By Beau Elliot
They — that ubiquitous, nebulous “they” whose purpose in life seems to be spawning conspiracy theories the way Australian rabbits spawn vicious little Peter Cottontails by the metric ton — are building a skyscraper in Chicago.
Not just any old, musty, it-sure-would-look-swell-in-Des-Moines type of skyscraper, mind you. This is a 95-story Moby Dick (metaphorically speaking) of a skyscraper with ripples in front so it looks as if it’s dancing. And it comes complete with its own blow hole.
Yep. The 83rd floor is empty — no windows, no walls, nada. This, hypothetically, will allow the wind in the Windy City to rush like the Mississippi through the empty floor so that the skyscraper doesn’t sway in the wind. Which would make the ripples in front really dance.
You laugh. Just wait; pretty soon, all the buildings will want their own blow holes, even the five- and six-stories. Otherwise, they’ll feel, well, inadequate. You know how buildings are, fragile egos and all, feeling their edifices are just a front. Even in Des Moines.
Des Moines, I once read somewhere, is actually windier than the Windy City.
I knew Des Moines was good for something. Besides legislative slapstick, I mean.
In any case, Washington is the true Windy City, what with all the hot air gusting hither and yon, especially when the Trumpster opens his mouth. Or his Twitter account.
Remember when the Trumpster declared he was the greatest friend the LGB, etc., community could ever have? Me, neither.
OK, it was just last summer. (I cheated; I looked it up.) Of course, if last summer seems like another country, that’s probably because it was. For one thing, we had a functioning White House and a raucous, dysfunctional Congress that did little but jabber about Obama and become quite polished at snaring the best restaurant reservations.
Now? Well … (laughter). Dysfunctional would be the polite word for this White House. Never have I seen a group of humans so dedicated, so determined, to labor so hard to drag Chaos Theory out of the musty halls of academe and into the semi-bright lights of reality according to Scaramucci. (Well, not anymore. The Mooch got Kelly-ed.)
And today’s Congress? Well, the members remain quite polished at snaring the best restaurant reservations.
Meanwhile, back at chaos, on July 26, the Trumpster announced a ban on transgender individuals from serving in the U.S. armed forces, shocking just about everyone not involved in the chaos whirlpool.
The Pentagon, for instance. No one at the top of the military command seemed to know anything about a trans ban.
In defending the ban, he used the high cost of trans medical care as a reason (excuse?) for the action. If a tweet is action.
But. A Rand report estimates that the trans medical cost is between $2.4 million and $8.4 million annually. The U.S. military spends around 10 times as much on Viagra and other such medicines as it does on medical costs for trans people, according to UPI, the Washington Post, and several other sources, not including Buzz in the Iowa Avenue alley.
That would be $84 million annually for Viagra, et al.
So, if the trans ban wasn’t the money, what was it?
Politico reports that it was probably politics. Seems the House was going to pass a bill with all kinds of Trumpster goodies, including funding his much-cherished border wall. But the House GOP was bogged down in a fight over funding for trans troops and medical procedures, threatening the bill’s fate. So, bingo, bango, boom. The trans ban was born.
By the way, the Trumpster announced his trans ban on the 69th anniversary of President Harry Truman desegregating the U.S. military. To the day.