We are, as a nation, at three o’clock in the morning right now–and have been, day after day, since the election. And it’s your own silent Republicans’ fault. Trump lost the election–and 30-plus related lawsuits–and the Republicans in Congress, when not silent, are claiming massive voter fraud.

Or–if you can believe it–encouraging Georgia Republicans not to vote for their own incumbent senators in the forthcoming January 5 run-off election.

Their silence otherwise emboldens Trump, and Trump’s risible behavior since losing the election lends a degree of legitimacy to those who actually believe significant, election-changing voter fraud occurred.

Joe Biden will be the President of the United States. He’ll be sworn in on January 20. He may even inherit the Senate.

For those who refuse this, who cannot and never will accept it, get over yourselves. Instead of crying fraud, fight back in your own way. That’s how the country works. I wrote the following four years ago, after Trump “won.” I did not like it then, and like it even less now, but nearly half of the electorate voted for Trump in 2016–thus the title of my column.

Donald Trump Is My President

Posted on November 17, 2016November 16, 2016 by Joseph Oldenbourg

I find revolting the election of Donald Trump as our president; then again, in voting for him, that’s what approximately half of the voting electorate did–revolt.

As of 14 November, Hillary Clinton garnered 668,483 more votes than Trump. That’s about the size of Boston. The 60 million-plus who voted for Trump despite his antics did so to express their deep dissatisfaction with politics as usual in Washington D.C. Again, that’s about 47%.

That’s why Donald Trump is my president. Certainly not because I voted for him. I voted for Clinton. Before that, I voted for Sanders. And I still think he would have won.

However–and I can’t hammer this home hard enough–half the turnout was for Trump.

This is why the current protests must stop. Sure, the man who claimed the election was “rigged” won by coming in second place in the popular vote. Even so, he won fair and square.

If you want to protest, protest that we’re still using an Electoral College.

But now is the time to be watchful. Given Trump’s past behavior, I seriously doubt that with his election he’ll suddenly sprout the gravitas the presidency demands.

He may, during this honeymoon, improve–but my money is on his reverting to form. So we must be vigilant with this Grand Guignol on our hands.

We must also be supportive of those who feel threatened. The time to fight will come when, as president, the Orange Horror attempts to implement any of his campaign rhetoric.

Ask yourself if half of us really want a universal ban on Muslims entering the country. Ask yourself if half of us want a wall along our southern border. Hell, ask the Mexicans if they will pay for it. Ask yourself if half of us would boast of a history of sexual assault. Ask yourself if half of us condone the mocking of journalists or prisoners of war.

The list goes on, but it’s making me too queasy to use this computer.

I don’t quite yet know how one half of us will fight the other, but that a fight is indeed coming I have no doubt. Many fights, more realistically. For nearly a week now I have been unable to free myself of the following words from Winston Churchill:

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone. At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty’s Government–every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

Ultimately–and however slowly, if only in fits and starts–we have made progress. Maybe we only succeed where and when we’re ready to, but I don’t know. I don’t, however, believe that the progress we have made can be turned back.

“The arc of the moral universe is long,” Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “but it bends towards justice.”

The post Three O’clock in the Morning appeared first on Valley Voice.

That place where the lost sock has decamped to, leaving its mate forlorn and forever unselected in the drawer. I could say the country resembles the abandoned sock, ever unworn, except for two things. First, unlike the locus of the country, we know exactly where that sock is, and–entirely too like the country–that sock is indeed worn. As in worn out.

So–which of the two major parties is the lost sock? Verily, the Republican. It is this party which has engineered “fraudulence” and is now jousting with half of the electorate–the victorious half. Much like we have no idea as to the whereabouts of the lost sock, clear-minded Americans have no clue as to the cult/conspiracy mindset of those who decry a “stolen election.” This is unholy and wholly unprecedented, unproven, graceless, and, frankly, undignified.

It is deeply, truly, un-American. Biden won, and there is no nonsense about it.

Stop the steal? How about stop the stop?

If you need 270 electoral votes to win, and you have garnered 306–as Biden has–the elections is yours. Four years ago Trump tallied 306 and he branded it a landslide. And if your popular vote margin is bumping six million, except for the idiotic and outdated electoral college, chances are the election is yours as well.

If anything, the Republicans stole the election from themselves by backhandedly encouraging mail-in ballots, counted last, and overwhelmingly cast Democratic.

These lost socks are not doing the country any favors at large. Whatever they are forging in their benighted minds can wait. The results are in, are clear, and there is the important work of a transition to be accomplished.

What is more disappointing even than the 70-plus million who still voted Trump after witnessing four years of his malfeasance is that Congressional Republicans condone this delay, calling for only “legal” ballots to be counted. Well, old socks–that is all they have been counting. “Legal” is a dog whistle for any vote counted after midnight on 3 November.

The fulcrum of my disappointment is that these people know better. They know in much greater detail than the average citizen the technical intricacies of transition, and they know full well that each day Biden is denied access and information is a day that births increased security concerns.

In this silent endorsement, this enabling, these lost socks are playing chicken with the safety of the country.

So, where is the country now? Temporarily, I hope, at least until this rift is mended, adrift without gravitas in the universe of lost socks.

The post The Universe of Lost Socks appeared first on Valley Voice.

It does not get more un-American than that. I mean, why be upset with foreign meddling when the incumbent is willing to do his own election dirty work? But this is off topic, and has been much made mention of.

My bone to pick is with the electorate. How, after all the lies and scandals, the trashing of norms, an impeachment, nepotism, emoluments, cabinet turmoil and thousands of undignified tweets–each starting with the 2016 campaign and continuing yet today–can more than 69 million benighted souls still have voted for this man?

I thought his mishandling of the pandemic alone, with a death toll surpassing 235,000, would be his undoing.

And now this man, desperate as the mail-in vote in Pennsylvania and Georgia may be swinging the election from him, goes on national television, from the White House briefing room, to maintain only those votes cast in person or received by election night are legitimate. Or, as he phrased it, “legal.” All while we are still in real time here, counting–ironically–the first votes last because an unprecedented 97 million chose to avoid the coronavirus by voting via mail.

So maybe it’ll be his undoing, after all.

One thing is certain. During the actual counting it was unseemly of him to say anything whatsoever. The proper time for him to launch his machinations is after the vote has been tallied. Then, he can demand a recount in every state; then, his team of attorneys can attempt to cast doubt on any amount of ballots.

Still, we wouldn’t be in this pickle if we simply picked our president by the popular vote. There would be no incessant wrangling, no flinging of falsehoods, no vigils in front of the television. The time has come to change–especially, somehow, if the incumbent, having lost by four million votes, again wins the electoral college.

Like four years ago, it would be telling four million Americans they don’t matter a damn.

The post Snapshot of Catastrophe appeared first on Valley Voice.

Now, the Valley Voice will never–and never will, at least under our leadership–endorse candidates. We can’t, and then hope to report properly on any election. Therefore, this is NOT an article.

What follows are my own, personal, viewpoints on two local races that I think might be incredibly impactful on our collective future. What follows is not the editorial stance of this newspaper. It’s my stance, alone.

I’m just going to write about what I’ve witnessed first-hand. And I’ll bust it down, easy, by contest.

Vote for Steve Harrell and Drew Phelps.

I think I first interviewed Carlton Jones, via telephone, in 2014. Having had but sparse previous journalism/interviewing experience, I initially landed on Jones’ side. I was filled with hope for who would become Tulare’s first Black mayor.

Then Tony Maldonado and I sat in during all manner of city council meetings.

While we sat there Jones in short order dishonored himself as a city councilmember, as a mayor and as a man. The disgrace was continuous and nauseating. Not to mention he cost his city who knows how much in ransom to his nonsense. Then he had to quit being mayor. Because–incredibly–he finally went along with the tide and voted himself out.

Harrell, on the other hand, has been measured. Not a bad thing if you’re charging someone with the accuracy of your hospital board meeting minutes. Again, Tony and I have sat through enough meetings to see that, as secretary, Harrell is conscientious. Tedious as they remain, he amends the minutes down to the minutiae. This means he respects the task and takes it seriously.

Contrast this with Jones’ behavior lo these many years. There are too many lowly instances to list. Suffice it to say that, just recently, Jones admitted to tearing down his opponent’s signage. He only takes himself seriously.

As does Devon Mathis–who couldn’t be bothered to help Tulare’s lone hospital by requesting a JLAC audit during the dark days of HCCA’s administration.

The question is this: How many deaths, during the hospital’s possibly sub-standard care under HCCA and during its eventual closure, is Mathis conceivably complicit in?

As you ponder that, ponder as well his accomplishments. I can’t think of a single tangible thing Mathis has brought his constituents in six years–except one, an anti-dumping bill.

I have to believe differently of Drew Phelps.

He certainly cannot do worse than Mathis has. Plus, I believe him to be a man of honor. Something Mathis clearly is not.

Yes, I can hear you–“But Mathis is not only a veteran, he wears the Purple Heart.” And, yes, I laud him for his service. So I ask you: In his time as assemblyman, what have his military service and Purple Heart brought home to his district? Exactly nothing.

Vote for Steve Harrell and Drew Phelps.

The post This is Not an Article appeared first on Valley Voice.

The current slate of soulless Republican senate enablers certainly, en masse, deserves an unhorsing. Actually, they deserve worse. Having looked the other way this whole time, they merit a voting into–entirely–oblivion.

Trump did not deserve any of this coronavirus illness–no one does–so when I wrote that I wished him a rough go of it, it was only for a brief time and in the hope that he could absorb a learning moment. What wishful thinking that turned out to be. Naturally enough, my worst fears materialized when, infectious and back at the White House, he immediately tore away his mask and stalked inside, apparently in an effort to kill off so many witnesses–also, possibly, accomplices–as he could before his unelection. I call that depraved indifference.

The best way to unhorse this obese pretender is not with a joust, of course. It may not even be with a presidential election. He lost the popular vote in 2016 by 3 million votes, but the electoral college still granted him victory. Not even a robust, landslide popular vote win is any guarantee of the peoples’ will being done.

The best way to defeat Donald Trump? Nobody knows. Because you do know this: he will cheat–he will hang a chad. He’ll hang the Supreme Court. A Norm. Maybe a distant family member or former friend. Anything, in his own best interests.

He will claim the election was rigged in some form, just as he did four years ago–an election he subsequently “won.”

The best way to stuff such nonsense back down Trump’s throat–a joust in his eye, as it were–is for many down ballot Republicans to lose. Then, irrespective of the actual count, it can be demonstrated that Republicans in general have been eclipsed. Maybe even properly repudiated.

We have to recapture our country from the type of Republicans who enabled Trump to fester in his presidency. And that’s not a partisan sentiment. The Republican party itself will be bigly improved by Trump’s removal–much in the way it was after Nixon resigned. Are you getting the trend?

A further improvement will be to welcome back Republicans of integrity–if any yet so remain.

The post Comes a Down Ballot Rider appeared first on Valley Voice.

Do I wish Donald Trump a full and speedy recovery? Hell, no. I wish him a recovery. A slow one. I hope he suffers horribly, recovers, and emerges on the other side better equipped to lead our country. With–I entirely doubt–any empathy whatsoever. I hope this whimpy idiot gets the Christ kicked out of him, recovers, really, repents, and actually, now, finally, puts his pen to the paper properly.

The post “Pass the Goddamned Mustard.” appeared first on Valley Voice.

Allow me to set the scene for you.

In January of 1983 I was 19. I was up for anything. So when my suite mates–they’d been there the entire academic year, so we supposed they knew the place; Tom and I had arrived mid-term–suggested a stroll along the South Jetty we thought nothing of it. Tom and I, ignorantly, tagged along.

We were five: suite mates Joel and Ralph; my actual roommate, Bruce; and Tom and I. Bruce alone harbored sufficient moxie not to walk too far out.

We had ambled some distance from him before hearing Bruce shout. Turning, we saw that he was frantically pointing to his left–our right–out to the open water. While the four of us were lost in conversation, Bruce, who was facing seaward, noticed the imminent arrival of some large waves. He was warning us.

We legged it–just not nearly fast enough. I doubt we made 10 or 20 yards before we were swept into the mouth of the bay. Ralph simply vanished. Joel sped far past me, out into water so rough the Coast Guard cutter could make no headway toward rescuing him. He was fished out just in time–the doctors said later–by helicopter. I do not recall if Tom went into the water. He was the furthest inshore of us. And, obviously, the fastest.

It was a terrifying experience being hit so hard with such cold water. The force of it knocked me flat on my back and shot me, head first, over boulders the size of cars. I was reckoning on cranial destruction. But, emerging about 10 yards from the jetty, I was able to swim back and, with studied timing, clamber up upon it. Mainly, I wanted out of the frigid water faster than pronto. But I had to judge the wave breaks or risk duplicating my ghastly experience.

Yet now my clothes were sodden, so, terror or no, I was no faster than before. Another wave caught me at a dead run maybe 50 yards inshore from my previous dunking–and it was over the rocks again, mercifully forward-facing this time. Cracked my left shin so hard that there remains a flattened section of the bone yet today.

Hellish, all in all–in the sense that there was an almost a certain feeling of no escape.

Those few minutes remind me of nothing so much as the past four years do, with the intersection of stupidity and Nature. From climate change to coronavirus, I think, we have been measured and found wanting. As for climate change, the Sierra Nevada, containing the highest elevation in the continuous 48, looms directly to the east of us. Currently it’s on fire and invisible from the Valley floor due to the plume of smoke emitted from there and many other fires in our western states. Sorry to all you “seeing is believing” adherents. And as for COVID-19, the last I checked the United States has lost 212,000 citizens–with an impact of who knows what for how incalculably many loved ones.

We can do better.

For my part, I will never go out on the South Jetty again or do anything similarly stupid. And the experience taught me never to take my eyes entirely off the ocean–a practice that kept me in good stead for the five years we lived on the beach in Cabo San Lucas.

So here is the question, particularly for all those of you who voted for Donald Trump in 2016. Knowing what you do now, are you really willing to go back out on a limb–on a jetty–and vote for him again in 2020?

You can do better.

The post You Can Do Better appeared first on Valley Voice.

One time I swam way too far out of Santa Maria–into the Sea of Cortez properly, was terrified, and only too glad to return. Truly, machismo is idiocy. I will tell you: deep water and heights scare the Christ out of me. Bring me a ghost. Or a snake. A zombie. A Republican. Anything. Just no depths beneath me over which I have no control.

Anyhow. Memory tells me that one morning I was beckoned down to the water by some commotion or other. Practically on shore were two enormous humpbacks frolicking. I could have mounted them from the beach as you would a horse–a mother and her calf, scouring themselves against the sand beneath the breakers. A group of us gawped in absolute awe as the two snorted and had a good scratch. They peeked back, I swear, with no concern whatsoever. Still, it seemed like a moment of recognition between us.

Another moment of recognition, albeit far less full of elation, is when you realize that Donald Trump, as President of the United States, remains willing to sacrifice–kill–untold thousands of his fellow citizens merely to further his political pursuits. His re-election.

As he admitted to Bob Woodward so early as February 7, Trump knew that COVID-19 is both airborne and more deadly than the flu. He knew that the youth are not immune. Over the course of several interviews, Trump even confessed to downplaying the pandemic. He denigrates mask wearing and continues to hold large, indoor rallies.

The United States contains something like four percent of the world’s population and 20% of the world’s COVID-19 deaths. We certainly have more cases than any other country on the globe. What would you call it when, by sins of omission and commission both, a self-proclaimed “wartime president” has killed countless thousands of homefront Americans?

Negligent mass homicide? Mass murder? Treason?

…Right! Another moment of recognition. Trump likely reckons the 197,000 and counting dead are “losers.” That you are a “sucker” if you wear a mask. His oft corroborated remarks about our troops, our service dead and captured, are nauseating. Quite a moment when you realize the so-called Commander-in-Chief is not only unfit to command but, quite possibly, may not even be in command of his own faculties.

Person, woman, man, camera, TV.

Millions, somehow, still trust this president and would have heeded him had he just suggested wearing a mask. Instead, when the virus refused to “magically” disappear with the warm weather, he urged the quaffing of Clorox. I wonder how many people inappropriately took hydroxychloroquine on his say-so. But he does continue to insist that testing is causative of infection. And that actually is crazy.

We would be through much of this by now if, way back in February, the president had simply issued a mask-wearing directive. Not only has Trump done for many Americans, he has killed a good bit of our economy as well. The number of small businesses this man has assassinated, coupled with the eventual cost of a floated $trillion in stimulus money–the effect of it all is, at present, incalculable. All to make rosier his re-election prospects.

2020 began with a failed impeachment when the Senate abdicated its responsibility to so much as honor the process. Since then we have marched through Murder Hornets, a pandemic with an upward spiraling death count, a dire economic catastrophe impacting tenants, landlords and small business of every stripe, the loss of many of our norms and, now, horrific fires that have cast a kind of nuclear winter over the entire western landscape. All of that without even discussing the chaos in our streets, continuing police brutality toward–nay, the yet ongoing murder of–Black people, and the ever widening divide we endure. And all that, still, without even discussing the spectre of climate change. The only way this year could be worse is if Trump is re-elected.

I guess then we would really all be suckers.

The post A Moment of Recognition appeared first on Valley Voice.

We convoyed the nearly 300 miles, I in a 1968 Mustang and he in an mid 70’s Pinto wagon.

Parenthetically, it was one of the best decisions we ever made. Tom eventually transferred to and graduated from St. Mary’s. I did the same from Berkeley.

We quickly settled into dorm life–there being dorms a determining factor in our enrollment–and, although we didn’t room together, we both enjoyed the experience.

In fact, a few weeks in we were rather given the run of the place. One day five of us, in complete ignorance, decided to venture altogether too far out on the south jetty on the mouth of Humboldt Bay. Three of us returned. The fourth had to be snatched–like an astronaut, with a helicopter–from the water, and the fifth was never recovered. The effect upon us of this galling tragedy was that we were cut enormous slack by the folks running the dorms. Mind you, this was a junior college, run by the state, and strict rules applied to dorm residents. Especially those who were under age. We did everything short of building a still.

Still, the jetty incident occurred in January–I know: January–really?–so we had six months of dorm life remaining before the summer. Sometime that spring Tom told me his girlfriend was coming up for a visit. Now, I can’t remember how she arrived. She probably drove. The point is, shortly before the appointed hour Tom’s Pinto suddenly went hors de combat.

I don’t remember why they could not have used her car, if indeed she drove, or, if she flew, why they could not have used mine. Or even my girlfriend’s truck. I only remember that it was imperative to Tom to get his car fixed. So she probably flew, and he enlisted my assistance. A wise choice? Hardly. But somehow a good one.

Together, in the dorm parking lot, we got to work–neither of us knowing much about what we were doing. I want to say we were allowed to borrow tools from the fleet truck maintenance school adjacent to our dorm, but I really have no idea. This was 37 years ago. I do remember we had to replace both universal joints on the driveshaft and change a shredded timing belt–daunting, with a dearth of equipment and experience both.

But we’re talking an old car here. We knew what the driveshaft was, where its ends were, and with trial and error were able to swap out the joints and reinstall the shaft. I will say that some kind of lift would have been convenient. We had a tire change jack. Still, I doubt I could find anything in any engine from this century.

The timing belt, once we’d accessed it, did give us pause. “We have to determine top dead center,” said Tom, nervously. “How the hell are we going to do that?” “We’re not,” I said. “See that mark on the block? Put it in neutral and hand crank it through so the mark on the timing gear aligns with that mark on the block. That’s all I’ve got. We’ll match them and hope the engine doesn’t eat itself.”

“Greatest Generation” stuff.

It’s along these lines I remember the great effort. Of the holy visit itself, everything has lapsed into the void with the exception of a lunch double date at a nice Italian restaurant.

We have a Pinto to fix, people–and we don’t need tools to do it. A pen will suffice, or a lever. Whatever gets your ballot marked. And that’s just the start. We won’t get to sashay off to any nice Italian restaurant until some touchy issues have been properly grappled with.

The post A Nice Italian Restaurant appeared first on Valley Voice.

Bob Dylan: “Tell me great hero, but please make it brief. Is there a hole for me to get sick in?”

Let’s be clear. Devon Mathis had exactly nothing to do with the hospital’s eventual recovery from HCCA’s predatory management. That was down solely to a group of concerned citizens and the hard work done by a new and determined hospital board.

But now, according to a front page Visalia Times-Delta article of August 13, Mathis has swanned back into visibility with a donation of 10 grand to the hospital’s foundation. This may be the only decent thing he’s achieved in office, despite the fact that his previous benefactors now find themselves charged with a raft of financial crimes.

I don’t particularly care about the money. Mathis is no exception in this regard. Plenty of other local politicos accepted money from HCCA. But Mathis was the only one asked, in his capacity as an assemblyman, to request a state audit of HCCA’s conduct back when it could have made a difference. Instead, he demurred. Then, according to at least one former staff–and family–member, he lied about it, claiming to have made the request. Then, let’s say two years and twelve thousand dollars short, he at long last did actually request an audit.

But the damage had been done.

Basically, Devon Mathis turned a blind eye to and paved the road for Dr. Benny Benzeevi, HCCA’s owner. And if you think this is some kind of exception, consider Moreno Valley, where Benzeevi’s brother, Iddo, is a developer widely accused of corrupting local politicians to secure sweet land deals. Many Moreno Valley residents follow this paper precisely because we have uncovered similar unsavory, if fraternal, tactics.

You can’t suddenly become uncorrupt simply by donating money. Especially during election season. Especially years after the act of having accepted it–from people who may have been committing financial crimes at the time.

To be any good you have to be incorruptible from the beginning. When concerned constituents reasonably ask you to request something in your capacity you should not brush them off. You should not lie about it. You should not then follow through in so tardy a fashion as to render the request inconsequential.

And you should not donate money in so craven a manner during an election season.

But you should be ashamed of yourself. Deeply ashamed. In fact, you should resign.

The post Resign appeared first on Valley Voice.