This is What (Direct) Democracy Looks Like (Part One)

(If you're new here, this column consists of weekly letters written to my grandchildren, who exist, to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead, and my great-grandchildren, who aren't here yet.)

Dear (Eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

A significant aspect of the apparently never-ending kerfuffle over the Donald's surprising triumph, since the Hilliam won the popular vote, is/was the current revival of the apparently never-ending kerfuffle over whether or not we should close the electoral college and send the students packing.

Is/was? Yes, because while the electoral college is/was a major thing, for a minute, to those that refuse to accept that the Donald is now the POTUS, it's now a minor thing, but, still a thing. The thing of the week (which will probably be ancient history by the time this column moves out of the house) is crediting the Putin (Russians) with stealing the election for the Donald.

1.29.17 Yup, Russian interference has finished it's solo and is now sitting with the rest of the band. The current solo is being performed by the maestro himself. The Donald has added an avalanche of executive orders to his repertoire that he performs while simultaneously tweeting with his free hand. Trump derangement syndrome is loose on social media. The progressive industrial complex is fact checking and op-eding itself into a near incoherent frenzy.

[Aside:Two points. If the Putin Pooteen has the power to pick our POTUS, he's even more clever and diabolical than I thought. Imagine having the ability to tweak our presidential election in light of the fact that we have no national election system in place. The rules governing the popular vote, as well as those that determine which kids will be briefly enrolled in electoral college, are determined by the individual states.

Various and sundry denizens of the Gubmint Gummit have declared their intention to discover how the Pooteen and his malevolent minions managed to manipulate the election results. Personally, I'd like to know if the fact that the Donald decisively lost the popular vote but decisively won at electoral college was a fluke or part of the conspiracy.

Point two. Henceforth, the entity formerly known as the Gubmint will now be called the Gummit. The dastardly dictator formerly known as the Putin will now be called the Pooteen. I've decided I prefer the Gummit to the Gubmint because it rolls off the tongue easier, suggests that the Gummit gums things up, and will enable me to use the phrase dadgum Gummit, if I so choose. (I haven't heard back yet from the R&D department.) 

The Pooteen, in my semi-humble opinion, SOUNDS like an amoral, self-declared czar who thinks nothing of killing off his opponents or any innocent civilians that happen to get in the way.

{Aside to the aside: as regular readers know, or should/will if they remain regulars, I'm all about (among other things) restoring societal civility and protecting/respecting the power of words. I do this by employing my fiendishly clever strategery of avoiding overly harsh words by inventing and/or remodeling and/or substitution. For example, shtuff is much less harsh than shit but more powerful than stuff if you know who its parents are. Dadgum is several orders of magnitude less harsh than God d__n, a phrase so ugly I refuse to write it. (I keep it in a heavily fortified vault and reserve its use for only the most extreme situations.)}]

Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, threatened to resign if I didn't insert this link before moving on. It's a commentary on my aside, and the inordinate pleasure on my part derived from having an aside to my aside.   

And we're back. Thanks, Dana, for at least as long as the link continues to link to something (yet another reason to use links sparingly). The wisdom of giving the electoral college the final word on presidential elections is often attacked as not being democratic. However, as you've probably heard, due to our current demographic situation, without it the entire country would be at the mercy of the population of a handful of our largest cities.

Being well versed in history, the nature of man people, and aware of what was going on in other playgrounds on the planet, the dead white guys who created the rules for our playground went out of their way to come up with a system superior to the typical, crash-prone, direct democracy and we ended up with a relatively robust republic.

Which brings us to the subject of this column, Twitter.

[At this point Dana, Iggy (imaginary grandsticky), and Marie-Louise (my muse), all looked up, startled, from yet another game of Monopoly (it's become a thing) and gave me a look. As you were, sez I, all will soon be revealed.]

I'm talking about all forms of social media really, including the traditional ones, but I choose to focus on Twitter to simplify things.

The founders gave us a republic (representative democracy) to get around the obvious downsides of rule by mob. For example, 51% of us getting together and voting to kill the other 49%. Our republic consists of three power centers that are supposed to "check and balance" each other so that we would have to go to a lot of trouble, at least technically speaking, to commit genocide.

Pre-op stop. Poppa loves you.

It is at this point, Stickies and gentlereaders, that I must apologize and beg your forgiveness. I had a shiny new hip installed last Monday (1.23.17) and the pre-op stop above was as far as this column had progressed before I checked into the hospital. I write my shtuff fairly close to deadline.

Though I knew there would be a part two, it was my intention to write at least a couple of more closely related paragraphs while convalescing this past week. However, while I'm doing well overall, I've been more or less reduced to a semi-zombie with no ambition, less energy. My daily physical therapy and fussing over my swollen hip and leg is nearly all I'm capable of just now. Oh, I also spend time forcing myself to eat (that's a novel experience) and choke down my meds and supplements. The good news is I've watched a bunch of movies and documentaries. Reading (GASP! say it ain't so!) makes me sleepy.

It's taken me all week to write everything after pre-op stop. My energy levels are slowly returning and I hope to have part two done in time but fear not, there's a backup plan if things get ugly.

Have an OK day.

You Don't Know Jack...

...But that's not necessarily a bad thing.

(If you're new here, this column consists of weekly letters written to my grandchildren, who exist, to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead, and my great-grandchildren, who aren't here yet.)

Dear (eventual) Stickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I repeat, you don't know Jack. It's important, very important, that you know that you don't know. If you know that you don't know, you know a lot more than most people.

[Um, I'm gonna need you to explain THAT one, Poppa, says Iggy, my imaginary grandsticky. Dana, my imaginary reader, is giving me the raised eyebrows of skepticism. Marie-Louise, my muse, is grinning and scratching my back, being immortal, she already knows the truth about truth.]

Allow me to explain.

Let me begin by endorsing the wisdom inherent in the statement, "Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence." -John Adams

That is, the facts are the facts, regardless of what we think they are or want them to be.

"All we want are the facts, ma'am," which is what Sgt. Joe Friday actually said.

BIG BUT.

The facts are indeed, the facts, and the fearless pursuit of the facts is necessary if one wishes to know the truth. But truth is, at best, provisional. Provisional: serving for the time being (Merriam-Webster).

[Dana speaks: Awesome, dude, thanks for clearing THAT up!]

"Patience is a virtue." -William Langland

"Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can, seldom found in woman, never found in man." -Sister Mary McGillicuddy

Truth, is provisional -- a working hypothesis -- subject to change if/when new facts are discovered. A new fact may be hiding in plain sight or living in a hut in Siberia.

However, that doesn't bother a true scientist and it shouldn't bother us. In fact, if we adopt the right attitude, living in a world of shades of gray is much more interesting than living in a world of black and white (which would be quite boring).

"I think it's much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong." -Richard Feynman

[Iggy: Poppa, if there's a point to all this I...]

I have two points actually. The first is that everything we think we know is provisional, that is, subject to change when we uncover new facts. That this is the nature of our reality. That while acknowledging this can make you feel a little crazy, not acknowledging this might get you killed.

My second point is that since we inhabit a provisional reality of shades of gray, that while we should never stop looking for truth, a well-lived life requires that we make provisional choices and that we need to relax and enjoy the ride


As to the practical, everyday ramifications of point one, avoid over thinking to remain sane. Relax. Be confident that in most situations you'll have a command of enough of the facts to deal adequately. The trick is to never forget that a new fact may leap out from behind a rock at any moment. Cultivate that attitude. Knowing that you may not know will make you smarter than those who are sure they do know. Zen Buddhists call this having beginner's eyes, which simply means always maintaining an open mind. Pay attention and minimize the odds of being run over by a bus.

 "Our brains are pattern-recognition machines, but not good ones. That's what gets us in trouble. We see patterns where none exist. None of us are exempt from that. But we can use our limited sense of reason to see past it." -Scott Adams

As to point two, a well-lived life of provisional choices.

Philosophically speaking, just because everything we think we know is provisional, it doesn't follow that this knowledge need reduce us to insecure neurotics fearful of believing in anything. Or, worse yet, cause us to declare that "like, everything is relative, man." The latter being the universal justification for an empty, amoral life with no path ever chosen other than the one that satisfies the appetite of the moment.

God, or evolution, or whomever/whatever, has blessed us. We're not just eaters/procreators, we're eaters/procreators who are aware we're eaters/procreators. We don't just eat, procreate, and take a nice nap. We choose to be enthusiastic carnivores or self-righteous vegans (yes, I'm biased). We choose to be libertines, virgins or something in between (no bias, whatever works). Everyone should strive to take more nice naps (bias again).

My more traditionally religious friends call this having a soul with a free will. They believe the cosmos is a structure created by an omnipotent architect who provides a set of discernable rules we're to follow. I've no problem with that as long as they show some restraint, and respect all of the other kids on the playground. I've got a big problem with that when the enslaving and decapitation begins.

Fortunately, nowadays anyway, most of these folks are perfectly nice and choose the path labeled Live and Let Live. However, the devil, as always, resides in the details.

As for the rest of us, in my semi-humble opinion, step one is acknowledging the undeniable fact that we also have to share the playground with other kids -- again, restraint, respect, live and let live. Hmmm... it would seem these groups have something in common,

Step two, use the gift, choose. Impose a frame. Adopt a working protocol. Decide on some rules. Whatever you say, goes, but only for you. What goes for everyone should be decided by you and everyone else with, wait for it -- restraint, respect, and a spirit of live and let live.

And yes, I used the word blessed a few paragraphs ago. From the book of Crank: Believest thou in a carefully crafted creation conceived and constructed by an unimaginably awesome God of pure love or a perpetually pissed off dude with a white beard (Anticlause?) and lots of strictly enforced rules and regs that vary from sect to sect, prophet to prophet, messenger to messenger (inhale here), or, a cosmos that can be summed up and defined on a bumper sticker -- Shtuff Happens -- the bottom line is the same. 

Choose.

Even if you think you would prefer a black and white reality and/or you think you will, eventually, inhabit one, the Fact remains that, for now, you're in the same boat as the rest of us. What to do, what to do?

Choose a path that leads to any destination that motivates you to keep getting out of your warm, comfy bed in the morning. If you choose the wrong one or if you reach your destination, pick another one. Try not to step on other people's toes. Don't let other people step on yours.

Simple, right? Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.







 

The Impending Inauguration

(If you're new here, this column consists of weekly letters written to my grandchildren, who exist, to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead, and my great-grandchildren, who aren't here yet.)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

The coronation inauguration of Donald J. Trump is upon us. In less than a week he will be crowned sworn in and officially become our 45th king president. The snarky cross outs in the previous sentence are not directed at the Donald. If I were being snarky about the Donald I would point out that a 70-year-old man with yellow hair, an elaborate combover, orange skin and ever-shifting political positions will soon be king our president.

But I'm not. Let he who is not a 6339-year-old with an enormous head, a lazy eye, a pedestal for a neck and a tank shaped body who is about to have a defective hip replaced cast the first stone!

I'm merely pointing out, that in my semi-humble opinion, the phrase 50 united states implies 50 relatively powerful entities united for certain purposes, spelled out in our constitution, and having much more autonomy than they currently enjoy. What we have is The Gubmint, which, if it continues on its present trajectory, will become, THE GUBMINT.

What we have is so large, complex and powerful, that the phrase permanent campaign not only means governing with an eye on the next election it means all politics, all the time, for every-one.

The chattering class, the more or less permanent bureaucracy, the Gubmint wannabes, the political industry and Gubmint dependent real industries are all carrying on as if we're about to crown a divine right monarch.

Perhaps it's even worse than that. Does America have daddy issues? And/or do we, in spite of our supposed sophistication, long for an alpha male (alpha person?) to feel safe?

Can he can't he? Will he won't he? "Of course this is just speculation on my part but...". Is it true he likes McDonald's food? Didja hear most of the major designers refuse to dress his wife?

Joe Biden, recent vice-president, who was a lawyer for a minute before becoming a professional politician whose major accomplishment is a long career as professional politician announced that he's running for president in 2020.

Mr. Obama has rented a mansion and will be the first president since Wilson (suffering from the aftereffects of a stroke) to not get out of Dodge once he was evicted from the White House.

Mr. O. sez he's sticking around because this multimillionaire champion of the little people, this former community organizer, doesn't want to pull his youngest kid out of high school because she still has two years to go. She attends the Sidwell Friends school, current tuition $39,360 per year (but that includes a hot lunch). Golly, I wonder how he'll kill time between science fairs and PTA meetings?

Can't fault a man for being a good dad, but almost every time he's given a speech in the last eight years that wasn't delivered inside the beltway he made a point of telling his audience how great it was to get out of D.C., him being an outsider and all, and hang with regular folks.

While I appreciate this sacrifice for his kid, Chicago, the town he calls home, that's run by Rahm Emanuel, a former Obama chief of staff, has a notable homicide problem that you may have heard about.

I think I'll send him an email suggesting he spend as many long weekends as possible in Chicago till the problem is solved. If he were to lend his talent and prestige to his buddy Rahm they could no doubt get 'er done. I'd tweet it at him, but Cranky don't tweet.

He could straighten out Chicago and have an excuse to leave the fever swamps of DC on a regular basis, Win-win!

Sorry, I'm obviously suffering from Obama derangement syndrome, which clearly indicates I'm a closet racist in denial. Honey, get my therapist on the phone!

Moving on...

 An inauguration ain't supposed to be a coronation. According to Merriam-Webster:

Inauguration: a ceremonial induction into office
Coronation: the act or occasion of crowning

George Washington allegedly was offered a crown and said no thanks. Historians tell us that this never actually happened, that it was no truer than that shtuff about chopping down a cherry tree and readily confessing to the crime rather than trying to weasel his way out of it.

I'm so old that I can remember being taught the cherry tree story in school and believing it -- different world. I'm so old, and cranky, that I can imagine a country without a semi-imperial presidency that's not about to spend $200,000,000 (more or less) on parties and ceremonies to commemorate the Donald solemnly swearing or affirming that he will try to do a good job and follow the rulebook, the constitution.

The presidential oath of office, the only specifically worded oath in the constitution, has 37 words. This means we're gonna' spend roughly $5,400,000 per word. I have a better idea.

When I was a kid, 25 words or less contests were a thing. "Send us a letter and explain, in 25 words or less, why your family loves Powdermilk Biscuits and win free Powdermilk Biscuits for life!"

How about a nationwide contest promoted via radio to keep the cost down?

 "Send us an email and explain, in 25 actual words or less describing why you prefer a term-limited president to a divine right monarch. Win one million dollars and an all expenses paid trip to Washington DC to be the people's official witness to the Donald's inauguration and meet the new president! Attend a potluck dinner for the POTUS, congress, and the supreme court afterward! Free carnival games and face painting for the kids!"

Savings: $199,000,000 bucks, minus the cost of the radio promotion and renting a hall for the potluck.

The commercial ends with the announcer babbling the following words at twice the speed of sound.

"All winnings are subject to federal, state and local taxes. Employees or relatives, no matter how tenuous the connection,
 of the Donald are not eligible in order to minimize the number of inevitable future congressional investigations. No emojis or social media/texting truncations and abbreviations permitted in order to weed out trolls. Only one entry per documented citizen please, violators will be tossed over the wall."

The Donald, well known for his modesty and good taste, is setting a good example. Our next POTUS will utter the 37 words mentioned above at the Capitol building (home of the people's representatives, many of whom have been selflessly serving us for decades). Next, he'll jump in an armored Cadillac limousine, one of a fleet of a dozen or so (shhh! it's a secret!) built at cost of about $1,500,000, each.

He'll then travel in a motorcade, for about two miles, to the White House while dispensing royal waves and thumbs-ups to the little people.

Little but.

The limos in the parade will not display the traditional special license plates created to commemorate inauguration day. This is giving the collectors of such plates the vapors. The Donald's camp is refusing to say why, but I think I know.

The Donald, well known for his subtlety and discretion, is quietly making the statement that he's just one of us. Make America less tacky again! Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.