As we celebrate Independence Day here in the Garden of Eaton (located, naturally, somewhere in Texas) we find that it’s a good time to think about how to think about our “Founding Fathers”, and in particular George Washington, “Father of our Country”. A brave soldier, a wise and daring general.  A farmer-warrior-citizen. A popular, far-seeing statesman whose decision not to run for a third term as president set the example for peaceful transitions of power ever since.  An actual hero if there ever was one. That’s the story I got in elementary school, and as far as it goes, it’s true.

The problem is where that story doesn’t go.  George also owned slaves, that is, other human beings whom he bought and sold and forced to labor for his benefit.  (Somehow they forgot this part of the story in my school.) Does that make him a monster?

We hold this truth to be self-evident, that all slavery is monstrous. (If you disagree with this, we have nothing more to discuss.  Goodbye and enjoy whatever revisionist delusional propaganda turns you on.) And by definition, a monster is someone who does monstrous things. Washington was a slave owner, was aware of what he was doing, and had to be familiar with abolitionist opinion that could have and should have clued him in to the evil he was doing.  Yet he continued to own slaves for as long as he lived.  He was every bit a monster as someone who, for example, doesn’t particularly hate Jews but sees nothing wrong in borrowing a few hundred from a concentration camp to work for free as prisoners in his factory. Would any of us build monuments and name states and cities after that guy?  No.  And I can’t escape the conclusion that George was a monster. A heroic monster.  A monstrous hero.

Now, I happen to believe in degrees of monstrosity, or evil. At least Washington went to some pains to ensure that his slaves would be released upon his death, unlike his wife, the saintly (so we were taught) Martha, who owned slaves in her own right, slaves whose descendants eventually ended up belonging to the wife of a certain Robert E. Lee.  Maybe that takes just a shave off of his evilness.  And we have all of his heroic feats.  In the evil-saint spectrum from, say, Adolph Hitler (or Jefferson Davis) representing the extreme limit of the former, and Dr. Martin Luther King (the purest latter-day representation I know of an American life lived in imitation of Christ) the latter, I propose that Washington falls about in the middle.

So now what?  Should we rename Washington, D.C. to M.L. King, D.C.? (Or better yet, M.L. King, D.N.A. – District of Native America?) Do we rename the Washington Monument as Harriet Tubman Tower? Washington State to Cesar Chavez State?  Washington Square to Susan B. Anthony Square? Take the old slaver off the dollar (and the quarter) and replace him with James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and/or Michael Schwerner?  I for one don’t think these are ridiculous ideas. But they kind of evade the important point. We need to be clear-eyed about who our “heroes” were and what they did, clear with ourselves and with our children.  We have to appreciate the sacrifices they made, their enormous accomplishments political, practical and intellectual, while acknowledging the enduring harm they inflicted on our fellow Americans.  And think twice about giving them pride of place in our pantheon of heroes.  

As he sat down on Friday with Mr. Putin on the sidelines of an international summit in Japan, Mr. Trump was asked by a reporter if he would tell Russia not to meddle in American elections.

“Yes, of course I will,” Mr. Trump said.

Turning to Mr. Putin, he said, with a half-grin on his face and mock seriousness in his voice, “Don’t meddle in the election, President.” – NY TIMES, 28 JUNE 2019

PARIS, 30 MAY 1814

REPORTER: Are you at all worried that Napoleon might try to break out of Elba and terrify Europe once again?

LOUIS XVIII: [rolling his eyes] Hey Bony Pie, don’t leave the island, OK?

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE: You know, I am a pretty good swimmer, but not that good, ha ha!

MUNICH, 30 SEPTEMBER 1939

REPORTER: Aren’t you concerned that Adolph Hitler might go back on his word and invade the rest of Czechoslovakia and other countries as well?

NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN: [chuckles] Yeah, I’m practically terrified! Hey Adolph, no more invasions!

ADOLPH HITLER: [shaking his head in disbelief] You got it buddy, whatever!

YALTA, FEBRUARY 11 1945

REPORTER: Considering the Soviet Union’s annexation of half of Poland before the war, are you at all worried that Stalin might go back on his word and meddle in Polish elections?

WINSTON CHURCHILL: No, should I be? [grinning] Hey Comrade, no meddling in the Polish elections, OK?  I’m totally serious!

JOSEPH STALIN: [stifling a laugh] “Meddling?” Is that even a word? Hey, can someone meddle up some lunch here?

Trump administration cancels English classes, soccer, legal aid for unaccompanied child migrants in U.S. shelters – Washington Post, June 5 2019

SCENE: A conference room somewhere in the bowels of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Time: 6:00 A.M. PRESENT: The President of the United States of America, various staff, Homeland Security administrators

POTUS (sipping a diet Pepsi): What have you got for me, Mike?

MIKE POMPEO, U.S. SECRETARY OF STATE: We had some more missiles launched towards Japan from North Korea last night…

POTUS: Aw hell, Mike, that’s just Kim being Kim. A guy’s gotta shoot some off once in a while, you know that. What’s up, Wilbur?

WILBUR ROSS, U.S. SECRETARY OF COMMERCE:  The Chinese are upset about the latest tariffs.  They’re threatening to call in our debt now unless we give them Hawaii.

POTUS: Well they can’t have it!  That is sovereign US territory! And I have a hotel in Waikiki!  Give them Oregon!  And if those pinkos in Portland don’t like it let ‘em complain to the PLA!  Talk to me Kevin!

KEVIN MCALEENAN, ACTING U.S. SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY: We’re getting more intelligence that the Russians can and will interfere in the 2020…

POTUS: (Strangely calm) You know Kevin, I was watching Fox News last night.  And early this morning.  And just now.  And you know what I saw? Kevin? Anyone? Christ, I could use another diet cola!  

MCALEENAN: Another state punishing women for the crime of bearing a fertilized egg?

ROSS: Children dying from measles being spread by idiots in MAGA caps who believe vaccinations are a government conspiracy to spread autism, for God knows what reason?

POMPEO: Another coastal city flooded by some random cause that is definitely not climate-change related?

POTUS: This morning, on Fox news, I saw brown children.  That’s right, little brown children. [SILENCE IN THE ROOM] Some of them were smiling.  Some of them were laughing. Some of them were playing soccer, which is some kind of foreign game apparently.  And some of them…some of them were getting educated.

[POMPEO and ROSS glance at each other nervously]

POTUS:  Look folks, I know you’re all scared.  Hell, I’m scared.  If we don’t put a stop to this now these kids are going to grow up to be decent, normal productive members of society.  [DRAMATIC PAUSE] Did I become president of these United States by a clear electoral majority just to have some innocent little kids get treated with normal human decency and respect?!

CABINET: No, Mr. President.

POTUS: Did I avoid the possibility of injury or even death in Vietnam just so some little girl from a [REDACTED]-hole country could be informed of her legal rights under our constitution!?

CABINET: No, Mr. President! You did not!  Hell no! Remember the Maine! [etc]

POTUS: As long as there is one cute little kid laughing, one vivacious little girl playing soccer, one promising youth learning to read and write in English, our work is not done!  We will not rest until every kind of hardship and deprivation these loser kids could suffer has been thoroughly inflicted!

CABINET: Yes sir! Right away sir! [etc]

POTUS: This is America!  We beat the Nazis!  We put a man on the moon!  If we can’t be gratuitously cruel to poor defenseless children…then who are we?

WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY SARAH HUCKABEE SANDERS [to VICE PRESIDENT MIKE PENCE]: God, I love working for this man!

POTUS: So let’s get out there and be mean, folks!  Now, who can dig up some dirt for me on the late Senator John McCain?

What are we to do with Great Artists (Male), or GA(M)s, who are insecure, bullying schnooks in their personal lives, especially towards the women and children in their lives? I have observed three basic approaches to the problem:

A) Using the available evidence, ruthlessly expose them for what they are, dulling the shine of their sainthood but otherwise reserving moral judgement as a matter of personal opinion. (See Hemingway’s Boat for a good example.)

B) Shrug one’s shoulders and declare that it is only the art that matters.

C) Stretch, fill in, and re-imagine the available evidence as far as possible to rehabilitate the GA(M) as a loving, appreciative husband and attentive, affectionate father who was at worst an artifact of his contemporary culture but who nonetheless gets “woke” in time to become a properly repentant nice guy, before passing into history.

I used to be a B) man.  But after becoming more (though I hate to admit it) “woke” about all the wives and girlfriends who have been demeaned, dismissed, and abandoned by their GA(M) (including some whose own artistic contributions have gone uncredited) I now lean toward A). But in any case C) is unforgivable.

And so I cannot forgive Kenneth Branagh for the cinematic mediocrity All Is True. He takes the troubling questions about William Shakespeare’s personal life and gives us soothing, pre-approved answers for every one, however much the sour evidence must be tortured in order to yield the sweet result.  (And there is even the loathsome group hug–though with everyone slightly turned toward the camera–near the end.)

For example, wasn’t Will kind of a dick for leaving poor Ann Hathaway at home in Stratford to raise two daughters, while barely acknowledging the death of his young son Hamnet, as he pursued his vocation in a London overloaded with stuff like wenches and ale?

Yeah (says Branagh), but you gotta understand.  He honestly believed that he was fulfilling his paternal duties by sending money home.  (All right so far.) Plus he was actually prostrate with grief over Hamnet for many years afterwards. (Sure, OK.) Why, especially? (And here we start to go off the rails.) Because he recognized in Hamnet a budding genius, based upon the juvenile poetry the boy wrote down and showed to his proud father.  Hamnet would not only carry on the Shakespeare familial name but become his literary successor as well.  Thus the younger, male-chauvinist Shakespeare saw the world. And was therefore extra-crushed with sorrow when the little Hamnet died of the plague.   Blinded by grief, the father immerses himself in work and regrettably ignores the surviving women in his life.

But wait, we cannot let things go like this.  The rehabilitation is just getting started. It turns out that Hamnet didn’t die of the plague.  The little boy (aged 11) ran out of the house in the middle of the night and threw himself into a pond in which (as earlier expository dialogue has helpfully revealed) he couldn’t swim.  Why?  Because he was terrified of a looming visit home by his proud father.  Why?  Because he was afraid of being exposed as a literary fraud. Why? Because he didn’t write the poetry. His talented, unappreciated twin sister composed the poems in her head and recited them.  But she is unable to write them down, being the victim of a society that educates boys but not girls (another fact pointed out for us dullards in the audience).  Hamnet then records the poems on paper.  His father discovers the first one and takes his son for a genius.  The rest of the family cannot bear to undeceive him and thus a lifelong fraud is perpetrated. 

But one day the frustrated sister threatens to reveal the fraud to the father on his next visit.  The distraught boy must fling himself into that pond (of the lush, shady John-Millais-Floating-Ophelia variety) that very night.  And the family, wishing to save Hamnet’s soul from suicide’s damnation, conceals the drowning and blames the death on the plague.  (Presumably God, like TMZ, knows all about the Shakespeares’ dirty secrets, but the script addresses even this.  I won’t bore you.)

Late in life, the father discovers (I won’t bore you with how.  The script covers it, OK?) the real reason behind the son’s death.  To sum up the finale: truth revealed, truth acknowledged, daughter appreciated, daughter belatedly set on the road to literacy (the pen-sharpening-knife meant for Hamnet symbolically handed down to daughter), group hug. We have boldly faced our sexist past in Shakespeare-as-kind-of-a-dick, but in return for our pain we are finally rewarded with a transformed Elizabethan Father Knows Best. All buttons pushed, all ribbons tied.

Such a ridiculous plot might have been bearable or even enjoyable if were used as the engine behind a clever, knowing farce, ala Shakespeare in Love.  But it is rendered with dull, condescending seriousness.

I don’t mind having my artistic idols revealed as the ugly humans they were.  I would not spare anyone.  The Groucho Marx who serially married much younger women and then delighted in belittling them.  Bertolt Brecht, long on accepting help from his female proteges and short on giving them credit. Ernest Hemingway, an alcoholic, homophobic bully.  And on and on and on.  

What I do not appreciate is having these guys artificially prettied up.  And for what purpose? We don’t do ourselves (or the feminist cause) any favors by cleaning these guys up ex-post-inconvenient-facto. And in any case, I don’t need to like William Shakespeare.  Hell, I don’t even know the guy.  All I know is that man could write one hell of a sonnet. 

If you want to give me a bio-pic that imaginatively fills in the unknown, give me something like Mr. Turner, Mike Leigh’s unflinchingly unsentimental and utterly believable portrait of the great landscape painter, who (for example) greets his housemaid after coming home from a long trip by briefly groping one breast. At the end he doesn’t get “woke”. He dies. I probably wouldn’t have cared to share an ale with the guy. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to marry him. But when I’m in London I’ll stop by the National Gallery to take a look at what he left behind. And that’s fine with me.

For the past four-plus years I have been retired from my lifelong career as a software developer.  I was very lucky in both my profession and in the corporations for which I worked.  I was well-paid, well treated, well-respected, and got to work with a lot of good people.  When I decided to retire I naturally worried that it was a decision I might regret later on,whether due to the absence of a paycheck or a diminished sense of self-worth.  So I thought this would be a proper time to reflect on that decision.  Of course, everyone is different, everyone finds work more or less fulfilling than do others, and for many, retirement is simply not feasible. I speak only for myself.  We appreciate any comments or reflections from those who have recently retired or are considering it. 

Pros:

– Waking up every morning and feeling like it’s a holiday.

– Auditing real classes at the University of Texas.

– Being able to post whatever I want on social media without worrying about whether my opinions may make a co-worker or superior feel uncomfortable.  As a purely hypothetical example, if I happen to feel that this great nation of ours is in the hands of a stupid, sour, mean-spirited, dangerously egocentric lout who cannot distinguish patriotism from personal loyalty, I can post the following: “I happen to feel that this great nation of ours is in the hands of a stupid, sour, mean-spirited, dangerously egocentric lout who cannot distinguish patriotism from personal loyalty.”

– Not feeling vaguely depressed on Sunday evenings, although for some reason I still feel vaguely exhilarated on Friday afternoons.  

– Having time to exercise, read, translate, stare out the window, nap, and write silly blog posts.  And that’s just one day.

– Not having to sit through the slightly humiliating annual charade called a “performance review” where my manager and myself both pretend that I am being ranked for the purposes of bonus, raise, and promotion based on the quality of my work, rather than admitting that it’s mainly a function of how well or poorly bonuses, raises and promotions have been funded for the coming year.

– Not having to get up at 6 A.M. to make a conference call along with Rick and Donna to hear Jeff and Courtney’s presentation on…whatever.

– Going to a movie on Wednesday afternoon if I feel like it.

– Visiting my parents as often as I want.

– Not coming home grouchy in the evening and feeling guilty about it later.

Cons:

– No paycheck.

– No longer getting to work with a bunch of people from all over the planet who are conscientious, smart, really nice and very, very good at what they do.

– No feeling of being really needed, once in a while.

– No generous, largely subsidized health-care plan.

– Not ever having a real reason to put on a crisp, starched Oxford pinpoint button-down white shirt, blue silk tie, and that tropical-weight charcoal gray wool suit I bought thirty years ago.  Cause I look damn good in a suit.  Or at least kind of nice.

Conclusion:

Retirement wins.  Not even close.

WASHINGTON — U.S. President Donald Trump said on Friday that he discussed “the Russia Hoax” with Russian President Vladimir Putin but did not raise with him concerns about Russian meddling in U.S. elections. – Reuters, as quoted in NY Times on May 3^rd, 2019

PRESIDENT OF RUSSIA: How’s it hanging, DJ?

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES: I won’t lie to you, Pootie, it’s been a tough week!

POR: I bet, with all the vituperation you’ve been getting in the media!

[pause]

POR: Vituperation!  That’s when someone…

POTUS: I know what it means, Pootie! 

POR: Well it’s a big word, not everyone…

POTUS: But I’ve had enough of that vituperation <expletive>.  It’s time to deploy Phase 4!  Now that we’ve completed Phase 1….

POR: Where the KGB secretly funds your charade as a genius business tycoon.  Boy did we take a bath on Atlantic City!

POTUS: and then Phase 2…

POR: Where the KGB expertly manipulates American social media to exploit deep-set irrational anxieties, and hacks into political campaigns, then selectively leaks information damaging to your opponent, all of which allows you to barely squeak by with an electoral victory despite losing the popular election by 3 million votes…

POTUS: Ouch! And Phase 3!

POR: Where you earn your populist reactionary credentials by abandoning critical alliances, treating poor brown people with gratuitous cruelty, cozying up to vicious despots…

POTUS: like you know who, Poots! I am so ready for Phase 4!

POR: Where both of us, having acquired enormous unchecked power, use that power to make the world safer, healthier, fairer, more compassionate, more dem, demo, demi…

POTUS: ‘democratic’!  I’ve been waking up every morning for two years going, “I wanna be presidential, I wanna be presidential”, and Melania’s all like, “the world isn’t ready honey, just a little longer!” 

POR: So what are you going to do first?

POTUS: I think the part where we give all the poor desperate families from Central America asylum and assist them in becoming the new industrious, taxpaying working class that we so desperately need in order to keep social security solvent well into the next century!

POR: Oh that’s a good one!

POTUS: Or hey, maybe it’s FINALLY initiating a common-sense single-payer health care system…

POR: Like, duh!

POTUS: Or hey, maybe I’ll start with the part where we send UN forces into the homes of those idiotic gun freaks to take away their military-style assault rifles!  I can’t wait to see the expression on Wayne stupid-ass Lapierre’s face…

POR: Love it!

POTUS: Don’t forget, Poo-butt, you got your stuff to take care of too.  Like letting Boris Nemtsov and those nice journalists out of hiding and revealing their assassinations as hoaxes…

POR: Yeah, right, heh heh, listen, about that, DJ…

POTUS: And pulling out of east Ukraine and setting things back to the status quo ante.

POR: Can’t wait!  Hey listen, DJ, I was thinking maybe we could just, kind of let me hang onto the Crimea…

POTUS:  We talked about this, Pootie!

POR: I know, but, hey, I got this crazy little villa on the sea, we can go jet-skiing…

POTUS: Don’t make me go all nuclear on your ass, Poo-bear!  And I don’t mean that metaphorically!

[pause]

POR: Just yankin’ your chain, big guy!  Of course we give back the Crimea, ha ha!  By the way, I can’t wait to finally see those tax returns, like we talked about!

[pause]

POTUS: You know what, Poobs?  <expletive> the Crimea!

This weekend my wife and I took a driving trip through the Hill Country west of Austin in order to enjoy the show of spring flowers.  And we were well rewarded with dazzling shows of yellows, golds, reds and oranges from the daisies, black-eyed Susans, firewheels and Indian Paintbrush along the roadside.* (The bluebonnets were relatively few this year – perhaps a reflection of this reddest of red states in these red-meat times.)

Our dinner options were rather limited (Llano, Sunday night) but we made a sin out of necessity by visiting Cooper’s barbecue, which was an interesting experience for two reasons.  Firstly, it was one of these real barbecue joints where you order your meat by amount of weight, directly off the “pit”, and eat it off of butcher paper placed on the picnic tables in the dining hall.  Final verdict:  the beef brisket was a little dry, though we still enjoyed (guiltily) the perfect “rind”: charred crispy and salty-sweet on the outside, luxuriously oleaginous on the inside. The tender, fatty pork ribs were divine, and the peach cobbler a stunning symphony of fruit, flour, butter and brown sugar.  We give extra credit for the enormous self-serve cauldrons of pinto beans (free).  We noted (but were not surprised by) a complete absence of anything remotely vegetal (aside from the slightly soggy corn on the cob).  My wife’s inquiry about “salad” was met not with ridicule but with honest puzzlement.  I don’t believe the cashier was actually familiar with the term.

The second significant aspect of this meal was that for the first time I noticed someone (a customer) not an officer of the law with a pistol strapped to his hip.  The “open carry” phenomenon has been up to now an abstract one for me.  I associate it with the gun freaks I see on the local news who parade around the statehouse with their good old American Kalashnikovs and Confederate flags.  Now that I’m actually within point-blank range of the issue, it feels a little creepy.  Still, it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. I guess out in Llano it’s normal to pack heat at the dinner table.

But it’s not until later in the evening, as I’m trying to calculate the miles I’ll have to jog to compensate for my evening of greasy pleasure, that the absurdity of the situation strikes me.

About 40,000 people died in the United States last year from gunshot wounds. And something like 60%  of those were suicides.  But guess how many died of heart disease.  According to the Centers for Disease Control, about 630,000.  And according to that same source, about 1 out of 4 of us folks dining in Cooper’s that Sunday night will die of heart disease.

So there we all are, waddling from pit to table with trays piled high with heaping helpings of heart disease, type-2 diabetes and colon cancer.  And our messmate is wearing a gun in case anyone tries anything dangerous.

But if he really cared about the health and safety of himself and his loved ones, he would direct them all to dump their ‘Q in the big plastic trashcan over by the iced tea urns and take them to the park for a brisk walk.  Or do something truly useful with his weapon, like drawing it on the pit-master and politely but firmly asking him to fix us all a nice spinach salad.

* The Garden of Eaton does not claim to the ability to identify wildflowers with any accuracy, only to enjoy their beauty

1. “March Madness”.  The last one or the next one. Even the phrase “March Madness” gives me a grinding headache.

2. Anything to do with the Kardashians, whoever they are.  Though I’m sure they’re perfectly nice people.

3. Commander Bonespur’s latest tweet.  I’ve been numb since February or March of 2017.

4. Anything Fox News or CNN.com has to say.

5. The Oscars, ever again. When Green Book beat Roma, a little part of me died.

6. The latest “superstorm” to “threaten” the east coast.

7. “Brexit”.  Why should I get stressed about the idiots over there when I’m already stressed by the idiots over here?

8. “Superfoods.” Kale: need I say more?

9. Game of Thrones.  I endured most of the first episode.  It was a bunch of white people in big fur coats saying things like, “the Clan of Adsk will never kneel before the House of Skjfbg”.

10. Mars.  It’s red and round and there are lots of rocks.

It’s not you, it’s me

People who are so in touch that they just say “South By” instead of “South By SouthWest”.  Extra irritation points if they drop their g’s in the process.  As in, “Yeah dude, I have to meet with a customer in Denver tomorrow, but then I’m headin’ on down to South By”.

People who zip around on those wobbly little electric electric scooters in flipflops, shorts, and no helmet.  Extra irritation points if they’re texting.  Even though they’re the ones who will end up in the ER, not me.

The guy stopped in front of me at the red light who is continually fussing with an unseen something in the passenger seat.

Anyone over the age of three who brings a greasy sack of Big Macs and fries into an obliging Chinese restaurant.  Have some respect. For others, if not for yourself.

People who wear those MAGA caps.  In five years they are going to look so stupid.  Because they look stupid now.

Speaking of which, Sean Hannity.  Even though I never watch Sean Hannity.  I’m irritated by the concept of Sean Hannity. I’m irritated by the sound of the name “Sean Hannity”.  When I die and go to hell, I will end up on a comfy lounge chair by the pool with a tall drink in my hand on a beautiful afternoon.  And the devil will be right next to me saying “Sean Hannity Sean Hannity Sean Hannity” into my ear for all eternity.

Tourists who brag, “We like to go where the locals go.”  Well aren’t you special!

They guy who takes up two parking spaces marked “compact only” with the obscenely oversized pickup truck he bought in order to deal with his phallic insecurity issues.

People who make up lists and think they’re being clever.