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.

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.

White Flags

Desperately looking for something positive, I finally found a light during a killer dinner party last evening. Our daughter, whose taste in music tends to be heavy, punky, and/or classic rocky, made a "mixtape" for the gathering. I noticed that her playlist contained mostly songs of resistance. (Yup, Nina Simone was on there.) But one song, on a bit of a loop the last few days, is really speaking to her: JOSEPH's "White Flag." The positive -- and I'm seeing this everywhere with ALL our friends' teenagers -- is that this younger generation is attentive, policy-oriented, humanistic, and galvanized in ways we never fully were. (They'll correct our mistakes!)

Last night, when "White Flag" came on, Aleda said, "I feel Ike they could've written this 10 days ago" and you could see the protest in her. Those of us who were listening to her heard her:

"Noises closing in from all sides
Warning all the ways to die
They say, 'You'd better give up, you'd better give up'
I say, 'I'll never give up, I'll never give up'
"I'll be an army, no you're
Not gonna stop me getting

Through
I'll sing a marching song and
Stomp through the halls louder than
You
"I could surrender but I'd
Just be pretending, no I'd
Rather be dead than live a lie
Burn the white flag
Burn the white flag
Burn the white flag
Burn the white flag"
(-- JOSEPH)

Hope? Hope.

The Spineless

If I were a Republican, I too would disdain the Left – our "representatives" come across as sniveling milksops. The Trumpzis are “manning” themselves with the bowels of THE Right -- zealots who are waging war on OUR rights, our planet -- and many elected Democrats in Congress are already lining up, lock step (under the guise of “looking for common ground”) behind the Führer-Elect. Another leadership term for Nancy Pelosi? Chuck Schumer – a Wall Street champion – as Minority Leader? Same old, same old. Fuck, I’m beginning to hate us. Twelve days later and we’ve changed nothing. NOTHING! THEY NEED TO REPRESENT US! Will your passion still be here in two years? Your voices now, dammit!

Time to Make the Break?

Maybe it's time. We are in the midst of an abusive relationship and we seem to be trying to make something work that just can’t. Maybe it’s time to civilly accept what’s what and seek a divorce from each other before it gets worse. Let’s divide our property. Let Trump’s America be Trump’s America. Let the West Coast be its own United States. Let the Northeast be its own Old America. Maybe this is what we should do, peacefully. Maybe it’s time… because those of us in the popular majority are scared shitless of what’s coming down the pike but we’re still going to stand up to assaults on our rights and our bodies; and we know that those in the electoral majority are not afraid to use their guns. So, maybe we can avoid blood in the streets and go our separate ways. Maybe.

We Are Megaphones and Sledgehammers

Trump’s proposed Cabinet of Miscreants validates all our fears. But if there is some beauty on the other side of Trump's heinous reshaping of America it’s that those of us who believe in plurality and kindness are galvanized. We had eight years with a president who mostly represented our ideals… but eight years of mostly stalled policies. We settled until Bernie emerged on the national scene to remind us of our values… but he lost (and that's our fault too). Now, we are electrified; now we have our purpose back; and now we are megaphones and sledgehammers. Fight for humanitarianism.

Immensity

The collective “minority” (race, religion, sexual orientation, ideology... and/or any combination) is the “majority.” Wake up tomorrow knowing that; and wake up on November 3, 2020 knowing that. And know that between now and then, they can’t hurt us. We are a wall of ideas, voices, and bodies that stand between their policies and our rights. We are immense.

Alternate Outcome

These petitions spreading to urge "electors" to change their electoral college votes from Trump to Clinton in order to reflect the popular vote are not entirely baseless. Since 1968 there have been 6 examples of electors changing their votes for a variety of reasons. Realizing, entirely, that this is unlikely to happen, the act of signing a petition like Change.org's does help to magnify the issues surrounding the "popular" vs. "electoral" outcome. Still, should electors in Michigan and Wisconsin, states with thin margins in Trump's favor, see the value of switching... Well, we can dream.

https://www.change.org/p/electoral-college-electors-electoral-college-make-hillary-clinton-president-on-december-19?recruiter=1855019&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=share_page&utm_term=mob-xs-distancing-custom_msg

FUCK. THEM.

You don't need another Facebook scolding or diatribe telling you how you should or shouldn't be feeling and/or acting. So, for those of you who are more emotionally wrecked today than even yesterday, two words: FUCK. THEM.

Take that in any way you need to. For me, I'm sick of the Trump gloaters telling me and mine to get over ourselves. I'm sick of those who are telling us that this is just a reaction to Obama's policies. I'm sick of those posting their thoughts everywhere about how the protestors are careless, babyish, anarchic... I'm sick of the "Yeah, but if it were Bernie" people because it wasn't Bernie (even if I wish it were). I'm sick of the conciliatory posts, the exclamation points, and the supine. I'm sick of the flabbergasted media because most of us on the left saw this coming. I'm sick of the Democratic party for letting this happen... because they kind of did. I'm sick of the asshole who's going to post a snarky comment below. And more than anything, I'm sick of feeling hopeless.

Two words: FUCK. THEM.

Last Ditch Effort

I am so fucking fried.

Hovering over the polls, I’m a broke junkie skirting a motel by the Holland Tunnel circa 1981. I’m breaking out in a rash, biting my nails again, and developing new twitches… And like the poll watching junkie that I am (I realize how that sounds), I’m going to finish this post with a pic of my final statement until the 9th of November, return to Real Clear Politics, and find another way to interpret the numbers (pennies in my pocket).

Despite my fears, despite the ad hominem, despite the fact that the thirteen Facebook friends I still have who are voting for Trump are unswayable,… I’m going to try a totally different approach. I’m putting this out there, a statement to ride the waves of bad energy traversing this country like the fix that’s overwhelming my senses.

[Now, back to the electoral college map for another interactive session.]