Tag: At Large

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At Large Opinion

Old Times

Olive, a good dog (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

Highway 64 runs straight as a Pentecostal preacher, aimed at the shadowy Ozark hills far across the flat belly of Arkansas. I hardly have to turn the steering wheel to stay in my lane. Cruise control is set on 65. It’s early morning and I can hear Olive softly snorting in her sleep on the passenger seat, legs restless and scritchy as she dreams of squirrels, just out of reach. Good dog.

Driving is a great time to think. I think about age a lot. I’m still learning how to be old. There’s all the usual stuff people talk about that happens to you: You walk into a room and forget why you were going there. You suddenly can’t remember the name of the drummer for Genesis or that ridiculously famous actor who starred in Pretty Woman. It drives you crazy and you refuse to google. Then you wake up to pee at 2:37 a.m. and it comes to you. Richard Gere, what a jerk. But he’s just another old guy now. Probably peeing somewhere in Bel Air.

You begin to notice how age is an invisibility cloak, unless maybe you’re Richard Gere. No one cares what clothes you wear or what kind of car you drive or how your hair looks. Store clerks and waitresses call you “sweetie,” like you’re 6. They offer to carry your wine out to the car at the liquor store. Punks.

It strikes you how blithely younger people assume the years ahead are guaranteed. My young neighbor says of her toddlers: “I can’t wait to see what they’ll be like as teenagers.” A TV analyst discusses possibilities for the 2028 presidential election — five years away — like it’s tomorrow. Yeah, well, you think, I might not be around for that stuff. It’s entirely unavoidable, and no one does it meaning to be cruel but, you know, age rings some new bells. You might think twice about getting a pet that could outlive you.

And lots of things have a potential to become a “lifetime supply” — a box of 100 plastic 30-gallon trash bags, a 24-roll package of jumbo paper towels. Shopping at Costco is for optimists, I say to my wife. She laughs. Or she used to. Even my jokes are old.

I have a friend in his early 80s. He’s bought three cool cars in the past 10 years, each on the excuse that it would be his “last car.” That’s the way to game the system. Also, shout-out to the admissions guy at the Children’s Museum last Saturday for questioning whether I was eligible for the senior discount. You rock.

When do we move from “late middle-age” to “early old”? When do we stop being surprised by our reflection in a store window? Is that wrinkly face really mine? I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise every time, so far.

One thing I do know is that how you may feel at 70 can be a lot different than how someone else may feel. The number of years we’ve lived is an odometer, not a watch. Some of us are Volvos, some of us are Kias. Your mileage may vary. As will your number of trips to the repair shop. The writer Penelope Lively wrote, “chronology bores me,” as well it should. Burn the days. They’ll spill into years soon enough.

People give you books: Better With Age: The Psychology of Successful Aging; The End of Old Age: Living a Longer, More Purposeful Life; Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as We Age. They can’t hurt, I suppose, though reading the subtitles can eat up valuable days.

You can also get lots of books on how to stay healthy. Don’t buy them. They all say the same thing: Exercise, eat a balanced diet, stay mentally active, socialize often. Good advice. It also helps if you have longevity in your genes. Just ask my 99-year-old mother.

And I think driving with your dog to a trout stream in Arkansas is a great way to stay young. You wade in, you think and you don’t think, you’re in the mist, in the moment. Alive. And tonight, I’ll softly snort in my sleep, my legs restless and scritchy as I dream of trout, just out of reach. Good boy.

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At Large Opinion

Twelve Months At Large

The Tennessee Three — Gloria Johnson, Justin Pearson, and Justin Jones (Photo: John Partipilo | Tennessee Lookout)

In my first column of 2023, I wrote about the most traumatic Christmas I’ve ever experienced, one in which I was gifted with a cancer diagnosis and the daunting prospect of back surgery and chemotherapy to try and get rid of it. Merry effing Christmas, indeed. It all seems kind of like a bad dream now. And I suppose it was.

Anyway, I was determined to keep writing, to maintain some semblance of normalcy, even as I lost 30 pounds, my hair, and my ability to walk without assistance. But typing wasn’t hard, so on things went.

In January, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis had not yet become a high-heeled boot-wearing, tongue-twitching laughingstock, but you could see it coming. The dude was pushing “don’t say gay” bills, banning school books, bashing drag queens, prohibiting AP classes from teaching African-American history, and finally and most ludicrously, fighting against a mythical liberal ban on gas stoves. All this shit was “woke,” y’all, and Ronnie wasn’t having any of it because he was fronting a run for president and being against woke was his entire platform. Oops.

January was also the month Memphis got pushed into the national spotlight when the brutal beating death of Tyre Nichols was revealed. Video from a nearby pole-mounted police camera showed five officers mercilessly beating Nichols with batons, face-kicks, and brutal punches to his head for more than three minutes. Nichols was then left on the ground for nearly a half-hour as his assailants stood around discussing possible alibis, ignoring him. Three days later, Nichols died from his injuries at St. Francis Hospital. A nation was outraged. Memphis responded with the dignity requested by Nichols’ family, but the scar still lingers, and the trials are ongoing.

We needed a break, and February provided one. Remember “Balloon-gate,” when a nefarious Chinese balloon slowly crossed the country, serving as a high-altitude Rorschach test for the body politic. Republicans and Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity were all clamoring for President Biden to shoot it down immediately. The thing was probably “woke.” Biden listened to his military experts and held fire until it was over the Atlantic, and plop it went into the ocean, and out of our memories.

After that fiasco, Memphis was ready for a fight, so I provoked one by writing about the ongoing struggle between Memphis in May (MIM) and Memphis River Parks Partnership (MRPP). Traffic on the Flyer website blew up and comments on social media got nasty. You were either on the side of the evil mastermind of MRPP, Carol Coletta, or you were in the pocket of those lying weasels at MIM, led by the nefarious Jim Holt. Memphis in May happened despite the brouhaha. The park got trashed. MRPP charged MIM lots of money for damages. MIM pulled next year’s events from the park, another music fest announced it was coming in, and people are still arguing. Meh.

In April, Tennessee Republicans decided to humiliate themselves on a national stage by kicking out state representatives Justin Pearson, Justin Jones, and Gloria Johnson for protesting the GOP’s inaction on gun reform. The three instantly became household names, appearing on television networks, here and abroad, meeting with Vice President Kamala Harris, and being invited to the White House to meet the president. To those Republicans responsible, I’d just like to take a moment to say: Nice job, you racist, gun-sucking assholes.

In late June, my cancer went into remission and I set about regrowing hair. Also, homophobic nut job Pat Robertson died and Donald Trump kept getting indicted. WTG, June!

The rest of the summer was relatively uneventful and I wrote amusingly and poignantly about golf, dogs, weather, my vacation, and fireworks.

In the fall, I penned a couple of sage and insightful columns about the race for Memphis mayor. Soon thereafter, I voted for the guy who came in fourth, so my stellar record as a political prognosticator remains intact. And then, just because I needed to divert attention from politics, I tossed off another column about Memphis in May, with predictable results. Half of the city thinks I’m an idiot and half thinks I’m a pretty smart guy. Which pretty much sums my year — and my career, for that matter. At any rate, I’m just happy to be here as we begin another spin around the sun. Happy New Year!

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At Large Opinion

Made Ya Look!

Heavy is the head that wears a cap. (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

I’m normally not the kind of guy who likes to draw attention to myself or my politics in public. There are no candidate bumper stickers on my car. I don’t wear political T-shirts, unless it’s something like “Save the Aquifer.” I don’t put up yard signs for candidates, though my wife sometimes does.

I try to keep my professional life and my social interactions separate, but it doesn’t always work. Often, when I’m introduced, people will say something like, “Oh, the Flyer guy. Yeah, I read your column.” Then there’s often a moment of frisson as I wait to check the vibe. I got a bad vibe the other night at a restaurant in Regalia Shopping Center, when the person I was introduced to said, “Oh, yeah … You’ve got a lot of opinions, don’t you?”

Yes, I do. Pleasure meeting you. See ya. Bye.

Anyway, as I said, I try to avoid such situations. So I don’t know what on Earth I was thinking last Saturday when I decided to wear a red baseball cap to Fresh Market. It looks exactly like a Trump MAGA cap, but the text reads:

MADE YA LOOK

BLACK LIVES MATTER

It was a gag gift from my wife and it has hung from my desk lamp at home for months. I can’t tell you why I suddenly thought it was a good idea to wear it.

When I got to the store and started walking across the parking lot, I realized that anyone more than 20 feet away would just assume I was wearing a MAGA hat. The joke only worked if the jokee was facing me and close enough to read the text. Oops. Nonetheless, I persevered, while noting as I grabbed a shopping cart, that the damn hat and people’s possible reactions to it was all I was thinking about.

First stop was at the berries display to pick up my weekly ration of blueberries. There was a Black guy putting out fresh plastic tubs, stacking them neatly. I saw his head jerk my way as he noticed my hat. I stared nonchalantly down at the produce, hoping the dude was reading my hat. He was.

“I like that hat,” he said, laughing. “You had me for a minute.”

“Oh yeah, this hat? Ha ha. It always gets a reaction,” I said, shamelessly. Ha ha. Phew.

I drew a couple of looks from people in the produce section, but no one was close enough to get the joke, so I was either just another dumb-ass Trumper or a fellow patriot, depending on their politics.

At the deli counter, I studied the array of roast chickens, head lowered, as if deep in concentration. The woman behind the counter made no comment. As I pointed at my selection, she handed it to me with an inscrutable smile and said, “Have a great day.” Bupkis.

It was then that I realized the stupid hat was wearing me, instead of the other way around. I might as well have been wearing a white Klan hood with “JUST KKKIDDING” on the forehead. Or a Confederate T-shirt with “I’M A LOSER” on the back. Some things just aren’t funny, even ironically. The MAGA hat has become too loaded with political baggage to be amusing any longer.

I took off the hat and stuffed it in one of my reusable shopping bags in the bottom of the cart. Which is ironic at some level, I suppose.

That evening, being on my own for the weekend, I went to Boscos in Overton Square for dinner. I like to sit at the cozy little bar, and I like their steak sandwiches. As soon as I sat down, I realized I’d seated myself in a combat zone. The Black woman to my left was arguing with a white guy across from her about Trump. “He emboldened people to be racist,” she said. “I can’t stand the man.”

“He did a lot of good things for the country,” the man said.

And so it went for a few minutes. I managed to get my order in, as the bartender rolled his eyes apologetically. Then I watched, unbelieving, as the two protagonists stared at each other silently for a moment, then walked around the bar and hugged. I wish I’d had my hat.

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At Large Opinion

Preacher of the House

Speaker of the House Mike Johnson (Photo: United States Congress, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

After three weeks of turmoil, the Republicans in Congress finally picked a speaker of the house last week. His name is Mike Johnson. He’s from Shreveport, Louisiana, and you could be forgiven if you’d never heard of him. He’s only been in Congress seven years, and his political views are, well, concerning. When asked how he would approach the issues of the day, Johnson responded, “Go pick up a Bible off your shelf and read it.”

At first, I took this as possible good news. After all, the Bible commands that we love our neighbor, care for the poor, welcome refugees, judge not lest ye be judged, and treat others as we ourselves would like to be treated — all good ideas. Looks like there might be some changes in the GOP platform, I thought.

Turns out, not so much. Johnson’s Bible is nothing if not flexible. When asked about last week’s mass shooting in Maine, for example, Johnson’s governing philosophy was put to an immediate test, since, you know, nobody was packing heat in Biblical times.

Johnson said it was not the right time to consider legislation. “The problem is the human heart,” he said. “It’s not guns, it’s not the weapons. We have to protect the right of the citizens to protect themselves.” In other words, forget that Jesus-y “turn the other cheek” stuff. Lock ’n load, pilgrims.

On climate change, Johnson will likely be the most vocal climate-change denier to ever hold the speakership. He received a 100 percent rating from the pro-fossil fuel American Energy Alliance in 2022. As, no doubt, Jesus would have.

Johnson worked for years as an attorney for the Christian nationalist organization, Alliance Defense Fund, fighting to ban abortion and gay rights. He called the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade a “great, joyous occasion,” and favors a nationwide ban on abortion. As for LGBTQ rights? “States have many legitimate grounds to proscribe same-sex deviate sexual intercourse,” Johnson says, “including concerns for public health, safety, morals, and the promotion of healthy marriages.”

At this point, it won’t surprise you to learn that Johnson was one of the principal congressional leaders in Donald Trump’s attempt to overthrow the 2020 election, and an enthusiastic promoter of the absurd legal theories used by Trump’s “legal team.”

In sum, Johnson is a boiler-plate, right-wing Republican who checks all the boxes: evangelical nationalist, anti-abortion, anti-climate change, anti-LGBTQ rights, anti-gun reform, pro-cutting Social Security and Medicare, and a pro-Trump election denier. The vote to elevate him to the speakership, a position two heartbeats from the presidency, was unanimous among his fellow GOP congressmen. So much for the myth of “moderate” Republicans.

The guy is a loon. And I haven’t even gotten to the weird stuff yet.

When asked why his wife, Kelly, didn’t come to Washington, D.C., to witness his swearing-in, Johnson said, and I quote: “She’s spent the last couple of weeks on her knees in prayer to the Lord. And, um, she’s a little worn out.”

I can’t even begin to parse that. Why would she pray for two weeks prior to Johnson’s election, which took less than one day? What kind of Jeebus weirdness is this? Even Monica Lewinsky couldn’t figure it out, tweeting in response (and I’m not making this up): “Not touching this.”

Johnson and his wife are in a “covenant marriage,” a Christian construct which makes divorce exceedingly difficult. It’s an institution beloved by misogynists, er, evangelical men, because it makes it nearly impossible for a woman to leave a marriage if she’s not financially independent.

And Johnson’s finances are yet another point of intrigue. From Vanity Fair: “In financial disclosures dating back to 2016, the year he joined Congress, Johnson never reported having a savings or checking account in his name, his spouse’s name, or in the name of any of his children. In his latest filing, which covers last year, he doesn’t list a single asset.” So how is that even possible? How does he pay bills?

And it gets weirder. In the late 1990s, when Johnson was in his mid-twenties, he “took custody” of a 11-year-old Black kid. When he and his wife got married in 1999, they claim to have “taken in” the teen as their own child. The teen doesn’t appear in any of the wedding pictures or current Johnson family pictures that have been released to the media. He is said to be living in California with children of his own. It’s undeniably strange. Johnson has likened the relationship to the one in the movie, The Blind Side. Okay. More to come, I suspect.

Johnson and his wife deleted the 69 (heh) episodes of their fundamentalist podcast within 24 hours of his winning the speakership, but they’ve been archived by an activist group and are reported to be very controversial. I’m not in the prediction business (well, maybe I am), but I’m guessing Mike Johnson will come to rue the day when the national media began to take his personal history off the shelf and read it.

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At Large Opinion

A September Morning

Nearly 3000 people were killed in the 9/11 attacks. (Photo: Kentannenbaum | Dreamstime.com)

As the early sun climbed into a cloudless sky, the city went about its business as usual. At the Starbucks on Union, a line of commuters waited for their tall cappuccinos. Joggers were jogging, cyclists were biking. Birds were singing high in the grand oaks of Midtown. Memphis was beginning a September Tuesday, and a beautiful one it was.

And then we started hearing the news, the horrible, unbelievable news that transfixed the country and forever altered the course of American history. It began with a kaleidoscope of images and speculative reporting. A plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. Was it a terrible accident or terrorism? Nobody knew. Stay tuned. We’ll have more as the story develops. Then, 18 minutes later, a second plane struck the other WTC tower and the intentional nature of the attacks became apparent.

We’d barely begun to let the enormity of these events sink in, when we learned that yet another airliner had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Then, we watched in stunned disbelief as the tallest buildings in New York City collapsed upon themselves, one after another, killing thousands in a slow-motion horror movie.

By the time we’d learned of a fourth plane crashing in the middle of Pennsylvania, it seemed the chaos and carnage might not end soon. Were there more attacks coming? What the hell was happening?

With each new revelation of death and destruction came a queasy fear, a growing sense of awareness that the United States was no longer a safe haven, isolated from the bloody but distant terrorism that plagued the rest of the world. We too were vulnerable — at the mercy of an evil that seemed too deep to comprehend, too much to take in on that sunny September morning.

We called friends and family, no matter where they were, seeking assurance that they were okay, seeking affirmation that they too had seen the news, had shared — were sharing — the nightmare on everyone’s television.

The events of September 11, 2001, became a Pearl Harbor moment for all of us old enough to experience and remember the day. Anyone who lived through it can tell you where they were when they got the news. I first heard about it in my car, on Drake & Zeke’s morning radio show. They were at first discussing the incident as though it might have been an accident, maybe a private plane? No one knew. Soon, I’d switched to a more news-oriented station, and by the time I got to the Flyer office 15 minutes later, everyone on staff had gathered around a television.

“So,” said one Flyer reporter, after an hour or so, “I guess we’re not gonna go with that ‘Nightlife in Memphis’ cover story for tomorrow.”

It really wasn’t meant to be funny, but it somehow broke the spell, reminding us that we had a job to do, and that that job had changed. We cobbled together a reaction story and somehow got the paper to the printer a day late. And “9/11” became a number that would be forever etched in our brains.

Now, it’s 22 years later. Most college students weren’t even born in 2001. They studied 9/11 in high school history classes, just as my generation studied World War II. I don’t remember ever getting emotional while reading about Pearl Harbor in my history books, and that’s because I didn’t live it. I didn’t feel it. It was no more real to me than the battle of Gettysburg.

My father’s generation lived it and felt it. My dad, a Navy man, drove around Hiroshima in a jeep not long after the atom bomb fell, a thing that seems insane and impossible, looking back on it. But I know it happened because I saw the square, brown-tinted photos of the city, his jeep, and his ship docked in Hiroshima harbor in a weathered scrapbook he kept in a drawer.

That generation is mostly gone now, along with their emotions and memories of Pearl Harbor and World War II. Most of you reading this carry the emotions and memories of living through 9/11, another day that will live in infamy. Don’t keep them stuck away in a drawer. Share. History does have a tendency to repeat itself.

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At Large Opinion

Age Before Duty

A striking resemblance. (Photo: Barol16 | Dreamstime.com)

Did you see the latest Mitch McConnell moment last week? For the second time in recent weeks, the minority leader of the Senate just “froze,” seemingly unable to move or speak for almost 30 seconds after hearing a reporter’s question. An aide came forward, grasped his arm, and asked if he heard the question. McConnell mumbled, “Yes,” but continued to stand motionless for a bit longer.

The 81-year-old McConnell fell and suffered a concussion in March, and was subsequently away from his job for several weeks. The reoccurrence of a freeze moment renewed questions about his ability to continue to lead the Republicans in the Senate.

The New York Times interviewed two neurologists who viewed video of the incident and said it could have been a “mini-stroke” or “partial seizure.” A spokesperson for McConnell’s office did not share any further details about the incident, including whether or not the senator had seen a doctor. McConnell has continued to insist that he will run for reelection. Ironically, that was the very question that sent the senator into his second freeze.

There have been similarly troubling incidents with Senator Dianne Feinstein of California. Now 89, the senator missed 91 votes over the course of several months last winter and spring due to medical issues with shingles, facial paralysis, and encephalitis. She returned to the Senate in April, but appeared confused when questioned by reporters. “I haven’t been gone,” she said. “I’ve been here and voting.” Nope, sorry, Dianne. You’ve been gone. Feinstein, like McConnell, is insistent that she will finish her term, which ends in 2025.

If you watched or read any right-wing media, you’d quickly get the impression that President Joe Biden is in worse shape than either McConnell or Feinstein. There are countless memes and deceptively edited videos on social media and conservative cable channels that show the 80-year-old Biden as a gibbering, dementia-ridden geezer. Fox News hosts ride this horse on a daily basis: Biden is too mentally incompetent to be president. We can expect this drumbeat to only get louder as we enter the election year of 2024.

Judging from the unedited videos I’ve watched of Biden speaking in impromptu situations in recent weeks, he does not appear to be mentally impaired. He talks in complete sentences and seems to have a grasp on the issues he’s discussing. He misspeaks occasionally, but the man does have a lifelong stuttering problem. His probable opponent for the presidency, Donald Trump, is only two-and-a-half years younger and is himself no stranger to verbal gaffes.

For the record, I don’t think we’re sending our best people for this job. It’s like we have two old guys climbing rickety ladders to a third-story window and voters are hoping their guy doesn’t fall off first. I think the Democrats’ old guy is by far the saner choice, but making long-term plans with people at these candidates’ ages is fraught with peril. Just ask Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Oops. Sorry. Maybe ask Feinstein or McConnell? Oh, wait, never mind.

And don’t talk to me about the supposed third-party candidates. Robert Kennedy Jr.? Loon. Cornel West? Loon. Who else you got? Tulsi Gabbard? Loon. None of them have a chance to do anything other than possibly throw the election into chaos. And we already have a pretty good shot at that happening with just two candidates. 

Trump polls as the most-disliked politician in America, blathers like a narcissistic fool, and is built like a pierogi — not exactly the picture of mental or physical health. But his base doesn’t care what he says or does or looks like. Trump could freeze in the middle of Fifth Avenue for an hour and it wouldn’t matter.

Biden has good cases to make on the economy, unemployment, prescription drugs, infrastructure, abortion rights, LGBTQ issues, and the environment. His policies are in line with the majority of voters, according to most polls. But even so, all it will take is one McConnell-like moment for the president and the hounds of hell will be unleashed, the news filled with “Is Joe Biden too old?” stories. At that point, the Democrats can release all the Bikin’ Biden videos in the world and it won’t dispel the fact that he’s 80 and looks his age. It’s going to be an interesting year, I’m afraid. 

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At Large Opinion

A Digression

This layabout lacks ambition. (Photo: Bruce VanWyngarden)

I have been living by myself for the past week or so. My wife went to a legal convention in Minneapolis, and then went to visit our grandchildren in New York. In the old days, I would have said I’ve been “batching it,” meaning I’m living like a bachelor. But now, as I type it, I don’t understand why there’s a “t” in “batching.” Or is there? If I weren’t temporarily living alone, I’d ask my wife. She probably wouldn’t know, but she’d have an opinion, and that’s all you can really ask for in a relationship.

And now I’m reminded of the phrase, “confirmed bachelor,” which those of you of a certain age will remember. My favorite uncle was a confirmed bachelor. He lived for 30 years or so with his friend Richard, who was also a confirmed bachelor. That was some seriously confirmed batching it. My father always said he wished his brother would find a “nice gal” and settle down. I never knew if he was really that clueless or just trying to hide the truth from his children.

Anyway, I digress. But, to be honest, this column is beginning to look like a string of digressions in search of a point. I hope you’ll bear with me. I’m on my own here. Except for my dogs, who are both lying on the floor in my office. Their lack of ambition is appalling.

Sorry, another digression. My bad. I will find a point. I promise.

So, I read this week about the Sentinelese Tribe, who for 50,000 years have lived on one of the Andaman Islands in the Indian Ocean. They are the most isolated group of people in the world. They violently reject all visitors, firing arrows and slinging spears at any who dare approach their beaches. They killed the last person who tried to land, in 2018. It is thought that they are so violent against visitors because whenever an outsider has made contact in the past, the tribe was exposed to diseases that wiped out large segments of the population. After decades of various attempts at contacting them, the government of India has determined that no further attempts shall be made to communicate with the Sentinelese and that they should be left alone. Like me. So I can finish this column.

A friend recently sent me a video of a compelling commencement speech at Northwestern University by Illinois Governor JB Pritzker. It addressed the subject of kindness: “When we encounter someone who doesn’t look, live, love, or act like us,” he said, “our first thought is rooted in fear or judgment. It’s an evolutionary response. We survived as a species by being suspicious of things that we aren’t familiar with.”

The governor went on: “In order to be kind, we have to shut down that animal instinct, that fear, and force our brain to travel a different pathway. Empathy and compassion are evolved states of being that require the mental capacity to step past our basic instincts. … When someone’s path through this world is marked by acts of cruelty, they have failed the first test of an advanced society. They never forced their animal brain to evolve past its first instinct.”

I disagree somewhat with the governor on this latter point. Yes, there’s an instinctual cruelty that comes from fear — like that of the Sentinelese — but there is also rampant in our society — and our politics — an intentional cruelty that uses weak and disadvantaged people for personal gain, that weaponizes the fear in others, that mocks their disabilities, body shape, and speech, that demonizes skin color, religion, gender, and sexuality, not because of some primordial fear, but for selfish ambition.

Governor Pritzker ended his speech by saying that in his experience, “the smartest person in the room was often also the kindest.” In my experience, the reverse is also true. Dumbasses are often mean. Avoid them. Don’t vote for them.

So, all of this digression needs a finish. Maybe this quote from Kurt Vonnegut will work: “And how should we behave during this Apocalypse? We should be unusually kind to one another, certainly. … Jokes help. And get a dog, if you don’t already have one.” Or two. At least. You’ll never be alone. Or cruel.

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At Large Opinion

Math Hysteria

Photo: Steve Mann | Dreamstime.com

You are about to enter a column with math, which I’m not usually great at, but this is important stuff. According to a recent Tufts University study, there were an estimated 8.3 million voters who were newly eligible for the 2022 midterm elections — “newly eligible,” meaning those who had turned 18 since the previous general election in November 2020. They are members of what’s commonly referenced as Generation Z (those born between 1997 and 2012).

The newly eligible voters — approximately 4.5 million of them white and 3.8 million people of color — turned out in historically high numbers, and voted overwhelmingly (by 27 percent) for Democrats in the 2022 midterms. Tufts reported that young voters swung results in Georgia and Nevada, and tilted races toward Democrats in Arizona, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania.

Another report, published by NPR in February, polled Gen Z-ers about their political concerns. They ranked “protecting abortion access” at a higher level than any other age group. It’s worth noting that Gen Z voters will be the most educated group in our history, statistically, and the higher a voter’s education level, the more likely they are to vote. And the majority of Gen Z college graduates are female.

Using this data, you could predict that women and young people are going to have an increasing say in electoral outcomes in the U.S. Or you could just look at recent statewide elections, where it’s already happening. Start with the abortion referendum in 2022 in blood-red Kansas, where abortion rights prevailed by a nearly 60 percent to 40 percent margin, thanks to an unprecedented turnout by women and young people. There were similar results in Michigan a few months later, where abortion rights prevailed 57 to 43 percent, and last week in Ohio, where pro-choice voters also won by a 57 to 43 percent margin.

Along with abortion rights, Gen Z voters cited racism, the environment, gun violence, and LGBTQ/gender issues among their top concerns. They are the least traditionally religious generation in our history.

It’s almost as if the Republican Party read that NPR report, saw the recent state election returns, and said, “You know what? Let’s see what we can do to really piss off young voters. Maybe we should start something like ‘a War on Woke,’ where we force women to have babies against their will and demand open-carry laws and suppress LGBTQ rights and drill for oil in baby seal habitats. That’ll show ’em we mean business!” I don’t know how else you explain what appears to be a GOP death-wish agenda for 2024.

It’s enough to make a logical person think that the upcoming election will be a walkover for the Democrats, but these coots ain’t made for walkin’. In the midst of this epic demographic swing toward youth, the Democrats are stuck ridin’ with Biden, an 80-year-old who Republicans are painting as a barely sentient geezer who can’t tie his own shoes. It’s ageist, unfair, and unfortunate, but it’s where we are.

Fortunately for the Democrats, in addition to the genius strategy of going against every policy favored by young people and women, the GOP seems hellbent on renominating a multiple-indicted 77-year-old loon with a Grateful Dead-like following of cosplaying cultists. He’ll be running for president in between court appearances and possible jail time for witness tampering. The media will consume and regurgitate Trump and his lies ad nauseam. Orange will be the new gack.

Frankly, given mortality tables, the odds of both of these Boomers getting through a stressful, yearlong presidential campaign without a health crisis seem slim. It seems more likely that we’ve got 14 months of chaos of one kind or another looming ahead.

This is when it helps to remember that even though the candidates might look the same as four years ago, the electorate will not. In the four years between the 2020 and 2024 elections, the country will have gained another 16 million young eligible voters. And in each of those four years, 2.5 million older Americans will have died, meaning there will be 10 million fewer older voters. That’s a net swing of 26 million younger eligible voters. I may not be good at math, but I know how to count change when I see it.

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At Large Opinion

An Innocent Man

Unbelievable. (Photo: Photographerlondon | Dreamstime)

“Good morning, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You were going 67 in a 35-miles-per-hour zone.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Sir, I have your speed recorded on my radar gun.”

“Well, your ‘gun’ is wrong. There’s no way I was going that fast. In fact, I was going well under the speed limit.”

“No sir, you were going almost twice the speed limit, and I’m going to have to issue you a speeding ticket.”

“I wasn’t speeding.”

“Yes. You. Were. Remain here. I’m going back to my car to pull your vehicle information and write you a ticket.”

“Fine. I’m going to call my lawyer.”

“You do that.”

Five minutes pass.

“All right, sir. Here’s your citation. I’m required to inform you that you will have to appear in court, since you were going more than 25 miles per hour over the legal speed limit.”

“That’s fine. My lawyer just said, and I quote: ‘Don’t worry. They’re going to have a hell of a time trying prove you knew you were speeding.’”

“Sir, we don’t have to prove you knew you were speeding. We only have to prove you were speeding — and you were. My partner is in the squad car and he also can attest to your breaking the speed limit by more than 30 miles per hour. You also sped through a school zone, which doubles the fine.”

“Well, my lawyer said we’re going to get an alternate slate of cops, and they will testify that I was not speeding. And all I have to do is say I believe them. Check and mate, my friend.”

“An alternate slate of cops?”

“That’s right. If I sincerely don’t believe I was going that fast and I didn’t see any school-zone signs and an alternate slate of cops testifies I wasn’t speeding and I say I believe them, there’s no way they can find me guilty.”

“Uh, okay. Good luck with that strategy, pal. Your court date is on the citation. I suggest you don’t miss it. Going more than 25 miles per hour over the speed limit in a school zone can lead to jail time.”

“My lawyer says we’re going to subpoena your radar gun. He says we have evidence that it’s been tampered with by the manufacturer in Venezuela.”

“What? That’s insane.”

“Not if I sincerely believe it.”

“That’s not how the law works, sir.”

“Yes, it is. If I don’t believe I was going that fast and I didn’t see any school-zone signs and I have an alternate slate of cops and your radar gun has been tampered with, there’s no way those charges stand up in court. It’s a free-speech issue.”

“Okay [sighs, heavily], I’ve had enough of your bullshit for one morning. Tell it to the judge.”

“The judge is a biased thug who was appointed by someone who hates me.”

“The judge was not appointed by anybody. She was elected.”

“AHA! It was a stolen election! Boom! Case closed! If I don’t believe I was going that fast and I didn’t see any school-zone signs and I have an alternate slate of cops and your radar gun has been tampered with and it was a stolen election, there’s not a court in the country that would convict me. I’m an innocent man!”

“Whatever, sir. See you in court. You’re free to go.”

“Good! I’ve got a crowded theater to get to. I hear there’s a fire.”

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At Large Opinion

Lights Out!

These storms are no joke. (Photo: Shara Clark)

While driving through the city in recent weeks, I’ve found myself being re-routed around fallen trees and/or limbs several times. There were at least four big ones restricting access to streets within 10 blocks of my Midtown home. Out east, and up north in the Bartlett area, things were much worse.

It’s becoming the new normal. Over the course of several storm systems this summer, the number of Memphians without power at various times was well over 100,000, often for days.

And if it’s not wind turning off our lights, it’s ice, as heavily coated trees and limbs fall on power lines and leave us in the cold and dark. After February’s ice storm, thousands of people were without power, some for up to 10 days. The winter before, it was the same thing — with the added bonus of making our water undrinkable for several days.

MLGW says its infrastructure is outdated and being upgraded, but there’s no getting around the fact that the magnificent trees that shade us through Memphis’ asphalt-melting summers also shut off our air conditioners (and furnaces). If you add up the number of people in the city who’ve lost power just this year as a result of various weather incidents, it’s well into six figures, certainly well above the 100,000 number I cited above.

This was a tweet from MLGW in response to criticism from city council members during the 2022 ice storm: “It took three years to get our budget with a rate increase to fund our five-year improvement plan approved by City Council. We are in the third year of the five-year plan, which has been hampered considerably by the pandemic.”

So, now they’re in the fourth year of the plan. Forgive me if I remain skeptical — and not because I don’t think they’re trying. MLGW workers have been magnificent, working long hours, doing their best to fix a system not built for the increasing frequency of severe weather. They’re trying to play Whac-A-Mole and the moles are winning — with a big assist from global climate change.

The outcry always arises that we need to put our power lines underground. The utility’s response, and I think it’s legitimate, is that it would take decades and cost several billion dollars. So maybe let’s think outside the Whac-A-Mole box.

Some people are already doing it, of course. This has mostly taken the form of buying a gas generator to provide power when storms strike. I get the appeal, but let me suggest another option that came to me when I drove through the back roads of Arkansas last week. I couldn’t help but notice the surprising number of solar panels on rural houses and businesses, many of them new, some even being installed as I drove by. These folks are likely taking advantage of the Inflation Reduction Act’s solar Investment Tax Credit, which reduces tax liability on solar installation by 30 percent of the cost. In addition, taxpayers will be able to claim a 30 percent bonus credit based on emission measurements, which requires zero or net-negative carbon emissions.

So, instead of getting a generator, maybe consider installing solar panels. The initial cost is higher, but the long-term advantage is significant. In addition to a tax credit, you can even get paid for selling electricity back to the grid. Not to mention, solar panels are quiet and don’t pollute.

And here’s another thought: Maybe the city and/or MLGW could divert some of those theoretical funds for burying power lines into incentives to Memphis home and business owners for going solar.

I’m under no illusion that thousands of Memphians will immediately begin installing solar panels, but some will, especially if the benefits are publicized. It beats snarky tweets between city council and MLGW. And there are similar federal tax incentives for businesses that have solar technology installed, so why not sweeten the pot with local funds? Maybe we could get solar panels on our grocery stores. Or our 10,000 Walgreens.

We have to start somewhere. Continuing to chainsaw ourselves out from under fallen debris and wait to be reattached to the grid after every major weather event is not a plan. It’s time to re-route our approach to keeping the lights on.