Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

The Invisible Woman

Yes, it's me.  I'm still here. To paraphrase Twain, the reports of my disappearance have been greatly exaggerated.

To those who have asked in private - thank you.  It's nice to realize people notice when you fall off the radar.  To those who have dealt with me behind the scenes - THANK YOU - your presence and willingness to absorb the scattershot of emotional highs and lows is invaluable.

I miss it here.  There is honestly not a day that has slid by without me looking at my keyboard and wishing I could make words come out of it.  As I have said in the past, there is certainly enough public and political grist for the mill.  But not even the shenanigans of Boebert jerking off her date or the ever present bullshit ramblings of the rapidly decomposing gourd with 91 charges against him have made typing irresistible.

But this morning I decided to start to try to give it a whirl; to try to put into words some of what has been pulling me away, down, under.  I am hoping that I am right in that I cannot possibly be the only one that feels this way, has felt this way, has walked through the valley of the shadow of dearth.

Yes, dearth.  Defined as a scarcity or lack of something.  This particular stretch of dearth having to do with me, my sense of self.  And becoming invisible.

When I was younger, oh hell, let's just say YOUNG - because 40 seems like a lifetime and buckets of natural collagen ago - I scoffed at this idea of Invisible Women Syndrome, the idea that as we age we begin to fade into the paint, stop turning heads, cease being seen as vital, even necessary.  That we take up oxygen, but are no more noticed and important than the old curtains becoming threadbare in the guestroom.  They once served an important function, but guests are now few and gravity is all that visits.

I'm 57 now and my mind, my heart have spent the past couple years, especially this last one, realizing that the phenomenon of becoming invisible is not phenomenal at all.  It is frustrating.  It is heartbreaking.  It takes everything you spent your life weaving in terms of ego, sense of self, purpose, place, and literal reflection - the very underpinnings of a human being - and snatches that carefully woven rug right out from underneath you.  And the only thing that keeps you from breaking your ass is the fact that your ass is bigger than it use to be.

Once upon a time I could think about losing 5 pounds and it would all but vanish.  Little effort, could be a week before whatever event, outing, vacation I deemed them not invited to attend.  These days?  I have to submit paperwork, an action plan, charts, graphs, a research paper, and references at least six months in advance.  And even then, with every bite of food being monitored, every day having an allotment for meeting my trainer in The Mirror, alcohol being completely eschewed - there are no guarantees the number on the scale will budge.

Again, I am 57.  The four stages of perimenopause have been in full swing for quite a while now.

I'll pause here and say to the gents who may be reading, you may wish to tap out to protect your delicate sensibilities.  However, if you have a woman in your life, especially in my age range, you may wish to gird your own sagging loins and educate yourself.

Menopause.  Sigh.  It really should be called Meanopause.  Because it is.  Every bit of its unpredictability, ups, downs, hormones in full swing, hormones heading to the depths of the Mariana Trench, emotions imploding worse than the Titanic submersible, weight redistributing itself, weight coming out of nowhere, and the creeping sensation that becomes real and palpable, that you are becoming invisible.

I'm 5'2" - I have never been, nor will I ever be a super model.  But like so many women, I found myself, my carriage, my understanding of my face in the mirror, my body - all of it -  somewhere in my early 30s.  The stupidity of the 20s behind me, I had a handle on things.

Well, truth be told, physically, I did tap dance with disordered eating at several points along the way (note to young women - no one with three small children should weigh 93 pounds and think they are doing great), but I figured things out, embraced exercising as something that made my body strong, was my time during the day.  I made peace with eating better, although at 5'2", I will never know a day when I don't feel I have to watch myself.  My potential is to grow sideways, not up.  I was happy with how my clothes fit, pleased with my reflection, understood my facial contours, etc.

Fast forward to the number 50.  The slow slide...

I was still being mindful, still trying to make time to exercise, stay physical.  Yet efforts were not returning the same results.  Like so many, I started chasing every new laugh line, crow's foot, shadow I saw in the mirror.  I welcomed an esthetician into my life who is more than a Glenda the Good Witch of needles, but now a trusted friend of many years.

As the next few years melted one into the next, I added reading material to my personal library about perimenopause (the time before it all grinds to a halt, gents).  I started counting the days on the calendar between periods.  And nervously laughed as I actually purchased pregnancy tests because I am happily still sexually active, but there was no rhyme or reason to the dates on the calendar.  So when 50 days would pass without a spot or speck? Through my looking for reassurance online, I found this is completely normal and that I was not alone in watching the timer and suffering through the longest ten minute what ifs in recorded history.  Seriously.  Pregnant at 53?  No thank you.

All those symptoms up there?  They're real.  I have been lucky to not experience some, like brain fog, bladder, heart issues, but I could light a building on fire with hot flashes and night sweats.  I have gone from HATING with the passion of a thousand suns the feeling of a ceiling fan buffeting me, to NEEDING it because I AM the equivalent of a thousand suns.  My poor husband sleeps with a sweatshirt on hiding beneath the quilt because the AC is on so low while I lay there completely out of the covers, stewing in my own juices, repeating over and over in my head - "Please stop, please stop, please stop."

And then five minutes later I am freezing alongside him.  So sexy, I know.

The past couple years have been a heinous scribble of emotional upheaval, loss, trauma, struggle, fear.  My sister being diagnosed with cancer, my father's rapid decline into dementia and death, several moves, the whole reality of having to parent our parents, shouldering the task (alone) of moving not only my parents from their home, but then less than a year later - finding myself alone in another state for three months moving Rudy's parents from theirs and the Herculean task of tackling their beloved family home of over 115 years - complete with 115 years of stuff, and a rotating cast of literal bears in the backyard.  (I still have nightmares about how close I accidentally came to not one but four out in their yard, while completely alone.  Make no mistake, they are beautiful creatures, but in the wrong mood, or with their babies, they will fuck your shit up.)

Anyway, moving from one set of needs to another (I have always been the one in our family who gets thrown at whatever crisis is happening), there was no time for working out.  Food was catch as catch can, and as you can expect (and relate to) was not of great quality.  Sleep became a pipe dream.  Or a pipe nightmare is probably more apropos.  And without enough sleep, everything suffers.

Something else began to slowly happen through these past few years.  Part of becoming invisible is that I find reasons to not be in pictures.  And yes, I know every person in my personal life who reads this is going to wonder WTF? because they don't see me the way I see me.  Especially my husband.  He is loving, he is wonderful, but as I told him the other night, he is unfortunately the second voice in my head, not the first.

And the first, MINE, is brutal.  

Mine screams "inadequate" "overweight" "ugly".  And it's loud.  Truth be told, I imagine there has been the tentacles of some depression wound through things, too.  I look back at the past couple years and I would be stupid to think I could somehow skate through everything without a mark.  That is part of why I am sitting here attempting to type through all of this.

Make no mistake, there have been incredible highs the past couple years, too.  Our daughters both got married, I am now a Mimi to the most incredible 10 month old granddaughter.  (During my times with her every week, I know the most peace inside - she just loves that I make her smile, laugh, feel safe.  She lights up when I walk in and has no idea if my pants feel tight that day.) I have added amazing people to my life through those marriages.  I watch my three kids thriving in their individual pursuits.  But it is possible for incredible happiness to exist in the same vessel as incredible sadness and uncertainty.

This is not about throwing myself a pity party.  I'm alive.  I have air in my lungs, a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and people who love me.  But again, I just know I cannot be the only one.  And if I can purge some of this into this space, a space filled with kind souls (fuck the haters - I literally don't care about you or your input which is akin to toilet offerings), maybe I can begin taking some solid steps towards understanding it all better, accepting it all more, making peace with the invisibility I feel.

I want to get to the other side of menopause.  I want those 12 full months to go by without a period.  I am currently at 149 days since the last one.  But I also know I have gone as high as 200 and BAM, ruined a pair of underwear.

I want to figure out my new physical reality.  I have added more stretching, weights, Lonnie in The Mirror is my guru, and I love my DB Method squat machine.  I do not wish to ever be 93 pounds again.  That was stupid and dangerous.  But to strike back at the 25 that has set up shop in my middle, making my lines all softer, blurring the hard fought muscles in my arms with that layer of squish?  How does that meme go?  "I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat"?

Again, I know the people in my personal life are going to go WTF are you talking about?!?!  And I full well expect the ire and you-know-better from my daughter who is currently pursuing her doctorate in eating disorders.  To that end let me say, there is no eating disorder right now.  There is an emotional disconnect inside that I am working against.  I know health is more important than the number on the scale or the tag in my pants. 

But I also know that what I feel is not completely wrong just because it is not completely right.  Emotions are not always rational, especially to those not experiencing them.  I don't expect to make sense to everyone.  But maybe, within this blogmunity, I may make sense to you.  Or you.  Or it may help you better understand someone in your life.

To you, to them, I would say this, I see you.  You're not invisible.  You're changing, I'm changing, we're being forced on a journey that nature chose for us.  But I have to believe that on the other side, we will each find ourselves again; we will each find peace with where we end up, with who we are, with how we are.

I want to reiterate, I have a wonderful man in my life.  He tries his best to be supportive of something he cannot possibly, fully understand.  And I know he sees me with his heart, not just his eyes.  And that sounds wonderful, but I chafe against being graded on a curve or seen through Hallmark beer goggles of some sort.

Part of what spurred this bit of writing is that it has obviously been on my mind for quite a long time, but also because last night as I was searching for something to watch while taking a bath, I decided to queue up a show I have eschewed for decades - The Bachelor.

The Golden Bachelor, actually.

While I still think a show built around human hot tub soup, fantasy suites, and fighting others for a man/woman is reality TV trash, I admit my curiosity was piqued months ago when the concept of older people taking part was made public.  A handsome, seemingly decent human being in the widowed "bachelor" and a cadre of society's invisible women.

Last night I watched as one after another they emerged from a stretch limo.  Sparkly gowns, beautifully coiffed hair, Crest Whitestrip smiles, yes, some filler and Botox (obvious to those of us who dabble), bodies that will never be a size 2 again, but who were absolutely beautiful anyway.  

Yes, there were some who were over-the-top in their approaches, a few who made me cringe, but overall?  I thought it was wonderful.  No, not the previewed tears, angst, contrived scenarios, and predictable fights over "winning" a man, but the fact that these women - all who live under society's forced invisibility cloak - are unabashedly taking the stage and telling society that they are not dead.  They are still vital, lovely, have value and so, so much to give.

I will be watching, yes, probably cringing a lot, but my focus will be more on their bravery at moving into this pubic space, than on the battle for a fellow Medicare recipient.

While the show played on my bathroom TV, I got out of the tub and took a good look in the mirror.  No, I am not 25 anymore.  My body has brought three human beings into this world.  It has fought battles, been sick, recovered, and more than anything, is still alive and going strong.  And it's not terrible.  It may not be the reflection I want it to be currently, but it is not bad.  It, too, still looks pretty good in a sparkly dress.  

Part of fighting against feeling invisible is that I am promising myself, and you, that I will begin to show up here on a regular basis.  There is much to write about, I have much to say, and we have another amazing Yes, Virginia season on the horizon.

I found this quote on a friend's IG account last night and want to end with it.   But first, I want to say again, I SEE YOU, dear friends.  Let's rekindle our self love together.

"Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.  You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world"  - Lucille Ball

The Leader Doesn't Drink The Kool-aid

He is facing 91 felony charges in five indictments.  He is surrendering himself in Georgia tomorrow - arrest, mug shot, bond.  He continues to spew on Truth Social, essentially telegraphing his every intent, ALL CAPS rants directed at those who seek to hold him accountable, not-too-subtle directives to his easily led followers about violence. 

He is the victim, we (liberals, the Deep State, Sleepy Joe, Jack Smith, Fani Willis, Target Pride displays) are the danger.  His doltish clan, constantly fed the narrative of us vs them stand ready to do his bidding, no matter what he asks.  

They have forsaken relationships, been cut off from friends, children, grandchildren.  They spend their money on bedsheet sized Trump flags for their vehicles and porches.  They buy anything he sells them - so easily separated from their dollars as they seek the constant approval of their MESSiah.  They cannot be swayed by rational discourse, facts are anathema to their world building in which what they are told to believe is gospel. They do as they are told, threatening anyone who is party to justice, who has had a hand in grand juries, fact finding, prosecution.

They will not be deterred, no sacrifice will make them reconsider, they are so far in that allowing even the slightest sliver of doubt causes them such painful cognitive dissonance they must stay the course.  

They are a cult.  Trump is their Jim Jones.  

Watching their behaviors over the past 8 years, since he slithered down his gold plated escalator and began gathering his children via openly racist diatribes, the parallels between Trump and Jones, MAGAts and Peoples Temple congregants are more than just a passing similarity.  The roadmap is the same.  The behaviors identical.  The suspension of actual reality in favor of buying wholesale what some loudmouthed, charismatic blowhard preaches is spot on.  

The circular feeding of delusions.  Trump provides them a pig trough of lies, grandiosity, victimhood, and promises.  In turn they regurgitate their belief in all of it back to him and he grows in his own delusions and belief in his power. 

Jones did the same.  He crafted a world in which he was god; a world in which only he had the answers, could save them from outside forces; a world in which only he told them the truth; a world in which they were the chosen, the righteous, the ONES. 

And when threatened with exposure, ratcheted up the lies, propaganda, rhetoric.  It ended in unfathomable death, covering the floor of a jungle like a colorful handmade quilt.

It was many years ago that I did a deep dive here for those unfamiliar with the story of Jones and Jonestown.  I ask that you read it, share it, look hard at not just the similarities, but the seamless overlap.  If the stories were a Venn diagram, it is almost a perfect circle.

It is no secret that human beings hunger for meaning in their lives, want to belong, to feel important, to be seen.  But like Jonestown, MAGAts have taken this natural human impulse to extremes.  The deluded belief that they are so much more important, have inside information, are chosen?  It leads nowhere good.

And in the end, their leader - who knows it has been a bullshit grift all along; who has used them to his own end$; who has led them to a "promised land" of misery, isolation, and regret - will not join them in their end.  He will watch as they drink the Kool-aid.  He will watch as they poison their children.  He will watch as they lose everything, right down to their last breath.  But he will not drink it with them.

Watching them writhe in cyanide induced agony, Jones opted for a bullet to the head.  Not even by his own hand, mind you.   That's right, MAGAts.  Trump has been filling your cups for years, but in the end, the leader doesn't drink the Kool-aid.

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June 12, 2020

A few weeks back I was Facetiming with my daughter and the phrase "Drinking the Kool-aid" came up.  In her lifetime, it has always just been there - a phrase for "buying in" or the "wholesale abdication of your own agency" (if we're being wordy).

As we talked, I explained how that phrase did not exist until 1978.  I mentioned the name Jim Jones and Jonestown.  She had never heard of either.  Not surprising.  Schools don't teach it in history class, and she was not born until 1993.  Even though I had only been 12 at the time of the horrific mass suicide in Guyana, I well remember the pictures on the nightly news and splayed across the front page of my mom's National Enquirer.

It was a lot for a 12 year old to see, let alone internalize.  But after sharing the story with my daughter, I have been doing a deeper dive into the way the Peoples Temple and Jim Jones came to be - reading survivor accounts, stories from defectors, watching the documentaries available.

It may seem that there is a casualness with which MAGAts are compared to Jonestown disciples and Trump to Jones himself these days; how the "drinking the Kool-aid" term is thrown around, but when you compare the two cults - yes, MAGAtry is a cult - the comparisons are not just apt, they are eerie.  And given the latest from Trumptown?  The waiver for his upcoming rally?  The one where all attendees give up the right to hold Trump liable if they contract COVID and die?  Well...

To quote the sunglassed charlatan, Jones, "Gather round my children..."

Jim Jones was a complex creature.  A loner as a child and teen, kind of an oddball. While his peers played games, he held funerals for roadkill.  Not much in the way of familial affection or attachment.  Always looking for ways to get attention,  Always searching for his place.  In his quest, he attended myriad churches - Southern Baptist, Pentecostal, and on and on.  And he became enthralled with the ease with which the pastors controlled the attention of the congregants, how they lifted them up, how they preached fire and brimstone and salvation.  Most of all, he noted the devotion of the gathered to the ministers. 

He noted that very much.

So it was not surprising when he decided to launch his own brand of ministry, not affiliated with any denomination.  And on the surface, at least initially, there was good reason for the attention he garnered, the people who were attracted to his message.  He preached inclusivity at his church in Indianapolis.  His pews contained people of all walks of life, all shades of skin, and financial strata.  He preached a ministry of social justice.  Remember, we are talking about the 1950s - that was radical stuff, especially coming from a white man's mouth.

As his popularity grew, he wanted more and bigger.  After all, attention and power and acceptance are heady things to a thirsty soul like his.  Or Trump's.

The Peoples Temple moved to Ukiah, California, then as it grew Jones opened up shop in San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Word spread about this firebrand preaching (as opposed to anything Trump preaches) equality for all, acceptance, and socialism in which all worked for all.  “I love socialism, and I’m willing to die to bring it about, but if I did, I’d take a thousand with me.”

He preached those words from the pulpit roughly two years ahead of the massacre.

As his profile grew, politicians began to take note and curried his favor.  Considering how many of his flock were Black people, politicos understood the importance of courting him.  In fact, when Rosalyn Carter was campaigning with Walter Mondale in San Francisco, Jones not only met with her, but supplied congregants to enhance the number of people who turned out.  Rosalyn even visited the Peoples Temple and spoke from the pulpit once.

That's heady stuff for an insatiable attention whore.  And so the church grew.  And with its growth, his power grew.  And we all know what absolute power does.

Congregants worshipped him.  Congregants would never question him.  Congregants accepted any malfeasance or rumor, quickly casting it aside.  Soon, they were giving up everything they owned to Jones.  They were signing blank pieces of paper on which murder, rape, pedophilia confessions would then be typed.  Jones soon controlled them, every aspect of their lives.  In return, he gave them a great show.  Preaching profanity and brimstone, he gave them faith healings, stories of the Promised Land, where only he could lead them.

As he consolidated his power, beatings became commonplace.  Even the slightest transgression could find someone being made to fight another congregant much larger and stronger.  The crowd lapped it up, and the crowd - not wanting to be targets themselves - circled the ranks even tighter and worshipped him even harder.

Only HE would tell them the truth about the world.  Only HE could save them.  He knew how to play on their fears, how to stoke the fires of their own insecurities.  And it worked. 

Right up until a big expose' came out about him and his church, interviews and details provided by defectors who had had enough, some willing to even leave their children behind with a brainwashed spouse in order to escape.

Once that story hit, other news outlets came sniffing around and he knew his time was limited.  So he sent congregants to Guyana to begin building Jonestown.  They did.  His followers gave him everything they had.  Money from jobs, deeds to their homes, everything.  Including their absolute, blind faith. 

He told them Guyana was a moderate 72 degrees with no mosquitos or snakes.  That they were going to a beautiful commune, lush and fertile - they would all grow their own food.   Truth?  Guyana is in a jungle, it is miserably humid and hot, prime ground for snakes and mosquitos.  And that food they would grow? As letters from congregants reveal, “Nothing grows and they’re starving. He has this inner circle that goes out and begs for food or gets rotting food from the market and brings it back to Jonestown. It was a big façade.”

But they would not know that until they were there.  So little by little, parishioners were secreted out of the country from myriad airports so as to not raise suspicion as to where they were heading, or why the Temple was draining of bodies.  They simply disappeared.  There would soon be nearly 1,000 souls in Jonestown.  And Jonestown could not truly accommodate or feed them all.

But they believed only him, and only Jones was able to protect them, to save them from invisible outside forces.  He lied, he cajoled, he pulled stories out of his ass and preached them as gospel truth in the Jonestown Pavilion.  Punishments were severe, compliance was mandatory and often at the end of a rifle.  His sexual peccadilloes were well known.  He imposed celibacy for all but him.  Insisted he was the only heterosexual one among them.  He took wives from husbands, husbands from wives, children from parents.  Unopposed.  After all, the brainwashing and desperation at that point were severe - the damage was done.

All the while they subsisted on milky rice, he indulged himself on food, cold Coca-Cola, drugs.  Sound familiar?  Up, down, up, down.  And those sunglasses he always wore?  They hid the rheumy, red, weepy, drug induced pie plate pupils behind them.

His mantra was the same as Trump's.  Only listen to me.  I am the only one who will tell you the truth.  Through loud speakers strung throughout Jonestown, he would ramble through the night, often incoherently.  Regularly he would have the entire congregation turn out to the pavilion in the middle of the night - code words WHITE NIGHT - by some accounts there were upwards of 100 of these White Nights in which he would warn of an impending attack by outside forces that would take their children, kill them all.  Other times they would all take turns at the microphones expressing their love, their dedication, their willingness to die for him.  Still other nights, they rehearsed for the ultimate White Night in which they would all commit "revolutionary suicide" together.

His power over them was everything to him and he was determined to hold onto it no matter what.

But then a congressman from California, spurred on by letters of concern and visits from fearful constituents who had lost family members to the cult, decided to take a news crew to the jungle and check things out. 

Congressman Leo Ryan was hands on, having once spent a week on death row in Folsom prison to better be able to speak to the conditions of prisoners and the need for reforms.  So a trip to South America to check on the well being of American citizens was in his wheelhouse.

But to a rapidly unraveling Jones, it was a shot across the bow.  Ryan arrived with a news crew, journalists, his assistants (including now Congresswoman Jackie Speier), family members seeking relatives.  What Ryan found was a mixture of people swearing they loved it, and people shoving secret notes in the hands of his contingent begging to be rescued.  The following day, he left with 16 of them, so many that Ryan radioed to request another plane, and that betrayal was too much for Jones.  

He sent lackeys to follow them to the airstrip where they opened fire, killing Ryan, and four more, wounding the others who only survived by crawling into the jungle brush.

Back at Jonestown, Jim Jones called them all to the pavilion to let them know the congressman had been murdered, that they would soon be set upon, that it was time for them all to go. Revolutionary suicide time.

But for anyone who has listened to the recordings from that day (there are many and easily found online), it is much more accurate to call what took place a mass murder.  It is very clear that while there were many who walked willingly up to get their cup of cyanide laced Flavor Aid, the vast majority were forced, held down, injected.  The children, nearly 300 of them, were first to die.  Parents force fed them the potion, babies had it squirted into their mouths.

As they lie weeping together on the ground, convulsing from the poison, Jones was shot in the head (his pet monkey, Mr. Muggs, also met that fate).  A bully, who in the end, showed himself for what all bullies are at heart - cowards.  They died in agony, he took the easy way out.

When it was over, more than 900 people lay dead, 307 of them under the age of 17.  Their loyalty to Jones was their undoing.

During all of my reading, watching, listening about Jones and the Peoples Temple dead, I have stopped myself many times wondering just how weak minded, easily led, gullible and desperate a person has to be to buy into this kind of apocalyptic rambling?  How so many freely gave up their own agency to one man who commanded them to close themselves off from loved ones, facts, reality?  How stupid is a person to see beatings, hear bullshit, know in their gut something is waaaaay off, yet still find themselves literally drinking the Kool-aid in the end?

Unkind questions?  Perhaps.  But it is difficult to look at the facts of their fall and not ask them.  To not see their path being walked by the MAGAtry today.  I can almost understand how once congregants arrived in Jonestown, even the disillusioned and those who evolved to disbelievers stayed.  They had no options.  In a foreign country, relieved of their passports, no money, miles and miles and miles of jungle surrounding them.  Leaving was simply not possible.  But MAGAts?  All it takes is admitting you were wrong, SO, SO, SO VERY WRONG.

Looking out over the landscape of our nation, the adulation heaped upon Trump by his unquestioning believers, the fears he plants and plays upon, the manipulation he uses to control them, it has been little surprise that they completely ignore every fact, finding, data point, and word of caution about COVID-19.  How they completely buy into his alternate reality even though we live in a time where we all have a computer in our pocket filled with the answers to everything we may ask. How they eagerly attack anyone who disagrees with or calls out their Dear Leader.  How they are afraid to question anything he does, says, any malfeasance to which he gets up.  Adultery?  Pfft.  Porn star?  Meh. Emoluments abuse?  Boring.   Money grifting for decades?  Sorry, busy looking the other way.  Blatant racism, open bigotry and phobias of all ilk?  Preach, Donnie, preach!

It is all sad and predictable.  They will, like the congregants of Jonestown, follow his lead, no matter where it may ultimately take them.  Trump knows this.  And this is his power source.  This is how he feeds his ego, his emptiness, his desperate need for attention. For those signing the waiver for Tulsa and his other upcoming rallies - a waiver that openly absolves Trump from anything to do with COVID related damages or death that may result - it seems that the grave may well be their final destination, too.

He has been preparing this Kool Aid for years now.  And they are lining up in Trumptown to get their cup.

Dear MAGAts, You Support A Conman, And You Are His Easy Marks

There is much somber talk among the TV pundits about how this is a sad day for our country.  It's not.  This is what justice looks like, what accountability looks like.  The only thing sad about it is that a decomposing gourd with a lifetime of criminal shitbaggery was ever allowed anywhere near the Oval Office.  Updating this piece from June 9th was WAY too easy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dearest MAGAts, 

In light of the latest developments against your chosen cheddar deity, it's time again to have a talk.  

I know, I know, these conversations make your heads hurt.  There is a name for that, when factual information rubs up against what you so fervently cling to, daring to dislodge your mental bullshit - it's called cognitive dissonance.  And for most people who value critical thinking, that feeling spurs us on to dig deeper, read, research, and gasp, dare to find out we may need to replace the wrong with the right.

That's the step that has always hamstrung your cult.  And yes, you are in a cult.  The group think, the blind devotion, the kneejerk response of "FAKE NEWS!" "WITCHHUNT!" and "HUNTER'S LAPTOP!" to any inference that your guy may have crossed a line - all hallmarks of you being a bunch of red chapeaued Squeaky Frommes and him being a less charismatic Charles Manson.

Right down the line you have defended him against some truly indefensible behaviors, actions, words.  Things that had they been said or done by President Barack Obama would have had you rending your garments and screaming nonstop for his blood.  (Well, you did that part anyway, but still...)

But this afternoon, as yet another set of indictments were handed down against your savior, four counts including Conspiracy to Defraud The United States of America, your screeching has gone up a whole other octave.  Like riled up monkeys in a zoo, you are throwing all manner of shit against the cyber walls, trying to obfuscate, deny, and spin what the evidence clearly lays out.

Maybe, just maybe it's finally time to open your minds a tad, and allow room for the provably accurate thought that Donald Trump is more than just not a good guy.  Donald Trump is a criminal who targeted this entire country with your gullible help.

Again, I know even seeing that typed out for you makes your head hurt, your blood pressure rise, and your bowels turn juicy.  No one likes any of those sensations, but I dare you to power through, pop some Advil, breathe deep, risk ruining a pair of your DJT Fruit of the Loons, and read the damned indictment in full.

And before you start in with slurs against the Justice Department or accusations that President Biden is behind this - let's put that bullshit in the cow pasture where it belongs.  The grand jury that brought this indictment was comprised of normal citizens some of whom were undoubtedly Trump voters.  A grand jury that was presented with evidence so damning, so clear, that this is the result.

So stop with the Merrick Garland dodge, or the slurs against Jack Smith, the FBI, and anyone else who surely must have an axe to grind against your boy.  Just read, read it all, and let it begin to sink in.  

The 45 page indictment details how one person after another after another told him he had lost, that all his conspiracy baiting was nonsense, that it was fake - HE LOST.  The VP, senior leaders of the Justice Department, the Director of National Intelligence, the Department of Homeland Security's Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency, Senior White House Attorneys - HIS ATTORNEYS, senior staffers on his re-election team, and the myriad state and federal courts who continually rejected the bullshit Trump and his cronies put before them.  Again, all Trump confederates - are these power leeches just suddenly turncoats against your hero?  Is that how you are going to spin it in your pained little noggins?

Still not buying that he could possibly be a bad guy up to no good and capable of trying to defraud this country you profess to love so much?  Flip to page 41.  The night of January 6th, after the Capital Building had been stormed, defecated in, ransacked, lives threatened, lives taken, police officers savagely beaten by Trump supporters, he was actively still reaching out to pro-Trump senators and representatives to slow the process down, to obstruct, to obfuscate.  Yes, he IS that stupid, that craven, that desperate - and that aware that what he was doing was bigly wrong.

Now, I hear you starting to sputter about President Biden, or Hillary, or President Obama, or Hunter Biden's dick.  Like Trump, throwing all manner of covfefe at the wall to make something stick - I know that whataboutism is your favorite sport.  Here's the thing though, ye of the warmed brie consistency gray matter, while I welcome any investigation into actual wrongdoing, by anyone, they didn't do any of these things.  

I know, I know.  I'll wait while you take some more Advil.  Maybe wash it down with some Bud Light.  Just kidding!  Wouldn't want you to catch the trans.

Ready to proceed?  Good.

I know it stymies your dipshit discipleship that we would be ok with consequences for "our guys" should any actions be proved to be criminal in nature.  That goes against your cult's marching orders.  Allow me to explain the difference.

My identity is not Joe Biden.  I don't buy hideous bedsheet sized flags with him tricked out like Rambo to fly on my front lawn.  I don't emblazon his face on my clothing, attend his rallies with arrows drawn towards my cooch beseeching Trump to grab it, or plant a flagpole in the bed of my rolling coal pick up truck.  I don't belong to Facebook groups dedicated to Joe Biden, or attend Biden boat regattas, and I actually go long periods of time without him being a thought in my head, let alone the only thought in my head.  He is not my hero, my idol, my Christ.  He's just a man who happens to be our current President.  Yes, a man I voted for and will gladly do so again unless - and here's the important part, dear MAGAt - he is credibly accused of criminal activity and/or indicted, convicted.

This is where you and your brethren run into trouble.  You have so deeply descended into your cult that there is no room to allow for being wrong, for the reality that you have thrown your lot in with a criminal, for the fact that you have mortgaged your home to cover it in Trump regalia.  (Seriously, Trump as Rambo?  Come on, guys, we all have eyes.)  You have so consistently moved the goalposts for him that you can no longer even see the stadium.

Trump is what he has always been.  A self confessed piece of shit, happy to brag about his many infidelities, his open molestation of countless women. A sleezy, Mob adjacent, Gotti wannabe.  A guy with five children from three women - something you would find unforgiveable in anyone else.  A grifting, money hungry, self aggrandizing narcissist who sees you only as what you are: CHUMPS.  Easy marks.  Open wallets and empty minds who believe anything he tells you.  

The reality is he is just a man.  A seriously imperfect one; one who has never had any use for church or religion until he realized it's a great way to get your vote; a philanderer who has likely funded many an abortion for women who are trapped under NDAs; an easy lay in terms of how he is viewed by other world leaders who know just how hungry he is for validation and praise and use it to manipulate him at will; a tool ( in every sense of the word) used by the GOP (which privately despises him) to keep your attention and your vote; and now a man who is drowning under a tsunami of evidence that he betrayed our national security.

Let the words Conspiracy to Defraud the United States of America sink in.  Read the indictment and replace his name with Hillary or Barack.  Then dare to ask yourself how you would be responding.  You know damned well your torches would be lit and your pitchforks would be sharpened.  You would have blown a vein in your heads.  You would be demanding a head on a pike.  

So take all that rage you know you would be feeling, all that righteous indignation, all that love of country you always bleat about, that 'patriot' notion you profess to embody, and use it to do something actually brave.  

DARE TO BE WRONG.

It's not too late, MAGAts.  Nobody likes being wrong.  About anything.  Especially about something that has become central to your very identity.  But now is the time.  If you actually care about the United States; about the rule of law; about the sanctity of each citizen's vote, about this country's path forward, maybe, just maybe, it's time to accept that you've been had, that your flags show open support for a traitor, and that Donald J Trump is not the second coming.

He is just a man.  A really bad one. 

Waking Up In 1940

I preface everything I am about to write with this:  None of it is surprising.  Heartbreaking, disappointing, infuriating, unforgiveable?  Absolutely.  But in no way surprising.

We are currently helmed by a Supreme Court that is corrupt, slanted, bought out, political, and populated by character deficits, Christofascists, and treasonist appointed lackeys.

Yesterday's attack on affirmative action was expected.  It is reprehensible, it ignores the inequities against minorities - especially Black people - since the founding of this country.  It is unjust, and does not even the playing field for all.  It simply gives in to the whining of white people.

The whining of white people.  

That goes to the heart of so much that is wrong in this country.  I am white.  I type with full awareness of my privilege.  A privilege bestowed upon me for one reason - I am the product of two other white people who fucked without protection.

That's it.  That's all.  My highly prized lack of melanin makes my life easier in myriad ways.  My name that does not sound anything but vanilla on a resume keeps me in the stack of potential employees instead of round filed for "sounding" a certain way.

I birthed three children.  Products of sex without protection with a white man.  Lucky kids, look at all that pale skin and opportunity.  I promise you though, those three kids know they are privileged.  They know they did nothing to earn that privilege.  Not the skin color that makes it possible to walk through their lives easier, to look at traffic stops as mere inconvenience instead of a life threatening encounter; and not the financial comfort in which they were raised.  I have always made sure they understood they were simply lucky.  Not blessed - like some divine power chose them as more worthy.  Not inherently better than their peers just because we could afford new clothes on a whim and Disney cruises every vacation.  And certainly not chosen because we could support them in their expensive pursuits - club soccer, travel, theater trips, college.  Yes, they buckled down and got the grades, were good students, busted their asses in their sports - but it was made possible largely on the back of their father who has busted his ass for his family.

I do not understand raising a child to believe their skin color makes them better.  Look around.  Those Proud Boys, Nazis, MAGAts, Confederate flag waving, bigoted assholes - who are largely WHITE - are some of the worst specimens to ever seep out of the gene pool.  

But I digress...

Yesterday was bad.  Today we have woken up to even worse.  Welcome to 1940.  Get ready for the reappearance of signs like this:

This morning, based on a hypothetical case, mind you - not something that had actually transpired - this SCOTUS ruled that businesses may openly discriminate against protected classes of people based on the religious bigotry of the owners.

Yes, bigotry.  Do not hide behind your chosen god's robes and whine about religious freedom.  Don't blame Him, Her, or It for your bastardization of scripture, warped and recreated in YOUR image, YOUR biases, YOUR bullshit.  If Jesus is your guy, you aren't paying attention.  Most liberal, open hearted, accepting of others dude to walk the planet.  If He showed up on your doorstep now, you would shoot him through the closed door.

The case - that of this piece of work, Lorie Smith of Colorado - was not based on any encounter she had, any fight with a gay couple wanting to hire her wedding website development services.  No, it was based on her irrational fear of being asked to do so by an icky gay couple.  Hiding behind her religious convictions bigotry, she whined her way to the Supreme Court.  And the Supreme Court, being majority peopled by Bible thumping bigots, ruled today that no business owner must be subjected to the oogies.

They ruled that it is lawful to discriminate as long as you hide behind the word "religion."

Fine.  That's how they want to play, FINE.  They want to openly allow discrimination against my son?  They are happy to drag us back to signs that will now be displayed in storefront windows and on website landing pages announcing who they will not do business with?  

Watch as this whiny, victimy cadre of bigots see their "victory" turned against them.  Buy some earplugs now because the cry and hew is going to be loud and long.  

MY religion does not allow me to so much as breathe the same air as MAGAts.  That includes not hiring you, even to clean up my cat's wet shit.  No, I don't care that you need a job and have three kids to feed.  You are gross, according to my religion.

MY religion does not allow me to sully my restaurant's chi with red hats, criss cross flag t-shirts, anyone with a suspiciously Karen haircut.

MY religion restricts my interaction with stupid people.

MY religious convictions allow me to deny entry to white people.  (Yes, I am one, but it's my religion, so it doesn't have to make any sense.)

MY religion allows me to deny service to anyone who makes me uncomfortable.  Completely arbitrary, mind you, and may change given my mood, the day, which way the wind is blowing.  

MY religion forbids the wearing of flip flops.  Stay out with your chewed up toenails on your feet that look like hairy sub sandwiches.  My god doesn't approve.

MY religion is foursquare against me affiliating in any way with those who smoke, are fat, are skinny, have zits, wear white shoes after Labor Day, wear pants that show their asscrack when they bend over, eat meat, don't eat meat, belch out loud, need a haircut, have bad breath, drink, don't drink, wears a mask, doesn't wear a mask, chews with their mouth open, has Parkinson's, cancer, a mouth sore, a fake leg, foot fungus, body odor, a crooked smile, smiles too much, doesn't smile enough, loves Trump, hates Trump, voted for Jill Stein, didn't vote, drinks kombucha, has kids out of wedlock, goes to church, doesn't go to church, can't sing all the lyrics to Hamilton, loves to sing all the lyrics to Hamilton (my god is capricious and sometimes not in the mood for show tunes), drinks Bud Light, doesn't drink Bud Light, enjoys country music, hates Taylor Swift, doesn't know who Jungkook is, shits regularly, doesn't shit regularly ...

I can go on and on.  MY religion is whatever I want it to be.  Hell, I'm already an ordained minister, I can have one started by lunchtime.  It's easy and then I can discriminate at will.  All I have to do:

1. Decide on the basics.
2. Write the bylaws.
3. Get an Employer Identification Number (EIN)
4. Open a bank account for my church.
5. Get ready to fundraise.
6. Obtain a certificate of formation or articles of incorporation.
7. Apply for official 501(c)(3) status

BOOM, done.  That easy.  

And then watch the predictable fallout when these holier-than-thou idiots realize "Wait!  We didn't mean this could be used against US!"

They never learn.  Insist on cramming your religion into public schools?  Having accommodations for prayer, prayer clubs, etc?  What's that?  You have a problem with there now being a Satan Club on school property?  The display of the Quran next to the Bible at the front entrance?  The tenets of Buddhism hanging prominently next to the Ten Commandments?

Pound sand.  This is what you whined for, this is what it actually means.

There are roughly 6,000 actively practiced religions in this world.  6,001 if I type fast and decide to incorporate the Church of DGMS.  And therein lies their problem.  They only want laws that give their Christian dogma wide berth to do whatever, wherever to whoever.  Different people with different beliefs, lives, loves make them uncomfortable, ergo must be legislated against to keep them from chafing in their panties.

My son is transgender.  They don't actually know what that means any more than they could define CRT, but it gives them the oogies so they believe any garbage politicians tell them about transgender people, healthcare, gender affirming therapies/surgeries.  It also means their god immediately hates them, too.  They don't operate in a world of facts; they operate in a world of constantly evolving, elaborately created fiction.  No transgender child is being allowed to have surgeries.  Just as there is no abortion post birth - what a complete crock of shit.  That is called murder, dolts - no 5 year old is having their genitals altered.  But it sure does get your Bible thumping, doesn't it?

Suddenly you believe it is god directed for you to insert yourself in the most private and personal of parenting and/or medical decision making.  The cold reality is you don't know these people.  So why do you want to hurt these people?

Lightbulb moment.  You want to hurt these people because you don't know these people.  You don't know their stories, their lives, their traumas, their pregnancy complications, their years raising a child who comes out as gay, bi, ace, trans.  That makes it simple for you to weaponize your ignorance, your hate, your "religious convictions".  You don't see the people you hurt, you don't know the people you hurt, you don't experience the fallout of your hate, of your bigotry, of your religion.

But back to Lorie.  The reality is no self respecting LGBTQIA couple would ever darken your doorstep or website for your services.  Just as no one in that beautiful spectrum actually wants to buy a cake with bigotry baked into the recipe.  So put up your signs.  Add a banner to your website.  Declare loud and proud who you discriminate against.

And enjoy the fallout.  The reality is there are more people who despise your actions and beliefs than support them.  Just as there are more open minded, left leaning people in this country than backwards, willfully ignorant MAGAts.  You mistakenly believe that because you shit your pants in public the loudest that you are the majority, that SO MANY people are the way you are.  That's just not true.  Every poll, every survey, every vote tally shows that you are wrong and your numbers are dwindling.

Sadly, you have small numbers where it currently counts - the Supreme Court.  You have 6 bought out whores who care nothing for the Constitution.  Rather they care only about the greater glory of themselves, their owners, their overlords, their religious convictions.  It won't always be that way.

It might be 1940 again today, but time marches on.  And as it does, your religions, your convictions, your base, your hate will die away.  Every tick of the clock brings you closer to irrelevance.  

Now, excuse me, I have a church to create, and you're not invited.

Implosion of Our Humanity

Like so many around the world, I have kept a virtual vigil the past five days since news was announced of the Titan submersible having lost contact with the surface.

Like so many tragedies that befall we frail mortals, this had all the stuff of movie making - and God knows there is a script being drafted in more than one writer's head currently - the history of one of our greatest disasters, the Titanic; billionaires with the kind of adventuring lust that money makes possible; the curious and mockable construction and steering device (a game controller); the easily imagined terror of the conditions: cold, dark, cramped, a toilet behind a curtain, a dwindling oxygen supply; a teen who only went because his dad so badly wanted to go; and a plethora of resources brought to bear to save five lives.

Hell, take my money, Hollywood.

As a fellow traveler on this big blue marble, it has not been difficult to imagine each possible scenario.  I am a human being.  Deprive me of oxygen, plunge me into darkness, freeze me - I can put myself into any and all of those sensations.  Especially the fear.  We have all held our breath to see how long we can.  We are all familiar with the panic and subsequent sweet relief when we take the next breath.  How many of us are afraid of the dark?  Dark makes everything suspect, scary.  And cold?  Look, I get uncomfortable when the thermometer hits 70, so being cross legged in the freezing dark knowing I am probably going to run out of oxygen?

Again, I'm human - imagining the worst was bad enough.

But then on top of the depressing reports over the past few days came the inevitable virtual cherry on this shit parfait - the horrible, mocking, eat-the-rich memes, comments, and glee over the fact that rich people were the victims.

I get it.  People do what people do in the face of crisis, uncertainty, death.  While a percentage immediately retreats to the recognized humanity of one another, others take real pleasure in the pain they see and are vocal about it, and another percentage, while not truly heartless, face grievous injury or death with black humor.  I'm not above it or below it.  There have been plenty of times in my own life where my dark humor during awful moments would stymie or repulse someone on the outside looking in.

The week my father was checking out of Casa de Life - I was the queen of bad puns, jokes - to everyone in the room, hell, to him laying there on the bed actively dying.

My child transitioning.  I stated it then, and I stand by it now - while it was the most serious parenting I have ever done in my life, joking was a huge part of how we all moved through it.  How we all still move through it.  

We're humans, we cope in weird ways.

Yet as much as I understand the impulse to share the memes, create the memes, openly castigate the five people involved and how they spent their money - so much of it poured out because the internet makes it really easy to act the asshole.  We see it every single day online.  Every comment thread, every tweet.  Honestly, post a comment that you like vanilla ice cream and someone will immediately call you a fascist prick for not liking chocolate.  Post support for LGBTQIA and the filth will pour forth - the latest favorites are to immediately call one a groomer or pedo.

In this case, all the ire, the mocking, the glee was spurred on by one thing: these people are rich, ergo they simply deserve what they got.  And what they obviously did not deserve was any measure of sympathy, care, or concern.

I just cannot get behind that part.

These are five people none of us had heard of before Sunday.  There are a plethora of exceedingly wealthy people on this planet - you'll never know all their names.  Why should you?  Not every one of them has invented something so ubiquitous that their product and name go hand in hand.  Amazon - Bezos.  Gates - Microsoft.  Musk - SpaceX, Tesla, the proliferation of white supremacy.

Yes, several of them paid $250,000 a piece to do what many have done before them - visit the final resting place of the Titanic.  Not unlike James Cameron, who has made the dive nearly three dozen times, they, too, were fascinated by the wreckage.  They were excited by the opportunity to go where so few have gone before.  Space, Titanic, Everest, etc - there's even a name for these people:  Thrillionaires.

Quite frankly?  I may not understand the impulse, the thrill seeking, the risks, but ultimately it's their dime.

I freely admit that if I were suddenly a billionaire, while I would absolutely personify the word philanthropy, I would also indulge myself in what makes me happy, things I have always wanted to do but that were out of reach - for me it would be travel, a beachfront home on Kauai, one in Santa Barbara.  Seriously, who among us hasn't played the Powerball game of "what if?"   I have some really great, open hearted friends and family in this world, but not a single one of them would turn monk if handed $420 million (Saturday night's Powerball amount).  They would help others pay bills, contribute to charities, and they would also indulge themselves.

Nowhere in that would they lose their humanity in my eyes.  They would not suddenly merit less concern, less consideration.  And they certainly would not be deserving of peril or death just because their bank balance increased.

I am totally on board with the observations about the disparity we have seen in how a ferry of poor people were viewed/resources deployed and how many ships, agencies, departments were brought to bear to try to find these Titan passengers.  There is very valid criticism to be vocalized and I agree that one life should not be worth more than another or see such efforts galvanized based on social and financial strata. 

Such is the unfair world in which we live.

Did these five people give to charity, share their wealth?  Let's take a look:

Hamish Harding - billionaire philanthropist.  Yes, he owned an aviation company out of Dubai.  He held three Guinness records based on his adventuring.  He also used a lot of his money towards malaria eradication and animal repopulation.  Was he also a prick?  No idea.  It's possible to be many things in one body.  Did he deserve to have his body disintegrate instantly just because he was rich?  No.

Shahzada Dawood - billionaire businessman, investor, philanthropist.  Yes, money to spare.  Money enough to indulge in his passions for exploration and adventure, but also money enough for passion projects like clean energy, donating to mental health initiatives in Pakistan post COVID, and developing low-income communities to maximize social and economic impact and build along business interests.  A shitheel?  Who knows?  I do know he did not deserve to perish in such a horrific way just because he could afford the price of admission.

Sulemon Dawood -  19, a business school student with a presumably easy life based on family finances.  By all accounts, a nice young man interested in sci-fi literature, Rubik's cubes, and volleyball.  According to his Aunt, he was also "terrified" and "wasn't very up for it" in terms of going on this expedition.  He did it for his father who was a lifelong Titanic enthusiast.  Was he a privileged a-hole?  Maybe, maybe not.  Did he deserve to have his life cut short in such dramatic fashion just because his father could afford to indulge his passion? NO.

Paul Henri-Nargeolet - billionaire researcher, expert on Titanic, director of Underwater Research at RMS Titanic Inc, nicknamed Mr. Titanic for his vast knowledge.  He had done this dive nearly three dozen times before as a researcher and guide for others.  By all accounts a nice man whose entire adult life has been the sea, from the Navy to underwater adventuring all over the planet, to being considered the foremost authority on all things Titanic and her wreckage.  Monied?  Absolutely.  Deserving of a death that is difficult to comprehend in its obliteration of all involved?

Stockton Rush - CEO of OceanGate, millionaire.  Coming from two wealthy families, he has been able to indulge his passions from a young age.  At 19 he became the youngest jet transport-rated pilot in the world.  Always interested in looking up, and once aspiring to be the first man on Mars, he ultimately turned his attention downward, saying in a 2017 interview, "I realized that what I really wanted to do was explore. I wanted to be Captain Kirk and in our lifetime, the final frontier is the ocean."  Privileged, ability to be overly confident/self indulgent?  Yes.  Capricious with the safety issues surrounding Titan?  Quotes and concerns through the years from others in the field would seem to indicate that.  Did he deserve to completely disappear in a nanosecond?  Maybe alone in his questionable creation, but not to take others with him.

My point is that means should not be some automatic disqualifier for humanity.  We all have more than some. We all have less than others.  And I refuse to lessen someone's worth just because their net worth is enviable.  Why?  Simple.  Because I refuse to lessen someone's worth simply because my net worth is more than theirs.  Their behavior, how they treat others?  Absolutely.  Call me Judge Judy.  I think we can all agree that the passing of certain individuals would benefit mankind on the whole.

It is easy to play the "what could they have done with $250,000" game.  Feed a bunch of people.  Buy housing for some others.  Etc, etc, etc.  But that's not what they did with this particular quarter million.  I had a hundred dollar lunch today.  Could I have done something philanthropic with that money?  Sure.  But I didn't with that particular C note.  I chose to have lunch with my husband.  I certainly hope that indulgence doesn't wipe out the generosity I show at other times, the money I spend on others when I should be more worried about my own, the time I donate, etc.  We all treat ourselves (a meal, a concert, new shoes, trinkets) when that money could/should probably be put to better use, or could be used to help someone else.

I think it is a very slippery slope to take this one trait - that of having a lot of money - and casually write off a total stranger's death as deserved.  That is no different than doing it based on skin color, religion, a cleft lip, weight, gender, sexual orientation.  I watch every single day as my son's humanity is not only questioned, but legislated against.  As he is caricatured and written off by swaths of people, wished death by even more, all based on one thing.  Scratch that, two things.  1.  He is transgender.  2. They don't know him and as we see all the time, it is incredibly easy to write off total strangers, to ignore their plight because it will never touch your life.

In the case of those on the Titan?  1.  They were rich.  2. We don't know them and as we see all the time, it is incredibly easy to write off total strangers, to ignore their plight because it will never touch our lives.

Am I jealous of that kind of money?  Hell, yes.  Because I do play the Powerball what if game and I have a laundry list of things I would do with that kind of financial access.  From setting up foundations to quietly helping elevate the lives of so many people I know in real life, and so many I know through this blog real estate.  I would spread it around like soft butter on warm bread.  But make no mistake, I would eventually be doing it from a beachfront in Kauai.

These five individuals died in a way that is hard to comprehend.  An implosion at that depth was, in the words of James Cameron today, the equivalent of "10 cases of dynamite going off."  While there may have been roughly five identifiable pieces of debris left, there will be no bodies found.  That destruction was immediate, total, particles, not parts.  For their families, friends, colleagues, I hope there is comfort to be found in the immediacy.  In the certainty that their loved ones were never aware, did not have time to fear.  That they were one moment and were not the next.

I found this quote from Paul-Henri Nargeolet in an interview he gave many years ago.  In it he was asked about his fears of repeatedly diving so deep.  His reply was simple, concise.  “When you’re in very deep water, you’re dead before you realize that something is happening, so it’s just not a problem.”

I don't know them, so I cannot really mourn them.  But I will not casually write them off with some bad jokes or infer that they deserved this death.  That is no more acceptable than the heinous comments and jokes I have seen about the hundreds of poor migrants who died in the ferry disaster last week. 

And here's the thing.  A week from now we will have all moved on and forgotten both tragedies.  But how we have responded, how we have normalized marginalizing, hell, wishing death on total strangers, will have eroded our structural integrity just a bit more.  Like the Titan, that built up weakness will catch up with us. 

Let's not allow our humanity to implode.  

Dear MAGAts, Maybe Just Maybe...

Dearest MAGAts, 

In light of the latest developments against your chosen cheddar deity, it's time again to have a talk.  

I know, I know, these conversations make your heads hurt.  There is a name for that, when factual information rubs up against what you so fervently cling to, daring to dislodge your mental bullshit - it's called cognitive dissonance.  And for most people who value critical thinking, that feeling spurs us on to dig deeper, read, research, and gasp, dare to find out we may need to replace the wrong with the right.

That's the step that has always hamstrung your cult.  And yes, you are in a cult.  The group think, the blind devotion, the kneejerk response of "FAKE NEWS!" "WITCHHUNT!" and "HUNTER'S LAPTOP!" to any inference that your guy may have crossed a line - all hallmarks of you being a bunch of red chapeaued Squeaky Frommes and him being a less charismatic Charles Manson.

Right down the line you have defended him against some truly indefensible behaviors, actions, words.  Things that had they been said or done by President Barack Obama would have had you rending your garments and screaming nonstop for his blood.  (Well, you did that part anyway, but still...)

But last night, as the indictment was handed down against your savior, and this morning as said indictment was unsealed revealing 38 counts, the majority of which fall under the word 'espionage', your screeching has gone up a whole other octave.  Like riled up monkeys in a zoo, you are throwing all manner of shit against the cyber walls, trying to obfuscate, deny, and spin what the evidence clearly lays out.

Maybe, just maybe it's finally time to open your minds a tad, and allow room for the provably accurate thought that Donald Trump just isn't a good guy.

Again, I know even seeing that typed out for you makes your head hurt, your blood pressure rise, and your bowels turn juicy.  No one likes any of those sensations, but I dare you to power through, pop some Advil, breathe deep, risk ruining a pair of your DJT Fruit of the Loons, and read the damned indictment in full.

And before you start in with slurs against the Justice Department or accusations that President Biden is behind this - let's put that bullshit in the cow pasture where it belongs.  The grand jury that brought this indictment was comprised of normal citizens in the state of Florida - a place so red that a great percentage of those impaneled were probably Trump voters.  A grand jury that was presented with evidence so damning, so clear, that this is the result.

So stop with the Merrick Garland dodge, or the slurs against Jack Smith, the FBI, and anyone else who surely must have an axe to grind against your boy.  Just read, read it all, and let it begin to sink in.  

The quotes, the text messages, the transcripts contained within come directly from Trump, from his employees, from his lawyers, from his adult children.  The photos inside - showing boxes stored on the Mar-a-lago stage, in his bathroom, his shower, next to a banquet storage area - were not taken during the investigation.  These are images pulled directly from cell phones, email exchanges between his assistants (one of whom is indicted as well), his lawyers.  These are not staged, and these people are not suddenly turncoats against your hero.

Still not buying that he could possibly be a bad guy up to no good and capable of endangering our national security?  Flip to page 16.  His own words as he shows zero compunction about showing off a highly classified document regarding ongoing military actions.  Yes, he IS that stupid, but he is also that aware that what he is doing is bigly wrong.

Now, I hear you starting to sputter about President Biden and Mike Pence and classified documents.  I know that whataboutism is your favorite sport.  That your whole angle is to dare me and others like me to defend the guy on "our side".  Here's the thing though, ye of the warmed brie consistency gray matter, I welcome the continued investigations.  Yes, even into the documents Biden had in his possession.  And if criminal intent and activity is discovered, I welcome prosecution.

I know, I know.  I'll wait while you take some more Advil.  Maybe wash it down with some Bud Light.  Just kidding!  Wouldn't want you to catch the trans.

Ready to proceed?  Good.

I know it stymies your dipshit discipleship that we would be ok with consequences for "our guy" should any actions be proved to be criminal in nature.  That goes against your cult's marching orders.  Allow me to explain the difference.

My identity is not Joe Biden.  I don't buy hideous bedsheet sized flags with him tricked out like Rambo to fly on my front lawn.  I don't emblazon his face on my clothing, attend his rallies with arrows drawn towards my cooch beseeching Trump to grab it, or plant a flagpole in the bed of my rolling coal pick up truck.  I don't belong to Facebook groups dedicated to Joe Biden, or attend Biden boat regattas, and I actually go long periods of time without him being a thought in my head, let alone the only thought in my head.  He is not my hero, my idol, my Christ.  He's just a man who happens to be our current President.  Yes, a man I voted for and will gladly do so again unless - and here's the important part, dear MAGAt - he is credibly accused of criminal activity and/or indicted, convicted.

This is where you and your brethren run into trouble.  You have so deeply descended into your cult that there is no room to allow for being wrong, for the reality that you have thrown your lot in with a criminal, for the fact that you have mortgaged your home to cover it in Trump regalia.  (Seriously, Trump as Rambo?  Come on, guys, we all have eyes.)  You have so consistently moved the goalposts for him that you can no longer even see the stadium.

Trump is what he has always been.  A self confessed piece of shit, happy to brag about his many infidelities, his open molestation of countless women. A sleezy, Mob adjacent, Gotti wannabe.  A guy with five children from three women - something you would find unforgiveable in anyone else.  A grifting, money hungry, self aggrandizing narcissist who sees you only as what you are: CHUMPS.  Easy marks.  Open wallets and empty minds who believe anything he tells you.  

The reality is he is just a man.  A seriously imperfect one; one who has never had any use for church or religion until he realized it's a great way to get your vote; a philanderer who has likely funded many an abortion for women who are trapped under NDAs; an easy lay in terms of how he is viewed by other world leaders who know just how hungry he is for validation and praise and use it to manipulate him at will; a tool ( in every sense of the word) used by the GOP (which privately despises him) to keep your attention and your vote; and now a man who is drowning under a tsunami of evidence that he betrayed our national security.

Let the word espionage sink in.  Read the indictment and replace his name with Hillary or Barack.  Then dare to ask yourself how you would be responding.  You know damned well your torches would be lit and your pitchforks would be sharpened.  You would have blown a vein in your heads.  You would be demanding a head on a pike.  

So take all that rage you know you would be feeling, all that righteous indignation, all that love of country you always bleat about, that 'patriot' notion you profess to embody, and use it to do something actually brave.  

DARE TO BE WRONG.

It's not too late, MAGAts.  Nobody likes being wrong.  About anything.  Especially about something that has become central to your very identity.  But now is the time.  If you actually care about the United States of America; about the rule of law; about this country's path forward, maybe, just maybe, it's time to accept that you've been had, that your flags show open support for a traitor, and that Donald J Trump is not the second coming.

He is just a man.  A really bad one. 

Bear Witness, I Beg You

I just watched the video of Tyre Nichols being brutally murdered by five Memphis police officers.  When the alert crossed my phone about 30 minutes ago I went to my computer, took a deep breath, and pressed play.

My God.

Given the onslaught of warnings prior to the release of the video, we knew it was going to be bad.  Like really bad.  Like Memphis Police Chief Cerelyn Davis describing it as "acts that defy humanity" bad.  Like Tyre's mother stating she could not watch it in its entirety bad.  And then going on to do what so many black parents of police-murdered children do - as if it is some backass, heinous responsibility on them - she urged the public to show restraint in their response, bad.

Quite frankly, as a parent, I could not fault her if she demanded the public burn it all down.  The grace that she, and so many before her have shown is astonishing.  

The title above is "Bear Witness, I Beg You" - and I am directing that squarely at every white person who crosses this blog space.  Black people know all too well what they will see on that video.  They have either experienced some degree of it firsthand, lost someone they care for to violence like it, or have had "the talk" with their children because of this daily, grinding, breath holding reality in their lives.

I am begging you - DO. NOT. LOOK. AWAY.

To look away; to ignore the story and the video; to casually hide behind a delicate constitution is privilege of the worst kind.  It reeks of indifference to your fellow man.  It screams that you cannot, will not even try to relate.  And it goes to the very heart of the words BLACK LIVES MATTER.

My white ass, your white ass, his, hers, their white asses - we move through this world cloaked in the protective covering of skin cells that just happen to contain less melanin.  By virtue of two white people fucking, we walk freely into stores.  We survive traffic stops.  We are not immediately suspect on a street corner.  And the chance that we will ever star in a cop snuff film like Tyre Nichols?  GTFO.  We have a better chance of winning the Powerball without ever buying a ticket.

If you find yourself chafing at my words, ask yourself why?  I realize 'privilege' is a dirty word these days, much like 'woke' - both having been assfucked into something completely different by a corrupt, racist, bigoted, ignorant political party - but privilege exists.  And if you are white, you reek of it.  I reek of it.  My children reek of it.  Even my transgender son reeks of it.  Because what the world sees first, what employers see first, what store clerks see first, what police officers see first - is that they are white.

The world is automatically an easier place because of an accident of birth.  No, having white skin does not mean you won't struggle, won't be poor, won't lose a job, won't go into debt - but what it does do is insure you aren't starting the race with one leg tied up behind your back.

I am not asking anyone to feel guilty about being white.  After all, you did not do anything to come out this way.  <----But I am asking you to acknowledge that YOU DID NOT DO ANYTHING TO COME OUT THIS WAY.  Your skin is not some God given tonal hierarchy.  Your pastiness is not a gift from on high that confers with it some betterthanness.  Again, you are simply the result of two white people having unprotected sex.  So get over yourself.

And watch the video.

Bear witness to a young man being horrifically beaten by five police officers.  Listen as he begs for his life, as he calls for his mother.  Imagine the pain, the desperation, the point when he understood he may die.  Then imagine his mother trying to watch even a small portion of her child's murder.  My heart cannot even begin to come close to imagining the soul tearing pain of hearing your grown child so scared, so hurting, so disoriented that their mind plummets back to being a child, to hollering wordsf beseeching the one who has always protected them - the one who has been there from the beginning - MOM.

As I sit here typing, tears are falling freely.  For him.  For her. For his family, for his friends.  For every black parent, every black person who lives with this possibility every single day.  

And for this country.  We are well and truly fucked.  There is no other way to say it.  Because there should be no reaction but shock and horror to this video, but there will be.  There are already the "he should have complied" apologists bleating.  He did.  There are the murder porn enthusiasts who love every bloodletting moment because they sit at their computers in front of their confederate flags, stroking their Nazi paraphernalia, and wearing their All Lives Matter t-shirts.

And do not bring up the fact that the five now fired officers are black as if it is some defense.  In the ranks of police officers, this shit exists in every color.  And it must be ripped out by the roots.  (Note: This is not about hating all police officers.  It is not about painting them all with one brush.  It is about acknowledging loudly that within their ranks there are so many bad ones who are coddled, protected, and passed from one department to another, allowing them to continue to terrorize the public.)  The only thing about them being black that is notable is the speed with which we have had this video released, and the consequences that have been brought down on them.  Change their skin tone to peach and this video evidence would be hidden and release obfuscated for a year at least.  When the next officer murder of a black person happens, pay attention to the response time and department interference/excuses should the officer(s) be white.

Tyre Nichols should be alive.  No one should come to international fame because they are murdered in such a jaw dropping dearth of humanity.  Tyre's name should not be a Twitter hashtag, but it is because the circumstances of his death are such that a decent person's mind literally short circuits while watching the video.  

There will be fallout.  There will be others who will be injured or even lose their lives in protests.  To pre-emptively grieve has become second nature.  But with silence, with looking away, with wishing it away, wishing it different, comes complicity.

And worse - an abdication of our own humanity.

Bear witness, I beg you.  And then consider how you, how we all, must stand together and force change.

#TyreNichols

(Please know that I am not advocating anyone with psychological trauma, who could be triggered by the violence, to subject themselves to watching the video. I am, however, begging everyone to pay attention to what happened to this young man. Do not turn away from his life, his death, this story.  As Americans, perhaps if we regularly saw the results of others' actions, and our inactions - police brutality and murder, public mass shootings, school shootings, etc - there might actually be a solid push towards desperately needed change.  )

Yes, Virginia Sleigh Final Push

Greetings, all, from your head Elf.

Just wanted to touch base again and update you all on our 2023 efforts.  I am still elfing in earnest, and cannot thank you all enough for your contributions.  More gift cards for food/necessities, fun toys, clothes, more bedding.  And books, lots and lots of books.  That is always a request that makes me happy.  Books for kids of all ages - to spur imagination, increase curiosity, teach.  You have helped buy books for ages baby - 16 years - THANK YOU!  As they say, reading is FUNdamental!

Including the rent payment you rallied and contributed to, we have currently created over $4500 in magic!  SO FAR.

As the shipping window is beginning to close, I will be completing the wish lists on hand today and tomorrow.  So, if you know anyone who needs our help, or need help yourself - now is the time to ask.  We still have funds on hand and can make even more holiday magic!

Simply shoot me an email ([email protected] or [email protected]) or a Facebook message.

And if anyone would still like to donate, these are the options: 

Paypal > [email protected] > please do it as Send Money, not as a purchase.  If you do it as a "purchase" they withhold a portion of your donation.

Zelle > [email protected]

Venmo - @Linda-Sharp-29 

Tethered By The Sleigh

I have often written how Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year.  My best childhood memories are attached to the holiday.  Family all together.  My parents' endless open house parties where my siblings and I hung on the periphery or hovered around the cookie table.  The train platform where Plasticville was ever expanding.  And of course, the excitement of leaving cookies out for Santa and waking up to a plethora of gifts around that train platform.

Solidly middle of the middle class, we did not get whatever we wanted whenever we wanted it during the year, but at Christmas?  My parents pulled out all the stops.   It made the day even more magical.

It's always been part of the reason for the Yes, Virginia effort.  I hate the thought of children having to give up that magic due to circumstances completely beyond their control.  And I cannot stand how many parents feel like failures for having to choose to keep the heat on over even a single gift for their child.

This year has been so much like the ones that have come before.  Hunger.  Fear.  Hopelessness.  The emails that are so tentative, so unbelieving that we exist in this way - that people in general exist in this way - GENEROUS.

I know I use the word 'humbled' a lot, but it is my overwhelming emotion.  Your response and generosity never fails to take me out at the knees, in the best possible way.   

The past year has had me feeling very untethered.  It dawned on me last week that due to family circumstances - both happy and sad - that so far I have spent over 1/3 of this year away from "home."  In truth, I am currently writing this from the inside of yet another hotel room.  And by the time the clock strikes 2023, I will have been floating from place to place for over 5 months.

5 months out of 12 not spent at home.  The majority of that time spent alone.  That's a lot of time to reflect.  A lot of time to feel, as I said, untethered.

Which brings me back to DGMS and Yes, Virginia.  Despite being on the road, not in my own bed, not with my husband, YOU and this effort of ours are my home.  I am tethered by this sleigh.  It is always a gift this time each year to be trusted with elfing on your behalf, but this year means more to me than I can put into words.  I can take this effort with me; I can elf from anywhere.  A hotel room, my son's apartment, the rocking chair while my granddaughter sleeps in my arms, the side of the highway.

And I have.  In addition to your extraordinary generosity that helped pay the rent for the daughter of one of our members, your latest purchases have included books for ages from 7 months to 10 years old, more coats, shoes, board games, STEM robotic toys, and more gift cards for food.  I will say it again:  I HATE THAT PART.  But it exists, and I am grateful we can provide.  As we did again yesterday.  And from that grateful mother to you all:

Thank you again!! I’m so excited and you have no idea how much this means to us. It’s a relief knowing I can run to the store and get what we need for a beautiful dinner. I will wait and watch for sales etc. the cost of food is excruciatingly high these days. I get paid Tuesday and had to scrape together change for milk the other day. We are still doing okay. We do eat. We do have a home. But extras are just a little fewer and far between. You and the DGMS family have given beyond measure and I love you all so much.

Perspective.  Another gift.  I may not be with my people, in my home (which is again gearing up to change states), but I am not scraping pennies together for milk.  I am safe, I am warm, and this "home" we have created together goes with me wherever I find myself.

I am tethered to our sleigh, and am so very, very grateful to you all.

We still have time to help other families, so please send them my way,  And PLEASE, if it is you, your family, email me.  Message me.  Your privacy is promised.  All that you will find in my inbox is understanding and a group of people who want you to know they care.

Donations can still be made through:

Paypal > [email protected] > please do it as Send Money, not as a purchase.  If you do it as a "purchase" they withhold a portion of your donation.

Zelle > [email protected]

Venmo - @Linda-Sharp-29 

 

Life Is About Other People

UPDATE: Thanks to your incredible generosity, we have been able to get the rent payment to her.  It is amazing what hearts are able to accomplish when they see themselves in others' hardships.  There are so few degrees of separation between where we may be today and where we could find ourselves tomorrow.  A medical crisis, a lay off - any number of unexpected moments that could take the ground from beneath any of us.  

(I apologize for not getting this posted last night.  What should have been a 10 1/2 hour day verged on 13 by needing to pull over many times to kickstart this and get your donations on their way.  TOTALLY WORTH IT.  I was just too pooped to post by the time I got my hotel.)

Your spirit of "it takes a village" is so appreciated.  From our very grateful villager:

Thank you to the amazing “Yes, Virginia” team for your support and speedy response to my request for help for my daughter and granddaughter. I can’t thank you all enough. You are truly angels on earth. As I have in the past, I will continue to support “Yes, Virginia” in the future. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

(Any additional donations will be put to our ongoing elfing for this holiday season.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as I was getting ready to pull out of my daughters driveway this morning to begin what will be an 11 hour day of driving, I received a plea via a Facebook message.

I am now sitting on the side of the road as I have done several times during the past two hours, so I could communicate with the person and gather more information. I have now reached a small town in Texas where I have decent enough cell reception to dictate this into a blog post and ask for your help.

I preface what comes next with the facts that I do have her permission to share this, while also having committed to protecting her privacy (she is a longtime member of our blogmunity), and that I truly do believe that life is about other people, and how we can touch their lives in positive ways. Sitting on the side of the road and doing this is something I would do for anyone in our village.

Here is her story:

Hi Linda, I never thought I’d be reaching out to you but I’m writing in desperation for my daughter and granddaughter. It’s a very long story but I’ll try to explain in as few words as possible. A few months ago, my daughter lost her job and has been struggling financially. I have helped her out as much as I could but now I’m out of resources for her. Due to two knee replacements for me this year, I’ve had a rough year too financially. She just started a fabulous new job on November 28th which will solve all those problems in the months to come. The problem right now is that she needs money for her December rent and I am unable to help her right now. The late fees are insane - $125 for being one day late and another $125 if it goes over 10 days late. She will not get paid until Dec. 16th and with the late fees, it will cost more than her first check and will leave her with no money left over. I have not slept for the past week and have tried everything to come up with the money. This is an act of desperation.  Her rent is $1599 a month and with the late fees could push it up over $1800. She is very proud and has no idea I’m reaching out to you. I understand if it’s too much and too late to ask. I am embarrassed to ask and will pay you back over the next year if you can help. Thank you for your time and consideration. I love what you do for others. Thanks for listening. ❤️

Time is of the essence, and this must be accomplished today. I know that this is asking a lot on very short notice, but if this community could rally and donate money towards this rent payment, I promise Rudy and I will make up the difference (Thank you for trusting my heart, Rudy.) I have asked her in return, as she is able, to donate to the Yes, Virginia fund for 2023 throughout the upcoming year.

No one likes to envision themselves or those they love facing such frightening, difficult times. And feeling you have nowhere to turn is very dark indeed.

Thank you, Linda. I appreciate this more than you know. I’ve always been the one who people come to for help so it’s very hard being on the other side of this. I’ve actually arranged a few “Yes, Virginia” holidays myself in the past. It’s very humbling being on this side of it.

Donations can be made through:

PayPal - [email protected]

Zelle - [email protected]

Venmo - @Linda-Sharp-29