The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bits and bytes of the week

JUST SAY NO. Harvard can afford to say no to the demands of extortion from the Dick Tater. The college can sustain a few years of no government funds with some belt tightening (which, in corporate speak means cutting those at the low end of the pay scale). In the face of requirements to bend the knee for buckets of tax dollars, at least for right now, the institution has refused.

Each of us wants to be the kind of person who follows the example. The kind of person who, when faced with a choice between bowing our head to Loki as he yarns on about our need to be dominated, stands up and says no but most of us aren’t that person. That’s because most of us aren’t in possession of a few years of back up cash and are addicted to the insular lives populated by the simple pleasures of just getting along in a world hellbent on our acquiescence.

Like a broken clock that chimes at midnight long after time has forgotten it, the act is ritual, final, and soaked in the silence of surrender, we hope that someone else will stop the demands of the Mad King. The courts? Congress? Harvard?

So the guy who had to pay a $25 million fine for running a fake university is suddenly an expert on what Harvard should teach. — unknown

WORDS OF AGELESS DIPLOMACY. Over the last century, Americans have demonstrated great resolve in their words of diplomatic mission.

“It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response against the Soviet Union.” That was JFK.

How about some Ike? “Force can overcome force, but a free people can hold out longer than an aggressor.”

“Democracy cannot be imposed on any nation from the outside. Each society must search for its own path.” Barack Obama.

I wonder who, after making the bold claim that he could end a war overseas, put up on social media (oh, if only Henry Kissinger had had Tik Tok) this brilliant bit of diplomacy: “Vladimir, STOP!”

LIFE ON THE HIGHWAY. I’m on the road to Wichita tomorrow, hanging out with the family Monday and Tuesday, and back on the road Wednesday. I like this routine—approximately every two months I drive the twelve hours to be a part of my people for a few days. We check in with each other, eat great food, laugh until our faces hurt, and absorb the love.

Tonight, my brilliant sister is hosting a prom at her high school, and I can’t wait to hear the many tales!

IT’S LOOKING LIKE THE DEMOCRATS HAVE A YOUTH PROBLEM. A recent Yale Youth Poll indicates that among young men (18- to 21-year-olds), Donald Trump has a +7 net favorability. Kamala Harris has a −48 net favorability. Oof. In fact, the only demographic that flips that are older women in their seventies. Perhaps we need to stop with the Get Out the Youth Vote thing and dig harder in preventing college students from accessing voting booths.

Or… we could stop tossing the toxic masculinity blanket over every dude and cease moralizing at them. Maybe creating a creative and persuasive message that avoids lectures and demonizing normal behavior? Nah. That’ll never happen.

HOW PEOPLE SEE ME. This week I’ve been compared to an edge rusher (a football player — usually a defensive end (DE) or outside linebacker (OLB) — whose main job is to rush the quarterback off the edge of the offensive line), an extreme team mascot, Mr. Roper from Three’s Company, and a life action Bugs Bunny. I’m not sure if there’s a through line here but I guess I’m making an impression, amiright?

I AM A LIBERAL. I AM AN OPTIMIST. In the spirit of self identification, I’m happy to earmark myself as pretty much two things that aren’t terribly popular (which means I should add “I AM CONTRARY” as well)—despite my aversion to Islam in general, my lack of interest in transgender folks, and my complete embrace of the drooling, adolescent posturing of the eighties, I am a liberal.

I am also, despite the feeling that the world around us is flailing like a fat dude drowning in a backyard pool, I am whole-heartedly optimistic about my, and our, future.

Optimism isn’t ignorance. It’s not pretending everything is fine. It’s not “positive vibes only” horseshit. That’s the cult of Instagram Therapy™, where every emotion must be filtered, flattened, and hashtagged into oblivion.

That’s optimism-for-profit—smiling through your layoffs because the company bought donuts and a motivational poster. Optimism isn’t being okay with the world. It’s saying the world is not okay and living anyway.

It’s the janitor in Good Will Hunting—the quiet character who shows up, does his job, and doesn’t need Matt Damon to solve equations to matter. It’s dignity in the dirt. It’s meaning without medals. It’s knowing you’re disposable in the grand scheme and still showing up to mop the goddamn floors.

Optimism is rage with a heartbeat. It’s rebellion with a backpack. It’s saying, “No, I won’t collapse—not today, not now,” even if everything points to the collapse being inevitable.

It’s not smiling like an idiot. It’s laughing in the middle of a panic attack because the alternative is choking on your own dread.

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It’s a short one this week. Been really busy. Four 15+ hour days at work and less time to let the brainpan rattle around for thoughts about things. As always, your eyeballs and potential or realized patronage is thoroughly appreciated. Have a spectacular week and try to laugh at the burning clown car our government has become.