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Saturday, Aug 27th

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When Weird Just Isn't Enough

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We're not even into the tail-end, dog days of August and most of the country is already howling at the moon, scratching like mad at imaginary fleas, twitching and itchy all over, bothered and bewitched.

Oh, and, since exporting Industrial-Strength Gonzo-Crazy seems to be our new role in the global economy, let's add the rest of the world to the ranks of the queasy and squeamish.

I'm looking at some bookmarks and clippings heaped here and there, trying very hard to divine any signs of sanity.  Perhaps sanity no longer makes news, which is why it is not being reported.

Of course,  it could be that sanity no longer exists -- another reason it might not show up in any counts or recounts of the day's news.

Hmmm. How to measure The Crazy if The Craziness Measure is missing, or if the units of measurement change faster than our ability to keep up with them, or keep abreast of the latest calibrations?

This is probably like the tail-chasing, exponential mayhem of hiring fact-checkers to keep up with Trump's outright lies -- 21 of them, just in his acceptance speech -- and then discovering no one's footing the double-checking bill, by the time fact-check #14,238,391 comes around, and having to file bankruptcy and dissolve the fact-checking company.  (There's a certain weird balance to that, given the four or six or fourteen or 96 bankruptcies of the man, depending on whom you ask, how you count, where you place the asterisks...)

I feel a beer-thirty chiming on my inner body-clock wall.  Back in a sec.

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Bullets & Ballots ... and Bathrooms

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It's another day on the road with the Totally Amazing -- I Mean, Like Wow! -- Candidate with the Snap-On Head... and the Drop-Down Pants.

But then, it's been a Totally Amazing -- I Mean, Like Wow! -- season for the Grandiose Orange People party, for the Genetically-modified Orangutans Party, for the GOP.

Having had a hearty breakfast of Lucky Charms, His Daily Bread ala Tempest-in-a-Teapot Toast, Juice of Personally-Crushed Oranges, and Oval-Office-tine, The Candidate's head was taken from its storage perch, wiped down, and fully reattached to Body #29.

(Number 29 is the one The Candidate takes to rallies in the south, because #29 has 20% more short, jerky hand motions timed to purposefully NOT match any speech elements whatsoever.  Ol' 29 also has more built-in swagger, and a programmed propensity to kick more things.)

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Slap-Splat! What a Relief It Is!

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Relief comes in many forms.  In one song, it was splish-splash, and taking a bath.  In one heartburn-aid classic commercial, the relief came right after the plop-plop, fizz-fizz.

When it comes to mosquitoes, we mostly still rely on swatting ourselves silly, and then checking around for any lucky-hit carcasses.  Those middle-of-the night, self-pummeling, slap-and-swat fests may be drawing to a merciful close.

This prospect comes as wonderful news to great numbers of people, especially those who live around thick mosquito populations, and to those who are tired of beating themselves up in the dark trying to make the Eeeeeeee-yeeeee-eeeeee stop, and to those who now scare each other by suddenly jumping out from behind doors and shouting Zika! unexpectedly.

That swatting-and-swelling-and itchy-all-over relief, you may be interested to know, is en route by way of [trumpet-and-brass sting!] genetically modified organisms, or GMOs.

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Why Humans Don't Have Super-Powers

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Stop me if you've heard this one before:  Bigwigs pull some strings, and the rest of us hardly ever know what the heck is really going on.  This is how real life works.  It's like looking at a 419-car pileup on the freeway, most days:  Lots of wreckage, and no way to know what really happened, or how to easily untangle the mess.

However, this everyday, hamstrung-pulled reality also contains trainloads of Red Herring Brand fish meal scattered all over the road, for miles around, just in case it might help cover up some of the more telling skid marks, and to help keep anyone from tracing any awkward facts back to any embarrassing sources.

And, you know, truisms, and trains, can collide, like this one:  The deeper the well-fattened, well-privileged hand goes into the forbidden cookie jar, the more fanciful the tale it tells when it gets caught.

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Welcome to the Machine

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I'm not big on predeterminism and Fate, but even less so for parlor tricks of Faith. Coincidences may not be coincidences -- it's tempting to think along these lines at times, sure.  Movies and so on.  I should have been born in Missouri, probably, a stubborn but accessible skeptic, happy to learn... a curmudgeonly agnostic with curiosity to burn.

So, it is with a sense of skewed (if not skewered) aplomb, that I had a run-in with a berserk ATM, then managed to also have an allied discussion run equally amok. Here's what happened...

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Cinders, a Trump Card

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Most people know when something is missing.  Sometimes, it's a perfect word to finish a thought, or else a certain condiment to take the sandwich to "perfect."  Me, at this odd moment at the crossroads of the American Experiment?  I am missing certain writers.

Some writers are compasses of their eras, helping us find our way forward.  Others are beacons, to illuminate where we are, where we might want to go, or avoid going. Some are just comfort and solace --good company during whatever storms and strife we hapless, knot-headed humans have stumbled into this time.

Think of them as providing inspiration, companionship, guidance, patience, understanding, sympathy, empathy -- all of it:  Mother, Father, Confessor, Lover, Professor...  They are the whisky by the campfire, the hearty breakfast after a long night's gabbing into early hours, the hot coffee when you trod in, soaked in a cold downpour.

They help pick up the pieces, reorient yourself to the stars and the fates, and give heart for the journey ahead.  The best writers give you a sense of being perfectly equipped for the tasks ahead, for being in the right place at exactly the right time -- even for doing what needs to be done, however grand or unpleasant.

And, man, do we have some things which need to be done in this country.

Hunter S. Thompson, in his prime, could help us make sense of them, as could Ken Kesey and Tom Wolfe.  And, Mark Twain, Jack Kerouac, Kurt Vonnegut -- the list is as long and winding as the road America itself has plodded on and trod.

These are some of the giants we are missing today.  And, when the truly great giants of thought and mind and spirit are not around, people will take almost any excuse to look up from their labors a sec, try to get their bearings, rest their eyes a spell.

This is part of the problem:  Where are the Giants now?  Feels like we're in a limbo ghost town, watching tumbleweeds woggle and whip past us, leaving us looking down a dusty, windswept dirt road, waiting for the supply wagon to roll in.

Real hot day, sun blazing down, and not a drink of cool water in sight.  Nothing but dust in the mouth, and nothing but swirls of dust in the air.  No giants of thought and insight to help us past this stretch -- just our own minds, and whatever is left of our souls.  Just a lot of little stick men, straw men, all made of dust -- ashes and dust, caked together with dried spit.

* * *

America remains a great and grand dream.  Lots needs fixing but lots of things are still just fine.  We're no longer Number One in many things, as most of the world defines quality of life, or achievement, or what-have-you.  But we're still Number One in many things, and in many ways -- some of them figurative,  in our hearts and spirits, and some of them in provable, actual fact.

Somewhere along the line, however, many of us crossed over into a new space.  That new place is not especially helpful, not for those who went down the new trail, nor for those who refused to follow.

The new place is one where people worship empty dreams -- new beginnings without work.  New rewards without effort.  This new place has people in it who guarantee everyone can convert losses into wins, no questions asked, no sweat equity required, no money down, no deposit, and definitely no return.

It is a land of deep feelings, very light on facts.  It is a land occupied and sown by Republicans since 1987, when a little thing called the Fairness Doctrine was pulled out by its roots, and rightwingnut media bloomed, oozed, festered.

A power struggle ensued.  It is still being fought out today, stronger than ever.  Its founding giant is a small man, but is also a legend and demi-god in his own mind, and in many others' minds, too.  He insists on a wild type of rabid ignorance and personal arrogance in his rank and file, no questions asked.

This small giant is getting the devotion and reception demanded.  The giant, and its followers, have been carefully nurtured by the GOP since 1987, fed on a steady diet of lies, mistruths, and self-serving propaganda, scape-goating, and falsehoods.

Now, it is time for the reaping -- even though the time for any leadership and steering is long past, the reins jerked from the hands of the drivers, the sun-baked leather brittle, snapped.

Freewheeling's the thing, now, see -- bouncing down the face of the cliff, the invigorating breeze in the face is everything!  The feeling of moving forward, hair blown backwards, everyone moving faster and faster...!

* * *

It is difficult to tape bits of paper to cinders.  The cinder sloughs off bits and crumbles, reshaping itself.  The cinder sheds the bit of itself on which anything else tries to attach to  it.  The tape is inert, carrying small bits in its glue, clotted and useless, no longer sticky.

Truth never sticks to small giants, either.  We've seen this a lot, since 1987, and more than ever.  It has been a ride of hypnotic fascination for many, moving from disbelief, that such insensitivity and cloddishness could masquerade as insight and honesty... that the heights of moronic prattling and non sequiturs could ever be taken for diplomacy and intelligence...

The barriers of Reality were pushed back -- slammed back! -- and reshaped in brutal, uncaring fashion.  Slowly, the spell is starting to wear off.  It has been a long time coming.  The spell was first cast, long ago, in 1987, as a way to draw dullards and dimwits to the altar of illusion and dust, where dreams might be made whole again, where lies could become truth, where feelings might become fact.

The small giant welcomed them all into the expanded circle of the clan, for it suited his plan, for the moment, to do so.

Finally, some have started to clear their eyes of the cinders and dust, and allow tears to slowly improve their vision.  Even with new misgivings and shocks, they continue to support the small giant, even while looking to each other for clues on how best to calm their growing reluctance to keep saying yes.

The best anyone's managed, so far, is to continue to voice support, perhaps thinking that their voices will find footing to object, later on, as they continue to speak.

The small giant was well pleased:  He had survived hundreds and hundreds of truths, any one of which would normally have brought down any other giant.  The praise of the supporters only reinforced the belief of his special, invincible nature.

The small giant of cinder and ash still walks among us, swirls of black, inky dust appearing in the air wherever he speaks, nourishing his supporters as if every word were from sweet, freshwater springs, set far into the desert.

* * *

It's a shame we do not have some of those missed writers to help point out the crossroads we travel.  It's also a shame, because half of our nation could use some tips, on how best to help the other half of us come awake, shake off the ash and the dust, and avoid this chipped and rocky path to more ghost towns, daymares, and ruination.

Those writers are not here.  All I can do is play my one Trump Card, and remind you that the small giant marks his territory, putting his name on vacation spots he rarely owns -- always his action of first resort.

... and that choosing a small giant made of cinder and ash, which speaks dust, should be our very last resort -- an option best left unexercised, until the very end.  Then, let him select his own name, when alone, the last one in this world.  Let him grin widely, pleased at making the world in his own image.

Then, alone, in that world,  let all ashes be ashes, and let dust remain dust, as it always must.

Until that time rolls in on us, let us look toward other giants, instead, even if they not be fresh from the spring.  Looking up at giants is the thing, not down, at small men.

* * *

"First, the Doc said there was Asylum.  Out of that good intention grew Bedlam.  Now, I dunno about you," the old desert-rat prospector told his donkey, Hotay, lighting his pipe, "Even if they look the same to most people, I know which place I prefer livin' in."

He got the cooking gear out of the packs on the donkey's back, proceeding to make camp for the night.  "I also dang well know where I don't."

Hotay brayed, scuffed the ground.


Today's Bonuses:

Hotay speaks out:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gROO7xSTxfY

Moments to make you wonder: Too much of a good thing?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWv1TGZ8-s8

 

The Bombs of August : In Remembrance of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

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On Monday, August 6, 1945, after six months of intense firebombing of 67 other Japanese cities, the United States  dropped a nuclear weapon nicknamed "Little Boy" on the city of Hiroshima , Japan.  This attack was followed on August 9 by the detonation of the "Fat Man" nuclear bomb over the Japanese city of Nagasaki. To date, these are the only attacks with nuclear weapons in the history of warfare.

In Remembrance of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

When the bombs were dropped I was very happy. The war would be over now, they said, and I was very happy. The boys would be coming home very soon they said, and I was very happy. We showed ‘em, they said, and I was very happy. They told us that the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been destroyed, and I was very happy. But in August of 1945 I was only ten years old, and I was very, very happy.

The crew of the B-29 was so young and heroic, and in the photo they also looked very happy.  For some reason, I clearly remember the name of the pilot, Paul Tibbets. Of course I remember the name of the plane, the Enola Gay.  And oh yes, I remember the name of the bomb.  It was called Little Boy. That made me smile.

I was so proud to be an American that day because we had done something so remarkable. They said we were the first. We were Americans. We were powerful.  But they didn’t say that Little Boy had killed 66,000 people with its huge fireball that fateful day in August. They didn’t say that Hiroshima was not a military target, but a city filled with men and women and children and animals who had no idea they were about to die so horribly.  When you’re ten, they don’t always tell you everything.

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