Monday, December 31, 2018

Running Away With Me Again


Timing is everything, 
Particularly in dreams.

Each of us is a sponge:
Absorbing, capturing, wiping away;
Then rinsing with exercise,
Or a shower,
Or a confession
To remove the stains.

Ah, but they remain

Until we sleep.
Then, and not as often
As one might like,
The vast cavern
That holds secrets
Hidden to the heart
Pulls back the curtain
In patterns and scenes that
Redefine measured random.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination —
Running away with me again.

Sometimes the path
Is paved with billboards
Offering options,
Portals with levers.
Which century?
What location?
What does it mean
That we have this choice?

The future lurks with the past:
Just out of touch.
Slouching near a street light
With a 40s smoke
And a Raymond Chandler sneer,
Someone who resembles Robert Mitchum
Inhales the vision
Of a sultry beacon
In a skin-clutching, 
Flaming dahlia number
Perhaps two sizes small
And about a hundred times too perfect.

He offers her a light, and she replies
with Camel-influenced resonance,
"It's going to be a bumpy night."

Some say they trust in the universe.
Others find comfort in ideals.
History sheds some light,
But not everyone reads these days.

Around the corner
It’s 1969.
A couple in tie-dyed bell bottoms and
Wild hair wave at a kid on a scooter
With an iPhone 10 who
Gets a text from his grandparents,
Hippies from way back when.

Just whose imagination
Was running away again?

Hip-hop Hamilton
Might be
Cultured Stones,
Which might be
The Marx Brothers
On Wall Street.

Whatever gets you through
Makes you more complete.
Peanut butter finds chocolate;
Basil embraces ginger.
But where is Mary Ann?
Still on the island,
Working the phones
Screening calls from 8 zillion guys
Somewhere on the path from junior high
To a motel room with purpose.

Bigger pictures
Come in widescreen,
As do the fantasies
Of the moment.
The clock ticks toward
A brand new year;
A brand new start.
Maybe one that finds
Truth and ethics back in favor;
Maybe one that
Pulls an abrupt halt
To this reign of charlatan terror.
Can I get an amen?

Or is it just my imagination —
Running away with me again?










Wednesday, December 26, 2018

So, you want to be a rock and roll star

Then listen now to what I say
Just get an electric guitar
And take some time and learn how to play
And when your hair's combed right and your pants fit tight
It's gonna be all right


Advice from The Byrds, as snarky today as it was in 1967. The point being is that while becoming a music sensation might be considered simple, nothing could be more distant from the truth. And truth, these days, is up for grabs, and thus when one has the chance to observe honesty, to breathe it, to enjoy it, allow it to resonate, well ... don't think twice.

The evolution of a young person to rock stardom is one of the many themes that fuel SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY, a show that Ruth (my wife) and I witnessed Christmas night, 2018, courtesy of Netflix.

We were mesmerized. Uncommonly so actually ... for two hours and thirty-some minutes that we didn't move, didn't make a sound, as if to not disturb the performance.

Envy does not come close to the emotion I have about those who witnessed Springsteen's show live in the theatre. Where I would have had the option to clap, tap my foot to music familiar yet quite often deeper, more resonant versions of that familiar, and laugh, and most certainly acknowledge the need to wipe my eyes from time to time to time to time.

I'm certain those in attendance began the evening with anticipation of the tangibly sublime, but soon were transported into the rarest of realms — a shared journey into the mystic.

Even those of us who witnessed this performance via TV, it was clear we were in the company of a legendary performer, one who has crafted a sellable, enduring product and yet remained so true to himself. At first I felt guilty about the cynicism, a default response engendered from the past two long years in the war on facts, compassion and ethics. Still stinging from the latest of the current administration's self-inflicted world-wide disasters, I did not want what I sensed were budding Norman Rockwell sensations to beam me from the grim malaise of now and into a far better place.

But as Bruce Springsteen shared his life's path, skepticism fell by the wayside, and I believed what I felt to be true actually was true. I know Springsteen was not seeking absolution, but what transpired arrived at the intersection of where memory lane embraces confession.

Springsteen's profound love for his parents, Clarence Clemmons, Patty Scialfa, and ultimately his life becomes a tangible force that elevates as it transfixes.

It is remarkable.

If you are already a Netflix subscriber, the "cost" of admission is free ... all that will be taken is time, but even that is at a discount as I'm certain the 153 minutes are the most limber and energetic 153 minutes one can choose to encounter.

Below are three reviews, one dated early in the run, one near the end, and one about the recording.

Consider all of this the water. Up to you if you drink.







Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Back In The U.S.S.R. (Don't know how lucky you are, boy)




This is not shocking. Most reasonable people look at Trump and see him for what he is ... a con-man, career criminal, who opens his mouth or uses his thumbs for one purpose — to sell an idea, that is more often than not a lie.

The pathetic, and again not shocking aspect of this, is how many of Trump's supporters either don't care that their hero is a dissembling crook or don't know because they have one source of media — FOX NEWS.  

Fox News has long been a cheerleader for the GOP. But with Trump, that organization has veered from the sidelines and into the game itself. Sean Hannity, for instance, might as well have a desk in the White House. Every time the phrase "fake news" is used, those muttering those words are trying to reassure their base that the "lies" that such organizations as The Washington Post, The New York Times, CNN, and The New Yorker are revealing in their daily, non-stop stories about the corruption of Trump, his family, and ultimately, his enablers in Congress, such as notably Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham,  that those stories are not true.

But reasonable people see the picture for what it is.

Trump defends the Saudi prince, and the first question, considering the evidence compiled, is why.

MONEY.

Meanwhile, the GOP continues its Icarus-fall from reality because it has been torched by an Orange Sun. Climate change, immigration insensitivity and brutality, voter fraud, guns, racist demonstrations,  and highly questionable tax breaks are just a few of the ploys that these enablers have endorsed. They will do anything and everything to keep power.

Trump's ties to authoritarian louts, such as Putin, Kim Jong-un and Mohammad Bin Salman Al Saud are not just appalling; they are the symptoms, if not acts, of treason.

So to paraphrase a time-worn query:


ASK NOT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY CAN DO FOR YOU. 

ASK WHICH COUNTRY IS YOUR DADDY.

Friday, October 12, 2018

This Constant Storm

This constant storm
Crashes on my beach,
Abuses my soul, keeps
Dreams out of reach.

Swirling sand akin
To verbal abuse.
No one’s seeking
Any form of excuse.

Those on the left;
Those on the right:
Nuking the middle
With hate and spite.

Pounding the good book
With bias and greed;
It’s God’s will that
The innocent bleed.

Man, what kind of creed
Can do these things?
And folks still wonder
Why caged birds sing.

This constant storm
Keeps coming and coming.
Waves of anger,
Waves of despair,
Waves of methane
Killing the air.

Some say all’s well
with the atmospshere;
Yet the Arctic is melting,
Smog refuses to clear.

Pretty soon
No alien in space
Is gonna come here.

Why visit a planet
That can’t decide
Between fact tellers
And those who lied?

Alternative truth?
The universe is grinning:
“Those folks on Earth
Can't fathom losing from winning.”


Meanwhile entitled
Good Ole Boys
Keep spouting,
“Wham bam
Thank you mam
Grab that pussy
Cause I can!”

This constant storm
Is a huge harpoon
coming from every direction:
The only barrier
Is the coming election.

So quit whining
And cussing:
That’s no antidote;
Instead, bide your time
And by all means vote

A hundred times
If that’s what it takes
To turn this tide
Toward a more gentle norm
And remove the threat
Of this constant storm ... 

                                         This time.

                                                           For awhile.











Saturday, September 29, 2018

They Went To Paris, Part 2

Earlier in the week, I shared remarkably optimistic lyrics for The Ryder Cup, which concludes this morning, if you are reading this on Sunday, Sept. 30, 2018.

Team USA did get off to a great start in the morning session of fourball (all four players play their own ball, if you are not familiar with the Ryder Cup format), but all hell shook loose in the foursome session, where two players use one ball, hitting alternate shots. This is a tough format. Very, very, very tough in the best of conditions.

The Euros won all four matches in foursomes, the first time they'd swept USA in that format, and seized a 5-3 lead after Friday's two sessions.

Saturday's two sessions were just as horrid for Team USA, which managed to win 3 points , 1 in fourball, 2 in foursomes, while the Euros again claimed 5.

This Ryder Cup is being played on a course outside Paris, France. It is one of the regular European Tour venues. The Euro team, thus, knows the course, having accumulated some 250 or more rounds on that layout.

Team USA had eight rounds of experience.

The Euros, as host team, get to set the course up.  Thomas Bjorn, the Euro captain, let the rough grow. Think Gabby Hayes at Woodstock. Think wheat fields. Corn as high as elephant's eye.

Why?

Because the Euros have a bunch of players who drive the ball straight, while one of the key strengths of team USA was how far some of its players can hit the ball. Usually, it comes down to putts to decide team competition. Bjorn cut to the chase by making hitting the fairway an equal component, and considering how the Americans have performed, the deciding component.

The feed for this blog sends new posts out at 6 a.m. This will arrive in your email about the time singles play begins. Europe leads, 10-6. There will be 12 singles matches. Because USA won the last Ryder Cup, they need 14 points to retain the Cup. The Euros need 14 1/2.

The Euros, obviously, are in great shape.

Match play can be fantastic theatre. Even if you don't care or know much about golf, you might find observing what pressure can do to be of interest.

My prediction for the outcome returns to to the Jimmy Buffett song, HE WENT TO PARIS.

Today, I suspect another rewrite is in order. This one is not long.

They went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered them so.

And failed.

Thursday, September 27, 2018

They Went To Paris

(with sincere apologies to Jimmy Buffett).

They went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered them so.

They were impressive,
Seasoned, yet quite aggressive:
Savin' the world on their own.
When they missed those summer breezes.
They leaned on French wines and cheeses,
But nothing put their ambition at bay.
They kept their resolve,
Determined  to evolve,
Seizing 6 points the very first day.

On and on it went:
Some of it perfect,
Some of it boresome.
What’s the difference
between fourball and foresome?

Yet none of the antics
of full-throttle romantics
Could keep this team at bay.
A hard-earned infusion
and a heart-felt transfusion
Turned harsh rival into prey.

One in particular
Had arrived in style
Exuding savvy and warm guile.
His body had been battered,
His whole world had been shattered,
Yet still he managed to smile.

Because he’d been
through the fire
and taken his life higher
With patience and persistence.
So it just goes to show
No matter how harsh the blow
You can still go the distance.

Without improving their lies
They claimed the Ryder prize,
Then jetted to the Bahamas
Where they finished the plan
By strolling on sand
In red, white & blue pajamas.

Yeah, they went to Paris
Lookin' for answers to questions

That bothered them so.

Monday, September 24, 2018

Sweet Are The Uses of Adversity

“Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.”

AS YOU LIKE IT
(ACT 2, SCENE 1)


By now, most of the planet is aware of what transpired late Sunday afternoon on a world-class golf course that was the home venue of one of the game’s most revered icons.

How fitting that another icon — akin to a warrior finally returning home after a series of conflicts overseas — chased and caught his former self. And all of us, like Tommy Fleetwood in the first round of The Tour Championship last Thursday, witnessed the past and the future in the present.

I want — no  I must — believe that somewhere Bobby Jones is smiling. Perhaps he is lounging just down the road from East Lake in the Champions Locker Room at Augusta National. He never won The Masters, but what the hey, Jones invented it.

Bobby has uncorked a bottle of the great stuff. Shot glasses all around. One for Ben, one for Byron, one for Sam, one for Arnie.  Bobby beckons to a gentleman wearing a Hoylake t-shirt to join them in the inner sanctum and hands him a shot glass.

 “One for Earl,” Bobby says, then adds, “Gather round, gentlemen. And allow me to tell you of great things.”

Everyone nods and smiles. Even Ben Hogan smiles.

And so it goes for the Ghosts of Excellence that hover near every kid’s first efforts to hit a cracked range ball in the air. The thousands and thousands and thousands of balls a great player must strike if a career is to be a career.

Every kid likes to hit putts on the practice green for big stakes. “This one’s for The Masters. This one’s for The U.S. Open.” Over and over and over again. Every kid also imagines he is Bobby, or Ben, or Sam, or Byron, or Arnie, or Jack. And most certainly, Tiger.

Ask one of the game’s young guns. Tiger Woods was a myth that has become real.

So from dawn to dusk, the realist chases the dream. Over and over and over and over again.

That’s the key.

The work.

Gary Player said. “The more I practice, the luckier I get.”


You have to wait for it, though.

Chi Chi Rodriguez said, “Patience is genius.”

Turn back the clock. Relive those riveting amateur performances. The interview with Curtis Strange, where a prodigy was admonished for believing he could win right away on Tour. And he did.

Then, the prodigy followed that first triumph with an ever-building collection of amazing, of incredible, of perfectly timed excellence achieved in the most stressful situations. The runaway at Augusta in 1997 transcended not just golf and sports, but social barriers. A statement was made by default. 

He was not a race or creed, he was Tiger.

And was he ever.

Over and over and over again, Tiger Woods rose to challenges and steamrolled deep into the record books.

So good he got bored with a great golf swing. He created a new one, the first of several. And won again. And again. And again.

Nothing, however, matches winning the U.S. Open on a broken leg. At that point, perhaps, confidence ventured into the red line area that reads BULLETPROOF.

Sports fans, particularly Americans, have love-hate issues with their heroes. They love finding them and building the perfect pedestal, which are too easy to dismantle.

We love our heroes. We love to see them rise. Some of us love to see them fall.

And most of us love to see them regain what was lost.

Mistakes are human. The body does decline.  Even after multiple surgeries sometimes  the body gets so bad you can’t walk or get out bed. Then the mind-numbing fear that you might never hit a golf ball again.

Lending enormous weight to the Joni Mitchell observation, 
“Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
Till its gone.”

Or The Byrds, courtesy of Otis Redding, who insisted,
“You don’t miss the water
Till your well runs dry.”

None of us who follow Tiger Woods will forget his yips trying to chip. Or the kindness given by Billy Horschel to an icon, who had lost his way physically, mentally, and, in my view, spiritually.

You don’t know how deep the lake is until you touch bottom. And until you do, the gratitude of surfacing is not quite as profound.

Then the first step. Back fusion, which repaired some of the physical and, perhaps, some of the mental, because there was caution chasing apprehension. The gradual ascension with steps forward, sideways, back and forward again.

Americans cherish stories about the journey as they relate to comebacks. 

Yesterday at East Lake, one of those stories arrived at the intersection of Redemption and Perseverance.

As Big Bill said at the beginning of this post:

SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY.


Sunday, September 23, 2018

Changes In Magnitudes, Changes in Certitudes



Tour to make extreme changes in FedEx Cup in 2019

Excerpts in bold from above link, article by CBS analyst, Kyle Porter:

What if I told you not all playing fields were level? What if I told you that golf, the ultimate meritocracy, was no longer being played equivalently at all? 
That's what's going to happen at the 2019 Tour Championship when players will start with staggered scores with the leader of the FedEx Cup coming into the tournament beginning the event at 10 under. Here is how players will start.
  • First in FedEx Cup coming to Tour Championship: -10
  • Second: -8
  • Third: -7
  • Fourth: -6
  • Fifth: -5
  • 6th-10th: -4
  • 11th-15th: -3
  • 16th-20th: -2
  • 21st-25th: -1
  • 26th-30th: E
This was done so that whoever wins the Tour Championship automatically wins the FedEx Cup. It will prevent situations like last season where Xander Schauffele won the Tour Championship, but Justin Thomas won the FedEx Cup.


One aspect of golf that is inherent to its purpose is its tradition. Certainly many, many components of golf have changed in the past century. Equipment is a biggie, as is how a round is observed, particularly after the Internet and that there is a single TV channel devoted to golf, as well as a reporter who calls himself Tiger Tracker, and does exactly what his name indicates … he follows and tweets every shot Tiger Woods takes.

Reminds me of tram cars blasting Jimmy Buffett music in Key West, perhaps giving the ghosts of Hemingway and those who followed “Papa” down A1A seeking artistic inspiration a throbbing dose of Caribbean soul, whether they want it or not.

Imagine as you trudge toward the Hemingway House, one of those tourist vehicles, akin to a conga line, snakes past with its speakers trumpeting A PIRATE LOOKS AT FORTY … one of the quintessential Key West songs Buffett uncorked at the beginning of his career.

Doubt even Buffett himself would have predicted that his popularity would equal Hemingway, then soar to new heights.

Change is inevitable.

But I can also see the ghost side of the Key West equation. Does the sleepy, quaint, almost idealistic, island village need to have constant reminders that a musician became famous by jotting down a few lines about the town’s existence? What about the “real” Key West genius — Hemingway — whose style has influenced and will continue to affect those who put “quill to parchment” and create a story.

For me, that’s the same type of crossroads professional golf faces, notably with its desire to amp interest. On one side of the equation, there is a basic concept that, after much meandering to and fro, I think now has significant value. Does golf need a season-ending event, other than team competitions, that highlights and magnifies the pursuit of excellence?

Easy answer.

Of course.

But how?

And that is certainly the rub. How does the Tour meld tradition with change?

Change the size of the hole on the green? Use 14 holes instead of 18? Create par 8s and 9s?

Not too likely.

There are some basics to golf that, perhaps we can all agree need to be kept.

Playing the ball as it lies, for instance, is another.

The equipment and ball is in this mix, but for the sake of brevity, which is non-existent in this post, let’s shift focus to scoring.

I am not in favor of “giving” a lead to a player on the actual scoreboard. Perhaps those who are supporting this change can elaborate their position.

I wish I had even a suggestion of a solution, but at this point, all I can offer is that the FedEx Cup is great for golf, but it has yet to find itself in terms of how the champion will be crowned.

Staggering the field with pre-determined scores under par, then proceeding as if those players had actually scored those numbers so that the winner of the Tour Championship also automatically wins the FedEx Cup is akin, in my view, to allowing ball in hand in perfect conditions. Too many rules in play.

Better, again in my view, to not manufacture as much and simply let the players speak for themselves in their relationship to par and each other.



Saturday, September 1, 2018

Chasing Pure

Currently, the PGA Tour is engaged with the FedEx Cup, that for me, is mostly tedious.

Dustin Johnson, one of the current stars on Tour, tweeted yesterday that playing for so much cash is motivation enough for him. I agree. For him.

As a fan, however, I am not that engaged.

One of the keenest aspects of "professional" golf is that one gets paid.

For those with a chance to win a bundle, the event has significant purpo$e, opportunity, and deep interest (as well as a trunk of principle).

Key phrase, of course, THOSE WITH A CHANCE TO WIN A BUNDLE. I think the Tour is desperately trying to sell fans that this event has merit because of what a player can win, without addressing that it is a meandering distraction where eventually some lucky and skilled player takes home a huge bonus.

For me, that is not all that interesting. Certainly there is pressure, and there is often great golf. But it is a PPP event  — Paid Per Player.

Oddly, at least for me, at no time do I consider how much cash a player wins during a major, or many of the higher-tiered events, notably The Players and Memorial and Bay Hill. Nor do I scan the money list,

I'm engaged in those golf events because of the intangible and tangible factors that the FedEx Cup does not have and so desperately requires, in my view.

It is vastly ironic that the Tour dilutes the FedEx event every time it mentions the Ryder Cup, which has a higher, more pure purpose. Sometimes it seems there is a FedEx bonus BECAUSE of the Ryder Cup, which is an honor simply to make the team on your own merit. Those first automatic 8 slots reflect strong play over a significant passage of time. A great tribute to one's efforts. And the four that eventually get picked also can boast their games are peaking at a great time.

There has always been muttering by some players, though, that while it is highly fantastic to make this team, that with so much money involved, the "cast" in the film should be paid. I have no comprehension of what it must be like to make so much money, and play so well that you are involved with golf's most engaging event — The Ryder Cup.

Is that experience a reward? From the cheap seats it appears that way.

Can see both sides.

A barrel of cash near an 18th green, for some I suppose, creates fantastic suspense, mostly for those with a chance to win it.

I would think that concept would work much better if less players in the field were not already multi-millionaires. Kind of like the NBA. Does anybody really give a shit how much LeBron makes? What we care about, or at least me, is how he plays on the biggest stage.

Stories of journeymen pros strapped for cash, living in cars week to week, barely making a living are not as prevalent now as they were routine in the 1940s-50s. Winning a tournament then meant a pro and his family could keep chasing the dream which was essentially to keep chasing a dream.

Arnie changed that. Then Jack. Then Tiger REALLY changed how much a player might win.

Golf in the 21st century has sci-fi equipment and Warren Buffett rewards.

Meanwhile, a team event that involved at first two nations, the USA and England, then expanded to include more Euro countries — a notion Jack felt would make the Ryder Cup more fair and interesting.

Ha.

The Ryder Cup is a bag phone in a typewriter world clinging to the raft of social consciousness.

For me, The Ryder Cup is one of the basic elements of golf that include size of cup on the greens, each course has 18 holes, and that there are short holes (par 3), longer holes (par 4) and MUCH longer holes (par 5)  with overall par ranging from 70 to 73. That's the foundation.

Toss in the aspect of integrity ... that players of all levels — ideally — attempt to play real golf as in playing it as it lies, and that infractions are to be called by the participants themselves.

This is the pure stuff. Those amazing late afternoons when you and your fellow competitors are chasing daylight to finish before dark .. how the length of the shadows shifts ... the stillness ... the clarity of the moment.

There is nothing better.

It is fantasy to believe that golf at its highest level and on its most mammoth stage can retain that sense of universal joy .. as if a world class guitarist chooses to sit on his porch and concoct a tune ... and if one is lucky enough to be there ... well .. there could be nothing better, say, than listening to Eric Clapton or J.J.Cale (name your own artist), work magic on an acoustic guitar. No crowd. No microphones. No lights. Just an artist and his music.

I remember as a kid watching Arnie strut up the 18th fairway at Augusta, and I’ve been hooked ever since.

Drama. Passion. Victory.

Then the countless hours on forgotten dog tracks, where at dawn or dusk, I trudged down fairways, through trees and poison ivy, hunting cracked Titleists and putts for par.

How I scrunched my shoulders a la Arnie to putt … or when on the tee after a sprayed drive, used Arnie’s signature body language to will the ball back into play. Sadly, that worked only for Arnie, and only sometimes, even for The King.

I guess the point of this post is that the money is meaningless unless you have a chance to take it home. Happy for those who have that chance, but that’s not what engages me.

The Tour needs to figure out why its fans “need” the FedEx Cup, and not continue to assume that it is the cash.


Sunday, August 26, 2018

Rustler's Renaissance

So …

Once upon a moment
Luck beckons,
Then turns south.
No fire on the mountain.
No gift horse
Or its mouth.
Above the saloon
In a stale room 
One eye on the ceiling
The other on adieu
No one promised heaven
Or even
A damn good view.

Down below
A pack of drifters
Lurks as idle
As muttered threats
Until they hear
The signal
That sets them free.
Dust on the horizon;
Someone yells
Stampede.
Nostrils flaring,
Pistols blaring:
Someone’s burning
Rattlesnake weed.

Running hard
To the river
Where tracks
And sins
Disappear.
As if someone
Willed release:
Taming a hurricane,
A bandit priest.

Then, the hidden trail
To the secret canyon
That no posse will ever find.
In the distance
Near the concealed cabin
A lonesome fiddle
Greets an old companion —
A steel guitar
That had just made bail.

Soon, even the veterans
Feel the urge to dance;
Echoes of Butch
And Sundance
Trading desert jeans
for tailored pants;
Getting primed for
The revolution:
A Rustler’s Renaissance. 










Monday, August 20, 2018

Home



The link above leads to a remarkable account. So clear and heartfelt. And perfectly tuned to the times.

Who better than an immigrant to display affection and concern for her "second" country, and why she must leave. Hopefully, not forever.

My father was born in Cyprus. He essentially taught himself English. His dream was to come to the United States, which he did and wound up at the University of Missouri, where he met my mother, a student at Stephens College.

At first, Peter G. Phialas anticipated going to medical school, but his aversion to blood and love of language steered him toward a masters and Ph.D at Yale and eventually Oxford in England. He chose to teach Shakespeare, which he did his entire career at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.

A life-long democrat, my dad died in December of 1999, a month short of George W. Bush taking the oath to serve as president of the United States.

Nor did Pete witness the two elections won by Barack Obama.

And luckily, did not have to endure the cruelest and most shocking election in the history of the country, a sketchy, shadowy, if not corrupt, takeover by a con man and his throng of quick-fingered cronies.

But i can hear what my father would be saying. And he'd be saying it often, too.

Thus, immigrant stories that reflect profound love for the United States of America carry special weight for me. Rebecca Mead's masterpiece should be read by all Americans. It's long, but totally worth the effort.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Karmic Gold

A fascinating week.

Omarosa has done more than steal focus. She has injected a fresh dose of hope into the spiraling, evolving, perhaps way-too-optimistic mix. That she is on the verge of trumping Trump with his own tactics is Shakespearian rich — a karmic gold mine spiced with the notion that this version of Lady Macbeth might channel Shylock. What can be better than this form of devious revenge?

If only the current folly was just a dream in midsummer, rather than the nightmare that it is.

At any rate:

Is Trump a racist?

Is he a bigot, a charlatan, a con man, an asshole, a serial liar who lacks any sense of moral fiber?

Are these trick questions?

But in my view, the issue is no longer Trump. It's the vast throng of elected enablers, as well as those who identify themselves as being in Trump's base, where, apparently, myopia has reached crisis levels.

The elected Republicans in Congress who continue to look the other way with each of Trump's attacks on decency are digging a deeper pit for themselves. These folks are not just on the wrong side of history, they are creating it, hook, line and sinkers.

Power above party and most certainly country. That level of arrogant greed does not suggest there is a rainbow at the end of this storm.

It's not a stretch to predict that eventually Trump's incendiary tactics will produce an epic catastrophe. The war on the media, for instance, is a first-rate example of blaming the messenger in advance, that under no circumstances will CNN, The Washington Post or The New York Times tell the truth. If the "news" is anti-Trump, it is fake. And we've been asked by our petulant, orange-hued menace that we should believe him and only him.

Isn't it amazing how Trump's supporters refuse to see this tyrant in his ill-fitting nudie suit for what he is? Hans Christian Anderson must be humming Chuck Berry while rolling over in his grave, eager to tell Tchaikovsky (and the rest of us) the news.

Have you ever seen a human being with so little regard for others, and even less for animals?

One of the more salient aspects of "human" nature is that most of us crave association with a pet, most commonly a dog and/or cat, who give unconditionally and ultimately take so little.

What kind of person despises these engaging, honest creatures? One that likely has difficulty with projecting any of those traits because he lacks them himself. When everything  is scam/sham/thank you ma'am, it's hard to trust someone will "care" for you unless you pay them.

One of the infinite joys of getting to know a new friend, be it canine or feline, is the discovery of its habits that make that "personality" unique. I believe it's one of the most compelling rabbit holes that exist ... because part of that "discovery" reveals as much about you as it does your new associate —  each day you wish he/she could speak as loud verbally as it does with its actions. But the actions are plenty, aren't they? In fact, the actions are the truth.

I find it impossible to trust anyone who despises animals. Trump's well-known disdain for pets reveals just how shallow, heartless, cruel, self-absorbed, and morally bankrupt he is.

i also find it impossible to like anyone who lacks a keen sense of humor.

Laughter and a purring cat go a long, long way to help make a part of what is so wrong just a bit better.

Of course, the genre of pet I'd love to send to the White House is as reptilian as the creature who occasionally stays there when bored with golf and fast food.

The one difference, obviously, is that one type of flesh-consuming carnivore was born in the muck, and has little choice. The corporate upside for an alligator is a "fresh start" as a pair of shoes, a belt or even a suitcase. Not exactly a shrewd career move.

Meanwhile, another inhabitant of the slime craves junk food, over-cooked sirloin with ketchup, and in spite of what he tweets, has no intention whatsoever of either draining, fixing, or even leaving his "natural" habitat.

"Swamp Thing. 

You make my heart sing.

You make everything ..."