Plague Redux 6 - Finito

MAY 20, 2020

Some years ago, Jamie spent the last week of a friend's life by her side. They sang and prayed and traded tears and laughter until the end. It was calm and peaceful. There was resolution, and sleep. Later, J told me how much she cherished this experience. I mulled that over for awhile, knowing how important J's beliefs were to her, and how important my beliefs were to me, said beliefs being decidedly more pagan than hers "J," I said, "When my time comes, forget the prayers, the singing, know what I'm sayin'? Just bring me a bucket of fried chicken. The colonel's fine. Thighs."

So, what has this to do with the plague? Word has it that by the first of June, two weeks from now, 20,000 more Americans will be dead. "Who shall live, and who shall die?" Jews wonder during Yom Kippur, their holiest day. Will they be written in the book of life for the coming year? Who will be alive two weeks from now? Will I?

This plague has changed the way we die. Our caregivers are encased in hazmats, masks, and plastic. Tubes are in the patient.Ventilators hide the patient's face. No one can see anyone else. And people die like this. Alone. Connected by tubes. Encased in machines. Among strangers. Without the touch of a hand. Without ritual. Wrapped and protected. Protected from what? It comes anyway. Where is the word for dying like this?

Two prisoners condemned to death are asked by the warden for their last wish. The first prisoner says, “Warden, I want to hear “Achy Breaky Heart” one more time.” “OK,” says the warden, “What about you,” he asks the second prisoner. “Warden,” the man says, “Kill me first.”

I've been reading stuff like Camus' "Myth of Sisyphus" and Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning", Whitman's celebration and Hannah Arendt's "The Human Condition". How come? They're all about the meaning of life, so maybe I've been looking to see if I've skipped anything? The meaning of life? Who knows, and who cares? I have a number of definitions. One, when my grandson shrieks with laughter because I'm goofy. It is a perfect moment, and, in that moment, there is only that. Two, when my words work. Three, when my brother and sister, and I laugh about our crazy mother. Four, the fact that my wife still loves me. Five, the faces of my children. Six, chocolate ice cream. More? You get the point. It’s up to me. The meaning of my life is whatever I'm doing in the here and now. The substance of my day is its meaning. To deny it is to waste it.

There is another way to look at it. My amigo, Rob Lindstrom, a very bright guy, who sees the organization of the world through his original concept of "Sphericity", recently sent me a quote from Joseph Campbell. "People say that what we're seeking is a meaning for life...I think what we're saying is an experience of being live, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being live."  

The rapture of being alive.

Still, it is certainly awful out there. Every day another atrocity emanates from that seditious oaf in the White House. Is it a waste of my time to pay attention? Every breath I take that includes this guy is a breath I could have taken elsewhere. I write; I talk; I vote. What else? Where else?

Marianne Williamson once looked at me hard and declared, "There is in you a place of perfect peace". Tru dat. She said it. To me. Forget where and how. That's between Marianne and myself, but she did say it. To me. There is some truth to this, even though the current toxicity makes life that much harder. Saying "om" out loud could get you killed. However, like Brigadoon, the legendary Scotch village that comes to life only once every hundred years, said peace is not always in place. Sometimes, I need to fetch it back, call it in, like a wild turkey. Humor me. I find it helpful to think this way.

Spring. Air flush with scent. Cut for sign. Find your spot in turkey woods and settle in. Take a seat with your back against a sturdy tree. Get quiet. Don't move. Stay still. Start calling. You can use a turkey bone or a caller from the market. Yelps. Clucks. Burbles. Chirps. Talk like a hen to lure in a jake. Get his attention. Seduce him. Time. Patience. Sounds a hen would make except it's you. Peace is necessary. You are absolutely there without being anywhere else. Peace is necessary. Without it, you will stutter and fail. So, what's the point? In order to hunt turkey, you need to be in the woods. If you're in the woods you're out of touch with everything else. No wonder it's peaceful. What about when you're not in the woods? There's no turkey hunting in the wilds of Manhattan. There's also no turkey. So, I don't live there. I live here, in the woods.

Ommmmmmm...


                                                         END

Spring, 2020 - a modest change of pace

                                  Fiddle heads outside my window
                                         The music of Spring

"Even a minor event in the life of a child is an event of that child's world and thus a world event," wrote the French philosopher, Bachelard. 

Like so many displaced easterners, when I lived in LA I missed the change of seasons. Of course, there's change in California, too, but on a microcosmic scale. Locals revel in it - poppies, birds of paradise, kumquats - but I say, "Feh". Our woods and fields in the northern Catskills (a far range of the Appalachians) are flush with Appalachian spring. Our brooks and creeks are high and clear. Fresh, vibrant colors on Hunter Mountain. Trees with full chests proudly puffed out. So many shades of green. Dew on the buttercups. You don't need to search for flowers in the east. Look anywhere, some tiny, like pinheads, dots of color, hard to see. How many angels can dance on them? Others the size of tulips and rhododendron and lilac, early blooms. All of their aromas mix and swirl in pure air parfait. Why breathing was invented. 

Spring came so slowly this year it seemed as if the planet had stopped. It's here now, the time of the year when I feel the most alive. This one, this spring, is different than any that have come before. I no longer see Spring through these jaded eyes, but through the eyes of a twenty month old rambunctious little boy, fearless, a curious, observant, joyous little life with a swarthy walk, his arms trailing behind him like a cape. He is Dorian Alexander, my grandson, my first, my only, who has taken my heart to new dimensions. Who knew? You think you know, but you do not know. Strike a match; Detonate a nuclear bomb. That's the difference we're talking here. 

Today we planted the garden, and Dorian discovered a wheelbarrow. His observation is  meticulous. What is this? What does it do? How does it work? Can I eat it? We planted pumpkins first so there'll be a magic pumpkin patch for Halloween. Last night we cooked hot dogs over a bonfire, Hebrew National with Nathan's mustard. He sprawled in my lap as we watched the bright, sickle moon dodge in and out of roving clouds. Art makes me cry. The night sky strikes me dumb. He did not take his eyes off the spectacle, and I did not take my eyes off his face. His uninhibited joy blots out the world and all its problems. I think to myself, "This is perfect. This is wonderful." Sparks flutter up and disappear in the darkness. No pull of gravity. The peace of sleep. Wouldn't this be when you'd want to die? When everything is perfect? Not that I'm ready because I certainly am not, but wouldn't it? In theory?

Tomorrow I intend to introduce him to buttercups, and soon we'll go down to the edge of our brook and hunt salamanders. Dorian's never seen any of this before, and, consequently, neither have I.

"Oh, come on, Foreman! Stop posturing! You know you've seen all of it, over and over and over. 'Fess up.  Over and over."

Well, guilty, yes, of course, I'll 'fess. All of it before, most every bit of it, however, just as every garden is the same and different, every tree the same and different, every creek the same and different, everything out there seems brighter, more vibrant, more aromatic, a gentle, golden shimmer over all. 

And now I know what a wheelbarrow is.

                                                              END

                                                 

A Racist Confesses

It’s been many years since I was called a racist, once then, and never since. Oh, yes, she said it with a smile, actually, in retrospect, it was a gotcha smile, but she meant it. Huh? What? Who? Me? A racist? What am I doing here? Here was Morgan State College, 1964, the year then Cassius Clay fought Sonny Liston for the heavyweight championship of the world. Morgan State was one of America’s historic all Black colleges. I was the only white man matriculating back then. How come? Some other time. Maybe. This is about racism, mine.

Clay had not yet shed his “slave name” - that would soon come - but, even so, he surely was in white america’s face, right away, smack up in it. Ali was physically beautiful and gifted with an uncommon grace shared by few other fighters, but his mouth was titanic, the size and range of a cannon, and that cannon launched outrage after outrage into the flabbergasted faces of fight fans, white fight fans, and then white people period. He flaunted the norms. “I’m so pretty”. “Float like a butterfly". “I am the greatest”, "Sting like a bee". “Allah, Allah, Allah”. He became a Muslim. He called the round. “Ain’t no jive, down in five”. He clowned. He posed. He preened. He talked about injustice. How dare he? You’re supposed to hit the guy, get your money, shut up and go away til we call you. He hadn’t yet taken his stand on Viet-nam. Everyone was sure he was crazy, but canny, ferally smart. People - white people - hated him and wanted to see him pulverized. Sonny Liston, the current heavyweight champion, was just the beast to do it - Mighty Joe Young - dark, brooding, taciturn, lethal, shambling, not so bright. I doubt there was a white man in America who didn’t want Liston to take this uppity loudmouth apart. I’d been a boxing fan since my father took me to see Joe Louis when I was four or five. I, too, wanted Liston to destroy this fat mouthed blowhard with his dumb-ass poetry.

So, I was at Morgan, now approaching graduation. Jackie Shears, a popular co-ed and I were very school chum friendly. We shared a couple of classes together, so we saw each other quite frequently. One day, as we were talking in front of the language arts building, Jackie asked me if I were going to watch the fight? “Yeah. Sure. Absolutely,” I said, “Wouldn’t miss it.” “Who do you want to win?” she asked. “Liston,” I answered. She checked me with a “gotcha” smile and said, “That’s because you’re a racist.” 

Huh?

“A racist,” she repeated. That gotcha smile. Or smirk? “Me?” I’d been active on campus, walked the March on Washington, picketed to integrate a movie theater near campus, wrote a local TV show, “The Unknown American”, on Black history, produced with actors from the drama department...”Gimme a break, Jackie. What am I doing here if I’m a racist?” She just smiled and nodded her head. What the hell was this woman - This woman and I were friends! - what the hell was she talking about? She just kept on smiling. It took a while, but, finally - Flash! - I got it.

Sonny Liston was the white man’s Negro. He knew his place even if he didn’t know he knew it, didn’t roil the waters, was a murderer in the ring, a stalking beast, not pretty, not loud - a cocked weapon, unlocked fire power in each fist. Awesome, but he didn’t challenge the prevailing notions white people had about the “colored”. Muhammad Ali didn’t give a damn what you thought. His thoughts were as good as yours, and the camera was on him. He was a true original, never been anyone like him before or since. The man galvanized a population. Even Jack Johnson was not as flamboyant as Ali. Until Colin Kaepernick came on the scene, no athlete has ever been hated more...by white people.

Systemic racism. Here I was, immersed in the culture as most Caucasians never were and never would be, had been since I was a little boy hanging around my father’s tire business in Baltimore's most depressed neighborhood, yet I had no idea. It’s in the air. You breathe it in, you let it out. It’s normal. Doesn’t mean you deliberately treat anyone with disrespect. You simply have no idea. Black people don’t act like that segues into why are they acting like that which is not far from those people shouldn’t act like that. We notice a Black guy driving through the neighborhood. Does the Negro salesman with a weird haircut at Radio Shack know as much as the white guy with wire rim glasses? A Black man impeccably tailored with polished shoes, power tie, and a hand-tooled, leather briefcase draws our attention. We are aware that a physicist is Black. Black women have big butts. Subtle stuff. When I was a kid I remember a man who worked for my father shoveling the snow off the walk. His name was Gainwell Haines aka Sporty. It was freezing out there, but I remember being amazed that, since Sporty just kept shoveling away, he must not have felt the cold. And I admired  him for that! Seemingly harmless, these assumptions eventually bore into the soul and puncture the spirit.

How to ferret out this stuff? It is everywhere. It is subtle. Listen. Hear. Hang around some Black people. Read something. Question authority. Keep picking away. Am I finally free of it? Of course, not. I’m never going to be completely free of it, and neither will you, so that means we need to be patient with each other and understand we have only good will.

Should I hold my breath?

As for Muhammad Ali, he became the single sports hero I’ve ever had, only partially due to his uncanny skill in the ring. I came to live and die by his antics. The fight with George Foreman damn near gave me a heart attack. My first year in Hollywood I was asked if I’d be interested in writing the biopic about Ali. I told my agent I’d do it for free if Ali would give me lessons in the ring. Of course, I was thrilled, although the odds were against it, and, in fact, it never did happen. I actually met him in, of all places, West Virginia, where I was teaching. 1968. Viet-nam was raging. His title had been taken; his license had been lifted. I was shocked at how big he was, so big I had to lean back to see his face. A statue. “David”. Sports writers portrayed Foreman as gargantuan, inbred, monstrous, yet Muhammad Ali didn’t give away a pound or an inch, just as big, different proportions, and, let's not forget, "Pretty". When we shook, my hand disappeared in his. However, most important of all, was his stand against the war in Viet-nam. It was a display of pure principle, an act of raw courage, rare courage. Unlike most celebrities who speak out, Ali risked everything, every single thing including his freedom, his title, his prime, his livelihood, five years in federal prison. Ali was not showboating. He believed with all his being, no less than those who bear the label, saint. He stood his ground. He didn’t cave. A very strong man.

Agree with him or not, compare the courage of a Muhammad Ali with the gutlessness of those in Congress who know better, yet still take a knee to a dangerous bunco artist whom they've watched  wreaked havoc upon our nation. Ali risked everything. They risk nothing. They hide their faces and shamble away from the press while mumbling something about being late for lunch. And then there’s Lindsay Graham.

                                                          END

Plague Redux 5

I’m so tired and bored with being angry, yet how can one not be angry when so much is in jeopardy, like democracy, the planet, the future, jobs and income and health and our grandchildren, you know, little things. A roiling  time. Like the souls in Dante's Purgatory, we are buffeted by prevailing winds, unable to settle. What to do? Of course, I’ve concocted a lifetime of temporary ways to handle this anger but, still, it’s always there, lurking, and will pounce, wrap itself around me like a python, and try to squeeze me to death. Let's work this thing out. If I’m not angry, does it mean I don’t care? Nothing like anger to convince a guy he’s right. I have this theory, or I used to, that the working definition of Hell was being angry and bitter the instant of your death, like your final thought before total and eternal nothing is your third wife making it with the pool boy. At the end, you die mad. Well, I don’t want to die mad, but does that mean I may need to withdraw from it all, put my total attention to the birds and trees and not the lethal shitheads who run our world? Am I supposed to just kumbaya my way through a multitude of future 24/7's until Nature has had enough and pulls my plug? Who’s gonna shake their fist and yell if I’m not there? Here's a tough one. Does the time ever come when a person feels they’ve done enough? Maybe some people, but the regrets I have are from when I didn't do enough. Whatever happens from now on out, whatever I do, it's gonna take some doing it differently. Remember that Jimmy Buffet song, “A Pirate Looks At Forty”? Well, how ‘bout a pirate looks at...at...uh...well, at a lot more than - what was that number? I forget. It's not uncommon.
.
My take is that being angry is properly righteous. Anger gives you nobility. It's recreational, but that doesn't make it fun. Back in colonial North Carolina a hypochondriac was known as "enjoyin' poor health". You’re incensed. All’s wrong with the world. It’s awful, and it feels great. ("Gimme a beer. I pulverized the sumbitch! Yo.)  Yeah, revenge feels great, except it's not exactly what you expected, and, funny thing, you really don't feel that good after all. Anger sears the soul like a branding iron, and we love it because it means, “We’re right”. Questions? Go ask Darwin.

Some time ago, in the eighties, Studio 54 days, I heard, was told, or read in some self help book, “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?” What a ridiculous question! How can I be happy if I’m right but have to keep my mouth shut? Matter of Principle. Matter of Truth. Truth. Principle. Principle. Truth. Yeah. Yeah. But I want to be happy! How much? A lot. Enough to give up reading the New York Times every day? Enough to ignore Rachel? Enough to put aside hatred as blood sport? Admit it. We want to beat the shit out of those shitball bastards. You rip a child from its family you deserve to have your balls liberated by a steel-toed boot, and you damn well want your foot in that boot. Admit it. How to just walk away? How to stay informed? Got to know things. Got to be a proper citizen. Got to vote. To make decisions. To take action. To be "Right". Like a lot of people, I've been consumed by the news: print, digital, cable, radio, internet, hearsay. News in the morning. News in the evening. News when driving. News when waiting. News when. Who else feels as if they're not doing their civic duty if they're not impaled by the news? Guilty because I'm  not watching a refugee camp in Eritrea? Why? I know what it looks like, and I know why it exists.

Like that guy from the Farmer’s insurance commercial, “We know a thing or two because we’ve seen a thing or two.” Well, by now, I know more than a thing or two. I really don't need to know more "things" because they're all just more "things" to know, and I already know the underlying reason. It's always the same. And it's simple: people treat other people like shit. 

Hillel was a great Hebrew sage and scholar who lived in 1st century BC, Babylon. Compare his words with the words of Christ some hundred years later, and see how much Jesus was influenced by his teachings. A man who was considering converting to Judaism went to Hillel and said, "Tell me the entire Torah while I'm standing on one leg." The man then locked his left leg against his right calf. Hillel said, "What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor: that is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary. Go and learn it."

Go and learn it.

                                  ***************************************

Plague Redux 5

I’m so tired and bored with being angry, yet how can one not be angry when so much is in jeopardy, like democracy, the planet, the future, jobs and income and health and our grandchildren, you know, little things. A roiling  time. Like the souls in Dante's Purgatory, we are buffeted by prevailing winds, unable to settle. What to do? Of course, I’ve concocted a lifetime of temporary ways to handle this anger but, still, it’s always there, lurking, and will pounce, wrap itself around me like a python, and try to squeeze me to death. Let's work this thing out. If I’m not angry, does it mean I don’t care? Nothing like anger to convince a guy he’s right. I have this theory, or I used to, that the working definition of Hell was being angry and bitter the instant of your death, like your final thought before total and eternal nothing is your third wife making it with the pool boy. At the end, you die mad. Well, I don’t want to die mad, but does that mean I may need to withdraw from it all, put my total attention to the birds and trees and not the lethal shitheads who run our world? Am I supposed to just kumbaya my way through a multitude of future 24/7's until Nature has had enough and pulls my plug? Who’s gonna shake their fist and yell if I’m not there? Here's a tough one. Does the time ever come when a person feels they’ve done enough? Maybe some people, but the regrets I have are from when I didn't do enough. Whatever happens from now on out, whatever I do, it's gonna take some doing it differently. Remember that Jimmy Buffet song, “A Pirate Looks At Forty”? Well, how ‘bout a pirate looks at...at...uh...well, at a lot more than - what was that number? I forget. It's not uncommon.
.
My take is that being angry is properly righteous. Anger gives you nobility. It's recreational, but that doesn't make it fun. Back in colonial North Carolina a hypochondriac was known as "enjoyin' poor health". You’re incensed. All’s wrong with the world. It’s awful, and it feels great. ("Gimme a beer. I pulverized the sumbitch! Yo.)  Yeah, revenge feels great, except it's not exactly what you expected, and, funny thing, you really don't feel that good after all. Anger sears the soul like a branding iron, and we love it because it means, “We’re right”. Questions? Go ask Darwin.

Some time ago, in the eighties, Studio 54 days, I heard, was told, or read in some self help book, “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?” What a ridiculous question! How can I be happy if I’m right but have to keep my mouth shut? Matter of Principle. Matter of Truth. Truth. Principle. Principle. Truth. Yeah. Yeah. But I want to be happy! How much? A lot. Enough to give up reading the New York Times every day? Enough to ignore Rachel? Enough to put aside hatred as blood sport? Admit it. We want to beat the shit out of those shitball bastards. You rip a child from its family you deserve to have your balls liberated by a steel-toed boot, and you damn well want your foot in that boot. Admit it. How to just walk away? How to stay informed? Got to know things. Got to be a proper citizen. Got to vote. To make decisions. To take action. To be "Right". Like a lot of people, I've been consumed by the news: print, digital, cable, radio, internet, hearsay. News in the morning. News in the evening. News when driving. News when waiting. News when. Who else feels as if they're not doing their civic duty if they're not impaled by the news? Guilty because I'm  not watching a refugee camp in Eritrea? Why? I know what it looks like, and I know why it exists.

Like that guy from the Farmer’s insurance commercial, “We know a thing or two because we’ve seen a thing or two.” Well, by now, I know more than a thing or two. I really don't need to know more "things" because they're all just more "things" to know, and I already know the underlying reason. It's always the same. And it's simple: people treat other people like shit. 

Hillel was a great Hebrew sage and scholar who lived in 1st century BC, Babylon. Compare his words with the words of Christ some hundred years later, and see how much Jesus was influenced by his teachings. A man who was considering converting to Judaism went to Hillel and said, "Tell me the entire Torah while I'm standing on one leg." The man then locked his left leg against his right calf. Hillel said, "What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor: that is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary. Go and learn it."

Go and learn it.

                                  ***************************************

Plague Redux 4

I know some of you folks out there will find this hard to believe: I’m not prepared to die because some pseudo-religious crap artist asks that folks like me sacrifice ourselves for the good of our grandchildren aka The Stock Market. Tuchas am der tisch. That’s what it is - The Stock Market. If I had paid more attention to it, would I be asking myself, what’s the dollar value of a human life? Slaves had a dollar sign on them, but me? I got no sign. Somehow (I know it’s a stretch), I am led to the core belief that my grandchildren would rather have me making stupid faces than a little, round piece of metal, a trinket “filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing.” My Uncle Josh used to give us silver dollars at passover, but it was the fact that they came from a wonderful uncle that really gave those dollars value. I should step aside so the economy gets better? For whom? I should step aside, why? To leave this world to the Hollow Men, the hucksters, hypocrites, liars, and damn fools with the vision of gnats? To leave this world to those who have the rest of their lives to enjoy it? Of course, I am a doting grandfather. Of course, I want a better world for my children’s children.. Of course, the economy is important. Still, in time. In time. But not when I am told. And not for blood money.

Actually, these days I’m in a constant state of wonderment. I continue to be astonished by the cruelty and mendacity smack in our faces day and night, by mean-spirited politicians and their ill informed constituents, by lies passed on as truth, by religions that hate. It’s all as insidious to our society as covid-19, and might just kill you in the meantime. In my Hollywood days I was quite friendly with a veteran studio chief. I’m still not sure how and why, but we really enjoyed each other, although he never hired me to write a damn thing. He was incredibly smart and quick, a legend, but also an admitted thug. At least, to me. One morning I’m in his office when the door bangs open and a producer in a volcanic shit-fit barges in screaming, “Goddamnit, Frank, yesterday you told me such and such. Today I find out it’s just the opposite. What the hell’s going on?” My friend, the studio chief, calmly looked at the guy and spoke in an even voice, “I lied. So what? What’re you gonna do about it?” I was stunned by the audacity it took to say such a thing, yet my friend didn’t blink, didn’t change his expression. His eyes had become steel. I prayed for that audacity, but it just wasn’t me. I’ve said some cruel things, witnessed others, but something that brazen, that nasty was king of the hill. In today’s world, it seems bland by comparison.

I realize Jamie and I are fortunate compared to so many others. We don’t need to report to work; we don’t depend on a paycheck; we live in a rural valley. Nonetheless, I can understand the fears of so many working people. I’ve worked and hunted with them most of my life. I’m not them, but I know them. It must be terrifying to have your income obliterated overnight and your family threatened by no crimes of your own. It must be terrifying to look at your children, to look at your spouse, to look at your dog that needs a tick collar, and the roof which may have sprung a leak, and have no idea what’s next? I get it. Sheer terror. Been there. I understand how important our economy is both domestic and internationally, and how we need to start up again as soon as possible albeit with safety protocols in place. I even understand the mentality of the “Boogaloo Boise” and their ilk - the Posse Comitatus folks, the militias, sovereign rights proponents, gun fanatics - while vehemently disagreeing with them up and down the whole damn board. Fine people on both sides? Two sides to everything? There are not two sides to everything, not two sides to slavery, not two sides to the Holocaust, not two sides to shooting bear cubs in their den, not two sides to lynchings, and what about those tin soldiers who storm government buildings and flaunt laws. What’s their side again?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

But, the people I really don’t understand are all the government officials and retired military who took a sacred oath to serve our country then proceed to act as if they never took that oath at all. How could these men and women ignore the testimonies of seasoned intelligence officials, of credentialed scientists, of bonafide experts, educated men and women, and accept without question the prosperity gospel preached by that trifle of a woman who is Trump’s spiritual advisor? Trump’s spiritual advisor? How do you say that without gagging? I am astonished that these people can look at themselves in the mirror. What protects them from knowing what they are? You cannot swear to defend our country against all enemies foreign and domestic then brush off Russia’s successful cyber attack. Where was our response?  Where was the counter attack? Miller. Kudlow. Mnuchin. Meadows. Pompeo. West Point graduate. Top of his class. So what? Who is he now? A man whom I knew well was an evangelical Christian. Lots of church, Bible studies, and potluck dinners. He’s a good, kind man who helps out many people on our mountaintop. Over the years we’ve sat on the porch and talked a lot. Once I brought up the Sermon on the Mount. My friend had no idea what I was talking about. What? Never heard of it? His pastor never talked about it, either. The very words of Christ! How do you not know them?

And now we’re asked to be warriors?  Asked by a spoiled brat whose daddy financed four fake deferments? How dare he, and how witless to believe him? When asked what he did during the war, this guy joked and said, “I spent the war avoiding syphilis.” Said by someone who trashed men like Captain Khan who walked into fire and literally gave his life to save his men, like the Guatemalan immigrant who joined the Marines for his citizenship and became the first American killed in Bush’s war, like the pilot named McCain who was shot down and spent six years as a POW, “I like people that weren’t captured.” Good God, could anyone be a bigger asshole?  According to our American creed, trashing our military is akin to blasphemy. Anybody out there remember,”Support Our Troops”? I am aghast at people who still support him. Where are Mattis, McMasters, Kelly, Dunphy, Mueller - all Generals but Mueller, and he an officer and  decorated Marine - all decorated warriors, men who vowed to protect our nation.You’re retired. Safe. So, where are you? Lt.Col Vindeman stood up. So did Admiral McRaven, Navy SEALS Chief of Operations who oversaw the Bin Laden raid. When Trump, out of pure spite, stripped the security clearance from a key official, a colleague  of McRaven’s, McRaven went right up in Trump’s face. “Take mine, too,” he said, said it loud and clear. No mistaking. “Take mine, too.” Where are the rest of you? He had the belief and guts to stand by his principles. Why don’t you? Who gives a shit about the chain of command? This is a war for the soul of our nation. When your life is at stake you don’t fret protocol. You do your duty. You do what you were trained to do: protect our country.

I was once ready to die for my country, our country, not that I gave it a whole lot of thought, but when you’re a Marine it comes with the territory. You sign up. You survive PI. You really don’t think about it. If you died you died a hero. I was young then and didn’t know any better, before I learned that poor men fought rich men’s wars. Now, I do know better, although I can still imagine being willing to die for something. However, rest assured, your wallet is not one of them. You are not good people. You talk a good game about God and heroes, and spout noble beliefs, but you are not good people. You gut our creed and eviscerate our institutions. You send young men into combat without proper equipment. You scam the rest of us. And those of you who continue to support him? Do you hate our country that much? Why do you want to take it apart? Isn’t that what Lenin wanted? Tear down the state? Just for the helluva of it? Hey, remember this one? ”Love it or leave it”? Suggestion: take your own advice. Go! Make your own rules somewhere else, but take your hands off mine.

Want to give up your social security, your medicare, your disability insurance, your justice system, fair wages, decent prices at the pump, clean air, safe meat, highways without potholes, water without lead, rescues at sea? Want international ocean shipping lanes under control? Want airlines to follow safety rules? Want children trafficked without a chance of escape until they die? Want counterfeiters to make all the fake twenties they can until they run out of ink? Want drunk drivers to keep on driving? How could one despicable liar of a human being wreak so much damage so quickly on our way of life, a man brazen in his nepotism, flaunter of emoluments, leaker of intel, grabber of pussies, kiss-ass with murderers, proud of his ignorance, fat with a foolish hairdo, gauche and classless? This is the real plague, and no vaccine in sight.

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Plague Redux 3

I'd been doing my taxes and listening to the news, a deadly combination. I had to get outside chop-chop. Out! Was it worth going postal? Not yet. Not this afternoon, anyway.

Outside with Joe, my sixty pound, pure black, goofy golden doodle. Three years old with the energy of a Gatling gun. Unlike a trained bird dog, Joe ranges way out there and back again with the exuberance of a creature unbound and free. I don't want to rein him in because I don't want to be reined in, either. We are together in the meadows bordering West Kill Creek as he lopes, leaps, bounds, and courses at jaw-dropping angles that seem like illusions even as I witness them. Pure joy.  Bottle it.  Breathe it, and  I meander along without destination, far away from everything. I look up at the sky and think, "You can't get me here,", full well knowing it can.

Recently, my wife said, "We thought we were coming apart, but the world beat us to it." Everything seems a little more precious now which makes me even angrier than usual because I could lose it, that the world out there is not the world I've lived in forever, until now.  I have always felt safe breathing the air of this country, always happy and relieved to be home from wherever I was. Not anymore. There's a disquieting undertone now, not from the street itself but from the knowledge that wheels are turning, gears are grinding, groups are plotting, engines are idling. What next?  I'm not quaking, but wondering, literally, what the hell is going on, because something sure as hell is! It feels as if way out to sea, out of sight of land, deep currents are gradually gathering into a monster wave which will someday morph into a tsunami and launch such destructive power that, when it recedes, will have created a whole new landscape. Similar but foreign. We will not think of our lives in the same way. We will not think of our country in the same way. How many generations will it take for our new identity to cohere and settle? I'm not convinced I'd be happy with what that will be. What will our history be? What will our legends be? Who will our heroes be? Stay tuned. I would if I could.

It's dangerous out there. Truth has become so elastic we cannot know what is and what isn't. Truth might have once been relative, but now there is no truth at all. From a 6,000 year old earth to a stable genius in the WH, there is no more truth. Talk about a trickle down effect. Dumb and Dumber and Dumbest. I see fools reveling in ignorance, and  a deadly incompetent with absolutely no moral compass in the lead, on the loose. I'm told that Dr. Fauci and Bill Gates are in collusion to exploit the pandemic. I'm told George Soros and the Rockefellers are plotting to dominate the world's economy. I'm told the Clintons are operating a child sex ring in the basement of a pizza parlor. I'm told, in a Texas schoolbook, slavery is discussed as "workers brought from Africa".Are we that nuts? I see pickup trucks with armed men flying the flag of traitors blocking the entrance to an emergency ward keeping first responders from their jobs. That isn't even human. Warriors For Freedom?  There are no words ugly enough to describe them. "Deplorable" will do.  Here's a suggestion: mainline some chlorox. Cram an ultra-violet light bulb up your ass. Then tell me this plague is a hoax.

Most disturbing of all is this insistent feeling that the United States may well be an empire in decline. Some might rejoice at this, but I am not one of them. My mother once told me, "You've got a mouth. Use it.", and I have. I've been very critical of the United States, but I also served her as a United States Marine. One of the proudest and happiest moments in my life came watching my two year old, Colombian daughter clutch a little American flag in her tiny hand as part of a multi-cultural, multi-racial ceremony swearing in brand new citizens of the United States of America. "This is America," I thought, "This is my country," and surprised myself because I meant it. Yet, I'm not about to whitewash the sins of our founders. Genocide and slavery built this country. I'm not a communist. It's just the truth: when a nation deliberately wipes out another culture, that's genocide, and, when people are kidnapped and brought to a foreign country to labor for free until they die, that's slavery. Still, in my lifetime, which includes both the civil rights era and the Viet-nam years, many of us believed what we were taught - that we're a nation of laws, of equal rights, of liberty and justice for all. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no, but the principles were there. They'd been codified, written down, and we believed in them, and our belief in them led us to stand up and demand that promises made be promises kept.  For all of us. A younger generation tells me we were naive because we had faith and hope. For all that, I'm told, nothing has changed. But, I changed, and so did others. I believe a good fight will, if one is on the side of the angels, push us just a little further towards the light. So, fight. It feels a whole lot better. 

                                                               END