A Dozen Bags Of Leaves

     That's what's sitting out at the curb, or they were last time I looked.  Tam set most of them out; I grabbed the four from the back yard early this morning and added them.

     It's supposed to rain and turn sharply colder tonight, so we may be out of the leaf-raking business for awhile.  Forty big 33-gallonish paper bags of leaves so far.

Cowardice? Misinformation?

     Magical thinking?  I want to know what the overlap is between the people who were convinced President Obama "could do more about guns" as in gun control but for some reason wasn't, and the people who are professing abject fear at what President-elect Trump is going to do to their own "community" or some other group once he takes office.

     Dammit, that's not how it works.  Presidents do not have all that much of that kind of power.  In addition, the inertia of the Federal bureaucracy is simply mind-boggling, and not for lack of trying: they really do have to do obsessive dotting of "i"s and crossing of "t"s and painfully-detailed bookkeeping in order to keep the fed.gov behemoth staggering along.  Remember reading about FDR having the Japanese-Americans rounded up and put in camps during WW II?  Ain't ever gonna happen again; the war'd be over before they'd set up a committee to generate the form to fill out (in multiple copies) to establish the office to hire the people to make the lists to hand to the cops to go around door to door and start rounding people up.

     I never thought of the U.S. Constitution as being particularly abstruse but it might as well be written in Latin on bronze tablets buried inaccessibly beneath the Washington Monument for all the understanding of it many people are presently showing.

     U.S. Presidents aren't magical -- they are not magical good and they're not magical evil.  Oh, they try sneaky stuff, each and every one of them, and you can thank the vast, slow morass of the fed.gov for most of the corner-cutting tricks they try; but they get caught at it with monotonous regularity and the more visible their target, the more quickly they get caught -- and, usually, stopped.

     As a general rule, Republicans get a fishier eyeballing from the press than Democrats.  That's just how it goes; reporters tend to lean that direction and no matter how even-handed they set out to be (and some don't), it's the stuff that gets under a person's skin that gets reported on.

     I don't think Mr. Trump is a saint.  I think he has the attention span of a housefly and he appears to have the social graces of a tipsy carny.  I'm leery of many of his political associates.  But I know he's being watched by people eager to catch him putting a foot wrong, and not merely the easy "gotcha" journalism of finding crass comments made into live mics -- there's a whole press corps out there, looking for Watergate-level skullduggery.

     And yet there are people quaking in their boots over him, anticipating wickedness on a grandiose scale.  Gotta tellya, I don't think he's up to it.  I know he couldn't get away with it.  The United States has been lurching along with Presidents who were messed-up enough to want the lousy job for a very long time now, and the checks and balances do a fine job of keeping Congress and President and Supreme Court busy trying to throttle one another.

     I still think we'd've been better off with Gary Johnson in the White House.  But noooo, the majority never wanted a free-trade hippie, especially a slightly silly one.  Okay; we've got what we got, and somewhere offstage, H. L. Mencken is snickering at members of both major parties.  Don't give his ghost reason to snicker at you.

Optical TDR?

     Nothing too deep this morning.  I'm just wishing I had access to an expensive piece of test equipment -- or that I had been able to hunt up the much cheaper flashlight-and-light-meter gadget we used have at work.  There's a piece of damaged, multi-strand fiber optic cable about seven hundred feet up in the air -- it's supported on a structure, though not one I can climb, I'll send up a professional -- and I need to determine if it's a little broken, or a total loss.

     This could be interesting.

Idiots; Paint; The Rule Of Law

     So, inartistic -- and generally inarticulate -- ijits have been spray-painting other people's walls at what may be a greater incidence and with possibly a greater proportion of racial or religious or hookedy-crossedy sentiments?

     First off, where were you since "tagging" started to be a thing, outside of your nice little whitebread communities?  Second, if you've spent the last eight-plus years telling little Tommy and Billy and Susie the Republicans are, to a man, The Debbil and warning them that if they don't eat up all their bumbershoot and carry vegetables when it rains, the Big GOPper will get 'em, you're part of the problem -- because when those kids reach the age of rebellion, some of 'em are gonna go paint the nastiest, vilest things they can think of on walls, and some of 'em will be especially brazen about it if they figure Pure Evil is in the catbird seat.

     Thirdly: kids, I know you think you're just badass as can be, but about the first time you cross paint streams with a gen-u-ine gang-type tagger, they are going to mess you up.  And if they don't, remember those wicked, nasty, heartless Republicans you are figuring will wink at your petty-ante wickedness?  They've got their flaws but most of them are foursquare in favor of property rights having mondo precedence over your right to express yourself on other people's walls.  Cross paths with, oh, the police, and you'll be lucky if Community Service is all you get.  Cross paths with the wrong householder and it could be worse.

     It was rude and illegal to paint stuff on walls that don't belong to you last year.  It's still illegal.  It's still nekulturny.  --And if you are minded to paint stuff on your own walls and blame punks, to score points or get fifteen minutes of fame?  Why, that's illegal, too.  So let's everybody play nice, or play a tune on the jailhouse bars with a battered tin cup. -- At best.

N. B.: Names

     I will be continuing to refer to Presidents -- -elect, ex- and standing -- along with other prominent political figures, by using honorific and last name, full name, naked patronymic or on rare occasions, by first name. 

     This making-up of cutesy-insulting distortions of people's names, dredged-up ancient versions the family hasn't used since Ellis Island and/or combinations with the names of infamous dictators is childish.  Don't like the person?  Say so.  Better yet, say why.

     It's not going to be easy to avoid writing "The Donald" or "Hils," or (because I delight in obscurity) making reference to Marlo Thomas's long-suffering television boyfriend, but I'll make the effort.

Leaves, Leaves...

     Tam and I raked up leaves yesterday -- five bags already, and five leafpiles that will probably fill two or three more.  This is about as good a job as we have done keeping up and I am hoping to have them all bagged and gone before the first snowfall.  We only manage that about half the time.

It's Sunday

     Time for some real Brotherhood-of-Man stuff.

     You know why all men are, well, cousins, at least?  Because, generally, your ancestors couldn't keep their pants on.  Punch that horrible person over there, and you've hit your g'g'g'g'grandparent's descendant.

     We're all made out of meat.

"I Don't Feel Safe"

     That's the catchphrase -- people who think Mr. Trump's election to the Presidency has put them in danger.

     Listen up, kid: you weren't safe on 7 November, either, or 7 October, or, by golly, 12 November.  The laws of the land have not changed and neither has the fact that a very few of your fellow-humans are willing to do you harm.  Nevertheless, it's still illegal to beat people up, unless they hit you first and you win the fight by main force.  The same haters that worry you now were around earlier in the year and they were just as hateful -- and just as much a tiny fraction of your fellow citizens.  Your friends are still there, as are all of the in-between people, from the ones who like you well enough all the way to the ones who can't stand you but won't bestir themselves even so far as to scowl across the bus station at your purple hair or the "I LIKE IKE" sticker on your valise.

     It's the same world and you can still turn to the cops for protection -- no, really, you can; even the most stereotypically-mean officer of the law finds it hard to turn away from a scared person asking for help, and the mean ones are, yes, a tiny percentage of the force.

     This is the reality we live in: most people aren't out to get you.  Don't confuse jerks, fools and the occasional artist spray-painting walls (usually in the dead of night or at least when nobody's looking) with every man's hand being raised against you.

     Most people just don't care that much.  Personally, I take great comfort in that; on the other hand, I'm a tall, vaguely butch-looking* mostly-white† woman, and when I can't blend into the background, I can usually loom and get by with no more than muttered insults and dirty looks.  Not everyone has that luxury and that's got to make for greater worry.

     Sure, elections matter.  Who won matters.  But it doesn't change the laws of the land; it doesn't change the norms of civilized behavior.  On a practical level, the Feds aren't going to change state laws or city ordinances because they can't; and they're unlikely to go after settled Federal law because A) they are not as ambitious as all that, and B) it's a can of worms they dare not open.  You think there are people protesting in the streets now?  Ha!

     And about those "people in the streets:" hell, I'm scared.  Not of folks marching with signs and chanted slogans; yes, do that.  Smash windows and burn cars, throw stuff at people, block freeways?  Don't do that.  It's fraught with danger.  There are plenty of scared kids and scared adults who don't need to be any more scared and your signs show up a lot better when there aren't drifting clouds of tear gas or muddy bootprints in the way.

     If safety-pin "safe person" badges don't get politicized with a crapload of barely-related side-issues in the same manner as the Gadsden Flag, I'll wear one.  I'm not here to make anyone but genuine initiators of force feel afraid and if I can make somebody worry even a mite less, I'd count that as a good thing.  What kind of dreadful person wouldn't?
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* Not so butch as all that -- I barely own a flannel shirt and I wouldn't be caught outside the house without lipstick and mascara.  But I wear Carhartt dungarees by choice and carry a Leatherman tool on my belt; nobody sends me to fetch coffee and they're surprised that I sew, at least well enough for mending.  Don't think my somewhat-forbidding "look" cannot be leveraged when needed or that I would refrain from so doing.
  
† As I may have mentioned before, we're not sure what the remainder might be -- Cherokee and/or "passing" African-American, so long ago that my ancestress is barely a memory and a line on a census tally.  I just hope she had a happy marriage and a fulfilling life.  I hope she felt safe.

Saturday! Slept In!

     Yes, I did.  I slept in.  An hour.  Oooo, I'm a rebel.

Stop, And Remember

     There will be parades today, parades of men and women, old and young -- a lot of young men, many of them maimed.

     Isolationist or hawk, pacifist or convinced that the compelling and immediate power of organized violence ought to be used to further the ends of the State: no matter what you believe, you owe these people respect.  They stepped up and put life and limb on the line.  They didn't set the policy; they didn't decide where they would be sent.  They volunteered to be the tip of the spear, the edge of the blade, to work long hours for low pay and risk blood and breath in the process.  It's not much for you to stop a moment, to wave or nod or bow your head, very little compared to what they put on the line, and no matter what you think of this country's wars and the politicians who choose them, the warriors are just people like you, who have faced risks and privation you will never know.  Give them a smile, a nod; acknowledge their service.

     On this eleventh day of the eleventh month, I try to stop and put myself in the position of those who, at the eleventh hour, saw the meatgrinder of the first truly modern mechanized war finally grind to a halt.  The world was young then, young enough for grandiose gestures and grand thoughts, and thus it was that the "War To End All Wars" was ended at 11:00 on 11/11.  It didn't stick and perhaps the most cynical and war-weary knew it wouldn't; but they wanted it to. 

     The years from a little before the turn of the century to 1914 were years of great progress and great change; they were good years, especially for men of European descent in Europe and North America.  When war broke out, many on both sides expected a short, victorious conflict; in the United States, most Civil War veterans were of dozing-by-the-fire age.  Few expected the war to be as terrible as it was. 

     As terrible as it was, it was not a lasting lesson to governments on the avoidance of war, and as much at odds with our comfortable, modern civilization as the waging of wars may seem, we should never forget that WW I came as no less of a jar, in a time equally as forward-looking.  Wars, it seems, are more inevitable than progress and the threat of force hovers unspoken over all diplomacy.  Force not in abstract but in the concrete form of individuals, of "boots on the ground."  Soldiers.  Sailors.  Airmen.  Warriors.

     We should never forget those who step forward, away from comfort and complacency, to serve.  This day is a day to look them in the eye and to thank them; a day to see them not as symbols but as individuals, neighbors, relatives, spouses.

     Thank you for your service.

    

Protests In The Street, You Say?

     Riots and near-riots over the election of Donald Trump?  --Don't come to me about Barack Obama having received the most hostile reactions of any President-elect, okay?

     I happen to think dissent is a good thing, no matter which party's candidate wins and no matter where that individual's ancestors hailed from.  Presidents ought to be questioned, checked, fact-checked, their trash dug through and they should receive vociferous disagreement from people with differing notions.  It keeps 'em honest, or as honest as politicians get.

     For that matter, if you agree with the winner, hold his feet to fire to pay off on his actual campaign promises.  Tam just now remarked there was much rejoicing in the editorial offices she gets paid from.  Now the associated political-action groups are looking to the incoming class of legislators to come though on their issues -- and to the President as well, though as I have to keep pointing out, U. S. Presidents don't make laws.*  (They do, however, veto them, though I think they do so far too rarely.)

     We didn't elect a King and his Royal Advisors; we elected a big-talking business mogul to the office previously held by a haberdasher, college professors, sons of privilege, small-time lawyers, would-be Supreme Court Justices (look it up) and engineers. We're gonna make him live over the store and he'll be on call 24/7/365.  We also elected members of two of the oldest cut-from-whole-cloth deliberative bodies in the world.†  In 2017, they'll roll up their sleeves and go to work.  Do you intend to let them do so without proper supervision?
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* Yes, yes, Executive Orders, blah, blah, blah.  They can do some things.  It's really not so much, and liable to get slapped down by the other two branches of the fed.gov if they try to go too far.
  
† A mere babe in arms compared to the Isle of Man's Tynwald, Iceland's Althing, and several other Scandanavian legislative assemblies; even the UK's Parliament dates back to the 13th Century.  But they evolved; ours came about like Athena from the head of Zeus, and has endured.  Most don't.

I Had Not Expected This Outcome

    Fell asleep over a close race for Chief Executive, with Sec. Clinton having a thin margin over Mr. Trump -- and woke around 1:45 this morning to discover NBC's pundits working their way through the Five Stages of Grief and declaring the contest for Mr. Trump.

     While I figured it for a close race, I had thought the high turnout and hot-button issues would give Sec. Clinton a slight edge and tip the balance in the electoral college.  I hadn't counted on the electorate being as fed up as they have shown themselves to be.  I wasn't looking forward to four years with a vindictive, wrong-headed authoritarian in the White House. 

     Instead, we'll have four years of a feckless authoritarian in the Oval Office.  The press will loathe him with a loathing hitherto reserved for Dick Nixon and Spiro Agnew,* which is one of the most sure checks and balances we've got.  Given only a choice between a conniving person who knows exactly what laws she's got to sneak by or subvert, or a high-concept guy who still seems hazy on the Constitution as amended, to say nothing of the broad sweep of Federal law and custom going back to George Washington, I suppose I'll take the latter, whose own party has a vested interest in keeping him from going off the rails and who will be "...scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize and study the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water,"† by both the media and his political opposition.  He's got big dreams, Mr. Trump has, or at least big talk, but he's got the same old Constitution and the same old Congressional mulishness over their powers and prerogatives.  He'll have many of the same bureaucrats.  They'll do what they were intended to do: be gumbo mud under the hooves of any Man (or Woman) on Horseback.  The job may not make the man, but it tends to make him color inside the lines or face the consequences.

     The other positive is that once again, we have reminded the rest of the world, especially Europe, that the United States of America is, by their standards, absolutely crazy.  This is, though they deny it, reassuring to them; they rely on America having a basement full of guns and gunners when they get into a spat or become worried about their nearer neighbors, and while they'd never admit it, Europe worries when the U.S. looks to be becoming too much like them.  Based on their campaign utterances, Mr. Trump is actually less of a hawk than Sec. Clinton, but that fact matters not in the face of overseas public perception.

     The "alt-right" will claim Mr. Trump's victory for themselves but they're a by-blow, freeriders; Americans have never much liked Nazis and, soon or late, they stop overlooking hateful fascists.  Eventually, the white-sheeted bravos kidnap the wrong woman and it all comes crashing down.  I'll be watching them closely and calling them out when merited; the alt-right is a greater enemy to freedom than Bernie Sanders could manage on his best day.

     The next four year promise to be interesting.
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* Seriously, young'ns, W had it easy compared to Nixon, largely because he's more likeable and enormously less hostile towards the press.  Agnew had a more nuanced relationship to the press: mutual hatred, tempered by his remarkable quotability, a combination of good speechwriters and innately grandiose habits of speech.  If you're a reporter on the fed.gov beat, happy days are indeed here again!
 
† Wells, H. G., The War Of The Worlds, 1898.  We've turned it on Martians -- or the lack thereof -- and you can be assured that we'll turn it on The Man, at least for a given value of "we."  He's not going to be able to open a bottle of beer in the Rose Garden without hostile eyes spying out the label and making snarky comments.