Can The Left Regulate Sex? (Ross Douthat, for the NYT.)

 

Dirty Old Men Of The World Unite! You Have Nothing To Lose But Your Pants! 

In general the recent trend has been toward more regulation: The sexual-assault tribunals on college campuses, the changing rules of workplace harassment, the new politesse surrounding pronouns and sexual identity. Part of this reflects a pattern often observed by conservatives, in which certain forms of sexual liberation seem to require more micromanagement than the old “thou shalt nots” — like the rigor required to distinguish supposedly empowering “sex work” from the exploitative variety, or purportedly egalitarian pornography from the misogynist or pedophilic sort.

Ross Douthat. 

The battle of the genders

has so many loud contenders.

*

The balances and checks

for contemporary sex

are so silly and complex

that Don Juan they would perplex.

*

We all need a vacation

from sexual liberation.

*

A few well-placed taboos

would be such refreshing news.

*

And perhaps 'twould be in fashion

to abjure all crimes of passion.

*

Do you think I am a boor

to go back to days of yore

when the talk of birds and bees

was feared more than Bright's Disease?

*

I suppose I must be daft

to think all this darn sexcraft

that intrudes upon my world

should be lowered and then furled.

*

I guess that I'll go in the closet

and my geezer butt deposit

while I wait for times to change

and sexuality to grow less strange . . . 

Evictions are about to restart as tenants wait on billions in unspent rental aid. (WaPo)

 

"As courts prepare to allow evictions again, only 12 percent of $25 billion approved in December has reached people in need."

There was a man, a wicked man,

who called himself our Uncle Sam.

*

He had so many bags of gold

the count of them could not be told.

*

He got his gold from pockets picked,

and his conscience never pricked.

*

He liked to promise succor to

anyone he ran into.

*

Pauper, penguin, common thief --

he would grant them all relief.

*

Since he had great piles of cash,

no one thought his promise rash.

*

But his promised aid was slower

than a rusted push lawnmower.

*

In dribs and drabs he parceled out

nothing much but sauerkraut.

*

Pennies that could do no good

to restore one's livelihood.

*

Renters never saw a shred

and were evicted on their head.

*

 But with a smile our Uncle claimed

the postal service should be blamed.

*

Or maybe global warming stopped

all the manna being dropped.

*

Anyway, those promised aid

never ever did get paid.

*

But Uncle Sam continues to

promise skies of sunny blue.

*

So go right up and ask him now

to provide from his cash cow.

*

He will write you a large check

(but won't explain the bottleneck.)

*

So when you try to cash it you

will meet with your own Waterloo.

Is Bitcoin a religion? If not, it soon could be. (Andrew Fenton for Cointelegraph Magazine.)

 

"Every atom in the universe through heat and energy transfer, one day will become literally Bitcoin.”

Hass McCook.

Hass McCook, for one, does preach

that bitcoin heals the soul's sad breach.

*

He claims that cyber-coin contains

more power than most hurricanes

to lead us to the Promised Land

without restraint or reprimand.

*

We may be but Satoshi bits

but never are we counterfeits!

*

I find this bitcoin gospel odd --

though many think of cash as God.

*

The love of bitcoin is the root

of making people destitute.

*

At least that is my heathen notion

of such crypto-coin devotion.

*

But people love deep mysteries

and bitcoin has complexities,

with block chains up upon a cloud

to overawe the naive crowd.

*

Digital religion seems

to be the stuff of childish dreams.

*

Temples, chapels, synagogues --

all are going to the dogs;

young folk go to cyberspace

to find wisdom, wealth, and grace.

*

Filthy lucre, once despised,

now is very highly prized,

ballyhooed and sanitized,

keeping people mesmerized.

*

But I am no religious crank;

I'll keep my pittance in the bank.

And when I sit upon a pew

it's peace, not wealth, that I'll accrue.

*

The road to hell is paved, maybe,

with worshiping mere BTC.

Religious Americans less likely to believe intelligent life exists on other planets. (Becka A. Alper, for the Pew Research Center.)

 

"Religious and secular thinkers alike have long discussed what the implications for religion would be if humans discovered intelligent life on other planets. In the United States, highly religious adults are much more skeptical about the possibility of extraterrestrial life compared with those who are less religious, according to a recent Pew Research Center survey."

When an Episcopalian

meets outer space alien

what's the reaction to be?

Perhaps a strict dubiety.

*

A Baptist is likely to lecture

and tell the poor thing it's conjecture.

*

An Anglican parson might shake its green hand

but tell it from services it will be banned.

*

The Methodists a hymn will sing

then tie it up with heavy string.

*

The Pope could welcome it to Rome,

then say it's just a garden gnome.

*

A Lutheran, no doubt, would fear

to bring one home to drink some beer.

*

 If Unitarians saw a flying saucer

they'd quote a line from Geoffrey Chaucer.

*

Mennonites would keep concealed

a moon man working in their field.

*

Now Mormons, who have funny ways,

already think that planets blaze

with souls like us  -- so they don't care

if Earth's a cosmic thoroughfare.

Wellington 'clown' murder trial pushed back to 2022 at defense's request. (Hannah Winston, for the Palm Beach Post.)

 

"On May 26, 1990, Marlene Warren was shot in the doorway of her Wellington Aero Club home and died several days later. Witnesses, including her son, said someone dressed as a clown came to the door, presented her with flowers and balloons, then shot her in the face." 

The clown assassin is a trope

that's had its day, I really hope.

*

Too often in the recent past

have clowns brought forth the fatal blast.

*

Their killing sprees no longer thrill;

you might say it is overkill.

*

And when the amateur attempts

to settle some old contretemps

*

by putting on cheap makeup and

bumping off a gal or man

*

I hope Grimaldi and his heirs

do not yank out their orange hairs!

*

I'm sorry that this poem stinks so;

but what d'yer expect from an old Bozo?

Religious leaders weigh reinstating mask mandates and whether they could upset some members. (Sarah Pulliam Bailey for the WaPo.)

 

Did Moses wear a mask at all,

or Joshua or Job?

*

Or had they faith enough

to check each heathenish microbe?

*

Would Peter, James, and John agree

to veil their faces instantly

*

or would they be desirous

to exorcise the virus?

*

Today beliefs are vague

when it comes to the plague.

*

Perhaps the epilogue

to God's own Decalogue

*

Should now include the task

of keeping on your mask!

CDC renewal of indoor masking prompts experts to ask, ‘Where’s the data?’ (WaPo)

 

The CDC cannot decide

which way it wants to ever ride.

Like a bumptious child do they

first come close, then run away.

A diff'rent drummer is just fine;

but they have got to show some spine.

Should we wear a mask or not?

Indoors? Outdoors? Afterthought?

How about while having sex?

Or going to the Multiplex?

Give me concrete guidance please

(so I can claim conspiracies!)

Ominous Summer Season

 

The ominous summer season

is giving me a good reason

to stay in my bed

and cover my head

to avoid Nature's red treason.

He Tried to Walk on Water From Florida to New York. It Didn’t Go So Well. (Neil Vigdor for the NYT.)

 

"Reza Baluchi washed ashore on Saturday near St. Augustine, Fla., in a ‘‘hydro pod,” startling beachgoers with a homemade contraption that resembles a hamster wheel."

Edward Morton Stuzzlefield

invented fruit already peeled;

banana bunches he created

that of their skin had been castrated.

But the public did not feel

that his invention had appeal.

In poverty he did remain,

without so much as quiche lorraine.

*

But Edward could not be defeated;

he turned his thoughts to lands depleted.

Organic fertilizer, cheap,

came to him one night in sleep.

To Washington he traveled quick

with burlap sacks both strong and thick

to capture all the rich bs

that came straight from our own Congress.

He spread it on a test field bare

and clover grew like teenage hair.

But once again the public sank

his hopes, because the bs stank --

no farmer wanted Edward's mix;

they said it reeked of politics.

*

Now Stuzzlefield was in a bind;

on all his bills he fell behind.

Another brainstorm came at last,

and this one seemed quite unsurpassed!

In his garage he toiled away,

inventing hard both night and day.

And came up with a giant spoon

to catapult men to the Moon.

Put billionaires in outer space,

thought Ed, and I'll be Upper Case.

It had a giant spring and gear,

and Ed was first to volunteer.

He sprang into the stratosphere -- 

and ne'er was seen again, I fear.

*

His spirit, though, lives on in those

who want to challenge the cosmos;

those who dream and tinker when

the world is filled with lesser men

content to plod the daily rut

and think our hero was a nut.

To crackpot dreamers everywhere

I bow my head and wish you fair!

Give me a can of beans.

 

Give me a can of beans,

just any kind you please:

Kidney, Lima, red,

and especially black eye peas.

I eat 'em with eggs for breakfast.

Put 'em on toast for lunch.

Mash 'em with roasted peanuts

at dinner, for the crunch.

They're always on sale at the market;

forty-nine cents per can.

A pantry full of Goya,

and I'm feeling like a new man.

So what if they make me gassy?

So what if the foodies object?

I live by myself on fixed income;

don't need to be so circumspect!

Prose Poem: The Gulf of Thailand.

 

As a foolish and scared

middle aged man

fleeing heavy fees

for a failed marriage

I washed up on the beach

in Ban Phe.

Sure, I was a coward;

most men are

when it comes to money.

Rather than face the music

I faced the brightness of wild

cloud wrack over 

the Gulf of Thailand.

Taught a little English.

Ate a lot of shrimp fried rice

on banana leaves.

Knew a Thai woman my age

who drank her beer with ice in it.

She owned a black Toyota truck.

Imagined my kids

come to visit me 

on my coconut plantation.

I rented a bungalow

with a yard full of soursop trees

and a fish pond;

the spirit house was next to

the privy.

Toyota truck woman

hung orchids everywhere --

ten baht apiece. 

I felt whole on the surface;

underneath were my limestone caverns,

ready to collapse into sink holes

at the drop of a wide brimmed hat --

which you needed in that climate.

When my dreams began to fill with snow

I let my passport lapse

and borrowed money to go back.

Come back to canned mangoes.

Crumpled hundred baht notes

I mailed to my kids --

the letters were returned

'Address Unknown.'

And tall stringy bamboo plants

in the waiting rooms of government

agencies, 

waiting for them to take away . . . 

well, everything.

But I eventually found out

when they take away everything

from you

you grow new shoots

like the bamboo.

Although you're still

hollow

inside.

********************

Theodore Freedman, of Camden NJ, analyzed the above poem thus:

"That was your best work my old friend. Your best work because I heard how honest and real this time was for you and how you were filled up and empty at the same time.  The Buddhists would aver that the empty space in you is the good part, the useful part. A coffee cup is only useful because of the empty space inside." 

Disinformation for Hire, a Shadow Industry, Is Quietly Booming. (Max Fisher for the NYT.)

 

The truth is out of vogue, it seems.

With factories producing streams

of falsehoods for a tidy sum,

and workers stir the vilest scum

to mold opinions that will cause

humanity to show its claws.

No one knows the final price

of this booming cyber-vice.

Men have eyes for only wealth,

and so they work in techno-stealth

to rain deceit upon the globe

like acid precip's deadly robe.

Yet truth cannot be hid for long;

it sings an everlasting song

that rises over all the smut

of discord and foul scuttlebutt.

And those who deal in wholesale lies

will find they've won a tinsel prize.

Meanwhile guard the light within

and laugh at all the foolish din!

The Most Influential Spreader of Coronavirus Misinformation Online. (Sheera Frenkel, for the NYT.)

 

Joseph Mercola, an osteopath,

doesn't know bupkis but he can do math.

Misinformation is his stock in trade;

he's pulling in money with his masquerade.

Facebook and Twitter have posted his trash

and viewers seem willing to give him their cash.

No vaccination! he endlessly posts.

They're unnecessary, he constantly boasts.

Eat plenty of yogurt, and mattresses shun,

and this, he does claim, is how health will be won.

A quack with some letters right after his name

is often believed by the mentally lame;

they lap up his products at prices immense

and show all the world how they lack common sense.

How sad that a market will always exist

for mountebank promises that turn to mist!

Montana’s Famed Trout Under Threat as Drought Intensifies. (Jim Robbins for the NYT.)

 

If I were a trout in Montana

I would not be shouting hosanna.

The streams are too low

and warming up so

I'd feel like a rotten banana.

Tokyo Olympics Open to a Sea of Empty Seats. (Motoko Rich for the NYT.)

 

The Olympic Stadium shows

Mr. and Mrs. Rows;

an old circus term

that made troupers squirm --

meaning the bank would foreclose.

Coast-to-coast heat dome to deliver sweltering weather next week. (Mathew Cappucci for the WaPo.)

 

Do you know this man? He is wanted in ten states, and

not wanted in a dozen others.

The devil thought he'd take a peek

at the Midwest for a week.

It was stuffy down in hell,

so he'd cool off for a spell.

But when he stopped off in Des Moines

he roasted like a tenderloin.

Seeking comfort, he did jaunt

over to Shelburne Vermont.

There beneath the blazing sun

he baked up like a sally lunn.

Fleeing such enormous heat,

he headed to the Rockies' feet.

In Denver he turned into ash;

in Salt Lake he picked up heat rash.

He fled to Portland for a respite;

he was getting pretty desperate.

But the city held no charm --

it was like a four alarm.

"Back to hell I go!" said he.

"At least my office has a.c.!"

Businesses condemned Georgia’s voting law, then gave thousands to its backers. (Isaac Stanley-Becker, for the WaPo.)

 

Corporations like to be

thought full of integrity.

Corp'rate funding is the club

they use all bad things to drub.

In their mighty righteousness

they are careful with largesse.

Yet, when viewed at closer range,

their donations can seem strange.

Sometimes they will help finance

demagogues and their shrill rants.

Legislators who betray

common sense have their payday

from the likes of Comcast Inc. --

keeping pograms in the pink.

Thus the bizness hypocrite

sins while quoting holy writ;

keeping both sides satisfied

with profits always magnified.

Southern California cities rebel against new mask mandate, hinting at delta variant drama to come. (Erica Werner for the WaPo.)

 

Americans are tough as nails,

but we refuse to put on veils.

No matter what the bigwigs say

the nude face is now here to stay.

Delta, schmelta -- no big deal.

It seems as trite as glockenspiel.

The more the politicians whine

the more the people take a shine

to freedom from restraints and masks

and turn to more important tasks --

like picture shows, or baseball games

and cooking wienies over flames.

We'll not be masked again, I trow --

we seek a lethal status quo!

Bras in the parks, skivvies on Fifth Avenue: Is this the logical endpoint of increasingly blurred distinctions between public and private? (Guy Trebay for the NYT)

 

(to the tune 'Home on the Range.)

Oh, give me a home

where the nudists don't roam;

where the underwear stays quite unseen.

Where never is viewed

scanty clothing so lewd

that Hugh Hefner would call it obscene.

Bare, bare in the street --

where I'm seeing bold bosom and seat;

this summer the crowd

thinks full frontal's allowed

and my brain cannot hit the 'delete.'

Is ‘Loki’ a True Marvel Variant? Or Just a Fun Experiment? (Maya Phillips for the NYT)

 

I do not know for whom I speak

(unless it is the dentured clique)

but we are tired of the look

and the feel of comic book

on the big screen and TV --

what are daredevils to me?

I am old and still and staid;

I want no blood, but marmalade!

Something sweet and sour, too;

intelligent -- not ballyhoo.

But all I get are flying twerps

who must perform like Wyatt Earps.

Advertisers please take note;

my Kindle is the antidote!

Rogue oysters threaten to disrupt Tokyo Olympics, after officials shelled out $1 million for repairs. (Jennifer Hassan, for the WaPo.)

 

"What, me hurry?"

The walrus and the carpenter are needed right away

to clean up all the oysters clogging up ol' Tokyo Bay.

The sailing and the swimming and the floating are in peril,

as oysters that are roguish become vicious and quite feral.

Olympic water contests have been halted to consider

will they risk the athletes or give in to failure bitter.

Those darn Pacific oysters glue themselves to all debris

that floats upon the waters to a terrible degree.

They could sink an iceberg or a coal barge or a ferry;

they can't be served with lemon cuz they ain't too sanitary.

(I hope that this fiasco doesn't lead to hari kari.)

The Pitchers Whose Spin Rates Fell Most After a Crackdown on Sticky Substances. (Dedicated to sportswriter Tyler Kepner.)

 

Baseball pitchers are a breed

who feel pressured to succeed.

They have gotten pretty manic

throwing aero-damn-die-namic.

I'm not sure what all they've tried

to make their pitches curve and glide,

so this is just a partial guide:

Strands of bubble gum so pink

it makes umpires stop and think.

Bookish pitchers have been traced

to the use of library paste.

Mucilage from plants and snail

produce results that do not fail.

And of course a pitch is bent

with a dab of rubber cement.

Pine tar, asphalt, super glue --

in a pinch they all will do.

If a pitcher has chutzpah

he might even use some chaw.

In this techie age banal

could microchips be in the ball?

Or a nano-drone, I fear,

might sit astride the hurtling sphere.

Yes, pitchers are a breed that's wacky --

always searching for the tacky . . . 

Chinese Hackers in my Soup. (Dedicated to Lucy Craymer.)

 

Chinese hackers in my soup.

How can such an ethnic group

fiddle with my internet,

making life so vinaigrette?

I stay up all night afeared

of ransomware and cyber-weird.

Ain't the heat and drought severe

enough to make me drink strong beer?

And the joeys chased by dingoes

give my stomach pink flamingoes.

Now on top of that these creeps,

whom I would like to label '*bleeps*,'

are out to wreck my peace of mind --

just pour the Foster's til I'm blind . . . 

Prose Poem: There I was, minding my own business. (Dedicated to Hannah Knowles of the Washington Post.)

 

There I was,

minding my own business.

When nothing 

absolutely nothing

happened.

I'd been standing around,

minding my own business,

all day.

Didn't even take a 

bathroom break.

Just standing there,

not bothering anyone.

No eye contact with anyone.

Not a care in the world.

And nothing happened.

You can imagine my disappointment.

Or maybe you can't.

When you stand around

minding your own business

you have a right to expect

something sinister or foolish

or puzzling to

happen to you.

That's why people

stand around

minding their own business;

this is a well-understood

social convention:

An innocent man caught up

in a conspiracy

not of his own making.

But I minded my own business

in vain.

I went home without a 

bullet hole in my coat.

Without a note slipped

into my pocket.

Without being kidnapped,

arrested, or given a briefcase

with half a million dollars

in it.

Not even a trace

of radium dust

on my jacket.

I had a glass of warm milk

and went to bed.

And decided:

Tomorrow I will mind

someone else's business,

probably my brother's business,

and see what happens.

If he turns out to be an

international playboy

who turns into a werewolf

and robs banks during the 

full moon

I will give up Netflix

for Lent.

U.S. Habit of Backing Strongman Allies Fed Turmoil in Haiti. (NYT)

 

Americans are ailing, out of work, and in despair;

but furrin autocrats who pick our side have cash to spare.

We prop up shaky leaders with infusions from the mint

because we still are following some damn Cold War blueprint.

Like a mule we won't back up when once we pick a guy

to lead a foreign country, though he makes it a pigsty.

How long must we play Santa Claus and Dr. Seuss to those

who never show initiative but warn of dominoes?

The media scramble at the heart of Trump Book Summer. (WaPo)

 

Donald Trump,

the has-been frump,

mistakes the buzz

which he thinks does

surround the books

about his crooks

as something which

with proper pitch

will elevate

his sorry state

and mend his luster

and fans muster.

Sorry, bub,

but you're a flub --

and won't be back

on inside track

till ducks need visas

and Hades freezes.

Two Rods and a ‘Sixth Sense’: In Drought, Water Witches are Swamped. (NYT)

 

Water witches are all wet;

how can anybody bet

on some rods waved at the ground

while the waver turns around?

Dowsing is baloney sliced,

plus a heist that is high priced.

It takes a special connoisseur

to locate any aquifer --

and always they are deep below,

and drilling to them is real slow.

By the time the work's complete,

the dowser ain't around to greet

an empty hole as dry as bone,

or help his victims pay their loan.

If you want to fight a drought

pray for rain and not a tout.  

‘They’re Killing People’: Biden Denounces Social Media for Virus Disinformation. (NYT)

 

Go online for truth complete;

you will find it very neat.

Wrapped up in a bow of drek;

just as good as bouncing check.

All the world doth like to boast

they have info, not compost,

from a source that's unimpeached

(Yet strangely never can be reached.)

Like the fabled lemming, who

jumps without a proper view

of its fatal fall to ground,

are the folks who won't come 'round

when presented with the proof

that the doctors tell the troof

about vaccination need --

I hope they never interbreed.

I Alone Can Fix This Poem.

 

I alone can fix this poem;

right now it doesn't scan.

The verses are uneven

and belong in garbage can.

But give me four years on the job

and you will see the diff;

although I'll have to push a few

vile traitors off a cliff.

I will make it great again,

this sorry piece of tripe;

'twill glitter with acuity

and overflow with hype.

I'll tear out all the leftist tropes;

nor rainbows cute employ --

the prevalence of voter fraud

shall be my whipping boy.

And then you'll see this mighty poem

rear up it's head in pride;

a Nobel Prize it shall obtain

or my name ain't Bromide!

A shortage of computer chips is keeping automakers from producing enough cars to meet rising demand. Used cars are scarce, too. (NYT)

 

"You gotta a car?"

"You gotta a car?"

The query echoes

near and far.

No matter what the price of gas --

America must drive en masse!

And dealerships both new and used

are feeling frightened and abused.

Those little dinky chips that we

took for granted stupidly

are scarce as hen's teeth nowadays,

leading to unfilled driveways.

Even junkers drivers crave

and caution for old lemons waive.

With passions running high and hearty

a car thief gets a necktie party!

When oh when will chips return?

When can rubber we all burn?

Woe is me, has fate decreed

returning to velocipede? 

No! It shall not happen thus --

our wheels are not superfluous!

We must have Ford and Lexus too --

while greenhouse gas goes up the flu!

Lindsey Graham pledges to ‘go to war’ for Chick-fil-A amid Notre Dame protest. (WaPo)

 

The chicken wars have started;

Lindsey Graham will recruit

thousands to his banner

where they'll march and stab and shoot.

Defending fast food fryers

that are godly and sincere

is what this Senate stalwart

sees as his agenda clear.

He wants no die-verse french fries;

he scorns the rainbow shake.

And he intends his nuggets

to not become fruitcake.

So rally 'round his ensign

and join the jubilee --

as Graham of the Bombast

proclaims faux victory!

Prose Poem: Why it's a dangerous time to be an old thing in America.

 

I had an old recliner that was taken away

and shot.

Then they came for my TV trays.

I fought them over my aged

cheddar cheese --

they handcuffed me to a 

steam calliope

before squishing the cheese

under their jackboots.

Interesting fact:

circus people pronounce the word

'kal-EE-ope.'

But of course steam 

calliopes,

however you pronounce them,

are a retro-terrorist threat,

and there are now none left.

Not even in museums.

But it all came apart when

they tried to pull down the Moon.

That thing's been around billions of years.

But when the men of liberal science tried

to pull it down with radio-magnetic waves

the Moon just went into a more elliptical 

orbit --

disrupting the tides and speeding up

global warming.

Icebergs didn't melt, exactly.

Somehow the bergs got heavier and sank

to the bottom of the ocean,

crushing the krill breeding grounds.

Then they sent men up to the Moon in

rockets to nuke it. 

Boy, they really hated that old Moon

because it has seen so much tyranny,

rape, slavery, and colonialism

and has never said a peep against it.

But here's the thing --

nuclear weapons won't work on 

the Moon --

something to do with the gravity

and atmosphere.

So they erected a statue to 

Everlasting Peace,

made out of the unexploded nuclear bombs,

in the Tycho crater.  

It's a great tourist attraction.

Tucker Carlson (from a story by Tiffany Hsu in the NYT.)

 

Tucker Carlson on Fox News

makes it plain he will not choose

any vaccination rising

from the medics he's despising.

Flying in the face of fact,

doing it with little tact,

Tucker Carlson on Fox News

is working quite a deadly ruse

on his fans who put their faith

in this television wraith.

Willful mass misinformation

could be the death yet of our nation . . .