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