The last time I saw my mother

Me and my mother, circa 1964

Me and my mother, circa 1964.

My mother’s last words to me weren’t words, but a wan smile and wave.

She was propped upright in bed by an armada of fluffy pillows tucked inside starched white slipcases. Her blue, flannel nightgown was a hand-me-down from her own mother; she loved it so. It was as crisp as the slipcases.

The hospice workers changed her bed sheets every four hours to keep her comfortable because my mother loved the smell and feel of laundered linen. She looked like a used toy nestled in a new package.

I had flown home to sit by her bedside when she was awake and tidy up her affairs when she wasn’t, which was often. A few days earlier, in a long and tense phone call with my uncle, I had agreed with him that she would never leave the hospice, and that the clean sheets and pain medication were the only things left to offer.

“I know you’ve been busy,” my uncle said. “But maybe you should come see her as soon as you can.”

This was a frequent refrain. For months, my mother seemed on the edge of the abyss, then I would visit and she would pull back, just not far enough to get her out of hospice. I had mounted each trip to see her as if it were my last.

Something’s different this time, my uncle said. He was by my mother’s bedside two days earlier trying to engage her, trying to determine if she was still aware of the present amid her incomprehensible mumblings about the past. The conversation was, as usual, one-sided, until my mother halted mid-mumble, looked at him and said with unusual clarity, “I’m never going to leave this place, am I?”

When I arrived straight from the airport, she was sleeping so deeply not even the hospice workers could rouse her. A desert breeze wafted through open windows to freshen her small room.

“She does that,” a hospice aide told me, shrugging. “One day, she’s awake and her appetite is good. Next day, she sleeps through everything and won’t eat. It’s getting harder to wake her when that happens.”

She slept through the first day of my four-day visit and the second. On the third, she was awake when I arrived in the morning. We talked – rather, she talked, and I tried to make sense of what she was saying. Much of it seemed to be about her upbringing in Utah and Hawaii, about her own uncles and aunts and cousins I never met, about events that occurred more than generation before I entered the world.

The whole time she talked, I was one of those uncles or cousins. She spoke as if I had been a witness to each event she recounted.

“I’m David, Mom,” I repeated several times that day. “I’m your son.”

At each, she would bunch her brow, look at me and say softly, “Oh.”

At each, a knot formed in my chest.

The fourth and final day of my visit started like the first two. My mother was deep asleep and stayed that way past noon. Attendants bathed her and changed her bedclothes, yet she did not stir. My time with her was trickling away. I looked around the room at the few belongings she had left – a framed watercolor that once hung in my grandmother’s house; pictures of my uncle’s children and a 20-year-old picture of me; a gray, stuffed cat that resembled her real cat, which she had to give up upon entering hospice. I bought the stuffed cat when she began spending more time in hospitals than at home.

At last, an hour before my flight was due to leave, she opened her eyes and stared at me. No words, just a long stare from eyes that were tired and dark and dull. I tried spurring conversation by recalling pieces of the broken stories she had strewn across her mind. I pointed to and described the watercolor, the family pictures, the cat.

Nothing.

Finally, I rose to leave and leaned over to kiss her forehead. Her skin was smooth and cool. Her white hair was pushed against the pillow. I pressed her knotty hand into mine.

“It’s time for me to go, Mom,” I whispered. “You take care of yourself. I’ll be back to visit very soon.”

I headed toward the door, and as I opened it to leave I turned around to wave goodbye. She had raised her hand slowly to wave back, grasping at the air as if reaching for a knob. The sagging corners of her mouth turned up and her lips formed a slight smile. For a moment, my mother’s eyes also appeared to brighten.

I have thought of that moment each Mother’s Day since. I probably will remember it each Mother’s Day hereafter, and I wish I had swept up and bundled as many better memories of her that I could summon.

But the smile and wave told me more than all she had tried to say in words. For in that instant, I believe she remembered who I was, why I was there, and what I meant to her.

And there were no words that could express those things any better.

‘It’s up to us to stop this’ : The shooting behind my backyard gate

Park Avenue Shooting Memorial

The memorial for two fatal shooting victims that grew to embrace a light pole on Park Avenue near downtown St. Louis started with a couple of teddy bears and a few flowers. (Photo courtesy of Robert Cohen, St. Louis Post-Dispatch)

Bright, multicolored balloons twist and bob around a concrete light pole about 20 yards from my backyard gate. People of all ages took photos of the balloons even as children tied more onto the pole.

In the adjoining community park, a couple hundred people talked, laughed, cried and held each other during a memorial vigil Tuesday as they recalled what happened a few feet from that light pole 24 hours earlier.

A bullet-riddled Nissan carrying two adults and a 9-year-old girl had rolled to a halt with one of the adults already dead and another dying. The girl was wounded but would survive. Their ride ended after a 12-block shootout with the occupants of another car who authorities say were targeting the couple.

I had heard the yelling from bystanders outside my second-floor window before realizing what was wrong. I saw the car go by, followed briefly by four people sprinting after it on foot. By the time I made it downstairs and out the door to investigate, a handful of wailing, distraught people were already reaching into the car to pull out the victims.

Police arrived mere seconds later. A detective at the scene told me they were receiving 911 calls about the shooting before the car had reached a full stop. Once they turned the corner, they only had to follow the sounds of the wailing.

More people rushed to the scene on foot at almost the same rate as the police, who drove in aboard 17 patrol cars and immediately closed the street in both directions. Officers cordoned off a wide area that extended all the way to my gate hinges.

The police anticipated trouble. When large numbers of African Americans are involved, they assume as much and show up en masse. Ferguson – 12 miles northwest of here – is to blame for that. The victims in the car were African American. The detective said the suspects likely were African American, and the growing crowd was upset and almost exclusively African American.

But the tension that was anticipated never materialized, because there was no rage, only outrage and frustration. The police were there like the rest of the crowd, trying to understand what brought two young lives to such a violent end on a tree-lined residential street, probably at the hands of someone equally as young.

One officer bent down on one knee just outside the loop of yellow police tape to talk with a group of boys, none of whom appeared older than seven. All of them, including the officer, had the same stunned looks on their faces, because at what age does one truly understand how anything like this can happen?

To the other side of me, a woman walked past holding her head in her hands and saying to nobody in particular, “I’m never letting my girl out of the house now.”

Then screams pealed out from several of the 70 or so people watching across the street in the park. They just learned the other adult in the car had died at the hospital.

At that, the crowd started to dissipate, with the strong and resolute assisting the inconsolable. The armada of patrol cars dwindled to 12, to eight, to two. The car that held the victims was the last to go, on the back of a flatbed tow truck, beneath the pale glow of that now-landmark street light, the only odd thing at that point being the sight of a single officer standing in the road watching the cargo being loaded.

For me, the hardest part was seeing the pain in the faces of those who either knew the victims or knew that this kind of internecine violence was not about to end. They were worried for their children and their friends and family, and said as much out loud, over and over. The police would be no help; the solution had to come from within.

And so the vigil formed around 5 p.m. Tuesday and lasted well after sundown. About 200 people showed up. They brought flowers and balloons, and a couple brought barbecue kettles. Posters of the dead were pasted to the light pole. The wrap of balloons reached 12 feet in height. And yet, police passed by only infrequently because for this second gathering the people themselves were doing the policing – directing traffic and trying to keep order. I spoke briefly to a few of the people trickling in and out; they replied in broken voices about taking back their lives.

“It’s up to us to stop this. It’s up to us to stop this,” one woman muttered.

Another woman who looked as if dressed for church touched my arm gently and said, “Please, be careful.”

We should all follow that advice.

7 reasons why your company should hire a journalist

You should hire a journalistTwenty years ago, the market for journalism soared. Print circulation reached all-time highs, and newspaper owners were flush with cash. Ten years ago, cracks appeared in the media industry’s wings and profits began to plummet.

Today, major media firms, battling to stay aloft, are jettisoning newspaper holdings like old socks. Many of the seasoned journalists who gave these firms credibility were jettisoned long before that.

What a waste — and what an opportunity for American business.

Because more than ever, information is currency. Employees who can find information, analyze it, disseminate it, and do all of these things objectively, have far more value than those who merely copy and paste it. And journalists do much more than just gather information; they’re trained to explain why that information matters to you.

Experienced journalists provide a return on investment, and companies that recognize the value of people who can process information instead of just repeat it hold clear advantages in the marketplace.

So, when you’re searching for someone who can turn information into gold, consider these seven reasons why a journalist may be the best person for that job.

They’re good at research — There’s a joke that says the best place to hide a corpse is on the second page of a Google search. In their quest for accurate, timely information, journalists dig much deeper than the algorithms of a search engine or a social media platform can. They understand that data lie as well as inform. Only hard research and investigation reveal the distinction.

They value accuracy — The Delete key is not anyone’s friend or savior. It only removes what’s on the screen; it does not remove false or inaccurate information from either archival or human memory. Journalists understand that accuracy begets credibility, and correct information up front forms the foundation of sound business judgment.

They have institutional memory — Today’s college graduates have lived their lives enmeshed in the Web, but not all answers to life’s questions reside there. Journalists with 15 to 20 years’ experience remember digging for data by hand — sifting through dusty file cabinets and interviewing people in person. A lot of that information still isn’t online, yet these journalists recall it because, according to researchers, we tend to remember information that was difficult instead of easy to obtain.

They appreciate deadlines — When print media was dominant, journalists had only a few times each day to convey information. This forced them to focus, to plan, to be efficient. In today’s never-ending news cycle, every moment holds deadline potential, but having so many opportunities increases the likelihood of hesitation, delay, and a lack of appreciation for deadlines. Put another way, when every moment is special, then no moment is special. Journalists appreciate the value of a moment.

They are persistent — To borrow from tennis champion Billie Jean King, “Champions keep playing until they get it right.” Good, responsible journalism requires the same approach. Truth resides somewhere beneath the surface of an issue, and so to get at truth requires dodging or occasionally plowing through obstructions. A journalist who is able to carve out that path does so with razor-sharp intellect.

They are ethical — There are better paying jobs than journalism, but no journalist I know entered the profession for the money. They value the power of words and are imbued with an innate sense of justice, they cherish the watchdog role that comes with being a journalist, and they respect the profession and their employers by being accountable for their actions.

They have compassion — Besides showing accountability, good journalists respect their audiences. The information that journalists gather and disseminate is for the benefit of those audiences, not their own egos or their own brand, and serving those audiences demands powerful responsibility. With good information culled from reports and research, the public can make educated decisions. So, too, can employers.

Imagine how successful a business could be with proven, committed employees such as journalists on its payroll.

Smoking clouds your financial judgment, researchers find

Smoking was once a major part of my life even though I never lit up.

My parents did, however, and often. So often that I remember clearly how long, brown nicotine streaks stretched down our bathroom walls after each steamy shower; how the burn marks on our furniture multiplied until my mother figured how to hide them with throws and pillows – until those were burned through, too; how the school dean once told me to change clothes because they smelled strong of second-hand smoke.

You’d think all that exposure would carve a similar habit into my behavior; after all, we tend to pick up many of the same habits our parents do. Instead, the constant exposure to cigarettes and their noxious or ashy effluent did just the opposite; I grew up repelled by cigarette smoke and tended to steer clear of its sources.

Over time, however, I wasn’t the one who modified my behavior to meet social demands; the marketplace did. Smoking’s cachet fell away, driven largely by repeated health warnings, to be replaced with a stigma that attached to it like barnacles and pushed persistent smokers outside and away from workplace centers of decision-making.

Now, add a new discouragement to smoking: Research led by the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee says habitual smokers tend to make worse decisions regarding their personal finances than people who smoke infrequently or not at all.

The research, buttressed by other economic analysis of smokers and led by Scott Adams, a professor of economics at UWM, surveyed more than 1,000 smokers over a two-year period and found that people who retreat into a cigarette break seeking instant gratification are likely to bridle when their attempts at fiscal gratification do not similarly yield immediate benefits.

The outcomes are reflected in credit scores, Adams says. Among the economic analyses, 41 percent of smokers were denied credit, 30 percent routinely missed credit card payments, and 27 percent had filed at least once for bankruptcy. Across the board, these percentages were twice as high as those for non-smokers. (These experiences were common among the survey group.)

In general, smokers accept the risk of poor health to pursue their habit, Adams stipulated. That risk-taking can be considered reflective of an overall willingness to take chances – an appealing quality in business.

But risking a smoke is met with the immediate gratification nicotine provides. Rewards gleaned from taking financial risks are neither readily apparent nor readily available, and hurrying toward those perceived rewards tends toward recklessness, Adams said.

“(A) smoking habit has an important and independent ability to predict behavior even after we control for variables that might be considered the true source of the poor performance in personal finances,” he wrote. “… We find that there is residual information in smoking status that can help predict credit score, and the size of this residual information is substantial.”

Adams acknowledges that other factors not measured by this study may clarify the relationship between smoking and personal finance but gave no indication that his research group would investigate them.

John Oliver: Journalist of the year

John Oliver (Photo courtesy HBO)

John Oliver (Photo courtesy HBO)

The best journalist in America in 2014 isn’t American and isn’t a journalist.

He intends to change only one of those things.

“I would like to get into a situation where I’m not suffering taxation without representation, which I’m suffering right now,” British comedian John Oliver told ABC’s “This Week.”

As for the journalist part, Oliver insisted on PBS’s “News Hour” that the title is misapplied.

“I have no moral authority. I’m a comedian.”

Given his latest performances on television though, one is left to wonder otherwise.

The British expatriate and Cambridge University graduate settled in this country upon joining the staff of Comedy Central’s popular “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” in 2006. Between assignments, Oliver continued to do stand-up routines and podcasts on both sides of the Atlantic, each refining a style of wit reminiscent of Monty Python. He obtained a Green Card in 2009 and considers himself a permanent U.S. resident.

Then in the summer of 2013, Oliver sat in the “Daily Show” host’s chair for eight weeks while Stewart was off directing the movie “Rosewater” and in that time Oliver displayed a formidable enough stage command to establish himself as Stewart’s likely successor. But before the notion could percolate longer, HBO plucked him out of Stewart’s stable to host the premium channel’s brand new Daily Show-esque enterprise.

What followed was a masterful mix of humor and social commentary that major news media should watch carefully — and learn from.

“Last Week Tonight with John Oliver” does indeed borrow from the “Daily Show” style of squeezing satire out of social and political events and blowing them up to absurd, sometimes mocku-mental proportions. But where the 30-minute “Last Week Tonight” truly distinguishes itself is in the show’s feature pieces, which can last half the program. Among the notable long-form bits in the show’s first 25-episode season were an analysis of Miss America scholarship claims, a look at chronic corruption by World Cup organizer FIFA, and a breakdown of the hypocrisy endemic in the American lottery system.

Oliver does not just parse words. His staff includes former magazine researchers as well as comedy writers who sift for truth as much for laughs. Oliver and his crew understand that a little bit of bizarre behavior floats on the surface of authority and that by shining a light on it we can peer down into, and be less intimidated by, the darkness beneath.

“Last Week Tonight” even displays key information over Oliver’s right shoulder on the screen, noting also the source and publication date. Not even network newscasts do that.

“It is reporting in no sense. But there is a lot of research,” Oliver says. “If a joke is built on sand, it just doesn’t work. … It’s very, very important to us that we are solid.”

This commitment has enabled Oliver to navigate stridently dense, solemn topics such as America’s wealth gap, civil forfeiture, and student debt — topics journalists have reported on many times but with a predilection for the somber seriousness of suffering by which most events are judged newsworthy.

“There is something about playing with toys that are that difficult which become more satisfying to break by the end of our week’s process,” Oliver says.

Not just break — shatter, really. “Last Week Tonight” garnered 1.1 million viewers on Sunday nights. Across all platforms including DVR and on-demand showings, overall weekly viewership topped 4 million. But on YouTube, where “Last Week Tonight” continues to show its vigor months after signing off until February, a feature broadcast in July on the wealth gap has been viewed since then nearly 6 million times. The piece on civil forfeiture has more than 4 million views. The piece on student debt has 3.6 million.

A feature on the typically arcane subject of national elections in India has garnered 2.5 million YouTube views. (HBO releases each segment separately onto YouTube after their initial broadcast).

“It didn’t make any sense to me that the largest exercise in democracy in the history of humanity was not interesting enough for (the major news media) to cover,” Oliver says of the India feature. India has 1.2 billion people; the United States, 320 million.

Even Oliver’s exposition on events in Ferguson, Mo., in a piece mixed with equal parts humor and outrage just one week after Michael Brown’s shooting now has more than 5.5 million views. That number has grown by about 10,000 weekly. Meanwhile, Oliver’s most talked-about feature, the one about net neutrality that was blamed for crashing the Federal Communications Commission’s website, is cruising toward 9 million viewers.

All these numbers constitute a larger audience share per feature than the major news networks can muster per night.

What Oliver and “Last Week Tonight” have managed to do is find a way to engage viewers and keep them engaged on complex, contemporary issues long after the initial broadcast while managing to be informative, a puzzle that network news and newspapers still struggle to accomplish two decades into the digital era.

Journalism in its most basic form is the gathering, processing, and dissemination of information related to a particular audience. By that simplistic definition, Oliver qualifies as a journalist.

“I think that becomes more of a sad commentary on news than it does on us” as comedians, Oliver says. “The only responsibility as a comedian is that I have to make people laugh. If I don’t do that — and I am sure that I often don’t — I have failed.”

But in making people laugh, Oliver goes to journalistically admirable lengths to do it. In the feature on Miss America scholarship funding, which the nonprofit Miss America Foundation claimed was $45 million annually, the “Last Week Tonight” staff spent days sifting through 990 tax forms on nonprofit spending from 33 states right up until broadcast to try verifying that number. The amount turned out to be unjustifiable, but “Last Week Tonight” nevertheless discovered that the Miss America Foundation is indeed the largest provider of scholarships that are just for women — which news media then reported.

“I just want it to be funny,” Oliver says, describing the course he and “Last Week Tonight” have charted. “That is the key responsibility that you have to hold yourself to as a comedian. If you’re not making people laugh, what exactly are you doing?”

This is not to say America’s daily news needs a thick layer of humor to help it glide along, or that professional journalists are less capable of engaging audiences than Oliver & Co. But if an expat Brit can reach more people on tough topics than the major news media and incorporate impressive feats of news gathering and accountability while doing it, then the “journalist” label will stick to Oliver no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, and major news media will be compelled to watch him try.

So, Oliver’s success and that of “Last Week Tonight” raises the question: If the major news media have a responsibility of informing and enlightening the public and still struggle at it, what exactly are they doing?

My mother, my grandparents, and Pearl Harbor

Pearl Harbor lapel pinOn a bright Sunday morning 73 years ago, my mother looked out her parents’ kitchen window and saw black smoke rising in the distance.

Then she saw planes soar out of the smoke, and the whole world forever changed.

That morning, my mother watched the attack on Pearl Harbor from her home. She was a child, living across the harbor from the U.S. Navy yard. My grandparents’ house sat on a hill slope, their back yard overlooking the battleships moored in port a few miles away, and on this Sunday morning in December my mother and grandparents, awaiting friends who were coming to take them on a picnic, saw the smoke, heard loud bangs coming from the direction of the harbor, left their breakfast sitting unfinished on the kitchen table, and went outside for a better look.

They heard the planes before seeing them. A whining roar, as if from a million angry mosquitoes, echoed across the hillside, gaining in volume, until the planes appeared as black darts flung across the bright sky. My grandmother remarked how unusual it was to see military maneuvers on a Sunday. My grandfather noticed these planes were unlike any he had seen parked on the airfields.

The planes came closer at incredible speed, and there were more of them each passing moment. It occurred to my grandparents that they should move back closer to the house when one plane, so close now the Rising Sun emblem on its fuselage was clearly visible, wagged its wings on approach to the slope, rolled starboard and with the tip of one wing carried off my grandmother’s clothes line.

My mother recalled seeing the pilot’s face. She said through the decades that given enough artistic talent, she could have drawn it from memory.

Everybody ran back into the house to watch the black smoke and noise intensify across the harbor, and it was at about this point when they saw a bright flash followed by the swelling bubble of an intense shock wave envelop the harbor and race up the hillside to rattle the kitchen windows. The USS Arizona, already critically wounded, burst nearly in two as the ammunition magazine ignited.

USS Arizona explodes during attack on Pearl Harbor

The battleship USS Arizona explodes while berthed at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, during the Japanese attack on Dec. 7, 1941. (Photo courtesy U.S. Navy)

At that, the event became profoundly personal: What should we do? Where should we go? Neighbors were walking out into the streets crying, shouting, comforting each other, even as the planes continued to zip overhead. My grandfather, who had joined an all-volunteer civilian defense corps a year earlier as tensions heightened between Japan and the United States, expected he would be called to do … something. But no word came; the few phone lines around the island were jammed.

Hours later, a Jeep sped down the street. The military police officer behind the wheel was going around asking every able-bodied male, particularly those who had guns, to meet in the town center for further instructions. My grandfather expressed concern about leaving my grandmother and mother alone. The Jeep driver responded, “Look, we’re expecting an invasion by the Japanese. If you don’t get down to the beach now to try stopping them, we’re all screwed anyway.”

So, my grandfather packed his only gun, a small-caliber pistol, and boarded a truck en route to a long shallow beach a few miles past Honolulu where Japanese landing craft loaded with troops were expected to appear overnight. Dozens of civilians in several trucks made the trip with him, including one man who brought the only weapon at his disposal: a pitchfork.

Upon arrival, the men busied themselves initially by digging shallow trenches and building defensive positions behind rocks and trees. Then they waited, the only sounds coming from the surf, the only light from the moon. And waited.

And waited.

By daybreak, the threat of invasion had subsided, though the intensity wrought from the previous morning never did. My grandparents’ friends who were driving to meet them were found in their car a few blocks away. They had been strafed and killed en route.

Honolulu Star-Bulletin, Dec. 7, 1941

Front page of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, 3rd Extra, Dec. 7, 1941. (Photo courtesy University of Hawaii at Manoa Library)

From that day until almost the war’s end, the Hawaiian islands, not yet among the United States, were under U.S. martial law. The rationing and blackouts common on the mainland during this period were many times more constraining in Hawaii because of difficulty protecting the islands’ supply line. And the happiest times of my mother’s childhood ended as the freedom she had to play with friends and roam was curtailed by stringent rules on civilian movement except for essential needs such as school, work and hospital visits.

The onset of war ended my grandfather’s job, servicing the pineapple harvesting equipment owned by Dole foods, as many industries on the islands shuttered during wartime. About a year later, my grandparents and mother left for California, riding a cargo ship under destroyer escort.

There was one humorous moment out of it all. When my grandfather returned from his beach patrol early on the morning after the attack, he went to put his gun away and noticed a box of bullets sitting open on the bedroom dresser. That’s when he remembered …

He had forgotten to load the gun.

(Editor’s note: This post initially appeared on the Posterous blogging platform, which shut down in 2013.)

Ted Cruz is wrong about Net neutrality

Net neutrality logoThe last thing any of us need is someone in a position of influence explaining Net neutrality but who doesn’t understand or doesn’t care to understand Net neutrality.

Yet, Ted Cruz has decided to do it anyway.

The junior Republican senator from Texas trumpeted his mischaracterization of the issue last week in the Washington Post opinion piece, “Regulating the Internet threatens entrepreneurial freedom,” in which he champions the idea that online innovation suffers unless the Internet is devoid of federal oversight.

The term “devoid” is not overstatement. Cruz prefers that Washington leave the Internet entirely in the hands of the legislative process, where service providers, market forces and special interests hold sway. To this end, he urges nullification of all Internet regulation, now framed within Section 706 of the Telecommunications Act.

In Cruz’s mind, Net neutrality “would put the government in charge of Internet pricing, terms of service and what types of products and services can be delivered, leading to fewer choices, fewer opportunities and higher prices.”

In fact, Net neutrality refers to the Internet as it is now: a place where service providers and government agencies treat all online data equally and access is unlimited; a place where the powerless have as much influence as the powerful; a place where startup businesses can grow into corporations without monopolistic interference.

The issue became a big deal in April when the Federal Communications Commission agreed to consider a two-tiered system where Internet providers can set arbitrary rules on access. Then in May, the FCC also agreed to consider reclassifying broadband as a telecommunications service, which would prevent providers from threatening to reduce access in exchange for fees.

U.S. Sen. Ted Cruz, R-Texas (Photo by Getty Images)

U.S. Sen. Ted Cruz, R-Texas (Photo by Getty Images)

President Obama supports reclassification. Cruz however believes the providers should be in control because reclassification is just a nice way of saying the government will levy an Internet use tax. He has even gone as far as calling Net neutrality “Obamacare for the Internet,” a catchy little phrase that possesses a certain rubbery, pejorative quality certain to help it bounce around the Web for a while.

Never mind that it misrepresents both Net neutrality and Obamacare; Cruz is a Princeton and Harvard grad, a champion debater and a loyal partisan toady. Conservative straw polls rank him high among likely GOP presidential nominees in 2016.

It would tarnish Cruz’s carefully honed image for him to appear on the same side of an issue as the president. So, it makes more sense for him to mangle Net neutrality’s definition than risk political capital.

To be fair, the term “Net neutrality” is sufficiently vague enough that anyone with a flair for drama and self-promotion can abuse it with ease. One could easily argue that the term also means you’re indifferent about what happens to Internet.

If only it had a better name. Comedian John Oliver suggests that maybe Net neutrality’s working title should be more honest: “Preventing Cable Company F**kery.”

But that might be too honest for Ted Cruz.