Michael Jay Tucker's Blog: Xcargo...

Naked From The Neck Up

So the other day I saw Wonder Woman. Or rather, not Wonder Woman, but someone who thought she was.

And it was horrible.

I shall explain. We had gone to the store to get something or other. I don’t recall what. Batteries, maybe. Dried milk. Coffee. Just the little purchases of a life in Covid.

She isn't helping...

While we were shopping, I had been pleased to see, that most of us…customers and clerks… were dutifully wearing our masks. We were all of us aware that we are in Texas, and that right now, Texas is in the midst of a real crisis. We re-opened too soon and as I write this ICUs are overburdened, morgues are overfull, refrigerated trucks handle the overflow of the dead.

Then I turned a corner and there she was. The woman. She was a young woman, in her thirties, maybe forty at most…attractive…well-dressed, shorts, short-sleeved shirt…very muscular. She was clearly an athlete. If she wasn’t professional, she was no stranger to the gym. And she had colorful tattoos. I could them seem twisting and serpentine on her arms and legs.

And she had no mask.

To give her her due, she saw me glance in her direction, and she had the good grace to look alarmed, as if she thought I might rebuke her. Which, of course, I would not have done. I am, alas, too much my mother’s son. Too much the gentleman to be confrontational. Though, if there ever was a confrontation needed, ’twas perhaps then.

Anyway, I walked past her and rejoined Martha. We went to the registers and then to the parking lot. We had parked a ways away, under a small tree, in a desperate attempt to find shade in the wet, heavy heat of a Texas summer. We reached my little truck. We unloaded our purchases. We turned. And there, across the lane, in a lot near ours, we saw another vehicle, a little Mercedes, no less. Not a new one. But not a relic, either.

What caught our attention, though, was that in the rear window there was a large, cardboard sign, hand written, somewhat crudely lettered. In the thick black ink of a magic marker there appeared a long and rambling message. I wish I had taken a picture of it, so that I could quote it exactly. But, I didn’t think to do so, and I’ll have to paraphrase. In brief, though, the sign was a manifesto written in the first person singular. “I refuse to wear a mask,” it began. “Just as I refuse vaccines.” It went on and on from there.

You Can't Fly Faster Than A Speeding Virus.

The issue wasn’t personal freedom as it might have been with the more common sorts of anti-maskers. Rather, it was health. Masks reduced oxygen to the brain. They weren’t natural. They caused damage of some ill-defined but nefarious kind.

And next to the sign was a cartoon window sticker…a decal showing Wonder Woman, flexing her biceps, all fury and defiance.

At which moment, of course, I knew whose car it was—the unmasked woman in the store. It could be no one else.

We hurried on our way. We had no wish to meet her. And besides, we’d bought ice cream. There was no sense in letting it melt in the heat.

But I did think about her, afterwards, as we drove home and later still at the house. It dawned on me that I had misunderstood something. I had assumed the anti-mask movement was largely monolithic. I thought it was made up only of the furious men and women I’ve seen in the news and on the web—the bearded men with firearms screaming into the faces of police officers in Michigan, the furious woman berating the young newswoman at the statehouse, the “Karen,” spitting on the clerk at the fast food chain.

But, no. Here was another aspect of the anti-mask movement. This one is, perhaps, more middle class, marginally less loud, and maybe, in its curious way, more intellectual and much more dangerous. It is twinned with the anti-vaccine movement, worships the words “natural” and “organic,” and is, in its way, quite ancient. This is the modern incarnation of the Noble Savage and Back-To-The-Land. It is Dr. John Kellogg’s Food Fascism and Bernarr Macfadden’s Body Beautiful. (If you’ve not heard of Kellogg and Macfadden, look them up. They are on Wikipedia.)

Nature Is Not Always Nice

It is the belief, not wholly unfounded, that modern life is full of toxins and terrors, while Mother Nature, in her unadorned splendor, is pure and kind. It is the vision of Eden, where the fruit is not forbidden, the waters of the Jordon are sparkling and clean, and air is one long refreshing Zephyr.

It is a beguiling vision. I will give it that. But…it is not true. The clear, clean water is full of bacteria. The fruits are not forbidden, but if unwashed, they may come with E. Coli. Nature may be pure and splendid, but she brings with her Covid and Anthrax and Ebola. And the fresh air may be, indeed, fresh…but right now you better breathe it through a mask.

Which is why, I suspect, that the woman in the store is actually more dangerous than the man screaming in the State House. She seems more sensible. Less violent. And therefore more likely to be, here and there, heard…

And that could be deadly. Like the anti-vaccine movement in general, it can sound…if not rational…at least not insane. But, in fact, it is madness, and could all too easily result in the deaths of millions.

Particularly children.

So what do we do about it? Alas, I do not know. But something must be done. Someone, somewhere…someone with more acumen than I, more persuasive, and with greater debate skills…must begin to fight back. Someone must craft a response to this kind of mental derangement, and make a business of responding to such people…on the web. In the media. In the world.

For the alternative is terrible. It is plague, and horror, and the triumph of death everlasting.

And…if that comes… not even Wonder Woman, with all her strength and innocence, will be able to save us.

***

A Real Superhero...

Just wear the damn mask, Okay?

Alas, my friends, I fear the time has come. Sorry. But, once more we are going to have the lowest form of explosive-cargo…

Depth Charges!

*

Trump’s sending Federal troops to ABQ? Dude, I grew up there. That’s like sending a SWAT Team to Santa’s Village.

Dude, seriously?

*

It says something about our times that the best, most heroic, and most thoughtful political statements being made at the moment are coming not from the White House. Rather, they’re presented courtesy of Captain Portland the Absolute Unit, and Athena, the Mystic Naked Yoga Lady.

*

I had a colonoscopy Friday morning. It wasn’t fun, and yesterday’s prep was disgusting. But…

At least I’ve found something almost, if not quite, as bad as listening to 45’s last State of the Union Address.

*

I posted that last to Facebook. A friend wrote back that she’d much rather have the colonoscopy than listen to the speech. I agreed. I added that, yes, at least when you have the procedure they sedate you and afterwards you recall zip about the process.

If only we could have all had that done four years ago, and then woken up just in time to vote in November.

*

Trump says he might not leave the White House if he loses the election. I’m pretty sure he would. To defy the electorate, he’d need the Armed Forces to support him. And, well, there are lots of military personnel (and vets!) who are eager to lend a hand...and a foot...to his exit.

*

Speaking of which…

Even after over 140,000 preventable Covid deaths, and Putin’s bounties on American heads, and …well, so much else…Trump’s voters and GOP senators seem as slavishly devoted to him as ever. I keep wondering what would possibly drive them way.

Maybe nothing. Maybe they’ll be loyal to their dear and glorious commander...

…right up to the moment when he sells them as organ donors and galley slaves to Russian Oligarchs, Saudi Princes, Chinese Autocrats, and mysterious Tall Men from Phantasm, complete with laser cannons and spiked spheres that fly...

*

Really Scary

If you haven’t the slightest idea what I’m talking about in that last bit, check out Phantasm on IMDB or Wikipedia. Think full portion of Eww Ick with a side of fried Shudders.

*

So I see that Michael Cohen, Trump’s ex-fixer, has been released from prison, thanks at least partly to the ACLU. Apparently, he had been released once, but was returned to his cell after Trump discovered he was writing (yet another) book which would reveal way too much about him.

Interesting.

You know, not since Mein Kampf has prison proved such a stimulus to literature. Only in reverse. With the victim writing, while the despot is free.

*

Okay, maybe Cohen wasn’t exactly an innocent victim. But Trump did throw him under a bus the minute it was convenient to do so. Which seems to be the usual fate of anyone who works for him.

The White House must be an interesting place, right now. Like being one of a dozen goldfish in a fishtank…with one large piranha…wondering which one of you will be mousse by morning.

*

But I’m going to try to end on an up note.

You will recall the “Wall Of Moms,” the legion of white, middle-class women who now go into the streets of Portland and protect protestors. Well, I saw the other day that they been joined by a similar group of activist men — Dads, in other words.

I saw, too, that when they joined the women on the march, they brought with them their leaf blowers. There were good reasons for the blowers. You can use them (I learn from the web) to blow tear gas back at whoever shoots it at you.

But the other reason, which I’m making up as I write this, is that there is a great symbolism in it. Nothing says white suburbia like a leaf blower What a wonderful message it sends, then. It says, “Attention Mr. Trump, and the Republican Party at large, you have lost us…you have lost white America. Your days in the White House are numbered.”

And so, soon enough, let us pray, Trump will go…like the dry leaf in Autumn…to be swept away by the winds…

Never to return.

*

Until next time…

Onward and upward.

mjt

In November...

So, today, strangely enough, I’m going to write something about my writing...which I normally never do. I can’t recall who, but I think someone once said that if a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client, then a writer who writes about writing is a raging egomaniac.

It seems I’m about to be a raging egomaniac. Ah well. So be it.

Anyway, I had an odd metafictive moment the other day. I don’t write fiction much. Mostly I do non-fiction, and, of that, I usually do very short, very personal essays. But, believe it or not, I got into this game doing fiction--short stories, novels, the whole bit. I’ve even had a few stories published, though not tons of ‘em.

But, I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at fiction again. In particular, I’ve wanted to write a series of short stories set in a little seaside community, based partly on South Padre Island, where my parents had a house for many years. It’s always struck me as an interesting place, and somewhat improbable. It is the sort of community where Winter Texans, local eccentrics, up and coming real-estate people, hotel managers, and, in the spring, teaming hordes of college students, somehow manage to co-exist.

I even had a general pattern worked out. The stories would be sort of modeled on Giovannino Guareschi’s tales of Don Camillo. If you’ve not read the stories, then I should provide some background. Don Camillo is a priest a small Italian town shortly after World War II. His best frenemy is Peppone, the town’s mayor and also head of the local Communist party. They spend a lot of time sparring, sometimes literally (Don Camillo is a very muscular Christian), but, in their hearts, they feel deeply for one another, and they frequently if covertly save each other’s bacon.

The stories are really rather sweet, and calming, and I recommend them in an age of pandemic and political instability.

But, getting back to my own attempts at fiction…

I set out to do the first story. Actually, it wasn’t so much a story as an introduction. The narrator, who we will learn later is a former trade press journalist, now retired, and wondering what to do with his life (yes, of course, that’s moi), explains the town, and how it is built, and who lives there, and how, eventually, due to climate change, global warming, and melting ice caps, the town itself will vanish beneath the sea, one with Atlantis and Port Royal.

I did the piece. Then, I made the mistake of reading it.

In a word, ouch!

I’ve read worse stuff. I think. Once or twice. But I can’t remember exactly when.

It was awful. Just awful. I put it aside, and, for the moment, that will be the end of my Don Camillo-like excursion into cozy fiction.

I then tried to analyze my failure. Why had it gone so wrong, so quickly? After a bit, I came to an uncomfortable conclusion. To wit, it wasn’t working because I don’t really know South Padre Island that well. I’ve only been there for vacations. I’ve never actually lived there for any length of time. I’ve met residents, including some fabulous eccentrics who’d make great characters in a book. But I don’t really know them. I don’t understand what motivates them. I don’t know what frightens them, or gives them joy, or pain. For me they are indistinct, gray as twilight cats, and as incomprehensible.

For me to write about those men and women would be at best presumptuous, and at worst, ridiculous. I would set out to provide portraits and insightful sketches, and return with only cartoons, cliches, and stereotypes.

What to do about it? Well, if I really want to write those stories, I would have to move to SPI for a year -- at least a year! -- and actually get to know people there. (The great irony is, of course, that often fiction requires more research, or, at least, more understanding than non-fiction. But that’s a story for another day.)

Until then, I fear the project is a no-go. I’ll let you know when, if ever, I can return to it.

However, there is another, more worrisome aspect to all this. To wit: I find I cannot write about SPI because I don’t know SPI. Could it be that I no longer do fiction because, I frankly do not know and do not understand People? People in general? Period?

I fear there is some real possibility of that. And, were it true, ‘twould explain much, and not just about my failures in fiction.

But, I console myself. If I do not understand people, then at least I am of the vast majority. Judging from news and personal experience, only a vanishing few of us can really claim to do so…

And even they screw up more often than not.

More about Don Camillo, and why he is out of my league.

One of the pretty conceits of the stories is that Don Camillo talks to God. Of course, we all can do that. But, where the rest of us mostly mumble at the wall in Church or Temple and wonder if we’re wasting breath, he gets an answer. I mean, he can hear Christ speaking to him from the cross. Such is his innocence that it never occurs to him that there is anything unusual in this.

I’m embarrassed to say that I was actually planning on having a Don Camillo figure in the tales. My particular Don Camillo was to be a woman, the pastor of a church on the island, and a progressive, caring individual. I must confess she was lifted, partly, from the BBC sitcom, The Vicar of Dibley, except that the Vicar is short and round, whereas my clergy-person would be tall and thin.

Also, she -- like Don Camillo -- would have had a special relationship with God, maybe even including little chats. This was because my character would have been partly based on a real pastor I know. She has has temporal lobe epilepsy, fortunately now under control, and today she only rarely has an episode. But, when she does, she is one of those happy few who feels herself to be genuinely in the presence of the divine.

This fascinates me, partly because I have a...shall we say?...tense relationship with church and religion. And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to really feel you are in the company of the Wholly Other. (If you’re interested, I did a short video discussing this very thing. You can see it on my Vimeo page, here:

But, fairly quickly, I realized I really couldn’t write about her. It would feel as if I were exploiting her unique reality. While it is true that all fictional characters are based to a certain extent on real people the writer knows, still...this seemed a bit disrespectful. I would be using her very real, and (to her) very important personal experiences in too lighthearted a manner.

Besides...

I’m not too sure about God. But, of this I’m certain. If there is a Supreme Power In the Universe...who can create whole galaxies in the wink of an eye...and who seems fully capable of commanding floods, lightening bolts, plagues, famine, and fire from heaven...

I’d just as soon not piss off anyone He’s got on speed dial.

So, anyway, I’ll let you know if I ever do move to SPI and do gather enough background to do a decent story about the place. In the meantime, though, if I really want to do humane fiction about a community which shares hopes and dreams, tears and laughter, I should look to join one closer to home.

In fact, there’s one already at hand, isn’t there? One that I don’t have to join. One of which I am already a member.

Specifically, those of us under siege by Covid-19, tormented by fools in high places, and trying to stay sane in quarantine.

Ah, but there’s the rub. That community is nearly universal. We’re all there.

How do you find, and tell, stories which are unique and interesting...

When we all already know those stories, have lived them, and are...dear Heaven!...bored to tears of every last God Damned one of ‘em?

Onward and upward.

This really does look like me, or half of it does. I'm on the right. Uh, that would be your left, wouldn't it? Ah, well. Whatever. I'm the guy.

So my story today, I fear, will be a bit unsatisfying, if only because it has no real ending. Rather, it comes at long and winding last to a series of speculations, possibilities, and vague aspirations for a stranger’s well-being...a stranger I have never met and with whom I do not even remotely agree.

But, all the same...I hope they are not dead.

Here are the details. Each morning in the summer, when I can, I walk the neighborhood. I try to get in a mile, at least, before nine o’clock, when it gets really too hot here to exercise. That is, in summer. (It’s been over a hundred the last three days. On Monday, my weather app said it “felt like” 111° Fahrenheit, which would be, what? Around 43.9° C.)

I have several paths I take. There’s the one up the way, that leads through the neighborhood across Wagon Wheel Trail. I like that one. The people there tend to be a bit younger, and there are more children. It is also, frankly, more working class, and often more Hispanic. But not always so.

I remember, one day, walking along Algerita Drive, and there was a little girl out in front of one of the duplexes. It was early in the morning, and she was still dressed in her nightclothes, specially a bear costume, complete with a hood and ears. She was riding a hover board around and around in her driveway, while her mother watched. It was pleasant, in its strange way...to watch the little bear, gracefully and gleefully propelling herself in linked circles, tracing the symbol for infinity on the concrete...

Other times, I go the opposite direction. The neighborhood there is older...that is, the residents tend to be older. Though, that is rapidly changing. People are moving out. Younger people are moving in. Already, you see children playing, again, in yards, and couples with strollers. I suppose, soon enough, we’ll have the hover boards and bears there as well.

One house that I pass is around the corner, almost exactly half a mile away. I have never seen the inhabitants, but I have noticed the yard and garden. They are well kept, always in trim. The house is in good repair, but somehow, it feels old. I don’t know why the house feels old, but it does. It feels like someone senior lives there. Someone who takes pride in their home, but getting on a bit.

Most recently, I paid particular attention to the yard because it sprouted Trump signs. There were two, one near the driveway, the other in front. I did not, of course, approve. I’m a liberal. And, more important, my team is the Democratic Party. The family’s been that way for ages. (I think the last time a Tucker voted for a Republican was Lincoln. Well, okay, that’s not quite accurate. But, certainly, the clan never forgave the GOP for cheating Samuel Tilden. We have long memories, and hold grudges with a grip of purest steel.)

Anyway, the signs attracted my attention, but...well, if the residents wanted to vote for a man I felt to be malevolent ass, that was their business. Not mine. So I walked on, and days went past.

Then, some time later, we had the BLM protests and statues of Confederate heroes began to vanish and/or be thrown into harbors. And, shortly after that, I was walking past the house and I realized something new had been added. There is a flag pole on the driveway side of the house, and for as long as we’ve lived in the area, there has been an American flag on it. I didn’t think anything about it. After all, why not demonstrate pride in your country?

But, that morning, there were two flags. The American flag was on top...and below it was...something else. At first I thought it was just a Texas state flag. Texans are proud of their state, and rightfully so. But...but...then I looked again. It was the Stars and Bars. The first official flag of the Confederate States of America.

Not the red battle flag with the blue Cross of St. Andrew laced with white stars (which, as I understand it, was never the official flag of the CSA). Rather, the flag in question was the first Confederate flag -- a flag with three stripes, two of red, and one of white between them, a blue square (a canton) next to the flagpole, a circle of white stars in the blue.

I will give the residents their due. They selected the least offensive of the Confederate flags to fly. The Battle Flag, of course, would have reeked of racism and the Ku Klux Klan. This earlier flag, however, does the same, but somehow more quietly, perhaps because fewer people are familiar with it.

Still...the flag was unpleasant, and it disturbed me.

But what could I do about it? I couldn’t very well ring the bell and say, “I say, do you have any idea how awful that looks?” Nor could I really get away with providing a quick lecture. I have, after all, two Master’s degrees in history, and would have had a Ph.D. if I hadn’t gotten kicked out of graduate school. Perhaps I could knock on the door and tell whoever answered, “Did you know that flag was abandoned by the Confederacy because it looked too much like the Stars and Stripes? Maybe you should consider the Gadsden Flag instead? You know? The yellow one with the snake.”

But, of course, that wouldn’t have helped. It would have made no difference. So, I did what we all do in such situations. That is, nothing.

More time passed. Covid-19 continued its relentless march through the population. We learned that Putin had put a bounty on American heads. The economy plunged into darkness. There were riots in cities across the nation. There were storms in the midwest and fires in grasslands. People began to talk about Disaster Bingo, and asking who had Murder Hornets on B7.

One day, early last week, I was walking by the house again, and...there were no more Trump signs in the yard.

What?

I hoped it hadn’t been something unpleasant. I hoped there hadn’t been a fight with neighbors or with family. Politics makes fools of us all.

But the Confederate flag was still there. So, I assumed everything was status quo and went my way.

Two days later, I walked past again. This time, the Confederate flag was gone. The American flag was still there, but it hung listlessly at half mast. Oh!

That afternoon, I deliberately drove past the house, but this time came from a different direction. From this angle, I was able to see into the yard. That was when I spotted the Trump signs. They were still on the property, but they had been thrown roughly on the ground next to the trashcans. It was as though someone had not even wanted to give them the dignity of rubbish.

That was when I began to wonder and worry about my invisible, Trump-supporting neighbors. I saw them as an older man or woman or a couple. Maybe much older. I envisioned them voting for Trump because they saw in him some memory of another age, when the world seemed to them pure, and their future was bright.

What could so dramatically change their opinion of the Orange Emperor? Well, there is a best case scenario. In it, they woke up one morning and realized that, by God! this man has not returned to our nation to power and greatness and innocence. Rather, each day he has been in office has been another step toward irrelevancy, national humiliation, and even death. Maybe...I tell myself..they realized this, and with fury, they hurled the signs into the garbage, as they would also consign his administration and his memory to oblivion.

That is what I hope.

But, alas, we know that such conversions are rare. More likely, something else, something worse, was the motivation. Like illness. Like death. Like they were old to begin with. Something happened. Something sad. And then the children or the heirs or the caretakers came and removed them. These people, whoever they were, were not of the same opinions as were their parents, grandparents, or other...and so the signs and the flag went by the wayside.

And there is something terribly sad in that. Not that I object to the end of the signs and the flag, but I would rather it be some other way...I would rather the neighbor I’ve never met not be ill, or incapacitated, or...frankly... dead. That is not what I wished. And more... much more! I am put in mind of our universal frailty. Of how rare a thing is living, and how easily that gift may be withdrawn.

But...

Of course I’m being overdramatic. I am playing the detective when I have no evidence and no power of deduction. There is no real indication that anything bad has happened to my unseen neighbor, other than the absence of signs and portents, or rather flags. It is perfectly possible that I am a victim of my own overactive imagination.

Still...still...I am concerned.

Particularly as there is a worse possibility. To wit, that he or she or they did not give up their support of Trump willingly. Rather, one terrible day, they discovered they could not breathe. They could barely make it to the phone to dial 911, or call a relative to do so for them. And the ambulance whisked them away. And now they are somewhere in an ICU, if they were lucky, or the morgue if they were not.

And somewhere along the line, somewhere in a moment of horror and shame, as Covid struck them down, the disease which Trump first denied and then neglected...they realized that this is what their loyalty to him has brought.

How terrible a thing it would be to know that.

For, you see, it is bad enough to be wounded by an enemy. It is worse to be betrayed by a friend. But to be fundamentally harmed by someone you thought to be your hero?

That would truly, and utterly, be beyond forgiveness.

So just a bunch of random thoughts today. Some of them connect to one another. Some of them don’t. Alas, that’s the way my head works.

Anyway, here we go:

1) Drowned In A Bathtub?

So we learn that some libertarian anti-government/small government groups happily accepted money from the Paycheck Protection Program, the Federal program meant to aid small business (not PACs) from the effects of the Covid Crisis.(1) Should we be surprised at the apparent hypocrisy of the “drown government in a bathtub” crew? Of course not. It is like finding out that a homophobic televangelist has been sleeping with a black, transvestite, underage prostitute. Zealots always hate what they secretly desire the most.

2) Bore Baby

Supposedly Trump has been complaining lately about how Covid is “hurting him” politically and might even cost him the election.

Poor Baby.

I’m sure all those people on ventilators, or in morgues...who wouldn’t have been in those situations if the Trump Administration had acted responsibly from the beginning...feel just awful for him.

3) Experts

So lately there have been two much publicized events in which conservatives told Americans to disregard medical experts. One was Rand Paul, who said that “...we shouldn't presume experts know best about coronavirus response.” (2) By experts, he meant Dr. Anthony S. Fauci.

But Paul was downright benign compared to Texas Lieutenant governor, Dan Patrick, who flat out said that Fauci “doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” (3) This was in response to Fauci’s expressed concerns about the skyrocketing number of Covid-19 cases in the state.

The subtext of these statements is, of course, that we don’t need to pay heed to experts, not even medical ones, when they get in the way of the economy and/or Trump’s re-election.

That being the case, I have a small proposal for Messrs. Paul and Patrick. Next time you get appendicitis, don’t bother with fancy-pants, smart alacky doctors who charge big bucks. Drop by my house. I haven’t got an MD or any experience or anything like that. But I do have a buzz saw and a handy sewer snake.

Won’t take a moment.

4) Statues

I’ve been watching the popular movement to remove statues of Confederate soldiers and other people who are offensive to modern mores. I see that that the movement has extended even to Mount Rushmore, which was built on ground sacred to the Lakota people. Moreover, Rushmore’s sculptor, Gutzon Borglum was (among other unattractive things) a member of the Ku Klux Klan. Indeed, Borglum’s own great-grand-daughter has called for Rushmore to be removed.(4)

I understand and even support the movement. Ridding downtown streets of the statues of racist bastards would be a good thing, and would have a powerful symbolic effect.

Still...

Sometimes I wonder about the timing. Yes, remove the graven images. But would it be better to focus, for the moment, on dealing with the violence and oppression which actually exists in the culture? Wouldn’t it make more sense to neglect, for a time, statues and monuments, to instead focus our energies in opposing the deadly systemic racism of our society?

After all, flesh may bleed. Bones may break.

But stone...feels nothing, and knows no shame.

5. BLM and Bethel

I have been reading about the sheer fury that some tiny, peaceful, Black Lives Matter (BLM) protestors have sometimes met. Last month, for instance, in the “tiny town” of Bethel, Ohio, some eighty people showed up on the streets with signs supporting BLM. They were then met by something like 700 counter-protestors who were threatening, abusive, and armed.

Interestingly enough, it turns out the BLM people were mostly local folk. The counter-protestors were a mix of locals and (here quoting the Washington Post) “members of motorcycle gangs, ‘back the blue’ groups and proponents of the Second Amendment.” (5)

In a word, or three words, WTF?

Here was a peaceful demonstration of a tiny number of people who were not going to hurt anyone or break anything. They were just going to stand around a few streets with a few signs. Yet, they were greeted by a violent mob that outnumbered them at more than seven to one, and which was not above physical violence. And, by the way, the local police did nothing, or at least very little, to protect the protestors -- maybe because they were outnumbered, too.

But, for heaven’s sakes, where is this fury coming from? Why were the counter-protestors -- the biker gangs, the gun’s rights types -- so enraged by so small and so pacific a group of people?

Most fury is based on fear. It comes when you think that something is a genuine threat to you. So, they must be afraid...these bikers, gun rights activists, and others. They must be truly terrified.

I’m not usually a big believer in theories of “white fragility,” but I have to confess, there may be something to it. If a crowd of no more than eight score, mostly middle class, men and women, could inspire such a response in groups who make a fetish of their toughness, well...

Something is seriously wrong with the White Psyche. And we need, seriously, to do something about it.

*

Note: Bethel was also the place where, during the same demonstration, we had a viral video of a white protestor getting sucker punched from behind by one of the bikers...while the police looked on and did nothing, perhaps because they -- like the protestors-- were out-numbered.

I’ve just heard that the individual who did the punching has been identified and a warrant has been issued for his arrest. (6) That would be welcome.

6) Rogue WH Snr Advisor

I was one of the several hundred thousand people who got taken by the individual calling themselves “Rogue WH Snr Advisor.” If you haven’t been following the story, Rogue WH Snr Advisor...whoever he or she really is...has been on Twitter for years, claiming to be a White House insider and providing witty and damning insights into what was happening there.

A few months ago, Rogue WH Snr Advisor said that they were going to reveal their real name to the world on July 4. The hordes of his/her followers waited breathlessly. Gradually, the clock ticked down, and then...

Rogue WH Snr Advisor identified himself as Jimmy Trump, the illegitimate child of Donald Trump and Ghislaine Maxwell. In other words, his revelation was a joke--as was (probably) his twitter campaign against Trump. The question now is whether the whole thing wasn’t just a scam designed to troll Trump’s critics.

Whatever, the joke wasn’t a particularly funny one. And it certainly didn’t sit well with his/her followers, many of whom un-followed him/her right then and there. Since then, he/she has wiped his Twitter account clean, and I have no idea whether the individual will ever post as Rogue WH Snr Advisor ever again. I sort of doubt it.

I don’t much care if Rogue WH Snr Advisor was a troll or not. What bothers me is his/her performance. For a long time, his/her stuff was really funny, and really biting. To have it spiral down to a rather dull and silly Shaggy Dog Story is disappointing.

It’s like the final season of GOT...but without even a decent dragon.

Sources:

(1) https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2...

(2) Paul, https://www.newsweek.com/gop-senator-...

(3) Patrick, https://thehill.com/homenews/state-wa...

(4) https://www.yahoo.com/news/great-gran...

(5) https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation...

(6) https://www.foxnews.com/us/warrant-is...

So, today I’m going to talk about...moths.

Moths? you say. Moths! I reply.

Specifically, pantry moths, which have recently made my life sheer, unadulterated heck. (I’d say hell, but this is a family blog, meant for readers of refined sensibilities. That would be you. And I don’t want your ears to blush. Nothing is finer than unblushed ears. I’ve always said so. Wouldn’t you agree?)

Anyway, the pantry moths...

Background: we moved to Texas about a year ago. We are still getting used to things. Like the animals. There are deer in every backyard here, and they can be damn aggressive, eating flower gardens and drop-kicking dogs over the rooftops. And squirrels. They’re aggressive, too. I had one yesterday, I swear! It gave me the finger while ripping off the bird feeder.

And the bugs. Particularly the bugs. Like cockroaches. Okay, they call ‘em palmetto bugs ‘round these parts. But I know a roach when I see one. And these are huge! I mean, you could saddle ‘em up and ride ‘em to work in the morning. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration...but not by much.

But the pantry moths showed up a few weeks back. One morning, we got up and found a bunch of tiny little moths scattered about the house. Not tons. Maybe ten. We had no idea where they came from, but I swatted the lot of them (left horrible brown stains wherever I got one) and we figured that was the end of the story.

The Pantry Moth

Except...the next morning, there were twenty more moths in the house. They were on the walls. On the ceiling. Again, more swatting. And, again, the following day, another batch of moths...maybe thirty, this time. And, after that, forty.

It was getting just a wee bit spooky. (Oh, and by the way, if you find yourself in a similar situation, the best way to deal with them is not swatting, which does lead to those nasty stains. Better is to get a vacuum cleaner with a long hose and an attachment. They go whishing down into the filter with a kind of flurping sound. Very satisfying, really. You know you’re accomplishing something.)

*

By this time, of course, we realized we had a problem and I looked up moths on the web. Sure enough, “pantry moths” came up right away. I read that they...or, rather, their disgusting little larvae (think worm with an attitude problem)...really love a variety of mostly grain-based foods, to wit: cereal, flour, dried fruit, pasta, nuts, powered milk, and...

Bird seed.

Oh, darn, I thought, and went tramping into the kitchen where I began a careful examination of all our boxes, bins, bags, sacks, cans, jars, repositories, and what not that might contain any of the above. Turned out we had a lot of those. I spent a charming Saturday afternoon going through white flour, whole wheat flour, corn meal, gluten-free flour, white sugar, brown sugar, confectioner’s sugar, potato starch, powdered milk, oat meal, tapioca, mixed nuts, flaxseed, brown rice, white rice, assorted teas, and something called “Xanthan Gum” and I haven’t the slightest idea what that is but I’m guessing it is the favorite chewable of some extraterrestrial version of Bazooka Joe.

And, of course, I discovered absolutely nothing. Not a moth. Not a grub. Not a larva. Nothing.

But, while I was busily wasting time on Xanthan Gum, etc., Martha was back reading the article I’d found on pantry moths. There, she spotted the one thing I had forgotten--Bird Seed.

Yikes, she said.

Martha loves birds. She’s had bird feeders in the backyard for years. But, here, more than anywhere we’ve lived, she’s had a problem. The hyper-aggressive squirrels keep raiding the feeders. She dealt with that by putting red pepper in the feed (birds don’t mind it. Mammals do) and Vaseline on the feeder poles. Great entertainment, really. Watching the squirrels go slip-sliding away, and usually cursing like a 105-year-old sailor with a dirty mind.

But, of course, you can’t keep the bird seed on the porch, where the squirrels can get at it, so she put into to very large plastic containers and put them in the kitchen in otherwise wasted space between the table and the windows. She now hurried in to check the aforesaid containers.

Then, she came to me. “Ah, Michael...” she said, with a curiously tense tone in her voice.

*

You can guess the rest, of course. I followed her into the kitchen and looked at the containers. I remember one of them had a transparent top, and it was crawling...crawling!...with moths. There must have been hundreds of them. Or, more likely, thousands.

I said something articulate like Oh, gross! and did my best to run the containers into the backyard, except naturally, the lids didn’t close tightly (that’s how they got out of the containers and into the house in the first place), so as I ran I trailed a little stream of moths.

Then, when I did get the containers outside, I tried to pour the seed and the little beasts into black plastic garbage bags...which, of course, resulted in a huge cloud of moths that basically covered the backyard...and me.

When Martha came out...after I’d tied off the garbage bags...she took one look at me, said, “Oh, Dear,” and then began picking moths out of my hair and off my ears.

Okay, so that was the fun part.

Gross...

*

I spent the next few days doing everything I could to get the moths that had gotten into the house out of it again. This involved washing down every exposed surface I could find with a solution of bleach and water. Then, I went outside and sprayed wherever it seemed that the moths might have gotten in. Then, I washed down (again) the inside surfaces, this time using a mixture of water, vinegar, and peppermint oil, which, it seems, moths hate. The peppermint oil was the best part. As I wrote to somebody, the whole house smelled like a candy factory. Not such a bad thing.

I put out pheromone scent traps--these emit a sexual attractant that lures lust-crazed male moths to what they think is a hot chick ready to rumble but which is, in fact, merely a sticky and lingering death. There is a metaphor there, but I don’t think I want to pursue it. Makes me nervous.

And, finally, I’ve been swatting, slapping, or vacuuming any moths I’ve seen. Hey. It’s a hobby. And we’re in lockdown because of Covid. So, keeps me off the streets.

As of today, I think we’ve got ‘em on the run. We’re not quite done with the beasts. We still see maybe five or so each day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening. But, it’s four, not forty, and so I’m hoping that in a few weeks...particularly if I keep bleaching and pepperminting at regular intervals...we’ll be back to normal.

Now...

If only it worked on certain politicians I could name.

Ah well...

Onward and upward.

Hello, Everyone,

Well, here we go, my second post to my blog on my webpage,

Anyway, this is my blog. In fact, it is the continuing of a blog I’ve been doing for a very long time, explosive-cargo. Right now, it is on blogspot, here, http://explosive-cargo.blogspot.com/. But, as of today, it’s here and not there.

(I just realized something. I have been doing Xcargo -- first as a column in a newspaper, then as an e-zine, then as a blog -- on and off for something like thirty years. In a word, YIKES. How on earth did that happen?)

Why the name “explosive-cargo?” Well, now, there is a tale to be told in that. And I’m going to tell it. Because I’m a verbose narcissist. And proud of it, I might add. It’s one of my more sterling qualities.

Anyway, the name...my first real job in publishing was on a small newspaper in Connecticut. I was the proverbial cub reporter. One day, I was on my way back to the office after having been sent to interview somebody or other, when I found the road blocked ahead of me. Police and Fire Fighters were everywhere.

I popped out of my very little car (a generation one Honda Civic, no less. Made a Mini look like a limo) and asked one of the policemen what was going on. It seemed, he told me, that a propane truck had flipped on the road ahead. The driver had gotten out of the crash with only minor scratches, but given his cargo, he’d taken one look at the truck and then legged it as fast as he could for the sidelines.

I did some interviews, took a couple of pictures, and headed back to the office. Then, I wrote up the story and somewhere along the line it acquired the headline, “Explosive Cargo Overturns In Town.” And it ran the next morning.

After which we got a very indignant letter from a local reader, a chap who wrote us frequently, and for whom no issue was too small or mundane to comment upon (usually quite loudly).

His beef with my story was the headline. It was not an “explosive” cargo, he snapped. It was a flammable cargo. And it wouldn’t have exploded. At the very worst, it would merely have created a fireball and cooked us bystanders like a batch of turkey legs in a deep fryer. Or, maybe in this fat-conscious age, more like a sauté. With a dash of onion. Either way, not an explosion. World of difference.

Okay, maybe he didn’t put it quite that way. I threw in the turkey legs, gratis. (No need to thank me.) But that was his general point.

I thought it was one of the funniest things I’d ever read and when I got to do a column for the paper some months later, I knew there was only one possible title...explosive-cargo.

And it’s been that ever since.

Anyway, I look forward to getting to know you all, and I hope that I (and Xcargo) can provide a little entertainment along the way.

Until next time...

Onward and upward.

mjt

Well, everyone, like it says, Happy Birthday to America on this Fourth of July. May the nation know many long and happy centuries to come.

I am quite serious about that. I am, in my own way, an American nationalist. I believe that who we are, as a country, something good, and important. Yes, I suppose, on some weird level, I even believe in American exceptionalism.

And I hope, truly, that we will soon exit this time of troubles, and that under another president, and with a different Congress, we will find our way forward, to greater wisdom, greater achievement, and greater happiness.

Until next time...onward and upward.

...you would have been bored to tears, and/or convinced that I’m a total whack job.

Seriously, I am just trying to figure out how to use my new site’s Blogging facility. Feel free to disregard this.

In fact, I’m told, by those who love me, that disregarding most of my comments is a very good general policy.

cheers

mjt

p.s., but what I will do is add one of my more recent experiments with graphics. This is Poppies 1.