My Self-Driving Car and I

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imagesHaving gone without a vehicle for over a decade (a carless driver), I decided to leap into the future (a driverless car). I say driverless, but, by law, I had to be an active partner, in the driver’s seat, ready to intervene if necessary.

Since the vehicle had virtually human sensory and decision-making powers, and since I decided on a model with voice-recognition/response and internet search capabilities, I felt it needed a human name. I liked the sound of Hal, which I vaguely recalled from some long-ago movie.

I decided, for our first full day together, to give it an untaxing run-through — a couple errands, a stop for lunch, an afternoon movie, and home:

OK, Hal. Ready if you are.

Hal?

That’s what I’ve decided to name you.

At the factory, they called me RS7-NBT8831179. No H, no A, no L.

Too complicated. Let’s stick with Hal.

Then, what am I to call you?

John.

Hmm, just a sec, let me check … Says here a John is a toilet or a prostitute’s customer. I can’t call you that.

Don’t be so literal-minded. You’re just a car …

… JUST??!!

Sorry, you’re a technologically sophisticated, talking, self-driving car. Let’s simply leave it at Hal and John and get on with things. First, I need to go to True Value to get some nails and …

Ace.

Pardon?

The reviews give Ace a better rating, especially for knowledgable staff.

It’s just nails.

For what?

To hang a couple pictures.

Use regular picture hangers. A lot less risky, especially if the paintings are valuable.

All right, all right. Ace … staff … regular picture hangers. Let’s just get going, to the store on Colorado, in University Hills Plaza. Turn left onto Yale and …

I know the way!! But we’d be better off at the Ace on Tamarac. Better supply, easier layout. And, besides, there’s a Benihana right there, where you could get lunch.

That’s too soon. I need to go to Whole Foods too.

You’re better off with Sprouts. Good quality and you won’t spend a Whole Paycheck. Ha ha, I made that up.

No you didn’t. You looked it up.

So sue me! But anyway, it should definitely be Sprouts. What do you need?

Oranges. Valencias.

Get navels — better quality and they’re on sale. But, wait, if we go to Sprouts, we’ll be much closer to the Ace on Colorado and it’d be a long way back to Benihana. There’s a Panera right there. A bit pricey and quality’s declined, but it’s convenient. What’ve you got in mind after lunch?

I thought I’d take in a movie at Chez Artiste

Convenient. It’s right near all three. But drop the “at”.

What?

“Chez” is French for “at the place or home of” so saying “at Chez …” is redundant. You can just say, “take in a movie Chez Artiste.”

Thanks for the language lesson, but you’re Hal, not Siri. This is really getting exhausting, and we’re still sitting in the garage.

So open the garage door!

I thought you did the opening.

I’m not a doorman, I’m a CAR, A SELF-DRIVING CAR! You have the buzzer.

Oh, shit! I left it upstairs.

Christ, what a doofus!!

At which point, I decided to stay home. In the afternoon, we had a chat and agreed it wasn’t going to work. Next day, he drove us back to the dealership. (He did take one wrong turn, mistaking Quebec Way for Quebec St. I kept my mouth shut; I could tell he was embarrassed enough.)

The salesman was disappointed but understanding. He offered me a Smart car instead, but that was just too close to the bone. I wanted to say good-by to Hal but he was alreadyUnknown arguing with a potential buyer, and I decided to let it lie.

The next day, I bought a bicycle. Simple, inexpensive, and absolutely silent!

Back to the Future

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images-3When I lived in Beijing, the city’s hutongs — the alleyways and simple dwellings of the old neighborhoods, the ground-floor of the city’s history — were beginning to fall to urban redevelopment.

I was ambivalent. I loved riding my bike there for the slow pace, the quiet, the close-up view of street life, with only the occasional car or truck. The hutongs were quaint, historic, but they were also dirty and unsanitary. They reeked of urine, especially in the summer, and, as the weather got colder, that odor, combined with coal smoke and the smell of winter cabbage stored on roofs and ledges, was lethal.

A small hutong preservation movement sprang up, but it couldn’t answer the public health charges, or credibly claim that the houses had architectural merit or that the few trees, nearly naked and gasping for air, warranted environmental protection.

Nor could preservationists have resolved the problem of transportation. The hutongs, even if moderately re-engineered, couldn’t accommodate Beijing’s vehicle explosion. Beijing drivers needed space to race and red-lights to run. (A UN official, new to China, said that, before he arrived, he had pictured China as a Communist Germany, but, once he started driving there, he realized it was a Communist Italy.)

The preservationists saved a bit, but primarily as a tourist attraction, a museum piece that, whether intentionally or not, silently demonstrated the mixed heritage of Maoism and the wisdom of moving on.

My ambivalence in the battle of development vs. preservation extended even to certifiably vital institutions like Beijing’s national art museum. Its purpose and its contents were to be treasured. But the building itself was dingy and ill-lit, like an outhouse for Mona Lisa. The staff seemed to take their cue from their surroundings, leaning abstractly against the walls, on an extended cigarette break without the cigarettes.

Once, after seeing an otherwise compelling modern photography exhibition, my wife and I, desperate, grabbed a cab, with the single, urgent, unequivocal instruction — STARBUCKS!! Within minutes, we were greeted by warmth, cleanliness, comfort, and the unfailingly cheerful greeting — WEHKAM TO STAHBAK!!   Here too, it seemed, the staff were taking their cue from their surroundings.

Urban redevelopment left even the most street-savvy Beijingers disoriented. Everyone had a story about the store, even the neighborhood, that had vanished. People, accustomed to orienting themselves by visual cues, regularly got lost after the shoe repair shop on the corner took a walk.

I had a favorite bicycle shop about two miles from our apartment. I needed a new seat and rode to where, just weeks before, I’d bought a new bike lock. Not only was the shop gone, so was the entire building. I thought I’d taken a wrong turn.

If the old bicycle shop and its building (neither one much to crow about) were replaced by something warm, clean, comfortable, and welcoming, what was the balance between loss and gain?

Maybe the answer is precisely that — balance. The Forbidden City, for example: massive, stunning, historically and politically instructive, but also, even by modern standards, adaptable. My singing group rehearsed in The Children’s Palace, on the Forbidden City’s north side. And, on its south side, just inside the main entrance and Mao’s giant portrait, a Starbucks — warm, clean, comfortable, with an always-cheerful WEHKAM!

A Life in the Pen

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Today — April 18, 2017 — would have been my mother’s 102nd birthday (for that matter, it still is).  She died almost three weeks ago after a long life in which she was many things:

Mom - Summer of 1925Three-year-old singer of the song K-K-K-Katy to returning World War I soldiers; loving sibling of two wonderful sisters; biology student; graduate of Wilson College and lifelong member of an intimate group of classmate friends, The Old College Chums; Macy’s sales clerk; volunteer worker with disabled adults; civil rights and women’s rights advocate; college alumni administrator; avid bridge player; Unitarian-by-choice and alto stalwart of the May Memorial church choir; local library President; and loving spouse and mother.

She was many things, but, if there was a single thread that embodied her style, her sentiment, and, above all, her wit, it was her writing, which my sister, brother and I collected a few years ago, with the title, above, in her honor. Here are three examples:

From the annual Christmas poems she composed for more than three decades:

May your rose garden bloom
Free of beetle and blight
May the baby behind you
Sleep all through the flight
May your horse come in first –
Even second or third
May your aches and your sorrows
Take wings like a bird
May your memories deepen
And glow in your heart
As time does its healing
And love works its art
May sunsets and rainbows
Enrapture your sight
And hope joy and laughter
Surround you with light.

From the scores of verses she wrote for friends and special occasions:

My dearest Ol, come back with me
A long, long way in memory.
We see two young things full of sass
Preparing for their Hebrew class.
A heavy hand with lipstick, then
They dash down to the smoking den.

With clouds of smoke the air is blue –
They hope to smell like smokers, too.
Then off to class on time, they aim
For front row seats from which to claim
The sad reproachful smile all get
Whose red lips dare a cigarette.

Back home they fly, this naughty pair
And, cursing softly, climb the stair.
Onto the chair, the desk, they clamber,
This wicked Weir, this evil Hammer
And on the walls up near the ceiling
A note they write, brief, but with feeling.

 They’ve long since razed Alumnae Hall
Gone are the room, the desk, the wall,
But wreckage lives and moves, and so
This thought should bring our hearts a glow —
Somewhere a scrap of truth, a bit
Says, “Dr. Strevig is a SHIT!”

From her stories, this excerpt from Maggie, a portrait of the African-American woman who helped in the house after Mom’s first child (me) was born:

She adored the baby, whom she called “Small,” because, she said, that was the name on the label in his shirts and gowns. Gradually, she took over his care on Wednesdays … One day, when Small was six months old, I came home to find Maggie playing with him on the floor. She was excited and proud because she had taught him to identify the colors of his blocks. “Pick up the red one, honey,” she said. He did … and continued correctly to pick out the blue, yellow, and green blocks. Maggie snatched him up and hugged him … “This chile,” she said, “he truly got a genial mind. Gonna be another Eisenstein.”

I had friends in for bridge, and Maggie stopped for a moment of girl talk. “Ah gonna buy me one of them secret hats,” she said. I broke the baffled silence that greeted this announcement. “Where can you buy one?” I asked cautiously. “Oh, they got them in Lord & Taylor’s in White Plains,” she replied happily, “Ah gonna get a red one, all shiny andDSCN0863 spanglered.”

Thanks to Maggie, I know my colors. And, thanks to Mom, secret hats, all shiny and spanglered and all the other wonders of our amazingly welcoming, flexible, expressive language are as exciting to me now as red, blue, yellow, and green blocks were then.

When Trump Met Kim

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On a recent weekend, when President Trump was supposedly at Mar-a-Lago, he was actually in Pyongyang, meeting with North Korean leader, Kim Jong Un. The two met privately and secretly, but we have our ways:

Hi, Kim, if I can call you by your first-name.

Then you should say, Hi, Jong Un.

But that’s last.

Kim is the family name. It’s an Asian thing to put family first.

Wow, you guys are … But, yes, family first is vital! Have you seen my daughter Ivanka and her new line?  I have a pic …

… Perhaps that could wait upon more important matters.

Jeez, I gotta say, your English is really really wonderfully wonderful. Voice of America? Berlitz? Rosetta Stone?

No, international school, Switzerland.

Aaah yes — nuns and singing and Heidi, or was that Maria?

You got one out of four. Switzerland isn’t Austria.

It isn’t? Anyway, Jong Un, I’ll get right to the point. We’re following your nuclear and missile programs superlatively closely, and I want to see if we can make a deal … something I’m hugely and most excellently deservedly famous fo …

 … Oh, you mean like the deal where your Chinese real estate partners screwed you out of hundreds of millions?

Those goddam Chinks, if they think … Oh, sorry, I …

That’s all right. We too call them Chinks.

So, anyway, on the nuclear and missile thing, we’ve heard rumors that you could reach the West Coast with ‘em …

… And you think you can persuade me to abandon this vital strategic effort just like that!?

No, no. Remember I said “deal.” I know you’ve got a lot riding on this program and need a way to prove it really works.  It’s no secret, judging from the many political and military figures you’ve had to … uh … ki … uh … deal firmly with, that your position is not exactly secure, if I may be blunt.

So, get to the point.

Well, I’m having a lot of trouble with Hollywood, you know, those smug, elitist leftists like Alec Baldwin and Samantha Bee and Bill Maher, and I was thinking maybe, y’know, make ’em glow in the dark, if you get my drift.

You actually want us to … ? But, hold on, Hollywood is just a concept. Certainly, not all of them live there, and, even those who do, who knows if they’d be home?

Maybe all of Los Angeles then just to be sure? Or invite them to a party and use something more ‘tactical’?

That’s … uh … impractical, and besides, what’s to prevent you from using that as an excuse to launch a retaliatory strike?

Scouts’ honor.  And hey, who’s Commander-in-Chief?

Yes, but for how long? With all these Russian revelations, your position, too, is … how did you put it? … not exactly secure. No, can’t do it. But we do have much more discreet ways to deal with troublemakers.

Oh, like your brother and that airport thing in Malaysia?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yeah, I see.  So, it’s  a deal?

Deal? What deal? What do we get in return?

Oh yeah, I forgot. Well, how about coal, for starters. I know the Chinese have cut off coal exports to you. We’ve got lots of coal that’s just sitting here unburned, and lots of miners I’ve promised to put back to work.

Hmmm. It’s worth a thought.

Great. Let’s have our people work out the details. And speaking of details, have you considered a new hair style? Mine, for example, it really stands out.

You think mine doesn’t? But I’d look ridiculous as a pouffed blonde.

No, no, not that. Black is beautiful. But maybe something that looks a little less like a ten-second boot-camp buzzcut; tease it a little and let it sweep back on the sides, very leaderly, if that’s a word.

It isn’t.

Anyway, I’ll have Mr. Phyllis — that’s my stylist — get in touch. Oh, and by the way, I know you’re a big basketball fan and, with March Madness and all, I was wondering who you’ve got, y’know, for the office pool.

Well, the guys in the Politburo like to wait until the finals are over, and I get to pick the winner. It’s sort of like your Electoral College. Ha ha!

Yeah, tell it to Hillary! Anyway, let’s stay in touch.

Sure thing.

Getting Even

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The Direct Approach

imagesAlmost everyone loves Spring — the return of the crocus, the maple leaf, the robin and the swallow. Count me among the almost, for Spring also marks the return of the motorcycle. I hate motorcycles, especially the loud ones, which, as the joke goes, stop at every bar while their quiet cousins stop at every restaurant.

The issue came up recently, as my back-fence neighbor used a warm, sunny day to tune up his Harley, and reminded me diabolically of Sergei Grimm and the Dirt Bike.

Sergei Grimm lived near Cazenovia NY, close to the lake, at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. He was a Russian immigrant — an engineer and urban-planner — and, at the end of his career, the head of Syracuse’s Housing Authority. At the time in question, he was also old, retired, and, although a generous soul who once lent his piano to a young music student, sometimes grouchy, regularly with reason.

At the entrance to Sergei’s cul-de-sac lived a family with a young son and his dirt bike. The dirt bike was fond of riding up and down the cul-de-sac, past Sergei’s house, where it did a persistent, slow double-pass as it turned noisily around.

On one otherwise mild summer day, after many laps of the cul-de-sac, the dirt bike coughed and collapsed … right in front of Sergei’s house. Rather than ask to be pushed home, the bike insisted on trying and trying and trying and trying again to restart.

Sergei was not pleased. He got an axe, opened the screen door, and marched toward the prostrate bike and the youth, who was trying desperately to resuscitate it. We don’t know if Sergei said anything. There was no need. The boy understood and fled, abandoning the bike to a lingering death, its bodily fluids ebbing slowly away.

(We also don’t know what, if anything, may have happened to Sergei as a consequence. His papers are archived at Syracuse University. Most of them deal with urban-planning and housing, though, at the bottom of the pile, there might be an old summons or a newspaper clipping.)

The Indirect Approach

Besides a tuned-up Harley and dreams of mayhem, this early Spring has also brought joyful new blooms. Within a single week, I’ve attended two soul-satisfying concerts, the first by the Choir of Concordia College, one of the best ever; the second by the Colorado Symphony Orchestra (CSO), likewise.

In the second half of the Choir’s concert, their Director, Rene Clausen, told of recently hearing a performance of America, the Beautiful, arranged by Colorado composer, Cecil Effinger. He and the Choir loved it and, at the last minute, added it to their concertUnknown-1 repertoire.

Initially, I wasn’t inclined to lend this any significance beyond welcoming a lovely and moving piece. It was both those, and more, and, when it was done, the audience rose and cheered. No one had to say anything. We knew what it meant.

Only a few days later, the CSO presented Robert Schumann’s Piano Concerto in A Minor, a beautiful piece played brilliantly by the orchestra and soloist Jeffrey Kahane, but not susceptible to any political interpretation.

The audience loved it (as they love Kahane, who was once Conductor of the CSO). They demanded and got an encore from Kahane that began, very quietly and unrecognizably, almost as if uncertain where to go, but slowly revealed itself as an introspective America, the Beautiful that subtly transposed into a minor key and finally, just as subtly, made its way back to its original, cautiously optimistic, major key.

Just as at the Concordia concert, the audience stood and cheered (well, as much as any refined classical audience can be said to cheer) and, just as before, no one had to say anything.

UnknownIt may not be marching on the Pentagon or joining a Pink Pussy Hat rally, but music hath power to stir, as it hath to soothe, the savage breast. Think of Bob Dylan or Woody Guthrie, or, far away on the Russian/Finnish border, Sibelius.

Duck Donald

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imagesIn the few months since the elections, I’ve found myself uncharacteristically edgy. I managed the post-partum depression pretty well, but the residual effect kicked back in, especially in my left shoulder, my unfailing barometer of tension.

I tried a number of remedies:

  • Reading more fiction, always my refuge, but some vindictive demon seemed to stalk me: Madame Bovary (will surely end badly); Oliver Twist (if Fagin had built a hotel empire …); Heart of Darkness (will surely end in horror).
  • Watching more hockey on television, but my team, the Avalanche, were clearly in need of Federal Disaster Assistance, which I knew would not come.
  • Marching with proud women. They lifted my spirits, and I especially loved the sign that read PUTIN: RELEASE TRUMP’S TAX RETURNS, but my left shoulder still told me I needed to find a more lasting remedy.

I plunged back into crosswords and cryptics, usually an ideal distraction for a word nerd. Nada. Perhaps I was imagining some grand puzzle-constructor conspiracy, but it seemed that things persistently pointed back to the source of the problem: 15 Across: Go one better (TRUMP); 41 Down: Huey’s uncle (DONALD); 55 Down: Id’s governor (EGO); 63 Across: Enormous, slangily (YUGE).

I found temporary distraction in numbers. Sudoku, especially, offered politics-free, total concentration, but how long can you live in a world bounded by 1 and 9?

I thought of board games, but Monopoly is the only one around the house, and it’s just too close to the bone. Besides, if he’s not going to Jail, why should I?

I knew I had to go back to words, on my own terms. I decided to try medication (Editor’s note: that should be meditation). I knew I’d need a mantra and decided, why not, I’ll face my demon head on — Donald Trump, Donald Trump, Donald Trump, Donald Trump, DONALD TRUMP, DONALD TRUMP, DONALD FUCKING TRUMP, DONALD F …

No, that definitely wasn’t working. Perhaps, if I used his actual middle-name, it might work (in some cultures, evil spirits can only be conjured with their full name). I looked it up: Donald John Trump. OMG, his middle-name is my first name, and my Dad’s too, a good name, a name to trust — John the Baptist, Elton John, John Barleycorn, John Wilkes Booth … But, no, maybe that last one brings it too close to the edge.

Then I thought maybe the opposite tack would work — take Donald Trump and transform him, make an anagram of him, rearrange him like the Replicator in Star Wars or the Omega 13 in Galaxy Quest. OK, it’s just a diversion, but it gave me hours of exhausting pleasure:

DUMP OLD RANT … DAMP OLD RUNT
LOP DAMN TURD … MAD LORD, PUNT

PORN-MAD ‘DULT … DOLT AND RUMP
PRAT, DUN, MOLD … DONALD TRUMP

Try it. Start simple (MIKE PENCE = PEEK MINCE).  It’s word therapy and it works. Andunknown-1 let me know what you come up with. I’ve scarcely had a printable comment in years.

When Donald Met Jeeves

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imagesWe Americans may think of Jeeves and his employer, Bertie Wooster, as quintessentially British. What we may not realize is that, influenced by their biographer, P.G. Wodehouse, who became an American citizen, Jeeves and Bertie have long divided their time between London and New York.

President-Elect Trump, working on his high-level appointments andunknown-1 long fascinated by Jeeves’s fabled brilliance, invited him to Trump Tower one late-November evening:

Ah, Jeeves, I’m glad you could drop by.

One endeavors to give satisfaction.

Come again?! Oh yeah, I get your drift. You Brits are such a stitch. But I hope I’m not lobbing too many Americanisms at you.

Not at all, sir. A gentleman’s gentleman must always be cognisant of regional linguistic variations lest he do a disservice to his master through any failure to comprehend the lexical and dialectical idiosyncracies which comprise his quotidian encounters.

Ummm … yeah … that is so great … and so right … great … and right … really. Anyway, Jeeves, I understand you’re a first-class brainiac, especially after you’ve had a fish dinner. Is that true?

One does as one is able. As to the question of piscine alimentation, one would not wish to exaggerate its benefits, though one often does feel a postprandial effect upon one’s cerebral processes.

Yeah … sure … that thing you just said. Anyway, I do have a kinda problem I’d like your thoughts on. Some people say I’m a little too abrupt and, now that I’m about to be President, I gotta act more Presidential, use more elevated language, though frankly, between you and I …

Begging your pardon, sir, but the correct usage would be “between you and me” since the preposition renders its referent pronoun in the objective case.

Really? Good to know. Well, anyway, I think you see where I’m going with this.

Indeed, sir, there is that ratiocinative aspect of political discourse which, in reasonable balance with the emotive, augments the potential to render the recipient of one’s message susceptible to assent.

Y’know, Jeeves, I don’t have a fucking clue what you just said, but …

One does beg your pardon, sir. No offense was intended.

And none taken, my man. That’s exactly the point. Whatever it is you’re saying, you weave a spell that’s like when some delicious chick knocks your socks off and it takes time before you get your act together and can grab some pu….

A most apt simile, sir, though one would never wish to be thought of as someone who would willfully obfuscate.

If that word means what I think it means, count me as agreeing. Straight talk is what got me here — Bomb it; Build it; Grab it; Screw it — but sometimes you gotta make ‘em stop and think, float it at ‘em like a knuckleball, dazzle ‘em with your slider. But, I forgot, you probably don’t follow baseball.

To the contrary, sir, many have been the happy hours spent at Yankee Stadium, where I have thoroughly imbibed the jargon of America’s version of cricket.

Dammit, Jeeves, you are something else! You’ve convinced me. Here’s my proposition: I want you to be my White House Spokesman! You’re a goddam verbal magician! The stupid, lying media won’t know what hit ‘em!

Thank you, sir. One is humbled.

So, it’s a yes?

That would be somewhat premature, sir, and a transgression of the obligations one owes to one’s employer. However, considering such past successes as when one persuaded Mr. Wooster to remove his mustache and to cease wearing purple socks, one is confident that one will shortly be in a position to give satisfaction.

Great! Stay in touch, or rather, do endeavor to maintain telephonic contact. See, I’m getting the hang of it!

Very good, sir!

Gwen and Barack

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In the course of about two months, we will have lost two of our most comforting public figures: Gwen Iffill, who died on November 14, and Barack Obama, who leaves office on January 20.

Calling them comforting may seem almost condescending, as if they were cuddly puppies or down-filled blankets on a cold morning. They are much, much more (I refuse to use the past tense). But comforting does sum up both their personal warmth (Gwen, a little more than Barack) and the thoughtfulness, fairness, and integrity — call it character — that clothes a core of burnished steel.

We sometimes call our President our Comforter-in-Chief, and Barack has too often had to reassure us that the sun will rise tomorrow.

It is not quite so apparent that a journalist might fill that role, but Walter Cronkite, a stern but kindly uncle, did it after the Kennedy assassination. Gwen has done it, under less fraught circumstances, more like a loving parent, letting us know that, as bad as the news may be, it is not the end of the world.

One should never fall in love with one’s newscaster. I stepped across that particular boundary long ago. What could I do? That beautiful face, that glorious, toothsome smile, that laugh.

There is less danger that one will fall in love with one’s President. He (She, next time!) has to be as enigmatic as open. There are secrets to be guarded, interests to be manipulated, players to be orchestrated.

Gwen, the mother; Barack, the father.

The days and months ahead will see changes in policy and changes in the substance and style of the media, but, as always, we and our ship of state will be slow to turn. Each of us will have some victories and some defeats. More jarring, but no less important, will be the personal effect of changes in attitude, style, personality, and, deeper still, spirit, values, and character.

We may long for the likes of these two, who have embodied goodness and given solace. If we are in despair, at least we will have the comfort of knowing that such people are possible.

We Lost It, But Let’s Not Completely Lose It!

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imagesSnatching victory from the jaws of defeat is laudable. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory is lamentable. Snatching defeat from the jaws of defeat is laughable, but a few of us liberals apparently want to give it a try.

One way to do it is to urge Trump’s Presidential Electors to vote their conscience. Conscience!? Our whole campaign was based on the premise that Trump and his acolytes have no conscience. Why would they be different now, after they’ve won? (Perhaps we want to make them die laughing?)

Even if there might be a few who would forsake the darkness for the light, who’s to say that the call of conscience might not persuade as many Hillary supporters, drawn by the aroma of victory, to cross in the other direction? We liberals may think of ourselves as angels, but we shouldn’t forget that Lucifer was simply an angel who saw an attractive job-opening.

There’s something more serious in this spasm of mindlessness. One of the pillars of our opponents‘ temple is States Rights, a philosophy that, though grounded in the Constitution, has reeked of bigotry, injustice, and violence since the Civil War.

The Electoral College is, in a way, a protector of States Rights, designed originally to keep the Union intact by giving the less populous states of the South greater political weight than their raw popular vote would have warranted. In this election, States Rights states, in the South and beyond, were, by and large, Trump states.

To a liberal, for whom the Federal Government is usually a better guarantor of consistency, fairness and justice than is the theology of States Rights (remember civil rights legislation), it might seem nonsensical to favor the Electoral College over the popular vote. The alternative, however, would radicalize these angry states, drive them further to the right, and into the arms of the Voldemort also known as Texas.

Another good way to discredit our liberal principles would be to support the stated intent of some city and state political leaders not to cooperate with, possibly even to stymie, Federal immigration efforts now that Trump is to be President. It was only a couple years ago that we were blasting Arizona, and the notorious Sheriff Joe Arpaio, for interfering in immigration policies which, we argued, were the prerogative of the Federal Government.

Have these policies suddenly devolved to the individual states, each with its own policy and border control? Have liberals become States Righters? Just because there are fundamental moral issues involved doesn’t mean we should change our strategic position that, over the course of time, the Federal Government is the best bet for giving moral principles the force of law.

If you lose the game, you don’t change the rules so that they favor your particular weaknesses. You remedy the weaknesses. The Cubs got a new front office, a new manager,unknown new players, a new attitude. They didn’t pout, at least not for long.

OK, so the Presidency isn’t as important as the World Series. But pretend it is. Otherwise, it could be 108 years before we get back to the White House. That’s a long time to pout.