Harvey Weinstein – Not Your Usual Sleazy Saga.

This should’ve been written in the shower … where there’s plenty of soap.


Harvey Weinstein.

No, it’s not your usual sleazy saga.

But that’s what folks want it to be.

Just another guy gettin’ his jollies … because he could.

That’s true, alright … but it ain’t the whole story.

This dirt-bag embodies everything … and I mean everything … that modern American liberalism has become.

He’s not just another crude guy with horn-dog itchiness. This guy is sick-liberalism personified.


“I appreciate the way I’ve behaved … My journey now will be to learn about myself  and conquer my demons … I so respect all women and regret what happened.”-Weinstein 

Even his non-apology apology was a liberal classic.

He’s the pig in the room everyone smelled … but no one confronted. Never truthed. Never pulled aside. Gooed up in fraud and hypocrisy. An oinker with a swiney-ego … and a gagging swagger.

He was protected for decades …

able to out-live filthy episode after filthy episode.

Beyond what he did is …

how did he get away with it?

Sleuth that out … and you’ll find yourself in the stenchy basement-dungeon where liberalism spawns.

So let’s begin.

He was protected by his position … one that could make or break careers. So folks shut up.

He was protected by excessive wealth … because he could buy-off those he abused … or threaten them with ruining litigation.

He was protected by elitist Hollywood … because he generated wealth … and influence among the powerful.

He was protected by gutless wimp-men … who were probably hiding their own grungy indiscretions.

He was protected by his fundraising … he could gin-up millions for liberals … with just a few calls.

He was protected by trashy liberals … both men and women … who whored him as he whored those young wannabe starlets.

He was protected by phony feminists … liberal frauds who revealed just how artificial they really were.

He was protected by a rancid media … who knew … and we know they knew.

It’s a liberal trademark that’s revealed itself from Chappaquiddick to the Oval Office to casting couches.

The liberals have built a world where nothing is immoral or illegal anymore.

And to top it all off … he was extra-perverse. Make that extra-disgusting.


Denis Ian

BIG h/t to Barbara Eisinger


Take Back Radio Interview – Shout Out

SHOUT OUT & Sincere thanks to Host of “Take Back” – Barbara McVeigh

Dominican UC Radio!
Wednesdays 12-1pm

102.3 FM in San Rafael or
Worldwide Livestream.


Barbara says “October 11 – Denis Ian is a retired teacher of English and social studies who taught for more than three decades in a top-rated school district. “Current educational reforms have warped public education over the last decade,” he says. Ian has been writing articles and online pieces challenging the current reforms and shares his work with state or local groups who need assistance.”


More about Barbara McVeigh;

“Take Back! hosted by yours truly . . . is a one hour political, arts and public affairs radio program highlighting the thinkers of today, with emphasis on Marin County residents, to discuss how to challenge and reshape American ideals and values. The program will introduce artists, intellectuals, comedians, writers, business leaders and more to foster a positive message of change and inspiration. We will get deep, and we will laugh at the absurdity of being human too!

Time to thaw out those minds and get back to thinking, feeling, believing and creating! Let’s talk how to rise to a higher level and become filled with purpose to help change our world around. The next generation is counting on us! – Barbara McVeigh

Education consists mostly of what we unlearn. – Mark Twain”

PLEASE LISTEN HERE TO OUR CONVERSATION  Take Back Interview http://wp.me/P6YoRU-ig



Under Pressure

The day started as it always does … bumping around in the dark.

The coffee was still too hot to sip … and there was this … this mother’s growl in the dark …

“… this morning … find multiple parents complaining about excessive Kindergarten homework 6-7 handouts, writing assignments … and 1.5 hours of I-Ready per week for a FIVE YEAR OLD … high school English teachers … told … there is no value in their students reading an entire book or a Shakespearean play … because there is NO VALUE FOR STANDARDIZED TEST PREP …”

Read that a second time. Slowly … so the craziness is crazy-clear.

Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.


Kids pressured … parents pressured … by pressured teachers. District supervisors pressured by principals who were pressured by superintendents … who were pressured by state magistrates … under pressure from politicians.

Would you like some valium with that coffee? So that you’re comfortably numb?

“Not coincidentally, failure was one of Jake’s biggest fears … The relentless drive to avoid such a fate seemed to come from deep inside him. He considered it a strength.”

And, of course, it’s all manufactured madness. Concocted craziness. Ginned-up by this educational lunacy of the last decade.

Education’s deep spiral has now hit bottom. And the thud you hear? That’s your child’s head … hittin’ the wall.


And it gets worse.

Now the madness-makers … the crazy creators … they wanna prescribe the cure. There’s a scary syndrome for that sort of clever weirdness, right?

It’s no secret that lots and lots of kids are falling apart. On every level. A few keystrokes will leave you with enough sad reading for a thousand sips of coffee.

Alarmed, Jake’s parents sent him to his primary-care physician, who prescribed Prozac … the first of many medications …and some made a bad situation worse.”

And the pressure is more grinding than most understand … because there’s a new twist to this educational waterboarding … technology.


So, there are fewer sanctuaries than ever for children … less time to day-dream … less recess minutes to hang upside down … less giggle time and song time. Less kid time.

No respites. No pauses. And it’s not just several anxious days each spring. It’s everyday. Perhaps several times a day.

It’s competency based education … CBE … and it has your kid on the hot-seat … All. The. Time.

“A few weeks later, Jake locked himself in a bathroom at home and tried to drown himself in the bathtub … He was hospitalized for four days …after he returned home, he started hiding out in his room again. He cried, slept, argued with his parents about going to school …”

And this is the grave new world of education … one of rich monotony and dangerous stress … where kids are squeezed and strained and duressed. And then sent home to decompress … until they fall apart. Like Jake.

It’s happening to kids as young as 6 and 7 … right through the teenage time. Stress doesn’t discriminate … and it doesn’t cure itself.

Everyone sees it, too. It’s no mystery.

Homes suffer through homework hell. Kids don’t wanna get on the bus … because they wanna get off the hamster-wheel. Some act out … and some fall apart.

And now the same geniuses who made the mess are galloping to the rescue … with “mindfulness and meditation” … and they want to record “the thoughts, attitudes, beliefs and mental processes of children.”

Your children. The ones they’ve already abused. The ones that may have already jaked.

It’s the latest intrusive, progressive fad called “social emotional learning” or SEL … and it’s designed to get into your kid’s noggin. Literally.

And where’s this all coming from? The corporate world … the work place … and “the desire of the corporate progressives … to use SEL to change education from focusing on academics” … so students can be “slotted into careers.”

Ah! Those algorithms! … from way back when … are payin’ off big time! And you thought “career ready” was an empty chant. Think again.

Now it’s clear-clear … that children are being covertly nudged into this or that career pathway … justified by overwhelming mounds of data that can be Hansel and Greteled all the way back to the days when joy was first run out of their very brand-new lives.

“That summer, after two more hospitalizations, Jake’s desperate parents sent him to … a residential treatment facility … one of a growing number of programs for acutely anxious teenagers.” And a new industry was born.

And now a new battlefield is in plain view. Parents have seen it all before … so this … this is just a new swerve … a new lurch.

It may be time to take up your shields again … and to bang them more loudly than ever.

The mother who set this morning on fire … she deserves the last word.

“I don’t know who you think you are … but the parents are awake. We are on to you and the behavior of your administrators. We will hold you publicly accountable until you decide to do the right thing for our children. And we will make you famous until that day. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

I rather like that threat.

Denis Ian

with Michelle Moore

For your listening pleasure  … from my friend, Freddie … Under Pressure

The New York Times …

The National Pulse …

Denis Ian Blog -Grave New World

Tipping Point

So … when does the tipping-point tip?

Probably when our heads explode.


The Grievance Game has some new players … Oberlin College undergraduates … who cough up 70k per year to bitch with the best.

These privileged brats have certainly purchased the privilege to feel unprivileged to live in overly-privileged America.

“When our field hockey team stood for the national anthem Saturday, it didn’t feel right. We didn’t feel proud to be standing for America because we didn’t feel that America offers anything worth being proud of.”

I honestly don’t know what to say.

It’s all so absurd. So goofy. So sulky-cranky-stupid.

“Simply standing for the flag because it’s what we’ve been conditioned to do isn’t enough for us anymore. Because we can’t stand for all of America, we kneel.”

What pouty crap. You wanna cover your ears and hope it all just goes away.

But it doesn’t.

It’s seeped all the way down to the prepubescent population … where 11 year-old footballers are taking a knee to protest … I dunno … the shape of the ball? Their short height? Their early bed-times?

Petulant politics. Non-stop. Twenty four-seven. On every level imaginable. Those witchy folks in Salem are looking pretty mild on the cuckoo scale.

It’s a bog of immaturity.

It’s everywhere … late-night TV, the NFL, Hollywood … and now it’s invaded prissy-privileged, collegiate field hockey.

The great horror is to feel left out. To not bitch and whine and criticize with the best of the imbeciles. That’s the worst of the worst … because being pissy is the new surly … so even the very privileged can be pissed off at their own privilege … and look cool.

And now … the few big people left in this society don’t wanna come out of their houses … because it’s just so silly-asinine out there. And I can’t blame ‘em.

America is a batch of brats. Cheap-shot artists trying to one-up yesterday’s shock … and pretty much making asses of themselves … like these Oberlin idiots.

Everyone wants in on the act … and the act is getting old.

We’ve been thru Caesar-Trump in the park, decapitated Trump, and SNL Trump. Even wives and children get beaten up … because no target is out-of-bounds.

Everyone is more important than everyone else … and so is their opinion. So all we get is this perpetual hum of bitchiness punctuated by some spectacular instance of extremely bad taste.

It’s not even real politics any more.

This nation is dying. Dying from an endless parade of fools. Dying from a very bad habit of making politics the front-and-center issue of our lives. We are so off balance.

So freakin’ freaky.

Denis Ian

Father and Son


There shall always be love.”


That buzzed my ear one sticky, summer night … after my father … the college professor … got a little rickety with some other dads … down on the beach. A little too wobbly … after over-sipping.

He wasn’t much of a beach guy … or a water guy. A city kid. But he bought us a lake house … and an idyllic childhood. With boats and water skis and fishing poles. And lots of adventures.

I was weaving with him … up the hill … to deliver him home. Noisy cicadas and the distant hum of boat motors made for a queer symphony.

I could hear the sand on the black-topped road grind under his sandals. That was an unusual sound because we all went barefoot all summer long … from Sunday to Sunday. Only church got us shod.

It was also an unusual walk … being in charge of the chief of the tribe. Gripping his upper arm … but trying like hell to make it seem like … like this was sort of usual. Not so odd. The kind of thing slightly rowdy buddies might do.

But the last thing my father was … was my buddy.

Even though I’d just sneaked into teenagehood, it did seem to be a ”child is the father of the man” moment. A role reversal. One that put me on a different kind of alert.

During the shuffle up the hill … he stopped … and looked straight through me.

“There shall always be love.”

Delivered in perfect diction. As in a theatre.

I was used to that sort of drama. The out-of-the-blue avowals … about lots of things … like marriage or honor or bravery or moxie. Or caritas.



Unusual word. But I’d heard it a lot. But never a definition. Tried to unravel it in the context of sentences. No other father ever used it. But no other father was as unusual as mine.

And it dawned on me … that he wasn’t as groggy … or as soggy … as I’d thought. That maybe I’d been played. Conned into this traipse up the hill. For a reason.

“All other things might run away from your life … but there will always be love. That is the one forever thing. The true thing. Because it lives where it cannot leave … inside you.”

Unusual to you. Not to me.

This was my father.

We got heavy-doses of the heavy stuff regularly. And this … it seemed … was just my turn. But it was different. It wasn’t about fluffy, usual stuff … about school or sports. This … this seemed … I dunno … mature. Grown-up. Adulty.

And I was smile-pleased … because it moved me into a different league … with my older brothers.

So the walk resumed … and so did the late-night lecture. Even the cicadas seemed to shut up.

“There are different levels of love.”

And I nodded as if I’d thought about that for a few years already … but … of course … I’d never given it a thought. Not ever.

“There’s the love that takes away your balance … and puts helium in your head … so you go dreamy.”

A-ha! That was it! He’d caught me. On the beach. Being the peacock. Strutting … and rutting … for the attention of the young lady here for her summer vacation.

“That’ll happen lots of times. But you know that, right?”

Now that was an outright appeal to my supposed common sense … and the maturity that was still in the mail somewhere. A clever ploy … a teacher ploy … to get me to focus even more.

He’d just told me … be on guard. Keep my balance. Young love has lots of test-drives. Wear a belt.

And I thought … I thought that was the subtle lesson. The faint, ingenious bit of caution for a 13 year kid suffering from hormone havoc.

I was wrong. As usual.

This man … this father … would never let any son get away that easily.

“And then … then there is the greatest love of all. The highest love. The most powerful.”

And I’m thinkin’ … here it comes … the riddle stuff. The challenge.

“Do you know what that love is, young Denis?”

And just like that … he was in total charge. Not-so-wobbly at all. And I … I had nuthin’ … because I was still thinking of the girl back on the beach … in the bathing suit made of cocktail napkins.

Then he gripped my arm. And flipped the moment on me.

“Always look for the weakest. The under-dog. The person facing the longest odds. Find them … and make them your mission.”

I just knew that Jesuit junk was gonna seep into the moment … because it always did … and yet I was always surprised.

No … I didn’t know that … and I’d never given it a moment’s thought.

But now I had no choice. And before I could uncork my brain … he chanted a litany of all the advantages I didn’t even know I had … from boats to private school to a summer house … and a unique family.

From good health and lots of food to perfect teeth …. and maybe a girlfriend in a pretend bathing suit.

And then … the commandment.

“You will … forever … look after those people, will you not? And always champion those not as advantaged as you? And provide more of yourself to them than to any others, right?”

Then came the voodoo moment. The scary stuff.

“And that … that is caritas.”

Of course! He’d done it again.

Two lectures for the price of none … and a free mind-reading.

The first lesson was to be cool with the bikini babe … and keep my balance. The second was more cerebral … heavier. But easy enough … because the lecture was so perfect.

And we sat on the porch … on a wicker sofa … for several minutes … letting the cicadas back into the moment. And then I stood … and smiled. And so did he.

And I went back to the beach. To strut some more.

And class was over.

Denis Ian


This’ll go well with your coffee … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yERildSsWxM

Maybe Maybe-Not Age

A recent Boston Magazine article belched … “In Praise of Mediocre Kids” … and asked … “Why can’t we just accept that?”

Which calls to mind two odd sorts … English humorist Maximillian Beerbohm … and English misuser Yogi Berra.

Sir Beerbohm said … “Only mediocrity can be trusted to be always at its best.”

To wit, Mister Yogi might’ve added … “Include me out”.

I loathe mediocrity. It just goes against my grain … and the commandments of my clan. It’s the worst insult of all.


This particular silliness was brought about by the author’s French horn agony. The son asked his parents to bankroll his interest in the instrument … and quickly displayed unlimited nonchalance for it all.

In other words, the kid crapped out.

And so the cranky parents over-examined the moment … asking themselves some very heavy-duty questions … and searching for some lousy excuses.

“Why are we pushing our kids to excel at just about everything?”

And …

“Is this endless quest for success contributing to … growing anxiety in ways that will affect them for years to come?”

Those seem like good questions. But sometimes parents over-think the moment. Mainly because they lose their own balance and aren’t … are you ready for this? … nonchalant enough.

Yup. They were too, too serious.

So they questioned their own motives … not the son’s. They questioned why other parents hired private coaches and expensive tutors … all in an effort to have their kids succeed. And they were pretty bruised when junior showed little talent … and too much indifference. Why?

They shouldn’t have bothered with the heavy questions. Or even cared about their neighbor’s kids. Their son only wanted to test-drive the French horn … that was all.

He didn’t agree to gorge on that horn … or commit to some symphonic feast. He asked for a sip … a bite … a nibble. Not a full-out banquet.

That’s what kids do. All the time. And it’s our job to help them sample lots of stuff … like different adventures and foods and sports … and instruments. Even a French horn.

Oh! And the quid pro quo here was wrong, too

Just because the boy wanted a whack at the French horn didn’t mean he was determined to become a virtuoso. That was their assumption. The kid only wanted to try it on … see how it felt.

They wondered why other parents were so obsessed with success … and willing to stretch their wallets … and their kids! … to achieve. And they made a good case because … lots of parents lose their minds over this stuff … and do that “vicarious” thing with their kids.

So … they hugged this idea that it’s a-ok to be mediocre. Just okay. Forgettable. Ordinary.

I’ll bet this was their first kid … because they didn’t understand that whole scene. The crazy parent scene. So they settled for mediocrity … as a defense. As an option.

But mediocrity is never a defense. Or an option. Not ever.



Then they served up some gummy logic.

They rued the bucks that might be spent for this French horn fling … the instrument rental and perhaps some tutoring. But that’s the process when kids get involved in anything. Things cost … some more than others.

Dads don’t rue the green fees for their once-in-a-while golf game … and moms don’t bitch about the gym membership they don’t use often enough. Why can’t kids be just as nonchalant? Why does a kid have to have hyper-passion all the time?

Let’s be consistent here … life’s a big taste-test. A buffet. And that’s okay. That boy’s passion should be the passion of trying things out. Being curious. Even daring at times.

Kids wanna find out who they are … what they like … and what they do well. That’s what growing up is all about. Some are great at stuff they don’t love … and stink at things they’re passionate about. That’s the holy quest … to find the right fit … like we do when we search for lovers … or business partners … or teammates … or friends to add to the band.

Kids don’t know what they’re good or what they love … so they wanna try it all. And they imagine they might be great with the skates … or the bat … or the camera … or the piano … or horseback riding … or dancing … or the singing stuff. Or the French horn. Or whatever.

Adults seem to forget their own growing-up years … and all of the hobbies, sports, and passions they picked up … and put down. Until … until they found the one or two that stayed with them for a long while … perhaps for all of their lives.

Childhood is the “Smorgasbord Time”. The “Maybe-Maybe-Not Age”. It’s not a persevering moment. That’s for later in life. Real life.

Of course, you can’t give in to every kid-wish. Kids wish all day long. But tuned-in moms and dads can make some good decisions … after some good conversations with the next Elton John or the future Peyton Manning.

By the way … the results might stun you. It did me.

My would-be champion swimmer-son ran away from competition after his very first season. He had it all … the right body, the right spirit, the right determination to win. But … he hated it.

His older brother … who swam like a log … would go on to become a sought-after swim teacher … a summer gig that made him rich by the standards of the moment. Go figure.

The retired swimmer-son? He became a fantastic caddy … for a sport he never played. But he made lots of sweaty loot … and … won a caddy scholarship to college! Four years’ worth. Go figure some more.

My own grandson has dabbled in everything … drawing, guitar, piano, football, lacrosse, computers, and baseball. As he’s gotten older, his interests have narrowed … as he discovers what he loves … and what he’s good at. So for now … it lots of baseball and loads of curious history stuff. He’s got real passion both. And there’ll be more, I’m sure.

About those vicarious parents … you know the ones who want their kid to be the next Babe Ruth … or the next Celine Dion?

If that’s you … cool it. Check your own impulses. If you’ve got unresolved stuff … things left-over from your own childhood … well … go and try it all over again. It’s not just for kids, you know. Older folks can learn new stuff, too.

Just don’t live through your kids. That ain’t fair. At all. They’ve got all they can handle as it is … they don’t need your junk, too.

One more thing …

Model for your kids. Show ‘em your passions. Let ‘em know what you love … and how you came to love it. Then leave it alone. Just do your thing. They’ll watch. And maybe … well … you never know.

And last … worry about what matters.

Teach your kids to hold the door … and shake hands like they mean it. Show ‘em how to stick up for others … and to protect those who need protecting. Help ‘em see the good in everyone. And grow their hearts fat.

Coach them to respect adults … and to call ‘em Mister or Missus. Prepare them to always side with the truth … and to be humble and unfull of themselves.

Show them how to win with quiet class … and fail with dignity. Instill in them the importance of effort and commitment … once they’ve signed on to important stuff.


Explain the difference between succeeding and excelling … and show ‘em it, too. Expect more of yourself than you do of your child.

Smile … and whisper simple encouragement … “Make ‘em remember you” … and … “Be a star”.

Then be who you want your kids to be.

Denis Ian












Trying Times – Sunshine Patriot

“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” ~Thomas Paine~


This is America’s carnival moment. Its freak time.

And the moment to steel your spine … or watch your nation decompose before your very eyes.

There is a special sickness in the American culture. A lunacy we breathe all day long. A non-stop, freakish roadshow of pompous grand-standing, fraud-tears, and pretentious indignation.

There’s no realness anymore. Everyone’s a faker. A poser. A counterfeit human being of some virtue they know nothing about.

It’s the age of phony contrarians. Clowns who pick a disturbing point of view because it’s likely to win them some poisoned glamour. But many are not so alert … and the outrageous and preposterous find vulgar approval.

And so gender crusaders demand schools with asexual pronouns and unisex bathrooms … for children. A new president infuriates a vulgar, pussy-hatted posse that hasn’t a clue what’s bothering them. And others shove the nation straight into danger because … they insist … secure borders will offend the most offensive slaughterers on the planet.

That’s the sort of carnival we live in today.

Then there are offensive gagsters like this Griffin woman who just go too, too far … and then blame every invented scapegoat … from “old white men” to “white-privileged racists” … to soothe their stumble into stupidity.

And there’s not an ounce of embarrassment to be found anywhere … because that would require a conscience … and there’s no such thing like that around any more. It’s extinct.

Every new day begins with weird anticipation. And we are never disappointed.

Not ever.

Because there are old reliables who never fail to gag us.

Like Maher, Schumer, and the extra-filthy Stephen Colbert. Don’t forget Sharpton, Pelosi, Cuomo, and that California moonbeam, Jerry Brown. All master pied-pipers of farce who can infuriate the uninformed with their special dog whistles. And they’ll ridicule a guy like Tim Tebow off the stage … but make a hero of some forgettable athlete dressed in a Fidel Castro t-shirt talking about human rights.

And all of the feigned outrage and the pithy sound-bites have a single goal … to keep us all glued to this dysfunctional bacteria we call government. That virus that now infects our culture and gouges itself into our souls every damn day. In every damn way.

And this week they’ll attempt to railroad a president who’s ignored the inbred, political establishment … and promised to return government to us … the people.

“TYRANNY, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”

That’s why we are here. In this moment. At war. With nonsense.

We are the unlikely disinfectants. The deplorable disinfectants. Here to neutralize that stenchy plague of televised liars and two-faced politicians now under hot scrutiny because of their own creepy idiocy.

This nation is a disturbing mess … and in great distress. Seduced by this entertainment of madness. But it’s outrage we need … if we want command of our lives again.

There are now millions so numbed they can’t do without the clown-class. So many sad-ass devotees herd-managed by sick shepherds who bark them to this outrage or that supposed bit of injustice.

And that’s the challenge of the moment.

No more encouraging madness. No more exploding heads. No more asshat throngs of confused pussy-hatters. No more gender-addled bathroom crusaders or look-at-me exhibitionists.

No more urban wreckers and sneering, cop-killing cheerleaders. No more green-eyed screw-ups who demand what others have earned. No more wannabe AntiFa warriors dressed in Underoos … wielding garbage-can shields and broomstick swords.

No more tip-toe language. No more political correctness. No more homogenized truth. And no more bullshit.

“WHAT we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.”

This is no time to be a sunshine patriot.

If we can’t get real … and stay real … we deserve what’s on the horizon. That’s where the sun sets.

It’s also where nations go to die.

Denis Ian