The Game Is Rigged. Flourish Anyway.

Are you as exhausted as I am?

Trying to mind your own business, live a decent life, and still getting dragged into politics like it’s a group project you never signed up for. You decide, “I’m going to focus on flourishing. Being a good person. Getting things done. Not letting today’s outrage buffet created by Happiness Hijackers ruin my appetite.” And yet. There it is again. Loud. Relentless. Everywhere.

And here’s the thing I noticed, whether I wanted to or not: there is no balance. It’s pretty obvious. Media, Hollywood, pop culture, TV shows, movies. One side gets the halo, the other gets the dunce cap. Republicans are punchlines while Democrats are portrayed as brave truth-tellers. Over and over. Like Groundhog day but with people screaming at each about how horrible the other person is, meanwhile the groundhog just wants to stay in his nice warm home and have a normal groundhog life. 

Take The Morning Show. I was watching over the snowy weekend and loved it at first and then...I couldn’t help noticing something. Steve Carell’s character gets absolutely crucified in the name of Me Too. No redemption allowed. No arc. Just erased. Meanwhile, real-life figures who did equal or worse things are either tiptoed around or flat-out ignored. They even mentioned Weinstein at one point, but Bill Clinton? Not a peep. Ever. Nobody canceled him. Nobody even raised an eyebrow. Donations still rolling in.

And later seasons of the show? Biden is spoken of as some brilliant hero. Trump portrayed as a cartoon villain, naturally. Again, no balance. Just a script. Why can't they point out the flaws in every political subject? By choosing to elevate one and mock the other, they are steering people towards the mocked person. It often has the opposite effect. 

I’ve never been interested in politics. Until Barack Obama ran.  And it was crazy, the way that political season seeped into everything. Even my child’s elementary school was giving them pretend ballots and because the teachers were always praising Obama, my daughter “voted” for him. I felt it odd that in all my life in school, we only talked about politics in a balanced manner. I had no idea which way any of my teachers voted! 

Honestly, I liked Obama at first. Everyone did. But then I started digging. And what I found didn’t come from the mainstream. It came from the right. He was friends with Bill Ayers (of the politically violent group the Weather Underground). He was friends with Rev. Wright who said “the chickens have come home to roost” during 9/11. There were other troubling things as well, so I thought, “Well, maybe I’m conservative?” But the truth is, I’ve voted all over the map. Democrat. Republican. Libertarian. One time I voted for a local guy because he made a homemade sign. That’s how radical I was.

What pulled me into the 2008 Presidential race wasn’t ideology. It was noticing that only one side of the story was being told. One side was the hero, and the other was mocked, vilified, and the left that pretend to support all women, it turned out, really only support certain women. 

Fox News used to feel like the “other side,” but by COVID, it was clear they were more performance than principle. Masks, narratives, Ukraine, no real questioning. Just different packaging. That’s when it hit me. Both sides are disgusting. Just in different ways.

But! Here’s where it splinters: When truly horrible things happen, especially involving children, but if the crime is committed by a darling of the left, they don’t mention it. Laken Riley, Kate Steinle, Iryna Zarutska (so many others!).  But if someone on the left is killed by someone the left dislike, they never wait for the dust to settle. Nothing is alleged. They politicize tragedy without blinking. The left build onto the chaos, making it bigger and bigger and feeding into the anger. Now, the right also take advantage of the chaos. Because people (on both sides) donate money, thinking only a politician can solve this. And it brings more views to the news and social media platforms.

 As long as that’s happening, and as long as certain people are forever untouchable while others are declared irredeemable, America is out of balance.

So here’s my conclusion, said kindly but firmly: the game is rigged. No matter what team jersey you wear.

Which is why I hope if even one person reads this and thinks, “You know what? I’m going to focus on myself. My family. My neighborhood. My community.” Because that’s still real. That still matters. That’s where you can actually do some good.

Sorry, Bob… you couldn’t have known how deceptive politics, media, and culture would become. You were busy working. Steel mill. Car dealerships. Then your own carparts auto store. You were busy building a life. You were flourishing. Until ALS showed up at 48 and handed you a death sentence. And then politics did come knocking. You needed permission to try experimental drugs. And the government slammed the door. The answer was no.

I’m glad you missed COVID. You would’ve just stood there shaking your head as the government gave away, for free, something rushed to market, while treatments that actually helped people were mocked and vilified. Along with the people who took them and got better. Funny how that works when there’s no money to be made. 

Who knows what damage has been done. One dose, two, three, four, five, six. And the denial at the top? Deep. Real deep. They protect each other: Left money. Right money Two peas. One Pod.  It’s not about protecting the people. It’s about protecting their power. 

So what can you do? Hold your head high. Keep your hands busy. Build the best life you can where you are. History doesn’t belong to the loudest people on TV anyway. It belongs to the ones who kept going, shoveled their sidewalks, showed up for their neighbors, and didn’t lose their minds while the rest of the world lost its balance. 

Let’s wear ourselves out living our life, helping each other out, and being so exhausted fromactually flourishing, that we’re too exhausted to get outraged by the news. 

Why Fix Potholes When You Can Fix The Weather?

It’s snowing again, which is both shocking and not shocking, like finding out your mayor has been awarding snow removal contracts to his Uncle Don. 

Every time it rains or snows someone says, “We needed this.” I understand that. I try to see that every cloud has its silver lining (the old fashioned silver lining, not the scientific man-made silver lining) And sometimes, yes, we do need moisture.  But, there is a big difference between Mother Nature deciding our weather versus people who wear suits deciding what we need. 

Turns out these “new” silver linings aren’t so new though, they are vintage!  

The first newspaper report of weather modification was On November 13, 1946, up over Mount Greylock, Massachusetts.  Dr. Vincent J. Schaefer of General Electric decided that if Mother Nature wasn’t going to cooperate, he’d just give her a little nudge. Armed with a plane, a bucket of dry ice, and the kind of confidence usually reserved for teenagers and rap artists, he climbed to 14,000 feet and dumped the stuff into a cloud. Within minutes, voilà!, snowflakes began to form. Local newspapers went wild, declaring that man had finally learned to “make it rain,” which sounded more like a carnival act than a science experiment. GE, never one to walk away from a profitable miracle, quickly launched Project Cirrus with the Army, Navy, and Air Force in tow. And just like that, mankind took its first documented stab at telling the weather what to do. Somewhere, Mother Nature sighed, gave the suits the middle finger, and reached for a Gin and Tonic. Hold the tonic.

By the 1950s, states out West jumped in with the enthusiasm of squirrels discovering a freshly planted garden. 

Somewhere between drought and deluge, nine states decided Mother Nature could use a little “help,” so they hired men in windbreakers and mirrored sunglasses to shoot magic dust (chemicals) into the clouds like confetti. 

California (1948) – The pioneers. Pacific Gas & Electric let loose the first silver iodide flares over the Sierra Nevada. California, of course, calls it a “climate enhancement initiative” and will probably bill you for premium raindrops.

Utah (early 1950s) – Never one to miss a good snow opportunity, Utah began boosting winter storms before Elvis even had a record deal!

Colorado (1950s; formal program 1972) – Started seeding the Rockies when ski resorts realized artificial snow was cheaper than disappointing tourists.

North Dakota (1951) – Figured if it could seed wheat, it could seed clouds. The state practically turned weather modification into an extracurricular subject.

Texas (1957) – It was inevitable: if you can rope a steer, you can lasso a cumulonimbus.

New Mexico (circa 1958) – Joined hands with Texas to trade clouds like baseball cards.

Idaho (1960s) – Idaho Power decided if they wanted more hydroelectric power, they’d better make sure the sky paid its utility bill.

Nevada (late 1960s; DRI takes over 1975) – Because nothing says “desert innovation” like trying to make it rain in a place that doesn’t like to.

Wyoming (1971, expanded 2000s) – Came a little late to the party, but now runs one of the most methodical programs in the country. Leave it to Wyoming to make even precipitation orderly.

So by the dawn of disco, about nine states had decided to turn Mother Nature into a cooperative project, proving once again that the attraction of Control and Power is alive and well: if it moves, regulate it; if it doesn’t, seed it.

But here’s the rub: the yin always drags the yang behind it like toilet paper on the heel of a boot.  You flood one area with “extra” moisture, and some poor farmer two states over is left staring at a sky drier than a politician’s sense of humor. The scientists call it “atmospheric redistribution.” Because of course they do, it sounds smart!  In the end, maybe Mother Nature doesn’t need tech support or a gin and tonic (hold the tonic), she just needs us to stop playing meteorologist with a can of aerosol and crossed fingers.

When I was growing up (yes, not only did we have cars when I was young, but we also had built in ashtrays in our cars!) weather was something that happened on television. You turned on Channel 6, saw a happy man in a blazer gesturing toward a cartoon sun, and went back to worrying about your hair. Now we have apps that predict how many raindrops will fall on your left shoulder between 3:02 p.m. and 3:06 p.m. Progress, apparently, means we can be anxious about things before they even happen and deplete the grocery stores of everything a week prior to the storm. 

Private weather modification firms with names like Weather Modification Inc., Western Weather Consultants, North American Weather Consultants, and Rainmaker Technology Corporation, trade in something called “hydrometeor enhancement,” which sounds suspiciously like it could be marketing for a hair conditioner OR electrolyte replacement crystals. 

They’re running weather modification projects which are legally reported to NOAA but rarely read by anyone (NOAA Weather Modification Project Reports). The GAO (the U.S. Government Accountability Office) confirmed it in an unblinking 2024 report: “Nine states are actively using cloud seeding; oversight minimal” (GAO 25 107328). Translation: Yes, it’s happening. No, there’s no hall monitor. Target and Costco will check your receipt as you leave, but no one is checking the receipts of what’s happening in the skies. 

The technique is old magic: silver iodide or calcium chloride flares tossed into receptive clouds to nudge rain. At best, the extra precipitation helps farmers. At worst, somebody else gets unplanned hail. Science calls it “stochastic,” which is Greek for “your results may vary.”

Officially, we’re told it’s to “stabilize the water cycle.” Which is adorable, considering the government couldn’t stabilize their spending habits. The GAO  report politely adds that “reliable information is lacking” on effectiveness. Translation: it might work, it might not, but everyone gets paid either way. And what do these storms cause? Death, destruction, damage. Which equals people need more help. And guess who’s always promising to help you (hint, they never actually do…).  The irony, of course, is that these same operations might be stealing rain from elsewhere — Utah’s miracle snowpack one week, Arizona’s drought the next. 

It’s so utterly on brand for government. They can’t fix potholes but think they can fix the weather. 

Maybe what bothers me isn’t the manipulation itself: it’s the silence around it. The way it’s treated as impolite conversation, like asking someone how much money they make or why they are still single (or still married?). Maybe we don’t want to know where the rain really comes from, because then we’d have to admit that even our storms are bureaucratic and having any control is simply an illusion. 

So here’s my forecast: scattered anxiety with a heavy chance of absurdity. Carry a shovel for the possibility of snow and 100% chance of government bullshit. And remember, it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature. Or the people.

 

My Dad: Grinches, Gaslighting, and Gifts

Christmas Eve was always a good day in my house growing up. Not a cinematic one, not the kind with twenty-seven relatives shouting over a ham, but a good one. We were a small family, geographically and numerically removed from a very large one, and I spent many Decembers thinking we were missing something important. I imagined long tables, extra chairs dragged in from garages, cousins everywhere, chaos and laughter and noise (like Elf or Christmas Vacation). But what we had instead was simpler and, looking back now, nearly perfect. 

December itself felt enchanted to me as a child. My birthday came first, on December 22nd, and then my father’s, on December 24th. It was as if the month were stitched together by celebration, each day leaning into the next. My father, Bob, however, was not what anyone would call a Christmas enthusiast. If there was a Grinch before the Grinch became a cultural shorthand, it might have been him.

He had reasons. He spent years in the Air Force, and because of that, we moved often. Later, when he got out, he worked in a steel mill, the kind of job that doesn’t care what day it is. Shift work ruled our lives. When he was new, when he was low man on the totem pole, he often wasn’t home for Christmas at all. Holidays, like sleep, were something you caught when you could.

The Christmas tree was another point of contention. We didn’t get it until the week of my birthday, sometimes even later, which struck me as nearly sacrilegious. Christmas, in my mind, deserved a long runway. But we always got a real tree, which meant time was limited. And getting that tree was an event. The whole family went. My dad always chose the biggest one. It was inevitably too big. Too tall. Too wide. Too something. He would shave far too much off the bottom, muttering, while we stood by in coats and impatience. It was chaotic and loud and absolutely perfect.

The house would be filled with plaid and silver, red, green, gold, and blue. The lights sparkled without restraint. There was no theme, no sense that less might be more.

Back in the 1970s, Christmas wasn’t a season of abundance the way it is now. You were lucky to get a few gifts you really wanted. One year I received The Gambler by Kenny Rogers and ABBA’s Greatest Hits on vinyl, along with a Trixie Belden book. I can see them still, even though the photographs are long gone. That kind of seeing - that kind of memory- never fades.

But my best Christmas memory has nothing to do with a gift meant for me.

One year my father bought my mother an Apple computer. You have to understand, money was tight, and splurges were rare. The fact my dad bought this for my mom was so exciting. And he let me in on the secret. That was possibly the best part (and I kept the secret!). The Apple computer back then was rare, futuristic, almost magical. My dad loved a practical joke (his literal nickname given to him when he was about 5 or 6 was "Joke.") so, of course, he had to make the surprise eventful and funny!

On Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one present. My mother opened her large box and found, instead of a computer, a literal apple inside the box. My father thought this was hilarious. I found it hilarious. My mother? She played along, gracious as always. 

The real computer had been hidden at our neighbors’ house, Ken and Lola’s. We had to wait for them to return from visiting their family, which they didn’t do until late that night. By then, I had been sent to bed. I lay there buzzing with excitement, wishing more than anything that I could be there when my mother finally saw the truth of it. That she really was getting what she hoped for.

We went to church together that year. I remember the feeling more than the details. The sense that everything had aligned, briefly, and that we were all present in the same moment. It remains the Christmas I remember most vividly.

I’m proud of that, even now. That my favorite Christmas memory is rooted in my mother’s joy, not my own. I am not, by nature, a selfless person. So I take that as a small victory.

Christmas Eve meant food, too. Always food. Halupki. Pierogies. Pagach, with its potato and cheese filling spread between layers of dough. Stuffed cabbage with meat. My mother’s Christmas cookies, which began appearing sometime in mid-December and continued until they ran out or we did. Chocolate chip cookies. Peanut butter blossoms. Crinkles. Sugar cookies. Pecan tassies. Frozen doughs filled with lekvar (prune filling) their proper names escape my memory. There was also nut roll, of course, and bolbki. The table told our history even when no one did.

I never quite knew what my heritage was. Slovakian, maybe Hungarian- Austrian. When I asked, I was told simply that we were American. That was enough for my parents. They were proud of it. Back then, people didn’t seem to need to look backward so much. They were busy building forward.

As I grew older, my father finally told me why he disliked Christmas. It wasn’t the holiday itself. It was the way people behaved. How kind they were in December and how quickly it vanished in January. He noticed the performative nature of it, the temporary goodness. This was the 1970s and 1980s. He died in 1997, at fifty years old. I don’t think he would have enjoyed the world much as it is now.

And yet, I feel his spirit clearly at Christmas.

We didn’t have much. Socks and underwear waited for Christmas. Excess was not part of our vocabulary. But there was enough. Always enough. And I wouldn’t trade that upbringing for anything.

Christmas, to me, is not about what arrives wrapped in paper. It’s about memory. About those who are gone but not absent. If you sit very still, if you let the lights on the tree blink without asking them to perform, you can feel it. The nearness. The quiet proof that love doesn’t leave when people do.

Christmas isn’t something that happens to us—it’s something we practice. In thoughtfulness, in the lights we leave on a little longer than we need to, in the meals we cook even when there’s no one else coming. If the feeling fades, that’s okay. It only means we were lucky enough to feel it for a while.

So this year, I’ll end where it began—with him.

Happy birthday to my dad, who wasn’t a Grinch after all. He just had the biggest heart, the kind that wanted people to carry the spirit long after the wrapping paper was gone.

And I might have completely skipped the tree this year, but I decked the house in Christmas sparkle the day after Halloween—because some habits, and some hearts, never fade.

I like to think he’s up in heaven now, watching football with my mom and shaking his head, laughing, because even without the tree, he knows I got the spirit part right.

ps. I know your grandkids are hoping you will help pull off a Super Bowl win for the Eagles!