Dumps for Trump and Hand Sanitizer

There was a hole in the pink “Dumps for Trump” doggie doo bag. The messy outcome required some significant hand scrubbing. I’m not sure if I should be reading into this or not.

Our Pride

This is what I'm seeing/hearing: My daughter's furrowing brow and repeated questioning when new executive orders are issued, "Really?" Maria shaking her head, even in moments not relevant to our concerns, and mumbling, "Strange times," repeatedly. Me mum, part intrepid, part cowed, looking up at me during these protests and saying, also repeatedly, "I love my city," as if she just discovered she loved it more than she already did. My mother-in-law, when being interviewed by a European journalist during this evening's "Rally Against Hate" in TSP, looking directly into the journalist's searching eyes and saying, for who knows how many people in the world to hear, "Trump can go fuck himself!" 

This is what I'm seeing/hearing: Really strange times in this city I love that seems to be telling Trump to go fuck himself repeatedly.

Headshot

The last time I was hit in the head this hard was post-Christmas, 1993. Maria and I were coming home from a late showing of “Philadelphia,”… but we were in surprisingly chipper moods despite the film. I was wearing one of those long, floppy Peruvian hats with pompoms (I didn’t know better) that bounced on my shoulders as we all but skipped down Second Ave. We were across from St. Mark’s Church when an angry dude, walking with his bro (and probably returning from “Sister Act II: Back in the Habit”), dismissively yelled, “Nice fucking hat, asshole,” as he passed.

“Whatever!” I said with my 80s affectations still intact… and then a blanket of red.

His fist to my temple.

If one could be cold-cocked and remain standing, that’s what happened. When the blanket was lifted – felt like minutes, but only a couple of seconds – I “awoke” to Maria lunging herself at the angry dude while a passerby tried to hold her back. She was unleashing a litany of expletives, Maria-style. I, punch-drunk, moved on my assailant and we circled each other like posturing Catholic schoolboys. His friend was trying to make peace by screaming, “His mother just died! His mother just died!”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything,” Maria yelled. “My father died and I don’t go hitting people in the street!”

“Well, your boyfriend said, “Your mother!”

“Whatever” was heard as “Your mother” and that was enough to attack me. So, for whatever "whatever" means, all that is known in unknown, that’s the moral of the story.

For some reason, my inability to process the rapidity of how everything is unfolding these days is like being punched in the temple again and again, six days and running – I wake up from the red, puff my chest out, engage,… but this time it’s not a gross misunderstanding and I’m swinging my fists and I’m swinging my fists and I’m swinging my fists. Repeat. Another shot to the temple.

The headache is unbearable.

My Skylarking

I don’t believe in god… but lately, several times a day, I’m calling upon her/him when my phone pings with another news notification:

“Draft White House order calls…” Dear god!

“A Trump official tells NPR that work by EPA scientists…” Dear god!

“President Trump is taking action…” Dear god!

“Trump to sign Executive orders…” Dear god!

Dear god!

Dear god!

Dear god!

And that was just today. God isn’t responding, so I’m going to train myself to start muttering, “Dear Buddha”; and if that doesn’t work, “Dear Krishna,” "Dear Athena," "Dear Margaret,"... I'll pray until someone/thing answers. Then I'll be a believer.

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall"

The citizens OF our country are more threatening to our lives than those FROM other countries. Statistics prove this point. The walls and bans scare me not just because they might limit others' access to "better" conditions, but because we're being locked up with each other. As Robert Frost wrote:

"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!"

For our children's lives, I fear what we're "walling in."

The Olive Oath

Our daughter loves olives -- pitted black or green olives right out of the can. When she was a toddler, I prepared her first burrito and as an enticing addition I placed a mound of olives on her plate. I went to the kitchen to assemble Maria's burrito and when I returned, Aleda had an olive on each of her fingers -- shiny E.T. pearls that she sucked from her fingertips like an epicure licking her fingers... delicacy by scrumptious delicacy. Subsequently, every single homemade burrito, maybe over a 100 since, has been supplemented with ten olives -- always ten olives. Through preschool, through grade school, never a word about it, always expected, always delivered, always on her finger tips, always sucked down in the same fashion. She stopped a few years ago -- I remember the evening and I remember wanting to say something -- but I never stopped placing ten olives on her plate. This evening, she looked at her plate and said, "Can't break tradition tonight. Not tonight," and I didn't. Tonight she ate a burrito and ten olives. Next time, the same; and the same after that. Some changes are worth resisting. [Despite her hands being too big and despite the idea that her father would be sharing this anecdote, she allowed one pic for old time's sake.]

Less Than One Day

I lied to my students. I told them that I embrace Obama's optimism about them and the future. I lied. I'm a liar. I wish I weren't, but I'm not hopeful that I'm not going to lie again about them and the future. 

16 hours.

Fewer Than Two Days

About 41 hours to go and I’m more nervous than a bunny rabbit hopped (duh) up on amphetamines and being stalked by a hive of H. R. Giger Aliens.

Three Days

Today, our daughter’s class started studying Elie Wiesel’s NIGHT.

“Oh boy,” was all I could say as I prepared dinner.

“I don’t know why we have to read this now of all times,” she yelled. I knew exactly what she meant.

The first 52 pages are due tomorrow and she read through her meal. After wolfing down a plateful (she's usually a very slow eater), she looked up, swollen-faced, and said, “I’m scared.”

Not religious and the child of two parents who were raised as Catholics (me much, much moreso than Maria), our daughter carries the weight of her two last names: “Rosenblum” and “Katz.”

She’s having a moment. Now I am.

Three more days.

I Have a Recurring Dream

I have a dream, a recurring dream, where I'm a red-shirted lieutenant and I get beamed down to a desolate planet only to be confronted by a platoon (?) of old school Klingons. I try to broker a peace between their Empire and the Federation, but each time they respond by throwing different things at me: tinfoil rocks, clumps of sand, their metallic sashes, disruptors and communicators... Last night they threw pink balloons at me. I was showered in pink balloons! I think we're close to a détente.

Four Days

"Not my president" is in the spirit of fair play.

Many conservative Facebookers are getting textually hostile with the Not My Presidenters. In response, NMPers use the Right's eight years of pissing all over Obama to validate their declaration towards Trump. Can a truce be brokered? 

The Left will stop NMPing all over the place with their antagonistic hashtagging when the Right admits that their party tried to maliciously delegitimize Obama with blatant falsities throughout his presidency. But since nothing is going to change (dare I write, things will get much worse), people like me will be NMPing all over Trump until 2020 (and beyond?). 

So, "fair play." 

Four days.

Five Days

Without a viable replacement, those who benefit from the Affordable Care Act are about to lose their coverage. Subsequently, many will lose their health support and some their lives. Women and nonwhite voters benefit significantly from Obamacare and they are more likely to vote for Democrats. Is this a culling of the Democratic herd? Doesn't this remind you of other political events that targeted the vulnerable? Is this really going to happen... again?

Five days.

"Uncle!"

Since we're past "enough is enough," are we now in an "enough is enough is enough" state? or are we past that too? To quote the brilliant Barbara Streisand (yup, I just wrote that) and immortal Donna Summer (go ahead, deny her):

"Tell him to just get out, say it clearly, spell it out:
Enough is enough is enough
I can't go on, I can't go on no more no
Enough is enough is enough
I want him out, I want him out that door now"

Sarcasm Is a Weapon

Wait. Stop. Before you stoop to his level with more mocking posts, please consider that our next president has a few debilitating mental health issues: narcissistic personality disorder (NPD), pathological lying, pseudologia fantastica, oppositional defiance disorder (ODD), and paraphilia (including pedophilia, incest fantasies, and urophilia). If we're as open-hearted and open-minded as we think we are, he deserves our compassion and understanding too. #bebetter

#sarcasmisaweapon... use it!

Letter to Putin

Dear President Vladimir Putin,
I hope this message finds you well and that you're staying warm. Just read that it was -11 degrees in Moscow today. Sheesh.
Down to business. I have an offer: I will trade my entire comic book collection, which is pretty extensive, for the "kompromat" you have of Donald John Trump. I'm especially interested in the video tapes.
Not appealing enough? I'll even throw in my Darth Vader case of original Star Wars action figures -- all 50 of them. Is it a deal? If you want, I can forward a list of the over 21,000 comics (21,388 to be exact) I have in my collection. Many are mint; most are near mint.
Love to Alina. (Is that okay to write? Are you two public yet?). And stay warm!
Yours,

Brian Philip Francis Katz

How Crazy Do I Look?

How crazy do I look when I’m prying my dog’s mouth open in the middle of a busy sidewalk on a windy and rainy day to root around her maw for whatever it is she just sidemoused from the pavement (usually to throw up later) only to find out that the clump is exactly what you now think it is and it’s all over my hand and her face as I try to shake the remaining bits from her gums and under her tongue and I’m more than two blocks from home? No, seriously, how crazy do I look?

American Insane Asylum Qualifications

If you're surprised by this, you're an idiot.

If you're acting surprised, you're an asshole.

If you're not surprised, you're sane.

If you're sane, you should be mad.

If you're mad, you're probably also feeling like you're going insane.

If you ARE going insane like I am, thank goodness. We're in good company!

As Emily Dickinson wrote in poem 620, "Much Madness is divinest Sense --"; and our "divinest Sense" gives us a kind of emotional clarity.

So, as the crazy ones we're also the most sensible.

Being that we're so sensible, let's never, ever be or act surprised.

For the next four to eight years, this is our American Insane Asylum and we're the most level-headed ones in it.

How's your padded cell (or "personal safety room")? Mine's in tatters.

Party Disfavor

Last night, we found ourselves at a wonderful gathering of likeminded parents of teenagers; and, of course, our impending Trump World came up for discussion and the pile on progressed. As frustrated as I am, I had no desire to join another scrum -- I'm exhausted; so, when the customary pause took place and the handsome couple across from me looked in my direction, I reached for Maria’s arm (to prepare her for what I was about to say) and said, "Well, you should probably know, we’re quite happy with the results. We voted for Trump." The horror! The absolute, original “Texas Chainsaw” horror that buzzed and rattled across everyone's faces. The woman across from me, a model of grace, recoiled in disgust -- her eyelids tucked behind her now intumescent eyes. Her husband, as affable and dapper as they come, shared a widescreen view of his tonsils. The teacher next to Maria -- moments before, my new “bestie” -- threw his arms into the air like a born-again, evangelical Christian on Sunday. Maria was tomato-red and nearly spit her wine into the center of our circle. It was like I farted -- a long, bagpipes drone of gas and sewage treatment facility stench -- during a spelling bee. In nanoseconds I responded with, "I’m just kidding. I swear to God!" But it almost didn't seem enough. I had to hastily list our leftist credentials. There was a pause. There was some relief.

Still, I think I was the unpopular one at the party.