Pops Watched TV: WHITE HOUSE PLUMBERS

 In the summer and fall of 1973, my afternoon television routine (consisting primarily of Wee Willie Webber’s Colorful Cartoon Club on WPHL-17) was frequently sidelined by my mother’s insistence on watching the Watergate hearings. The following summer, I was at the shore (Dewey Beach, DE) with my parents and grandparents when Richard Nixon resigned his presidency. Watergate was my first political memory, but at the time—aside from the battles it incurred between my lefty Dad and conservative grandmother—I found it really boring. 

Well, guess what, eight-year old me, someday a satirical dramatization of Watergate is going to be your favorite thing on TV. HBO’s WHITE HOUSE PLUMBERS totally caught me off guard (despite its VEEP connection)… I was  not expecting a side-splittingly funny black comedy… I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s all the political intrigue and ‘70s social strife mixed in there as well. But the sincere bromance between über-earnest E. Howard Hunt (Woody Harrelson) and G. Gordon Liddy (Justin Theroux) is played so broadly that it falls just short of the classic WILL: THE MOVIE parody from SCTV (link in comments). 

Apparently the mix of irreverence and an adherence to history (mostly) is causing confusion amongst some viewers. But let’s face it, C.R.E.E.P.  was comprised of some serious buffoons. It all works gloriously for me (I think my father would’ve liked it too… MeMee, not so much). My only complaint about this series is that it’s only five episodes. But I’ll be rewatching as soon as it wraps up.

Originally posted on social media, May 10, 2023

Pops Read a Book: THE DARK SIDE OF CAMELOT

I’m not gonna lie, I skimmed a lot of Seymour M. Hersh’s THE DARK SIDE OF CAMELOT (Back Bay Books, 1997)… this 500-page look at the political sins and personal peccadilloes of John F. Kennedy is verrrrrrry dense, and much of the political machinations with dozens of players had me glazing over. That’s right, I mostly dug into the more salacious stuff, the mob ties and the many, MANY, almost DAILY dalliances with women, from the most famous to unnamed call girls. I think the creepiest thing was learning that JFK willingly and knowingly spread his VD all over the country! Talk about a new frontier!

But what was most interesting is the recurring thread of journalists and politicians KNOWING most of this stuff, but holding it back to protect the office of the President. One can only speculate whether or not any of it would’ve damaged Kennedy politically (probably, given the time), but it’s also crazy to contrast that with today, when a certain unnamed POSPOTUS did shit that was every bit as risible right in the open, it was openly reported, and absolutely nobody gave a shit (well, nobody who could do anything, anyway).

We live in the weirdest times. 

Originally posted on social media, May 2, 2023

Pops Read a Book: THE NEXT CIVIL WAR

 Forget Frankenstein, The Exorcist, or The Shining, Canadian journalist Stephen Marche’s THE NEXT CIVIL WAR (Avid Reader Press, 2022) is the most terrifying book I’ve ever read.

Presenting five possible scenarios for the downfall of American democracy (and, really, the end of society as we know it), Marche mixes empirical data, expert testimony, and evocative fictional scenarios in a powerful work of “speculative non-fiction” that should make anyone who brushes off the by-products of the Trump era think twice (or maybe even once). And Marche agrees that the two main culprits are climate change and the Internet, two things that aren't going away.

Critics of the book accuse Marche of being hyperbolic and playing into the kind of partisan division the book decries, but that’s the point… we’re at a tipping point not just in America, but by default, the entire world, and way too many people are simply not taking it seriously. This book has caused me severe depression and anxiety, but I just couldn’t put it down. Only time will tell how prescient this work of horror actually is.

Originally posted on social media, March 18, 2024

SSJW (Super Social Justice Warriors)

Social media. Ugh. Am I right, people?

Recently, I saw a comment on an Instagram post about Jane Foster (Natalie Portman) picking up Mjolnir to become the God of Thunder in Thor 4 that whined about “damn SJW” versions of comic book characters (people were up in arms to a lesser extent when this happened in the comics four years ago). The conservative mandate is that Thor MUST wield a penis in addition to his mighty hammer. I was gonna weigh in on the post, but over a hundred other people had already taken this Alt-Right moron to task for his misogyny. Still, it got me thinking…

The Right tends to try to co-opt a lot of things they don’t seem to understand, from Johnny Cash to They Live to the Constitution of the United States. But when they try to lay claim to superheroes, well, now that’s going too far.

To those who are not versed in the genre, superheroes might seem to be a perfect symbol for the kind of nationalism espoused by the far Right: They are supremely powerful, and use their might to battle their enemies into submission. They represent order and the establishment.

But that’s an overly simplistic take that doesn’t really fit most of the iconic characters that are dominating pop culture today.

In fact, superheroes are more in line with activists and societal rebels than they are figures of authority. They use their individual gifts to work outside the system, to fight for a kind of justice that might not align with that of the police or the government. Heck, they even wear flamboyant costumes and kinky accouterments!

Even Captain America, as patriotic a character as they come, has butted heads with his country numerous times, both in the comics and in the MCU. Steve Rogers’ idea of America doesn’t always line up with The Man’s, which makes him an embodiment of the spirit of America, not merely a jingoistic symbol of whatever this country represents at the time.

Similarly, and in some ways, to an even greater extent, there is a contingency that views the Man of Steel in a nationalistic light. Certainly, Superman has been depicted as an American icon… particularly during World War II (along with every other superhero), but also in the George Reeves television series, at the end of Superman II (when he replaces the flag at the White House), and in many other iterations. Fox News even threw a little hissy fit (imagine that!) when 2006’s Superman Returns rephrased the 1950s version of what the character stood for as “Truth… justice… all that stuff!”

But, as with Cap, to label the Man of Steel as a paragon of conservative American values is a huge mistake. From his first appearance in Action Comics #1 in 1938, Superman was a “champion of the oppressed,” often battling establishment figures (from corrupt public officials to dishonest businessmen and foreign despots). He was… LITERALLY… a Social Justice Warrior.

And yet when I did a little digging on the commenter who trashed the notion of a female Thor, it turned out that he sells Trumpesque merchandise, including a shirt bearing the word, “Superpatriot,” which—you guessed it—co opts the classic Superman logo, with the telescoping, curved lettering.

Dude. Not only is Superman NOT nationalistic, he’s the ultimate illegal immigrant as well as a journalist, and hence an enemy of the people! You rail against immigrants and poor people and anyone else you see as a danger to your precious White America. Don’t you get it, man? You’re a BAD GUY. SUPERMAN WOULD NOT LIKE YOU.

Superman has a long history of fighting against the kind of xenophobic rhetoric being spewed by so many Trumpers… DC Comics published many Public Service comic strips over the years depicting the Last Son of Krypton fighting against prejudice and intolerance. A few years back, a poster (repurposing a 1949 book cover distributed by DC) on which Superman tells a group of school kids that being racist is “UN-AMERICAN” went viral, inspiring DC to offer a hi-res version for free download on their website.

(Ironically, DC’s later PSAs in the 1970s and beyond were way more conservative, more concerned with warning against such misdemeanors as shoplifting, smoking, or graffiti than battling prejudice.)

And yet, there were some people who derided the Superman “All-American” poster as ANTI-American (to the point where Snopes even devoted a page to affirming its validity). We live in a time where people are so polarized that any online discussion of this kind of stuff instantly becomes a slinging of inflamed rhetoric on both sides… but, as we’ve learned repeatedly, there are NOT necessarily always good people “on both sides.” 

I’ve quit most of the online comic book groups to which I belonged in part because I find it offensive that they ban ANY political content. Granted, like I said, it devolves quickly, but that shouldn’t lead to outright censorship of serious discussion, particularly when we are currently living in a time that has more than a little eerie and terrifying resonance with another point in the history of another country that didn’t end well. I understand the plight of online moderators who often have to put out these kind of fires, but outright censorship… just doesn’t feel right, gosh darn it.

If there were social media in the 1940s, would comic book fan groups have shot down any posts about Captain America punching Hitler in the face? A decade later, would they have deleted any discussion of the McCarthyesque attacks on the horror comics? Would the classic Green Lantern / Green Arrow debate on social justice have been permitted as a topic of discussion on a Facebook comic book group in 1970?


The comic book Public Service strips of the past may have been so effective because of the medium… a short story on a comic book page in which Superman points out the evils of prejudice was able to take root in a kid because there weren’t hundreds of naysayers looking over their shoulder, screaming in their ear about immigrants taking away their jobs and undermining their values. It was just a good guy giving a good lesson to that one reader at that moment.

I’m posting a handful of the classic Superman (and one good Batman) PSAs (all ©DC Comics) below not just because I think they’re awesome, but there’s an ulterior motive as well.

Maybe, just maybe, some Alt-Right idiot doing a search on “SJW” and “superhero” will stumble across this page and be forced to view empirical evidence that, in fact, superheroes have ALWAYS fought AGAINST what those who would halt progress believe. Superheroes (not counting anti-heroes like the Punisher, Deadpool, Spawn, Rorschach., et al) are more than just adolescent power fantasies and escapist junk culture… at their best, they help to teach the difference between right and wrong, to look beyond our own purview, and inspire us to remember to always fight the good fight.

Up, up, and away!

Asshole America

In 1987, after being acquitted in a high profile racketeering trial, New York mob boss John Gotti earned the media nickname, “The Teflon Don” due to the inability of any of his charges to stick. Gotti was eventually sent to jail in 1992, and died a decade later of cancer, but even if he had avoided those fates, he’d still have to abdicate the nickname to the true “Teflon Don,” the melon-tinged, racist, wannabe autocrat who currently holds the position of President of the United States, one Donald J. Trump.

Adam Zyglis

When the failed businessman (if we’re being honest) turned reality TV star was elected President in 2016 despite decades of recorded conduct that would’ve rendered any other candidate ineligible, there was a contingency that opined once he took office, he’d straighten up, tone down the coarseness and the divisive rhetoric, and become more “presidential.” 



Only that didn’t happen.

If anything, as Trump’s delicate, yet oversized ego began to get even more inflated by the power and the glory of his new office, he doubled down on the kind of behavior that is—shall we say—unbecoming of a world leader. He continued to call opponents “losers” and other schoolyard pejoratives, he used his position to further the financial interests of himself and his cronies, he embraced despots while alienating longtime allies on the world stage, he did everything in his power to try to derail a legitimate investigation into collusion with Russia… oh, hell, you guys know the list. It’s unending.

Rob Rogers

And with each new twist of the knife into the heart of the Republic (and for which it stands), a chorus of hopefuls would think, “This is it! This’ll finally turn Uncle Joe and Aunt Dotty against him! This is the thing that’s going to take him down!” 

But none of them did. Not taking Putin’s side over ours (“I don’t see why it would be!”), not the Mueller report (“Completely exonerated”), not another round of accusations of sexual misconduct (“She wouldn’t be my first choice, believe me”), not the constant tweeting of racist dog whistles (“Go back to your countries!”), none of it has made a dent in his base or his support in the Republican party. NONE. OF. IT. STICKS.

How can this be? Why is this unrepentant asshole so untouchable? I think the answer is simply… because he is an unrepentant asshole. If someone is totally unpossessing of shame, humility, empathy, and self-awareness, it’s kinda hard to cut through that armor with things like empirical evidence and civility. It makes him invulnerable to criticism. And so every assholish thing that this assholey asshole does and gets away with only solidifies his support amongst Asshole America.

John Cole

We need look no further than his rallies. Those fucking rallies (over FIFTY since taking office!). Arenas and auditoriums and expo centers full (or partially full, anyway) of mewling sycophants who gobble up every mouth turd that falls out of his puckered face hole (that probably smells like a mix of rotting meat and Life Savers): Lies and self-aggrandizement and race baiting and lies and media bashing and let’s not forget the lies. Speaking off the cuff, he rambles and dishes out his greatest hits and says absolutely nothing of substance, but to many of his base, (and please forgive my repeating myself) WHAT he says isn’t as important as HOW he says it. That sniffling, gravelly tenor of his, punctuated with barks and growls and the occasional “Am I right?” has the same Pavlovian effect on his base as chirping, “Who’s a good dog? You are! Yes you are! You’re a good dog!” to an excited Jack Russell Terrier who doesn’t understand what you’re saying, but really wants to go outside and chase his own tail for an hour.

If you need any evidence that the tone is key, look no further than the rally in June of 2018 at which he declared, “We got more money, we got more brains, we got better houses and apartments, we got nicer boats, we're smarter than they are and they say they're the elite. You're the elite, we're the elite!”



Dr. Jack & Curtis

Putting aside his usual poor grammar, let’s look at the content. He’s presuming that everyone at the rally is (a) super wealthy, (b) possessed of a MENSA level intellect, (c) living in the finest appointed homes, and (d) spending their weekends on the water in their yachts or some such conveyance.


But he made this speech at a rally in North Dakota. A landlocked state. And yet still, they whooped with wild enthusiasm (if that’s redundant, I apologize, I’m a little worked up). Did anybody in the crowd turn and look at the person next to them and say, “I don’t have a boat. Do you have a boat? Also, I’m living paycheck to paycheck in my parents’ basement, what the fuck is he talking about?”

David Plunkert

It’s doubtful (and not just because I’m sure there were some people there who WERE well off and maybe even owned a boat, that’s not the point). For many people in Trump’s crowds, they FEEL his anger, they can taste the bile in his throat as if it were their own. Whether it’s borne of fiscal anxieties, racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, whatever happens to be their own particular peccadillo, it doesn’t matter if he speaks to it directly or not. He’s mad. And so are they. 

Asshole America just loves being validated by the person holding a job that was once considered a bastion of dignity and restraint. Unlike other Presidents who strove to inspire and unite, this one is content to JUST BE PISSED AND DIVIDE. Rather than those snooty college boys telling you to “ask not what your country can do for you” or some similar kinda highfalutin’, unselfish bullshit, they finally got a leader who just bitches about brown people and those damn furr’ners and his own personal enemies and who (again, no doubt disingenuously) brags about the size of his mushroom shaped joint. 

Trump revels in his anger. It defines him. That’s his message to Asshole America: “Go ahead and be an asshole!” They’ve never been so fully and completely sanctioned by someone whose job it is to lead (you know, aside from Grand Wizards). If the most powerful person on this doomed planet can be such a colossal dick and get away with it, then why can’t they? Why CAN’T they be openly racist instead of just behind closed doors? Why CAN’T they be rude and demanding at a restaurant? Why NOT park in a handicapped spot if they want? Hey, let’s buy some more guns! Where’s the nearest Walmart? Anyone who thinks it’s a coincidence that hate crimes have increased in the past two and a half years is either kidding themselves or holding office as a Republican. Or both.

I’ve watched pundit after pundit after pundit try to parse this seemingly inconceivable state of affairs, wringing hands over uneaten plates of breakfast pastries, begging historians for hopeful precedent to end this national nightmare, asking Democratic POTUS hopefuls how they can defeat Trump next November, all digging way deeper than they need to.

It’s simple. It’s superficial. It’s the ultimate triumph of anti-intellectualism, greed, hatred, and selfishness. It’s more insidious than Idiocracy. We’ve officially become Asshole America. And I honestly don’t know if we can ever recover.

Working with Steve Murray

What follows is the tribute I gave last Saturday at the celebration of the life of my dear friend and old boss, Stephen Alton Murray, who died of a brain aneurysm on Sunday, March 3, 2019. There is some crossover with a piece I wrote in 2011 when he was seriously burned in a fire that destroyed Steve's legendary vintage clothing and accessories store, Zap & Co. in Lancaster, PA.

The "Stevent" was held at Lancaster's Fulton Opera House, and was packed with friends, family, customers, and fans of this icon of the city, and a key figure in the renaissance of downtown arts and commerce. I was truly honored to be asked to be a speaker and decided to focus on an aspect of Steve Murray that most people didn't get to experience: Having him as a boss.

NOTE: This is the text as written. I did some ad-libbing, so if there are any video transcripts, there may be some slight differences.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
My name is Karl Heitmueller Jr. and from 1988 to 1996, I ran BBC Records for Steve.

I’m gonna tell a few tales about what it was like to work for Steve Murray. Forgive me if you’ve heard them before. I tend to re-tell stories. It’s something I learned from both my late father and Steve. 

It was thirty one ears ago when I went from working part time at BBC Records for Steve and Paul to managing the joint. I was a whopping 23 years old (don't do the math!!).

photo by Deb Grove

When I took the job, I had a meeting with Steve about what I wanted to do with BBC. While the lure of the shop was imports, and its inherently cool vibe, it was basically a regular independent record store. I wanted to turn it into an ALL-ALTERNATIVE (although that term didn’t exist yet, I can’t remember what the hell we called it… post-punk / whatever) store. Which meant that, aside from used product, I wanted us to stop selling things like Steely Dan or Bruce Springsteen or… The Beatles. 

And Steve, the guy who once spent every dime he had to go to England to try to get a job emptying wastebaskets at Apple Records… said okay. 

As with everything Steve championed, he liked the idea of making the store as cool as possible, regardless of the fact that it would make our potential clientele… smaller. 

And then at the end of the meeting, we stood up, and Steve —who was just like a few inches taller than I am, but always seemed to tower over me— put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “There’s one last thing. And I’m just going to say this this one time… you’re the manager… but it’s my store.” 

And in the next seven and a half years, he never said it again. Steve gave me practically anarchic free reign to run BBC Records as I saw fit, even when it was something as self-serving and even more commercially bone-headed as expanding our specialty to include classic Jazz and Pop Vocals… traditionally not a hot genre in music retail. 

He rarely grabbed any of the promo CDs that came into the store on a daily basis, and I always got first pick of that cornucopia of goodies. 

In fact, there was, to my recollection, only one time he ever pulled the owner card on me. We had purchased a large 1950s-60s record collection from the son of an old man who had passed, and I had pulled a small stack for myself. Steve came into the store and saw the album that was at the front of the stack, and said, “Sorry, I’m keeping that one.” 

The record was CHET ATKINS IN HOLLYWOOD. Was Steve that big of a Chet Atkins fan? When you think of Steve, you don’t immediately think of The Nashville Sound. Well, I’m Not sure, but I think the reason he wanted that record had more to do with the album cover, which depicted a very buxom and beautiful blonde,  posing on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

I have hundreds of memories of my time at BBC, back in the heyday of the trinity, when the 300 Block of North Queen street was anchored (in my subjective opinion) by Zap, BBC, and DMZ. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna share them all. I won’t tell you about the time we ran out of gas driving to see Jane’s Addiction at the 9:30 Club in DC. Or about Steve closing up all of his stores so we could all go protest Dan Quayle’s appearance in the square. Or the Friday afternoon six packs of Rolling Rock that he’d buy for everybody. Or racing to meet the UPS truck before it got to the 300 block so we could have new releases stocked as soon as we opened. Or the time he just strolled backstage at an R.E.M. show and nobody stopped him because of COURSE he belonged there! 

But I will share one thing. Lots of people over the past week have mentioned Christmas Eve at Steve’s stores every Christmas Eve was a day-long party. Steve would bring bottles of chilled Freixenet champagne to each store for us to share with anyone who came through the doors. At BBC, the twinkling Sputnik in the window, Vince Guaraldi coming from the speakers, last minute shoppers buying T-shirts and import CDs, friends coming by just to hang out (which happened a lot… we didn’t just have couches in the store to take up floor space). Steve would bounce from shop to shop, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, and we’d stay open until we just felt like closing. Then we’d all convene at one of the stores for our staff party, where gifts would be exchanged and more hooch would flow until we all somehow staggered our ways to our respective family gatherings. 

And even after I moved away from Lancaster, I would still make stopping by Zap to see Steve and have some of that champagne a part of my Christmas Eve tradition. And every single time, I was greeted with a giant hug from my old boss. It was home. It was magical. 

Working for… or, as Steve would put it, WITH Steve Murray was pretty much like what you’d imagine… There were some struggles, particularly back when Lancaster was far more staid than it is today (thanks in no small part to the efforts of Steve). But we felt like an oasis. We knew we were a part of this amazing haven for Lancaster’s artists and oddballs. And we had a hell of a lot of fun. Me, Rex, Doug, Yvette, Margi, Casey, Cheri, Tim, Jim, Kathy, Trish, Alicia, Rob, Troy, Beth, Kenny, Steve, Peter, Ray, Kini, Chris, Kris, Jon, and everyone else who ever got a paycheck from Steven Alton Murray were so goddamn lucky to feel like we were a part of the coolest gang in town. 

It's common when loved ones leave us suddenly to wish we'd had a chance to let them know how we felt. If there's a silver lining to that damn fire, it's that we... all of us... got the chance to let Stephen Murray know EXACTLY just how much he meant to us, and to this entire community. 

TEN LUMPS OF COAL: A List of Christmas Things That Bring Out the Pre-Epiphany Grinch in Me

First off, it must be stated: I love Christmas. As soon as the Halloween decorations come down, I’m ready for the holly leaves, twinkling lights, and jingle bells to go up in their place. Thanksgiving? Pfft. That’s for gluttons and fans of terrible parades. Bring on Santa, Baby! This time of year, I become a mushy, festive mixture of Clark Griswold, Charlie Brown, and Scrooge’s nephew (actually, that kind of describes me most of the time, for better or worse).

But I don’t love everything about the season. I mean, really, aside from Buddy the Elf and Ed Grimley, who does? I’ll admit that there are a handful of aspects of Christmas that turn me into Nick the Bartender railing against atmosphere-givin’ characters ordering a mulled wine (heavy on the cinnamon, light on the cloves)! Herewith, counting down my mistletoe miseries from 10 to 1:

10. GAG GIFTS
To me, part of the warmth of the holidays comes from letting those humans who make your life worth living know so. That means a gift that’s a genuine expression of said affection, not a tool with which to roast their chestnuts. I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan of gag gifts in ANY context, but I can deal with them on a birthday or retirement party or some other event that’s less reverent. But for Christmas? Nah. Gotta be from the heart (even… or maybe especially if it’s a normally crusty one). 

9. “THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS”
There is no war on Christmas. Get over it, Fox News pundits. A Starbucks cup doesn’t have to depict The Three Wise Men to reflect the season. Saying “Happy Holidays” is not an insult, rather, ‘tis a pleasant greeting of well-wishing to be received gratefully. Kwanzaa is not a threat. Keeping a nativity scene off of any state run organization’s lawn is not taking myrrh from the Baby Jesus’s mouth (or wherever the heck you put myrrh). Inclusivity is not a bad thing (and to ALL a good night!).

8. SANTA CON

Ugh. First of all, it’s not a “con.” “Con” infers tables of geeky merchandise for sale and panel discussions with fervent diehards (speaking of… see next lump) and nerdy acolytes. Call it what it is: “Holiday Costume Bar Crawl for Douchebags.” What makes this ersatz St. Paddy’s Day debauchery even more risible is (a) kids should never see any Santa other than Billy Bob Thornton getting into a fistfight, and (b) it gives holiday overindulgence a bad name. On the plus side, the puke puddles over which we must leap at the end of the night are laden with pretty sparkles.

If this is a Christmas movie, then so is Iron Man 3. And it ain't.

7. “DIE HARD IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE.”
Don’t get me wrong; I love Die Hard. I think it’s the quintessential action flick. And while I enjoy the holiday angle of the film, the bottom line is, just because it takes place at Christmas time DOESN’T MEAN IT’S A CHRISTMAS MOVIE. Is it ABOUT Christmas? No. Does John McClane deliver presents to girls and boys? You know, besides bullets to bad guys? No. Does Karl dance to “The Nutcracker Suite?” No. Does Hans Gruber have an epiphany at the end of the film and see the folly of his ways and have his band of thieves join the party, pal? No. Die Hard is many things. It’s fun, exciting, funny, and yes, even a bit moving at times. But it ain’t a Christmas movie. SO STOP TELLING ME THAT IT IS. ‘TIS A TIRESOME AND ERRONEOUS CLAIM.

6. INFLATABLE LAWN DECORATIONS / TOO MANY LAWN DECORATIONS

Decorating your house and lawn for Christmas is one of the (arguably) handful of upsides of suburban living. Ain’t nothin’ purtier than colored lights hung outside on a snowy evening. But as with everything, editing is crucial. First, please, I’m begging you… never, ever use those godawful blow-up figures of Santa, Rudolph, Jesus, Frosty, et al… they evoke the kind of puffy, poorly rendered characters you see on the covers of budget holiday books and DVDs in the cheapo bins at Costco. Equally distracting / annoying are those houses that fill every last square foot with lights and decorations. The resultant sensory overload is as muddy and headache inducing as your electric bill must be. Plus, I hate how you people gobble up every last set of discounted leftover lights on December 26th  before I can even grab one box! 

5. HALLMARK CHANNEL CHRISTMAS MOVIES
I’m not averse to seasonal cinematic schmaltz. I freely admit to getting misty at Miracle on 34th Street and It’s a Wonderful Life and that episode of Happy Days where Richie invites a lonely Fonzie to spend Christmas Eve with the Cunninghams. But the tears that I shed for the seemingly endless stream of cloying mush known as the Hallmark Channel Christmas movies are not joyful, but rather reflective of the death of culture (I hesitate to even post this link, but you gotta check some of this shit out). I used to think these sparkly rom coms (with names like, I kid you not, A Shoe Addict’s Christmas) were written using a Christmas Mad Libs and a bottle box of White Zinfandel, but I’m guessing it’s more likely an icy cold computer algorithm. 
(Full disclosure: I have never seen a single one of these movies in their entirety, but I have sampled enough to know what the hell I’m talking about)

4. DECEMBER 26th

I call it PXMD, as in Post-Christmas Depression. Remember when you were a kid, and it felt like Christmas took FOR-EVVVV-ERRRR to get here? The agony of waiting for December 24, and the traditions and goodies that were about to unfold over the following glorious two days? Okay, maybe your experience varied, but you probably know what I mean. Now, if you’re in the middle aged portion of your life (as I am… firmly), you know that Einstein was a smart mother-effer and that with age, time now FLIES by, and before you can even finish everything you wanted to get done for Christmas, it’s over. Just like that (it’s one of the reasons I don’t mind starting the season right after Halloween). And yes, I try to stay in the holiday spirit after “the big day,” keeping my decorations up well into January, listening to the music until it just doesn’t feel right anymore, but… there’s always something about waking up on the day after Christmas (or, Boxing Day, as some weirdos call it) that forever bums me out. Sigh. Where’s the nog? 

© Jeff Stahler

3. CLIMATE CHANGE
Someday, not too many years from now, a young child will hear an old Christmas carol and ask their parent, “Mommy, I don’t understand ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Winter Wonderland’ and ‘Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!’… why are they singing about it snowing at Christmas? It only ever snows around Valentine’s Day!” And the mother will question why she ever thought it was a good idea to bring a child into a world that is doomed to become barely habitable in their lifetime. And Christmas will be ruined. Me, I just miss snow in December (and yes, it used to happen fairly often, kids).

2. BAD CHRISTMAS MUSIC

Granting a subjective prejudice, to my ears, the chasm that gapes its maw between good and bad Christmas music is as deep and vast as to make the Grand Canyon look like a crack in the sidewalk. When done right (Julie Andrews & André Previn, The Ramsey Lewis Trio, Bing Crosby & the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, James Brown, Les Brown [no relation], The Ventures, Brenda Lee, Vince Guaraldi, Frank Sinatra, Andre Kostelanetz, and SOME Johnny Mathis, to name but a few), Christmas music is a transformative aspect of the season. A finely crafted carol can put you in the spirit as well as a dozen strings of lights and a gallon of egg nog with two gallons of rum in it. But done WRONG (no links to follow, sorry / not sorry)… (Mariah Carey, Kenny G, Mannheim Steamroller, Mitch Miller [and his “gang”], Celine Dion, almost any modern country or R&B artist, and the aural pestilence known as Pentatonix, again to name just a few), these cheesy, overproduced, saccharine cash grabs exemplify the kind of hollow, crass commercialism that drove Charlie Brown to pick that sad little tree (and Charlie Brown knows what he’s talking about). The fact that this crap dominates holiday playlists kills me every time it pierces my eardrums and stabs my brain. Most people hate Christmas music because pap like “The Christmas Shoes” is what they think of when the genre is mentioned. 

1. CHRISTMAS HATERS

Then again, some people just hate Christmas; All aspects of it, from the music and the ugly sweaters to the forced frivolity and gift giving. I’m not exaggerating to say that these people… well, they break my heart. Look, I fully understand and agree that the holidays can be stressful and expensive and aggravating and unrelenting and exhausting. All o' that stuff. But that doesn’t have to define the season. Because (unlike with every other major holiday) here’s the best thing about Christmas: It’s a la carte. You can pick and choose whatever aspects (of the literally dozens) suit your own wants and needs. Don’t believe in God? That’s cool (I don’t!)… most of the fun stuff about the holiday—feasting, gift giving, decorating, general winter revelry— existed as rituals in pagan celebrations long before the Catholic Church appropriated them in the 4th century AD when they shifted Jesus’ birth to December and decided to put the Christ in Christmas. Don’t like shopping for gifts? Cool, make something (like cookies or art or frame a favorite photo) or donate to a charity in the name of the person you got in the family pull. Hate Home Alone? I don’t blame you, that movie’s no fun at all. Watch any of the many great versions of A Christmas Carol instead (I’m partial to the 1984 TV movie starring George C. Scott, myself). There’s gotta be SOMETHING about the season that you can enjoy, even if it’s just pretty lights or a little spice in your stout (mmm, Christmas beer). Don’t close yourself off to the whole shebang just because most of it seems like shit. Don’t forget, Dr. Seuss and Charles Dickens were trying to make a point. People tend to think of the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge in their pre-epiphany states, when they hated the holiday. But in the end, they both realized that, in fact… Christmas is pretty damn great.

Geez, that didn’t end as you expected, did it? I promise a list of stuff I loathe about the holiday and it ends up being a gushy ode. Well, whattya want from me? I warned you at the beginning that I love it! And so, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!



Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go make some more cookies…. 

The Cantaloupe-Colored Mea Culpa

I realize that the last thing the world needs is yet another piece by a terrified, angry liberal screaming into the void / preaching to the choir about Donald Trump, but I have to make a public mea culpa. See, I thought… and often loudly opined… that he’d be gone by now.

Since the day Donald Trump was elected the President of the United States (you all remember that, right? Shortly after Halloween, couple’a years back?), my prediction was that he wouldn’t fulfill even half of his term. My window for his departure (whether through resignation or impeachment) was 15-18 months. 

Well, it’s now August 2018, and as the perpetual pit in my stomach confirms, Boss Tweet is still firmly and flabbily ensconced in the Oval Office (or, more likely, one of his golf clubs). 

In the beginning, my theory was that enough impeachable dirt would be rather quickly uncovered that would make it difficult for him to stay in office, and that he’d resign, but spin it as “finishing the job early,” so he could move on to creating his new media outlet, or just go back to slapping his name on crap, or whatever. Because while I never bought the theory that he didn’t want to win (he ALWAYS wants to win, even if his primary motivation for running was spite), it’s a given that he never wanted to do the actual hard work. Doing work is not his thing, man. 

Well, certainly, dirt has been uncovered. And his behavior in office continues to bring disgrace to the entire country on practically a daily basis. He has said and done things that would’ve been political suicide for anyone else in any of the branches of government. 

But there are three things on which I didn’t count. One, that none of this would matter to his intractable base, the true wall that he has built around the country, one made out of flesh and ignorance. Two, that Congress would turn out to be cowardly toadies who make excuses for Trump rather than hold him to his oath of office. And three, that the POSPOTUS himself would become hopelessly addicted to the power and sycophantic glory his position engenders. 

And while I still think there’s a wee bit of a chance he doesn’t make it to the end of his term, if he does evade being ousted from the post for which he is so brutally unqualified… I think it’s more likely than not that we’re in for another four years (or more, if he has his way). But even if Donald Trump ceased to be President tomorrow, enough damage has been done that I don't think it'll be fixed in my lifetime, if ever. Maybe we are now living in the Idiocracy that Mike Judge predicted (only we got there 490 years earlier than the movie's timeframe. Isn't that cute?). 

I was not one of those optimists who felt that Trump didn’t stand a chance in 2016. I’m cynical enough that I believed the country's  heapin' helpin' of gullibility, hate, and misogyny left a decent chance that he could beat Hillary Clinton (who, without getting into pointless rehashing, was in my opinion, the worst possible candidate to go up against him). 

So I was not shocked on November 9, 2016, when I awoke to the confirmation that the Captain Bonespurs had beaten his cocky and  entitled opponent. Horrified, numb, depressed as fuck, sure. But not shocked. 

As I rode the train to work that morning, I got a taste of the divisive environment that was about to ripen in America. Sitting across and down the car from me was a young African-American man reading the newspaper, and when I locked eyes with him, he scowled, shook his head in disgust, and went back to reading. I thought maybe I was being paranoid, but as I stood and crossed to the door as the train pulled into the station, I glanced over at him, and he repeated his repulsed reaction. I wanted to try to explain that I wasn’t the enemy, that I was as mortified and disgusted as he, but I decided to let him have his resentment. He deserved it. 

As a quick side note, while I held my nose and pulled the lever for Clinton, I can’t side with those who blame voters who chose Gary Johnson or Jill Stein or any other third party candidate for the results of the election. Nobody should be vilified for voting their conscience, for refusing to choose “the lesser of two evils,” regardless of the ramifications. If fingers must be pointed (an ironically pointless exercise), aim them at those who actually voted for Trump, or the 40-some percent of the eligible voters who abstained altogether, whether out of apathy, laziness, or whatever other lame excuse they mustered. 

18 months in, my own grief has turned to anger and dismay. Not to put too fine a black point on it, but I truly think we’re doomed. What we’ve witnessed as this presidency has edged closer to dystopia is the triumph of narcissism, anti-intellectualism, and willful, arrogant ignorance. His followers not only don’t want to hear any of your fancy “facts,” they are proud of their aversion to (gag) “FAKE NEWS,” that Pavlovian, unbreakable, catch-all rejoinder that carries about as much intellectual heft as a surly teen’s “Whatever.” You can (and we do) have concise, carefully corroborated, and non-partisan laundry lists of malfeasance and lies perpetrated by their Great Orange Leader, and they reject it without even taking a nanosecond to consider ANY of it might be true. None of these people have ever typed Snopes into their browsers.

Even when, at one of his seemingly ceaseless rallies (which are not held for the benefit of the attendees, but rather for the fluffing of his own perpetually needy ego), Trump spouts some nonsense that has NOTHING to do with the audience—like, say, implying that they have better houses and boats than the so-called elites—they scream and froth and lap it up like melted Velveeta… because WHAT he says matters less than HOW he says it. His anger and hatred and dismissiveness reflect their own and they feel validated, even empowered. “I can be a dick to people because the leader of the free world is a dick!” This is why old white men think it’s okay to accost a young brown woman for daring to wear a Puerto Rico tee-shirt in America. It’s why hate groups have not merely proliferated under this administration (up 20% since 2014), they’ve felt emboldened to come out in the open and proudly fly their flags. 

So, if facts have completely ceased to matter (after all, truth is not truth), how can the left appeal to the 2016 fence-straddlers who ultimately jumped onto Trump’s side, and then drank deep from the well? Aye, there’s the rub: I don’t think we can. Setting aside the ballooning deficit, unless the economy stops improving (a trend that began before Trump took office, but for which he naturally takes full credit), nothing’s going to make the Trumpsters turn against their Great and Powerful leader. And maybe not even that. Aside from some who are beginning to see the downsides of Trump’s tariffs, most of his followers don’t seem to care how much he’s worked against their own self-interest (particularly if they have kids who are going to have to live with the environment —both literal and cultural—he’s curating). At this point, their love for him is a matter of personal pride, even if he could not give one flying fuck about any single one of them. 

Because this is the thing that I truly don’t get: How anyone, regardless of politics or social status or any sociological dividing line you wanna draw, cannot see that the ONLY thing he cares about is his own ego stroking. That’s it. The beginning, middle, and end. Much as I loathed some of the Presidents that preceded this one, I still believe that every one of them felt that they were doing what was best for the country (Okay, maybe not Nixon, but I was too young to have had issues with him at the time). Not this guy. This guy doesn’t give a shit about you. Unless you happen to be Ivanka reading this thing right now, in which case, THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOUR FATHER WANTS TO BANG YOU, GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HIM! 

So. Sigh. Here we are. We’re stuck with him. Regardless of the ultimate outcome of the Mueller investigation, no matter what we hear on any more audiotapes, no matter what he tweets or says or does, he has succeeded in relentlessly bludgeoning the republic into a state of numbness. Nothing matters anymore. The United States of America is Trumpland now. Paint the White House gold and slap his name on the outside. He’s here to stay. 

FOREVER. AND EVER. AND EVER. 

Ghad, I hate being wrong.

__________________________________________
POSTSCRIPT, August 23, 2018: I posted this yesterday morning, having no idea (of course) that later that afternoon, two of the biggest bombshells in the ongoing investigations into Trump would be dropped: Paul Manafort's guilty verdicts on 8 of the charges against him, and Michael Cohen's guilty plea for campaign finance violations, incriminating "a candidate for federal office." While the news media went into overdrive pontificating what these two events meant for Trump, I remain convinced that the answer is, ultimately, nothing. 

The Pops Gallery: Presidential Comic Book Covers!

Hey, I don't know if you guys heard, but there's a Presidential election in the United States next week. This will be the eighth time I get to pull the lever to cast my ballot for the so-called "leader of the free world," and it is far and away the most depressing election of my lifetime. Which is why I'm grateful for the distraction of COMIC BOOKS! Wheeee, comics! Where the bad guys are (usually) clearly defined and the good guys almost always win! Now there's some catharsis!

But let's take a gander at worlds colliding. What follows is a Pops Gallery of 50 comic book and strip images (mostly covers, but not all) of characters either interacting with real life Presidents (and Sarah-cough-Palin) or running for office, as well as a handful of comics where the Commander in Chief is the star.

Not surprisingly, Superman and Captain America are well represented (Superman mostly rescuing the President, as, not being born in the US, he couldn't legally run for office). For some books, I only scratch the surface of available material, such as Joe Simon's amazingly weird 1970s series, PREZ, the even weirder Reagan's Raiders, and, of course, MAD Magazine, which traffics regularly in political satire (and it seems as if Richie Rich is actually running for Presidenté of some South American country, but how could I omit an image of a spoiled bazillionaire running for office?).

As I post this, the election is still five days away, and depending on to whom you listen, it could go either way. Regardless of the outcome, it's gonna be messy. Almost makes one pine for a Zippy the Pinhead administration...