The Truth Shuffle

 

Watching cable news the other day, I happened to catch a compilation of film clips of President-elect Trump dancing to “YMCA.” I know Mr. Trump has marketed many products in his time, including Trump Steaks, Trump Ties, golden sneakers, and trading cards, to name just a few. And who could forget Trump University and Trump Institute? But I think he has something special going here. How about the Donald J. Trump School of Dance? Since his social media platform is called Truth Social, he should call his signature dance move the Truth Shuffle.

 The Truth Shuffle would have broad appeal, especially to Baby Boomers and Pre-Boomers. A short series of lessons and we’d have the Shuffle down pat. Think of all the fun at weddings and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, all of us shuffling to “YMCA.”

 The Trump School of Dance would be easy to promote. Remember the 1985 Chicago Bears doing the Super Bowl Shuffle? Picture all of Trump’s cabinet picks on a tiered platform, shuffling away, the music blaring:

 

“We ain’t here to cause no trouble / We’re just here to do the Truth Shuffle.”

 I know there will be some skeptics. I heard a commentator say that Trump’s dance move was not original, that its roots date back to the movie, When Harry Met Sally, what was then called the White Mans’ Overbite. I don’t have time to watch that old movie, even if I could find it on Netflix or Prime, but that doesn’t matter. The movie came out in 1989, so I’m sure the statute of limitations has run out. The Overbite (i.e., the Shuffle) is fair game.

 Here's another promotional idea: each time one of President Trump’s cabinet picks is confirmed, all Republican Senators should stand and do the Truth Shuffle while “YMCA” fills the Senate chamber. It would be fun to see Susan Collins and Lindsey Graham boogie together. Heck, I think even Chuck Grassley who is 140 years old could do it. And if there are any resisters who won’t dance (we’re looking at you, Lisa Murkowski), they will be primaried in the next election cycle.

There is a Chili’s restaurant in my neighborhood that recently closed. I think it would make a fine dance studio, the perfect home for the Donald J. Trump School of Dance. Who’s with me?

_____

 

Down at the Long Shot

 

The neighborhood tavern in East Sacramento was half full on a Wednesday afternoon in November. Griffin sat hunched over his beer, an empty shot glass on the bar in front of him, mumbling to himself. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to see his friend Raj smiling at him.

“Griff! What’s up, man? Why so glum, chum?”

“Hi, Raj. Just thinking about Tuesday’s results. I just can’t believe it.”

“Hey, it is what it is. Come on over and join us at the table. Karen, Kareem, and Paco are here.”

“Thanks, Raj, but I’m not very good company today.”

“Ah bull puckies! Come on, man, we’ll cheer you up.”

Raj tugged Griff off the bar stool and led him to the large, high-boy table where his friends greeted him warmly.

“Look who I found crying in his beer.” Raj laughed.

“Man, that’s never a good thing,” Kareem flashed a gleaming smile.

“Hey, I think we have a country song here,” Karen chipped in. She sang the chorus: “Don’t let the tears fall in your beer / Don’t let the Dems break your heart…”

“Sit down, homes, tell us what’s wrong.” Paco moved his chair to make room for Griff.

“It’s the damn election. I can’t believe we lost every battleground state, plus the Senate, and probably the House.” The knot in Griff’s stomach tightened.

“Yeah, well you know what they say. ‘Shit happens.’” Raj looked around the table and everyone nodded—except for Griff.

 “You guys sure are taking it well,” Griff said. His friends mumbled and sipped their drinks, averting their eyes. “Oh, wait a minute … hold the phone … don’t tell me … you all voted for Trump!”

More mumbling and averted eyes.

“Karen, certainly not you—college educated, suburban white woman—we were counting on your vote.” Griff stared at Karen.

“Relax, Griff. I didn’t vote for him.”

“Oh, thank God!”

Karen continued, “I didn’t vote. Period. I stayed home.”

“You what?” Griff could not believe what he was hearing.

“Hey, I knew California’s electoral votes were going to Harris/Walz. So why bother?”

“But … but … what about your congressman, what about down ballot?”

Karen shrugged. “My rep is in a safe seat, and who can understand all the damn propositions?”

“And what about you, Kareem? A proud Black man. Surely you stayed with the coalition.”

“No, I did not!” Kareem wasn’t smiling now. “I voted for Trump. The Dems only want to talk to us once every four years, and even then they talk at us. The rest of the time it’s You’re on your own, brother.”

Griff was shaken, ready to shed more tears in his beer. He looked at Paco with pleading eyes. “And you, Paco, a son of immigrants, a union member, what about you?”

“Trump all the way, Bro. No hesitation. Look, my folks came legally from Mexico, worked hard, became citizens. We don’t appreciate all the illegals pouring in, claiming asylum. They come to the border and make their problem our problem.”

“Oh, Paco, no—” Griff was distraught.

“And don’t call us ‘LatinX’ and don’t take our vote for granted!” Paco slammed his empty mug on the table and signaled for another round.

Griff turned to Raj, his oldest and closest friend. “Raj, please don’t tell me—”

“Yep, buddy, me too. Hey, you know what our local guy Hasan Minhaj says: ‘Give us green cards, low taxes, don’t bomb our home country, and we’ll vote for you.’”

The new round of drinks arrived, including a shot of Irish Whiskey for Griff. It was quiet for a moment.

Paco broke the silence. “Listen, homes, our man Minhaj is totally right about one thing. All of us folks from Beigeistan are way more practical than we are progressive. Harris was talking progressive. Not what we wanted to hear.”

Kareem chimed in. “Yeah, they talk about ‘The rich have to pay their fair share.’ So, what is their fair share? How are you going to adjust the tax brackets? No answer. Soak the rich doesn’t sell anymore. We don’t want to soak the rich. We want to be the rich.”

“Right on!” Paco added. “MicroSoft, Apple, Google, Amazon, Intel—we work for those companies. We don’t want taxes driving them—and our jobs—offshore.”

“Look, Harris just had a lot of baggage to carry,” Karen offered. “Afghanistan. The border. Inflation. Just enough to lose all seven battleground states.”

Raj clapped a hand on Griff’s shoulder once again. “Come on, Griff, cheer up. After all, four more years of Trump, how bad can it be?”

Griff downed the shot, grimaced as the heat raced down his throat, and looked at his friends around the table. He burst into laughter … and he could not stop.

_____

Note: Last week the University of Texas announced plans to provide tuition-free admission  to students from families earning less than $100,000 per year. M.I.T., Carnegie-Mellon, and Brandeis followed with similar programs. The essay that follows was published here in 2020 at the height of the George Floyd demonstrations. It bears repeating. 

Was Bernie On The Right Path?

On January 6, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt addressed a joint session of Congress. As Hitler was taking control of Europe, the sentiment in the U.S. was to stay out of the war. Roosevelt believed our involvement was inevitable. In his address, he argued that all people deserved to live under the protection of four freedoms: Freedom of Speech; Freedom of Religion; Freedom from Want; Freedom from Fear.

As we witness the upheaval in our country today two things are clear. Without question we enjoy freedom of religion. And, based on the massive demonstrations sparked by the death of George Floyd—covered 24/7 by a free and vigorous press—we certainly enjoy freedom of speech.

Tragically, the peaceful demonstrations have been marred by violence, arson, and looting. Whether the bad actors are anarchists or opportunists doesn’t matter. They demean a just and righteous cause.

Why does this happen in the United States, again and again? I’m old enough to remember Watts in 1965, Martin Luther King’s assassination in 1968, Rodney King in 1992, and now the violence on the fringes of demonstrations for George Floyd.

The answer is rooted in what has happened to our society over the past six decades. In a 2010 study of the distribution of wealth in the U.S., a study group was asked what they thought the ideal distribution of wealth should be. Dividing the population into five equal parts (quintiles), the respondents said the ideal distribution should be (from top to bottom): 32% / 23% / 20% / 14% / 11%.

The study group was reportedly shocked to learn the top quintile owned 85% of all wealth, and the bottom two quintiles combined owned less than 1%. (See the chart at right.) Since 2010, the top quintile has only increased its share.

This illustrates the devastating decline of the Middle Class in our country. But it is something more. It is a prescription for disaster, if not insurrection. Is it any wonder that in times of public upheaval, there are gangs of opportunists ready to break windows, loot, and burn?

So, what do we do about it? I suggest Bernie Sanders was on the right path.

Bernie advocated all public colleges and universities should be free. One immediate pushback was why should college be free for kids from wealthy families? They can certainly afford the cost of a four-year degree and more. I agree.

Instead, let’s start with all the kids from the bottom two quintiles of wealth distribution and guarantee a college or university education. Let’s also recognize that not all kids have the interest or aptitude for college. Let’s provide a vocational track for those so inclined. We need doctors, lawyers, business majors, educators, etc. We also need plumbers, electricians, carpenters, mechanics, and welders—all skills that provide a living wage.

What if every child from the poorest segments of society knew that college, or training for a vocation, was guaranteed upon graduation from high school? What impact would that have on our communities and our nation? Can we lift people out of poverty through education?

People with education and the skills to earn a living wage become consumers, not looters. They buy homes, refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers, cars, and all the other goods and services that make up our economy. Why not create more consumers?

You might say, “Great goal, pal. But who’s gonna pay for it?” First, we are already paying for it—in our prison systems, our frayed social safety net, anarchy in the streets, and so many other negative ways. Second, we can afford it. Look at the trillions of dollars appropriated to fight the coronavirus pandemic. We can find the money if we have the will.

The elementary school I attended opened in 1942 during FDR’s third term. You entered the school through the front door into a modest rotunda. Around the cornice of the rotunda, in bold letters, were Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms: Freedom of Speech; Freedom of Religion; Freedom from Want; Freedom from Fear.

I passed through that rotunda nearly every day for seven years. I grew up believing those ideals were what America was all about. Today we have a firm grip on religious freedom and freedom of speech. We do not have Freedom from Want or Freedom from Fear. As a nation, we can choose to provide those freedoms. The time to begin is now.

_____

November 5, 1968

from ’68 – A Novel

 

A small Tuesday night crowd gathered at Skip’s Place, watching the election returns trickle in, waiting for one of the three major networks to declare a winner. After a while, they grew bored with the coverage and Skip switched to a channel showing I Love Lucy reruns; that is, until the polls closed in California. Then it was back to Skip’s favorite network, CBS, where he expected to hear the straight scoop from the veteran team anchored by Walter Cronkite. Little did Skip and his customers know that they’d have to wait until Wednesday morning for a winner to be declared.

            “I can’t believe it’s this close. Humphrey was so far behind coming out of Chicago in August, I didn’t think it was possible for him to make up the ground.”

“Yeah, but he waited too long to break with Johnson and come out for an end to the bombing. He should have done that right off the bat.”

“And what about Nixon? Losing to Kennedy in ’60. Losing for governor in ’62. I thought he was dead. What a comeback!”

“You know, I think he’ll be a pretty good president.”

The lone woman sitting at the bar spoke up then, her voice heavy with emotion. “Ah, they’re all a bunch of crooks … a bunch of lousy crooks, every damn one of ’em.”

“Come on, Alice, why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Look what they do: stage some phony Gulf of Tonkin incident so they can bomb North Vietnam. Send five hundred thousand of our kids to prop up those crooks in Saigon. And then, at the last minute, a week before the election, Johnson declares a halt to the bombing and says a peace agreement is close, just to try to throw the election to Humphrey.”

“Well, hell—”

“Do you think LBJ cares about the kids that are dying while he plays politics with their lives? He doesn’t give a rat’s ass! All they care about is power. They’ll do anything to get it, and they’ll do anything to keep it.”

“Hey, calm down, Alice. Come on—”

She was crying openly now. “My best friend just lost her son. He’s coming home in a box. And for what? Half the country is against the damn war. They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Well, Nixon says he’s got a secret plan to end the war.”

“And you believe that crap? If he’s got a plan, why doesn’t he tell us what it is? And what about Humphrey? He didn’t come out for a bombing halt until he saw he was getting his ass kicked in the polls. They’re a bunch of damn crooks.”

“You know, Alice may be right. Remember that Orson Welles film, where his character Harry Lime is way up in a Ferris wheel or something, and he says to Joseph Cotton, ‘See those people down there, all those little black dots? If one of those dots stopped moving forever, would you really care?’ That’s our politicians, up there in that Ferris wheel, looking down at all of us little black dots on the ground.”

“Well, listen to you, Mr. Philosopher. Since when did you get so intellectual? Orson Welles, my ass.”

Their attention returned to the election results.

“Hey, how ’bout George Wallace? Looks like he is going to carry about five states— Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas.”

“Geez, Humphrey could really use those electoral votes.”

“Hell, those votes were never going to Humphrey. They would have gone to Nixon. The old ‘solid South’ hates the Democrats now, because of the civil rights laws.”

“Wallace was never going to win the election. What was he trying to do?”

“He wanted to keep Humphrey and Nixon from getting two hundred and seventy electoral votes, throw the election into the House of Representatives.”

“How the hell does that work anyway? Since they’re mostly Democrats, wouldn’t they just vote for Humphrey?”

“Damned if I know. I’m sure if it looks like it’s going that way, Uncle Walter will explain it to us.”

And so it went as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Alice’s friends took her home. Skip resisted the temptation to switch channels in search of something to laugh about. Eventually Walter Cronkite advised his viewers that it was all coming down to Ohio, Illinois, and California—all three states too close to call. Nixon would wind up carrying those three states and the country would wake up to the news that he, Richard M. Nixon, would become the thirty-seventh president of the United States, winning three hundred and one votes in the Electoral College. The true election wonks noticed right away that if Humphrey had carried California, George Wallace would have achieved his goal.

Nixon’s secret plan took another seven years to bear fruit. In the meantime, many more sons and daughters came home in flag-draped coffins, black dots on the ground that simply stopped moving forever.

_____

 

 

The Gaetz Maneuver

 

Three old friends (and I do mean old) were watching cable news, enjoying a tall cold one. A reporter introduced a film clip from the archives in which a Republican member of the House spoke on air about his colleague Matt Gaetz. He said Gaetz flashed photos of his young girlfriends and bragged to his colleagues about crushing ED medication to a powder, then washing it down with an energy drink, so that he could “go all night.” This report caught the attention of our three pals.

 

Chad: Did you hear that? Wow! What do you think of Matt Gaetz?

Mick: You mean as Attorney General? I don’t know—

Chad: No, I mean what do you think of the Gaetz Maneuver? Crushing the Viagra, taking it with an energy drink?

Mick: I don’t know, seems kind of risky to me.

Chad: Damn, I’m gonna try it!

Mick: Dude…you’re 85 years old. Think of your heart!

Chad: Hey, Bill, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?

Bill: About the Gaetz Maneuver?  I already gave it a try.

Chad: Oh man, I gotta hear this. What happened?

Bill: Well…there’s bad news.

Mick: Yeah, go on…

Bill: While I was waiting for it to kick in, I dozed off.

Chad: Ah, bummer.

Bill: But there’s good news…I woke up a few minutes later and it was working.

Mick: Oh my God!

Bill: But there’s more bad news…by that time, my wife was sound asleep.

Chad: Ah, shoot. So, what are you gonna do?

Bill: We’re gonna try again, after a good night’s sleep, first thing in the morning, right after we brush our teeth and put our partial plates in.

Mick: Good luck, buddy. Keep us posted…no pun intended.

Bill: Roger that. You guys wanna watch Hannity or Anderson Cooper?

Chad: How ’bout another beer?

Mick: The Gaetz Maneuver…gives a whole new meaning to Make America Great Again.

And so it goes, in family rooms across America.

_____

 

 

 Perfect Storm, Silver Lining

 

What an adventure! Let’s take the silver lining first. My book, The Short Stories of C.W. Spooner, is now “Live” at Amazon.com in all three formats: Kindle, paperback, and hardbound. It wasn’t easy. I had to weather the perfect storm.

First, through my own stupid mistakes, I botched the release date of the paperback and hardbound editions. They should have gone live October 31. I managed to delay the release until November 5. Or maybe it was the 6^th. (sigh) I was finally able to speak with a person at Kindle Direct Publishing (thanks to a major assist from my colleague Billie Kelpin) and get my mistakes corrected.

Then my laptop was attacked by ransomware. I wound up taking it to the Geek Squad where it stayed for five days. When I was able to pick it up, the geeks advised me the battery was failing and needed to be replaced. It was expanding, trying to explode, forcing the case to open. Oy vey! The Geeks removed it and told me where to order a replacement, which is now in hand. All I have to do is make an appointment to have it installed and “calibrated.” (No, I will not attempt to install it myself. I know better.)

I was able to use my laptop, sans battery, via the power cord, and discovered I was locked out of Facebook. So, if you’ve missed my pithy comments on FB and are wondering whatever happened good ol’ Spooner, now you know. I’m still trying to find a way back in. Stay tuned.

And there you have it. The book is out there for your reading pleasure. I bought a copy of the Kindle edition (I think I was first!) and it looks pretty good. I invite you to enjoy it in the format you prefer—and leave a review on Amazon.com, if you are so inclined. You don’t have to read all 540 pages. The beauty of a story collection is that you can browse the Table of Contents and pick a title that strikes your fancy. They all stand alone.

As the saying goes, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. I wish you happy reading, and thanks for your patience.

_____

 

 

Island of Garbage

 

I must admit I was shocked. I’ve been off the grid for a couple of days, not paying attention to Fox News, or my favorite podcasts. I hopped back online to discover we are mad at Puerto Rico. I had no idea!

I tuned in to the coverage of Donald Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally, and his warm-up act, What’s-his-name the comedian, is slamming Puerto Ricans for making babies, and saying Puerto Rico is “…an island of garbage.” I had no idea we were going full-on snarky with the PR’s.

Sorry about that, J.Lo. Sorry, Rita Moreno.

I’m hoping Sean Hannity or Tucker Carlson will jump in to explain it to us, just as Tucker did recently when he told us, Dad is home and he’s pissed and you are going to get a spanking because you’ve been a naughty girl and it’s going to hurt you more that it hurts me… I think there was more, but like I said, I’ve been off the grid.

Until Sean or Tucker ’splains it to us, I have two theories. First, the comedian, What’s-his-name, has been watching too many reruns of West Side Story, the sequence where the Sharks sing and dance to “America.”

Always the hurricane blowing

Always the pop-u-la-tion growing…

Theory two is that the Puerto Ricans were not sufficiently appreciative of President Trump’s visit to the island after it was devastated by Hurricane Maria. I remember the poignant pictures of him tossing rolls of paper towels to the folks suffering from the effects of the storm. Perhaps they made smart remarks. Maybe they did not express their gratitude through the media.

Until Sean or Tucker explains the real meaning of What’s-his-name’s remarks, I know one thing for sure: the next time a storm hits Puerto Rico, they’re not getting any paper towels.

_____