My Rabbit Hole

I lead a monastic life, a theater unto myself, sequestered from the tumults and troubles of the world.

— Robert Burton

Crime, violence, vanity, ignorance, disease, poverty, corruption: I'm done with them. 

Done with the day's news stories and current events. 

Done with the real world—with the theater of the forlorn. Done with sorrows, follies, afflictions, and lies.

I can't take them any more.

I'm heading down my rabbit hole, where I can escape the world's heaviness and be a "theater unto myself."

If you care, you can find me there painting.

"A simple line painted with a brush can lead to freedom and happiness," the painter Joan Miro said.

He got that right.

How about you?

What's your rabbit hole? 

Above: Baron von Hoppin' by Jan Weir. Oil on linen. 6 x 8 inches. The Rabbit King by Joan Miro. Etching, aquatint and carborundum on paper. 38 x 28 inches.

Complaining

Many people are never happier than when they get the opportunity to complain.

— Julian Baggini

Complaining is my hobby.

Sure, I could quit my hobby, but only by replacing it with an equally engrossing one.

Woodworking comes to mind.

But then I'd have to invest in a lot of fancy lumber and tools and find a place in the house to build a workshop, whereas I'm already fully equipped to complain.

Unlike woodworking, complaining also has the advantage of being a portable hobby.

I can complain any time, anywhere, about any subject you can imagine.

Despite all the possible subjects, I tend to limit my complaints to a finite set.

You could call me a specialist.

My perennial subjects are other drivers, bureaucrats, banks, phone trees, blister packaging, and auto-fill.

When it comes to complaining, many people have a much wider range than mine.

Their complaints are panoramic.

They will complain about summer days, newborn kittens, gourmet meals, world heritage sites, and virtuoso performances. 

When the market goes up, they'll complain that it was down.

When the movie was fabulous, they'll complain that it was too long.

When the line is short, they'll complain that it's moving slowly.

For these people, complaining is less a hobby than an occupation.

We call them pains in the ass.

Complaining as an art form has a spotty reputation among thinkers.

Aristotle called it "wailing" and said it was a disagreeable habit of women, servants, and "soft" men.

Seneca said it was pointless—like trying to evade taxes.

Kant thought complaining was undignified and unworthy of a gentleman. "No true man will importune a friend with his troubles," he said.

Eighteenth-century essayist Joseph Addison thought that complaining signaled a character defect. "It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect," he said.

But complaining has its defenders, too—especially among contemporary thinkers.

"Being able and willing to complain is what makes us rational and moral animals, capable of seeing and articulating the difference between how things are and how they should be," Julian Baggini has said.

When it's not simple whining, Baggini points out, complaining can take the form of protest, often the basis of important social and political reforms.

Complaining can also relieve common miseries.  

As social creatures, according to Kathryn Norlock, we need to complain, if for no other reason than to "make the unchangeable easier for complainers to bear."

This "cathartic" variant of complaining not only provides us a much-needed psychic safety valve, but underpins many of the greatest passages of world literature, as Emily Shortslef has observed.

Through an "array of rhetorical modes and literary forms of complaint," Shortslef says, writers through the centuries have elevated complaining from mere kvetching to tragedy, giving readers the chance to contemplate the "inherent vulnerability of humans to loss and injury."

Just imagine if Job, Hamlet, Ahab, Yossarian, or Portnoy had been told never to complain.

Earwash

Now wash out your ears with this.

— Paul Harvey

Were its apostles—Hannity, Levin, Ingraham, et al.—not so flagrantly gangsterish, conservatism might have more adherents.

As things are, "conservative" is an aspersion and only 36% of Americans own up to the label, according to Gallup.

That percentage that hasn't changed in three decades.

To increase conservatism's base would take a thorough cleansing of the outhouse that is "conservative talk radio" today.

And it would take the reincarnation of Paul Harvey.

A staple of ABC News Radio, Harvey was carried on 1,200 stations throughout the 1960s, '70s, and '80s, reaching nearly 15% of the US adult population.

Famed for his tagline, "Now you know the rest of the story," Harvey had a quirky, affected delivery, a kind of velvety staccato that he stole from "old-time" announcers and which he made his own by introducing frequent—and senseless—pauses.

Cherry-picking the day's news and adding backstories, Harvey used his daily broadcasts as a platform for an obvious, but unstated, Midwestern conservatism.

Through his copy, he loved to picture instances of self-reliance, honesty, modesty, and diligence. 

He loved Horatio Alger stories and the gospel of hard work. 

He loved tales of sacrifice and heroism in war.

And he loved to berate big government for any effort to bring about economic justice.

"I was never one who sought to make the small man tall by cutting off the legs of a giant," he said of the Great Society. "I wanted to drag no man down to my size, but only to preserve a way of life which might make it possible for me, one day, to elevate myself until I at least partly matched his size."

Harvey's partisanship, veiled by his Puritan-cum-Pollyanna attitude, set him apart as a broadcaster.

So did his commercialism.

Like today's podcasters, Harvey would commingle sponsors' messages with his copy, so that editorial and advertising content flowed seamlessly from his lips.

The practice—we now call it "native advertising"—earned him the label "the finest huckster ever to roam the airwaves."

"I am fiercely loyal to those willing to put their money where my mouth is," Harvey once said.

A testament to his gentle conservatism, Harvey received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from George W. Bush in 2005.

It's the highest honor a civilian can receive.

"Americans like the sound of his voice," Bush said at the ceremony.

"Over the decades we have come to recognize in that voice some of the finest qualities of our country: patriotism, good humor, kindness, and common sense."

You sure won't find anything remotely like those qualities on conservative talk radio today, where venom and lies are the stock in trade.

Now you know the rest of the story.

A Message to Garcia

McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; 
Rowan took the letter and did not ask, "Where is he at?"

— Elbert Hubbard

In our teamwork-obsessed era, when it takes a village just to turn the lights on, we'd do well to bring back into everyday use the phrase "a message to Garcia."

As the Thesaurus of Traditional English Metaphors explains, to "take a message to Garcia" is to "accept responsibility and have enough courage and resourcefulness to complete a task."

Responsibility, courage and resourcefulness are clearly absent from the workplace today. 

The phrase a "message from Garcia" originates from a once-popular 1899 essay about a certain army officer, First Lieutenant Andrew Rowan.

Relying solely on his wits, according to "A Message to Garcia," Lieutenant Rowan ran the Spanish blockade to deliver a crucial letter from then-President William McKinley to the Cuban rebel leader General Calixto Garcia, who was secreted in his mountain hideout.

The Spanish-American War was about to heat up and McKinley wanted Garcia to tell him how many Spanish troops occupied Cuba. 

"There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze," "A Message to Garcia" says of Rowan, "and the statue placed in every college in the land."

The point of the essay is simple: Rowan's exploits should prove to boys that, in a world where lethargy and irresponsibility are the norm, initiative trumps know-how every time.

"No man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed hasn't been appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man—the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it," "A Message to Garcia" says.

"Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook or threat he forces or bribes other men to assist him."

Rowan's guts and ingenuity are qualities every boy should strive to acquire, "A Message to Garcia"  says.

"It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies; do the thing—carry a message to Garcia!"

In short, the workplace needs studs, omni-competent self-starters who are willing to carry the ball without a full playbook, constant handholding, or the promise of a merit badge at the end.

Alas, the self-esteem movement—and its sappy replacement, social-emotional learning—have robbed our workplaces of studs.

Today, employees are entitled. To offer even a lick of initiative, they demand moment-by-moment mollycoddling by their employers in the form of continuous stimulation, entertainment, rewards and appreciation. 

And so they are awarded gamified jobs, chill-out spaces, flexible hours, onsite masseurs, free catered lunches, nap pods, life coaching, artisanal coffee bars, and free gym memberships.

Absent those perks, they become "disengaged."

Even a text message to Garcia may never arrive.

Above all, "A Message to Garcia" wants readers to know that their value to employers comes not from book-smarts or eagerness, but from a kind of deferential dutifulness, a quiet reliability that puts the "help" in "hired help."

"The man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never has to go on strike for higher wages. 

"Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks will be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town, and village—in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such; he is needed, and needed badly—the man who can carry a message to Garcia."

Packing Heat

 

A book is a loaded gun.

— Ray Bradbury

The nation's librarians are under attack, The New York Times reports.

Bent on ridding shelves of "objectionable" books, rabid Supermoms are using threats and intimidation to rout well-meaning librarians.

Even the Proud Boys have gotten involved, disrupting town and school board meetings where books are on the agenda.

Many librarians have caved under the onslaught. Some have had nervous breakdowns. Some have resigned. Some have been fired.

"As highly visible and politicized book bans have exploded across the country, librarians—accustomed to being seen as dedicated public servants in their communities—have found themselves on the front lines of an acrimonious culture war, with their careers and their personal reputations at risk," The Times writes.

The American Library Association says that book-banners have targeted nearly 1,600 titles for removal—the largest number since the association began to track book-banning two decades ago.

For their part, librarians are mortified, seeing their integrity questioned and their professional judgement discarded.

In some states, right-wing legislators are passing laws that criminalize their jobs.

If the book-banning continues, the nation's collections will soon be thinned to the works of Ayn Rand, Bill O'Reilly, Sarah Palin and Donald Trump. 

Oh, and Mein Kampf.

But there is a solution: librarians should stand their ground. 

They should come to work packing heat.

Because the only thing that stops a bad guy against a book is a good guy with a book.

Note: Go here for my weapons of choice.

Razor Sharp

 

The pre-election torrent of GOP bullshit that's wafting across America has prompted many of my friends to promote the addition of critical thinking to the elementary school curriculum.

They're afraid for their children's future.

I'm all for introducing critical thinking into every classroom—but believe it's unlikely to happen.

So what's a parent to do?

Let your children play with a razor.

The handiest tool in the critical thinking chest is Ockham's Razor.

In logic, Ockham’s Razor, named for a 14th-century philosopher, is the "law of simplicity."

Ockham's Razor cuts through bullshit by insisting pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate ("plurality should not be posited without necessity"). 

As such, the law opposes complexity (plurality) and favors simplicity (unity): whenever you have two competing theories, the simpler one is the right one.

Ockham's Razor can cut bullshit positions to shreds in only seconds, which is why you should let your kids play with it.

Here are just three examples.

Trump's election loss

The GOP insists Trump lost the 2020 election because Democrats in swing states conspired either to alter votes for Trump, discard votes for Trump, inflate the number of votes for Biden, or some combination of all of the above.

The simpler explanation of Trump's loss: the majority of American voters favored his replacement.

Child molestation

The GOP insists all gays molest children because all gays are predatory. It further insists that anyone who molests a child must be gay. Lastly, the party claims any gay who denies that he or she is sexually attracted to children is lying.

The simpler explanation for child molestation: some men fixate on children as a result of developmental problems occurring in utero. Adult sexual preference has nothing to do with pedophilia.

Mass shootings

The GOP insists mass shootings result from evil and are an inevitable "price of freedom." They can only be curbed by increasing the number of armed "good guys."

The simpler explanation of mass shootings: the ready availability of guns enables aggrieved individuals to act out their fantasies. Boosting the supply of guns will only facilitate these acts.

Now it's your turn, parents.

Give your kids a razor to play with. It will make them razor sharp!

What the Frock?

I have little respect for Southern Baptist pastors.

Tarot card readers have better credentials.

But when they preach the kind of abject hate Pastor Dillon Awes preached last Sunday, my disrespect turns into contempt.

Marking the start of Pride Month, Awes told his flock that every single gay "should be lined up against the wall and shot in the back of the head."

Hitler-like, he called the mass executions "the solution for the homosexual in 2022."

Realizing his solution might sound a tad harsh, Awes deferred to Scripture.

"That’s what God teaches," he said. "That’s what the Bible says. You don’t like it? You don’t like God’s Word."

I never realized the Ancient Israelites had guns, or shot sinners in the back of the head. 

You learn something every day.

Awe's boss, Pastor Jonathan Shelley, backed his underling's bloodthirsty solution, insisting, "This is not murder but capital punishment."

In case you're wondering, Pastor Awes' Stedfast Baptist Church occupies a strip mall in Watauga, Texas, a suburb of Forth Worth. 

The pastor, of course, doth protest too much.

His obsession is no doubt an instance of reaction formation. 

We'll soon hear, in the manner of so many clergymen, that Awes has been arrested on charges of pedophilia, a crime that, in Texas, earns you a 99-year sentence. 

Fine with me.

As Hunter S. Thompson said, "Anybody who wanders around the world saying, 'Hell yes, I'm from Texas,' deserves whatever happens to him."

Pastor Jonathan Shelley further justified Ames' venomous sermon by claiming all gays molest children.

"It is our duty," he said, "to warn families of a real threat that exists in our society."

Therein lies my concern. 

Were these two morons not influential, they'd be irrelevant—nothing more than two out-of-touch Texas snake charmers.

But they are influential.  

My fear is that scapegoating gays for all of society's problems will become a core GOP tenet; and Pastor Ames' "solution," a GOP policy.

Altered States

Good news: Uvalde looks like the national tipping point in gun control.

Federal reform, of course, is impossible, because the NRA owns the GOP.

But it doesn't own every governor, making blue-state reforms quite feasible.

My own governor and the Democratic leadership in Delaware's legislature right now are pushing a "historic" package of six gun-control reforms.

The reforms would:

• Raise the age to purchase guns to 21; 
• Strengthen background checks; 
• Ban the sale of assault weapons; 
• Ban the accessories used to turn handguns into AR-15s; 
• Ban high-capacity magazines; and
• Hold gun manufacturers and dealers liable for recklessness.

"We have an obligation to do everything we can to prevent tragedies,” Delaware's governor said Thursday in a news release. "I look forward to seeing these bills on my desk this session.”

Other blue states' governors are pushing similar reforms.

If the governors succeed, as I believe they will, we'll soon find ourselves an even more "divided nation." 

There will be gun-safe states and gun-loving states. 

NRA-free states and NRA-owned states. 

Blue states and red states. 

That's red as in blood.

And that's okay, in my book, because parents can simply pick up and move from a red to a blue state.

If they value their kids' lives, they can relocate.

Sure, the housing is tight in the blue states; but the schools and libraries are better, and the jobs plentiful.

Let the red states relish their militarized weapons—and the weekly mass shootings that stem from them.

We blue-state citizens will send them thoughts and prayers.

Trust Fund Babies

 He had a lifelong desire to earn a living,
which helped keep him grounded.

— Julian Baggini

"Let me tell you about the very rich," F. Scott Fitzgerald famously wrote. 

"They are different from you and me. 

"They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. 

"They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are."

Outside of trust fund babies, who doesn't loathe trust fund babies?

They're loathsome because they're born with immunity to all quotidian hardships.

While the rest of us worry what the boss really thinks, how much longer the car will last, and whether to pay the whole credit card bill this month, they worry about the currents next week off Barbados, whether to hang the Basquiat alongside the Beeple, and what to wear to Saturday's steeplechase.

They're not immune, of course, to overdoses, cirrhosis, cancers, or car accidents.

That, at least, is satisfying.

Numerically, trust fund babies are small in number.

Almost 75% of the super-rich 1% have earned their wealth; and only 16% have inherited "old money" (earned two, three or four generations ago).

Nonetheless, that 16% represents 527,000 people to loathe.

These loathsome people have inherited, on average, $2.7 million, according to the Federal Reserve. 

That's $447 for every $1 inherited by the poor.

And not all trust fund babies are, of course, airheaded wastrels. 

History is rife with trust fund babies who worked hard and changed the world.

Buddha. St. Francis. Lafayette. Cézanne. Tolstoy. Bertrand Russell. Edith Wharton. FDR. JFK. William S. Burroughs. Gloria Vanderbilt. Anderson Cooper.

The list is long.

But we tend to stereotype trust fund babies.

Unfairly advantaged in almost every stage and walk of life, they're spoiled and lazy; vain and vapid; aloof and self-righteous; petty and paranoid.

Bolstered by wealth, they are directionless, and know nothing of failure and hardship.

Perpetual child actors, "their life is a series of highlight reels," says writer Tim Denning.

But the trust fund baby would tell us we're guilty of envy, and that envy's a sin.

"Envy rots the bones," Proverbs says.

Envy is insecurity masquerading as resentment: it invites you to compare yourself to others who, by dint of good luck, enjoy status you lack—and to cultivate hatred for them.

"Envy is a mind game with our sinful nature," says Christian writer Quinn Jackson.

"At its core, envy comes from the lack of belief that God is all powerful, cares about you deeply and has wonderful plans for your life."

Envy is in fact so sinful, Jackson says, it's practically inadmissible. 

To admit to being envious is to admit you're "ungenerous, mean, and small-hearted."

Hogwash.

At its core, envy seeks justice.

Envy resides within the heart of democracy.

Envy isn't hate; it's contempt, targeted, in this case, at unearned moneyed privilege—and the power it wields over us, even if only potentially.

As a member of the trust fundless, that contempt is my right.

You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.

Unwritten

Sometimes we regret our failure to write
about things that really interest us.

— E.B. White

Leaning on mutual experiences, writers often neglect to describe what's most vivid to them, because those things are usually trivial, ephemeral, and even embarrassing:

The blueberry and lemon pie that was baked in an Amish woman's kitchen. It remined me why humans have 10,000 separate taste buds.

The emerald-tinged background a Zoom caller used. It made her appear mighty and powerful, like a female Wizard of Oz.

The $300 check the state mailed to my house. It was a "gift" to help pay for gasoline. Delaware has more idle cash than Elon Musk.

A passage in The Searchers describing a harrowing skirmish with Comanches. "Sleep is good and books are better," R.R. Martin says. I love naps, but he's right: books are better. 

Speaking of books, the autographed first edition of Rabbit Run that I snagged off the web for $22. It arrived in the mailbox with the check from Delaware.

The Red Cross worker who spoke my first name every time she uttered a sentence. She either really liked me, or kept repeating my name to prevent her from labeling my blood-bag with some other donor's name. (There were four of us on her tables at once.)

The news from Odessa that Ukrainian soldiers digging a trench unearthed a trove of Ancient Roman amphorae, all in pristine condition.

The art teacher who told me that you're damned lucky to be married to such a beautiful woman.

The red fox in your backyard, out searching for a snack at twilight.

HAT TIP: This post was inspired by E.B. White's 1930 essay "Unwritten."

Wokescolds

When the left becomes grimly censorious,
it incubates its own opposition.

— Michelle Goldberg

During an interview with a professor of English yesterday, I asked whether the late novelist John Updike belongs in the modern canon.

Wryly he answered, "It depends on whose canon."

The cause of his caution was obvious: not knowing who I was, the professor wanted to be spared another bashing by a possible wokescold.

Wokescolds—those busybodies who bash you for any show of disinterest in their causes—are the bane of the Democrats.

They're why the party will lose the midterm elections.

Wokescolds are dangerous because they're smug and obnoxious.

While they relentlessly shame us for our indifference to special-interest issues like "transgender equality," "microaggression," and "cultural appropriation," they remain blind to the fact that most of us care more about guns, gas, and the stock market.

They're dangerous because they make ready targets for right-wing hipsters, who can mobilize uninformed voters with post-apocalyptic visions of a Stalin-style government—even though 8 of 10 Millennial voters don't know who Stalin was.

So here's my two cents.

Wokescolds should take a vacation. 

A long one.

I recommend Mexico. 

With its tropical beaches, boutique hotels, and feisty cuisine, Mexico offers the ideal spot for a getaway.

Just ask Ted Cruz.

And while on vacation, I recommend that the wokescolds bring a little light reading.

Aristotle's Rhetoric would do nicely.

That's where they'll find these morsels of wisdom:

A statement is persuasive either because it is directly self-evident or appears to be proved from other statements that are so. In either case, it is persuasive because there is somebody whom it persuades. 

But no art theorizes about an individual. Rhetoric is concerned not with what seems probable to a given individual, but with what seems probable to a whole class of people. 

Rhetoric, too, draws upon the routine subjects of debate. The duty of rhetoric is to deal with key issues in the hearing of persons who cannot take in a complicated argument or follow a long chain of reasoning.

Got that, wokescolds?

And if Aristotle doesn't convince you to drop the smug and obnoxious rhetoric, maybe you should stay in Mexico—permanently.

After all, you'll love it down there. 

I hear the Mexicans are debating transgender bathrooms.

Time Tunnel

How are we free, under these circumstances?
How can any of us be free?

— Roxane Gay

If you're over 55, you know time travel is possible, because you saw it every week on The Time Tunnel.

If you pick up your TV Guide, you'll learn that in this week's episode a gang of right-wing lunatics wearing black robes seized control of the Time Tunnel and have set our destination for the year 1800.

So you can say goodbye to women's rights—including the vote. To gay and interracial marriage. And to civil rights, equal rights, privacy rights, workers' rights, and the emancipation. 

Those liberties all stemmed from Liberals' delusions.

Say hello to women in their place at the workbench; to gays in the closet; to workers working 70-hour weeks; and to Blacks back out in the cotton fields.

Writing yesterday in The New York Times, opinion columnist Roxane Gay praised the unnamed individual who leaked the Supreme Court's draft opinion overturning Roe v. Wade.

"Whoever leaked it wanted people to understand the fate awaiting us."

She's absolutely right about that: women are about to lose "bodily autonomy."

But—being young—Gay does not understand that this is only the beginning of the ride, and that five crazed justices have seized the dials which control the Time Tunnel.

Fasten your seatbelts, folks.

"I do not know where this retraction of civil rights will end," Gay writes, "but I do know it will go down as a milestone in a decades-long conservative campaign to force a country of 330 million people to abide by a bigoted set of ideologies."

I do know where the retraction of civil rights will end: the year 1800, the last year White American men of wealth called the shots.

In those men's eyes—as in the five reactionary justices' eyes—America went decidedly downhill after that.

Most Americans today have their heads in the sand, to put it nicely.

They're ignorant and naive, and don't know why we enjoy the many civil liberties we do.

They don't know that Lincoln won the presidency in 1860 by persuading votes that rich White men, if unchecked, could—and would—eventually enslave everyone.

They don't know that female "shirtwaist workers" in 1900 dodged bullets and beatings to form a union.

They don't know who Elizabeth Cady Stanton was, or that Jim Crow wasn't a brand of whiskey. 

They don't know what the Stonewall Riots were; or that, before 1973, a coat hanger was the customary means for aborting a fetus.

But they're about to learn. 

We all are.

We're about to relive all those events and more on the next amazing episode of The Time Tunnel.

POSTCRIPT: Okay, I hear you saying, "He's cra-cra." But, trust me, the Constitution is no match for five right-wing lunatics bent on turning back the clock. The justices can—and will—overturn not only prior Supreme Court decisions, but Constitutional amendments as well. Under the 5th Amendment, they hold that power. They will surely use it.

Common Sense

It don't make much sense that common sense
don't make no sense no more.

— John Prine

My keyring holds two identical looking keys. 

One unlocks the front door; the other, the back.

Murphy's Law governs my keyring.

No matter which door I'm hoping to unlock, I always choose the wrong key.

That defies common sense.

But common sense is passé, anyway.

Today, we're "structurally stupid."

Or are we?

When I use my housekey, I do so in the firm belief that it will open the lock.

Even though it never does the first time, I believe it will.

I presuppose that turning the key will unlock the door.

Why do I believe so?

Experience. 

Know-how.

Trial and error.

The very same trial and error that underpins science.

I have an inductive means for making judgements about cause and effect in the real world.

Those means aren't perfect, but they're good enough to get me into the house.

They go by the name “common sense.”

No, we're not structurally stupid.

Some of us just prefer to be assholes.

Many a Slip

There's many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip.

— English proverb

I've always loved this 2nd-century proverb.

We 21st-century folks—quick to shun responsibility—like to say instead, "Shit happens."

But the ancient proverb puts the onus on the individual, not the universe. 

The individual is where the slip so often begins.

Business people are always slipping up: dropping the ball, laying an egg, spoiling the party.

It seems to worsen every day.

Of course, a lot of us have too much to do. 

But a whole lot of us are just plain sloppy and unprofessional.

As my parents would say, "You can't get good service anymore."

Please don't contribute to the problem. 

Instead, today, try to:

• Show up
• Call back
• Keep the appointment
• Follow through
• Pay attention
• Speak plainly
• Be honest
• Offer to help 
• Find an answer
• Keep your promise

And, for god's sake:

• Don't send me a survey every time I interact with you.

Chances are, it will reach me when I'm in a foul mood.

Love It or Leave It

Most Western multinational companies have paused operations in Russia.

But not McDonalds. 

Junk-food retailers don't always own their stores in Russia (they're franchises out of the parent company's control), but McDonalds does.

The company has yet to make a public statement about the invasion of Ukraine by Putin, because Russia accounts for nearly 10% of its revenue.

I'm not lovin' it.

I'm leavin' it.

Boycott McDonalds. 

Because eating at McDonalds kills kids in Ukraine.

POSTCRIPT: Dump MCD, too. 

Duty and Disgust

The pain of others creates a reason for me to help them.

— John Searle

Please give now to Save the Children's Ukraine Crisis Relief Fund.

You have a duty as a human being to do so and it's a positive way to express personal disgust with Putin.

I said only yesterday that the proper response to the war news was to affirm your love for another.

I forgot for a moment there are Ukrainians suffering at Putin's hands—and that we can do something concrete about it.

Your gift to Save the Children's Ukraine Crisis Relief Fund represents real altruism, an act that is dutiful and grounded on both reason and empathy.

So please give—you can pat yourself on the back for your reason and empathy.

There's not a shred of those in the unhinged KGB agent.

Not a shred.

Above: A child enroute to the Slovak Republic two days ago. Photo by Daniel Leal.

Note: Friends ask, with so many charities requesting my money, which should I pick? Save the Children has a proven track record of financial probity, spending 86 cents of every dollar on services to kids.

Peaches and Cream

Americans hate history. What we love is nostalgia.

— Regi Gibson

Teachers, librarians, and museum curators are at sixes and sevens over how to sweeten America's story.

That's because peaches and cream trump truths in this country.

Truths just get you in trouble.

American exceptionalism, the saccharine tale of the "city on a hill," is our preferred confection. 

We serve it 24/7 at every table in town.

Right now, the GOP—the party of Putin—would make it America's official dessert.

So much for apple pie.

And the GOP would deputize its members, Stasi-like, to help the state round up dissident chefs.

I don't care for a kitchen run like that.

And will do everything in my powers to thwart the GOP.

How about you?

Are you on the side of truths?