American Politics and British Television

This week has conspired against blog writing with its combination of spring snow, early morning business appointments and whatnot. Consequently, several things have happened out there which have escaped comment, and since I know that many of you can’t possibly go a minute longer without my insightful analysis...

With last night’s eleventh hour passage of a 2,200 page, 1.3 Trillion dollar spending bill, both Republicans and Democrats owe every drunken sailor who has ever lived an apology. In Trumpworld, we are once again treated to the spectacle of an upside down universe in which despite having control of not only the White House, but both houses of Congress, the Republican Party manages to pass a budget which only Democrats are happy with. Winning.....

Apparently, we are entering the Porn Star period of the Trump Presidency, whereby with each passing day a new one pops up on CNN describing her dalliance with the Donald. Trump haters are appalled, Trump fanboys scream Fake News! The rest of us fall into the exhausted/overwhelmed camp. I take it all in and try to imagine what possible deviance a future Democrat President might be guilty of which would justify outrage from this batch of current Trump apologists. It occurs to me that, thanks to the Donald, the field has been permanently cleared for any and all future presidents who might have thought themselves disqualified for that office because of youthful indiscretions like, oh, I don’t know...rape, drug addiction, child molestation, serial infidelities, multiple bankruptcies, high treason. The Trump standard has ripped to shreds the old fear of skeletons in the closet being a candidacy killer. From now on, serial adulterers, multiple romps with porn stars, and multiple divorces will no longer prohibit someone from seeking and winning the Presidency. I will leave it to the reader to determine whether or not this constitutes progress.

Recently, Pam and I finished watching two more British dramas on Netflix...Shetland and Happy Valley. Every time we watch one of these shows I am overcome with with an inferiority complex. It’s been going on for years now. From Downton Abbey to Foyle’s War, from Broadchurch to Doc Martin, I watch British television and am forced to confront the awful truth that American television is mostly...trash. Sure, there are shining exceptions, but by and large, practically anything from the United Kingdom is superior to American programming. Pam made the observation that British actors universally give off the impression that they aren’t acting at all. In addition, British actors, both men and women look like ordinary people, that is...they are plain looking. The woman aren’t all size twos with fake boobs and slathered in make up. The men aren’t chiseled hunks with perfect skin. They look like people you would run in to at the grocery store. So, do yourselves a favor and turn off reality television and watch something...anything from the BBC. You’ll thank me later. HINT: you may have to turn on the English subtitles thing, since although English is in fact spoken in Shetland, the Scottish accents are so thick and so beguilingly delightful, many scenes must be watched a second time to figure out what the heck they were talking about!

Almost done with the Bible Reading project for 2018. Just six more days to go, and I haven’t missed a one. It might be the most spiritually significant thing I’ve done in my entire adult life. It has been at once challenging, exciting, confusing, thought provoking, comforting, disorienting, and life changing. When I’m done, I am going to miss what has become my 6:00 am ritual. 

The Future of Donald Trump

Inspired by the stunning prescience of my college basketball bracket, which accurately predicted a whopping six of the Sweet Sixteen, it is obviously time for me to strike while the iron is hot and offer all of you my hottest political predictions.

Ever since Donald Trump appeared on the scene of American politics, conventional wisdom has been vanquished to the dust bin of history. Suddenly, romps with porn stars are no longer fatal for Presidents. Amazingly, the most prolific, imaginative, and accomplished liar ever to occupy the Oval Office has become the darling of Evangelicals. In his service, several prominent Republicans have suddenly become fans of tariffs, and silent about the formerly twin evils of debts and deficits. Underestimating the appeal and resilience of Donald Trump has become the full time job of practically every nationally prominent Democrat, along with most everybody else. So, what I’m about to say needs to come with a bright red warning label, at least a dozen asterisks, and more caveats than Stormy Daniels’ non-disclosure agreement. But, here goes...

Donald Trump will not survive his term. He will either resign or be impeached.

The whole concept of objective truth has been taking a beating, especially in academia, for decades now, but nothing that has happened in the ivory towers of the Humanities has prepared us for the complete collapse of truth which has occurred since Donald Trump assumed office. In the past, even lying politicians at least claimed some slim devotion to truth-telling, or at least to the concept of truth as a desirable goal, a laudable moral imperative. With this guy, literally all bets are off. The truth is whatever he says it is on Twitter...right up to the second that it no longer serves his purposes. Is Trump the first President to have an uneasy relationship with the truth? Heavens no! But previous liars at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue were rank amateurs compared to the Trumpster.

One could safely argue that, so far, his Olympian level disingenuousness has served him very well in his 70 plus years on this Earth, indeed, it helped land him in his current job. But, is there a limit? Is there a Rubicon of deceit out there that even Donald Trump can’t cross? Is there a straw that eventually breaks the camel’s back? In other words, will this interminable Mueller investigation ever end and when it does will there be enough evidence to bring down a sitting President? Short of that, will Trump have the nerve to fire him and risk the impeachment vote that would surely follow? If the answer to any of these questions is to be yes, a catalyst will be required. I think I know what that catalyst will be...

The American Democratic Party is one of the biggest collections of like minded idiots known to exist anywhere in the free world. This, after all, is the party which couldn’t defeat a realty TV star. But, I believe that this party is about to become the beneficiary of an epic landslide of support in the upcoming midterms. They will win back control of the House and perhaps even the Senate. The coming repudiation of the Republican Party will be as unprecedented as it will be deserved, for never in my lifetime has a political party so recklessly abandoned its core principles on the alter of expediency as has the modern GOP. The first order of business of the newly elected Democratic majority and its Speaker—if Ms. Pelosi can string together enough coherent sentences to make it so— will be the formation of a committee to draw up articles of impreachment, ending the Presidency of Donald Trump and making Mike Pence the 46th President of the United States.

Of course, maybe none of this happens. Maybe Mueller’s got nothing, maybe his final report will prove that his endless fishing expedition was a colossal waste of time and money. Maybe the Democrats will somehow manage to squander the historic opportunity in front of them by nominating a parade of undocumented, transgendered alien socialists as their candidates. Maybe Trump will manage to broker peace on the Korean Peninsula on the eve of the election and then go on to not only complete his current term, but also win a second. But, I’m sticking to my guns. I am clinging to the quaint notion that eventually...your sins will find you out. So, once again...Donald Trump will not survive his term.

If I'm wrong, I'm sure many of you will take great delight in reminding me at every opportunity. But, if I'm right...can we all just forget about my 2018 bracket?

A Snowflake On My Weather App...

Would someone please explain to me why there is a snowflake on my weather app? The Wednesday in question here is March the 21st....as in the Wednesday after St. Patrick’s Day, as in less than two weeks before my birthday...that Wednesday.

Spare me the lectures about how complaining about the weather is stupid and how by the end of June I’ll be complaining about how hot it is. I don’t want to hear any sanctimonious blather about how we should be living in the moment and demonstrate gratitude for each day as a gift from God. Although these sentiments might be true, it doesn’t change the fact that there is a snowflake on my weather app for March the 21st. 

Listen, I don’t live in Maine. If I did and I woke up on March the 21st and it was snowing and seven degrees outside I would shrug it off and figure that’s what I get for living in Maine anytime other than summer. No, I live in Virginia, land of all things in moderation. We have winter, sure. Matter of fact we actually have all four distinct seasons here, unlike Southern California which is always lovely and pleasant, or Maine where there’s three months of summer two months of mud and seven months of winter. Here in the Commonwealth, we pride ourselves on a moderate winter, delightful fall foliage, a brief but pollen-caked spring, and a hot and humid summer. Sure, every now and then we get a freak snow storm in March, but it’s usually in the first week or so of the month, in the single digit days. But, the 21st ?? This is an unacceptable outrage. First, UVA gets humiliated by a 16 seed in the tournament, and now there’s a snowflake on my weather app. I smell the wrath of God...

Baby Shower #2

Baby shower number two is upon us here at the Dunnevant house. The place looks immaculate, pastel colors everywhere. By noon, eleven ladies will sit at this table for a sumptuous lunch....

...which, sadly, will not be serving beef jerky, nachos or hot dogs. By the time lunch is served, I will be long gone, banished from the premises by the hostess, for good reason. My presence would be risky since, while I might be helpful in a pinch, the chance that I might say or do something embarrassing far outweigh any help I might be able to offer. So, my dismissal is just one more example of my wife’s excellent strategic planning skills.

The guest of honor will be the former Jessica Stroup, now Jessica Rodriguez. This will be her first child. When she and her husband arrived here Thursday evening, the sight of her...pregnant... placed a surprising lump in my throat. This young woman has been a staple in the Dunnevant house for over 25 years. We met her and her parents serendipitously at a nursery school open house when she was probably 4 or 5 years old, discovered that they lived just down the street from us, and soon a lifelong friendship was born between her and my daughter, her and my son, and her family and ours. 25 years later, after a hundred sleepovers, a thousand meals together, a couple dozen concerts, road trips, vacations and assorted adventures great and small, this little blond girl walks into my house...adorably pregnant. Where did the years go?

When you become lifelong friends with an entire family, you literally help raise their kids just as they help raise yours. This is one of the great benefits of living your life in one community instead of adopting the life of the nomad, chasing new jobs and new opportunities every which way the wind blows. When you put down roots, it allows for the development of deep bonds between families. When there are other adults who you know and can trust with your kids, it makes it easier to be a better parent yourself. There are a small group of other kids who start to feel like your own. You become protective of them, start to love them...as if they were your own. Even after they grow up and move away and become fully functioning adults, get married, and start having their own kids, and even after months and even years go by when you don’t see them, all they have to do is show up at your house for a baby shower...and it all comes rushing back. It’s really a quite beautiful thing.

Pam’s World

If the month of March were a baseball game, it’s boxscore would be a hot mess, even though we’re only in the 5th inning. Since I now live in a country that with each passing day becomes more baseball-illiterate, this metaphor probably makes no sense to most of you. But, since this is my blog, I’ll use baseball metaphors whenever I want. If you’re confused...read a book. 

Anyway, yeah...March is like one of those crazy games where the pitchers are getting shelled, there are lots of errors and pitching changes, walks and homeruns, double switches, a rain delay and even a bench clearing brawl. And through it all, my wife is serving as umpire, manager of both teams, public address announcer and the foreman of the grounds crew. Watching her juggle it all has been like reading Donald Trump’s Twitter feed...it’s right there in front of you, but you just can’t freaking believe it!

Over the past thirteen days she has had her identity stolen, scrambled together one baby shower and is now working on a second. Her Mom has had carpal tunnel surgery, and this morning her sister goes in for abdominal surgery. In the meantime, she has been in the process of redecorating the house in preparation for shower #2...(out with the winter decor, in with spring which required a trip to Hobby Lobby)...while trying to figure out a way to make something Irish for our small group meeting tomorrow night, which happened to coincide with the arrival of a couple of out of town guests. Two batches of homemade designer cupcakes have been baked and decorated, new table linens ordered, the guest half of our upstairs, (fondly designated The Dunnevant Inn), cleaned and buffed. Since she has a day job teaching under performing elementary school children who struggle with math and reading, all of these activities have been done after work. 

Of course, since this is my wife I’m talking about, she has done all of these things while simultaneously struggling with the twin burdens of inadequacy and guilt...as a daughter, sister, teacher, friend, party planner, hostess and wife. Knowing her, she’s probably also beating herself up over her pet owner skills as well since she’s not had a spare second to pet Lucy! 

When it gets like this around here, I try my best to help out and sometimes I even succeed. My area of expertise is purely incidental, since I possess no actionable skills that can be brought to bear on the tasks at hand. I can’t cook, I know nothing about party planning. Some of the things I can actually do, she is hesitant to entrust to my care. My wife isn’t a very good designator. There’s the way I do things, and then there’s the right way to do things...and seldom are they the same. But, I bankroll it all, so that counts for something, right?

I watch her juggling all of these chainsaws and I marvel at her skill and tenacity. No matter how daunting the task, at the end of the day everything gets done, but not in a helter skelter, slip shod fashion, but with beauty and grace and a level of loveliness that is sometimes hard to believe. After this coming weekend, her calendar clears up. Nothing huge will be happening for a few weeks. She will be able to relax a little, return to a less tumultuous life. I say this...but just her luck the game will go into extra innings!!

The Fourth Floor at St. Mary’s

My friend was released from the hospital yesterday, three weeks after being admitted at death’s door. What an incredible story she has to tell. The fourth floor at St. Mary’s hospital is where many such stories start. When I arrived three weeks ago to sit with the family as they waited, it was my first trip back there in fifteen years. Back then, it was my anxious family waiting, wondering and filled with fear. 

I had just turned 45 and along with the arrival of my birthday, a nagging cough. For several weeks it got steadily worse, until finally I couldn’t sleep. Although, I wanted to wait until the following Monday to make another trip to the doctor, it was Pam who had insisted that I go to the emergency room on a Saturday. It had been that insistence that essentially saved my life. Once admitted, it was discovered that my nagging cough was being caused by a defective mitral valve which had been coming apart for several weeks. Blood was pooling around my heart whenever I laid down...congestive heart failure. 24 hours after being admitted, a surgeon with the bedside manner of an orangutan, was performing open heart surgery.

The details don’t matter, and I would rather not get into them anyway. Suffice it to say that it was a staggering event that had life changing consequences for me. But, as my friend returns home, I’m remembering things that I’d forgotten about when I came home after just a week at St. Mary’s. The primary emotion was a profound disorientation. What the heck had just happened to me? It’s like all of a sudden I had forgotten how normal was supposed to feel. I was grateful to be alive but not quite sure what this new life was going to be like. I felt damaged, the ugly 8 inch scar down my chest the physical manifestation of that damage. My emotions were all over the map. Poor Pam had never, ever seen me cry in our 20 years together, and now suddenly I was a water works. I remember wanting to see people...right up to the minute they arrived, then I counted the minutes until they left. It was such an odd feeling, having visitors. These were people who I loved and who loved me...but I remember feeling strangely embarrassed, wondering how people were seeing me. Did they think I was damaged? 

Then there were the kids from church. Back then I was a teacher of high school students in a very large and active youth group at Grove Avenue Baptist. Ordinarily, our house was full of such kids on the weekends. Now, Pam struggled to manage their visits. I’m told that many of them tried to visit me when I was still in the hospital but Pam had thought that unworkable and unwise. So instead, and I can’t remember if it was her suggestion or one of the kids, someone provided them with a piece of poster board which they all signed with their well wishes. Every time I looked at it, I would get choked up. Finally, I rolled it up and stuck it in my closet. Too many memories. 

But, watching my friend go though a far worse ordeal over these last three weeks, many of those memories have come roaring back. Although she possesses a far greater faith than me, I’m sure that she will experience some of the same disorientation, the same wide ranging emotional swings, the same mental exhaustion.

So, I couldn’t help myself. I found one of the two posters. It feels like a million years ago...

The other one had a big thing in the middle of it that said Braveheart. I remember feeling everything but brave. Terrified? Confused? Rattled? Yes. Brave?? Not a chance. My friend is brave. And everyone who prayed so fervently for her survival must continue praying for her complete recovery.

A Horrible Discovery

I glanced at my calendar today and discovered something truly horrible. Actually, I discovered two bad things, which combined equal one horrible thing. So far 2018 has been a year to forget, filled with one calamity after another, and now...this....April Fools Day falls on a Sunday....not just any old Sunday, but Easter Sunday!!

Words cannot possibly express the depths of my disappointment. The first day of April has provided me with a lifetime of unending thrills. I have pulled off so many epic gags on this glorious day, it is impossible to count them all. My performances throughout the years on this day have made me a first ballot practical joke Hall of Famer. But as bad as this news is for me, it will be a day of great rejoicing for everyone at my office, who no doubt will view this tragic quirk of the calendar as some sort of year of jubilee thing. But, I should have known this would happen in 2018. I mean, everything else has gone wrong...why not?

Some might ask, why does the fact that April Fools Day is on Easter Sunday mean that the day is ruined? See, that’s the sort of rookie question I would expect from people who just don’t understand the significance of April Fools. 

Listen, it would be hard to explain to a coworker how you managed to take apart the headset of their phone to jam a clove of garlic down in the mouthpiece...on the day that our Lord and Savior rose from the dead. Filling several strategically important cabinets with 500 orange ping pong balls, then making sure that it’s Lynwood Atkinson that opens the cabinet first is a great gag...but might seem considerably less funny when it’s discovered that I did all this booby trapping on the same day that our redeemer was crucified. Installing a scramble program that disables the keyboard of someone’s computer might produce a profane outburst which would seem especially egregious the very day after the resurrection. 

So, this year there will be no Vaselined doorknobs, no cling-wrapped toilet seats, no phones hidden above the ceiling tiles. No buckets of ping pong balls will be hanging precariously by a fishing line above anyone’s office door. No one’s family pictures will be hanging from the ceiling by duct tape. There will be no fake summons, no phony arrest warrants, no inflated telephone bills, open cans of sardine cat food will not be hidden beneath anyone’s car seat. All because the Stone was rolled away.

Two days later, I’ll turn 60. 

I’m telling you...2018 stinks.