, the heart wants what the heart wants.  Politics makes strange bedfellows.

But Jews and the Democratic Party?  Can someone explain this to me?  Please.

The recent travesty of the United States abstaining instead of vetoing the United Nations Security Council vote condemning Israel's settlements in disputed territories and the follow-up speech by our feckless Secretary of State John Kerry immediately struck a chord with me.  Given the longstanding relationship between the United States and Israel, it would have been expected that the United States would veto the resolution, Resolution 242. Instead, the United States abstained, which in normal-speak merely means that we stuck our heads in the sand and stabbed an ally in the back.

Kerry's speech was an insult.  For a man who's more Tin Man/Cowardly Lion/Scarecrow than stalwart politician, it was his typically underwhelming performance delivered in his usual stentorian tone.  But it underscored the true intent behind the administration's abstention.

All that aside, what bewilders me is the response of the Jewish bloc -- unfair, I know, but still -- to this news.  Had this been Ireland that was thrown under the bus, there'd be such an outcry.  Were South Africa to have been betrayed, there'd be riots.  But Israel?  Betrayed by the Democratic Party that is supported, largely, by the Jewish bloc?

Whimpers.

Sure, Alan Dershowitz has chimed in; when doesn't he pipe up?  But where are the Harvey Weinsteins, the Barbara Boxers, the Michael Bloombergs?  Where is the outrage, the cries of Sellout!, the demand for an investigation?

It's nothing but crickets.

I spoke with a good friend of mine, a longtime supporter of the Democratic Party and a Jewess.  She told me that as far as she was concerned, Israel wasn't that important to her although, ironically, it was vitally important to her grandmother, who would always ask if something being done was good for Israel.  For my friend, there are more pressing, local issues -- drug enforcement, education, war on poverty -- that hit closer to home.  I can't disagree -- these are very important issues that affect daily life more readily.  But this is the State of Israel, the home that for so many years Jews fought and died, born finally in 1948, that's at issue. 

Another thing my friend said struck me:  She said that for many Jews, Israel is across the ocean -- in other words, beyond their immediate concern -- and therefore low on the list of priorities.  My retort was that the concentration camps were across the ocean too; should they have been low on the list of priorities?

Along with this is the idea long flouted by Jews relative to the atrocities of World War II:  Never again.  How exactly is that maxim factored into this equation?  Are we to allow the Democrats to sell out the State of Israel and its Jewish citizens while at the same time pointing at the Iranians, the Palestinians, the Saudis and the rest of the Arab world and tell them not to touch Israel?  And why support a party that would destroy the Jewish homeland?  It is inconceivable to me that a party that would offer up the homeland of a voting bloc could continue to rely its political support.  Jews in this country are either selfish and only care about their day to day needs or they give lip service to the issue of an independent and sovereign Israel.  If I were a Jew, I'd be livid, and I wouldn't be voting for the Democrats any time soon.  That doesn't mean I'd be voting Republican necessarily, but I sure wouldn't be voting for the party that's willing to sell my homeland down the river.

I'm not a Jew.  Perhaps I've overstepped.  But I just don't understand any of this.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Puppy Update

Come January 4, it will be three months since we lost Sherman.  His loss is still being felt on many levels, since he was such a good dog.  But life goes on.

For as badly as I took his passing, Karen and Custer suffered more.  They both suffered in silence, at least around me, but Custer moped.  I mean, the dog was listless at best, morose at worst.  He'd play for a time, but then he'd lie down with his head on the floor and not move.  It was getting bad.

Karen and I had, eerily, been discussing getting a dog in the event of Sherman's death around the time that he passed.   We both knew we had limited time with him, although we thought we had at least a year more.  So in a sense we were prepared for it, at least in the sense that we'd discussed it.  Our talks did nothing to lessen the impact of his passing.

About a month after Sherman's passing we began exploring options to replace him.  We checked in with various rescue outfits, but either we were barred (who knew there was territoriality in dog rescue?), or the rescues all had severe health issues (not uncommon in bulldogs) or they were older than we wanted.  Having just lost a dog, and with Custer getting on in years himself, we weren't steeled to losing another dog so soon.

Through her myriad connections in the bulldog world, we were able to locate a person willing to let go of a former show dog that had already been bred and that would be available at the beginning of December. The price was right, and after some fits and starts that only life can cause, we picked up the little girl, named Margo, the second weekend in December.  We brought Custer along so we could see how he interacted with her, just to be sure, and since there were no apparent problems, we brought Margo home with us (in a snowstorm, but it wasn't too bad).

We quickly learned that Margo had never been socialized, nor had she ever been out of her own house except to be at shows or go to the vet.  Upon arriving at her new home, Margo ran to the end of the dark hallway and sat looking out at us.  If either of us approached her, she'd zip buy on the side and run to the kitchen, where she'd look out from behind the kitchen table.  It would only be after much coaxing that she'd come into the living room and lie in the bed we'd lain down for her.  Otherwise, she'd race to get behind the coffee table and hide there.

Getting her to eat was nearly impossible.  I'm not sure she ate much the first three days, although in truth, she could stand to lose a couple of pounds.  Karen was finally able to get her to eat a piece of raw meat and a couple of pieces of raw chicken.  We were then told that if we put her in a crate with her bowl of food, she'd eat, and this turned out to be true.  We're still working on changing that so we can feed her at the same time as Cus, but at least she's eating now.

Taking her out to potty was an experience in and of itself.  First of all, to encourage her to go out, she first had to be lassoed with the lead.  Then she had to be made aware that opening the door with her standing immediately behind it wasn't effective.  Then she had to be made comfortable going down the ramp. Then she had to be cajoled to go outside (admittedly, it is cold out there). Then she had to find the proper spot around the huge conifer that's the unofficial toilet of Bulldog Nation.  More often than not, it turns into a game of ring-around-the-rosey, with her scampering playfully if unhelpfully from one side of the tree to the other, without me being able to verify that she actually did anything. Then she'd wander around aimlessly in front of the tree, unsure of what her next move was to be.

But that was just the first few days.  Now she helpfully stays back from the door, ambles down the ramp, bravely goes outside, runs to the tree, darts from one side to the next but always stays where she can be seen as she does her business and then happily comes to me jumping and pawing me for approval, which I give her, effusively. 

One constant that has happened from Day One in the bathroom routine was the sight of Margo pushing Custer out of the way to get through the doors back into the house.  Whereas it as always Custer bustering Sherman out of the way, now the little one is nudging Custer out of the way none too gracefully.  He seems unconcernedly confused by the happening, but it's interesting to watch.

The other day Karen wrote me from work asking if I liked the name Margo.  I don't.  What's more, I'm so tired of using it to prod her to eat, come here, go out the door, do her business, etc., that I've come to dislike it even more.  We bandied about a number of names -- only one of which would have kept with the Civil War theme -- and we finally decided on Maisie.  It's a pretty name for a pet that's turning out to have quite the personality.  And I don't mind hearing it as often as I heard Margo which, thankfully, isn't nearly as much as it used to be.  So now Margo is Maisie.  She seems to like the name herself.

We are now back to a starting five, Karen, me, Custer, Maisie and Bupkes, who seems particularly unmoved by the new arrival.  In fact, for as dyspeptic as he can be with new people or things, he has been surprisingly calm with Maisie's introduction to the family. We're still working out the kinks.  Every once in awhile Maisie reverts to Margo and gets a little neurotic.  Thankfully, the other two just take it in stride, even if Karen I don't.

We'll always miss Sherman.  Maisie, though, has some of the same traits as he did:  Sweet, gentle, playful.  She also has his coloring and her face reminds us of him.

Welcome, then, to our family Maisie.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Recounting the Election

Green Party candidate Jill Stein, out of an abundance of concern about the electoral process in the country, launched a bid to force recounts in key states in the Rust Belt over the last fortnight.  In the end, it was for naught, but it sure raised the hackles of quite a few people, both on the Left and the Right.

First of all, despite her avowed concern for the process, her actual motivation has been the subject of some speculation.  She claimed, and continued to claim, that she wanted to ensure that the process was legitimate.  Despite the fact that she received around one percent of the vote nationally and therefore had no vested interest in the outcome of the recounts -- which would have benefitted Cankles, only --  she persisted with her stance that the process had to be safeguarded, and that the best way to do that was to have recounts.

Critics were quick to point out flaws in the argument, beside the obvious one that there was no reason for her to ask for the recount given her placing in the national election.  First, Ms. Stein only sought recounts in Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania, three key battleground states that most pundits thought would go to Cankles.  She didn't ask for recounts in any states that went to Cankles, nor did she ask for recounts in other states that went to Mr. Trump.  Just those three.

Then she asked for hand counting of the ballots.  Besides being an arduous task, it's also a time-consuming task, which cynics claimed was the real reason for seeking the recount.  If the recount were to last past a particular date when results had to be certified by the Electoral College, then those states' votes wouldn't be counted, and in theory, that would reduce the amount of votes Mr. Trump received.  Call it a political four-corner stall that aims to run out the clock, denying the American public the President it wants.

Another theory is that the fundraising being done by Ms. Stein really just lines the coffers of the Green Party, and erstwhile political entity more accurately described as a gadfly.  Certainly, with the states ponying up the money to conduct the recounts, the funds raised aren't helping defray those costs.  So there could be some merit to those charges.

Yet, the recounts were blocked in Michigan and Pennsylvania, while in Wisconsin an odd thing occurred:  Probably against what Ms. Stein and her lackeys thought, Mr. Trump actually increased his lead against Cankles.  And adding irony to the outcome, there are reports that irregularities have been identified with vote totals in the Cankles stronghold of Wayne County, where in some precincts the actual vote totals exceed the number of registered voters in the precinct.  The Law of Unintended Consequences strikes again.

Meanwhile, the demand for a recount, although welcomed by the coastal elites who feel that it was impossible for Cankles to lose, has rankled those in the three states that are the focus of the recount because the bill for the recount reaches into the millions of dollars, money that could otherwise be spent more fruitfully on problems plaguing those states.  This is having a negative impact even among those who voted for Cankles.  Why, they ask, is Ms. Stein forcing us to pay for a recount that won't benefit her one bit?

Because, in all likelihood Ms. Stein is a proxy for Cankles who, having publicly stated that she would abide by whatever the results of the election were, has, according to some reports, been secretly looking for ways to contest the election since the results came in.  By using Ms. Stein as her Charlie McCarthy and staying out of the limelight, she insulates herself from criticism as a hypocrite.  And just as she did with Bernie Sanders, she's probably promised some sort of consideration to Ms. Stein for doing this for her.

Wags claim that the recount allows Cankles to be the first person to lose a presidential election twice.

Cynics claim this is business as usual.

But the cruel fact is that even if it confirms Mr. Trump's win, this does nothing for the process, or for the country, or for our democracy.

It's tawdry and selfish.

Cankles and her minions just need to go away.

I hear Cuba has some nice beaches...

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Contextualizing New York

So my bride and I went to New York for Thanksgiving week, in part to visit my cousin but also so Karen could see New York City for the first time.  Although I expected there to be some highlights from the trip, I wasn't expecting a fight with some intellectual putz at the home of the son of a well-known actor to be one of them.

We arrived two days before Thanksgiving.  We had our itinerary ready, albeit with a loose framework to accommodate weather and other variables, with a list of the things we wanted to see.  Since I'd been to New York before, this was mostly a list of things Karen wanted to see, and that was fine by me.  I suggested a couple of things, but it was really an open itinerary with one or two notable exceptions.  We were certainly having Thanksgiving dinner with my cousins, but that was the only certainty on the list.

The afternoon of the day we arrived we met with my cousin in the financial district after doing a tour of the 9/11 Memorial museum.  She took us to see some of the notable buildings in that neighborhood and then to Fraunces Tavern, where General Washington met with the troops to say goodbye after the Revolutionary War.

The next day we did the tourist thing, including seeing The Book of Mormon.  Then we tried to see the inflation of the Macy's Day parade floats, but couldn't get close.  My cousin had her traditional party that night, which we attended, then got back to the apartment at two in the morning.

We stayed in the next day because, frankly, there wasn't much to do.  It being a holiday, most everything was closed.  So we stayed in and waited until it was time for dinner, then took a taxi to my cousin's apartment.  Dinner was lovely, just the family, and then my cousin volunteered to drive us back to our apartment, albeit first with a stop a her friend Tony and Lee Ann's place for dessert.  Since my legs were killing me and I'd already eaten dessert, I wasn't too thrilled with the notion of going to someone's house, especially someone I didn't know, for dessert, of all things.  But we acquiesced because it was my cousin.

There are times when one should just trust one's gut, and this was one of those times.  I didn't want to look like a spoilsport, so I didn't object, but this was one evening I could have done without.  Even so, had I trusted my gut, I would have missed out on the following anecdote.

Upon entering the brownstone we were greeted by a somewhat matronly woman wearing a spaghetti-strap frock and a shawl.  She greeted my cousin and was introduced to us, then explained that the main floor, where the drapes were all drawn and the windows covered with some kind of paper, was where readings were done.  I half expected to see candles, tarot cards and a small table and chairs off to one side.

We were led up a rickety, narrow staircase that had obviously seen better days.  When we arrived at the second floor, I was confronted with a kitchen to one side and no other people.  We were led, instead, to another staircase, just as uncertain as the first one.  Given my level of disinterest and disinterest, this was disheartening. 

When we arrived at the top floor, we were confronted by what seemed to be a staged scene involving tables fitted together to form a T, with the leg of the T jutting out toward the door.  At the head of the table across from the leg was a bald, corpulent man seemingly in his cups sitting in a high-backed chair a la a medieval king.  To his left sat his wife, the woman who guided us up the stairs of Mrs. Havisham's house, and to his right sat a nebbishy, tight-eyed, curly-haired man who, from every indication, never played a sport involving a ball because he was too involved with Dungeons & Dragons in his youth.  I took the seat nearest to the door, directly across from our host in the high-backed chair, and Karen sat next to him in the crook of the T to my left, with the silent wife of D&D veteran between us.  To my immediate right sat a young man who turned out to be the D&D vet's son.  The tableau was thus set.

In those situations where I'm not interested in remaining too long, I tend to be quiet, because the last thing I want to do is engage someone in a discussion that allows them to protract my stay there.  Our host asked us where we were from and used our answers as a platform to advise us about himself.  He was the son of two very famous actors from a by-gone era, one of whom is still alive, and not surprisingly took great pride in them.  Playing the role of a dweeby Ed McMahon was Mr. D&D, chiming in every now and then with some quip that wasn't funny or relevant, most of the time.  This led me to believe that perhaps he was blootered, but that conclusion didn't take into account the obtuseness of most D&D veterans.

Our host began his attempt at colloquy by informing all of us that his daughter was upstairs and that she'd already set ground rules for the use of gender-specific pronouns, preferring they and their to she and hers.  If I hadn't already grasped that I was in an alternative universe, I surely knew it with that declaration.  That our host merely rolled his eyes and attributed it to that generation merely confirmed my realization.

To try and accurately describe the sequence of the talk is impossible, given its highly bizarre and random nature, so the following things, although they certainly took place, may not have happened one after the other.  At some point a discussion of the son's career goals and studies was broached, and we learned that D&D Jr. was targeting a job in academia.  Well, those who can, do, while those who can't, teach. 

That gave our host the excused he needed to wax morose about how he was unable to get a teaching job because he didn't have a bachelor's degree, that he was finally given one for life experience (I didn't know they did that sort of thing; I question whether that really happened) and was now pursuing his Master's in Fine Arts somewhere in residency.  In a portent of things to come, he joked that he should have attended Trump University because not only would he have gotten his degree, they would have had to pay him for it. 

From there he talked with my cousin about some inane bear costume and the need to get it cleaned due to the paint he wore in his performance art show -- they want us back, because we really packed them in, but they have to pay us more, you know? -- until the talk drifted off into a bizarre intellectual mutual stroking session involving the etymology (not origins, by all means), of the word bulldozer.  Mr. D&D posited that it originated from the use of white racists -- are there any other kind? -- using whips as they would on bulls to keep blacks from voting.  He was immediately challenged by the host, who chirped up that it was probably as false as was his contention that picnic came about from a bastardization of picking nig...s out of voting lines, which they subsequently debunked at another of their bacchanalian gatherings.  D&D's son chimed in with the etymological nugget that picnic actually came from the French picnique.  As one might imagine, my eyes were pretty glazed over by this point.

Somehow the discussion took a left turn back to politics with D&D raising the point that although they were considered coastal elites, they really weren't.  They only thing they shared with that term was that they lived on the coast.  The host then offered to further educate his guests by explaining the origin of the Electoral College (graciously, he spared us the etymology of the term...) and how the Founding Fathers wanted to make sure that the coastal elites didn't control everything for everyone, including those in the interior.

At this point, had things ended there, it would have been an uneventful but anecdotal evening.  But D&D, overplaying his hand and proving once again why he was condemned to play D&D in high school, ventured that the reason we're in the situation we're in is because of the shitkickers in the middle of the country.  Suddenly the glaze covering my eyes went away, my interest perked up and my Irish was emerging. 

I beg your pardon, what did you say?  I queried.

Unabashed or unaware of the coming storm, D&D repeated that those of us in the middle of the country are shitkickers. 

My Irish was fully up now.

You know, inasmuch as you dislike being referred to as coastal elites, we take offense at being shitkickers, I replied.  I'll put my three degrees up against anyone from Hollywood anytime.

Finally recognizing the storm he kicked up, he said some more inane things as our host, probably not wanting to lose his audience, tried to calm things down.

The problem is that you can't contextualize my apology, said D&D.

Imagine my surprise.

WHAT APOLOGY?  I'm sure I probably screamed; you'd have to ask Karen.  I was fully ready to key in the launch codes.

The problem is that you don't understand because you're a victim, he poo-pooed.

With that Karen joined the fray, at once contesting his assignment of victimhood while noticing the vein protruding from my forehead.

Let's go, she said far more calmly than I would have.

And with that, we wended our way down those rickety stairs.  I think I understand now why the stairs are the way they are:  Much like Roach Motels, they're meant to keep people from checking out.

Karen handles the niceties with my cousin, telling her that we'd take the subway.  I was too far gone to think rationally.  We got out in the street, my cousin ended up driving us back to our apartment while profusely apologizing and me descrying everything D&D said about shitkickers.

So our Thanksgiving night in New York City involved me learning how to twist a noun -- context -- into a made-up verb -- contextualize -- while learning exactly what happens to D&D veterans who fail to...wait for it...socialize properly.  I also met the son of famous actors who wasted the silver spoon with which he was born by living a dissolute life with losers who couldn't spell hypocrisy if we spotted them H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-S.  I also saw what the spawn of D&D turn into when not removed forcibly by authorities at an early age.

Fortunately for them, they never learned just how much and how well I can kick shit.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Sanctuary Cities

Last week, the Joan of Arc of Chicago, Rahm Emanuel, took to the podium in the wake of Donald Trump's election as president to declare that Chicago, infamous for having 656 deaths so far this year, would be safe for illegal aliens seeking to flee the federal government's attempts to deport them.  Putting aside for the moment the irony of the mayor declaring that anyone could be safe in his city, the gall of announcing, merely a week removed from a bitter election, this obvious slap in the face of the President-elect is the functional equivalent of waving a red cape at a bull.

(Yes, I know the color of the cape is irrelevant...).

If anyone took the time to analyze the cities that harbor illegals, she would find that the vast majority of them are governed by Democrats.  This is the same party that will cook an election to get its preferred candidate elected, will coopt the press to skew poll results to persuade the electorate to accept false facts and is now doing nothing to quell violent unrest at the prospect of being governed by a different party.  What's more, Democrats don't seem to understand the Constitution very well.

There are, as we know, a separation of powers between the three branches of government.  There is also, people forget, the supremacy of the federal government over state government in certain matters.  State laws, insofar as they involve certain issues, may not be abridged by the federal government unless they're deemed to violate the Constitution in some way.  For example, contracts regarding sales of real property are state law issues, unless redlining to keep minorities out of certain neighborhoods occurs, in which case it's unconstitutional because it violates the Equal Protection clause.

Federal law determines immigration status.  For individual cities to obstruct the federal government in its attempts to oversee immigration, they're essentially guilty of a crime -- obstruction of justice.  Because putting a city in jail is impossible, other ways of penalizing the cities is needed.  This, in turn, is where the cities have made their biggest mistake.

Most cities in the United States, because they're governed by Democrats, are in financial straits.  No one likes to dole out money (for votes) like a Democrat.  No one likes to spend money frivolously like a Democrat (although, to be fair, there have been a few Republicans who'd like to vie for that title).  But in so doing, Democrats are butting up against an ugly fact:  The electorate will allow itself to be taxed only so much.  It's the political equivalent of getting blood out of a turnip.  Somewhere, somehow, additional funds must be found.  Welcome the federal government.

The federal government, in turn, when it's run by Democrats, has no trouble turning a blind eye to the cities' insouciance on immigration because it shares the same goals of getting more voters sucking from the public teat.  But when Republicans take over the federal government, the situation turns ugly for cities, because Republicans won't tolerate the cities' defiance on immigration control.  Rahm Emanuel is playing to the crowd, because he knows darned well that Mr. Trump won't stand for his defiance and will slash federal funds to the city -- his only leverage -- which will in turn give the Rahmer stump material when things get tighter financially in Chicago.  What Rahm is underestimating, however, just like the national Democratic party, is the amount of agreement it will find within the electorate against the federal government.

People are fed up.  So far, Mr. Trump hasn't even been sworn in yet, and angry liberals are marching and protesting and lecturing as if they are the ones about to rule.  Yet there were millions of Americans who not only elected Mr. Trump but also a few hundred Republican lawmakers to give the conservatives control of both houses of Congress.  Not only that, Mr. Trump may very well get to nominate four justices to the Supreme Court that would very likely view sanctuary cities unfavorably.  So the federal government will turn off the spigot to cities that refuse to cooperate with ICE and DHS, resulting in untold misery for the citizens of those cities.

And so it should be.  If the citizens agree with what their governors decide, they should share in the misery that budge-tightening will bring.  If they don't, they can vote their governors out of office.  The Rahmer is betting the former will happen.  Heaven knows, Chicago is as corrupt a political operation as the Stalinist machine ever was.  The people are beholden to the Machine and scared to defy it.  Services will be withheld.  Problems will escalate.  Fear is a great motivating tool.

But the courts ultimately will have to settle this issue.  At its root, it's a political issue, but one that lies in judicial soil.  The courts will have to determine how the City of Chicago and other like-minded cities have to respond, and the SCOTUS will decide if the lower courts made the right decision.

And thanks to Harry Reid, President Trump will be able to appoint judges that agree with his vision of America.  Those nominations will be filibuster-proof thanks to Harry Reid and his Merry Band of Idiots, and the SCOTUS appointments will be somewhere in the range of three or four over the next four years.  Good luck on keeping sanctuary cities.

For Chicago, however, it'll be more of the same.  Rahm, who almost lost to someone named Chuy in the last mayoral election, is clearly pandering to a particular electorate, because he's pissed off African-American voters.  He'll probably get reelected in the next mayoral election, and now that his benefactress, Cankles, is out of a job, that's a good thing for him.  But he can ride off into the sunset after his next term, become a political strategist and retire with that smirk on his face.

And the citizens of Chicago will be poorer because of him.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Earn This

Lest anyone think that I'm infatuated with Mr. Trump, realize that I'm not so proud of having voted for him -- which I did -- as I'm proud I voted against Cankles.  I've been consistent about my opposition to Cankles, and just about anyone with a pulse would have sufficed over that harridan.  So I'm glad that she's lost, but I have to admit, I've come around a little on Mr. Trump.

So far, Mr. Trump has behaved presidential.  No moronic outbursts, no outlandish statements, he's being very somber and sober.  How long this continues is anyone's guess.

He sat down with Lesley Stahl of 60 Minutes last night and couldn't be baited into anything that would make the front page of the Leftist media rags.  He answered questions soberly, thoughtfully, and even disavowed any violence perpetrated by his followers against Muslims and other minorities (contrary to both Cankles and the POTUS, who have been unremarkably silent toward all those protesters who see apocalyptic visions of a Trump presidency). 

Even so, Mr. Trump didn't get a mandate in the election.  There's still debate about the outcome of the popular vote, although there's little reason to believe that the Electoral College vote will turn out in favor of Cankles.  So Mr. Trump, as evidenced by the ongoing protests as well as by the narrow margin in the popular vote, has work to do.

Some of his platform is very, very disagreeable to people.  Some of it is scary.  And some of it seems to be unattainable.  There are people who will do whatever they can to stop him from carrying out his agenda.  Yet he has stuck to his platform pledges, by and large, and with a Republican Congress behind him, should be able to accomplish what he wants to do.

But that's not all he has to do.  That will satisfy those who voted for him.  But for those turned off by him, he has to reach out to them and show them that he's not the anti-Christ.  There are several things he can do to this end.

First, the composition of his cabinet is crucial.  He must involve minorities -- conservative minorities, but minorities -- and not just tokens.  They have to have important positions and be left to do what it is they were appointed to do.  The same with the SCOTUS.  There are plenty of qualified minority judges who could be elevated to the SCOTUS.

Next, he has to reach out to minority communities.  He can't compromise his beliefs, but he has to show them that his positions aren't based on race.  For example, get rid of all the gangbanging illegals, but go to the Latino areas and start initiatives to aid them in their transition to becoming Americans.  Lead the way on things like education, learning English and other ways of becoming fully integrated into this society.

Likewise, so similar things with law-abiding Muslims.  I'd shut off the refugee pipeline as well until such time as Congress figures out a way to properly vet refugees for terrorist ties.

With the black community, work with it to show that police violence won't be tolerated, but that black youths have to cooperate with cops.  Work on educational opportunities for lower-income people.  Make people qualify for welfare, but don't just strip it away from them.  Given them incentives that will allow them to get off welfare.  Don't just preach to them.

I'm not the one to make cogent suggestions.  I have no interest in politics and can't come up with good ideas.  Hire people who can, though, and the road will be much easier to travel.

I'm reminded of the final scenes of Saving Private Ryan, where the dying Captain Miller pulls the rescued Private Ryan to him and whispers Earn this with his dying breath.  That's what Mr. Trump has to do now:  Earn this.  It's an awesome privilege and a terrifying burden that he's assumed, but he asked for it.  Now he has to earn it.

Earn this, Mr. Trump.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Total Repudiation

They were wrong.

The MSM, the Republican elite and Hollywood elite were all wrong about the presidential election.  Despite the fact that they acted as if they possessed all the knowledge about what was right for the country, what would happen with the vote and how they could guarantee a better union, not one of them was proven right.  In fact, each of them in turn was proven horribly wrong.

The MSM is the most hypocritical of all.  Thanks to Wikileaks revelations, we learned that the MSM was actively operating behind the scenes to assist Cankles in the debates.  At least thirty so-called journalists emailed Cankles' campaign with offers of assistance.  Donna Brazile, who reminded the world that as a Christian she knows persecution (I don't recall her having been in the Colosseum...), was shown to have sent Cankles questions ahead of debates.  Independent organizations have rated the coverage by the MSM outlets as 91% hostile toward Mr. Trump.  The moderators of the first two debates were pilloried for their offensive conduct.  Yet, implicit in its criticism was the notion that it, above all, knew what was best for America and even rigged polls to show the unaware public that Cankles was supposedly leading, when in fact she was trailing horribly and pictures of overflowing Trump rallies mocked the silent and mostly unattended Cankles rallies.  People claiming to be journalists even outed themselves and claimed a moral responsibility to actively campaign against Trump in their attempt at journalism.

I called out the MSM several times for its Nazi-like attempt to side with one party to the detriment not only of the other party but also of the country.  I was proven to be correct.  Lest anyone think I'm out on a limb all by myself, check out this article:

http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2016/11/10/liberal-journalists-are-biggest-losers-in-trump-victory.html

The RNC also shares in the repudiation.  The Bush family, notably, withdrew its support from Mr. Trump.  John Kasich also walked away from him, as did other high-ranking Republicans.  George Will, one of my favorite columnists, withdrew from the Republican party when Mr. Trump became its nominee.  The underlying message from the RNC is that it knew better than the electorate did what the country needed, and the country certainly didn't need Donald Trump.  Unbelievably, despite this selfless assistance from both the MSM and the RNC, the country rejected the free advice.  Now the RNC is scrambling to catch up, trying to burnish its image and do away with the bad publicity garnered from not supporting a successful candidate that ran under its banner and pulled off the biggest upset in political history without much help from the party.

At least with the MSM and the RNC, there is an attempt at sounding and being intelligent, no matter how Machiavellian the machinations.  Hollywood, on the other hand, was pure motion masquerading as, well, I'm not sure what.  The unremitting anger, wailing and gnashing of teeth, calling for revolution is just so...infantile.  It's as if they think they're manning the barricades in Les Miserables.  The man hasn't even been sworn in yet and yet American is headed down a racist, sexist, xenophobic path.  Taran Killam, that noted sociologist who doubled as a mildly talented ensemble player on Saturday Night Live, suggested rather inartfully that anyone living in a rural area was stupid, because most of the rural parts of the country voted for Mr. Trump.  Katy Perry is beside herself, Amy Schumer is, thankfully, quiet for once, Jessica Chastain has lost her mind, Gabrielle Union is trying for an Oscar, Jamie Lee Curtis is trying to network with her niece and Sophia Bush is working on her sociology degree with bad English.  Lady Gaga wants people to fight, although it's unclear whom they are to fight, and Mark Ruffalo is trying to cast himself as Vladimir Lenin by referring to his brothers and sisters and encouraging them to lift their heads up.

In other words, hyperbole never had it so good.

What the idiots in Hollywood did, on a vastly different level, was the same thing as the MSM and the RNC did, albeit on a different level:  It treated the great silent majority of Americans as stupid and uninformed, unable to formulate an opinion without their assistance.  The fact of the matter is, many of us had formed an opinion over the last eight years of elitist social engineering and decided we were tired of it.  The revolution, now called for by Hollywood's vanguard of political activism, took place over the course of eight years, and the elites were clueless about it.  For the only revolutions that can happen are ones that they approve, they begin, they champion.  If a revolution counters their beliefs, it's completely ignored.

They were repudiated, loudly, by the silent majority.

Let that be a lesson.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

MSM Bias Confirmed

I posed the question awhile back:  Can the MSM steal the presidential election?  Whether it can remains to be seen, but from all indications, it's trying its darnedest.

Donald Trump, as is his wont, was found to have made some rather intemperate and, well, rude comments about women back in 2007.  The MSM, of course, jumped all over it and made him apologize, publicly, for his indiscretion.  To be sure, the comments were lewd.  They were less than comments any guy who's ever been in a locker room has heard, but still, they don't reflect well on a man who wants to be the leader of the free world.  He's not the first presidential candidate to be a cad and he won't be the last, sadly.  His crime in all of this is to have done it in the era of the ever-present technology that can record any- and everything.  That doesn't exonerate him; he's wrong.  It just puts his misfeasance in perspective.

At the same time, Cankles' adoring husband, Slick Willy, has long been rumored to have bedded several different women, voluntarily and involuntarily on their part, while he's been married to Cankles.  Some of these women have alleged abuse at his hand.  Infamously, Monica Lewinsky suffered publicly for her indiscretion with the former president.  Recently, reports have surfaced that Slick Willy vacationed with Jeffrey Epstein at his island retreat that is stocked with women willing to service rich and powerful men and there may be video of it.  This latest bit comes from the FBI investigation into Anthony Wiener; the veracity of that statement is still in question.

The media, however, is in a feeding frenzy when it comes to Trump's indiscretions which, if anyone is paying attention, only amounts to him being a boor.  Unlike Slick Willy's indiscretions, which involve far more than boorishness, Trump isn't accused -- credibly -- of abusing women.  Some women have surfaced claiming that Trump abused them, but those reports are being debunked as quickly as they come out.

Yet, it's become more insidious than mere favoritism abrogating journalistic ethics.  Recent released emails purloined by Wikileaks show that about thirty members of the MSM met privately with the Cankles campaign to ask how it could assist it.  Donna Brazile, the temporary head of the Democratic National Party and a contributor at the Clinton News Network, tipped off Cankles' campaign about questions that were going to be asked in debates.  And she's not the only one who did that. 

What's happened is that the Fourth Estate has become a Fifth Column.  The MSM is undermining our democracy by openly siding with one candidate over another.  And it's doing so not with someone virtuous and clean.  It's doing so with someone about whom there is more scandalous smoke than there is about the candidate about whom they're lining up to defeat.  Cankles is under criminal investigation by the FBI, for crying out loud, yet the MSM acts as if she has a sniffle.  Trump, on the other hand, is the devil incarnate.  Whatever allegations against him exist, they pale in comparison to the wrongs committed by Cankles and her gang.

For the MSM, however, it's time for everyone to resist the Visitor.

The sad part is that there's absolutely no way to hold the MSM accountable.  For me, my trust in the MSM no longer exists.  If I have to find out news on social media because the MSM won't report it lest it conflict with its choice for elected office, there is no such thing as journalism anymore.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Sherman

Today I did one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. 

I had to have our beloved bulldog Sherman put down.

Sherman was really the first dog I've ever had. Growing up, Himself wouldn't let us get a dog, saying that it wouldn't be fair to not have enough space for it to run around and play.  During college, the family went down to New Mexico and brought home a stray Siberian husky they named Anoosh.  Since I had to stay home and work to earn money for school, I wasn't a part of the decision, and what's more, I was away at school nine months out of the year, so I didn't really get emotionally invested in Anoosh.  Compounding the emotional distance was the fact that Himself, despite what he said about a dog needing to have space to run and play, kept him tethered to a line in the back where he slept in a doghouse.

The other dog that I had any connection to was a Tibetan terrier my ex-wife insisted we buy.  Not a frou-frou dog, but not a real dog either, it went to her when we split up.  The only thing I missed about that dog was its name.

But then there came Sherman.  Actually -- or literally, take your pick -- it was a package deal.  Karen had him when she left a very bad marriage.  Sherm was a rescue filled with medical issues.  Karen tells me he was round as they came when she got him, because the former owner indulged him too much at meal time.  But Sherm also had an ACL in need of repair, alopecia and was in need of surgery to prevent his corneas from being scratched to blindness by his eyelashes, something I've come to learn is called double entropion.  So yea, Sherman had an eye job.

Sherm was never going to win Westminster.  He had a roached back, the aforementioned eye job, ears that tulipped and sundry imperfections that ruled out a career as either a show dog or a breeder.  Yet, what he lacked in physical beauty he more than made up in personality.

One might think that with all these maladies, Sherm might be a little testy.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  He was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest dog around whom I've ever been.  If he had a fault it was that he liked to be petted.  He never met a hand he didn't like as long as it was touching him.  Sometimes he made a slight nuisance out of himself with this, but if that's the worst that can be said about him, it's nothing at all.

Sherm liked to eat.  He probably felt that he was getting starved by us compared to the buffet he had been served by his original owner.  We were always worried about hip dysplasia.  Would that that had been his only problem.

When I first met him, Sherm was very active.  This was only six years ago.  He would do this thing that we termed Belushi-ing, which was from Belushi's role in Animal House, where he stood in the middle of the living room and just jumped and turned, awkwardly.  There was nothing awkward about Sherm's movements.  They were lightning quick and playful, Sherm wanting to be chased as he zoomed around furniture in the living room.  He went so fast we started calling this running the zoomies.  It was great fun to watch Sherm when he had the zoomies.

We played tug of war relentlessly.  He'd grab my fingers in his teeth and gently gnaw on them as if to claim them for his own.  He loved being brushed.  Especially when his allergies started making him itch all over, he'd get giddy when he saw me break out the brush.  Custer would run for the high hills, thinking I was going to beat him with the brush (he'd been beaten by his former owners), but Sherman relished the pampering that was to come.  If I stopped and Sherman thought I hadn't brushed him enough, he'd paw me to remind me to continue.  It soothed him so much that it could put him to sleep.

Sherm loved to take rides in the car.  When he knew he was going for a ride he'd get all excited and jump around, pawing our legs and virtually begging to be put in the car.  Once he was in the car, he slept.  I don't know why he enjoyed being in the car so much since it probably bored him to death.  But boy, he did love going for rides.

He didn't care for rain much, or baths, for the matter.  He would run outside and do his business in the rain and then run back under the soffit of the house where he was drier.  When I'd bathe him he'd grump about having to sit with the medicated shampoo on.  He learned to tolerate it but he never came to like it.

Almost paradoxically, Sherm loved snow.  One year we had a horrible blizzard and he ran through the drifts like a snowplow.  He loved colder weather, it being easier for him to breathe.  He also hated grass.  Sherm was a little finicky in that regard.  There were times he looked like an elephant trying to avoid a mouse the way he'd step over grass.

He loved his bed with the bolster.  Sherm was all about the comfort.  He would get so excited when we put down a fresh bed for him, greeting it almost as if it were his birthright.  If Custer made it into a bed before Sherman, he'd pitch a fit until Cus moved and Sherman could take over the bed.  How did Sherm pitch a fit?  He'd annoy me so much that when I got up to take him out, and thereby cause Custer to jump up out of the bed thinking he was going out, too, Sherm would casually stroll over and take his rightful place in the now-vacant bed.

When Karen left her ex-husband, Sherm was her companion.  She cried on him and he kept her company while she mourned the death of her marriage.  In a sense, they both rescued each other, just at different times.  I would often take his scrunched up little face in my hand and tell him that I loved him for taking care of Karen.  I can only hope that he understood what I was saying.  I surely hope he knew how much he was loved.

Sherm was no guard dog.  He liked to make it seem as if he were; when the doorbell rang, Sherm would jump up and bark ferociously at the door as if the Huns were on the other side.  But when whoever it was was let in, Sherman (and Custer, to be fair) turned into the neighborhood welcoming committee fully intent on getting their tribute from the visitors. 

Last night Sherman seemed his old self:  Tired but with a moment of the zoomies.  I fed them late after getting home late myself and then petted them a bit before bed.  Then I took them out to do their business and put them to bed.

When I awoke Sherm wouldn't get up to go outside.  No matter how much I prodded him he wouldn't move.  He was breathing and alert, his nose was cold, but he wasn't moving.  Then I noticed the pile of vomit right by his mouth in the bed.  Sherm, being the persnickety sort he was, would never abide that if he were well.  He'd sooner get out of bed and lie on the floor.  It was obvious something was wrong.  But Bulldogs are notorious for not alerting people that they're injured or hurting.

I lifted him out of the bed and he had trouble standing.  One time his right front leg buckled and his head was on the floor, almost as if he were drunk.  He wouldn't walk at all and just stood there.  I had to lift him outside to do his business and he wouldn't even squat to do it.  It just came out of him.

I called Karen, who was at the hospital for her mother, and we agreed that Sherm had to see the vet.  We knew he was getting older and thought that perhaps he had some gastro issue that was making him lethargic.  Sherm couldn't even walk to the car, so I had to carry him out there and load him in as gently as I could.  I never thought this could be his last ride.

We got to the vet's office and I carried him in.  The vet himself wasn't there yet, so the technician called and it was decided to do blood work and have an X-ray done.  Once that was done, Sherman stayed with me in the waiting room, lying on the floor as I rubbed him.  I was concerned, but I can't say I worried.  If anything, I wondered if I'd have to take off work to stay home with him and monitor him.

The vet was gentle as he delivered the news.  Sherm had a mass by his heart so big that it obscured partially seeing his heart on the X-ray.  He also had a build-up of fluid that was adding to his discomfort.  He didn't call it cancer; I had to ask him.  I suppose people get overly emotional when they hear the term.

The vet explained that we could take Sherm to a cardiologist but that this was probably just going to come back.  He said that Sherm might die in a day or in two weeks; he couldn't tell. 

I called Karen and we both broke down.  We'd discussed what it would be like when we got to this moment, but this moment came far more quickly than we anticipated.  The humane thing was the right thing, but it was also the worst thing for us.  We'd be losing the one thing that we'd had since we've been together, the one being that supported us unconditionally and loved us no matter what when others spurned us.  We were about to lose our cantankerous old four-legged man, and there was nothing we or anyone else could do about it.

We made the decision, sadly, to have him put down.  The formalities had to be addressed -- cremation, burial, ashes -- and then it was time.  The vet administered the sedative and Sherman was gone, forever.

I insisted that I carry him to the back where they'd take care of his body.  I'd brought him in, he was ours, I'd take him those final steps that he couldn't walk.  I gently laid him down on the table and stroked his side, telling him I loved him and thanking him for all that he'd done for us, mostly for taking care of Karen during that hardest time in her life.  Then I kissed his cheek and left.

The vet told me we'd made a brave decision.  I don't know how brave it was.  It was the right decision, to be sure; Sherman didn't deserve to suffer any longer, and seeing him in that weakened, lethargic state was hard.  Perhaps it was a cowardly decision, not wanting to watch him deteriorate at the expense of his life.  But the quality of his life was diminishing, so it was the right decision for Sherman.

I thought I could handle this better than I'm handling it, but I haven't been this inconsolable in years.  In fact, I can only think of two such events that caused me this much grief.  I keep looking at the pictures of him and Cus and realize that that little face that was always the first to greet me when I got home will never again greet me.  The one that pawed the chair wanting to be petted, or the one who got all worked up when he knew he was going for a ride, is gone.  The one who took care of my girl during the lowest and darkest recesses of her life isn't here to comfort her anymore.

There will be those who say he was just a pet, an animal, and in part they're correct.  But he was so much more to Karen and me that we now have a hole that no new pet will ever be able to fill.  Just as with people, Sherman had his own personality that brought such joy and warmth to our lives.  He's not even been gone twelve hours and I ache throughout my body.  I go through weeping jags where I look like a five-year-old.  I struggle to retain my composure when speaking to colleagues.  In short, I'm a mess.

If anyone wishes to scoff at this, that's his business.  This is our life and this was our pet.  We still have Custer and Bupkes and, probably, will welcome another pet to our home sometime in the future.  But Sherman is the gold standard, the sin par, the best that ever was.  We'll miss him terribly and remember him lovingly.

I will always remember Sherman and smile.

I just wish I had one more chance to brush him.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Other Things Young People Missed

Social media always has these things where people post photos of items from the 60's, 70's or 80's and suggest that someone like and share if he knows for what it was used.  For example, someone might put up a picture of a record adaptor, a device that was used to play 45's on turntables, and ask whether anyone knew for what it was used.  More often than not, I know what the item is, although I miss a couple now and then.

Then there are the ones that us old fogeys are constantly thumping on, like dial telephones, but there are other things younger people don't and can't possibly understand because they've never experienced them.  Sure, they can pick up a dial telephone and look at it like a relic, but that's a museum piece now.  The things to which I'm referring can't be replicated so easily and they won't be found in a museum.  At best they're in history books.

For example, it used to be that gas was pumped for a person by a gas station attendant.  What's more, the gas tank was located somewhere in the rear of the vehicle and gas was pumped into the tank behind the license plate.  Who'd ever think of looking for the gas tank behind the license plate now?  There may be a station or two that will have that available for drivers nowadays, but that's so retro that it's quaint.  Most people pump their own gas now.

Another thing that was different was beverages at fast food restaurants.  Now, once one's bought a drink at McDonald's or Burger King, there's a station where free refills can be obtained.  Back in the day, if one wanted a refill one bought another drink.  There were no refill stations.  The decision was made to allow free refills by Taco Bell, which was owned by a soft drink company, in 1988.  Before then, one had to buy another drink if one wanted a refill.

Regarding telephones, there didn't used to be call-waiting or caller ID, much less voice mails.  If one called a person who was on the phone, one got a busy signal.  There was no way to know anyone was calling, as there was no digital read-out nor was there voice mail.  And for the person calling who received a busy signal, there was no way to know if the person was on another call or if the phone was simply off the hook. 

Getting from one place to another, especially on long trips, was done with paper maps.  There was no GPS, no Tom-Tom or Garmin, nothing.  I still rely on maps to the exclusion, almost, of mechanical devices.  Where the devices are useful is for back-ups, accidents or road work.  Before the devices came along, there was no way of knowing about these things unless a radio station reported it.  But one had to know which radio station to listen to to hear the report, and that was accomplished mostly by luck. 

Likewise, television was limited, severely.  Until cable television came along, people in most metropolitan areas got five or six stations, at most, with varying degrees of reception.  The fact that I'm a Cubs' fan is attributable, in part, to the fact that the Cubs played on WGN, which was always visible, while the other team in Chicago played on WFLD, which more often than not was like watching baseball being played in a blizzard.  Now, baseball fans can watch games in every city in which they're being played, in addition to old series on stations like TVLand. 

Food has changed, too.  Besides the health craze and similar fads (tofu???), there's been an explosion in taste, for lack of a better term.  For example, when I was growing up, if one wanted potato chips, one ate potato chips, which tasted like potatoes that had been fried and sliced.  Then there were BBQ potato chips.  One big innovation was rippled potato chips, which affected the texture more than anything.  The other day, I had Asiago-flavored potato chips. I saw Gouda-flavored potato chips.  It's insane, but in a good way.  Crackers now have different flavors as well. 

Progress and innovation have improved our lives in many ways.  Most of us who grew up in the 60's and 70's can easily point out the obvious ways -- computers, cellphones, etc. -- but the ways outlined above are often forgotten.  Life is better and easier.

I just wonder what our Mother would think about all of this.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Things My Wife Says

I love my wife.  Yeah, she's hot.  I'm overly -- some would say unnaturally -- attracted to her.  But I genuinely like her and enjoy her company.  I wouldn't care if she was voted the most physically attractive woman by all humanity, I'd still appreciate her at least as much for her personality and intelligence as for her beauty.

What makes Karen fun is her joy for life, her insatiable curiosity and her constant needling of me.  Sure, sometimes the last item gets on my nerves, such as when she's telling me to watch what I eat (don't I always...?).  More often than not, however, what she says just tickles my soul.

For starters, since she came from a different (and much better) state than Illinois, she has certain verbal mannerisms that are unique.  For example, she'll say The dog needs fed rather than The dog needs to be fed.  She's prone to using terms for things that I've never heard before, which makes communication new and exciting at times. 

When I get tickled at her, Karen thinks I'm laughing at her.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  I find her regional dialectic to be refreshing.  I like words, language.  That my wife speaks differently than I do is the same as the fact that she does other things differently than I do.  That doesn't mean she's set for ridicule.  It just means I find it enjoyable that she's different.  To be the same as me would be boring.

Picking a place to eat is nightmarish.  Karen has specific dietary needs, so where we can eat can be a challenge.  I'm a goat; I can eat just about anything, anywhere.  She, on the other hand, has to be careful about where we eat.  So when we go out to eat, the choice of where we eat is an issue, because it makes perfect sense to me that she should choose from the three or four places where she can eat.  Being the stubborn Scot that she is, she tells me that I should choose.  Having been down this road more than a time or two, the discussion usually follows this routine:

Me:  All right, let's eat at Applebee's.

Karen:  But they don't have anything I like there.

Me:  How about Qdoba?

Karen:  But we just ate there two nights ago.

Me:  What about Panera?

Karen:  I can't eat there.

Me:  What about Arby's?

Karen:  No. 

Me:  Fine, then you pick it.

Karen:  But I want you to choose.

Yet where Karen really shines is when she comments about me.  Karen doesn't mince words.  She won't go into attack mode unless it's about politics and she's provoked.  Since we're pretty similar in our political beliefs, that's not really an issue for us.  No, her comments about me are just pure honesty...with a heavy patina of hilarity.

Once, Karen took a look at my high school picture when I told her she'd never have dated me then.  She took one look at my picture and declared without missing a beat that only because of my unfortunate eyewear would I have been disqualified.  Doesn't my personality, my wit and my charm have any way of overriding that?, I asked.  Nope, that eyewear was hideous, she averred.

Fortunately for me time travel is not yet possible and she's stuck with me and my upgraded eyewear now.

Recently we revisited my woeful high school years and the hypothetical that we might have dated had we been in the same school.  I would have taken you on, she said casually, as if she were considering hiring an apprentice bricklayer for a summer job.  You would have taken me on? I asked her with mock hurt.  Yeah, I would have taken you on, she replied, unconcerned about the employment overtones of the comment.  I just guffawed at her comment.

But even that compares to her most recent comment.  In a rush to get out the door for some errands, I grabbed a T-shirt out of the closet that was some shade of green and put it on, hoping that it would match the green-plaid cargo shorts I had on already. 

(Note:  My wardrobe choices are a constant source of consternation for us.  Apparently, even at fifty-five years of age, I dress like a child, according to my wife.  Although I'll readily admit that I can barely spell fashion, much less adhere to it, I'm not nearly as bad as she thinks and not nearly as good as I think.  I'm somewhere in between, although, again, Karen would declare that I'm somewhere between horrible and hideous when left to my own fashion devices.  We've squabbled so much on this point I ask her to just lay out my clothes for me so we can get the dressing part over with and get on our way.  Karen, in turn, tells me I'm a grown adult and that I should pick out my own clothes, which I then do, only to provoke more fashion outrage from her, and the cycle continues.)

So as we drive away Karen tugs my shirt over my pants leg and says, quite naturally, Wow, this shirt matches your shorts.  How'd that happen?

And there, people, is a perfect illustration of faint praise.

I just broke down laughing.  Karen was surprised at my outburst, seeing nothing hilarious about her comment but everything surprising about the outcome of my clothing choice.  I laughed for a good five minutes about her query.  Based on our history of quibbling about my clothing choices, her question was a good one.  But the delivery sealed the deal.  I'm still chuckling about her surprised question about my wardrobe choice that day.

So the things my wife says are amusing and funny and enjoyable.  They are what makes like livable.  She's not always right about everything -- although she'd disagree with that -- but it's not about being right.  It's about the humor, the fun, the wit. 

The funniest part about it, though, is she was right about that T-shirt.

I have no idea how that happened.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Cankles, Coughing and Cover-Ups

Another week, another attempt to deceive the American public by Cankles.  This week's cover-up is relatively benign, considering all the other attempts she and her minions have made, but its implications going forward are ominous.

First, the truly minor cover-up had to do with Cankles' health.  After a coughing fit last week, she had to leave a 9/11 memorial service and, as she was being led into the vehicle to whisk her away, she faltered so badly that she had to be held up by her security team.  She then went not to the hospital but to her daughter's house, from which she emerged a few hours later looking drawn and tired. 

At first, her staff tried to float the ludicrous story that she'd lost her shoe under the vehicle.  Then it gave another cockamamie story that she was overheated at the memorial service.  It wasn't until hours later that the fact that she'd been diagnosed with pneumonia was revealed. 

The problem isn't so much Cankles' inability to tell the truth -- that ship has long since sailed -- but the ramifications for a Cankles presidency are daunting. First of all, the woman's sixty-nine-years-old.  If she's this infirm during a campaign, how will she be during the rigors of an international crisis?  Can the nation depend on her leadership being firm and unwavering?  Or will she be sidelined due to a chronic or debilitating illness?

Assuming the worst case scenario (although there are those who would call it a best-case scenario) and Cankles has to resign, that leaves us with the underwhelming Tim Kaine, presently the Democratic candidate for vice president.  Although votes are cast that elect him as vice-president in the event Cankles gets in, no one is voting for him as vice president, yet he'd be a heartbeat away from the presidency in that eventuality.  From the little I've heard him speak -- both in Spanish and in English -- he's skilled in nothing more than circumlocution.  He answers questions without even answering them.  Here's a quote from Mr. Kaine answering the question about when he first learned his running mate had pneumonia:

"I don’t want to get into the character of communications, but I reached out to her as soon as the incident happened on Sunday and we had a good dialogue here but other than that, that was the first time we talked,” Kaine said. "I obviously knew from Monday [Sept. 9] when she was coughing that she had a cough and it was likely an allergy but the first time we talked after when we were together Monday was I reached out to her yesterday in New York.”

Huh?

This campaign has been a joke of epic proportions.  For as badly as Mr. Trump has handled and mangled things, nothing he's done is as bad, comparatively, as what Cankles' campaign has produced.  Remember, she's the seasoned politician.  He's nothing more than a businessman cum politician.

There's a possible angle on this pneumonia scare that no one's mentioning, or at least I've heard mentioned.  Cankles has dutifully avoided press conferences, other than the scripted Democratic debates that were little more than speech opportunities for herself.  What if this whole pneumonia act is nothing more than an attempt to gain sympathy for the debates or, even better, avoid or limit the number of debates altogether?  She can claim she's too sick to attend them, and although nothing would please her more than wiping the floor with Mr. Trump, she just can't hack it, on the advice of her doctor.  Asking questions of her doctors would be futile, of course, due to patient-doctor privilege.

It's Machiavellian, I know, but consider how Cankles operates.

Some might actually say this is deplorable.

It is.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

The Clinton News Network

I don't pay attention to every news outlet there is.  In fact, I pay very little attention to Fox, and that I do simply to hear about news the other MSM outlets don't report.  For years, based on what little I've seen it do, I've joked that CNN stood for the Clinton News Network.  I was only joking, derisively, but it appears I may not have been too far off.

Let's examine some of the recent events that took place on CNN, shall we? 

First, when the father of Tyrone Woods, who died at Benghazi, was talking about how Cankles owed his family an apology for not taking better care to protect his son, the talking head at CNN kept pressing him to say whether Donald Trump should apologize to Khizr Khan for his comments about barring Muslims from entering the United States.  Nevermind that Mr. Trump had nothing to do with sending Mr. Khan's son into battle.  Nevermind that Cankles lied to Mr. Woods about the reason there was an attack on the U.S. consulate.  Mr. Trump should apologize to Mr. Khan because his words made him feel bad, while Mr. Woods kept arguing that Cankles should apologize for having been derelict in her duty to protect U.S. citizens.  The two issues weren't remotely equivalent, unless one worked for CNN.

Not satisfied with the protection it was giving Cankles, it decided to edit tweets made by Mr. Trump. Whether one agrees with Mr. Trump's rhetoric, his words shouldn't be edited to fit a particular political agenda.  CNN actually took out the word Crooked and reprinted the tweet without the word.

Still not satisfied with protecting Cankles, a retired policeman who broke into a car to save a baby from a hot car wore a T-shirt stumping for Mr. Trump.  When it originally aired the interview with the hero, the shirt was clearly visible and read:  Trump for President, 2016.  When the interview was aired later on HLN (which is part of the CNN portfolio), this is how it was seen:

Imagine the outcry if Fox did something similar with a BLM member, or a Bernie supporter or a Cankles acolyte.  Leftists' heads would explode without outrage.  But this selective censorship is not only common but expected on the Left.  Anything that pushes Cankles closer to making history is acceptable to them, no matter how it shreds the Left's integrity and message, no matter how hypocritical it may be for a news organization to censor speech, the overriding concern is getting Cankles elected and having access to her lowness when she's sitting on the throne.

If Mr. Trump were to lose the election in a fair-and-square election, that would be one thing.

This thing is rigged.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Journalism and Social Responsability

Jorge Ramos, the most visible of Univision's anchors, was interviewed by Megyn Kelly of Fox News last week.  Mr. Ramos, an outspoken critic of Donald Trump, said that There are certain instances in which you have to take a stand, adding that journalists cannot be objective when confronted with racism, discrimination, corruption, public life, dictatorship or violations of human rights.  Mr. Ramos went on to say that journalists have a social responsibility to confront those in power. 

For years, journalists have avoided injecting themselves into stories.  Objectivity was a by-word of the profession, not something that was applied on a case-by-case basis.  The overwhelming duty of journalists was to report the news.  Commentators and editorialists had the role of commenting on the news with their personal perspectives.  Journalists, on the other hand, were supposed to be the fourth estate, the phrase originated by Edmund Burke and translated to American politics in which the Fourth Estate was to be a watchdog over the three branches of government.

What Mr. Ramos and, as it turns out, other so-called journalists, are advocating is that it's all right to abdicate their journalistic responsibilities and instead become advocates against someone because they disagree with their views.  It should be noted that Mr. Ramos and Mr. Trump have a history going back to a press conference in August, 2015, when an unruly Mr. Ramos was ousted from the press conference.  Mr. Ramos principally objects to Mr. Trump's rhetoric on Latinos, his insistence on building a wall on the southern border and his stance on immigration.  That's his right.  But he has to put aside his personal feelings while he's acting as a journalist.  To do otherwise causes him to forfeit his title as journalist and makes him no better than an educated activist.

There are those who applaud Mr. Ramos's stance, just as there are those, like me, who disagree with him.  In fact, I don't disagree with Mr. Ramos on a couple of matters:  Mr. Trump's rhethoric is deplorable, in the first place, and Mr. Ramos has every right to believe as he wishes.  I disagree that he's supposed to take a stand at this time for one simple reason:  Mr. Trump is nothing more than a candidate for office.  He's not an elected official.  Were he an elected official I might feel differently.

What's more, his position that journalists can't be objective when confronted with public life, as Mr. Ramos put it, is too expansive.  Just what is public life?  Does that mean someone who's in the public eye?  What about celebrities?  Does that mean that journalists can be subjective about which public news they can choose to report?

Mr. Ramos is also being a little bit disingenuous.  His daughter works for the Cankles' campaign, which Mr. Ramos has admitted he supports (her working for Cankles, not necessarily Cankles herself).  Any pretense that Mr. Ramos went into this campaign with objectivity is sorely tested.

But as Ms. Kelly herself pointed out, Mr. Ramos is on the horns of a dilemma.  Ms. Kelly noted that 70% of the American public believes that Cankles is a liar.  Is it something that should be mentioned in every story about Cankles? Mr. Kelly asked Mr. Ramos. 

And this is precisely the problem with the MSM.  Although calling Mr. Trump on the carpet for his rhetoric and positions is absolutely legitimate, and questioning his policies or lack thereof is fine, where is the same scrutiny for Cankles?  How is the American public supposed to be fully informed when the Fourth Estate is constantly ignoring the misdeeds of one candidate to focus on the mideeds of another candidate because they prefer the former candidate over the latter?  How is there any integrity in that stance?  Doesn't this stand, to use Mr. Ramos's word, detract from the journalistic ethic?  Or is it now part of journalism to pick and choose what news to report, measuring it against a jouralist's personal views?

Again, I don't begrudged Mr. Ramos his personal beliefs.  He's entitled to them.  But by ignoring the real dangers of a Cankles presidency, he does as much if not more harm to this country than by taking on Mr. Trump's buffoonery.  If he were attacking for simultaneously, I wouldn't have a problem with this.  But he's allowing his personal views to influence his reporting, and that's dangerous.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Adventures in Teaching

I have great respect for the teaching profession, generally.  I'm not wild about certain aspects of teaching --  unionization, Common Core -- but I believe that teachers are underpaid, woefully.  I've taught, but only at the collegiate level, first as a graduate assistant and then as an adjunct professor at four universities.  I could never teach young children and the thought of teaching at the high school level repulses me.  Teachers at that level are as much disciplinarians as they are teachers, and sometimes more of the former than of the latter.

Be that as it may, there have been some memorable moments in my teaching history.  I've determined that my method of teaching is outdated and outmoded, so I'm probably never going to teach again, which is bittersweet.  I loved teaching Spanish and I was pretty good at it.  I'm not a trained teacher by any means, having been thrown into it as a graduate assistant and learning from my mistakes ever after.  But technology has taken over in large measure, and when it comes to technology, I'm a Luddite. 

Moreover, the acquisition of foreign languages in this country is abysmal.  We rely on foreigners or technology far too much, which puts us at a competitive disadvantage on several levels.  The students' interest level is pathetic, thinking that studying a foreign language is a means to an end and not a goal itself.  If I could have a class full of interested, motivated students, I'd consider teaching, but I fear that won't be possible.

Still, I look back fondly on my teaching career, such as it was.  In grad school, a fellow TA -- teaching assistant, as we were known at that school -- decided to challenge one of my classes to a softball game, so we decided, in collegiate fashion, to make it a kegger.  That is, we had kegs of beer at each base.  I don't remember who won, I don't remember even playing much.  I remember getting home at one in the morning and that attendance was nearly complete.  That we did it in a city park where alcohol was prohibited made it even better.

One of my fellow TA's approached me about teaching a class on profanity.  Not how to use it, but things to avoid saying.  When I lived in Spain I'd inadvertently stuck my foot in my mouth several times, thinking I was saying something innocent but offending people nevertheless.  I announced to my class that attendance at the next day's class was optional, that there would be no penalty for missing it, and that it would deal with profanity -- not how to use it but things to avoid.  I had perfect attendance the next day.  One middle-aged woman who was auditing the class -- and who was nearly old enough to be my mother -- shocked everyone by asking me how to say a specific string of epithets in Spanish.  I reiterated that that wasn't the purpose of the class but got a good chuckle out of it.

While I lived in Spain I worked for a language academy that sent us out to students' homes or businesses for lessons.  At one lesson, one of the students began nursing her newborn right in front of me.  That was a first for me.  At another stop, two Spanish bankers instructed me in the nuances of Spanish profanity.  At a third class, a bunch of Spanish accountants informed me about the nuances of American politics and how naïve I was about our own system...despite the fact that not one of them had ever been to the United States.

Back in the States, I became an adjunct professor after law school.  One of the first classes I taught was at night, on Mondays and Wednesdays.  No night course in college should be taught on Monday nights because Monday Night Football is too much of a distraction.  And a language class on Monday nights?  Forget it.

Then I taught at two schools in my new state.  At one of them, a student was having trouble identifying the subject of a sentence.  I gave him the sentence I love you and asked him to pick out the subject.  Love, he said.  No, try again.  You, he said eagerly.  No, I said encouragingly.  He sat there staring at me, dumbfounded, unable to make another choice.

Another student gave as an answer to an extra credit question, to which the answer was Your Highness, Your Hinest.  This is higher education, folks.  And the sad fact was that she was one of the better students in the class.

Perhaps the most challenging class I taught was one of the last.  It was a Beginner's Spanish class with only eight students in it.  The class was comprised of a foreign student from China for whom English was a second language, two foreign exchange students from Brazil, a vet for whom foreign languages were a struggle, two athletes with different work ethics, a high school student who was very good at Spanish but couldn't speak it and the last student who was simply taking the class as an elective.  Trying to mesh the varying levels of language abilities was a struggle.  The students were mostly very hardworking -- but for one of the athletes -- and the best in the class was the high school student.  But getting the lessons across to that group was a struggle, especially with the foreign students.  Still, it was probably easier to handle that group than a class of high school students.

I love teaching Spanish.  I have a passion for it that comes across readily.  And because I had to learn it from scratch, I understand what students go through.  But I can't do it anymore.  I'm glad I had the experiences I did, and I'm going to miss it, but it's not something I'll ever do again.

Probably.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Excuses For Rioting

Once again a black man has been shot and killed by a police officer.  But that's where the similarities with the raft of police shootings of black men end.  In this instance, the black man was carrying a weapon and pointed it at police, and a black police officer shot and killed the armed black men.

So of course, there are riots in Milwaukee.

Nevermind the facts of the situation, the fact that a black man was gunned down by a cop gives those with an entitlement mentality to riot, burn buildings, assault police and target white people for beatings.  That the man shot by police trained a firearm on them is of no consequence.  That the officer that shot the man was black doesn't matter a bit.  No, this was a call to action. Racism at the core of the shooting and the public weal be damned.

That there is a grievance within the black community about its situation is a fact.  And the reasons for the situation are myriad.  Yet the simple truth is that white America is the cause of all of black America's problems:  Unemployment, lack of opportunity, murders, drug problems, lack of education -- you name it.

The truth is much more gray than that.  Although white America bears responsibility for setting up the conditions that led to a lot of black America's problems, much has been done over the last fifty years to ameliorate them.  We finally have a black president (albeit, technically, a biracial president) and a black first lady, we've had blacks in several high-ranking positions in the government, black Supreme Court justices, black athletes who have worldwide renown, more blacks above the poverty line and in the middle class than ever.  That there are ghettos that are largely black is irrefutable.  But there have been plenty of attempts to correct those situations, yet they continue to exist.

Is it the fault of white America that they still exist?  Perhaps. But what of black responsibility?  Is there no burden that the black community bears for its own advancement?  And what of the rioting that takes place after an event such as the one in Milwaukee?  Sure, there's frustration and outrage, but where are black leaders trying to quell the anger and prevent legitimate businesses and innocent people from bearing the brunt of that frustration and outrage?

Part of the problem, as always, is the media.  Quick to sensationalize a story for the benefit of ratings, the MSM fuels the rush to judgment before all the facts are in.  Much like the death of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, that led to the destruction of so much in that town, salient facts weren't reported initially that might well have headed off at the pass the destructive riots that followed.  Would the rioters have committed these acts had they heard the ultimate resolution, or even the facts?

What's more, why use this an excuse to riot?  Whatever happened to peaceful protest?  Wasn't the election of President Obama the answer to racial inequality?  Wasn't everything going to be righted upon his taking office?   Either way, the rioting is wrong.  There's no other way to say it.

I can't feel the same anger and frustration that blacks feel.  I wasn't a member of an oppressed class.  But the reason for rioting has to be something greater than a criminal being shot dead by police after he pointed his weapon at them.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Why Would Anyone Want to be a Republican?

In the interest of fairness, I now turn to the Republicans to examine why anyone would want to be a member of that party.  To reiterate, I'm a Marxist in the Groucho vein, so I have no dog in this race.  I tend to loathe virtually everything there is about the modern-day Democratic Party, but that doesn't mean I'm enamored of the Republicans. 

In my estimation, there aren't as many tawdry reasons to avoid affiliating with the Republican Party, but Wikileaks is busy right now with the Democrats.  It may turn out that a cache with damning emails is produced that proves the Republicans are the devil incarnate, although right now, that title is clearly with the Democrats.  But there's enough reason to question to sanity of anyone silly enough to join the Republicans.

My chief complaint against Republicans has always been their arrogance.  Never before has it been on display as it has this election year, what with members of the base trying to oust the nominee who won their primary fair and square because he's not conservative enough.  If he wasn't conservative enough, why was he allowed to run as a Republican?  Wasn't he properly vetted?  And if a vast majority of voters elected him, how can it be that an elite minority knows better than the majority?  Is this Plato's theory brought to life?  Did Jonathan Gruber suddenly become a Republican?

The Republican Party is entirely too monochromatic.  In other words, it's too white.  As a white person, I'm not opposed to white people.  I just don't see the Republican Party as inclusive as it can and should be.  Part of that isn't the Party's fault; the Democrats have hoodwinked blacks and Latinos into believing that it's their friend.  But the Republicans share blame for a lack of effort.  At best, it gives lip-service to wanting to be more inclusive.  I don't see a whole lot of effort at reaching out to minorities.  Perhaps it's going on behind the scenes, but while having the likes of Herman Cain, Dr. Ben Carson, Condoleeza Rice and Carly Fiorina on board, it's in the trenches that the gains have to be seen.  Those four people are just that:  Four votes.  Four votes won't win an election.

In part, the Party's platform turns off minorities.  That's because it's been sold that bill of goods by the Democrats who promise the world and provide next to nothing (Obamaphones notwithstanding).  Republicans have to show why welfare is bad and how it's good only for the neediest in our society.  It has to show that hardwork, education and opportunity are the by-words by which to live.  It has to contrast that approach with the Democrats' approach and show the inefficacy of the latter. 

It would also help if it touted its advances in minority advancement within the Party.  This is a huge hurdle because brave souls who dare to label themselves as Republicans are accused of being Uncle Toms within the black community.  It's ironic, one of the underlying principles of the civil rights movement was the freedom to choose one's own destiny.  Yet there's a substantial block that holds that all blacks must think alike.

Republicans also reek of money, although that's as much a mistaken impression as it is that Democrats are blue collar people just getting by.  If one doubts me, look up George Soros, Harvey Weinstein and virtually any Hollywood elitist supporting Cankles.  Both sides have the monied elite, just as both sides have hardworking, blue collar members.  The trouble with the perception is that conservative blue collar types are largely portrayed as hayseeds, trailer-trash or bikers.  This demeaning perception isn't challenged enough to portray to those undecided that the Republican Party is comprised of people from all segments of society, not just the Koch Brothers. 

Still, the overarching problem with the Republican Party is its arrogance.  It did nothing to dispel this when it balked at Donald Trump being its nominee. 

Apparently, those who would hold themselves out as true, Reagan conservatives forgot his famous Eleventh Commandment:  Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles 

Candidates, Their Statements and the MSM

The other day, shockingly (please read that word with the appropriate amount of sarcasm), Donald Trump said something controversial.  In this version, he was railing about Cankles assault on the Second Amendment -- I believe his statements about her abolishing the Amendment were a little overblown, but what else is new with The Donald -- and he said:

“If she gets to pick her judges, nothing you can do, folks,” Mr. Trump said, as the crowd began to boo. He quickly added: “Although the Second Amendment people — maybe there is, I don’t know.”

The Left, of course, is screaming bloody murder that with that statement, Mr. Trump was inciting violence.  Listening to the radio, I heard several people for whom this was conclusive evidence that he was suggesting, in code, that someone take Cankles out.  For them, there was no possible way that the remark could be construed as referring to the NRA's noted powerful lobby in Washington.

Nope, the Donald was putting a hit out on Cankles.

As a somewhat disinterested viewer, I don't believe that even if Cankles got into the White House (again) she'd be able to curtail the rights of gunowners, like me.  At best, Congress may make it more difficult to get guns, or make the vetting process more expansive which, given the mass shootings we've experienced over the last ten years, isn't a bad thing provided that the thrust of the new regulations is at mental health.  I've commented on the quagmire that that would be, so I won't go into that issue any further.  But I don't think that Cankles or Congress would ever be able to require the surrender of lawfully obtained firearms.

Equally, I don't believe that Mr. Trump was advocating violence.  If anything, he might have been suggesting that within the community of supporters of the Second Amendment, there might be a wingnut who would take a shot at her.  It is equally plausible, however, that he was referring to the NRA's formidable lobbying group, which even the Left fears and about which it complains ad nauseum.

Mr. Trump, for his part, has tried to put distance between himself and the Left's interpretation of his comment.  It's not like we'll ever know for sure, so arguing about it is really quite senseless.  At best, it was a risky and possibly dangerous comment to make.  Typically, Mr. Trump's off-the-cuff comments are the ones that get him in the most trouble.

What's interesting, though, is the hue and cry coming from the Cankles camp.  It's to be expected, of course, that she would try to take advantage of her opponent's misstep.  What's more perplexing, however, is that Cankles herself walked down a very similar path eight years ago.

My wife Karen -- the savant of all things political -- reminded me of a comment Cankles made during the 2008 primaries when asked whether she was going to end her campaign in the face of Mr. Obama's obvious impending victory. 

From the New York Times article:

Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton defended staying in the Democratic nominating contest on Friday by pointing out that her husband had not wrapped up the nomination until June 1992, adding, “We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California.”

Here, again, was another off-the-cuff comment that got someone in trouble.  She was taken to task a little, from what I can tell, although there was this odd part from Bobby Kennedy's namesake:

Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who has endorsed Mrs. Clinton, defended her remarks in a telephone interview on Friday evening.

“I’ve heard her make that argument before,” Mr. Kennedy said, speaking on his cellphone as he drove to the family compound in Hyannis Port, Mass. “It sounds like she was invoking a familiar historical circumstance in support of her argument for continuing her campaign.”

 

Now, I suppose that party affiliation is stronger than blood, at least in the Democratic Party, but if I were the son, I wouldn't have been so gracious.  Still, like Mr. Trump's comment, there is room for interpretation of Cankles' comment.  And that's why I would think that someone who blazed the very trail down which her opponent trod yesterday would know better than to utter this:

 

"Words matter, my friends, and if you are running to be president or you are president of the United States, words can have tremendous consequences," Clinton said at an event in Iowa this afternoon.

 

"Yesterday we witnessed the latest in a long line of casual comments from Donald Trump that crossed the line," she said.

 

Perhaps.  But didn't she cross the line at least as badly in 2008, especially when referring to a contest involving the first viable black candidate?

 

Again, I'm not defending Mr. Trump's rhetoric.  I'd hoped he'd have tightened up his speaking by now, but he hasn't.  Instead, it's just safer to keep the seat belt on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride until the end of the year.

 

But Cankles is true to form:  Flip flop as needed, disavow doing anything wrong and point the finger at someone for doing something similar to what she's done.

 

The more things change, the more Cankles stays the same.

 

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles