Hong Kong v. Chinese Communism

In case you haven’t noticed, Hong Kong is a hot mess. When the British handed the city back over to the Chinese Communists in 1997, it was only a matter of time before the free people of Hong Kong would collide with the authoritarian government on the mainland. The first protests came in 2003, then another wave in 2014. Now, with this extradition bill gambit by the Communists in Beijing, the citizens of this vibrant and democratic city have apparently found the straw sent to break their backs. As of this morning, thousands of protesters are still occupying the second busiest air port in the world, and the patience of the autocrats in power seems near its end.

When President Obama failed to wholeheartedly come out in rapturous support of the Arab Spring back in 2011, he was widely criticized for his inadequate response. I defended him at the time. Now, Trump is being criticized for his tepid support for the protesters, accused of being more concerned with getting a trade deal with the Chi-Coms than defending freedom and democracy. Now, I write in his defense. Actually, it’s his job to get a trade deal with the Chinese. It’s not his job to defend democracy around the world.

Sure, if I had to pick a side here, I’m all in on the protesters. In a perfect world we would throw everything, including the kitchen sink, at the Chinese government. Who wouldn’t prefer the triumph of free people over tyranny? But, we do not live in a perfect world. We live in a world of interconnected trade, and interconnected interests. Our desired response is limited by our inability to project power at will and without consequence. For those asking for more from Trump, a more forceful defense of freedom and democracy, let me paint you a picture.

If these protests continue much longer, and I find no evidence that they won’t, the thugs in Beijing will revert to what they know best. Does anyone remember Tiananmen Square? Yes, at some point very soon, the Chi-Coms will send in the heat. When they do, and there are tanks and armored personnel carriers rumbling through the streets, how are we exactly supposed to support democracy then? Send in the First Armored Division? Launch WWIII over Hong Kong democracy, defending one of the most opulent cities in the world? As much as I loathe the Chinese Communists...this is their problem. How many times in the past fifty years have we gotten into trouble by playing the roll of the World’s Policeman? 

What I support is minding our own business as a nation. The list of things I object to when it comes to the current occupant of the White House is a mile long, but insufficient support for Hong Kong democracy isn’t one of the them.

Boob Tube Guy

For those of you who don’t live around here, you are probably not aware of Boob Tube Guy...

For the second time in six months, a neighborhood in Short Pump has awoken to discover old school television sets deposited on their doorsteps. The mastermind behind the mischief wears a hollowed out TV set over his head, and sometimes poses for the cameras. I use the male pronoun here although Boob Tube Guy could very well be a woman. Whenever he or she strikes, all the local news rooms cover the story, each of them posing the intriguing question...why??

What is the point? Why would someone go to the trouble of traipsing around in the middle of the night delivering obsolete television sets to random upscale communities in Richmond’s West End? I have come up with some working theories for your consideration.

1. These are nothing more than college kids with too much time on their hands, doing what college kids have always done when bored.

The problem with this theory is..I believe that this latest incident occurred before most local universities had opened for business. Also, we’re talking nearly 30 television sets. Where did a bunch of kids get their hands on that many sets?

2. This is a television repair man who’s business is on the rocks, making a statement about excess. West Enders, with their constant need for more and bigger no longer have televisions repaired, they just buy new ones. Boob Tube Guy is protesting consumerism.

I don’t know...does this dude look like a malcontent? There is a certain whimsical quality to this prank, with his TV helmet and posing for the security cameras. He just doesn’t strike me as an idealist.

3. He is actually the ultimate Good Samaritan, handing out vintage tube televisions to households most likely to have big flat screens hanging in their living rooms. Boob Tube Guy knows that these new age smart screens are being used by the Dark State to spy on us, so he is striking a blow for privacy.

...but, he’s wearing a TV on his head. 

4. He’s just a fun-loving practical joker who gets a kick out of pulling everybody’s chain and getting himself on the nightly news.

I think we have a winner.

I, for one, love Boob Tube Guy. He’s a guy who has an active imagination, a sense of fun, and a commitment to quality. Have you noticed how he places each set in the exact middle of each porch? He doesn’t just slap it down all cockeyed and cattywompus. No, he takes care to place it dead center of the porch. This man has pride of ownership. If he’s going to commit Tomfoolery, he’s going to do it right. And another thing...he isn’t hurting anyone. Everyone gets a good chuckle out of it, the cops come out and load them up and take them away, and we are left talking about something besides politics.

All Hail Boob Tube Guy!!

Stupid Nature

Last night, the family gathered over at my sister’s house for lasagna. Linda had been ill during Beach Week, if you recall, and missed her night to fix dinner for all of us...so she decided to make amends by cooking the meal she had planned to cook at the beach. Yes, my sister is a saint.

The meal was fabulous and after dessert we all decided to sit out on the deck and chat. Soon, I was regaling everyone with dad jokes and the kids were romping around in the yard. The whole thing looked like an advertisement that might have appeared in the Saturday Evening Post in the 1950’s. Then...stupid nature happened.

It was a delightful evening, temperature in the low 70’s, low humidity, and thanks to the Mosquito Authority...blood-sucking pest-free. Then, Linda decided to take Evelyn down to the little kids playhouse thing that Bill installed years ago to entertain the grandkids. It features a little treehouse thing with a slide. For reasons that now escape me, I decided that what Linda and Evelyn needed at that moment was Uncle Doug acting as the slide troll. No, as a matter of fact, I do not know why I do such things...especially where Evelyn is concerned, since she has a decidedly mixed view of her uncle—part fascination, part fear, part—what tha?? Be that as it may, there I was kneeling down under the slide, preparing for my performance as...the troll...when I became aware of excruciating pain.

I had angered a freshly built nest of these hideous creatures, and one of them had come out to meet my troll challenge. He had affixed himself to the pinky of my left hand and was stabbing it with diabolical vigor. Try as I might to shake the beast off, he hung on, injecting me with poison. I finally managed to flick him away only to have him sting my right index finger before beating his hasty retreat. Now, the full effect of all of the stinging was brought home to bare on both of my hands. It’s probably been 50 years since I’ve been stung by a wasp. I had forgotten just how painful they are. Linda ran me into the house and before I knew what was happening, she had both fingers covered in a solution of water and baking soda and had instructed me to keep both hands elevated. So now my hands were slathered with white goo and my arms raised skyward like a crazed Pentecostal at a healing service! 

Luckily, I’m not allergic. Although both fingers started to swell, and the pain lasted several hours, this morning all is well.

Stupid nature!!

Jeffrey Epstein

For the life of me, I have not been able to summon a single molecule of sympathy for the death of my fellow human being, Jeffrey Epstein. The alleged billionaire, who seemed to be in the perceived influence business, rather than an actual business, and made his money by...er..uh...nobody really knows how or even how much money he made. What we do know is that Jeffrey Epstein was a horrible person who recruited underage girls for his own servicing, then provided them for the sexual gratification of a bushel basket full of very powerful men from both sides of the political aisle. In other words, he was the rich man’s pimp. The list of alleged Johns includes some familiar names...Former New Mexico Governor and frequent talking head Bill Richardson, smarty-pants lawyer Alan Dershowitz, Prince Andrew, former Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell, and of course former President Bill Clinton, a four time passenger on Epstein’s famous private jet, The Lolita Express. Even the current occupant of the White House appears on the passenger manifest from 1997...but in fairness, that was back when he was just your basic garden variety skirt-chasing adulterer, and before he found Jesus and the keys to the Oval Office.

So yeah...he’s dead now, by highly suspicious means. Whenever a man with that much damning information on so many powerful men turns up dead, it is perfectly natural to question the official suicide narrative. Within thirty minutes of the news breaking, the internet meme curators were having a field day...

Yes...this is hilarious. But any attempt to paint this as a partisan issue are doomed to failure. Once we make it through the 2000 pages of unsealed garbage that was dumped onto the public record over the weekend, the carnage from this thing will be a Who’s Who of powerful and well connected...men, and probably a few women. There will be plenty of Democrats, plenty of Republicans, and plenty of non-political members of America’s social elite. As if we needed reminding...this mess will once again serve to illustrate just how corrupting money and power remain.

The sad part about all of this? Because of Mr. Epstein’s death, almost all of these scumbags will get off scot-free. Whether he jumped or was pushed, not only did Jeffrey Epstein cheat the hangman for himself, but he cheated the hangman for all of his customers too.

How convenient.

A Raging Success

Yesterday’s little social media experiment was a raging success and confirmed something I have always known about this world. It can be summed up in just two words...sex sells.

Here are the numbers. In a mere 24 hours, you people have clicked on Sex at 60 more than you clicked on my last five posts...combined. The traffic at The Tempest has skyrocketed by 156%. And all I had to do is something I have never done in the previous 1,968 posts going back nine years...include the word sex in the title!! The next time you’re asking yourself why every advertisement you see on television seems to feature scantily clad women (and men)...just remember this experiment. The reason is simple...it works.

Does this mean that I am going to start writing more about sex? Not a snowball’s chance in Hades. Pam didn’t get around to looking at Facebook until five minutes before she had to leave for a dentist appointment. I don’t have to tell you what happened to her blood pressure when she stumbled across that title!! Luckily, I wasn’t around when it happened. But something tells me that a rare expletive may have escaped her lips. Bless her heart....the things she has to endure being married to me...

So, I suppose I should apologize to all of you for such an immature and childish prank. What am I saying? All I did is give you the opportunity to prove what a bunch of voyeurs you all are! I’m thinking that all of you should apologize to me for being so interested in my sex life!!

Sex at 60

This morning I thought I would share with you all how my sex life has been going since I turned 60. Some things have changed, but others have stayed the same, and...

Just Kidding!!!

But, it did make you click on this blog post...which might say a lot more about you than me! Actually, this is a topic that has fascinated me for the past nine years that I have been writing this blog...not my sex life...but rather, what exactly is it that people want to read about? I have written nearly 2,000 posts over these past nine years about every conceivable topic. But it has always baffled me why some posts, no matter how well written and heartfelt, draw scant interest, while others...even those poorly cobbled together...get clicked nearly to death. Looking back over the archives, here’s what I have discovered. When it comes to The Tempest, people are intrigued by certain topics and indifferent to others. Here’s what generally fires you up:

Politics.

Death.

Violence.

Dogs.

You may think you hate politics, and you probably do, but you sure love reading about it. Whenever I offer up some screed about Trump, and before him Obama, I can count on a much larger and invigorated readership. Some read for confirmation, others to get angry at my wrong headed opinions. We might hate politics, but we love...hating it!

If somebody dies or is in danger of dying and I write about it, you guys are all in.

Whenever I have anything to say about some horrible act of violence like a mass shooting, people want to know what I think. That’s not accurate really. What we all really want to know is what to feel and how to feel about these terrible events. Reading my take on it maybe helps people sort out their own ideas and emotions. Regardless, people are drawn to the topic.

If I relay a story about either my dog or anybody’s dog, people want to hear about it. This is easy to explain. Dogs never disappoint us.

Here are the topics that, more or less, you don’t care to read about:

Sports.

Theology.

Vacations.

No matter what the sport is...baseball, football, basketball, golf...not interested. Maybe this speaks to the average age and gender of this audience. Or maybe I’m just a crappy sports writer!

Nobody wants to read about theological debates, whether it be abortion, gay marriage, works v grace, etc. Again, it may just be that I don’t know how to write about those topics well, or maybe people would rather not think deep thoughts over their morning coffee!

People tire quickly reading of someone else’s frolicking great time on vacation. The reasons require no explanation.

So, there you have it, a little behind the curtain look at what you guys like and don’t like about this blog. Of course, the topics I choose to write about take none of this into consideration. I write about what interests me, not what I think interests you. No offense...but it’s my blog!

Can’t wait to see (and hear!) Pam’s reaction when she reads the title of this one!!!

Change

I slid the key into the lock, opened the door and heard the familiar beep of the security system. I punched my code into the pad and flipped on the lights. This routine, performed a thousand times seemed precarious after a month away...would I remember my code? If my buddies had any imagination they would have rigged up some trip wire or something to confuse me, or coated my office door knob with Vaseline. But I work with a group of hopeless adults, a buttoned up bunch of professionals who wouldn’t know a decent gag if it smacked them in the face.

The place had the familiar smell of leather, industrial carpet and copy paper. Somebody should distill it into a cologne. They could call it...White Collar. 

I stopped in the hallway and looked around at the place. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. I saw the fresh vacuum lines. The cleaning people come over the weekend. I saw the coffee mugs in the dish drain, the overflow of documents to be destroyed in a box on top of the full shredder. I stuck my head in the conference room and noticed that the candy jar was full of chocolates. The placemats on the glass top table—a redundancy that I have never understood—were laid out perfectly, the chairs snug against the edge of the table. My office was immaculate, a month’s worth of correspondence stacked neatly on the desk, already culled of junk mail. I had 38 missed calls, but they had already been prioritized for me by my rock star assistant. It was as if I had never left. 

After getting myself acclimated to my surroundings, with the beginnings of a plan for the day taking shape, I distributed the gifts I had purchased, placing them on the desks of their recipients. That’s when I noticed the empty office. I say empty, when it wasn’t really—the desk was still there—but everything else was gone. It startled me, even though I had been informed of his departure while in Maine. A friend and colleague of the past 35 years had decided to move his operation to an office he had built in his home. He, like me, is at the point where his work schedule isn’t as jammed packed as it was twenty years ago. His success has afforded him time to travel and the luxury of a slower pace. Why not save a little on overhead?

Still, I stood at the entrance to his office and felt a tugging of emotion in my heart, the sadness I always feel at the end of a thing. There is a part of me that wishes things didn’t have to change, although without change, life would be a colossal bore. Practically every work day for 35 years I have carried on a trash-talking discourse with my friend about his pathetic Redskins, his misplaced devotion to tar heel basketball. He has given me unending grief about the Red Sox, ribbed me about anything he could think of that might get a rise out of me. But, it hasn’t all been insults and trash talk. We’ve commiserated over family setbacks, health problems, the frustrations and aggravations of our business. 

How many people have I had a 35 year relationship with in this life? Not all that many. Fewer still who I have interacted with on a daily basis. And while it’s not like he has moved to Siberia—his house is right around the corner from mine practically—it will be different. Change. The constant reshuffling of the people and things of our lives, the shifting sands of events and relationships...change is the only constant.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.