Getting a Boom Box Fixed? Now, That's A Challenge

I have an old (I guess it's old now; going on 30 years) boom box that has traveled with me on at least a dozen moves now. It's one of two. One works fine. They're both made by Sony and look much the same. Both have handles so they can be toted without too much awkwardness. They can be operated by both electric and battery means. The radios play well. They even can, if they exist, play cassettes--remember those?

The other day, though, one of them broke down. Which is to say, the CD player stopped working. I have a collection of a couple hundred CDs, so this constituted a colossal waste. I tolerated it for a while. But that was the boom box in which I'd usually put a jazz CD while making my award-winning (by myself to myself, if I may be so braggart) chili (which, however, has earned kudos from all who have tried it). It takes 40 minutes to an hour to make a huge pot, which is about the time for most CDs to run. I had that boom box set up in my dining room, blaring into the adjacent kitchen--a perfect arrangement. Sonny Rollins, Tony Bennett, and Diana Krall would help me lurch through my process.

In other words, I missed the music and the ambiance. So, at long last, I decided to do something about it. Getting something that far obsolete repaired, at least in terms of communicative technology, takes a specialist. I am typical of my generation: scared to death of anything beyond plugging something in. Thousands of people myst be laughing at us, raking in bucks while doing what they figure any dolt could do. We're not just any dolts, though. We're helpless dolts. We left Apple iPhone behind at 3 or 4. What is it now, 26 or something?

But I found a store that I thought would do the trick: A place called UBreakIt, IFixIt. There are a couple in the Milwaukee area; one I solicited for my phone in Whitefish Bay, not far of a drive from my place on the East Side, did well. I found another one even closer. 

I tried them again late last month. The young lady (this place has young proprietors) took a look and wasn't sure she could help me. But she promised to try. The order slip suggested that they'd be ready on the 10th of February, two weeks hence.

Well, it got to be the 16th, nearly three weeks, and I wanted a decision. I called, and they admitted failure. I was a bit piqued: Get this thing back to me so I can make, maybe, the kind of decision one must make with a pet, painful but necessary: Is it time to end the relationship? Is it just not worth it anymore? Shall I commence burial, or at least relinquish it next to the nearby dumpster?

But UBreakIt didn't want to leave me without alternatives, so they called someone on the South Side: Would he take a look at it? Sure, he said. They gave me the name of the place and the address. Off I went. I thought that was nice. They didn't have to do that. They pitied the customer. Doesn't always happen nowadays. Maybe they thought they owed me that.

The address was on a main drag of that part of the town, Oklahoma Avenue. But that didn't mean fanciness or slick storefronts. It was a corner store with its entrance on that angle embracing both directions. (I later learned it was an old ice cream parlor.) No parking lot, either. You had to park as close as you could, which for me was a good half a block away.

I lugged the boom box to the door--Did people actually put these things on their shoulders?--but it was locked with this little sign on the glass: Back in 10 Minutes. It meant that there was but one person staffing the place--otherwise, someone else would have been there--and whatever the issue, it was too urgent to invite business to come in. At any rate, when you see something saying Back in 10 Minutes, you can pretty much bet it'll be longer. What it nearly always means is, Don't give up on us. We'll be back. Hope you are, too.

I lugged the boom box back. It wasn't an especially busy street I was parked on--South 10th--so I figured that if I caught a little lunch at a nearby McDonald's, that would take up the prerequisite time and it would be open when I re-parked in nearly the same place, alongside houses many of which needed new front steps. So it was. He wasn't lying. The place hadn't closed for the day.

UBreakIt, IFixIt is spick and span with plenty of room between the front door and the counter, nicely lit and clean. This place, called Economy TV, has no counter. It had overhead lights frustratingly dim. One didn't work. 

The shelving was stacked with old component audio sets, the kind that, in the '60s and '70s, were essential for someone into recorded music and LPs. But people don't buy those anymore. I had no idea whether they were operable or not, but considering the thick dust that covered them, no one had seen to that in some time.

The shop held a throwback fascination, though. Placed nicely here and there were old radios. They all played AM and FM with names on them like ads in newsmagazines, in the days when they ruled the stands: Philco and Zenith, for instance. The attendant, about six inches shorter than me, clad in a navy peacoat that indicated that the place didn't shell out much for heat, noticed me glancing at them. "They all work, too," he made sure to inform me. The display even had one of those 1920s-era wooden radios, reminding one of the front of a cathedral. "Works fine," said the sign taped to it, in case one was looking for a real live antique.

But that wasn't the only amazement. The moment I walked in, the fellow, probably not much younger than me than ten years, reached out and grabbed the boom box immediately. What constituted work orders were written out on business cards; no excess paper required. Remember, they had been informed that they might--might--have someone coming who needed help. The card with the order had already been prepared. When's the last time you had that happen?

Someone needed, you would think, to take a rag and Endust to all this. I looked for spider webs from the girded ceiling. But the component sets were blocked by other component sets, which seemed to take up every square inch of the place. Enough room had been cleared to walk in with one's problem. That was about it. But that's about all that was necessary. The work area, with used and scraped wood, was a few steps to the rear. It was jammed with things to repair. A stack of channel changers lurked nearby. Some of them, too, had thick dust on them.

It seemed like a place that might collapse at any minute. Yet, it had an energy to it, an exigency that felt genuinely helpful. It was a neighborhood store, the kind of place I would never have known about without the earlier recommendation. The surrounding vicinity, once thoroughly Polish but now leaning decisively Hispanic, had blocks of houses with groaning old porches and stairs that, too, could use some repair. Walking through in February, I wondered whether chairs were still being set up and people called out across the streets to each other during the other three seasons. I hoped so. I would hate to see it go to waste.

Economy TV, however jumbled and chaotic as it at first appeared, was scrapping and hustling and scraping for whatever it could get. I was happy, in a way, to help them. They charged twenty bucks for a look-see. I took out my debit card. Foolish. Should have known. "We take only cash," he warned me. With service this efficient, I wasn't going to deny him. He read my mind. Never phased him; I'm sure he'd had this problem before. "There's a liquor store across the way with an ATM," he said. I went and got a couple of twenties.

I had waited in futility three weeks for the slick, clean, prestigious East Side outfit to get back to me. I had had to reconnect with them for them to tell me that they couldn't fix my problem. Heaven knows how long it would be there had I not taken the initiative.

Mr. Navy Peacoat, though, took one look at me and said, "We'll get back to you in a couple of days." I believed him. This was the kind of arrangement Don Nelson, former coach of the Milwaukee Bucks, had in mind when he chose to eschew formal contractural discussions with then-owner Herb Kohl and settled on a once-a-year handshake to continue his job. The informality led to complete trust. Someone's word mattered here.

They did call me back quickly. Two hours. "We're all done," he said. "You can come get it. It'll be forty, so you owe us another twenty."

Three weeks as opposed to two hours? Was this age-ism working, however subtlety? Or was it just that an older repairman was used to the equipment? Mattered not.

I came for it the next day. There were other men in the shop on this late Saturday morning, too. They didn't seem as interested in getting things fixed as they were in just visiting. Sloppily clad, one had had several teeth removed in front. There were grins all around. Bonding need not be done perpetually in bars.

Navy Peacoat took me back to the repair bench for a test drive. "I was listening to my favorite song all day yesterday," he said, and cranked on some Ronnie Milsap. Not jazz, but it blared nicely. All set. I paid him off.

I mentioned my chili prep. "See, now you've got a friend to make your chili," another attendant said. "You took me right away, so thanks," I told them. "I'll recommend you."

They thanked me as I left. There was a bounce in my step as I worked back to the car. I got home, plugged in the boom box, now good as new, and celebrated by turning it up. No sense holding back. The chili would taste good tonight. The jazz would sound better.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

What Would X and MLK Think Now?

Yes, I do wonder what they'd think. I also wonder if it would be mostly good that came from it.

I went to a one-act play in Madison last weekend. The premise was to display a conversation that never happened, unfortunately: Between Malcolm X and Martin Luther King.

It was called "The Meeting," and the premise was that it would have taken place in early 1965, just before Malcolm X because the first of them to be gunned down. In fact, a minor role of a bodyguard was written in, largely because X had been threatened many times and that followers of Elijah Mohammad were laying for him.

But seemed incidental to the main event. Martin arrived and they predictably started in on each other. Being the one with the most strident philosophy on how to deal with white racism, Malcolm X asserted himself. He was never one for non-violent resistance. His response to being attacked for attending a university or sitting in a segregated lunch counter was to hit back.

Of course, X's rhetoric, re-created by playwright Jeff Stetson, came at King's character, played by Willian Toney, with an undeniable rush. But by this time, King had heard all of that. He fended off the stridency of X, played by Talen Marshall, with deftness and calm.

In real life, though, both men made strides toward the other's approach. In The Autobiography of Malcolm X, ghostwritten by Alex Haley, later the author of Roots, he appears astonished that people of all colors and philosophies could worship together at the Hajj, or the pilgrimage of Muslims to Mecca, one of the Five Pillars of the religion that all devotees of Allah should at least try to perform once in their lives. X's edge toward distrust and suspicion toward whites begins to fall off. All the more a shame that he didn't have the chance to explore the implications of that new attitude.

King continued his philosophy of non-violent resistance to segregation until his own violent end. But instead of being completely passive, which Freedom Riders and marchers (often led by him) tended to reflect, he leaned toward a more aggressive tone, support of unions, in the months before his own assassination. In fact, he was in Memphis, in support of garbage workers' unions, when he was shot. The viciousness of responses to protests reached their peak, he said, not in the South, where they were bad enough, but in Chicago. Perhaps that triggered more strong-willed responses elsewhere.

The one-act nature of the play left little time to explore those late-in-life inclinations more deeply. The purpose of the play, it appeared, was at least to expose the fundamentals of the two activists' approaches so that the younger Black students (this took place at Madison Area Technical College, now known as Madison College), living far later than their lives' expanse, could at least compare the two and discuss it among themselves. In that, I thought, it succeeded. I'm glad it did, because as time slips farther away, clarification and exposition of what the two had to deal with are all the more necessary.

A symbolic gesture ran its path through the play. The two squared off in arm-wrestling matches which became indicative as to which man's philosophy would hold sway. Malcolm X won the first without much of a challenge, but King won the second, surprising Malcolm. The tie-breaking and decisive third? In the play, at least, neither could win. The playwright didn't want to go there.

I can. So far, at least in practicable display, King has won. Think about the reaction to George Floyd--strong, but most peaceful. Aggressive, violent reactions were put down almost immediately. So far, at least, Black resisters haven't resorted to organized weaponry. Heaven help us if they do.

Economically, though, Blacks need to go an even greater distance--here, Malcolm X would win. He foresaw a greater, more sweeping respect potentially emerging. "You want to desegregate the lunch counters," said his character to King. "We want to own the lunch counters." Ironically, it would be another method of non-violence.

At the end, they hugged. I doubt that that would have happened in, say, 1962. But if both had lived into the '70s, their respect might have grown appreciably. The violent bent of our society made sure we'll never know. They were not unaware of this. Both knew someone was coming for them.

A panel discussion, including the director of the play as well as the actors, followed. About half the attending crowd stayed, and questions from it were featured. Naturally, one question posed asked how the entourage felt Martin Luther King and Malcolm X would feel today. It was asked generally, without specifics, and so were the answers.

I thought that to be too bad. I would want to know how they thought the two activists would consider the murder of George Floyd, for instance; the presidency of ex-, dripping with ugly white supremacy; the acquittal of Kyle Rittenhouse; critical race theory; or the continued Republican efforts to limit Black voting. But perhaps that was too much to ask for. The discussion took about half an hour. It would take a whole course to explain the relative paucity of advancement of the Black race and why the resistance to it is still obvious and unabating. There were about ten people on the panel and most of them weighed in on most of the questions. A drilling down would have taken hours.

I wonder after all that effort and energy expended, though, the two legends would look at today's situation and say to themselves; We did all that for this? We're standing still. We're still standing still. We've tried everything--being nice about it, being tough about it, being intellectual about it. Resistance, still. Racism, still. Prospects, still dim.

No longer any reason for any of it, either. The struggle goes on. Repeat a hope and maybe it becomes true: We shall overcome. Someday.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

Why Will Colorado Lose? Look to Mayorkas.

Colorado doesn't have a chance with the Supreme Court. It's been co-opted, too.

How do I know this? Look at the stupid, awful, ridiculous attempt to impeach Secretary of Homeland Security Alejando Mayorkas. It reveals the shameful attitudes of far too many Republicans and how today's politics have been reduced to mutual face-slapping.

Mayorkas came within a hair's breadth of being impeached for absolutely nothing. The Republicans have tried to smear him for incompetence and neglect, when all he's trying to do is execute policy as best he can--as best as the Republicans have helped, or mostly not helped at all, to shape it. In the sad majority, the House Republicans have conjured accusations that Mayorkas, gasp, has lied to them.

Oh? Nobody defending ex- in the vast investigations of his horrible acts five years ago lied? They lied like rugs, in front of everyone, and we all knew it. They put a gossamer thin coating over what couldn't be hidden. Or they refused to testify, defying subpoenas, and dared anyone to make them.

All Mayorkas has done is to put his head down and deal with an impossible situation, specifically designed to make the Biden Administration look inadequate--when in fact it has been, if anything, more efficient about trying to keep migrants on the other side of the U.S.-Mexico border, reducing an absurd number of them from seeking asylum, and removing the ones they can.

In other words, it has responded to Republicans who desperately need to create 2024 campaign issues out of thin air. The latest attempt to provide them with exactly what they wanted--increased enforcement and the money to pay for it, in exchange for funding for the wars in Israel (which Republicans lather over) and Ukraine and military support for Taiwan, all badly needed--has been thrown back at it by jackbooted followers of ex- at his order. It is a frightening prospect, but one that must be called out by Biden and his supporters, now, at every turn.

Mayorkas is caught up in this only because he is the convenient scapegoat, because Biden cannot be touched with impeachment nonsense, or perhaps he now will be with smears galore about his feebleness burnishing. Even so, a handful of Republicans with consciences left--looking at you, Mike Gallagher, of the 8th District of Wisconsin, in the Green Bay area (who, if you recall, was one of the first Congresspeople to go public with a plea to stop the attempted insurrection: his announcement that he won't run for another term coming immediately after the Mayorkas vote--coincidence? I think not)--prevented an impeachment vote from passing the other day. It embarrassed Speaker Mike Johnson, who deserves to be embarrassed many times over.

Nevertheless, the hubbub and energy expended about useless details, and the utter vindictiveness of it all, has created a mindset in the Supreme Court that, while probably supportable, indicates that rationality has pretty much left the basis of our politics.

The justices can hardly be blamed. They understand full well that, if Colorado should be allowed to successfully accuse ex- of an insurrection, without enforceable definition, other state legislatures will seize upon any reasonably noticeable public disorder and blame it on Biden, accusing him of motivating the forces behind it (as if he would), and take him out off the ballot for president in their states, charging him with "insurrection."

The Supreme Court could, if it wanted to, define the term "insurrection" to sufficiently narrow ex-'s participation on 1/6/21 to encompass it. But then the justices who voted in favor of it would be accused of establishing an ex post facto definition, strictly prohibited by the Constitution. Colorado, and Maine (which has also tried to stop ex- from being on ballots in 2024) wouldn't mind that at all; I think Colorado was half-expecting that.

With three justices appointed by ex-, and two more clearly in his camp, though, I highly doubt that they will take a detached view and do what's most appropriate. Such definition would stop a tit-for-tat, vengeance-filled succession of state legislatures from slicing ex- and Biden from their ballots due to conjured accusations of attempt at "insurrection," keep all of our eyes on the ball, and utilize Article 3 of the 14th Amendment to project enforcement of it the way it's supposed to be done, the way the simple wording of it suggests.

Of course, if it did so, it might also encourage splinter groups to "fake" attempts to take over state governments by trying to disguise assaults on state capitols and spread false press releases saying that, for instance, a rowdy group of Democrats tried to overthrow the state government of, say, Idaho, when they did no such thing, kind of like the way the Sons of Liberty disguised themselves as "Indians" in Boston Harbor in 1773. So there's that, too. Dirty trick? Wasn't 1/6/21 a dirty trick, too?

So the Supreme Court is caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. The rule of law is clearly endangered to the point at which the "right" thing can't be supported anymore because it won't be followed. Whatever its ruling, it isn't likely to be respected because the Court ruled it to be so; it's likely to be respected only because justice has given way to power, as blind and coercive as it may be. The Supreme Court has admitted, in other words, that it is helpless.

The failed impeachment of Alejando Mayorkas proved that, with a whisper of rationality saving the Congress from being tied up uselessly for months. Note, though, that that rationality is quite narrow, very edgy, and subject to reversal instantaneously. The Republicans in Congress are acting the way the late Marquette men's basketball coach Al McGuire said: Like a bouncer starting a fight in the bar to justify his existence. They can't justify passing the best possible version of a border bill designed to give them nearly everything they want because of self-imposed psychological dependence on a complete fool, so they busy themselves creating a quasi-legal excuse to harass a Biden Cabinet member, inventing their own dog whistle because they know they don't have a remotely justifiable excuse to impeach Biden.

The Supreme Court doesn't have a remotely justifiable excuse to stick ex- with the obvious label of "insurrectionist," or at least it doesn't think it can, because it's scared to death about state-invoked legislative anarchy. In other words, it can't justify its existence anymore because the guardrails about decent behavior have disappeared, and it relies on that when it makes its rulings.

When law lacks respect, force intervenes. We're not at that moment yet, but we're close.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

We've Left the Kids With a Vacuum of Hope

Please direct comments to dadofprince@gmail.com. Thank you!

One of the great things about being young is that you have, or should have, so much to look forward to: Career, independence, love, family. Okay, it doesn't turn out that way for everyone; I, too, have had disappointments. There are times when one needs self-care and self-sustenance.

But a statistic I read the other day, from an important article in the Green Bay Press-Gazette (as reprinted in a Door County paper), shook me pretty hard. The first sentence will do: "One in 10 Wisconsin teenagers have attempted suicide over the last three years."

One in 10. Ten percent. The high school in which I taught had, with few exceptions, at least a thousand students each year, in a town not very big. In a school of a thousand kids, in the scope of three-fourths of their high school experience, a hundred of those kids would have attempted suicide, or about four classrooms full. The report did not say what percentage of that percentage succeeded.

By any measurement, that is staggering. Let's go on with the same paragraph: "More than one-third of high schoolers feel sad or hopeless." In that same school of a thousand kids, more than three hundred of them don't think the future holds much hope.

End of paragraph: "Half of Wisconsin youths have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety or behavior problems." Half. In a school of a thousand students, five hundred.

The Wisconsin Office of Children's Mental Health, an agency of the Department of Health Service, made that report. You can guess what weighs on kids' minds nowadays for them to conclude that hope has disappeared into a big, black hole:

• Academic pressures
• Widespread gun violence
• Racism and discrimination (especially with respect to anti-LGBTQ policies)
• Political divisiveness
• Climate change

And some stressors that broadly impact families:

• Lack of child care options
• Financial insecurity
• Food insecurity
• Housing instability

How have the kids coped? They've grasped at the first things to allow them to escape, like vaping and their cell phones. The report says that kids average three hours a day in looking at screens unconnected to their schoolwork; it's true of three-fourths of them.

As one might expect, the rural kids are in the most trouble. Resources for them to deal with their issues are largely unavailable; they make up 70% of those who live in a child care desert. Where do they turn?

Of course, this doesn't stop when the kids become older. Nearly 40% of all Wisconsin adults aged 18 to 25 are experiencing mental illness. The report says that fewer of them went through school without an adult they could trust; they didn't have a sense of belonging in their schools; and there aren't enough school counselors to handle this overload. Kids may go to school to learn things, but they take their personal issues with them.

The article goes on to suggest what you might guess: More help, encouragement, more and better sleep. And good news: Teenage drinking and pregnancy and bullying rates are down; peer-led wellness programs are up. But taking on the issues above are daunting. Their relentless onslaught can't be defeated without recognizing their source--the adults who've caused them. Otherwise, it's like getting a new pair of mittens for the recent cold snap we've had; they'll work for a while, but frigid is frigid. One needs to get indoors. One needs to be safe.

Safety: We say we want that for kids. But how can we provide it in the depths of their minds when they know that things are contrary? How can they manufacture hope when the adults have let them down so much and so often?

This is beyond mere boosting where we've neglected it. Kids aren't stupid. They grow into their circumstances. We are leaving behind a world that is far more challenging than anything we've experienced--when it should be far less. Our generation, the boomers, have created a world that looks more and more not as a potential shangri-la, but a trap.

No wonder. We should be lucky the number's just ten percent (6% eight years ago; that's bad enough). We have work to do before our time is up: Serious, complicated work that will have to involve cooperation and a sense of community, which these kids sorely lack. Only then will the world around them look positive enough, and have enough hope for them to look past ending it rather than take it on. How sad to want to escape it. How tragic.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

Law 27: His Playbook. It's Why We Should Be So Scared.

Any comments, please send them to dadofprince@gmail.com. Thank you!

Sometimes, you pick up a book you really haven't spent time with. It shouts to you and you wonder why the hell it wasn't the first thing you did to understand something.

So it was for me and 48 Laws of Power, by Robert Greene. It's been sitting in one of my bookcases for a couple of years now. You want ex-'s playbook, even though he isn't likely to have read it? Right there.

All 48 laws apply incredibly well, though in their execution, he's done better in some than in others. But Law 27? Applies in a frightening way. Applies because of mass gullibility. Of mass irresponsibility. Of mass thoughtlessness. In other words, perfectly.

Here it is, #27: Play On People's Need to Believe to Create a Cultlike Following. All of Greene's "laws" have a "judgment" described beside it, an explanation as to why the person seeking power should engage in the behavior to succeed in grabbing power. The judgment behind #27 is: People have an overwhelming desire to believe in something. Become the focal point of such desire by offering them a cause, a new faith to follow. Keep your words vague but full of promise; emphasize enthusiasm over rationality and clear thinking. Give your new disciples rituals to perform, ask them to make sacrifices on your behalf. In the absence of organized religion and grand causes, your new belief system will bring you untold power.

That is exactly what he's doing. It's as if he's following this book word-for-word.

He's offering a cause: Make America Great Again. It doesn't matter if it means nothing, or it means to create wishful thinking in people's minds that we can be successfully transported into some imaginary past some 50 or 60 years ago that begins and ends nowhere. It's vague enough, but it allows people to forget that they contributed, and still contribute, to our problems, that that burden belongs to someone else, someone who can be, and should be, shunned. It lets them think that, with behaviors that are obsolete or tried and untrue, they can settle into a worryless future without stress.

Giving the new disciples rituals to perform: Wearing the cap and paraphernalia. Going to rallies. Laughing at anything, however ridiculous or mundane, when it's called for. Creating a new belief system: The religious right, mindless as it is, is clinging to him for dear life and connecting their beliefs with his, thus putting the implied (and not so implied) label of religiosity on him, blurring his dundering foolishness with a kind of supernatural gifting. It is the "new faith to follow." 

When the distracted masses cheer for him, they're not even sure what they're cheering for, but they feel better because they're doing it with all who surround them. They act mindlessly. That's the idea.

Think he doesn't know exactly what he's doing? Someone else did. From Mein Kampf (as recorded by William L. Shirer in The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich):

The power which has always started the greatest religious and political avalanches in history rolling has from time immemorial been the magic power of the spoken word, and that alone.

The broad masses of the people can be moved only by the power of speech. All great movements are popular movements, volcanic eruptions of human passions and emotional sentiments, stirred either by the cruel Goddess of Distress or by the firebrand of the word hurled among the masses; they aren't the lemonade-like outpourings of the literary aesthetes and drawing-room heroes.

Which is why, by the way, all the books written (as thorough and good as they are) about the horrors and dangers of this awful, despicable man which have happened and which might very well start happening again in the very near future don't amount to a drop in the bucket. The people who should be reading them won't. They don't need to. All they need is the next rally, the next rambling, illogical speech, the next hate-filled rhetorical twist of a phrase. Like addicts, they crave it.

Let Carl Sagan summarize:

One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we've been bamboozled enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We're no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It's simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we've been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.

Nobody who supports ex- reads the "literary aesthetes." They are too sweet, "lemonade-like." The words must be tough and unsparing toward someone else, the scapegoats, whoever they are. Once you hear him and fall prey, you don't need anything else. Or at least they won't admit it.

They are fanatical in their unity. Yes, it's a cult. It's a big part of their attraction, along with the Goddess of Distress: There always must be some catastrophe just around the corner, and someone else has to be to blame.

If this takes over, we will never be close to a democracy again. We will go to war, probably with Mexico. Ukraine will fall to the Russians with devastating effects on Europe. You think inflation's been bad? Just wait. He will try again and fail to create both guns and butter. He will use a war footing to control the press and educational system.

Read The 48 Laws of Power. Read it because you should know the enemy.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

NIL for the Women

I had to look twice. Here was Caitlin Clark, probably the best women's college basketball player, hawking for State Farm Insurance.

It was all contrived, with Clark wearing her Iowa uniform and discussing State Farm's advantages. But no worse than what any other man would have done. With that, though, a new frontier has emerged.

Professional women have been displayed on other TV ads; Sue Bird, former pro basketball player, comes to mind. Clark, though, is still in college. What she did was, until about a year ago, unthinkable.

We have already come to expect it from collegiate men: the old restrictions have fallen away with court rulings that college athletes, who earn incredible income for their sports programs, especially in football and basketball, can reap some cash for themselves through their names, images and likeness (NIL, it's called: a new hip acronym). I wonder how much State Farm paid her, and I wonder if her agent--no doubt she has one--managed to procure what a man would have.

It's a new form of objectification, one based on earning one's way. The sports women aren't being displayed for their looks. They're being displayed because of their skills and success at a cultural norm that millions of girls now seek and have call to believe they can now achieve: to fill up a stadium so that people can watch them shoot 3-pointers. That's true in Iowa; in South Carolina; in Connecticut; in Tennessee; in South Bend, Indiana, where Notre Dame hangs out. Success and a decent amount of prestige in those venues have been well established for a while, but showing off the teams' stars haven't. 

Having varsity women's basketball is rightfully called "equality" next to that of men's, but the glow from having had that success never happened. Not until now.

What should have caught more people's attention is the forging of new territory for women to show their dominance: volleyball. In Nebraska, for example, 92,000 people went to watch the Cornhusker women--I'm not saying "Lady Cornhuskers," which I'm not even sure they might be called; it suggests they have to do it in skirts and courtesy, which they sure don't--compete not long ago. There are men's collegiate volleyball teams, too, of course, but they don't get nearly the attention that the women do.

I don't watch any Omaha television, so I have no idea whether Nebraska's women stars have been featured on any local ads. But I wouldn't be surprised to hear that they have.

Wait and see. Caitlin Clark will be touted as a pioneer. The collegiate woman as advertiser is upon us. It was suggested by some commentators the other day, in fact, that maybe Clark should seek another year of college eligibility, because what she will earn as a collegiate standout in terms of NIL will be miles ahead of what she'll get paid once she joins the WNBA, in which she will surely play and have a good career but for which crowds have never equalled that of their male counterparts.

We have come full circle. We are encouraging the women stars to stay in school and shatter whatever faćade of amateurism that may have remained, to get their money upfront and not worry about later consequences. For the men, it's just the opposite; the NBA and NFL need them now, at the ages of 18 or 19, to become absorbed by the glitter and, for some, glamour so they can light up scoreboards. For the men, it's one-and-done. If they go back and graduate, good for them. No assurance they will.

For the women, there is nothing dignified in such a decision either. It's what the market bears. It's cynical but with added advantages: They get to stick around and graduate. For women, win-win. For men, win-maybe lose. Fair enough now?

Both genders get to take advantage of the portal, though. They get to jump around to whatever other colleges look attractive. Though I have no clue about this for sure, I would guess that "attractiveness" won't mean better professors. Think of this: College as a seaport, a gateway to sojourns. Four in four years, possibly. Stability? Never mind. Next!

But if the men get to take advantage of this momentary frivolousness, the women should, too. The most visible collegians will, across the board, put forth the idea that college is a mere means to an end, not training in thinking but training in playing for as long as one can, putting the challenges of real life on hold. Good for the ones who can fit through those eyeholes in the needle, who can be members of that elite. 

The rest will have to reap the whirlwind of dysfunctional educational processes. A certain major at Kansas State is not the same one at Kentucky; there are different courses, different emphases. A student drifting from place to place can get lost within it. A college is not a college is not a college. No sense of belonging.

They're serving a purpose, though. They're still helping big universities rake in millions to help a program sustain itself. They'll still be jettisoned aside, used property albeit with more cash in their pockets, when they're through. Yes, this should happen to women as well as men. Maybe people's eyes will open faster. Maybe they'll see that what we're doing to gifted athletes of both genders has a descending, not ascending, value.

Be well, Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

"Democracy Awakening": A Tough Read, But A Necessary One

(Any comments, please send them to dadofprince@gmail.com. Thanks!)

These past several years, I've tried to inform myself with reading hard facts. It hasn't been fun. But it's been necessary.

The toughest read so far, though, has been that of historian Heather Cox Richardson's Democracy Awakening. To remind us of what we must do to turn back this wave of injustice and authoritarianism, she must take us back to where it began and where it accelerated.

To do that, she must bring forward people whom we'd all like to forget: Kellyanne Conway and her comment about "alternative facts"; Chad Wolf; Paul Manafort (especially him, complicit in shenanigans deeper than any of us previously thought); Roger Stone and all his obnoxiousness; and so on. She must remind us of the damage they've done.

Of course, she must also remind us of the ongoing, relentless ugly attempts of ex- to literally take over America and demand unquestioning loyalty to none other than him, the prince of ugliness: conniving, conning, lying, cheating, insulting and law-breaking. By doing so, she exposes the Republican Party as nothing but sycophants, kneeling at his feet, existing only to please and satisfy him--the latter of which can't ever be done, though they are totally blind to it.

And to do that, she must remind us of the events of ex-'s woe begotten term as president, sewn with chaos, most of it intentional. As far as he's concerned, it still goes on incompleted. This time, he knows more about how the enormous weapon of government can be wielded. It has already been reported that he plans vengeance on his enemies, whether real or conjured (with him, it matters not). With the power he can retake, nothing is impossible anymore. Nothing.

So if you've read Richardson's blog posts before, you know what she's going to say or imply strongly: We're in trouble. Deep, deep trouble. The deepest, the greatest threat, since the Civil War.

And the causes are nearly the same: A lot of wealth concentrated in the hands of a privileged few; white supremacy; refusal to accept a valid presidential election result. The difference is that the president was Abraham Lincoln, one of the shrewdest, most intelligent people ever to hold the office. It's tough to imagine someone other than Lincoln trying to advance significant legislation through a Congress torn by secession, one that could be just as distracted as today's.

But then, we don't have Lincoln or anything near that. We have Joe Biden, a good man, though with an image problem of his own. No matter how significant his words might be, too many people aren't listening. They're watching him stumble across daises and walk constantly like, well, an old man, which he is. 

Of course the presidency takes a great deal from a person; of course we can't expect quite the energy with which Biden began his term. But to look at him, the effect of the draining is pronounced. No, the age number itself is irrelevant. What it seems to indicate, though, is telling. It is hard to lead a country as large as ours with deeds alone, which Biden seems to be doing, Image matters, too. Richardson spends no time with this in her book, though.

The only real 20th Century comparison that Richardson makes is to bring in the effects of the presidency of Ronald Reagan--who, ironically, was reported to have lost some of his faculties for the last year and a half, or so, of his second term, which set off a blind, mindless adherence to private business as the solution to all the nation's problems--an adherence which definitely has taken hold today. She's right about that, of course, but doesn't delve deeply into it. Her blog, Letters from An American, occasionally does that, but not here in this book.

That's too bad. We also need a step-by-step rehash of how we got ourselves into the present predicament. That information might be tough to take--the neglect, the naïveté, the numerous cases of overlooking things that we should have taken more seriously. But it has to be considered. It's been a long time since Reagan was president, but his influence has gripped the Republicans like an iron fist. It's been twisted and distorted and manipulated, as many political ideas have. It has left us in an unenviable place.

Democracy Awakening is worth your while. It's impeccably well-researched. Heather Cox Richardson constantly finds a way to connect the past with what we do today in ways that offer a unique but accurate perspective. It is a piece of writing that's gripping reading and required to understand just what kind of debacle we're in. We need it now more than ever.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark