Mr. Trump and His Bible

("The Last Temptation of Trump")

Was he getting ready to testify? With his right arm in the air and his hand grasping the Bible was he there to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you who have no God other than yourself?

As publicity stunts go, this was a doozy. Disbursing a peaceful protest with force worthy of putting down an armed insurrection, this got off on two wrong feet. And then standing there in a pose so unnatural, so unfeeling, so demonstrably without hint or trace of empathy but almost exploding with utter disdain, this scene provided a remarkable visual statement of his contempt for those who dared expose the raw nerve of two and a half centuries of a nation's continuing disgrace.

Donald Trump is the antithesis of everything the Bible would preach. He is a man consumed by his vices, by his greed, by his hatreds, by his narcissism, by his pettiness, unable to produce a scintilla of desperately needed morality or the slightest evidence of compassion.

It disgusts me that in this time of compounding tragedies this charade was Mr. Trump's best response. We are alone in our grief and our pain as our President is but a fiction, a fraud hiding behind a Bible I am certain he has never opened, and its teachings that he has clearly and unequivocally never once in his life practiced. 

In Desperate Search of God's Grace

There is a great smoldering anger that the unending battle for civil rights remains a war against unrelenting uncivil wrongs. That the presidency of Barack Obama was but a mirage. That the death of Mr. Floyd was a statement of our most fundamental principle that all people are not created equal. That the less things change the more things remain immutably an integral part of the American landscape. That we as a nation are steeped in a prejudice which endures nearly 250 years after our birth just as virulent and omnipresent as it was from the first. That this disease is wholly resistant to the antidote of mercy and compassion.

 And sometimes there is a moment that serves as catalyst for a conflagration. An incident that appears to demand a huge fire in response to this country's enduring legacy of hatred. That words prove insufficient ammunition. That physical destruction is the only adequate means of expression, the only true retort to such pervasive evil. Contemplation in the moment of whether such action is, in the final analysis, appropriate seemingly fully subsumed by the belief that it is necessary.

So from sea to not so shining sea, we burn. America the not so beautiful. In desperate search of God's grace.

My Clothes

I wonder if my clothes are lonely. Or scared.

I left my apartment the third week of March and have resided over 100 miles away ever since. I did not leave a note for my clothes saying I was uncertain when I would be returning. I did not give them reassurance that they would not be forgotten in my absence. I did not remind them how important they are to me.

Actually I am mostly talking about the clothes I wear in warmer weather. I did not consider in my hasty exit that I would remain away from my clothes for such a long time. Thus, my shorts and tee shirts were not even in my contemplation as I bid what I thought would be a relatively brief adieu.

But now that the temperatures have finally climbed, those clothes must be wondering what happened. Did I get sick? Did I have another closet filled with other clothes that they knew nothing about? Had I been in a fight with my wife and just moved away? I wonder if they are worried about me.

Or maybe they are happy for the break. I tend to wear clothes far past what should be their expiration. Much of what now sits idle in my closet has been called to duty for many more years than it could ever have imagined. Maybe these clothes welcome my absence, finding me more of a burden than a benefit in their lives.

My mother in law lives in the same building that I left. I am considering asking her to go visit my clothes. That she gently explain to them what is happening. That she assure them they have not been cast aside. That she let them know that I will be back as soon as I can.

I may even ask her to put together a care package from my closet and ship the same, while I wait in breathless anticipation. But maybe that is not such a good idea. Maybe it is best to let my clothes rest a little longer. Maybe they will be nervous if a stranger gathers them up and boxes them. Maybe this will cause them fear and uncertainty.

Better to let them be. Hopefully I will be able to return in time to wear some of my lighter clothes before the chill of fall is in the air. And that it will be a reunion filled with hugs and joy, with stories of unexpected absences, with grateful smiles, with unbridled enthusiasm for old friends once more together.

Until then I will just say a little prayer for my clothes, wishing them continued good health, peace and contentment. You have not been abandoned. You are forever in my thoughts.

To my black tee shirt: you have always been my favorite.

To my khaki shorts: I miss you a lot.

To all my pants: I have been trying to get in shape since I last saw you and I think next time we are together I may not have to suck in my stomach to put you on. I hope you will be proud of me.

I am coming back to you. I promise.

Agua

"Agua" she says."Agua please." She is 20 months old and agua is the one word in Spanish she uses regularly. She learned it from the little girl downstairs, the one whose door she knocks on every day, the one she hugs so tightly every time they are together. She doesn't know it yet but that little girl is moving away tomorrow. And when she next goes "knock, knock" on that door, the face of her first best friend, the one she adores, will not be there in response. I only hope she always recalls who taught her to say "agua."

Joe Biden Is Irrelevant

("Joe Biden Places Wreath at Veteran's Memorial in Delaware")

Joe Biden is irrelevant.

This election will pit Trump vs Trump. Donald Trump, depending on your point of view is either:

a) The answer to "What's Wrong with America?"

or

b)  The answer to what's wrong with America!!

For anyone who has resided in this country from January, 2017 until today and been able to take sustenance during that period, it is virtually impossible not to have drawn a firm conclusion about the pros and cons of this man who clearly appears to be a pro at being a con.

And so, yes we worry that Joe Biden may have a bit of foot in mouth disease, that sometimes it appears that his best days may be in the rearview mirror. But really, really does anything that Mr. Biden may speak or misspeak between now and November of this year make a hill of beans difference in whether or not you believe Donald Trump deserves his seat on the throne for another four years?

Will anyone be going into that voting booth (if Mr. Trump had his way that would be the only way) agonizing over Mr. Biden's record, or his Vice Presidential selection? Raise your hand if that will be your overriding concern. I only see two raised hands in all of America and honestly Mr. Trump, neither you nor Mitch McConnell should be able to participate in this poll.

Joe Biden, rest until November and save your strength. For if you are elected as our next President there will be an enormous task laid at your feet. After four years of Donald Trump the existential question you will have to answer is how to make America great again.

Imagine

Imagine 100,000

Faces of the dead

No help from Donald 

Dow dancing in his head

Imagine all the people not alive today

Imagine no Corona

Spread across our land

No pain or suffering

If we had better planned

Imagine all the people still alive today

You may say stop dreaming 

What's been done is done

But I think of all the heartache

Of grieving daughters and anguished sons

Imagine there's no heaven

For those who are no more

100,000 lost souls

No matter rich or poor

Imagine its your momma not alive today

You may not have felt the 

sorrow

You may be a lucky one

But just know that tomorrow

There will be 100,001

Imagine 100,000

Faces of the dead

No help from Donald 

Dow dancing in his head

Imagine all the people not alive today

The Stone Quarry

They stood likely 50 feet above the water at the edge of this stone quarry. And for those that gave me a glancing thought, those that looked in the direction of the old guy with the bandana pulled up over his mouth and nose, they must have thought I was being somewhat ridiculous.

There were probably 20 or so, teenagers I would guess, maybe blowing off some steam after the months of isolation, maybe celebrating their graduation, likely both. The rules of social distancing as distant from this place and their minds as I am from you who are reading this now. This was the start of Memorial Day weekend and the joy in that thought was not about to be taken from their lives, pandemic or not.

The first of the four, standing in their own little pod, turned his back to his destination and then hurtled off the cliff, flipping as he turned through the air,  landing perfectly and with seemingly little effort in the 80 foot deep water that  awaited his arrival. The others followed, seriatim, although in more conventional jumping fashion.

The decibel of the conversation here that of youngsters with various substances coursing through their systems, the adrenaline of this place, the warm late spring morning, the blue skies all joining forces to create an unbridled sense of freedom from the restrictions the world would superimpose upon them. It was impossible to distinguish this moment from any other that had occurred on this weekend in the past in very different times.

For my family, this gaggle proved a slight inconvenience as they inhabited all those spaces where we would otherwise have been perched. The quarry, for us on this day, but something we could view from obscure angles. Its majesty known to us but partially muted by the sights and sounds of life before Covid 19.

For those like me who continue to fear that this disease has not been informed that its time has passed,  I believe we will soon be made to feel outliers, uncomfortable in our concern. That this nation is more than ready to cast off the shackles. That those that continue to remain in the shadows are merely obstacles and we should step aside. Or be run over.

On Facebook one of my friends posted a short video of an open restaurant at a dock, people congregating in their boats and life apparently receiving a green light to resume.

I get it. I know this nightmare has attached to us with a death grip, unshakeable and unending. And that the toll on this nation's collective psyche has been enormous. But I cannot agree that our fatigue, our unhappiness allows us the liberty to ignore reality. 

I read of the number of new cases reported every day around this nation. And while figures seem but abstractions and we all would wish to conclude the illness has moved on and taken up residence elsewhere it has not.

These are dangerous times. We are all standing on the edge of that cliff, ready to dive into cool waters, deep and refreshing. But if we choose wrongly, when we throw ourselves downward we will find not welcoming arms at the end of our journey but a dry hole. And if that happens, the sounds of happiness will be gone in an instant.

March 4, 2020 - 8:55 AM

("Later Lockdown Led to At Least 36,000 More Deaths, Models Find")

March 4, 2020 - 8:55 AM

We thought the Social Security office opened at 9 AM but we were mistaken. As my wife, son and I entered the room it was already filled. There were likely 75 people in here. Within a few minutes, they would start lining up in the hallway. It was on that day that the first case of Covid 19 was reported in my home state of New Jersey.

My wife and I could have applied for our benefits by phone but it might have taken a month or more to get that appointment, we were ready to proceed and our day was open.

As we would soon learn, we were both in the cohort that was the most vulnerable to the ravages of this illness. And our son should never have been accompanying us, especially in his role of merely providing moral support.

I remember being slightly concerned in that room, listening for a cough or sneeze. But no one was social distancing, it was not even a concept yet, and I can recall only one couple who were wearing masks. There were a few children, a pregnant woman or two and many older than my wife and myself. All crowded in, all possible carriers. None of us with but the vaguest notion of what we were facing.

We sat there for four and a half hours before our number was called and our request addressed. I can only estimate that there were conservatively well over a hundred people that I was in far too close proximity with during that time.

I think about that often, but particularly in light of today's story in the New York Times which reported that an estimated 85% of all Coronavirus deaths in this country could have been avoided if preventive measures had been put in effect on March 1 instead of March 15. And that, on the first day of that month, while there had been one reported case in NYC, there were probably actually more than 10,000 people infected.

I will never know if anyone sitting in that room had already contracted the illness.  If it passed through that place, if someone in the chair next to me fell ill in the days that followed.

It was just serendipity that on March 4, 2020 three of us were able to spend the hours between 9 AM and 1:30 PM in the office of Social Security without repercussion.

And it is chilling to contemplate that if our government had reacted more quickly and forcefully the above scene would never have occurred. And maybe, just maybe, someone in that room would not have gotten sick. Or died.

The Longest Night

Fictional account of real events transpiring across the globe (sung to the tune of Tossin' and Turnin') - My heart goes out to each and every one who has suffered

I couldn't sleep at all last night

Oh this wasn't just a flu

My chest was oh so tight

Cause it was Covid

The Corona

Cough and a wheezin' all night

I threw the blanket to the floor

Oh my fever's running high

I couldn't make it to the door

Cause it was Covid 

The Corona 

Cough and a wheezin' all night

Crawled out of bed

My head was light

Crumbled to the floor

It was just too hard to fight

Curled in a ball

Oh what a sight

Crawled back into bed

It was the hardest of all nights

This Covid V it struck so bad

It just knocked me to the ground

Oh it took all that I had

Cause it was Covid

The Corona

Cough and a wheezin' all night

Crawled out of bed

My head was light

Crumbled to the floor

It was just too hard to fight

Curled in a ball

Oh what a sight

Crawled back into bed

It was the hardest of all nights

This Covid V it struck so bad

It just knocked me to the ground

Oh it took all that I had

Cause it was Covid

The Corona

Covid

Corona

Covid

Corona

Cough and a wheezin' all night

Unrealistic Expectations

As we take the first tenuous, and in many aspects, unwise steps towards returning to life as we once knew it, there is I fear a wholly unrealistic expectation gripping millions: namely that their golf games have miraculously improved since last they touched their clubs.

With this sport now open for business in modified form in every juridiction across this nation, golfers everywhere are no doubt harboring thoughts of birdies, one putts and the eradication of that slice which has attached to their swing like white on rice for years.

After residing in an alternate universe where every breath was fraught with potential peril, it is indeed glorious to be occupied with nothing more critical than moving the ball in the rough, with gimmes, mulligans, with cheating and lying about one's score and aptitude.

Certainly stark reminders that our nightmare is far from over will follow us around the course as we search in vain for ball washers, rakes in the trap and even putt at, not into, holes. For most, we will be compelled to walk for hours as we perform our task here, something nearly as daunting as the game itself. And we will keep our distance from those with whom we are paired, standing at no closer range than the length of the gimme we would like to be able to take.

And yes, to our great consternation, our swing will contain the same flaws, we still take the club too far inside, we still sway instead of turn, we still have our hands too high, too low, too much of this and clearly not enough of that our permanent companion.

But maybe, at least for a little while, our disillusion will remain hidden. Cursing at the gods will not accompany every missed three footer, every search in vain for the ball in the woods. Maybe we will discover the great joy in just being here, in being able to once more do something we have taken for granted in the past.

Covid 19 has robbed us of so much and will continue to follow us wherever we go for the indefinite future. But at least for a few hours we would ask that it leave us alone, that our minds be permitted to focus on learning once again that there is apparently no number greater than six, on remembering those few shots we can later brag about to people who have absolutely no interest in our describing in excruciating detail our second stroke on the fourth hole.

Yes, I would dearly love another 20 yards out of my drive. But at least for a little bit, I don't believe I will care quite so much about fulfilling wholly unrealistic expectations.

It is just wonderful to have the idea of golf take a seat at the table again.