Hopey [sic] New Year!

Hey, you’re alive. I know because you’re reading this. That’s good news. We made it! (Although, as of this writing there are still 10 hours and 5 minutes to go.)

Wars, Civil and World, are brewing; religious conflicts are the norm and probably over a dozen lives will be destroyed in the name of a God or Gods by the time you read this; someone was just shot, just now in the good ol’ U. S. of A., for being “other” by the other’s standards; across the globe, almost three billion people live in poverty and 785 million don’t receive enough nutrition to lead healthy or productive lives; 13.1 million children in America alone are in food-insecure situations; and our President-Elect is Tweeting his victory revenge against his “enemies” while wishing us all a “Happy New Year!”

2016 is almost over and I would love more than anything to wish you a “Happy New Year!”; but my disgust is not beyond me – in fact, I’m full of it. Do I want happiness? Yup. Do I have any? Nope. 10 hours and 3 minutes to go until 2017 and all I got is, “We’re alive!” and I HOPE we all get to see 2018. Ah, that’s it; that’s what I can wish to any and all who read this blog:

“HOPEY [sic] NEW YEAR!” to each and every single one of you.

Steve Martin's Tribute Tweet

Steve Martin seems to have ruffled more than a few delicate feathers with his tribute Tweet: “When I was a young man, Carrie Fisher was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She turned out to be witty and bright as well.”

I was six years old, probably sitting in the New Dorp Lane Theater, Staten Island, my father to my left, his feet stretched into the aisle; and with each second of "Star Wars," my mind expanding, my imagination extending, and then Princess Leia: She was fierce, she was sharp, she was capable… but she was also beautifully adorable beyond my comprehension at the time. I was within reach of puberty when "Return of the Jedi" was released and Carrie Fisher and her character were light years more appealing to me than Farah Fawcett and Cheryl Ladd. [Lo and behold, I married a version of Jedi Organa Solo.]

I second Steve Martin’s statement, hormones and all. Get over it.

Sticks and Stones...

During a political argument over a family brunch, I was called a NATIONALIST because I see America's great social divide as irreparable.

A student (not mine, I swear) has been unleashing an anti-Muslim tirade (aimed at me!) via email and calling me a MARXIST.

Someone posted that I'm ANTI-WHITE and that I hate men.

There's more... but I'm going to focus on what I really am: A multibillionaire, socialite bachelor with a dark secret. I'm BATMAN!

I mean, if we're just making shit up...

"I Told You So!"

... And so we move into an age where they deny the climate, they deny the poor, they deny women, they deny children, they deny identities, beliefs, and appearances of all radiant, brilliant kinds, and they deny our future so that they can have their Golden Icon -- a gigantic, bronzed Cthulhu wannabe spreading gilded bile over the planet... And while they’re bowing to the engorged Tanning Parlor King, the Commander of Sleaze, many of us will be protesting against this demonic charlatan's dominion over the climate, the poor, women, children, others,... But if our loss is determined, and I hope beyond hope it isn’t, I may not live long enough to tell them to their burning faces, “I told you so.” So, just in case I never get the chance, I’m writing it now: “I TOLD YOU SO!”

Say It with Me:

"I pledge DISOBEDIENCE to the idea of a Divided Hates of America, and to the plutocracy that is our new reality, two nations under Trump, separable, with planned tyranny and abuses of others… like you and me."

The Last Strand...

We used to complain constantly about Barley's fur. It was everywhere. For a shorthair dog, her undercoat was so dense and prolific it could supply a fur jacket after several brushings. Then she died, and in the subsequent months the furballs in corners and puffs on our clothing became memories of her desperate desire to herd Maria, Aleda, and me when we were hiking; of her catching birds in mid-flight; of her sitting next to me while we drove around Los Angeles in our '63 Dodge Dart sharing In-N-Out burgers; and of how she would follow Maria around, room to room, place to place, needing nothing, asking for nothing, just making sure all was okay. Now, 10 months later, still missing her like youth, we can’t find a strand of her… anywhere. What I would trade to find a patch of that once ubiquitous fluff. Here’s a pic of Barley shortly after her 20th birthday in her favorite place… her hairy bed.

Rigel VII

Despite being opposed to all things Trump, his transition team reached out to me this morning to ask if I (and my family) would be interested in the ambassadorship to Rigel VII. I said I would think about it, but when I brought the news to Maria, she reminded me that Rigel VII is an uninhabited planet about 90 light years away and... fictional! [It's the setting of the first Star Trek pilot, "The Cage," and home to Kang and Kodos on the Simpsons.] If you receive a similar overture from Team Trump, don't accept. Apparently, I'm one of millions receiving this offer.

11 Years Ago Today

On this date eleven years ago at approximately this time (or a little later), I was on a flight to Amsterdam from Newark. Maria, Aleda, and I had opportunities to live/study/work in Aberstwyth, Wales (our first choice) or Newcastle, UK (a distant second). I had already visited (and fell into) the former, but needed to experience the latter. There were (are?) no direct flights to Newcastle, so I had to fly into Amsterdam for a connecting leap. I spent the seven-hour journey next to a Norwegian woman who was (and I kid you not because she told me and I can confirm) six and a half feet tall. She spoke near perfect English. We drank a ton of cheap wine, told each other our stories (she was an athlete -- and well-known in her field events (no surprise) -- and a teacher) and laughed and drank and annoyed everyone around us and bribed the attendant for more wine. After five hours we finally passed out. The weight of her beautiful but giant head was on my shoulder as I drooled into her 80s-styled blonde hair. In the background of our inebriated slumber I heard instructions: we were near our destination and our seats needed to be upright. I pushed my reclining button and coaxed her, in the depth of her sleep, to move so that I could right her seat. The captain’s voice, in the distance of my stupor, notified the cabin that there was a pretty severe storm and that we should prepare for a bumpy ride. Normally, I’m terrified of turbulence, but I was in a wine-sleep-dream… And then the lightning struck and the plane did what they’re not supposed to do: Lights went out, engines stopped, and we were falling. Falling. Nearly weightless, my companion, about 8 inches and 80 pounds greater than I, latched into me like a massive clip-on koala as we dropped. Nothing. Dropping. No sound. Then screaming. Hours... but actually seconds and whirring, and the plane’s power was restored.

The captain broke the panic with, verbatim, “We, ah, were, ah, struck by, ah, lightning and, ah, lost power, but power is restored and our engines are… ah, we’re okay.” That's it.

I’m still bruised.

Revote

My fantasy became reality and Bernie Sanders won the Democratic nomination, faced Donald Trump in the general election, kicked his ass, and was elected president. If it were later revealed, however, that Russia tampered with the outcome in order to ensure his winning, I would reject Bernie's victory. I would reject it! Upon this, I swear; and to play upon my fantasy in our reality, no matter one's politics and under the light of our principles, as wide-ranging as they are, we should ALL reject a "president" Trump and demand a new, fair, carefully monitored and audited election. As Constitutionally complicated as this would be, other democratic countries call for elections when political pressures mount; and although our government doesn’t practice this approach, as locked-in to our quadrennial routines as we are, this would be that moment in our history, no matter the costs, to demand a break from our practices and do what is just and right and free by making our election our own.