Has everything changed?

I was going to write my blog about Project 2025, the Republican Party's repulsive 900-page guideline on their plans to deconstruct the American government and rebuild our country into a conservative white man's orgiastic wet dream under an expected Trump presidency.

You know, immigrant detention camps. Christian nationalism. Voter suppression. The end of medicare and social security. Stuff like that.

And then the rifle shots rang out, like they often do in this country. The shots were aimed at Donald Trump himself, giving a campaign speech in a rally in Butler, PA., yesterday.

Those shots changed everything, I think. In what was essentially a 50-50 campaign for the presidency against incumbent Joe Biden, yesterday's horrific events (one person was killed and two others were critically wounded for doing nothing more than attending a carnival barker's sideshow) will virtually hand Trump the keys to the Oval Office. As well as the nuclear codes. And state secrets. Again.

Trump luckily suffered only a grazed ear in the shooting, but the blood trickling down his face will serve him well in campaign posters, maybe as soon as tomorrow when the Republican National Convention begins in Milwaukee. He now looks like a war hero, after all. As the former Commander in Chief, does Pvt. Bonespurs qualify for the Purple Heart? The Congressional Medal of Honor? Stay tuned.

But now he will have an element of sympathy behind him, as well as the anger of his retribution and a sense of martyrdom. All of this, and perhaps more, will carry Trump into the presidency and there's nothing the Democrats can do about it. I bet Trump's poll numbers take a 10-point bounce. His voters are energized more than ever by this event.

Already conspiracy theorists are claiming that this was a deep state CIA operation, but early indications are that the shooter, Thomas Matthew Crooks, now deceased, was just two years out of high school and was a registered Republican. I wonder how that little tidbit will fit into the overall scheme of things?

I want to say that assassinations only happen in banana republics, but the United States host lost four of its presidents in the last 235 years (dating back to the ratification of the Constitution in 1789). That comes out to one murdered president every 59 years. Throw in attempts to Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan and then to candidates like George Wallace and Robert Kennedy, well, assassination is something of an American tradition. If we disagree with someone, shoot them.

So does the conversation turn once again to guns? Probably should. Probably won't.

In the meantime, we're probably four months away from another Trump presidency. Four months away from the implementation of Project 2025. Four months away from more Trumpian chaos and insanity. Four months away from the possible end to the American experiment in democracy.

Everything is changing. Except this: Trump is still an adjudicated rapist. He's still guilty of fraud. And he is still a 34-times convicted felon.

 

What now?

Did you know that there are only 4,400 words in the original U.S. Constitution?

And not a single one is the word "immunity." Nor "democracy" for that matter. Or even the word "God." You can't find them. Not there.

I bring this up because this past Monday the Supreme Court of the United States ruled in a stunning 6-3 conservative majority opinion that our presidents now have total immunity in the core powers of their office for "official" acts (as opposed to "private" acts) that they might commit while serving in office. SCOTUS left it up to the lower courts to decide between what is private and what is official and then quickly left town in their RVs. Cowards.

That ruling suggests presidents are now above the law, which essentially puts them above the Constitution, the very document that created and endowed their position in the first place. Go figure.

What is amazing to me is that prior to Monday's decision, there was no need for a Supreme Court ruling as to whether or not a president had total immunity in order to function. Andrew Jackson didn't need it during the civil rights abomination of The Trail of Tears. Abraham Lincoln didn't need it while bending (or ignoring) certain laws when conducting the Civil War. Franklin Roosevelt didn't need immunity when he created detention camps for Japanese-American citizens during World War II. Harry Truman didn't need it when dropping atomic bombs on Japan.

But Donald Trump needs it. Trump, an adjudicated rapist who is seeking a second term as president, also has 34 felony convictions that he would like to see disappear. So he took his case  – Trump v. The United States – to the Supreme Court, where five of the nine judges were appointed by presidents (including three by Trump in his first term) who lost the popular vote. Minority rule. Ain't democracy great?

There was no need to mention immunity in the Constitution because the Founders already established the Speech and Debate clause (Article I, Section 6, Clause 1), something which could confer immunity to congressmen, if they needed it. Presidents, however, supposedly were not granted immunity. Do you think there could be a reason why? Did the Framers know what they were doing? Does the Roberts court?

The actions of this seemingly partisan Roberts court seem to follow the road map set up by Project 2025, a 900-page manifesto composed by the Heritage Foundation that wants to reshape the government in its conservative image. It's already foaming at the mouth impatiently waiting for Trump (whose name is mentioned more than 300 times in the treatise) to win election in November so it can begin its fascist policies of power and control.

Two years ago the court overruled Roe v. Wade, eliminating a 50-year-old freedom for women to have autonomy over their own bodies and reproductive rights.

Last week, the court reversed a 40-year-old precedent in the Chevron case, which now curtails the power of federal agencies to interpret the laws. What stare decisis?

One by one, the guardrails of a government based on the separation of powers that worked so well for nearly 250 years are falling apart, enabled by a severely diminished and narrowly focused Supreme Court. 

We are moving ever closer to a single option of salvation: our vote. Read Project 2025. Educate yourselves. Save yourselves. Save democracy.

The Gish gallop

After 73 years on the planet, after living with a father who taught English to high school students for nearly half of his professional career, after someone like myself who actually majored in English in college and who spent a 30-plus-year career in journalism, I never heard of something called the Gish gallop until after the presidential debate between convicted felon Donald Trump and President Joe Biden on Thursday.

The label came up Friday on a post by respected pundit Heather Cox Richardson in which she describes the Gish gallop as a rhetorical technique "in which someone throws out a fast string of lies, non-sequiturs, and specious arguments, so many that it is impossible to fact-check or rebut them in the amount of time it took to say them."

Well, that's exactly what Trump does. No substance to his agenda, no evidence in his accusations. I'm not even sure he does that on purpose. He just does. It's who he is.

And it's effective.

Whoever coached Biden for the debate completely overlooked the Gish gallop ploy and consequently, it made Biden look incompetent.

Because the technique had a somewhat funny name – Gish – I thought it was something of a joke. Then I Googled it and found out that it was actually something real (see here). How did I not know this?

I think this is exactly what happened Thursday night in which Trump's stream of documented lies (30 lies in 90 minutes, according to CNN fact-checker Daniel Dale. See here) absolutely befuddled Biden and made him look weary, confused and, well, unpresidential. 

Uh-oh.

Democrats across the country (I suspect) immediately went into panic mode, declaring that Biden withdraw from the presidential race before the debate was even over. I might have been one of them. Democrats looked doomed. Sometimes, looking (and feeling) doomed is what Democrats do best.

But almost immediately after the debate, Biden became a different man. In the post-debate watch party, he was clear-voiced and certain. Where was that an hour earlier?  Later that night, after flying to North Carolina, he gave an impromptu Q&A at the Raleigh airport at 2 a.m. Then, that afternoon, he gave a smart, impassioned speech.

The passage of time, by even a couple hours, seem to be making a difference. Democrats said they raised $27 million after the debate – a remarkable sum given Biden's performance – so support for the candidate is still clearly there.

In spite of Biden's apparent debate debacle, he's still going to be the Democrat Party's candidate. I think there could be a lesson learned here. 

Fight back.

Every mention of Trump by Biden from here on out should begin with "34-time convicted felon, adjudicated rapist, failed businessman and fraudster Donald Trump." 

It's time for the Dems to do their own gallop.

Say Hey Kid

I've seen that video clip about a million times, and I never get tired of it.

There's Willie Mays, running for all he's worth, as he tries to track down a long fly ball hit by Cleveland slugger Vic Wertz in the first game of the 1954 World Series. The only reason Mays, a young center fielder for the New York Giants, even has a chance for the catch is that the game is being played in the spacious but oddly shaped Polo Grounds, so Mays seemingly can run all day if he needs to. It was at least 450 feet to the wall well behind Mays – he was playing Wertz shallow – and an ungodly 483 feet to the unusual cutout wall in dead center just to the left of him.

For context, the deepest center field in the majors today is 415 feet at Coors Field in Colorado.

And he does run. He runs with his back to home plate and with the ball on a trajectory to sail over his head toward a wall with no warning track or padding. He looks more like a football wide receiver on a post pattern than an outfielder.

There's no way in hell he's going to catch that ball.

Except that he does (see here).

The catch (if you type in "The Catch" in Google, and nothing else, a number of videos of Mays' miraculous catch come up) is often described as "over the shoulder," but I swear, it should be described as "over the head." Mays extends his gloved hand while still running in a hard sprint (go ahead and try that hand-eye exercise some time) and somehow, the ball dies in the pocket of his well-worn leather MacGregor.

I don't know how he does it. I'm assuming he had eyes on the ball the whole way, but you'd never know it watching the clip. Maybe he did have eyes in the back of his head, because that's what it looks like it takes to make the catch. But it just happens anyway, as if it was preordained.

And maybe it was. I think some athletes are just hot-wired for greatness in that way.

The Catch might be major league baseball's best defensive play of all time, given that it was in the World Series and all the weight that implies. And if it isn't, well, it's certainly leading the argument.

And while you always know it's Willie Mays making the catch, there's more than that singular moment to define who he was. In an era that featured the likes of Jackie Robinson, Mickey Mantle, Hank Aaron, Stan Musial, Ted Williams, Roberto Clemente, and a host of other Hall of Famers, Mays might arguably be the best all-around player of all time given his combined skills.

He was a career .301 hitter with 660 home runs, 1,909 RBIs and 3,292 hits. He also won 12 Gold Glove Awards for his defense, playing six seasons before the Gold Glove Award was even conceived. He was the complete package.

Mays died Tuesday, taking with him yet another vestige of my youth. He was 93. He passed just six days after another sports icon, Jerry West of the Los Angeles Lakers, died at the age of 86. This is simply happening way too fast for us Baby Boomers.

I'm a child of the '50's, and not surprisingly Willie Mays was one of my baseball heroes. One way that I honored him was that his baseball card never made its way to the spokes of my bicycle wheels to make my Schwinn sound kind of like a faux motorcycle engine. He had a permanent place of honor in the baseball card collection of my shoe box. 

I also liked the easy-to-identify simplicity of his name. Willie Mays. Talk about preordained  – that was a name made for baseball. Then there were all those homers and clutch hits. I was a kid, so I didn't appreciate until way later in my life what he meant to the civil rights movement or the struggles that he negotiated in the ever-changing landscape of American culture.

There was just his confident smile and the ever-present threat that he was going to do in my Phillies once again.

 The Polo Grounds in Upper Manhattan. Willie Mays made The Catch just to the right of the center field cutout about 450 feet away from home plate. That's just ridiculous.

Together again

One of the last things that Mom requested from her three sons, while she was lying on her deathbed in Wisconsin in 1991, was that the three boys stay in touch.

Promise me that.

It sounded simple, at first.

But the problem was that the three boys were scattered to the four winds. One of them, me, was in North Carolina. Another, Dave, was living in Alaska, where he would be for nearly 40 years. And the third, Scott, was trying out different states for size over the years, like Iowa, Tennessee and finally, Oklahoma.

And we were all living our lives. Time marched on, to the point where it seemed like it was running. We did stay in touch but we just never got together. Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

Then life threw us an opportunity.

David, now living in Pennsylvania with Linda, was in Florida house/pet sitting for a friend of Linda's. Scott and his wife, Shelly, were headed east from Oklahoma on vacation. So here was the opening: Scott and Dave got on the phone and worked out a date when Dave would be returning to Pennsylvania, and wouldn't it be great if they could stop in Lexington, North Carolina, for a couple of days?

Of course it would.

So yesterday, Dave and Linda pulled up to our house around 5 p.m., weary but excited. Then Scott and Shelly rolled in sometime around 5:45, weary but excited. 

For the first time in more than 30 years the three brothers were together again.

Kim and I prepared for this moment days earlier, having made reservations at Yarborough's with a private room, just big enough for six people.

It was perfect. We told stories about each other that we never knew. You did what? They called the police? You nearly drowned? You got locked in the trunk of a car? Dad did what? Mom did what? So what medications are you on? Yeah, me, too.

Then, as the capper, Dave had his 70th birthday while in Florida. So we brought a birthday cake to the reunion as well, and thus we had a mini-party in the midst of the bigger party.

One of the small miracles here is that all three of the significant others – Kim, Linda and Shelly – seem to get along very well with each other and enjoy each other's company. Linda and Shelly, in fact, were meeting each other for the first time ever.

Two of the brothers have successfully made it into their 70s (I'm 73). All three have had successful careers. Two of us, Dave and Scott, are fathers, so we also celebrated Father's Day weekend.

This reunion continues today with very flexible plans that could change from moment to moment. It's OK. We're together again. They all leave tomorrow, to continue on with their lives.

There's a lot of best parts to this story, but the very best part is that we think we can see both Mom and Dad smiling at us with approval in our collective minds' eye.

 

The last time the three brothers (above) had their picture made together was 1987. Bruce and Scott are kneeling. Mom, Dave and Dad are behind them.

Then this (above) happened for the first time in more than 30 years yesterday.

Together again. Shelly, Scott and Dave are up front, while Kim, Bruce and Linda are in back.

Thornhills

The look on Kristi's face at the exact moment of surprise was exquisite.

Better than that, it was perfect.

The plan was for Kristi Thornhill's husband, David, to take her to Sophie's for some winding-down time, and then when they were finished, to come to the house of their very good friends, Billy and Stacy West, who live across the street from them.

The best picture ever of the twins.

 You know, nothing special. After all, the Thornhills had just celebrated the high school graduation of their twin daughters, Sarah and Mary Evann, a mere 24 hours earlier with a blowout party for the girls. 

Now it was time for some peaceful, easy conversation.

Except that about 60 of Kristi's friends, neighbors and colleagues had surreptitiously gathered at the Wests to surprise Kristi, who is retiring after 31 years as a biology teacher at Lexington Senior High School. You know, the day after their youngest children graduated. Life events.

So when she walked through the door and the room erupted into cheers and shouts of "Happy Retirement," the look of shock on her face was absolutely beautiful. Watching her process the very moment as confusion melted into understanding was the best part. Especially when the tears came. And then the hugs.

She had no clue. Now she had her friends.

This weekend put me into a womb of reflection. The Thornhills have been our across-the-street neighbors for more than 20 years. Kim and I have seen their family grow and grow up; we've shared many evenings on porches and at fire pits; we've shared recipes and garden tools; we've shared each other's trust and confidence.

I have personally found it more than helpful to have a biology teacher in the block. More than once I've called her over to identify that huge spider in my rose garden, or that mold that mysteriously appeared in my pile of mulch. So far, nothing has been dangerous to my health. I'm assuming she would tell me if it were.

The Thornhill women driving through life...

As for the twins, well, there's this: About eight years ago, Kim and I woke up one Sunday morning to see our front walk covered in chalk graffiti. Uh oh.

But it turned out that the twins had spontaneously written their affection for us, telling us we were "the best neibors ever." (See here). Clearly, I'm never forgetting this. It's my own life event. What? Eight years ago? You've got to be kidding.

Now the girls are intelligent, beautiful young women ready to forge their own way into the world as they prepare to enter East Carolina University. Damn it, I keep telling myself not to blink my eyes or I'll miss something important. I never listen to me.

I don't want to leave out Lily, or Luke, or Dave. From what I've seen, Lily, the first born, sets the tone for her siblings. She's also the one who engineered this remarkable retirement surprise party. Luke, I think, is the devoted, protective big brother even though I believe all three of his sisters can fend for themselves. But he's always there for them, just in case...

And Dave. Well, both he and Luke are seemingly islands of testosterone standing in a sea of estrogen. To my mind, Dave is the unsung hero here, holding his family together while at the same time knowing it's time to let them go. They've all grown up.

From our perspective across the street, I feel like we are the fortunate ones. How do you luck into the neighbors we have? And it's not just the Thornhills, either. It's the entire block.

But this has been the Thornhill's week and I'll share this:

As Kristi wrote to Kim recently in a text following the twins' graduation: "Thank you for the love, support and mentorship you have continued to provide the girls. You are special to them and to us."

Damn it. Now I need a Kleenex.

Guilty

A few hours after I heard the verdict of "guilty" and let it sink in – that a former president of the United States is now a convicted felon – it occurred to me that Donald Trump still could trade in the words "former president" for the words "the president."

Yes, even though he was unanimously found guilty by a jury of his peers Thursday afternoon of altering business records to influence the 2016 election, he is still eligible to run as the supposed Republican candidate for the office of President of the United States. 

 Eugene Debs actually did that in 1920, running for president from his jail cell and winning 3.4 percent of the vote as the Socialist Party candidate. So there is precedent for that black hole in our Constitution. Makes you wonder why that flaw in the electoral system – that a convict could run for president – wasn't corrected back then.

Probably because there was no Internet.

I want to know who the 3.4 percent of the electorate were. How irresponsible were those voting for a convicted felon who was found guilty of – wait for it – insurrection. You can't make this stuff up. Maybe we're in some kind of a weird 100-year cycle, I don't know.

Trump will be sentenced on July 11, just a few days before the Republican nominating convention. You can believe there will be more spinning going on that week than you ever saw in Olympic figure skating. Even now, Republicans are irresponsibly denigrating the very democracy they are hoping control, reacting as if Trump's trial was a sham. It's dangerous, pathetic and scary all at once when you consider that the rule of law is the backbone of our democracy.

Trying to spin Trump's guilty verdict as something positive for his campaign illustrates what a clown show the GOP has become. The MAGA Republican response to the verdict, made up mostly of conservative Republican law makers seeking to become his vice president, is abominable and decidedly un-American. They should be ashamed of themselves. They are not. They are Constitutional ignoramuses who were given a responsibility to all of us and chose to ignore it.

And it's liable to get worse.

Trump has already indicated that he will appeal the verdict, but that appeal won't even be heard, much less decided, before his inauguration should he win in November.

It was brought to my attention that if Trump does win the presidency this November, he'll be reporting to a parole officer. It got me to thinking: a parole officer could limit Trump's travel if he or she sees fit. Ha. How does that work for setting international policy? The PO might need their own office in the White House. Would Trump report to his PO weekly? Daily?

Because it's a state case – the trial was held in New York – and not a federal case, I wonder if Trump even has the ability to overrule parole as president? He probably thinks he does. He'll probably try, even though Republicans are big on states rights at the moment. And if he fails to overrule parole, he'll probably take it to the Supreme Court. You know, the upside down flag-flying Supreme Court. That Supreme Court.

We are in deep doo doo if this ignorant cockroach is elected as president again.

It could be that Trump will be sentenced to home confinement with an ankle monitor. If he is president, confined as he is by states rights, does that mean he can never leave the White House? That, at least, should slow him down from handing out state secrets to our adversaries.

The absurdities are endless. Not the least of which would be a second Trump presidency.