Motorcade to Miranda

April 4, 2023 by J. Nelson

I don’t know any Secret Service agents, do you? So I wonder: Are Trump’s protectors scratching their heads here, or are they constipated by commitment, courage, and back-up plans?

On the drive over from Trump Tower, were any lost in the mind-expansion of checking corners for blind spots vs. bail bondsmen?

During the arraignment itself, in that crowded corridor and beyond, was a kaleidoscope of Law & Order characters among the jailers, journalists, U.S. Marshals, FBI, Trump staffers, lawyers, indicted officeholders, real estate groupies, and celebrity gossipers. So many doors, so many suits and ties! How were they able to tell the cops from the crooks or the Bozo’s from the Serpicos?

What did their earpieces confirm, that Agent Larry had just cracked, stripping off his suit like a Chippendale to sing atop one of the bulletproof Escalades?

And all that standing around time! Were agents eavesdropping on slouchy beat cops, lipreading for lunch ideas? Did Hernandez show up sportin’ floods again? Best thousand-yard stare anyone? Was Trump’s close knit group of operatives ostracized by ordinary officers?

Between the badges, body armor, and batons, who coveted whose utility belts? Was there insecurity among the tactically secure? How were female personnel able to withstand this gravity crushing, time-bending black hole of mansplaining?

What sabotaged the straightfaced? In this patriotastic vortex of professional protectors, how did the jokers keep from messing with their workmates? Who elbowed their neighbor when the Lieutenant gave in and scratched his balls? Who sneezed when the former President walked by? Who wondered if their, a-hem, secret “service” smelled as badly as they feared?

Were there convos on contradictions among Trump’s bullet-catchers? Would any admit to being curious about consequences for the rich and well-connected?

As each who swore an oath to “protect and defend” stood by their professional honor and obligations, how many feared an impending end to what inspired their pledge?

Finally, with all that heavyweight allegiance to law and order, what were their excuses for any lack of curiosity?

All images:

Now That He Has “Shut up…”

October 2, 2020 by J. Nelson

Be careful what you wish for can be interpreted in many ways.

I’m inclined to resist “I hope he dies!” and “It’s about time!”

But my not seeking solace in vindictiveness and Schadenfreude has nothing to do with being a good example. That’s Michelle Obama’s “When they go low, we go high,” thing.

I’m thinking more like, “be careful what you wish for.” And not just because Vice President Handmaid’s Tale could take Trump’s place.

No, the facepalm I’m afraid of is right outta the 2020 Twilight Zone: What if we get a POTUS turnaround “like the world has never seen”?

What if the guy comes back from a nutty near-death experience and suddenly stops being a walking obstruction of justice? What if the oaf wakes up and fires Bill Barr, pays his back taxes, resolves Trump family business conflicts, and outlaws private prisons? What if – POOF! he renews the Spanish translation option at WhiteHouse.gov, starts singing Hallelujah while abolishing ICE, counts America’s immigrants among its most valuable assets, drops Amy Coney Barrett for her non-disclosure issues, and has the Proud Boys slapped with the RICO Act? What if he renames the Green New Deal “TRUMP’S Green New Deal,” then Executive Orders it right into existence? After America picks itself up off the floor, will it let the name change pass? I would.

The thought of what would be required of us if Trump somehow got a clue is the scary part. Are we too self-admiring? Would we come together and pull it off?

I know…this is silly fantasy, and “crazier things have happened” doesn’t apply because nothing crazier ever could or has.

But this guy catching COVID indeed makes him eligible for hitting a bottom, and that’s a far more imaginable and down to earth way to phrase it.

Trump has, as Biden now famously asked, “…just shut up, man.”

Be careful what you wish for are powerful words…

10/8/2020 Follow up:

There’s No Excuse for Baby Tattoos

March 20, 2015 by J. Nelson

You wouldn’t have a picture of your tongue tattooed on your arm, would you?

Aren’t we talking about something 80 days shy of looking like someone’s tongue?

Well, this non-parent certainly is.

The faces of most newborns don’t have nearly enough character to justify placement under your Mötorhead tattoo. Fresh babies are rapidly evolving and for all intents and purposes, under cooked. You wouldn’t want to look at it in a bowl, would you? C’mon, even highly stylized baby tattoos are not an improvement.

Don’t kid yourself – when a child is breathing for the first time, he or she doesn’t want to be there. He or she could care less about your discount at Creeper Ink on 30th and Piedmont, or your penchant for over-sentimentalizing mushy disruptions. Read more

The Argument Against @HiddenCash

July 20, 2014 by J. Nelson

Never mind the guy’s icky; there’s no excuse not to donate the cash

For anyone unfamiliar with the @HiddenCash story, there’s a rich dude running around the U.S., stashing fistfuls of cash for people to find. It’s called a Social Media Scavenger Hunt. He uses the @HiddenCash Twitter handle to drop clues as to the money’s general location, or to announce the next area to be blessed with his ~~self-promotion~~ benevolence.

We know it’s a guy, ’cause in early June of this year his identity was revealed, either by an interviewer or by design (I’d bet on the latter). He is alleged real estate scammer Jason Buzi, an ex-mortgage industry mercenary who keeps his house flipping out of the traditional real estate processes. Buzi is what’s known as a “lowballer”: He saturates neighborhoods with flyers offering “Ca$h for your home,” then contractually locks suckers into the price he offers. Assuring his clients they don’t even have to leave their homes, their contracts obligate them to sell to him alone. Buzi then goes off in search of an unknown third party to cover his end of the deal, leaving homeowners high and dry ’til he does. Eventually, the mystery investor acquires the property and flips it for a much higher price.

I don’t know about you, but I know someone who lost their home through these kinds of “deals.” And when the recession hit, Buzi is known to have made the money he’s now giving away. Personally, I wouldn’t search for his money if he put it in my bathroom. Read more

The Rationale of Racist Jokes

June 1, 2014 by J. Nelson

It’s not what you say privately that matters; it’s what you say…

Justin Bieber’s unsuccessful attempt to buy (and presumably squash) 2011 footage of himself using the N-word while telling a joke puts him right back in the Get Character or Become One hot seat.

The rationale of the racist joke always begins and ends with, “I’m not racist.” But there are other excuses widely used as well, like, “My grandfather was born during a time when…” To hell with your grandfather – now what? Every day is a day in which to get a clue.

Bieber and Paula Dean and Donald Sterling were born some 47 and 60 years apart, so to those who point to silliness like the “era” in which certain A-holes were born, I say, “Go sell that excuse someplace else.” Willful ignorance and insensitivity are learned behaviors, not vintage collectibles. Americans are just as aware that the narrow-minded walk among us as they were in 1963, but thankfully there are far more opportunities today to learn the difference between acceptance and tolerance, as well as bad character versus bad taste. (P.S. Only someone with a grapefruit for a brain would think it “bad taste” to get caught sharing racist thoughts or humor; when the perpetrator is old enough to know better, it’s no-less than treacherously immoral.) Read more

“I’m not a racist, but…”

April 29, 2014 by J. Nelson

Don’t have the nerve to be openly racist? Don’t say or perpetuate racist things.

There’s nothing surprising about life circling back on karma leper Donald Sterling. And this week, L.A. feels like when they hauled the Space Shuttle Endeavor through the city: scores of Angelenos on the same proud page, even if only briefly.

Thank you Donald Sterling, shoo-in for the 2014 Utter Lack of Character Award.

As a former recipient myself, I fully admit to being ethically spoiled (privileged) in my early 20s – so much so that it took being dropped into an environment where everything I didn’t want to be crept its way toward me every day. Frankly, “Scared Straight!” was the only way for me to learn. The sole advantage I had was a dark sense of humor, which meant that one or two my wake-up calls were sort of met halfway.

There are, though, three things I understood right off:

Don’t hang around with people who like to punch others ‘cause they have to practice on someone (it’ll eventually be you)
No matter what it is, say to their face. Own it. Force the other guy to do all the work, all the reacting, and all the resenting
If you don’t know what racism is (learned, legacy or systemic), you should probably shut up about how “…people of color are ____________. ”

Equally clear to me was that, behind bars (or anywhere else) anything in that begins with or contains “I’m not a racist, but…” is BAD. Read more

FILE UNDER: Cosmetic Surgery Martyrdom

February 28, 2014 by J. Nelson 1 Comment

The Narcissist Richter Scale doesn’t measure this far off the chart

Blondie Bennett, a long-obsessed Barbie weirdo from California, is using online hypnotherapy lessons to reduce what she’s being told is her IQ level in hopes of becoming less human, more doll-like, and –if it’s an option– “completely plastic.” She reports she’s “super happy” and that the sessions must be working since she’s becoming “forgetful and brainless.”

These sessions follow body alterations, facial do-overs, and breast enlargement surgeries that rival Lexus dealership up-sells. Bennett wears footwear made for a mule deer and her applied tan looks just like the one Mattel sprays on its signature toy.

She says she’s pleased to be achieving her goal (never mind that doing so may pose future challenges, like forgetting not to brush her teeth with gasoline; her online sugar daddies look out for her). The unemployed Bennett’s many procedures are funded in exchange for one-on-one time (yeesh), webcam antics, surgery footage, and pictures of Bennett wearing Barbie-inspired garments.

But don’t worry, Blondie doesn’t feel exploited. She told an interviewer, “When people ask why I want to be Barbie, I think, ‘Who wouldn’t want to be?’ She has the best life. All she does is shop and make herself look pretty. She doesn’t worry about anything.”

The Curious Morass of Stephen Glass

January 30, 2014 by J. Nelson

Shamed ex-journalist is definition of Get Character or Become One.

Here’s the background in a nutshell: They made a movie about how full of crap this guy is, and in recently denying his bid to become a lawyer, the California Supreme Court agreed that Stephen Glass is an unreformed, serial liar (and a bigot).

The court’s decision is the document your mother warned you about. The first few sentences alone hooked me, and as I continued reading I couldn’t help but pause to appreciate how good I have it.

I may be a convicted armed robber who the state of California once sent to Folsom prison, yet to the best of my knowledge and documentation retrieval efforts no court decision or official determination of me is anywhere near as condemning as this decision on Glass. Blame it on Hayden Christensen’s wooden acting if you must, but not even Hollywood’s version more indelibly reinforces the expression that cheaters never prosper. (Yeah yeah, they often do, but journalistic fraud circa 1998 doesn’t quite reach the heights of today’s macroeconomic mega-scams or the cheating wars teachers and Chinese-trained GPA hackers are now waging.)

America is a nation of second chances, yet the court’s decision essentially stamped “NO DO-OVERS” across Stephen Glass’s doughy face. How harsh is that!?

“Your Honor, my wife made me do it.”

November 11, 2013 by J. Nelson 1 Comment

Unprincipled enabler blows his integrity on whims of half-wit wife

or

Spiteful, shortsighted, lady-child steers husband right to jail

In 2010, weirdly-named Kent Wycliff Easter and his just-as-oddly-titled wife, Jill Bjorkholm Easter, sought vengeance upon Kelli Peters, a volunteer at Plaza Vista Elementary School in waspy Irvine, California. Among their many complaints was that Peters hadn’t escorted the Easters’ son (what his name is, I can’t imagine) from school to his mother’s waiting ~~Range Rover~~ car fast enough. Apparently there was a lot about Peters’s care-taking that the Easters didn’t like, so the bumbling A-holes went to town.

First, the two lawyers tried to get Peters fired from the school: FAIL. Then they harassed her: FAIL. They actually filed a restraining order to prevent her from going near their son: FAIL. Twice they tried to sue Peters; both lawsuits were dismissed. Frivolous much? Talk about diminished credibility as attorneys: FAIL.

And Kent. Our man Kent had been a Newport Beach law firm’s “rising star” until the couple’s campaign against the school volunteer culminated in a hysterically catty attempt to have her arrested. This, after the Easters had located her home and planted drugs in her car in the middle of the night. Jill Easter has since pled guilty and separated from her husband, leaving him to fend for himself.

Quality of life spiraling downward due to lack of character? FAIL. Read more

Breaking the Narcissist Richter Scale

October 20, 2013 by J. Nelson 2 Comments

Goofing on cosmetic surgery martyrdom and Justin Bieber’s toolface

If I look like Justin Bieber, I’ll live like Justin Bieber, goes the thinking of a sick, dumb animal.

When humans are psychologically backed against a wall, they often do silly things reminiscent of the crazed stumble of mad cow disease. Narcissism is like mad cow, in that infected animals’ brains and spinal cords get wonky after eating too much of themselves.

At 33 years-old, “songwriter” Toby Sheldon is one such sick, dumb animal, thanks to his diseased missteps in pursuing the surgeried likeness of Justin Bieber’s pout. He may not have succeeded in turning his mug into a copy of The Bieber’s, but he has broken the Narcissist Richter Scale and become this month’s poster boy for GET CHARACTER OR BECOME ONE.

Perhaps it’s unfair for me to pick on one of God’s mixed up creatures, one whose likely next move is stumbling in a circle until it dies. But God commanded me to write this blog, and I can’t be blamed for self-poisoning narcissists who shudder, shake, and stagger madly before my oncoming truck.

Maybe the rule of thumb should be that, if you’re such a delusional cosmetic surgery pigeon that becoming a laughing stock is a minor consequence, you should be entitled to special insurance coverage or perhaps your own island residency. I favor the island, a zero-liability environment where you can immolate yourself with a can of gas, invent a chainsaw radio, or stagger delusionally off a cliff, all free from the legal or social judgments of others.