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 Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
| Part 2 - Decisions "The Blue Ribbon (part 1)"  Sadly, cancer is big business these days with a much too large customer base. Halvorson Cancer Center is just one part of the cancer complex in the west wing of Evergreen hospital. It’s a modern facility that opened in 2012, with wide corridors, pleasant décor, and the latest equipment for cancer diagnosis and treatment. Virtual Tour: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbYjQFEXYoI That’s where I went to meet with the radiation oncologist. Debbie went with me to offer her support. The self-described ‘concierge’ who checked me in for my appointment with Dr. Taylor is a nice guy with a friendly smile. He welcomed me to the oncology ‘family’ and insisted on taking my picture. “So everyone will recognize you and know your name,” he said. “Sure, thanks,” I replied with an automatic smile. No, I don’t want this, I objected silently in my head. I don’t want to join your stupid family. I’m going to get this thing cut out and be done with it. I don’t belong here and I won’t be back! I wasn’t in a receptive frame of mind, but I held my tongue and listened politely as Dr. Taylor shook hands and launched into a detailed explanation of my particular case. He covered a lot of the same ground as my urologist, Dr. Dai, but I’d been too shaken up at my meeting with her to take it all in. He also revealed that he was a cancer survivor himself, having undergone prostate removal twenty years earlier. Dr. Taylor explained that the tissue samples from each cancerous area are evaluated and given what’s called a Gleason score. The numbers range from one to ten and higher numbers are worse. Mine were mostly sixes and sevens. That meant my case was, in fact, serious. Based on my Gleason score, physical exams, PSA level, and various scans, I was given an overall cancer stage of T2a. Or, in simpler terms, unfavorable intermediate risk. My face must have shown dismay at the word unfavorable. “Don’t panic,” Doctor Taylor told me. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. You don’t need to put your affairs in order just yet. Your cancer is still very treatable. Your outlook is a matter of years rather than months.” Somehow, the word years wasn’t very comforting. We all expect to have a long, vague number of years. Hearing the word months was disheartening. It made the end seem a lot more specific. But I still had a decision to make about how my cancer treatment would affect those years. Dr. Taylor showed us projected outcomes based on thousands of case histories of similar patients. There’s a progression of cancer treatments, beginning with a surgical removal of the tumor. If that isn’t successful, the next option is radiation therapy. And the final option, for metastatic cancers, is chemotherapy. The data from similar patients showed that even with immediate surgery, I would have a 76% chance of needing radiation therapy in the next ten years. And there was a 91% chance that cancerous cells were already beginning to invade the surrounding tissues. That wasn’t what I’d hoped to hear, so I had to pause and rethink my options. Dr. Taylor gave us a description of intensity-modulated radiation therapy (IMRT). It combines a CT scanner and a radiation beam powerful enough to damage cancer cells. The damaged cancer cells are unable to reproduce and can then be broken down by the body’s natural healing processes. The IMRT machine scans as it rotates the beam around the patient. That allows the beam to precisely target the prostate gland and a computer program varies the power as it moves. The radiation beam is always focused on the prostate, but the angle of the beam varies as it rotates to minimize damage to the surrounding tissues. Healthy cells can recover from radiation damage if it isn’t too severe. That can preserve at least partial prostate function. Even so, side effects of radiation therapy can include fatigue, urinary distress, abdominal pain, and diarrhea. Dr. Taylor explained that IMRT therapy can treat cancerous cells around the prostate gland as well as those within. Another advantage of IMRT is that the side effects are usually less severe than surgery and certainly less immediate. With IMRT, I could spare myself the trauma of an invasive surgery, enjoy a more normal life in the short term, and possibly in the long term as well. Suddenly, being in the oncology family didn’t seem so bad. I felt like I should go back and apologize to our concierge. Deb and I met a second time with Dr. Dai to give her a chance to offer a rebuttal. She looked at the projected outcomes and agreed that Dr. Taylor’s numbers were valid. She also conceded that surgery couldn’t guarantee removal of all the cancerous tissue, and it would put an end to my prostate function. One common reason to opt for surgery, relief of urinary problems caused by an enlarged prostate, wasn’t a factor for me. Dr. Dai did point out that surgery isn’t done following radiation therapy, so I couldn’t change my mind later. But when I asked directly for a recommendation, she demurred Dr. Taylor hadn’t given a recommendation either. My case resides in that anxious gray area of who knows? If my cancer was less aggressive or less advanced, then surgery would be the best choice for a cure. Get it out and get on with my life. That had worked out well for Dr. Taylor. If my cancer was more advanced, then radiation or chemotherapy would be the only choices. Managing the disease more so than curing it. But I was in between with my unfavorable intermediate risk. Surgery might be successful for me, but the odds weren’t great. In addition, the numbers showed that my fifteen-year survival outlook would be almost the same with either treatment option. In the end, I chose to avoid surgery and go for a better quality of life in the short term. And I can still hope that my prostate function returns over time while the cancer doesn’t. So, I embraced my oncology family and asked Dr. Taylor to schedule me for radiation therapy. I was ready to get started right away, but it turned into a case of hurry up and wait. The first step was yet another scan on November 27th. This time it was a CT scan to get a more accurate map of my prostate gland and my pelvic bones. The scan confirmed that my prostate was enlarged (53 cc). It also showed that my pubic arch is high enough to make me a candidate for Brachytherapy. There are two methods for irradiating prostate cancer. IMRT is external and Brachytherapy is internal. IMRT requires 15-minute sessions at the hospital five days a week for six to ten weeks, while Brachytherapy is a one-time outpatient procedure. Brachytherapy involves implanting radioactive seeds within the prostate gland to deliver radiation directly to the cancer cells. A needle is used to place the seeds, and they're inserted through the pelvic opening. Women have a wide pelvis with a high pubic arch to accommodate childbirth. Men have a narrower pelvis and the pubic arch may be too low to allow access for Brachytherapy. For those cases, a full 10 weeks of IMRT is required to deliver the desired radiation dosage. DDr. Taylor used all of my diagnostic data to prepare a customized treatment plan and presented it to the oncology review board the first week of December. I was approved for 6 weeks of IMRT followed by Brachytherapy. The IMRT sessions would treat the cancerous cells in and around my prostate from the outside in. Then the radioactive seeds would finish the treatment from the inside out. For me, the combination of the two therapies would be more effective than either alone. But I still wasn’t quite ready for irradiation. I learned that there’s a less obvious fourth therapy for prostate cancer and I would actually be starting with that one first. It seems that prostate cancer cells feed on testosterone, and they also need it to reproduce and spread. Using an androgen blocker prevents a man’s body from producing that testosterone fuel. That starves the cancer and shrinks the prostate gland. And a smaller prostate enhances the effectiveness of the radiation treatment and reduces the impact on surrounding tissue. So, on December 4th I got my first dose of hormone therapy. It comes with its own set of side effects, similar to menopause, including fatigue, irritability, and hot flashes. There are many supplements advertised on TV for low-T. Well, I’m operating on no-T. It’s frustrating to deal with, but it might save my life. I struggle with my usual yard work and some days I just nap all afternoon. And the hormone therapy also causes smug comments from the women in my life, "Now you know what we go through." The hormone treatment is effective though, my prostate volume shrank by half, to 24 cc, over the next three months. By March of 2025 I was already showing real improvement, even though I still hadn't received any radiation. |
| Part 1 - Diagnosis My blue ribbon story begins with a routine yearly physical in September of 2024. My blood pressure and cholesterol numbers landed in the normal range for a 67 year-old male, but my A1C had risen just high enough to qualify for diabetes. That was a bit disappointing, but not unexpected. My family has a history of type II diabetes and I’ve always had a sweet tooth. My doctor and I agreed that I would modify my diet, get more exercise, and recheck my A1C in six months. A bigger concern was that my PSA had jumped from 4 to 18. I hadn’t experienced any physical symptoms, but an elevated PSA is usually an indication of prostate cancer. My GP told me not to be overly concerned, though. He said that there are other conditions that can cause a high PSA and he ordered another blood draw to confirm the result. The second test came back at 16. Diagnosis confirmed? Not quite. Doctor Chan wasn’t ready to use the C word just yet. “There’s no reason to panic,” he told me. “I sometimes see patients with a PSA in the hundreds. But l do want you to see a urologist and get checked out more thoroughly. Next week.” The urologist’s office confirmed my appointment immediately and the quick response seemed ominous. I’m used to waiting weeks to get a non-emergency appointment at our primary health clinic. But only four days later, I gave up a urine sample to be tested while I was being poked and prodded in the exam room. I faced a battery of questions from the urologist about my personal habits. Questions that no one even wants to hear, let alone answer. But that became a recurring theme over the next weeks and months. The prostate is both a gland and a muscle. It produces part of a man’s seminal fluid and also provides the ‘push’ required for ejaculation. The prostate gland completely surrounds the urethra and sits next to the rectum. Issues with the prostate can affect urination, bowel function, and sexual performance. This guarantees that the health questions required for diagnosis will be intrusive and embarrassing. My urine test at the urologist’s office didn’t reveal anything unusual, but they did find cause for concern during the ‘digital’ exam. There weren't any obvious nodules or masses, but my prostate was noticeably enlarged. “No reason to panic,” Doctor Dai told me. “It may be nothing serious. But l do want you to have an MRI. Next week.” The MRI appointment was confirmed immediately. Again, the urgency seemed ominous, and again, the doctors all said it was premature to use the C word. Nevertheless, my anxiety level ratcheted up. A few days later, I was lying on my back in the claustrophobic tunnel of the MRI machine. I kept my eyes tightly closed, partly because I don’t like tight spaces and partly because I was dreading what they might find. Still, I needed to know if the outlook would be good or bad. And I got bad. The MRI images showed lesions on my prostate gland. The MRI also showed a prostate volume of 63 cc, a significant enlargement over normal. “There’s no cause for panic,” Doctor Dai said. “It probably isn’t serious yet. But we’ll have to do a biopsy to see exactly what we’re dealing with. Let’s schedule it for next week.” Despite all assurances, the trajectory of my diagnosis seemed to be headed downhill. I’d gone from not serious to not serious yet. And the sense of urgency remained. I tried to stay calm and keep a positive attitude for my wife, Debbie, but I had a bad feeling and I did a poor job of concealing my anxiety. The biopsy was performed by Dr. Dai on September 30th, less than three weeks after my GP first noted the elevated PSA level. Prostate biopsy is a relatively minor outpatient procedure, similar to a colonoscopy, with the patient under a light general anesthesia. A hollow needle takes tissue samples from suspicious areas of the prostate as identified by the MRI scan. The doctor is guided by an ultrasound probe and also does a more thorough physical exam of the gland while they’re ‘in the neighborhood’. The side effects are mild, and recovery requires only a few days of restricted physical activity. The emotional impact was far more severe. I didn’t want to think about a negative outcome, but simply having the procedure forced it on me. Debbie and I met with Dr. Dai the following week to discuss the results. This was the meeting where we finally used the dreaded C word. Ten of fourteen cores taken from my prostate were positive for cancer. It had already spread throughout most of my prostate gland. Dr. Dai explained the surgical treatment option, total removal of the prostate and surrounding lymph nodes. She also described the probable side effects of surgery such as incontinence, impotence, and infertility. And my case would be complicated by the presence of a surgical mesh that had been implanted in 2021 to treat an inguinal hernia. There wasn’t any good news. My initial reaction was a panicky impulse to get the tumor cut out immediately, today if possible. I wanted the damned thing gone. But there’s a mandatory six-week recovery period between biopsy and prostate surgery. That meant waiting until mid-November at the earliest. And Dr. Dai recommended that I get a second opinion from a radiation oncologist before making a final decision about treatment. She also scheduled a bone scan to determine whether the cancer had spread beyond my prostate. There weren’t any more comforting assurances, the cancer diagnosis was serious. The only question left was how serious. I spent the next two weeks in tense apprehension before getting back to the hospital for my second another scan. The urgency felt very real now, and time dragged slowly as I waited for the next piece of bad news. In my mind, the bone scan would reveal whether my case was treatable or terminal. I could almost feel those insidious cancer cells breaking away and spreading through my body. What if today is that day? What if next week is too late? A bone scan is done to look for cancer cells that have migrated to other parts of the body. A radioactive marker that binds to cancer cells is injected into the patient’s bloodstream and the scanner creates a full-body image of where the marker accumulates. For some odd reason, cancer cells show up in the bones first, so that’s where the doctors look. If there’s no cancer in the bones, then it hasn’t spread. The marker injection is relatively painless but awkward. It’s done slowly, over the course of a minute or so, and the patient has to stay still. Then there’s a waiting period of two to four hours while the body absorbs the marker. I was told that the amount of radioactivity in the injection is less than what is received during a CT scan, and that no one ever has an allergic reaction to the marker chemical. The only recovery advice is to drink extra fluids to flush the marker from the body. It’s important to look beyond the initial tumor site because metastatic cancer is much more serious. The treatment options are more invasive, the side effects of treatment are worse, and the long-term outcome is less likely to be positive. Thankfully, my bone scan was negative (although it did show significant wear in my arthritic knees). I felt considerable relief at this bit of good news. Maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel. At least, I wouldn’t have to start out with chemotherapy. But I still needed to decide on surgery versus radiation. So, the next step was to schedule an appointment with Dr. Taylor at Evergreen hospital for November 12th. It was at this point that I ‘came out’ to my friends and family. I hadn’t wanted to frighten them until I had a firm diagnosis. Their outpouring of support was encouraging. My daughter Megan immediately brought me a T-shirt emblazoned with a cat giving the double bird and a caption that reads simply Hey, Cancer. Debbie gave me a St. Peregrine medal to wear. He’s the patron saint of cancer patients. I’m not sure if I believe in the intercession of the saints, but I haven’t taken it off either. When I’m feeling down, I can reach up and touch it. It’s comforting to know that Deb is praying for me. My daughter-in-law Mary gave me a ball cap with a row of colored ribbons that represent different types of cancer. It says Cancer Sucks in Every Color. I knew about the pink ribbon for breast cancer, but I had to search online to find out that there are actually many colors for many cancers. My ribbon, for prostate cancer, is light blue.  "The Blue Ribbon (part 2)" |
Winston Churchill said, "History is written by the victors." And he literally did that with his 4-volume book A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. I bought it as a box set years ago, and I still intend to read it – someday. I'll paraphrase Churchill and suggest that personal history is written by the survivors. As writers, we get to choose the stories we tell as well as the way we tell them. Especially family stories that no one else is left to remember or contradict. An old friend from my college days reached out after our usual exchange of Christmas cards. Dave and his wife had visited us ten years ago when he was in the early stages of Parkinsons and they were going to be in our area again this spring. It was good to see them again and we spent a pleasant evening together at a nice restaurant. His symptoms are progressing quickly now, and I'm undergoing radiation treatment for prostate cancer. We commiserated about aging poorly and our diminished expectations. Neither of us has a certain future in front us. Dave was intrigued to learn that I've taken up writing in my forced retirement. He told me that he really enjoyed a short piece I'd sent him, "Xfinity and Beyond" , and paid me the compliment of comparing it to the humorous work of outdoor writer Patrick Mcmanus. I was flattered enough to give Dave a physical copy of my memoirs, Terry Tales . He emailed me this week to say that he was especially touched by the stories about my dad and asked if I'd ever shared them with him.My dad passed away in 2007, so he never saw any of my stories or poems. I would like to have shared them, but I'm not sure that I could have. His last few years were diminished by strokes and diabetes. He could no longer do a full day's work, and he sank into an angry bitterness. One of the many reasons I detest Fox News is that dad wasted his final days watching their news-actors spewing lies and selling hate. He wouldn't even turn it off during our infrequent visits to the ranch. That made me feel resentful and made our visits seem like a chore. It took some time and distance to come to terms with those feelings. I know that bitter old man wasn't really my dad anymore. He may even have been suffering from early symptoms of dementia. So, I choose to remember the good times with my stories and honor the man he was for the first seventy years of his life. Sure, he had his faults, but he worked hard, laughed often, and dealt honestly with his neighbors. That was my dad, and no one is going to contradict me. |
There are many things that used to be considered normal, but would freak people out today. Like kids riding in the back of a pickup truck, smoking in a restaurant, or playing with mercury. I remember that there was a small bottle of mercury on a knickknack shelf at my grandma’s house. It might have been ‘liberated’ in the 1930s by my uncle Bill when he worked in the underground copper mines in Butte, Montana. It might even have been left over from the 1860s when my great-grandpa Albert panned for gold near Virginia City during the Montana gold rush. Mercury can be used to separate gold dust from sand and gravel, and it’s still being used today for gold mining in third world countries. Regardless of its source, the silvery liquid metal on grandma Anna’s shelf was tempting to us kids The thick glass bottle was rectangular rather than round, and it had a wire bail cap with a rubber gasket that kept the mercury safely sealed inside. Its label was long gone so I don’t know if the bottle originally contained liquor, patent medicine, or maybe that was just the way mercury was packaged way back when. The bottle looked old-fashioned to me even in 1967. Liquid mercury is a fascinating thing to a 10-year-old, bright silver and mysteriously viscous as it flows back and forth. Unlike water, its surface tension is so high that it ‘stands up’ as though repelled by the glass wall of the bottle. The most startling thing, though, is its weight. Mercury is 13 times as dense as water. That small bottle contained only eight or ten fluid ounces, but it hefted like a ten-pound sack of sugar. Grandpa Fisher would smile when one of us would fail to pick it up on the first try. A really small kid might have to use both hands. And such a treasure was too difficult to resist, so I took a cue from my uncle and ‘liberated’ a spoonful to show to my fifth-grade friends. Everyone was impressed, as I’d hoped, but my little relish jar wasn’t as secure as the bottle at grandma’s house. The mercury escaped one afternoon as it was being passed around on the school bus. Soon, there were little beads of bright silver rolling up and down the grooves of the rubber mat in the aisle. Every time the bus slowed or went downhill, the beads rolled forward. They’d roll back again with acceleration or an uphill climb. We all giggled hysterically for the rest of our trip home that day. I couldn’t tell the bus driver, of course, and I’ve sometimes wondered if he ever figured out what was going on. Maybe he didn’t even notice, mercury is quite volatile, so it would have evaporated in a day or two. The only lasting evidence was the unseen damage to our bodies from inhaling toxic mercury vapor. Several years later, I learned about the very real danger of mercury fumes when our high school science teacher decided to make a J-tube barometer. He used a Bunsen burner to soften some glass tubing and slowly bent it into a J shape. Then he put a dollop of mercury inside and closed off the short end by melting it with the Bunsen burner. The result was an air bubble trapped in the short side of the J-tube. The mercury level in the long side of the tube changes depending on the outside air pressure. So, the J-tube can be mounted on a piece of poster board with a scale, and the level of the mercury can be used as a barometric pressure gauge. It took Mr. Foulis a number of tries to perfect his technique and he spilled mercury onto the lab bench once or twice when the glass tubing broke. Heat from the Bunsen burner only exacerbated his exposure to the mercury vapor. The cumulative effect of breathing the toxic fumes over a span of several days landed him in the hospital with symptoms similar to pneumonia. The mercury vapor damaged his lungs and he was coughing up bloody mucous. Fortunately, he recovered and returned to school a couple of weeks later with a truly convincing lesson about the dangers of mercury poisoning and the need for lab safety gear. This happened about the same time that mercury contamination in food fish, such as tuna, was in the news. Environmental mercury gets into the ocean from natural sources such as erosion and volcanic activity. Even more comes from coal-fired power plants and illegal gold mining. The mercury builds up in fatty tissue and becomes more concentrated as it rises up the food chain. These were all proven facts, yet I remember a general sense of skepticism about the dangers of mercury poisoning. The toxic effects were already well known, but parents didn’t want to hear that a tasty tuna casserole could be harmful to their children. It was easier to scoff at the biologists and remain blissfully ignorant. But long-term exposure to mercury at low levels can cause brain damage or kidney failure. In the 18th century, mercury was part of the process for making felt hats. Milliners were constantly exposed to traces of mercury in the fabric and their symptoms became the source of the old saying, “Mad as a hatter.” So, it’s definitely better to limit our exposure. Today, my mercury story makes me think of the woke movement. Anti-woke conservatives are quite open about keeping their children ignorant of anything that might embarrass them. They don’t want to acknowledge the ‘bad’ parts of history like slavery and Jim Crow by teaching kids about the civil rights movement. Instead, they want to emphasize glorious accomplishments of white ‘Christian’ males while glossing over the contributions of women and minorities. Presidential mandates have already led to the purging of ‘woke’ stories from government and military websites. The anti-woke movement uses MAGA as a justification for not loving their neighbors. More importantly, buying into MAGA allows them to avoid responsibility for being their brother’s keeper. Willful ignorance means they don’t have to welcome immigrants, act with Christian charity toward others, or even pay taxes. They even think it’s smart to extort money from other countries with tariffs. To some extent I understand the ‘ignorance is bliss’ attitude. I'd certainly feel less guilty about exposing my classmates to mercury if I'd never found out about its toxic effects. On the other hand, if I’d fully understood the danger (woke), I might not have played with it like a shiny toy. And if my grandma had been more aware, that bottle of mercury might not have been left within reach of a curious child. Bigotry, racism, and a sense of cultural entitlement are a bit like mercury poisoning. Sources aren’t always obvious, even low exposure builds up in society, and the long-term effects are severe. Kids aren’t born to hate. It takes bigoted adults to teach them who and how to hate. Sometimes the adults aren’t even aware of what they’re teaching. That’s a real problem. And awareness of a problem is the first step in finding a solution. Ignorance is never an acceptable strategy. I believe woke is the first step in protecting all children from being poisoned by systemic bigotry. And only the woke will be able to feel empathy and find solutions. |
| Reposted from Real Fake News: Trump Bans Number 42 by staff reporter Bob L. Head “Number 42 was the original DEI hire,” smirked President Trump as he signed an executive order directing Major League Baseball to remove all references to Jackie Robinson from their Jackie Robinson Day celebration. "If we're gonna celebrate a number, then let's do 47. Your favorite president is a real winner. That Robinson guy never won an election, and he never drew crowds as big as mine!" “And we're finally going to re-integrate baseball,” the president continued. "It's time that foreign players stopped taking jobs from real Americans. The MLB can stop the DEI hiring policies or I'll do it for them. I'm calling on the Dominicans, Cubans, and especially the Venezuelans to self-deport or face going to prison in El Salvador. And the NFL better pay attention, I'm coming for them next!" |
King Don the Turd claims that America is being cheated by foreign nations, but he's so full of shit that his middle name is John (true story!). The truth is always the exact opposite of what Trump claims. The U.S. standard of living is actually the highest in the world. American obesity is epidemic, and the fitness industry brings in $40 billion a year. Middle-class American families have two cars, and most people drive to work. In Europe, a middle-class family might have one car, and most people go to work by bus, bicycle, or on foot. Gasoline in almost all other countries costs 1 1/2 to 2 times what Americans pay. Foreign visitors are always shocked by America's huge supermarkets overflowing with low-priced food products. Housing in the U.S. is also more affordable. Other countries have mortgage terms of 50 years or more. The only way a family can purchase a home is for the children to inherit their parent's loan. And amid all this plenty, the U.S. ranks only 45th in taxes paid by the average citizen. How can the U.S. enjoy so much and pay so little? It's all based on debt and deficit spending. That is simply a fact. The U.S. national debt was approximately $6 trillion in 2001, when George W. Bush took office. It was the last time that the U.S. government achieved a balanced budget. By the end of 2024, the debt grew to almost $36 trillion. The math isn't difficult (unless you're in the Trump cabinet). America has spent $30 trillion of other people's money since 2001. If any nation is being cheated, it certainly isn't America. Bill Clinton's budget surplus was due to taxes that he pushed through in his first year in office (although his budgets also contained some spending cuts). The Clinton tax increase was directed at upper-income taxpayers. Republicans falsely claimed it was the largest tax increase in history, and they portrayed it as a horrible burden for the middle class. The smear tactic worked well enough that Dubya was able to steal the 2000 election and begin the process of looting the U.S. economy on behalf of a wealthy elite. Whatever happened to the old-fashioned idea of paying your own way? Americans hold some of the national debt (I have some savings bonds myself), and half of it is made up of accounting tricks where the government borrows money from itself, but almost 25% is held by foreign countries. And the biggest incentive for foreigners to invest in the United States is stability. Wealthy elites from around the world park their money in American investments because they feel safe. But now we have a freakin' moron in charge who boasts, "I love chaos." He's determined to extort even more money from people who are already financing America's spending addiction (Make America Grift Again). And a very plausible response to this insane trade war is to halt investment in the U.S. economy. If the value of the dollar falls, then foreign investors could sell their holdings or even call in their loans. The result would be a downward spiral for the U.S. dollar that might last for years. This would make the government debt that Americans hold worth far less than they invested. The Trump administration might even choose to default on U.S. bonds. What a rosy prospect! And even if the tariffs did force manufacturing back to the U.S, prices would be permanently higher. Lower cost is why the Republicans moved their businesses to Asia in the first place. Many Asian workers get a daily wage comparable to an American's hourly wage. Are you patriotic enough to take a 50% pay cut to prop up the economy? How would you support your current spending habits if you did? The process of moving industry takes years. Wages would be lost entirely in the interim and sales of almost everything would suffer. So, what do we call it when the economy shrinks, the dollar goes down and prices go up? That's right, inflation. Fueled by the bilious gases that emanate from the biggest horse's ass in history. Perhaps that's why he calls himself a stable genius. |
Extortion is far more profitable than business, and it's less work too! - The Gospel of Trump There have been multiple reports of law firms caving in to demands from the Trump administration. Some have promised him free legal services, some have donated to his personal political action committee, and all of them have promised to support his white supremacy agenda. The Trump goons prefer to call it 'anti-diversity' but we all know what they mean (and it is mean). Why this sudden burst of craven cowardice? The president has issued a formal memo to the Justice Department and Homeland Security that directs them to open an investigation into any law firm who brings a civil case against the Trump administration. What might best describe this tactic? To borrow a term from the president himself, this is weaponization of the Justice Department for his own personal benefit. But that's only one example of blatant corruption in the White House. The Trump criminal organization has also begun selling presidential pardons. Last Friday, Trump signed a pardon for Trevor Milton, founder of an electric vehicle company named Nikola. Milton defrauded investors by showing them a faked video of a Nikola truck. He claimed that the video showed a prototype vehicle in operation when it was actually just coasting downhill. And closer inspection revealed that it was really a GM product disguised with Nikola badging. The video evidence made the case an easy win for the prosecution. Milton was found guilty of fraud and sentenced to four years in prison. Why would Trump pardon such an obvious con man? Well, Milton is on record as being a staunch Trump supporter and, more importantly, he recently donated $1.8 million to Trump's personal PAC. I don't know if that's a bribe, a quid pro quo, or just a favor. Those terms all seem to be interchangeable in Washington D.C. these days. At any rate, when asked about giving the pardon, Trump said that he didn't actually know the man or the details of the case. He merely 'heard good things about him' from 'a lot of people'. The president also tossed out a conjecture that Milton was prosecuted only because he's a Trump supporter. Why would malicious prosecution spring to mind? I suppose it's kind of like using the Justice Department to prosecute a law firm just because they represent someone who isn't a Trump supporter. You might also wonder how Trevor Milton gained access to make such a deal. It turns out that he hired Brad Bondi to plead his case. Does that name sound familiar? Yep, Brad is Attorney General Pam Bondi's brother. And he's getting a nice fat fee for using his sister's position in the Trump administration to further the interests of his client. Hmm, isn't that pretty much what Hunter Biden was accused of? Of course, there wasn't ever any real evidence against Hunter Biden. Maybe that was also malicious prosecution, because he wasn't a Trump supporter. Maybe he should have been more open about soliciting bribes. And more forthcoming about giving the Don a taste. |
Occasionally, this topic is suggested in the WDC newsfeed: Name something that you're simply happy with... For me, that would be my 2008 Mazda Miata convertible. I started looking for a convertible in 2010, after driving a 'pop-top' Honda Del Sol for a couple of years. That car had been gifted to me by my older sister. It felt a little tired at 180,000 miles, but I enjoyed the (almost) open-air experience with the top removed. And the engine was still running well, so I regifted the Del Sol to my daughter and told my wife that I needed a real convertible for myself (Liz drove the Del Sol another 30K miles). There were a number of desirable cars available at the time, even after I disqualified the four-door models as too big and the Lotus Elise as too exotic (but super cool). I considered the Saturn Sky, Toyota MR2, Honda S2000, BMW M3, even the FIAT Spider. They were all attractive cars with the top down, but less so with the ragtop up. I decided that I wanted a power retractable hardtop. That left only the Mazda Miata in my price range. But that was okay, because Mazda builds reliable cars that get good gas mileage. The Miata may be a bit short on horsepower, but it provides a ton of fun. And a Miata with the hardtop up is almost as pretty as it is with the hardtop down. I got lucky in 2011 when a low-mileage Miata PRHT model showed up at a nearby Toyota dealership. The paint is Stormy Blue Mica, and it has the upgraded suspension package with 17-inch wheels, Bilstein shocks, and a limited slip rear differential. In other words, Zoom-Zoom! The Toyota salesman told me it was a trade-in from a guy who married a woman with 2 kids and needed the interior space of a RAV4. The salesman was also motivated by the cold February rain to move that convertible quickly. So, I got exactly the car I wanted, with only 4300 miles on it, for $10,000 dollars less than new. And I've been simply happy with it for the last fourteen years. Something I haven’t been happy with is an arthritic left knee. The reason I finally gave up my motorcycle and bought the Miata is that my knee no longer felt solid enough to handle riding. And it’s only gotten worse over the years. I've seen doctors, I've used lots of aspirin and, recently, I've begun to contemplate a knee replacement. So, a couple of weeks ago I saw an orthopedist to discuss the alternatives. He insisted on a new series of X-rays and determined that I have advanced arthritis. Well, duh. Then he drained 30cc of fluid from the knee and gave me a cortisone shot. He told me I could proceed with a knee replacement whenever I was ready, but the cortisone might allow me to postpone an operation for another year or two. I can hardly believe how well it worked! Why didn't I try that years ago? I started walking normally again immediately. The sun was shining brightly as I left the clinic, and so was my attitude. I felt like a kid with a new toy. I felt so good that I got a bit overexuberant on the drive home. I love cranking up the tunes and going through the gears in my Miata. I like going fast, but I admit that I'm slightly less skilled than the average grand prix driver. I missed a shift and hit the gas in fifth when I meant to be in third. The RPMs went zoom, but the car did not. Uh, oh, what's that acrid burning smell? Yep, I fried the clutch. The car still drove okay (as long as I didn't accelerate too hard), but like my arthritic knee, I knew it would only get worse with time. And unlike the knee, there's no quick fix to make the clutch feel better. So, I took the Miata in for a new clutch. Things had changed since my last service appointment. They have this new-fangled thing called the internet now. The Mazda shop sent me a link to a video of the mechanic going over my car. The first thing he said when opening the hood was that it smelled like burnt clutch. Not a surprise. Then he looked at the fluids. The engine oil was okay by mileage but overdue by the calendar. The differential, transmission, power steering, and brake fluid had all been changed at the 40,000-mile service, but that was eleven years ago. So, I told the shop to bring all the scheduled maintenance up to date while they were at it. I haven’t put a lot of miles on the Miata since my retirement in 2016, but time marches on. The mechanic looked at my tires and pronounced them expired. How could that be? They had less than 20,000 miles on them since, uh, 2014. I’d never heard the term expired used for tires before, but he pointed out several places where the twelve-year old tread was starting to chunk off little bits of rubber. Adding four new tires to the bill made a total of ouch! But I love that car, and the new clutch feels even better than my lubricated knee. So, even after the big bill, if you ask me to name something that I'm simply happy with . . . It would still be my 2008 Mazda Miata convertible. Zoom-Zoom! |
There may be political ideas worth dying for, but there none that are worth killing for. This week, Donald Trump expanded his campaign for world dominance by ordering the murder of dozens of Houthi rebels. Do you know who the Houthis are? Where they live? What they're rebelling against? Or why the U.S. military conducted an air strike against them? Neither do I, but we're in good company. No one at the White House knows either. The Houthis are generally anti-American, but they didn't commit any specific offense to trigger the strike. They're an irritant to the Yemeni government, but they don't present much of a threat to the U.S. So, what's the deal? Well, their dead are intended partly to serve as an object lesson for Iran. We know this because subtlety is not Donald Trump's strong suit. He publicly boasted that killing Houthi rebels was a 'signal' to the Iranian government. Some signal. It takes a truly evil person to abuse their official power to the extent of murder. But the killings weren't really about Iran either, they were primarily an ego boost for Donald J. Trump. Imagine how powerful that nasty old man feels to wield the Godlike power of death. I'll bet it really stiffens his little mushroom. Everyone will have to take him seriously if he kills a bunch of people, right? Adolph Hitler and Mao Zedong aren't mocked as pathetic losers. And the American news media will surely get the message and start giving him positive news coverage. Or else a lot more people might have to be killed. I mean look what happened to the Houthis. But being Trump means never doing the right things and never doing things right. Acting president Musk took the shine off Donald's triumph by pointing out that it's the unelected bureaucrats (like himself and Pete Hegseth) who do the actual killing. Despite pulling the strings, Donald Trump remains a pathetic loser. Just a figurehead to be exploited by those who wield the real power. |
Earning My Derision (to the tune of Losing My Religion by R.E.M.) Your lies are bigger They're bigger than you And you are not nice The lengths that you will go to The disdain in your eyes Oh, please, don't say that stuff You're fucking up That's you at the rally That's you in the spotlight Sowing your dissension I try to withstand your lies And I don't know if I can do it Oh, no, you've said too much You never could shut up I can always hear you sneering Your insults are meant to sting You always play the bully Every moment Of every waking hour You choose to drag me down I try to find some good in you Like a hurt, lost and blinded MAGA fool Oh, no, I've lost too much I've been set up Consider this Consider this, the hint of the century Consider this, your whip That brought me to my knees, failed What if all your fantasies come Flailing down Oh, yes, you're fucking up I can always hear you sneering Your insults are meant to sting You always play the bully And I can only scream All I have are screams That's you at the rally That's you in the spotlight Earning my derision I try to withstand your lies And I don't know if I can do it Oh, no, you've said too much You never could shut up I can always hear you sneering Your insults are meant to sting You always play the bully And the pain won't go away Try, cry, why try? That’s my nightmare scream Just a scream Just a scream, scream |
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