Life And Death Of An Executive Order

Let’s pick one out of a hat, shall we? Aside from the underhanded hyperbole that Obama handed “cash payments” to Iran, there are some non-alternative facts to consider here:

In 2010 Obama signed the Comprehensive Iran Sanctions, Accountability, and Divestment Act.

Three Executive Orders were signed by Obama freezing Iranian assets between 2010-2011.

An additional Executive Order was signed by Obama in 2013, seizing more assets. The aim of the executive orders were to strangle Iran’s nuclear program.

Enter the talk-show buzz, “King Obama”, stage right.

By 2015 it was clear that Iran was at a stranglehold tipping point: either let go of nuclear ambitions or face a slippery slope towards collapse. That’s when the leading Western nations, including the US under Obama, agreed to a treaty that would keep Iran alive but in check. 

A collapsed Iran is a dangerous liability to the world. The rabbit hole that is Palestine, Syria, and Iraq is child’s play compared to the hell that the Middle East would become if Iran collapses. Which is why Western Europeans were so adamant about not strangling Iran to death by 2015. 

To be clear it’s not the US who would immediately suffer destabilizing consequences in that scenario: it‘s Europe. It always has been Europe. They already feel the fire of Middle Eastern volatility much more than the US does (aside from self-inflected US military interventions).  From refugees and overwhelming migration to terrorism, Western Europe always gets the proximity shaft. Obama was wisely aware of this, so he agreed to release the same assets he froze, on specific conditional terms. Ratchet up far-right hyperbole on “cash payments” made to the enemy by a despotic American king.

Are there ever any guarantees that a government does what they promise to do in a treaty? Of course not, everyone knows that. The history of the world is the history of broken treaties. Were there guarantees that Russia would cease nuclear proliferation? Nyet. And yet, no one in their right mind feels that a collapsed Russia would not spell doom for the world as we know it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about look up “nuclear weapons in the hands of Russian mafia”.

Should Obama have used the more democratic channel of Congress to unfreeze Iranian assets? Maybe. We have become a nation of “executive orders”, present commander in chief being no exception. Talk about a slippery slope away from our great system of checks and balances. 

To be fair: it’s not so much the number of executive orders, it’s the content of the orders. Executive powers discretion is first and foremost a privilege, not a divine right. More importantly, rubber-stamping by a hyper-partisan chamber of puppets is not exactly the bright beacon of democracy we were promised. 

If this trend continues we will be well on our way to joining the ranks of caliphates and banana republics. The implosion of the Fourth Estate is adding insult to injury, with party propaganda (foreign AND domestic) posing as “news”. It’s  “man the torpedoes!” when the opposing party does it. Blind-eye when their own party does. This is where alternative facts live. This is where the Republic dies. 

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Laugh It Up, Fuzzball

We went to see a very funny comic last night. I forgot how much true LOL is amazing therapy for the soul. So this particular comedian, Jeff Dye, was very funny. To me obviously, but no doubt to more than 80% of the comedy club. You can’t make everyone laugh, that’s just the way life goes.

Anyway, it had been a while for me at a comedy club, since last time a few years ago was a bust. But I’m glad I gave it a shot again, my voice is still hoarse from laughing so loud last night. Great humor transcends age, race, culture and gender. Probably among the most  difficult jobs on the planet, when you think about it.

Here’s a sobering takeaway for me from last night: when you’re politically independent you can have a hearty laugh either way. But my 50% conservative 50% independent table was experiencing a bit of a bipolar rollercoaster. When the jokes were poking the left the entire table was in stitches. Especially the conservative ones, hoots and hollers. But when the jokes shifted and poked the right the conservative half went quiet, a nervous laugh here & there. The independent half carried on laughing away like drunk hyenas.

I don’t think we had any true liberals at our table, but according to Jeff Dye he’s seen the exact same reaction from liberals in cities across the country. Roaring laughs when the jokes poke the right, but suddenly uncomfortable when the dagger swings left. Dye is originally from Seattle, if that means anything. 

And then that it hit me. Laughter is a release for pent-up anger. Sure, pent-up other things too - frustration, anxiety, self-doubt - generally negative stuff. But at the end of the night negativity can’t stay. Well it can, but the more it’s trapped inside you the more it will lead you to a Vegas hotel window with an AR-15 in hand.

So laugh it up, fuzzball. While injustice anywhere is indeed a threat to justice everywhere, so is one-sided righteousness.  Work it out or let it go, the world is not here to babysit your anger.

...

“I’m from Seattle, I didn’t know what a gun was till I moved away. But I remember when I finally fired one at a range... damn. Don’t mess with me fuckers, I have a gun!”

“Love him or hate him, we have never had a president as funny as this one. I mean, he has literally broken the mold of saying whatever he wants, and then saying the exact opposite. As in, ‘I never said that’. ‘Yes you did! Look, here’s the text you sent me saying exactly that!’ ‘That’s not my handwriting, fake news.’ “

- Jeff Dye

War And Indifference

The war does not have to start in the Middle East. It’s already at home in the US. The amount of hatred I have read floating from one political end to the other in our own country is a virtual bloodbath of character assassinations. Apparently two men, a current American president and the previous one, can do no wrong and no right at the exact same time. They’re like Schrödinger’s Cat: alive and “dead to me” simultaneously. I feel the dark side of the force myself when I think of one those two men, so I get it. I may pride myself into thinking that when all is said and done I don’t really “hate” anyone, but by then it’s too late. I have looked into the white of the eyes of the Dark Side. 

One thing’s for sure: that dark place we’ve been calling “hell” throughout the ages, historically without a real space, now has an actual GPS coordinate: our “smart” phones. A lit screen in our hands, where we morbidly click on that political land mine we can’t resist... our instant gateway to hell.

Spare me the “I just do it for the laughs” bit, cynicism is the fast lane on that gateway. Perhaps the “I never click on politics” camp are on to something, but it does not exempt them from Schrödinger’s Paradox. Most if not all still very much love to hate and hate to love our surreally morphing presidency. 

Finally there’s the “I’m not on social media” camp, who unfortunately don’t do a good job at hiding their contempt for it. Speaking of dead cats, you know what they say about curiosity. That’s their cross to bear. 

But there is one group who are on seemingly still waters, the kind that run deep. I can only think of them in terms of Ayn Rand’s “objectivism”. Initially a fan of Rand’s philosophy, over time I found her to possess one too many contradictions for my taste. But sometimes we just need to grow up and not shoot messengers, flawed as they may be.

In her book “The Fountainhead”, Ayn Rand’s central character and hero, Howard Roark, is having a brief conversation with Ellsworth Toohey, the villain of the story. Toohey was directly responsible for blocking Roark from a brilliant career in Architecture. In that brief exchange of words, Toohey asks Roark, “You can tell me what you think of me,” expecting to stir up hatred and bile. To which Roark coolly responds, “But I don’t think of you.”

That line has stayed with me since college, an influence on more than I care to admit. You might have heard some people say, the opposite of love is not hate: it is indifference. Intuitive enough, no doubt central to Ayn Rand’s philosophy. But if that’s true, then what is the opposite of hate? Therein lies our dilemma.

You can drag love back into the triangle, and try creating your own paradoxical reality. One where opposites are not perfectly symmetrical. The opposite of hate cannot be indifference, because indifference to hate only perpetuates it. Hate only has one absolute cure: love. Love only has one true nemesis: indifference. And so it goes, till you’re on your knees.

The opposite of peace is not war: it is indifference. Indifference to the armchair warriors and their cowardly cries of “nuke them all!”, or “death to all of infidels!” Indifference to those who run from  any and every fight, with their empty peace-hugging slogans. Because war does not automatically switch itself on straight from peace: it must first push the drug of indifference on its way to hell.

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“It's not given to people to judge what's right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.”

― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

"How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?" - Ten Years Later

Ten years have passed since I asked myself the question one cold December day: How Much Is That Doggie In The Window??  Because, let's face it: man's best friend is high maintenance. Technically you can leave a cat home alone for two or three days, with motorized litter boxes, electronic feeders and what not. But not doggos, no sir. Not indoors anyway. Which begs the question: when the hell did we decide to bring them indoors full-time??

Humans have been obsessed from the dawn of time with where we came from, who brought us here, and why. While birthing and fathering was the closest we ever came to personally feeling the might of creation, we also realized that we could come close to that feeling with our domination over animals. Savage at first, we "humanized" that domination over the centuries (yes, I use the term "humanized" loosely). We narrowed it down to a handful of beasts. We saw it was good, and we called it domestication. Humane Societies were born, and therein shifted the paradigm: a delusion that "humanization" is actually what is best for animals. Because we're mighty creators. God's mini-me's. 

Leashes. Choke collars. Electric fences, shock collars. Muzzles. Tranquilizing medications. Obedience school. Pet grooming salons and spas. Gourmet pet food. Air conditioning, dog sweaters. And people thought Sting's "Every Breath You Take" was creepy? Oh, can't you see? You belong to me! Who's a good boy now?? 

Seriously though. I find it odd and ironic that when we finally admitted the twisted nature of our need to own people, whether it was slaves or "the little woman", we decided to turn our predatory ways instead upon our recently domesticated friends.

Barring domestic violence or Stockholm Syndrome, we don't force our human mates to stay in our homes. In the words of timeless wisdom: "Happiness is like a butterfly that sits on your shoulder when you stop chasing it". Chasing is a means to ownership. You chase something or someone you want to beat, perhaps own. Ownership is the heroin of material and trophy chasers, their addiction to the chase being the via crucis of a shallow existence. 

At the opposite end of that spectrum some are caught in an empathy quagmire. They want to fix every suffering, hug every pain, fund every cure. Now what's wrong with that, you ask? Not everything, of course. Save the intention, ditch the arrogance. Wolves were once noble mammals that took care of themselves. Evolution-forbid they continued down that path, without the aid of food chain masters in shining armor.

I remember the first time that Nikolai (Niko, now an eleven year old husky) bolted from the front door of his new home. He was barely one year old, and he ran. And there I went, chasing after him. I chased him because, well, I guess I thought I owned him. Oh, that's not what I told myself. I told myself he might get hurt. He would get lost, hungry, in trouble. I would be a bad owner, for not taking the appropriate measures. And who knows what "they" might think. They might think that maybe he ran for a reason. 

Niko was reportedly neglected or mistreated at least twice before "I rescued him" (cue in superhero theme music). Which means he had already ran twice. Even though I tried making his new environment as friendly and comfortable as possible, his survival instinct told him not to take any chances. But then again... who knows, perhaps his radar told him that my chasing after him was an endearing thing. Perhaps he thought, what the hell. Free food, free mortgage... eh, dogs can sell their souls too, right?

The more radical dog owners have been circulating memes of platitudes, putting dog above man. Dogs are noble, humans are bad. Dogs are the ultimate in unrequited love, we suck at it. Adorable, if it weren't disturbing. It's not self-effacing actually. Quite the opposite, it's self-serving. We are re-branding our blatant ownership of them with the ol' "putting the little woman on a pedestal" routine. I guess it is true what they say: can't teach an old human new tricks. 

Yes, wolves first approached humans, against their better instinct, when the least adapted to survive had all but given up hope. They were hungry, very hungry. But then it happened: in some planetary alignment moment, an amused campfire human decided to throw the wolf a bone instead of eating him. And just like that, the first PetSmart was born. A similar evolutionary path for cats, mind you, though they hang on to evolutionary independence in quite an impressive way. A cat can survive in human jungleland way longer than a dog. Because we actually de-wolfed the dog, while we have barely managed to de-claw the cat. Which essentially means, from an evolutionary standpoint, former wolves are now one hundred percent dependent on humans. How noble of us.

The last time I "owned" a cat (around thirty years ago), de-clawing was never questioned. It was something you did, because you worked hard for your expensive furniture. Within the last decade or so, de-clawing has become inhumane. Same fate for electric shock collars. An interesting moving target. Fresh from a race that has de-wolfed a relatively new species of animal - and is quite righteous about it. If you don't see that righteousness, try leaving your dog in a parked car for five minutes. Even if it's in the shade, window cracked, and you are literally not going to leave him there for more than five minutes. You could be taking him to a dog park, or to the vet. No excuse. Better call Allstate when you get back.

I realize now I asked the wrong question, ten years ago: I should have not asked, how much is that doggie in the window? The wiser question would have been, how much is that soul in the window? Because, religion aside, it turns out that animals have souls. And a soul is not something you own. You want to stop animal cruelty? Let's start first with the one by your lap, or on it. I did try something different with Niko, as imperfect as it was. I "collaborated" with him from day one on an open-door policy. No electronic fence, no shock collar. Yes, I had to run after him quite a few times. He must have found that quite amusing. And it also meant I had to have conversations with my neighbors about that policy. I was lucky, or perhaps my neighbors appreciated the courtesy of asking them, not imposing it on them. I will say, knowing that Niko had free will to come and go as he pleased, and always chose to return back to where he wanted to be, was quite a powerful bonding.

I get it, it's too late, too impractical for too many. Dogs that would get run over by cars if they had "too much" freedom. Or they would get into fights with other animals, or bite a human. I'm not casting any judgement on that. The more productive question going forward should be, what will you do different before you "own" your next dog? Because if there is one thing I still agree on ten years after I asked the doggie in the window question is that, in the grand scheme of things, that doggie in the window is priceless. You cannot own them, even if you think you do.

Truth Redux

I watched Ambassador Sondland’s impeachment hearing testimony this past week. The alternative on that particularly evening was the Democrat’s debate, which I imagined would play out more like a Disney political satire. “Snow White & The Seven Dwarfs: The Struggle Is Real”. Apparently after five or six debates, democratic politicians have not yet finished noodling over how they’re going to undo the undoings of President Trump. The merry-go-round shitshow we call a pendulum now seems headed to the undoing of the republic itself. So yes, watching the impeachment hearing was a no-brainer.

Sondland’s testimony was refreshing to me, as I hope it was to most independents.  On the surface his testimony was clear. But strange bedfellows being what they are, it was not enough for the partisan masses. Many Democrats struggled over why he hadn’t pounced harder over cross-examination browbeatings. Meanwhile across the aisle, the hearings were repeatedly condemned as a “charade”. Apparently when it comes to attacking their Democratic nemesis Republicans suddenly find religion in fancy French words.

Sondland’s testimony was refreshing because you could tell by his demeanor that he did not care one bit if Republican or Democratic politicians were happy with him. He genuinely couldn’t care less if they were butthurt over his reading on Trump’s words. And he did so respectfully, mind you. Like the proverbial icing on the cake, there it was in all its glory: his personal interpretation of Trump’s hyperbole. An outrageous interpretation to Republicans, but not quite the smoking gun Democrats needed. When he acknowledged at browbeating-point that Trump never told him directly to seek a quid pro quo, you could hear the deafening sound of red microphones dropping. 

Of course Trump didn’t tell him that. Trump wrote the book on not saying what he’s saying. He called it “The Art of The Deal”. Trump once recollected a moment of self-discovery, when his book writer told him that his big secret to success was actually in the art of hyperbole. And just like that, Trump had stumbled across his political calling. For those not familiar with the word, hyperbole is defined as “exaggerated statements or claims not meant to be taken literally”. 

Sound familiar? Well, it shouldn’t. Exaggeration, while it may have its limited place in daily life, is the slippery slope through which every machiavellian leader has taken entire nations down. It is the stuff of fork-tongued manipulators, who speak in a way that allows them to backpedal when confronted by the actual truth. It is the mother of all twisted minds. And it is especially rich coming from a heartland who cried out for a leader to “tell it like it is”. The same folks who keep taking a bullet for their doublespeak leader, constantly making excuses and translating what Hyperbole Man meant.

Make up your freaking minds, Trump followers. Your “telling it like it is” moral ground turned out to be one of the worst swamps our nation has ever witnessed. An exaggeration is not in any conceivable way “like it is” - since you are alluding that “it” is the truth. An exaggeration is a calculated distortion of whatever you need “it” to be. Your logic failed miserably, even if some of us gave it an honest listen. You thought you were sending Rambo to teach the world a lesson. What you got instead was more like Rambling Man. Which is precisely why Sondland’s testimony was a breath of fresh air. His short and simple answers revealed way more than a mere quid pro quo: they reminded us that hyperbole is at its dark core the unraveling of lies masquerading as the truth. 

If and when we finally manage to do the right thing again, Trump’s followers will experience a “Hunt For Red October” watershed moment. In that story’s climax, as their own launched torpedo is seconds away from blowing themselves out of the water, the commander from the hunter-turned-hunted submarine berates his captain: “You arrogant bastard, you have killed us!”

Sondland didn’t care what words Trump used, or abused. Through the clarity of his own words his testimony reminded us that the truth, when exaggerated or distorted in any other way, ceases to be the truth. Once it vanishes from the moral ground you’re standing on, as god is your witness divided you’ll fall. Oldest history lesson in the book. 

The Might of Arthur Ashe

Fresh from the US Open Women’s final yesterday, the New York Times published an opinion piece titled, “The Power of Serena Williams”. The author of the article was half-right, which I suppose is better than totally wrong. Here’s what the author gets right:

Serena Williams is indeed a powerful player, both physically and mentally.

She has been a powerful influence in the sport, for younger girls, African American or otherwise, as well as tennis fans.

She has had to endure more obstacles as a woman and an African American, powerfully ploughing thru.

That’s where it stops. Some may ask, what the hell more is needed to be in awe of her power?

Normally not a lot, but the half of the story that’s missing is too large of an elephant in the room. Turn a blind eye to it or not, no one really cares. Williams will be fine, no martyr to see here folks.

During her peak, Williams was often consumed by a fragile ego, a tortured one many point out. The kind that “bad boys” like John McEnroe had. It wasn’t endearing to many back then either, I don’t care how many fans or victories MacEnroe had. The assumption that everyone agreed with McEnroe’s antics is plain and simple BS. The argument of depression, to the tune of millions of dollars in reward, is a convoluted defense that will never pass the test of time. As for the argument of discrimination, hold that thought for a minute.

The fact that McEnroe got away with it more, with less obstacles, does not mean he was liked, loved, or respected by everyone. Just like history can be harsh over what guys like Reagan or Biden said or did in the 60s or 70s, the bar stays the same here. Johnny Mac does not get a free pass.

But more important: overcoming obstacles IS the stuff that has made people great thru the ages. Serena fed on them, and it served her well. Very well. 

There were two huge ironies that took place yesterday at Arthur Ashe stadium, and those two elephants will not go quietly into the night here...

One: The stadium roared pro-Serena to the tune of deafening decibels.  Andreescu at one point had to cover her ears from the roar, it was a borderline frenzy. Not Serena’s fault, but the irony lies in how much Andreescu fed on being the underdog. It wasn’t Serena “Goliath” alone that “David” Andreescu was battling: it was Goliath and 20,000+ screaming fans. Blood-thirsty, like Roman Colosseum spectators who couldn’t wait for the favored gladiator to run a spear thru the heart of the lesser-known gladiator. That almost happened, by the way, as Goliath got her second wind. But David prevailed this time, with a great story to tell.

And two, the more subtle irony but running way deeper: this David and Goliath story took place at Arthur Ashe stadium. Ashe was a true American hero, a real target of racism amidst the American apartheid of the 1960s. The kind that would have destroyed the fragile ego of Serena Williams. A mere year ago, the spirit of Arthur Ashe looked down at Williams’ bratty meltdown, probably in a head-shaking, facepalm reaction. Because these words would never come from Serena Williams:

“True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.”

-Arthur Ashe

Give me the awe-inspiring power of an Arthur Ashe any day, over the diluted, crowd-frenzy kind from Serena Williams. The Coco Gauff’s of the future don’t need the Serena Williams kind of power: they should be told about the might of Arthur Ashe.

A New Hope For Capitalism: Unemploying Employment

"Now the onus is on employers to keep their best employees happy."

-Mark Cuban 

A good start Mr. Cuban. But why stop there? You left something crucial out: the mindset-terminology of “employer” and “employee” must die before we can move on to greater things. (Also “onus” sounds too much like “anus”, but I digress).

Politicians - the whores of status quo masters - play with “unemployment figures” like cats play with a mortally wounded mouse. And yet, there is a way to end their reign of their fear-based leadership: unemploy employment itself.

Bad enough that true unemployment lies somewhere north of 20%. Instead, “new claims” are used in an extrapolated method, dropping the expired claims as if they have all up and found a job. Just as it’s easy to find the “new claims” number, it would be easy to follow the expired social security number through the months, or years, until a company claims that SS number once again in its payroll. The obvious logical observation is that there is an incremental amount of claim expirations every month that are not going back into the employment pool. Rather, they are going off-radar. They are  entering the underworld of support by family, friends, gross underemployment, or worse: crime. But god forbid we count them as unemployed. The angry mob might turn on the status quo.

Employment must die. Not work itself, of course. Especially not the enlightened side of work. No, the dark side of work. The one we’ve been calling “employment” since slavery was no longer an option.

Mr. and Ms. “Employer”, you don’t have to be co-conspirators with political whores. If you think your business model depends on that status quo, then you’ve lost sight of your true business vision and mission. So in that case, yes: for a worthless moment in  time you will become a political whore yourself.

But to the majority of capitalist enterprises, be the entrepreneur you are and always have been. You’ve always had your eye on the customer, with laser focus. You’ve always preached the gospel of customer service. So why are you sending hapless “employees” to serve your customers??

Mr. and Ms. Employer, that’s not who you are and you know it: you were once a badass Innovator and Disruptor. Get back to what you do. Here’s the mother of all disruptions for you:

Don’t employ, be a collaborator.

Don’t wage, share results.

Don’t train, teach.

As for the other half of the equation - ”Employees”. You, and especially you, need to seriously reconsider your gaslighted mindset.

Stop calling yourself an “employee”.

Don’t work for time, work for results.

Expect more from yourself before you demand from your collaborators, colleagues, and customers.

If you find yourself being more negative and cynical of and at your work, figure it out. Or do something else. Your negativity is a cancer.

There are two types of workers: those who work for results and those who work for wages & benefits. 

The former are always going to be generally happier. 

The latter are a product of a cannibalistic contract. One mutually set for failure by the employer-employee Stockholm Syndrome.

By the way, Mr. Employer: if you get a hard-on from the words “you’re fired!” please consider getting neutered. Your cancer must die with you.

Honestly, I can’t blame those who retire from being an employee. I would retire too from that hell. But when you figure out how to stop being an employee you might just make retiring obsolete. You might just find yourself. There’s nothing more rewarding in life than results. Yes, that includes the results from being a good friend, parent, partner, mentor, volunteer, worker. Manager, director, chief, entrepreneur, shareholder. Or just a good fucking human being. 

My father taught me that money is a byproduct from all those things. He also taught me that retiring is for old sports jerseys and horses. With all due respect to my retired friends, I believe he was right. It is never about a retirement strategy: it’s about an exit one.

Happy Labor Day.