“Congress shall be afforded the opportunity to ban family separation by anyone who cannot spell it.”
Author Archives: Scott Bowles
The Forever Minute
“For god is but Dog with dyslexia.” — Ssad Mar
Esme and I are prone to rituals, particularly around dinner.
Every day about 5:30 p.m., I prepare my evening meds. Every day about 5:30 p.m., Esme watches, waiting for me to prepare her dinner.
Girl is serious about her kibble. When Teddy was the only pup in Dogtown, I could leave food heaped in a bowl. He would eat what he wanted, when he wanted, and somehow never gained a pound. Leather wallets must increase metabolism rates, because he ate a few of those, too.
But when Esme entered the scene, Teddy quickly learned that if he didn’t eat his entire dinner when it was served, his entire dinner would be eaten for him. She’s as smart as a whip, but Esme clearly believes haste makes taste: She resembles a penguin who eats her emotions.
Until she finishes her meal and get outside, where she turns into a greyhound racer for another routine, when we say good night to the day.
It goes something like this: I chuck one of her tennis balls on the roof, waiting for it to roll down shingles, clatter over the aluminum patio awning and bounce to a near-perfect height for Esme leap and fetch. We’ll do that, literally, until Esme runs out of energy and retires indoors (with the ball; I guess she presumes me too stupid to know she wants to stop otherwise).
Last week, we were in the middle of the day’s farewell routine. Roll, clatter, bounce. Roll, clatter, bounce.
Perhaps it was the California-coated dusk. Perhaps it was the song playing (“Bittersweet Symphony”). Perhaps it was the sugar high. Whatever the reason, I was so overcome by this sentiment I said it aloud:
“I wish this moment would never end.”
How often, I thought, do I say that? Not enough, that’s for sure. How often do any of us say it enough?
I don’t mean during a trip to Disneyland. Or down the aisle. Or toward the acquisition of something treasured.
I mean in the middle of the dishes. I mean during the morning commute. I mean waiting for the microwave popcorn.
Why does it take something blatantly memorable to be remembered? And even then, it is almost always in retrospect. How often have we told ourselves, ‘Man, I wish I could have that time back. If I realized how special it was, I would have enjoyed it more.’
Great news: Now is special. And it’s just waiting for someone to enjoy the fuck out of it.
Think of that minute just before dinner, perhaps mankind’s favorite moment on the spectrum of human pleasure. It is already a bounty. You may not even be hungry. You may not care for the food you’re eating — yet again. You may have a ton of errands awaiting you after the last swallow.
Even more reason to recognize the beauty of humdrum. Instead of saying grace to some invisible superhero that chose to feed you and starve others, why not collectively wish that everyday moment would never end? Mundane, yes. Dull, you bet. Repetitive, no doubt. But a day will come, sure as sunrise, that we see the beauty of banality. That the absence of hell is, to some measure, heavenly.
Roll, clatter, bounce. Roll, clatter, bounce.
Donnie, Go Put Your Name on the Yes Board
My mother, a first-grade teacher her entire career, implemented the greatest inspiration/discouragement tool I’ve ever seen in education: The Yes and No Board.
It was a simple chalkboard, divided in two, with the words YES on one side, NO on the other. If a child was especially good, the youngster got his or her name emblazoned under YES. Miscreants and the mischievous went under NO.
The board was clever enough, but here was the coup de grace: Mom had the children write their own names on the board, an act of public pride or penance. Either way, it was effective: Children beamed like stars to write their name on the YES board, wept like widows at the other fate (though they always had a chance to redeem themselves with good behavior and an eraser).
Washington needs a YES and NO board.
God knows I would have Trump get as used to the NO board as Bart Simpson. From his ever-growing flock to his ever-growing need for one, Trump’s deification in the Republican base has put his ego on steroids. And his love of despots may become our fate of living under one.
But homie deserves to write his name on the YES board for his meeting with North Korean leader Kim Jong Un this week.
I say this grudgingly. I say this with the taste of crow on my breath. I was prepared for him to tweet the nuclear code after the meeting.
Instead, we got a hugfest. A disingenuous, duplicitous globular hugfest among egomaniacs. But would we have wanted any other message coming from the confab? Perhaps them angry waddling away from each other? Trading translated barbs?
But it’s inescapable, the reticence of CNN and MSNBC to give the president credit for the meeting. And they do raise valid points: Kim played Trump like a fiddle, earning praise from the leader of the free world. The de-nuclearization process takes a decade at minimum. The letter Kim and Trump penned was, at best, vaguely optimistic. Trump’s decision to end war games in South Korea was capricious at best, an outright lie at worst.
All of which might be true. To which I say: Who cares? Who gives a shit if a nation the size of Pennsylvania wants to parade Kim’s photos with world leaders, establishing him as a peer? Who cares if the letter wasn’t specific? Did we really expect either of those pudgy lunatics to emerge with a well thought-out plan of disarmament?
The problem appears two-fold: The major outlets’ reluctance to praise anything Trumpian, lest they invoke a boycott or, worse, a decline in ratings; and a misread of the Singapore sit-down altogether.
The first is understandable. Trump invites skepticism in anything he says or does, largely because he says or does nothing. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me 17 straight months and, well, I’ve got that coming.
It’s the second media complaint that confuses me. We keep casting Kim as a dictator of a hermit nation, which would be impossible to deny. But I was a cop reporter for 15 years, and I know a hostage stand-off when I see one. And this was a hostage stand-off.
In this case, the hostages were 60 short-, medium- and long-range missiles, including those of the inter ballistic persuasion. What is Trump going to come out and say? “Dumbo’s gotta get rid of em?” Have you ever seen a cop, trying to negotiate the release of hostages, go on the local TV news and say “That guy is a real nut job. I sure hope he doesn’t kill everybody.” You say what needs to be said til nutso puts down the gun. Isn’t that the hope for both men?
Perhaps Kim will pick it up again and fire away. Perhaps de-arming never happens. Perhaps this was all just a ruse to hack Trump’s iPhone after he left it in the toilet, which he surely did at least once.
But again, who cares? So far, there are no bodies. In any hostage stand-off, you want a lack of corpses, a dearth of gunfire and both sides talking and smiling, even if it cloaks consternation. What’s the alternative?
