When His Lips Move

Our Lady of the Coronavirus for Sunday, March 22nd: Mamie Eisenhower

Question: How can you tell when the President is lying?

Is there ever going to be a reporter who actually challenges this administration and points out their lies face-to-face? The exchange today with the FEMA director is a perfect example. He uses his airtime effectively to make it sound like he’s taking action on masks. Just like Pence said the testing kits will be available “the first of next week” a couple of weeks ago.

It’s only after the fact when journalist file their reports that they start pointing out the discrepancies. What people tend to remember is what the official said, not the Martha Radatz segment that airs three hours later.

This type of wishy washing journalism has developed in the last 40 years based on the myth the demographic is split 50/50 between Democrat and Republican. You don’t want to offend half of the audience (the Fox Weirdos being the exception.)

It’s like when I used to go to the Derby, the pre-race analysts would spout off all the big names as potential winners. Then they’d start covering their asses with comments like “but you overlook the 13 horse at your peril.” Everybody’s got a chance.

News today is corporately owned and a corporation’s sole purpose is to make money. Naturally they are going to bend over backwards to protect the party of wealth creation and preservation. Which is why we put up with eight years of ridiculous Nigerian Birth Certificate stories. And why Trump officials today are getting away with murder.

If I were the vengeful sort, of which I am not, I might wish ill against my nemeses as the New Depression takes hold. For example, an old landlord who screwed me over. That would be petty and spiteful. As the corporate marketing people like to say, “that is not who I am.” Even though what they “am did” is there for the world to see in black and white.

I am in possession of a letter from attorneys for Vince Young, my landlord at 946 Jones. It was forwarded to me by the Tenderloin Housing Clinic who represented me in the Ellis Act Eviction.

Pursuant to the Act, after a building has been held off the market for five years former tenants are given first rights to rent their old unit. This letter notified me Apartment #3 that I paid $680 for in 2014 is now available for a monthly $5,800.

The slight increase no doubt reflects the many improvements that were made. Like the elevator Mr. Young was planning to put in, there alone is a couple hundred K. It was my impression, however, he had the taste level of a pot sticker. He probably slapped some West Elm ideas on the surface and let market speculation take care of the rest.

It would be a pity if a world-wide economic downturn were to roil Vince’s financial projections.

If that building could talk we might be held rapt by its potential new occupant’s tales on the ten most common pitfalls in a first IPO. But after 40 years of housing a drunken, drug-addled, sex-obsessed drag queen, the edifice has probably been struck deaf-mute anyway.

I have not been back to see 946 and refuse to look at it when I’m in the area. It might be bad luck. I even picked up a Zipcar a couple of months ago that was parked directly across the street from it without averting my gaze.

In a previous post I mentioned how my former boss used to tease me about silly superstitions. If I were to break this one, though, you can imagine his regret the next time we dine together. It will be well-seasoned fare because he’ll be sitting next to a pillar of salt.

Did Trump Short the Market?

Don’t fuck with me British Soldiers in 1812, I’ll First Lady your ass into oblivion.

Having squandered my fortune in bad investments I feel uniquely qualified to discuss shorting stocks.  As I understand it, shorting means you “borrow” someones shares at today’s price with the promise to give the same number of shares back on a certain date. The gamble is the shares will be worth a lot less on that specified date.

So if you borrow 1000 shares of Enron today at $100 each and sell those shares you’ll pocket $100,000. Then when the specified give back date of October 15 comes around you’re required to return the shares. If the October value of an Enron share is $50, you pay $50,000 to buy 1000 shares and return them to the lender. You’ve made $50,000 on your bet.

If the stock has gone up to $200 on October 15 you are still required to return the shares you borrowed. You’d pay $200,000 for 1000 shares and be out 100K. I’ve never understood who the sucker is who’s “lending” the shares in the first place.

Don’t fuck with me Dorothea Lange, I’ll First Lady your ass into oblivion.

It’s the kind of trade that only a savvy investor can pull off. And it’s also a trade that is ripe for fraud if you are an insider with knowledge of a stock’s imminent demise. There are severe penalties for that kind of activity. If the Securities laws were ever enforced which is not going to happen in the current administration..

But it’s easy to imagine a cozy 1600 Pennsylvania dinner on a cold January night with Agent Orange, his Alfalfa looking sons, and his embalmed beauty of a daughter. (Melania is upstairs getting an emergency Brazilian. It’s role play night: he’s the Cyber Bully, she’s the desperate for attention Facebook user.)

Over their quarter pounders flown in from Mar-a-Lago at taxpayer’s expense, Daddy instructs which stocks to buy for their “blind trust.” There’s a crash a comin’, he tells them, Trump heirs will be set for several generations. And no one ever needs to know because privacy laws now preempt any civil or criminal statutes.

 

Don’t fuck with me Marina Oswald, I’ll First Lady your ass into oblivion.

As I laid here last night waiting for house arrest to go into effect at midnight, it was extremely quite outside. Then around 11:30 there was a half hour of screeching tires, a woman screaming, and what sounded like heavy equipment coming off the Octavia freeway ramp. I was convinced the coup had started, the tanks were rolling in. To quell resistance a good place to start is taking away the right to assemble.

I’ve since talked myself down and decided to focus my efforts on entertaining you, dearest reader. But it does feel like one of those Doris Lessing novels I read but never understood back in the 70’s. Disorder and chaos are the norm, paranoia abounds.

There have been clearer moments like reading this Zach Carter article yesterday on corporate bailouts. If this is sorbet moment and we’re cleansing, we can’t buy into this “too big to fail” crap that Jamie Dimon and his cohorts were peddling the last time.

Speculation means you lose when you make bad decisions. You don’t panhandle the taxpayers for another trillion to cover your losses. Let the airlines collapse and let’s start over with new, more competitive companies. The current cartel have turned travel into a truly miserable experience. They’re too big to keep around.

Finally there’s this Tina clip that Youtube selected for me over morning coffee. I’ve heard this song hundreds of times but don’t remember this performance. Look at what she and the Ikettes do at about 1:20. Bent over backwards and in heels.

A reason to continue on.

Don’t fuck with me Coronoavirus, I’ll First Lady your ass into oblivion.

 

Sunday’s Sermon

Pace, pace, mio dio

I attended elementary school in a little Indiana country township. Every Monday morning one teacher had us recite a bible verse from memory. Mr. Lake had the uncanny ability to remember which ones you’d used before. You couldn’t double dip.

I took it seriously and came up with fresh punch lines each time. But once a year in a jam everyone could get away with a sure-fire, get-out-of-jail-free scripture: “Jesus wept.” The snickering would be out of control.

I’ve recently been accused of not knowing the meaning of the word eloquence. How can you fail to feel, however, the passion, the power, the sorrow of those two simple words? It’s taken a lifetime of bible study to try to uncover similar activities of the savior. Like “Jesus burped,’ or “Jesus shat,” or the bit longer “Jesus emptied the compost bin.” To no avail.

So it was with a conflicted conscience that I rose yesterday and mounted the pulpit (not to be confused with my next door neighbor, Pulpit.) Which passage should I choose to inspire my followers? I settled on a pithy ditty from Second Queens: “Don’t fuck with the NFL.” I made my case with a swirling fury.

Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive

The Oakland Raiders won three Super Bowls then decided they wanted to move to LA in the mid-80s. The NFL said no. The Raiders said “fuck you NFL,” won their lawsuit and moved anyway. Proving the prophets in Ruth to be correct (“the last shall be first and the first shall be perpetual honorable mentions”) the Raiders have been to one Super Bowl in the last 40 years and were trounced by Tampa Bay.

In the first 30 years of the Super Bowl the Dallas Cowboys were the most successful franchise making eight appearances, winning five times. In the late 90’s they decided they could make more money marketing their own merchandise and opted out of the league contract. The NFL said no. The Cowboys said “fuck you NFL,” won their lawsuit and have been reaping the profits ever since. They also have not been to a Super Bowl since 1996.

The sins of the Forty Niners were a little more subtle. The owner plead guilty in 1998 to charges of gambling fraud and bribing the Louisiana Governor. The NFL has no problems with gambling, fraud or bribery. But what kind of lame-ass organization gets caught doing it? The venality of that transgression is beyond measure. The Niners appeared in and won five Super Bowls between 1981 and 1995. In the last 25 years they’ve played in two more, losing both times (see Ruth, above.)

Always the optimist but never the bride, the LIV defeat Sunday was not without its silver lining. I had lost interest in the game after the bribery scandal when Forty Niner ownership was transferred to the sister. She and her husband live in Canada where the football field is 10 yards longer and 12 yards wider. It’s as inflated and worthless as their currency.

The Yorks had no savvy for the American game and could have cared less about the Niner’s operations. Being an NFL owner is like having Ellis Act property in San Francisco. You don’t need to be successful at what you do, just hold on to your capital and watch it appreciate wildly. The York’s gutted the team and turned leadership over to their 20-something son after buying him a degree at Notre Dame.

Jed York, who’s always had problems matching subject with predicate, became the symbol of what was wrong with the franchise. But yesterday I learned the 49ers  recent success coincides with the disappearance of Little Jed. He has not been heard from or seen in ages. Although he retains the title of President, he is not allowed anywhere near team operations.

That tidbit reignited a spark of affection for the team that had been dormant for a couple of decades. Maybe it’s time to get back into the rigged game that I use to love so much. Or not.

The other delightful moment of the day came when Pab presented me with a hostess gift. A heavy gold chain with Garoppolo jersey pendant. So street, so cool, so Flava Flav without the kitchen clock.

I purposefully walked home through the Tenderloin to see if I could get a couple teeth knocked out to complete the look. No luck. But my Stayin’ Alive swagger was a big hit.

Like the Manhattan Indians, dangle a cheap bauble in my face and you had me at dangle.

Chain-chain-chain, Chain of Fools

Kangarettes Drop New Single

Jump! For my love.

Proving once again the purpose of public service is to enhance personal wealth, the mellifluous tones of Senate moderation are about to capitalize on Impeachment Trial publicity with a hot new single. The upper chamber’s Kangarettes have released a moving new version of I Fought the Law.

Originally intended to out smoke Bobby Fuller and Clash hits from decades ago, it was found the synapses could not fire fast enough to keep up with the blistering 150 BPM metronome of those allegrissimos. So it’s been slowed down to a more manageable 65 BPM ballad featuring Senator Collins’ signature vibrato in the lead.

Joining Maine’s solon in the Kangs are Senators Murkowski of Alaska and Feinstein of California. Both are renown for struggling with their consciences before ultimately siding with the Bogey Man to pad their wallets.

The inclusion of non-GOPer Feinstein may come as a surprise to some but not really when you consider how she often votes with them anyway (after heavily publicizing her “misgivings” beforehand). Or how she mismanages the Democratic agenda so badly the party of wealth preservation always prevails in the end (see the Kavanaugh hearings.)

Fans were disappointed the new release was not their long-anticipated version of the blues classic I Smell Trouble (aka Susan’s Eating Clams Again). That song seems to more aptly reflect the murky thoughtfulness they like to posture for the press before any big vote. It really is a natural for them. But marketers felt at only 60 BPMs the more uptempo Law was the way to grab the youth market on their initial offering.

The Triangulating Troika have promised Smell will be the next single out of the can. (Or hopefully, in Collins’ case, in the can. Ha! Ha! Do us all a favor, Suze, and take a dump. Jeeze!))

 

Whaddup Wit Dat?

The Dorks are getting advise from Bob Kraft on the best way to achieve “full release” after Super Bowl LIV.

When I walked past City Hall last evening I was shocked to see that it was not lit up in the traditional red and gold  Every other year the Forty Niners were in the Super Bowl the dome was saturated in those hues. LIV LEDs seem to be a different story.

It’s probably a reflection on the bad blood that remains between City Officials and the owners, the Debartolo-Yorks (the Dorks). When they were trying to build a new stadium and NFL-rape the local taxpayers like they always do, City Hall would not budge. So the Dorks swindled the burg of Santa Clara instead and moved 40 miles away. It was an odd but admirable stance for San Francisco to take considering that it has become the poster city for profiting from corporate greed.

The message from City Mothers is coming through loud and clear: you’re named for a body of water not the town you were founded in. Have your fucking ticker tape parade out in the polluted bay.

Although I don’t profess to be an expert interpreter of lighting schemes, many consider me to be one. What I’m seeing here is another example of how clueless politicians need outsiders to keep them up on what’s happening in the real world.

They’ve backed the wrong team. The Patriots were eliminated a couple of weeks ago.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

The calm in the streets last night was deafening. Not a horn honk, a note from a drunken frat boy tenor, nor the bloodcurdling shrill of a Latina “forty fucking niners!” could be heard. They’d won the NFC championship but you’d never know it from the groundswell.

Gone are the days of bon fires in the streets and the (alleged) high jacking of Muni buses. When I went for a walk last evening the town was like a morgue. I did run into one tranny in a fake fur Politburo ear flapped hat who showed signs of exhilaration. “We’re back in the Super Bowl!”

I asked her if she didn’t think the street reaction seemed muted compared to celebrations in the past. She didn’t care. She’d been down at the adult bookstore on Mission Street giving blow jobs and business was booming. Thank god for at least one strand of continuity.

I’m guessing there may be new ways to measure fan response that I’m not privy to. Possibly the keyboard clacking of “likes,” “faves” or customized emoji brought cellular service in the Bay Area to a standstill. Or maybe there’s a cloud community where today’s youth go to feel as one.

I’m not letting this cultural disconnect get me down, however. I’ve got my Aunt knitting away on special edition 49er dog sweaters that are available for a limited time only at $49 each. We’re practically giving them away! Practically.

If anyone is interested please contact my puppy needs a pullover. And there’s no team loyalty here. If you’d prefer them in other colors we can accommodate. I’ve threatened my Aunt that if she can’t keep up with demand I won’t hesitate to bring in the Burmese children who have served me so well in the past.

Since the Yorks took over the Forty Niners and moved them to Santa Clara I’ve lost all interest in the team. I don’t even know the names of the new players. But I do know that as long as Montana is at quarterback, they’ve got a chance.

Go Niners! (Ka-ching!)